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nerdpoe · 9 months

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In the Shadow of Speculation Part 2

Part 1, Ao3

Heavy chapter, please heed the following; Blood tw vivisection tw descriptions of a flashback descriptions of a night terror descriptions of recovery abled verbiage tw self hatred tw (mild) forced parenthood equivalent (but in a ghost culture way)

Danny took a deep breath and used the Ring of Rage.

A glowing portal formed in the air before him, perfectly stable. Cold, bitter wind blew through it, along with the smell of antiseptic.

Wrinkling his nose, Danny stepped through the portal and closed it behind him.

“Oh, greetings Mr. High King! Are you ready for your check-up?” a nurse Yeti said, looking up from her clipboard enthusiastically.

Danny attempted a smile.

“I’m prepared for it, yeah.”

“Wonderful! Your friends are already in the room for moral support!”

Danny paused.

“Who-?”

“The Lady of the Green and the Lord of Innovation, of course!”

Oh thank the Ancients.

Danny nodded his thanks at the nurse and started for his assigned rooms.

Every inch of the hallways, unfamiliar before the Accident, were ingrained in his memories now.

He’d finally walked from his door to that window without help four months after waking up, and he’d been so fucking proud about it too. He’d hid behind that potted plant during his first flashback. He’d climbed out of that window and crawled on the roof just so he could feel the snow on his skin two months into Physical Therapy.

That was the yeti that had taken the brunt of his anger and hurt on his worst days, nodding at him as Danny passed. That was the room he’d pleaded with Dan to take him away from the hospital, that he couldn’t do it anymore, that he just wanted to go home-that was also the room Dan had set his foot down and said that he’d play the bad guy for Danny one last time.

And oh, how Danny had despised him for it.

But it had worked. Danny, with someone who was there for the sole purpose of taking the verbal assaults meant for his Physical Therapists and himself, who was only there to snipe back and deliberately egg Danny on, helped Danny find the energy to push forward.

And Danny still felt awful about that.

Danny passed the table he had eaten his first solid meal at, one month after waking up, and took a left.

There it was.

The door to the rooms that had been his sanctuary and his prison, right up until they hadn’t been needed anymore. The first place he’d seen when he’d woken up, and then been amazed that he’d woken up at all.

With a deep breath, Danny pushed it open.

“Hey man!”

“Danny!”

Danny’s smile was weak, and he was holding back tears in the face of so many memories he hated and adored in equal measure.

“Hey guys, thanks for coming.”

~~~~~~

Dan knew he was asleep. Dan knew he was awake. Dan knew he was somewhere in that awful inbetween.

He was in his parents basement. No, wait. They weren’t his parents. They’d never deserved the title.

He was in the Fenton’s basement.

The world kept glitching out, the colors kept melding together, and the only thing that stood out was the overwhelming feeling of disbelief and terror.

Little him was strapped to a table. Little him was strapped to a table. Little him was-

Stop.

Assess.

What was going on?

Little him was strapped to a table; he was locked in place. He was in his Core form. It was…damaged. It was damaged.

Why?

Who would…?

There was a sliver missing. They’d torn a piece of him off. They’d tried to peel him open. They’d-Little him would be crippled.

If he survived.

But he had survived, hadn’t he?

Little him’s core was strapped to a table, damaged, and there was no resonance coming from it. There were vials upon vials of ecto-blood on the tables.

That was a kidney.

That was a stomach.

There was blood on the floor.

There…there was blood on his shoes.

Dan floated off of it, listening to the dripping sounds it made as it rolled off his soles.

The door opened.

Two monsters walked through, all giant bug eyes and sharp metal knives.

Dan had two options.

He could kill the things that had done this.

Or.

He darted forward to break the straps and shoved Little him’s core next to his own, where it would be safe, where it could recover as it leeched his excess energy off of him.

The world glitched again.

Dan was standing in Jazz’s living room, hand digging into his own chest. Searching.

With a shaking breath, he pulled it out.

He’d only carried Danny’s core next to his own for two years, but he still found himself searching for it in moments of weakness.

He hadn’t been the best Spirit to host Danny’s core, but he’d fought tooth and nail to do it. Vengeance Spirits could not normally house Protective Spirits.

It was why he’d done the whole hero thing after; it would help Little him heal if he did. And when he scared the people he was saving away?

He’d opted to train the little fledgling heroes. He’d make sure they grew up safe, protected from actual villains and, if needed, their own personal ones.

Anything to make sure he didn’t have to see another kid so close to completely shattering into Nothing, he never wanted to see that shit again-

Dan forced himself to move away from the couch and towards the kitchen.

It was pointless to dwell on the past. He did everything he could; if the Twerp wanted to be next to those monsters, that was on him.

So what if he’d fucked up their relationship? At least the kid was alive.

Dan’s hands still shook as he made himself a cup of coffee.

…

Maybe he’d just check in. Just for a bit.

~~~~~~

Dan may have failed steps one through ten.

It had probably started when he’d played surrogate for the Runt, if he was completely honest. There was no way Dan hadn’t absorbed a little bit of his Protective nature.

Point was; Dan genuinely could not remember going to Arkham.

He just sort of…came back to himself while floating ominously above it.

He could see the alarm lights flashing below him. The humans running for their battle-stations.

The inmates being herded deeper into the complex.

Dan felt his eyes grow hotter, felt his claws dig into the flesh of his palms.

They were right there. Right fucking there. All he had to do was phase through the compound and just reach into their chests.

It would be so. Fucking. Easy.

In fact, he even caught a glimpse of Maddie through one of the windows.

Dan snarled, lifting a hand, the ectoplasm pooling in it hotter than anything he’d made before-

-and he was in the kitchen. Mom was trying to make hot dogs, but they kept fighting back. She was laughing at a dumb meme he’d shown her. His homework was covered in mustard from the fight with their food.

“I guess you can tell Mr. Lancer that you ‘mustard’ up every resource you had!” Dad called out as he walked by, and Dan felt so loved-

-Dan dropped the hand.

Maddie was hauled past the window and to safety.

Fuck.

Fuck this place.

Fuck this city.

Fuck everything about this situation.

~~~~~~

Batman grappled his way to the tallest watchtower in Arkham, keeping an eye on Phantom the entire time.

The guard that was already in the tower-a new hire, if he recalled-nervously stepped up to fall in line beside him.

Batman waved him off.

He knew Phantom. He knew that the man wasn’t actually a villain.

A Training Villain wasn’t something Batman had seen younger heroes needing, but when the Ghost in front of him had started play-fighting with the younger heroes to teach them through safe combat, the Bat had been mentally kicking himself.

It was a perfect job to train younger heroes, and Batman couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed the previous iterations by not realizing that.

Robin was still angry that he’d fallen for it, of course he was, but Batman could not deny that Phantom’s strange method of training had been instrumental in helping his youngest work through his rage.

Just like he could not deny that he and Phantom had something in common with Arkham.

It wasn’t hard to assume that the walls held a person responsible for the death of someone in the man’s life.

Phantom had only shown up to Arkham a total of three times.

The first time, he’d just hovered outside of it, holding his hand to his chest. He’d done nothing, and left in an hour.

The second time, two years later, he’d broken two walls and shattered a watchtower, screaming for someone to come out and face him. Robin had been on scene before Batman had time to distract him, convinced it was the same Phantom he was used to dealing with.

Surprisingly, the sight of Robin had been enough to still the beast Phantom had become. He’d toned down, forced Robin into a surprise hug, and then disappeared. Robin had been livid, but Batman had learned something about the Training Villain he didn’t think he wanted to know.

The man knew loss, and Batman was pretty sure he knew it on the same scale Bruce did.

From there, it wasn’t hard to figure out the most likely objects of his wrath.

Phantom was a Ghost. Ghosts had a very, very bad history with the American Government. The Anti-ecto acts had just been revealed to the public by Lois Lane, and the country was tearing itself apart.

The people who had been the most avid supporters had been, currently were, the Dr.s Fenton.

Who were housed in Arkham.

Batman had said nothing. He had gone back to the cave and quietly updated Phantom’s file, and left it at that.

The third time was the present.

Phantom had almost lost his temper. Almost.

But he’d reigned it in.

“Phantom,” Batman started, staring at the figure above him, “I know you can hear me. What’s happened?”

The Ghost stayed where he was for one hundred and twenty seconds, before slowly gliding down to the Bat.

Phantom did not say anything.

He did not have to.

His eyes were anywhere, everywhere, but where he actually was. When he actually was.

Batman quietly hissed through his teeth.

Alright then.

“I’m here if you want to talk, otherwise we can be silent. Just know that at this moment, you are not alone.”

Phantom chose silence for a good seventeen minutes.

Then Phantom opened his mouth.

“I should hate them,” the voice was halting, tired, “I should, I really should. They loved me so much, but they…they tore him apar-“ Phantom’s voice failed him.

Batman said nothing, and gave the Ghost time to collect himself.

While he waited, he compartmentalized what he’d learned. The Fentons had torn apart someone very, very important to Phantom.

And Bruce had an awful feeling that he meant that literally.

“I can’t be here,” Phantom said instead of finishing his previous thought.

Batman nodded.

“You didn’t hurt anyone this time, so go; I see no reason to stop you.”

Phantom didn’t grace Batman with a goodbye, but the Bat swore he felt an invisible hand squeeze his shoulder after the Ghost vanished from sight.

~~~~~~

Danny laid on the examination bed, one hand being held by Sam while Tucker lounged on the bed at Danny’s feet. They were talking about their new companies, how the world was changing, and distracted Danny while Frostbite examined his vivisection scarring.

Danny looked everywhere but Frostbite as the yeti pushed and prodded. He didn’t want to look at his chest if he didn’t have to, but he also didn’t want the embarrassment that was accidentally meeting his doctor’s eyes in the middle of a physical.

“Fantastic news, Young Savior,” Frostbite said, interrupting their idle chatter, “Your core, while still healing, is recovering at a phenomenal rate. Truly, Lady Gotham is good on her word! At this pace, your core should be fully healed in a mere century!”

Danny hated that. He hated that it needed to heal, and he hated that he was going to outlive his friends.

Sam and Tucker leaned a little closer, offering comfort for something that they knew the Ancient before them wouldn’t understand.

“Better news, the physical damage appears to be almost completely healed. The regrown kidney and stomach are showing no signs of failing, and the scarring should be the only nuisance. I recommend the afore-mentioned stretches and lotion to help the scar tissue conform with your movements.”

Danny nodded, sitting up as Frostbite stepped back and removed his hand from inside Danny’s torso.

“I also see no issue with your residual limb, although it does appear you’ve been forgetting to remove the prosthetic often enough to cause some light bruising. Can’t say I don’t understand, but perhaps write a reminder and pin it on your bedroom wall.”

Danny avoided Sam’s flat look.

Tucker just flashed his phone screen at Danny, the words ‘I can make you something really cool with rockets it you let me’ sprawled across the screen.

Danny absorbed Sam’s flat look and mirrored it towards Tucker.

Tucker threw up his hands.

“Ancients forbid I do anything, I guess,” the techie sighed dramatically.

Once Danny pulled himself together and got ready to leave, Tucker threaded an arm around his own.

“So, wanna go ding-dong-ditch Walker?”

Danny paused, then grinned; and for the first time in two weeks, it wasn’t a lie.

~~~~~~

Danny waved back at Sam and Tucker as they went through their own portals. They would definitely have to get together and hit the town on Earth.

Danny walked through his own portal and ran face-first into a mass of muscle.

Dan steadied him as he bounced back.

Danny was immediately hit with conflicting, very confusing emotions.

He was looking at Dan, his enemy. He was looking at his father? No, it was Dan. Wasn’t that the same-?

Danny shook his head. He’d never gotten a straight answer about why his Ghost self’s view on Dan had changed so dramatically; everyone always shied away from the question.

“Can I ask what you’re doing in my apartment?” He asked instead, stepping back and closing the portal.

“Just making sure you’re settling in, Tiny.”

“We’re the same height?”

“Nah, we’re not.”

Danny shoved the absurdity of their interaction in the back of his head and made for his couch.

“Well, whatever you’re doing here, here’s to hoping it involved making dinner,” he groaned, sinking into the cushion and pulling up his left leg to start the tediously cumbersome process of pulling it off, “because per the doctor, I’m supposed to keep the prosthetic off for the rest of today.”

“I was gonna order out. Move, we’re watching Sailor Moon.”

Danny whined pitifully when Dan physically picked him up and moved him to the side.

He fought his instincts, and his instincts won.

He leaned back and allowed Dan to take the prosthetic off, clawed fingers delicate for all that the man snarled under his breath.

He also allowed the man to commandeer the TV; not something he would even allow Jazz to do.

“Why do I let you do these things?” Danny muttered, eyeballing the quasi-villain on his couch as said villain massaged the stump just below his knee.

Dan snorted.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Ugh, no one tells me anything.”

“We’re pacing you,” Dan corrected, blunt for all that the words were careful, “when you’re back on your feet, you’ll get the non-vital details we skimmed.”

Danny didn’t bother arguing; he’d already tried for the better part of the previous year. For some reason, the yetis took Dan’s side, too.

Instead, they fell into a companionable silence, appreciating Sailor Moon. Which was fine by Danny, since he never knew how to behave around Dan. It was only interrupted by the delivery of the Greek food Dan had ordered out.

Danny was on his second Gyro when Dan finally broke the silence.

“So I heard there was a rogue attack outside your apartment,” he said idly, and Danny could feel his eyes on him.

“Yeah.”

“So you got to see the Bats in action?”

“…Yeah.”

Dan leaned in, eyes going critical.

“What needs improvement? Don’t lie; that ‘yeah’ was one that means you weren’t impressed.”

Danny shrugged.

“I dunno, just…they didn’t have someone who’s only job it was was to evacuate the people, or help the injured. It was just offense, no defense.”

Dan snorted and leaned away.

“Kept telling that to Robin, but no; ‘Father this’ and ‘Father that’.” Dan shook his head, chewing thoughtfully on his rack of lamb. “So. What are you gonna do about it?”

Danny blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve seen what they need, and I’m not stupid enough to think you’ll stay out of the game forever. What are you gonna do about it?”

Danny looked down at his Gyro, frowning.

What was he gonna do about it?

He couldn’t fight, not like he used to, not really. But if the Bats were tanking, then…he probably wouldn’t really have to.

“I’ve been in medical facilities for almost a year,” Danny said slowly, ignoring how Dan stiffened next to him, “I think I’ve picked up a few things. Frostbite would probably be thrilled if I asked him to teach me, honestly.”

Dan relaxed, humming thoughtfully around the bone he was chewing on.

“I think…I’ll be a medic.”

@simplestoryteller @gildedphoenix I do not suffer PTSD, and I've never had a life-altering injury. That said, I know people who have, for both of those. I apologize if my descriptions are off. Here's some notes to piece together what this chapter outlines, for those that want the sparknotes as to what Dan is alluding to. From my notes; "Ghosts can carry another ghosts core if that core is injured, to protect and promote healing. Typically, the father or mother figure does it. In this particular instance, Dan did it. We will see in a bit, but for Dan their relationship went from enemies-warden-person I gotta apologize to-person I’ve got to save-the core housed next to mine-son. For Danny, it randomly went from enemies to ‘why do I think dan is my dad more than I think my dad is my dad’." This is where the "forced parenthood" tw comes into play, because Dan felt like he had to do it, and due to instinct Danny subconsciously got dragged along for the ride. Also, if it wasn't clear from the age list on the first chapter and the timeline presented, I'm playing around with Lian and Roy's timeline; Dan's first year he babysat her, and then she died. She came back only four weeks prior to Danny re-entering the human world.

#in the shadow of speculation #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #blood tw #vivisection tw #flashback tw #night terror tw #descriptions of recovery #physical therapy mention #self hatred tw #abled verbiage tw #forced parenthood tw #healing through helping others #past abuse #past torture

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squishablesunbeam · 10 months

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Consequence of Action Pt. 13

Finally official chapter! Thanks for playing! I adore you all! Also, the first and last bits are from Prim's perspective. I know that's different but I couldn't help myself!

TW: recovering whumpee, panic attack, flashback, vomiting, mentions of past noncon, executions, death of minor characters

Prim couldn't tear her eyes away from the monstrosity.

She'd been helping her crew clear out the dead when Lopez found another body deep in the lower deck. It wasn't the man with his empty eyes frozen open capturing his last moments of terror or his crushed throat that held her attention.

It was the cage.

She'd heard some of what the prisoners had been saying about what had happened on this ship. The vile obscenities they spewed about Quinn in particular certainly painted a horrific picture that she wished were exaggerations but, deep down, she knew were not. She'd heard enough to make her blood boil before she had them gagged or else she'd skin them alive herself for what they'd done to that man.

They'd also mentioned a cage. This was undoubtedly it. With its rough edges welded together with clear intent to inflict agony upon its occupant. There was dried blood on the teeth of the grating that covered the bottom as well as a fair amount soaked into the floor beneath.

Her eyes trailed back to the body Lopez and Freely were currently preparing to transport to the incinerator.

Quinn had been flogged, recently. He was barely able to stand on his own two feet when she'd come upon him and Collins in the hallway. There was no way he would have had the strength to crush a man's throat in his state.

That meant-

They'd put Collins in that cage. God, how did he even fit.

Her mind morbidly attempted to imagine herself stuffed into that small space and a nauseating wave of claustrophobia washed over her. She immediately shook the thought from her mind.

Collins had been her team leader for just over a decade. They'd seen each other through the worst that human beings could do to one another and they always came out the other end just a little worse for wear. She was even part of the team that had gone in to rescue him after he was held captive by the enemy for three months. Prim had thought she'd seen him at his absolute worst many times over.

So why did seeing him with that collar around his neck fuck with her head so much?

They'd collared him, and put him in a cage. She was pretty sure they'd even-

Prim allowed anger to seethe throughout her body, for only a moment. Righteous or not, anger dangerously clouded her judgment. She knew that well enough. If she had her druthers right in this moment, she'd flog each one of those men in her custody to within an inch of their lives and force them to beg Quinn and Collins for their pitiful lives before tossing them into the incinerator along with the rest of them. They deserved nothing less, and maybe so much more.

The choice wasn't hers to make.

“Ma'am.”

Prim very deliberately let the anger slip through her fingers.

She turned to Freely. “I want this deconstructed immediately. Tear it down to its bolts. I don't want a single piece of this cage left on my ship. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Freely acknowledged assuredly.

She let out a breath and nodded. He'll take care of it.

She turned on her heels and headed back up to the main deck, swallowing the urge to speed up her pace just to get away from all the horrid memories that undoubtedly haunted the corners of that godawful room.

She headed for her new office, dispensing orders as she went. This ship had just begun to fall into disrepair while being under poor leadership and a skeleton crew it seemed. There was a lot to be done.

A few hours later, Prim called for Collins and Quinn to join her. She needed to discuss what to do with the prisoners, their possessions, etc. They also needed to track down any of Quinn's possessions as well, if they hadn't already been destroyed. This all could technically wait, but if she was being honest, she wanted the prisoners dealt with and off the ship as soon as possible.

She fussed at the desk while she waited, stacking piles of papers and log books that must have been the ship's former captain's, practically useless now. Most, if not all, would be burned.

The office was large but impersonal. She'd already taken the time to shift around the placement of furniture to make it more open and inviting. She dimmed the glaring overhead light and made a note to grab some of those warm light bulbs on their next stop at a safe planet. She would have to bring over some of her more personal items from the other ship as well.

A knock pulled her out of her thoughts and she turned, hitting the button that slid open the door.

"Commander," Collins greeted her with a warm smile, Quinn by his side.

She grinned wide, clasping arms with Collins and then Quinn.

"Prim is fine. You know that well enough."

Collins already looked so much better. Much more himself. She couldn't stop herself from casting her eyes briefly to his neck, assuring herself that the collar had actually been cut away and he was free from its weight.

She stepped back to allow them into the room, noting the soft hold Collins had around Quinn's hip.

It looked so incredibly natural for a man who rarely ever displayed even a hint of affection in the many years she'd known him.

A smile quirked up her lips.

She didn't know exactly what was going on between these too but it was clearly something, and it was only growing stronger. As far as Prim was aware, Collins had never had a significant person in his life, at least he'd never spoken of it if he had.

Seeing him so casually tender with Quinn was, well, it was adorable.

Prim gestured them into the office.

“Please, have a seat.”

She stopped short, her eyes flicking to Collins as the blood drained out of Quinn's face.

Oh, shit.

–

He'd already had a brief moment of panic in the hallway once he realized where they were headed but he'd convinced Collins that he was fine. Of course Prim would have taken the Captain's office. She was the highest ranking member of the crew after all. It made perfect sense.

Except right now, nothing made sense.

He was certain he'd be okay, stepping confidently into the room after watching the familiar exchange between Collins and Prim.

But then, Quinn laid eyes on that looming brown desk and his world just slipped right out from under him.

He saw himself, clear as day, curled up on his knees under that damn desk. Naked, his hands bound to his thighs like they always were the first however many times he'd been forced to open his mouth and obey.

It was as if he was watching from a far away corner of the ceiling but also not. He could feel it all. The way the hard floor bit into his knees and the coarse rope constricting his thighs and tearing at his skin.

He shook his head to try and clear the image but it wouldn't jar loose. The taste of the Captain's fingers filled his mouth and he gagged, choking on nothing as the taste turned to something so much worse.

His head felt thick and his world narrowed.

He felt like he might be falling but he couldn't bring himself to care. The room buzzed loudly in his ears and washed itself over him. He could feel all of its edges pressing against his body, forcing him to fit into the tight space under the desk.

Something pressed against his back and there was pain there, but also, it was good. The pain felt good, in a way. It sparked sharply through his mind and cleared some of the fog away. He dropped his head and tried to remember how to breath, clinging to that pain like a lifeline.

His entire body was suddenly shook, just once, and his eyes managed to lock into place, the spinning world around him suddenly centering on one point of focus.

“Collins?”

A hand touched lightly against his own and he looked down at himself, realizing he had pressed his wrists to his thighs. He could feel the ropes keeping him in place but he couldn't see them. He gasped his mouth open and tried to pry them up off his legs. It felt as if he was attempting to merge two worlds that simply weren't meant to coexist. He finally succeeded in detaching his hands from his legs and held them up in front of his face.

They were shaking.

He was shaking.

He still couldn't breathe.

Warm fingers brushed against his face and the here and now flooded his senses, coming back to him far too fast. His body prickled with sweat, his mouth filled with saliva.

“Oh my god,” he pressed a hand against Collins' shoulder and lurched to the side, vomiting onto the floor beside them.

“Oh my god,” he said again, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth before pulling it back and looking at his wrists, fully expecting to see marks from the ropes indented into this skin.

His thighs weren't bare. He was wearing pants and a button up shirt he found in Collins' closet.

Quinn dimly heard himself muttering Collins' name under his breath.

“You're alright. I'm here. Just breathe.”

His eyes numbly tracked Collins' movement as he wrapped his fingers around Quinn's wrist and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the thin skin.

There still weren't any ropes there, holding him in place. He kept his eyes on Collins' hands, each painless pass of his thumb a reminder that he was safe. Collins was here. The Captain was dead.

Quinn gasped out a harsh breath as the image of him shooting the Captain in the head flashed before his eyes.

He looked up, his eyes wide and wet with stinging tears as he searched Collins' face, too many memories battling for his attention at once.

“He hurt you, Collins, he-” Quinn said, his voice strained and panicked.

“Hey,” Collins drew their foreheads together, holding onto the back of Quinn's head. “I'm okay, Quinn. You saved me, remember? You killed him, Quinn. He can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt either of us anymore. We're okay.”

Quinn drew in a shaky breath, and then another. Collins' hands were like an anchor, holding him to this reality, his shoulders firm and solid and real under his own hands. He breathed, his breath mixing with Collins' as the world slowed down to a manageable rhythm.

He became aware of another presence in the room and his eyes slid to Prim, sitting on the floor with them, just a few steps behind Collins with her arms draped over her knees.

“Holy shit,” Quinn said, pulling back slightly and breathing out a shocked breath, “That's never happened before. Not like that. I could see it. I could feel it.”

He held tight to Collins as Prim sat forward, crossing her legs underneath her, “Ironically, it's because you are actually safe now that this is happening. You're mind is trying to process everything. Collins can teach you some tricks to help you stay grounded, or I can. We've both been through it.”

Collins nodded sympathetically, scratching his fingers over Quinn's leg in a predictable, soothing rhythm.

It was helping.

“Grounded, yeah,” Quinn leaned his head back on the wall behind him, only now realizing that was where the pain was coming from. His sore back was pressed right up against it.

“God, I'm so sorry,” he groaned out, looking down at the mess he'd made next to him and trying to fight back embarrassment from swallowing him whole.

Prim waved her hand absently. “It'll clean just fine. Go rest. We'll talk later, okay?”

He nodded and leaned heavily against Collins as they moved to stand, Prim immediately moving to join them. They were both standing right in front of Quinn, blocking his eye line to the desk. He couldn't quell the need to look, just once more, to assure himself that the other him wasn't still trapped there, under the desk.

Collins moved to help him to the door and he stole a glance over his shoulder, breathing out a breath of relief only once he was assured the phantom was gone.

He didn't know why he felt the need to ask but he stopped himself before heading out the door, “What did you want to talk to us about anyway?”

She started to wave her hand in dismissal but paused, drawing her eyebrows down, seeming to study him carefully. He felt Collins' solid presence at his side.

“I was going to ask if you wanted me to have the prisoners executed. I thought the airlock might be appropriate but I didn't want to make that decision without you both.”

Whatever fear that had just sunk its teeth into him morphed into anger at the mention of the prisoners.

Jackson, Hawkins and Gibson.

It wasn't enough that the Captain was dead. Quinn's every waking memory was corrupted with the thoughts of these men. He could barely eat without the image of Jackson forcing his dick into his mouth through the cage before he gave him any food. Hawkins tore at his flesh and left behind too many scars for him to ever forget. And Gibson- Quinn shuddered, the pain of his care still a bright and sharp memory.

Quinn didn't want to think twice about it. He just wanted them gone.

“Do it,” he said, swallowing down the knowledge that with those two words, he just sentenced three men to their deaths.

“Would you like to be there?” Prim asked.

Quinn looked to Collins who shrugged, squeezing Quinn's hand once. “As long as they're dead, I'm okay with it,” Collins said plainly.

“I think I'm okay too,” Quinn said, looking back to Prim, “Will you do me a favor though?”

“Name it,” she said with a sincerity that put a weak smile on his face.

“Just, maybe, don't tell them what's going to happen. Don't say anything to them at all. Just take them to the airlock and open the door.”

The silence was always the worst part. Being led through the ship, never knowing his own fate before being shoved through an open door.

Quinn thought it fitting.

Prim apparently did too, if the look on her face told him anything.

“I'll make certain of it.”

“Let us know when it's done,” Collins added, him and Prim both sharing an understanding between them as she nodded her assent.

Quinn felt the warmth of Collins' hand at his hip and he let himself lean against him. He focused on carefully matching his breath to Collins' as they wove their way through the hall and back to the quiet and safety of their room.

–

Prim had done exactly as Quinn asked. She informed her crew to bind the men and take them to the airlock without a single word spoken.

It was admittedly gratifying to behold. She watched as Gibson lost it first. He screamed and thrashed against Freely as they were led down the halls, demanding to know what was going on and proclaiming his innocence.

Hawkins was next.

He fed off of Gibson's fear and spewed vile threats at herself and her crew. Mostly though, he cursed Quinn's name and screamed at the top of his lungs the horrific things he was going to do to him.

Except he was never going to have that chance. He was going to die. He was going to be tossed away like trash, without a second thought.

Jackson held out until they were all kneeling in the airlock and the door was being sealed shut between them. He launched himself up at the last minute and sprinted toward the door, hurling himself again and again at the thick glass that kept them safe from the vacuum of space.

Prim stood silently with her crew, all of them expressionless as the prisoners made their pleas and useless threats.

With a signal to Freely, he slammed up the lever and the screams of the three men died with them as they were sucked out into nothingness.

It was the most feared end for those who made their lives out in this vast emptiness. As much as they all craved it, loved it even, the enduring, ever expanding endlessness of space was utterly terrifying. Like the vast oceans back on Earth, space was to be respected and feared in equal measure.

These men respected nothing.

The silence that followed the closing of the outer door had a finality to it that she found both deafening and soothing in the same moment.

It was done.

Freely and Lopez headed back to their respective stations without a second glace and Prim headed to inform Collins and Quinn, hoping that they sleep just a little bit easier now.

“Come in,” Collins called from inside the room. Prim was surprised he didn't meet her at the door as was decorum. Not that she expected it or enforced that kind of nonsense on her crew, it was just Collins' way. Too many years spent in the service and not enough spent living his own life.

She realized why the moment she slid the door open.

Collins was propped up on a few pillows with a book in his hand and Quinn soundlessly asleep with his head on Collins' stomach.

The sight made Prim smile.

“He's good for you,” she whispered, easing quietly into the room.

Quinn flinched a little in his sleep and Collins moved to card his fingers through his hair for probably the hundredth time.

“Too good,” Collins whispered back, taking off his glasses and setting them on top of the open book by his hip.

He looked tired himself, and worried.

“Is he okay?”

“No. He's not," Collins said. He wasn't harsh about his words. He sounded sad.

“Are you okay?”

Collins sighed and finally look up at Prim, “No.”

She pursed her lips and nodded, “If it makes you feel any better, they died terrified.”

Collins frowned deeply as he looked down at the man in his lap, his head rising and falling gently with every one of Collins' breaths.

“I would have had them skinned alive,” Collins said, not looking up from where his fingers were curled into Quinn's hair.

Prim huffed out a laugh, “I had a similar thought. But at least it's done. Maybe there's some peace to be had from that?”

“I hope so,” he said, “He deserves it.”

“So do you, Collins,” Prim said, knowing full well that he didn't believe a word of that. “And for what it's worth,” she gestured between the two men, “whatever you've got going here, it's cute as fuck. You deserve that too.”

Collins actually laughed, a wide grin splitting his handsome face as a blush seeped into his cheeks.

He'd be okay, she thought. They both would be okay, she'd make sure of it. She'd fold them into her little family and give them a change to find their footing again.

She headed back towards the door, “You need anything at all, you let us know, you hear me? And when you're ready for a distraction, I've got plenty of work for you to do.”

“Will do, Commander,” Collins said, the smile on his face coming just a little easier, “And Prim, thank you. For everything.”

“Of course, sir.”

She left them to rest and turned to head back up to the bridge, her mind already on the myriad of tasks on her plate and plotting their next course through the skies.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn, @whumplr-reader, @hold-him-down, @monochrome-episode, @dogface3000, @skyhawkwolf, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @maddam-redder, @susiequaz12, @pigeonwhumps, @starlit-darkness

#recovering whumpee #rescued whumpee #mentions of past noncon #panic attack tw #flashback tw #emeto #execution #death of minor characters

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starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 8 months

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Chapter 21 ~ Blurry (out of place)

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Also on ao3

Genre: Fantasy whump

CW's: ANGST, omg the angst there’s so much o.o, flashback fun for everyone! 😅, brief nonspecific flashback to csa, panic attack(s), painful wound cleaning, wishing for death, unsure of what is real but not quite unreality so make of it what you will, oh shit-almost forgot: captivity tw, restraints tw :') been awhile since i needed those lol

WC: 4237

Taglist (😱 I remembered this time!): @clairelsonao3, @dont-touch-my-soup, @kixngiggles (i've been having trouble tagging you, but i wanted to put this up here in case you see and were wondering where your tag was)

In which reality is a bit fluid, folks, and no one is happy about it

AN: Including me, I was also unhappy writing this. I need that bunker to protect myself and also to piece my heart back together.

You know that whole bit about how things get worse before they get better? Yeah, that is this :')

Carr

Carr had plenty of time to review her options as she returned to the wreckage of their carriage to search for supplies.

If she “stumbled” into the camp’s clearing, would the reaction be more favorable if she dressed as a man or a woman? Had it been long enough for the bandits to assume the other people in the carriage had died? Surely they had searched and been curious about the lack of bodies, though. Carr tapped a grimy finger on her lip, barely even seeing the gown she’d found stuck in a bush some ways from the crash site.

Aside from the cut on her brow, Carr was also fairly sure she didn’t look like a survivor of the kindling strewn across the ravine. Which meant she could pretend to be a runaway, but�� from where? Maybe she could get away with not wanting to say. Fuck if she could even remember the places they had visited.

So. Girl or boy? Child or adult? Found on the outskirts of camp or by the guards on the fringe or just stumbling straight into the camp, bypassing the guards altogether?

While she could physically pass as a child at first glance, it wasn’t a ruse she could keep up for long, and she needed these people to feel sorry for her and take her in. She wrinkled her nose and smoothed Orla’s dress out on the ground in front of her. It was torn in places, which was fine since Carr wanted it to look like she’d been roughing it for a few days. It would be too short, but not by much, so it might make her look… poorer. The material was still too fucking nice, though. Maybe if she got it dirty enough, no one would notice.

Carr left the dress behind and returned to the carriage. Or what was left of it. After a bit of digging, she found one of Orla’s headscarves, this one a pale pastel blue. Perfect; the dumb dress was blue, so it would even match. She rolled her eyes at the thought.

Her hackjob haircut was acceptable for a boy or young man but less so for a woman. She’d never cared about her hair before and wasn’t going to start now, but if she went with the fairer option of subterfuge, she’d need an excuse for that, too. Gods, this sucked. Why did that place have to be filled with what seemed like halfway-decent people instead of a bunch of lowlifes who’d look better with a few more holes in them?

Which was another question. How many weapons could she get away with carrying? Carr ground her teeth, knowing very well she’d be lucky to justify just one, if it was found.

Even if she went in posing as a man, she couldn’t carry as many blades as she had on her right now. But she’d all but decided on pretending to be a woman–it seemed more likely she’d just be killed straight off as a man–so one blade it was. She’d hide the others somewhere close to the camp so they’d be nearby if she needed them.

She tried not to think of the last time she’d donned a dress while she stripped to her underclothes and pulled on Orla’s garments–which were slightly too small in the chest and shoulders as well as too short.

The clothes she’d discarded served as a wrap for her extra blades; the only one she’d kept was strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts, which ended at mid-calf instead of her ankles. Each breath she took was stifled, and her range of motion was shit. This was starting off just wonderfully.

It just needed to get her into the camp, she reminded herself. Too small clothes, chopped off hair, small and skinny with a bruised face… someone would take pity on her. They had to.

Carr hadn’t caught sight of Resh in a day and a half. She’d spent all damned day watching the fucking camp. Now dusk was approaching, and she wasn’t willing to wait another night. She needed in now, and gods help these people if she didn’t like what she found.

~~~

Resh

Resh’s head hurt–like ice-picks stabbing his eyes, vice-grip around his temples, skull about to crack like an egg hurt.

The pain about drowned out the red-hot pulsing under his collarbone. The rest of his body didn’t feel all that great either.

He groaned soundlessly and tried to curl up on his side.

Resistance. He couldn’t move his arms.

Nothing but darkness greeted him when his eyes snapped open. Which his head appreciated, but his mind not so much. Resh yanked on his arm, but the motion had no effect except to send shards of agony lancing through his chest. Shit, his ribs… gasping shallowly for air, he stilled.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

The air went nowhere as everything he thought he knew splintered and warped, aided by the throbbing in his head. He was lying on something hard, in the dark, his limbs tied down, pain splintering through every facet of his being.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to wake up. To not be back there. The last weeks couldn’t have been the dream. They couldn’t have they couldn’t!

He started struggling again, hoping he would wake up if he hurt himself in real life, but a voice penetrated the weighted silence, its owner sounding as if the person was moving. Straining his ears, Resh paused, listening.

“Burning pits, Lox, did you see his forehead? He’s a royal mage, we can’t be stealing royal mages!”

A royal mage? Horror washed through him at the thought. Is that what the prince had done when he’d branded him? Claimed him for the Crown? Fuck; fuck!

And who was that talking? No one spoke in his dreams but the prince, which meant…

His stomach twisted. This was real? But then, the prince shouldn’t know about his magic, not unless he’d used it without realizing… He cringed as a vicious throb tried to liquefy his brain. It felt-it felt like a reaction headache–oh gods, what had he done?

“If such a thing even exists, we could surely ransom him. If not, could you imagine how useful a Kinetic would be? I’m not interested in killing people–I don’t want another such occurrence as what just happened. Robbing people is annoying, sure, but killing them will get us hunted down and exterminated.”

The unknown voices moved on, becoming indistinguishable before fading away completely. The meaning of the words barely penetrated the fog of Resh’s panic, but one thing stood out.

Ransom? But–he tugged on his wrists, wincing as coarse rope chafed his skin. Everything felt muddled and upside down and wrong and–Carr! Killing people? Carr killed people, but… that’s not what that person had meant, now was it. Resh’s heart was beating so hard he thought it might break through his chest. His eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness, his thoughts couldn’t…

Flashes of memory, purple light flooding a carriage. He had tried so hard to cushion them with his magic… Lightning speared through his head, obliterating the memory. Resh cried out, nothing emerging but a puff of air.

Hot tears trickled down his temples, tracking down into his hair as his breathing quickened. He’d failed. If killing people was bad, if they wanted him so it wouldn’t happen again–it meant he’d failed, that Carr and his sister were–were dead.

He keened silently at the thought until the pain in his chest left him too breathless to continue. His mind twisted again as he lay there, panting through the waves of physical and emotional agony.

But was that–was that real? The carriage, the crash–had that happened? Or–he pulled on his arms again–was he still in the prince’s torture chamber, awaiting the man’s next godsforsaken sadistic whim?

Resh shuddered, his heart beating erratically while his skin flushed hot then cold, leaving him clammy and even more uncomfortable. He couldn’t–he couldn’t… His thoughts scattered, his mind shutting down.

As pain and despair dragged him back under, he couldn’t decide which reality would be worse.

~~~

Carr

Branches whipped past Carr as she ran, one etching a line of fire across her cheek when she misjudged the distance in the waning light under the Seleni Wood’s canopy. Shouts echoed behind her, and an arrow whizzed past, barely missing as it embedded into a nearby tree with an ominous thud.

Fuck fuck fuck. She’d meant to get close enough to the camp to approach one of the women, figuring she’d have better luck appealing to them than just walking into a bandit camp and looking stunned, an easy target for archery practice.

The perimeter had been guarded more heavily than she’d been able to tell from afar. Now, she was a moving archery target. Less easy, surely, but fuck it all, not ideal. Her heart thrummed quickly enough that the individual beats were indistinguishable as she ducked under a low-hanging branch and swung around a tree, heading deeper into the underbrush. She could get away, probably. But that would defeat the purpose, so she needed to allow herself to be caught. Without getting killed, preferably.

But the men chasing her would tackle her, take her down. The thought made her skin crawl–would they stop there, buy the not-so-much-an-act she’d put on, or would they prove to be the brand of bandits she’d originally thought they’d be?

It’s for Resh. She repeated the thought over and over as she “tripped” and curled up on the ground, covering her scarf-wrapped head. Her body quivered for real as she awaited either an arrow to the back or rough hands grabbing her.

Thankfully–but also not–callused fingers wrapped around her wrists in a bruising grip, forcing her arms to the ground by her head as a large man dressed in patched leathers straddled her body.

“The fuck,” he said, staring down into what Carr supposed were her saucer-wide eyes.

Eyes that rapidly filled with tears as she put up a weak struggle against his hold. It took everything she had not to wrap her legs around the man’s waist and flip him off her–would’ve been hard to do in the stupid too-tight dress anyway, and moreover, would’ve been suspicious. But gods.

“What’ve you got?” another male voice called from somewhere to her left.

“A fucking woman,” her captor responded, gripping her wrists even harder. He moved, placing one knee between her legs, which effectively pinned them in place within the prison of her skirts.

Carr went limp, focusing all her energy on convincing her body not to fight and flee. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure the man could hear it.

“Are there more?” a third voice asked. Crunching followed their question, the person moving with no care through the detritus of the forest.

The man cocked a dark brow at her. “Well?”

She shook her head frantically. “N-no. No. Please–” Her voice cracked, and she snapped her mouth closed, swallowing against the tears thickening her throat.

Rotten breath wafted across her face while a hand swept under her skirt.

“That’s right, be a good girl now and I’ll be nice to you, I promise.”

One hand pinned both her wrists now while the other swept over her body, then beneath her skirt, unerringly finding the blade strapped to her thigh.

She shivered beneath the too-large body, her cheek throbbing where he’d already hit her, her wrists aching beneath his hold.

Her wrists ached beneath the man’s hold as he held up the dagger and laughed. “Do you even know how to use this?”

A mixture of rage and shame set her face aflame, and the cut on her cheek throbbed. Her breath caught.

Dark hair curled around his face, framing amused blue eyes that quickly darkened with concern. “Hey, are you alright?”

The hand covering her mouth after she’d screamed for help was too big. It covered her nose as well and she couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t

She couldn’t breathe, the air she sucked in between choked-off sobs going nowhere as she battled her past to stay in the way too similar present.

“Shit.” The man scrambled off her, calling out to his friends.

The words he exchanged with them made no sense through the ringing in her ears. Pinpricks of white flashed before her eyes, and aside from tucking her hands beneath her chin, Carr didn’t move–couldn’t move.

Memory flickered in and out of her mind’s eye–no matter what, it was always this one she was thrown back into. This one that haunted her dreams. This one that paralyzed her, highlighting how fucking helpless she’d been–

Carr pushed up with a wheezing gasp, flinching as hands reached out to help her. She was not helpless; she was just pretending. Pretending pretending pretending

A hand moved over her back, up and down, up and down, and she trembled, desperately trying to keep still and allow this strange man to comfort her.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m sorry about before, we thought… it doesn’t matter what we thought.” Leaning forward, he caught Carr’s eyes. “You with me now?”

She nodded, averting her gaze so he wouldn’t see how much she wanted to turn and rip his hand off. Her skin prickled.

“Look like you’ve been through it. You need help?”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded again.

Someone scoffed. Movement caught in her peripheral vision, and she twisted her head, rearing back. The man’s hand moved, tightening around her shoulder.

“Just gonna take her at her word? Probably some thief putting on an act.”

Her captor-turned-protector pulled her back against his chest. She made herself melt into him, pulling up her legs to make herself smaller while the new bandit glared at her suspiciously.

“You didn’t see her when I had her pinned. No one puts on an act like that.” Her bandit’s voice dripped with derision.

Carr couldn’t decide if it was directed towards her or the other man. Didn’t matter, long as he decided she was worth helping. Take me back, take me back, take me back, she chanted in her head. Her body shaking like a leaf was entirely unfeigned; the reaction disgusted her, but she didn’t suppress it, letting her fucking weakness serve its purpose.

“She needs help.”

“So bring her some supplies and send her on her way. We gotta get back to our post,” the suspicious one said.

“More help than that!” her bandit responded hotly.

Carr let a small whimper escape, pressing a hand to her mouth after in a show of embarrassment. Her bandit held her closer, and she closed her eyes, trying to imagine he was Resh so she wouldn’t do something stupid like pull his dagger and slit his throat. She wanted to crawl outta her skin. She couldn’t. Couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.

“You gonna take responsibility for her?” another voice cut in. There was an extra layer of meaning beneath their tone that Carr didn’t trust in the slightest.

Shit, she’d forgotten about the third bandit. She snapped her head around, watching that one’s approach closely. Tall and slim, with toned muscles evident beneath gear in better condition than the other two, they moved fluidly through the brush towards her. Both her bandit and the suspicious one went still, waiting quietly as they studied Carr. Clearly, that one was the leader and would be the deciding factor on whether she was getting into the camp or not.

Carr dropped her gaze when they crouched before her, jabbing their bow into the ground to lean upon. Their gaze felt like tiny bugs crawling across her skin, and she shivered.

After what felt like forever, they finally nodded and stood, strapping their bow over their shoulder. “Fine. Let’s get back. Lox’ll have your hide for this, just so y’know.”

The suspicious one huffed, sounding dissatisfied.

A thrill went through Carr as her bandit assisted her to her feet, but she kept her eyes wide and expression fearful.

“C’mon,” he said gently, settling his arm around her shoulder.

Ugh. But she leaned into him, allowing him to lead her back to the camp. Her eyes snagged on her dagger, shoved without care through the man’s belt, and her fingers twitched, itching to thieve it back.

Not yet. She had to pretend a bit longer. For Resh.

~~~

Resh

A cool cloth brushed over the sensitive skin of Resh’s forehead, waking him.

His head didn’t hurt as badly, but gods, he felt like he was on fire, his flesh burning, set aflame from a single pulsing point on his chest.

Subtly, he pulled on his arms, only to find they were still restrained. A shiver went through him, and the cloth pulled away abruptly.

Resh cracked open his eyes to find a stocky figure sitting beside him, the lamplight flickering over their shoulder-length blond hair. He caught a flash of green as they turned their head to the side, and his insides froze over even while the heat scalded his skin.

“Good, you’re awake,” the figure said, turning back to him holding a wooden cup. “You need to drink.”

He shook his head, even though his mouth was dry, so so dry. No. No no nonono he wasn’t back with the prince he wasn’t he wasn’t he–

A hand gripped the back of his head, forcing it up as the cup was pressed to his lips. Liquid poured in, and he choked, unready. It kept coming anyway, so he forced himself to drink through the coughing. It was that or drown.

“Good, that’s good,” the prince said.

Resh sobbed as he was released, then pressed his lips together to suppress another bubbling cough. He squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to look at the rest of his surroundings. Unwilling to see white limestone, the final confirmation of his delusions. Real, this felt so real. Too real.

But so had everything else! Carr, finally, finally talking to him in that meadow. Her small hands removing his gloves, resting against his cheek, soothing him after a nightmare.

His sister, healthy, her hair growing, her skin losing its pallor. Laughing and joking and enjoying their journey.

Had it really all been a figment of his imagination? A fever dream? He certainly felt like he had a fever. His heart cracked, the pieces crumbling as he came one step closer to believing the torture chamber was his reality. Maybe he would actually die this time, and it could all just be over.

“He looks like shit,” a different voice said. Deeper.

“Yeah, well. You shot him. Don’t know what you expected, really. Don’t think it hit a lung, at least, or surely he’d be dead by now.”

He wished he was. Gods, how he wished he was.

“I need your help. Need to wash the wound out again, but he always fights, even restrained. Tore the stitches out once already.”

A sigh, then hands clamping on his shoulders–his bare shoulders–pressing them flat against the hard surface he laid upon. Pain lanced through his chest, and he cried out soundlessly, trying to pull away. Another figure straddled his hips, pinning him down even more.

“We’re just trying to help you!” one of them shouted at him, but he didn’t, couldn’t trust the words, especially as the liquid poured over his chest.

He could feel it bubbling in the wound, the fire multiplied by a thousand, burrowing in to burn him alive inside now as well as out. He would’ve screamed, had the prince not ripped even that away from him already.

“I know it hurts, and I’m sorry, but I have got to clean out the wound.”

Lies. He wasn’t sorry. Resh shook his head from side to side, straining, desperate to get away from it. Lies lies lies lies

“He hasn’t made a single sound, but he looks like he’s screaming.”

“Have you seen his chest? This guy has been through some shit. I don’t like doing this, Lox.”

“It needs to be done, or he’ll die. Do you want that?”

The words washed over Resh, a haze of agony coating everything. They didn’t make sense. Who the fuck was Lox? But he blinked as the pain died down a little, saw the prince bending over him, and didn’t know anymore.

What was real? This pain was real–but was it? Sometimes it wasn’t, he remembered, but then more liquid poured and his mind whited out under the blistering pain and his throat strained to make sounds it was no longer capable of producing.

When he came back around, the shape of familiar words flying off his lips–please, no more, please, no more–someone was gently patting at his chest, saying the last words he expected.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts. I’m trying to be as careful as I can. Sorry.”

Exhausted, Resh laid his head back down. His shoulders were no longer pressed down, and there was no weight across his waist. He opened his eyes but allowed them to skim past that person who was the prince who wasn’t the prince because they kept apologizing every time he flinched.

A flash of blue caught his attention, just past the large man blocking most of the doorframe across the room. The room with whitewashed wooden walls, not stone. Or was it? Oh gods. He blinked. Hazel eyes peered under the man’s–Lox’s?–arm, there and then gone so quickly Resh wasn’t sure he’d seen correctly.

But he’d know those eyes anywhere, and his heart leapt.

It just didn’t make sense. Nothing was making sense.

The cup was pressed to his mouth again, and Resh swallowed this time instead of choking, grimacing at the sticky sweetness left behind on his tongue. The other man was gone by the time he finished, and so was the person in blue.

It couldn’t have been Carr, then.

It couldn’t have been anyway because if this was not the torture chamber, then Carr was dead. Orla was dead. He had as good as killed them, making them travel across the country with him.

Resh turned his head away from the cup when it was offered again, and this time the prince not prince didn’t push it on him.

He watched dully as they dimmed the lamp, then left the room, the sound of a lock snicking closed horribly familiar.

And yet, he didn’t care.

Worse, he decided as the room began to waver in his vision. As his heart caved in and left what felt like a jagged, fist-sized hole behind. As his chest heaved with the silent sobs he no longer bothered to hold back. This was so much worse.

His crying sparked lancets of agony radiating across his body from the burning wound under his collarbone. Every stuttering gasp felt like inhaling shards of broken glass. He welcomed the pain.

But whatever had been in the water fuzzed his mind, and his eyes eventually drifted closed, his breathing leveling off. The tears tracking down his temples followed him into his drugged sleep.

~~~

Carr

Carr’s bandit marched her straight into the biggest of only three cabins in the bandit’s little valley, past the watchful eyes of probably most of the place’s inhabitants.

Demex, he’d told her his name was.

Well, Demex bore up against the scrutiny well, even as Carr cringed away from it. Maybe because she cringed, which he could very well tell with his arm around her shoulder, dragging her body into his side. She permitted it. She had no choice, now did she.

For Resh.

Demex bore up less well under Lox’s scrutiny. Carr flattened herself against the wall, ostensibly hiding behind her bandit while he got his ass handed to him, but really the positioning allowed her to see under Lox’s arm into the room he was trying to block with his body. Kind of.

She caught flashes of someone moving around a bed. What looked like medical supplies on a nearby table, some bloodied bandages.

And then–a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes. Their gazes met for all of five seconds before the person at his bedside blocked her view, but Carr was certain it was him.

Her heart sped up, her breaths quickening. So fast! She couldn’t believe she’d found him so quickly. And he was alive. Her knees buckled as relief sluiced through her, and all that saved her from sliding down the wall was Demex’s hand slipping around her waist.

“Hey there, you alright? Rowan is a little busy right now, but they can check you out in the morning, if that suits?”

“Alright,” Carr said faintly. She willed strength back into her legs. “Wh-what now?”

“What now is you get to talk to me,” Lox said, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

The only thing that stopped her from snatching her dagger back, burying it in this guy’s chest, and bursting into that room to get to Resh was that it appeared as if they were caring for his injuries.

And the small matter that a move like that would certainly get her killed. But she would’ve done it regardless, if she’d thought it necessary.

Not yet, she told herself, staring up into the eyes of the man who’d chased their fucking carriage down.

#hidden depths #whump #whump writing #original writing #original characters #fantasy whump #warnings above the cut #captivity tw #restraints tw #flashback tw #panic attack tw #wishing for death #painful wound cleaning

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aveimperatcr · 3 months

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@tertiusdecimusfilius continued from here.

We're home right now. We're home. Year 012 of M42. Was that right? A somewhat glossy gaze drifted to his son like he had to search his very soul to confirm if it were the truth. It should have been, yet some part of him just couldn't believe it. No. It couldn't be. If he is still able to speak now... then did he just reach the Throne? Surely he was just interred... no! A trickery of the Warp! Trickery of Tzeentch, the foul Manipulator!

Being vulnerable was a weakness, he once believed-- at least, when it comes to himself. Not to anyone else. If it had been Guilliman (now that the Emperor had properly been able to come forward despite his fractured conscience), he would have reassured him that the weakness he showed was natural and normal human experiences. But not for the Emperor. He didn't practice what he preached. Instead, he chastised himself for being so weak in front of his already stressed son.

But his mind just couldn't form a coherent thought. He heard screams, he heard talking, whispers, voices coming together constantly to try to flood his mind, mixes of sacrificed psykers and past incarnations and whispers of the Warp. He felt like he was back within the depths, constantly battling Chaos while he was still trapped within his very tomb, a living skeleton.

His grip suddenly tightened. His knuckles turned white.

" No. No. I do not need rest. " He suddenly snapped at him, then abruptly moved to stand to his feet, his grip only tightening further like he threatened to break Guilliman's very gauntlet.

" I must protect Holy Terra at all COSTS. Constantin, you must protect the throne room-- if Horus is to reach it, then he will reach the Webway! We must not allow him-- I need to reach him first... I am going to board the Vengeful Spirit and assist Sanguinius-- Malcador will power the Throne for as long as he can, and... and... "

#interred upon the throne in character / ic.#tertiusdecimusfilius #ask to tag tw #ptsd tw #flashback tw #dissociation tw

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actress4him · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 18 - The Shadow and The Brute

More of the Brumaria Hero/Villain AU! This one takes place much later than the first. Bruno is only mentioned, but he belongs to Izzy!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

No. 18: Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

Contains: lady whump, interrogation, restraints, broken bones, beating, referenced internal bleeding, burns, mild gore, flashback, parental abuse, foster care references

The steel rod cracks against her ribs.

“What is The Brute’s real name?”

“I don’t know.” A lie.

Again, on the other side.

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know.” A lie, and screw him for taking her there and making this even harder for her.

Another hit, this time to her stomach.

“Who else does he work with?”

“I…don’t…I don’t know.” Also a lie. This one’s her fault, though, for stalking him and his team to find out who was hurting him.

“Oh, I think you do know. I think you know all kinds of things about the heroes, and The Brute, especially, that you’re not telling.”

He hits her ribs again.

“I hate the heroes,” she spits. The truth. Or at least, it was the truth. Now, she honestly doesn’t know how she feels. “You know I do.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem that way, not the way you’ve been cozying up to them lately.”

Kamaria doesn’t say anything in return, still trying to catch her breath, and there’s a pause from the rest of the room, too. She strains her ears, trying to figure out if he’s choosing a new tool or the next spot to strike. She hates being blindfolded, hates not being able to see what’s coming. Which, of course, is the exact reason why he does it.

“Harder.” Her father’s voice. He is still in the room, then.

She catches the footstep that comes toward her and tenses in preparation, but there’s really no way she can ever be prepared. Roderick doesn’t stop to ask questions this time. He just hits her, again and again and again, all across her stomach and ribs. With her arms restrained out to each side she can’t curl in to get away from it. She can feel things breaking and bruising inside of her. She can’t take a breath for the entire time the rod is coming down, can’t scream or plead even if she wanted to.

When it finally ends, she spends just as much time coughing, retching, and trying to gasp in any air she can get. She’d throw up if it hadn’t been days since she’s eaten anything.

“What is The Brute’s real name?”

Bruno. His name is Bruno, two whole letters different from Brute because he’s an idiot.

“Where does he live?”

In a bachelor pad apartment, second floor, on Broad Street.

All she has to do is say that out loud, and it ends. For literally half of her life, fourteen years, she’s done whatever it takes to protect herself. Played the perfect, obedient foster child even when the families had already decided she was a troublemaker for having superpowers. Learned to fight and to kill from the villains. Went on all of their missions, whether they fit her own agenda or not. Followed all of their rules as best she could and gave in to their demands.

But she can’t give in this time. She doesn’t care what they do to her, not when the alternative is them doing the same and worse to the only man who’s ever treated her with kindness. He’s far more worth protecting than herself.

This time she doesn’t hear him approaching and is caught off guard by a hand burying itself in her curls, yanking her head backwards. Her quick intake of breath throbs in her ribs.

“I will make you talk. You and I have been at this game for far too long for me not to win in the end.”

The cold tip of the rod presses into her bare stomach, and she bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying out. There’s no way that she isn’t bleeding internally somewhere. The only good news is that he’ll know that, too, which means that surely this session won’t last too much longer. They want her alive, after all. For now.

“I have a meeting to attend,” her father announces coldly. “Do whatever you need to do to get results.” A door opens, then closes again.

Her hair is released, and there’s a loud clank as the rod is tossed aside. It’s simultaneously a relief to know that part is over and terrifying to wonder what’s next.

“All you have to do is tell me what you know about The Brute, and this will all be over.”

She feels the heat a split second before it fully hits her. Fire envelops her right side, spreading from her waist all the way up to her shoulder and out across her arm. Kamaria throws her head back and screams. Her skin is blistering, charring. She’s half in the past, half in the present, watching her childhood home go up in flames while losing her footing and dangling from the chains.

“Where does The Brute live?” Roderick is shouting.

She can’t stop screaming. Mom…Mom please…

His hands are on her face, still warm from using his power. She didn’t even realize he’d stopped. It still feels like she’s on fire, the intensity of the heat hasn’t let up at all. She isn’t screaming anymore, but she’s groaning, sobbing, trying desperately to get herself back under control while visions of her mother are pressing at her mind and most of her body is in excruciating pain.

Chains rattle, and one wrist is freed. She drops to the floor on top of a leg that was broken two days ago, but hardly feels it over the burning in her side and arm. The left wrist is released, but she’s dragged backwards by that arm until her back hits the wall and it’s restrained again, just above her head.

Her right shoulder feels strange. Dislocated, probably. She can’t distinguish that pain from the pain of her skin.

She doesn’t know she passed out until he slaps her across the face to wake her up. “Here. Take it.” Something heavy is deposited in her lap. She knows almost immediately what it is, but it takes a moment for her to convince her arm to move. The skin pulls, and she nearly whines aloud. “Hurry up.”

Her hand shakes as it finds the stem of the plant he gave her, clutching on tightly. One of these days, he’s going to go too far, and she won’t be able to use her power to save herself. Then where will he and her father be?

At least then Bruno will be safe.

The energy she siphons from the plant is warm as it floods her body. It’s usually somewhat soothing. Right now, more heat is the last thing she wants to feel. But she keeps going, pulling all she can, knowing this is the only chance she gets until he nearly kills her again in a day or two.

Energy does nothing for pain, unfortunately. When the plant goes limp in her hand, completely spent, she feels very little difference from when she started. But she should be stable now. The energy will jumpstart her body’s natural healing process, allowing it to work faster than usual so that she doesn’t actually die.

It’s their failsafe. Their excuse for continuing to torture her for as long as they want.

Her arm drops back down by her side, and the plant is removed from her lap. Her head lolls against the concrete block wall. Roderick rips the blindfold suddenly off her face, taking strands of hair with it, and pinches her chin between his fingers so that he can look into her eyes.

“This is just going to keep happening until you cooperate and tell us what we want to know. Is that what you want? To keep being in this kind of pain?”

She doesn’t have the strength to answer him.

Releasing her chin, he stands, looking down at her. “Think about it. I’ll be back before you know it.”

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nyxwordsmithwrites · 5 months

Text

Chemically Imbalanced Chapter 40

Trigger warnings: violence, unplanned pregnancy, immigration problems, abuse, spousal abuse,

Jose couldn't believe that his son was sitting in front of him. Years had passed since he last saw him and he'd all but lost hope for a reunion. But here they were. Roman, his son, had become an adult in the time that passed. The reunion was bittersweet to Jose as it reminded him of just how much of his son's life he missed. Remus and Roman chatted as though no time had passed which only made the guilt he felt sting more.

Virgil shifted in his seat and moved a cup of tea towards Jose, "You look like you might need it just as much as me." He offered, trying to lighten the mood when he'd noticed that Jose held his tension in the same places as Roman.

The older gentleman sighed and rolled his shoulders attempting to release some of the tension, "I--thanks." He replied, taking the hot ceramic cup and letting the heat ground him. The next time he looked up he saw Roman looking at him, "Roman." He offered quietly, "I don't even know where to start or how to explain." He said quietly, looking back down at his tea not daring to look at Roman for fear of seeing resentment or hate.

"Just like in the Sound of Music, the beginning is a very good place to start. " Roman offered with a smile, watching his dad and taking him in. Even though it had been years there was something so familiar about him, that familiarity brought safety.

Jose let out a wet chuckle, "Alright then. The beginning it is."

There was no denying that it had been love at first sight. Jose had been studying abroad for a semester when he met Natalie. The whirlwind romance was one for the ages. They quickly went from strangers to never seeing one without the other.

Their friends had said something about how they were too dependent on each other however both of them brushed it off. Those comments only made the two of them seek each other out even more.

When the semester came to an end Jose tried to convince Natalie to come back home with him but was met with resistance.

"I don't want to move. What if it upsets the baby?" Natalie worried, resting her hand over her nonexistent bump.

Jose nearly fainted right there as he took in his beautiful Natalie, she stood near the window with the setting sun behind her casting a bright halo around her making her look angelic, "You're pregnant?" He asked, leaning heavily against the bench for support.

Natalie turned towards her boyfriend with a bright smile and nodded, "I am."

With those two words, Jose's fate was sealed. He would do anything to be there for his child. Natalie had never looked as beautiful as she did at that moment. He quickly moved towards her and spun her in circles, quietly whispering near her ear in his native language about how happy he was and how he couldn't wait to be a father.

_____________________

Jose did his best to provide for them but unfortunately, immigration policies that had been put in place did not work in his favor. Eventually, Natalie stated that the visa process and the money were a waste of time when they could just get married. With their marriage came the ability to earn more money with better-paying jobs due to his visa.

But the marriage had been more out of necessity or obligation than love. For years Jose had tried to get a visa through the legal channels and had poured so much money into the process. He had his second thoughts about the marriage especially when they were really struggling and he'd picked up any overtime that was offered. The reason for the overtime was two-fold. One was because they needed the money as Natalie insisted on being a stay-at-home mom. Two he dreaded going home every night. If he didn't work overtime Natalie yelled that he was good for nothing and tried to starve their son to death. On the other hand, if he worked overtime Natalie became suspicious and accused him of cheating on her. Of course, neither of these were true but after hearing them so often it felt like maybe she was right.

With a better-paying job and more manageable hours, Jose finally felt like he was able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. All that changed after Remus was born.

____________________

There was something different about Natalie after Remus. She looked at the child like she feared he might spontaneously combust or perhaps she was wishing he would. She had never looked at Roman that way. Jose thought maybe he was just seeing things since her behavior towards Roman hadn't changed.

After a long shift, Jose came home and found Natalie barricading herself in the kitchen with a knife pointed at Remus. She was shrieking and crying as she watched her son. It was impossible to understand what she was saying and honestly, Jose wasn't sure he wanted to know.

His eyes went to Remus who was sitting up and looking at his mom, reaching his hands out for her but by the look in Natalie's eyes she didn't even recognize the child as her. The first thing he noticed about Remus was the blood around him that was coming from his hand.

Jose picked up Remus and took him and Roman to the bathroom so he could patch up his son. He would likely never know how Remus got injured as that day Remus stopped talking to anyone but Roman.

This was the first time Jose considered that maybe Natalie needed help. He did his best to keep Remus away from her and ensure that he had everything he needed. Jose also tried to urge Natalie to seek professional help but if anything that only made things worse. Even when he suggested Roman and Remus go to therapy he was met with resistance by Natalie.

When Jose had brought up seeking help Natalie had screamed and cried for hours about how she was trying her best and maybe if he did more this wouldn't be happening

Without Natalie's knowledge, he did manage to take both of his sons to therapy. Jose couldn't care less what Natalie's reaction would be if she ever found out. This was in the best interest of his children.

At this point, Jose was half convinced that this was normal behavior. There were times after the fact that Jose went over all of the days leading up to the end that he tried to pinpoint if he'd missed a sign but everything seemed normal.

One day he came home from work with Remus on his hip to find the house trashed. There was a letter amongst the wreck from Natalie that said she was taking Roman and leaving. That Jose was no longer the man she married and she couldn't take it anymore. Upon reading that letter Jose knew he should've felt sad or ashamed but he couldn't help but feel relief. That Remus was safe, he was safe. The only thing he was worried about was Roman. How he'd ever find his son or ensure that he was okay. There was no telling what Natalie would be capable of. Thankfully, she hadn't shown any aggression towards Roman but Jose knew that it wasn't safe for Natalie to have him.

After Natalie left Jose never stopped looking for Roman. However, there were very few people who wanted to assist an immigrant in finding his child. He'd told his story many times and found that most people just stared at him and came to the conclusion that his wife was abused and running for a reason. During his search child protective services had been called on him multiple times as anyone who listened to his story assumed that Remus was also in danger. Thankfully these assumptions were unfounded and he was able to take care of Remus on his own.

_______________________

Years had passed and Jose had stopped telling people his story. This didn't mean he'd stopped looking for Roman but he mostly used the internet or prayed that somehow they would make it back to each other.

The day has been like any other day when he received a text from an unknown number claiming to be Roman. Jose was hesitant to believe it at first as it seemed so impossible but upon further investigation he realized it was actually Roman.

It took everything in him to be patient to schedule a meet up. This was his son they were talking about. A son he never thought he would be allowed to see again. With the reconnection came the hard part of trying to explain to his grown son what had happened. But it felt like all he had were excuses. That he hadn't tried hard enough or been a good enough father.

______________

Once he'd said his part Jose hazard a glance at Roman and saw that his son had tears streaming down his face, "I'm so sorry." He pleaded, needing his son to understand.

Roman shook his head, "Dad no." He whispered, wiping at his face and feeling Virgil's hand on his thigh rubbing small circles, "you did so much for both of us." He added, "She--she always told me you left."

"I promise you I didn't. I have spent all of my free time looking for you." Jose assured, setting his hand on the table near Roman and instantly relaxing when he grasped his hand.

The teen choked on a sob, "I believe you." He whispered, squeezing his hand.

Those three words broke all of Jose's resolve. Roman believed him. His son didn't blame him. He didn't hate him. Jose swallowed hard, "Roman. Can I have another hug?" He asked gently, trying to let his son set the pace.

Roman immediately got up and wrapped his arms around his father, not even allowing him to get out of his seat, "please stay."

Jose whimpered and leaned into Roman any attempt at trying to pull himself together shattered by his son's request to have him stay.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #prinxiety #virgil sanders #roman sanders #fight tw #abuse tw #flashback tw #unplanned pregnancy tw #chemically imbalanced

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lotusthewriter · 10 months

Text

It's just the beasts under your bed (in your closet, in your head)

Fandom: The Owl House

Rating: T

Relationships: Gus & Hunter, Gus & Belos

Characters: Gus Porter, Hunter, Emperor Belos | Philip Wittebane; CAMEO - Caleb Wittebane

Summary: Gus runs away from the gentle, haunting light, to the dark and even smaller bathroom. His eyes are blue again, so they’re the only thing lighting up the place. He uses Willow’s breathing technique over and over again, and again, and again.

And it won’t work.

It won’t work because…

Gus’ blue eyes aren’t the only ones in the room.

Word count: 989

AO3

A/N: I finally wrote down a little something for the ideas I've been having of Belos possessing Gus, after posting a couple drawings online (you can check them out on my art account, @lotusthekat!). This is mainly just a concept fic for now, I do have more plot points, but I'm still unsure this will become a full story soon. For now, I want to keep it one chapter until I have time and inspiration to continue it.

I hope you like it!

TRIGGER WARNINGS - hallucinations (illusions), dissociation, flashbacks, past death, implied death and blood, and possession.

P/ROSHIP DNI.

The human rain shouldn’t be scary.

The fact it can cause the power to go out, though, is scary. The thunder and the lightning are entirely unfamiliar to him.

Gus, not wanting to disturb Hunter – who sleeps through the storm without a problem, ironically enough –, decides to go upstairs and stay in the living room. Maybe the basement is actually safer since there are no windows down there; but the smaller space was going to drive Gus crazy.

The wind trying to enter the house is even more terrifying. Gus feels like that same little boy that went to his dad, crying and begging him to make his head stop. Just stop. Dad obviously couldn’t do anything like that, but at least his hugs were safe.

His father was his home.

And Gus isn’t even sure what happened to him.

In the dark, the boy weeps for his home, for everyone he knew.

Until… he hears someone coming from the basement, the steps already knowing where he went to.

“Gus?”

The illusionist doesn’t look up.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Hunter asks softly.

Without saying a word, Gus shakes his head.

When the thunder blares outside, he can’t contain his furious flinch.

That’s when Hunter approaches more.

And then…

Gus feels something warm around his shoulders.

A blanket.

His blanket, actually.

That has Gus look up and find two magenta eyes that know too much, that know entirely about crying alone in the night. Them, and the light spell illuminating them both.

“Do you want some tea?” Hunter suggests.

“Aren’t the flavors different here?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s probably not hard, right?”

Gus snickers. “We’ll probably burn down the kitchen.”

“No, I’ll make the tea for you.”

“Then you’ll set the whole house on fire.”

Hunter looks at him, betrayed, which makes Gus laugh a little less shyly.

“We’ll make it together, whether it sucks or not,” the latter concludes. “How about that?”

“Together…” Hunter gives in and smiles. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

The two sit on the couch together, sharing the blanket and drinking their own cups of tea. It doesn’t taste as good as how Luz’s mother makes it… but it doesn’t taste horrible, at least.

Gus and Hunter remain silent on the most part, if not for their palismen, who have joined the cocoon. Everyone else is asleep, as they have been exhausted since their arrival. Gus hasn’t slept well in the last nights, admittedly. Tonight, though, has to be the worst yet. He’s simply… overwhelmed and sad, and mournful.

Hunter can tell, even if Gus hasn’t told him anything.

The former leans on the latter affectionately, to show him that he’s here. Gus smiles, then takes one last sip of his tea. Sighing deeply, he lowers his head and stares at his empty cup.

Much to his surprise, Hunter’s hand is cupping Gus’ chin.

“Hold on, you have… some tea there,” the older boy observes.

Gus blushes at how gentle the touch is, so much that he won’t move.

“O-Oh. Thanks?” He lets out, sounding like his pre-puberty self.

Hunter snorts.

“You’re welcome, Pip.”

Gus goes cold .

“... What?”

When he looks back, he doesn’t find magenta.

He sees… brown.

Brown eyes that simultaneously look dead.

The same smile but there’s something wrong about it.

I know you’re still in there.

And he sees red.

No, not just Flapjack.

Please…

Red, red, red.

Don’t do this, Philip.

The storm is getting through, wetting him, making him feel lost and crushing him with the tears from the skies.

…

… snap.

Snapping fingers.

“... Gus! Gus ! Can you hear me?”

As soon as he blinks again, everything… is back to normal.

Hunter is there, with his magenta eyes, with the same scars, wearing cozy clothes. He’s frowning in concern, apparently sweating as well, maybe not knowing what just happened to Gus.

The illusionist feels his head heavier.

“Your eyes were blue,” Hunter points out. “Were you seeing an illusion?”

Gus can barely react.

He’s still seeing the brown and the red in Hunter, and he can’t get them out.

“Gus,” Hunter insists, “what did you see? Can you tell me? You look scared.”

It’s…

Too much.

Gus still hasn’t left the illusion.

(Has he ever?)

“... nothing.”

“What?”

“It was nothing,” Gus replies simply, trying to sound as numb as possible to disguise the shakiness in his voice.

“That wasn’t nothing,” Hunter reacts incredulously, yet not to the point of lashing out. He’s on the verge of panicking himself, and Gus feels terrible about it. “Gus, you can tell me anything, remember? I promise I won’t mess with you.”

These words are useless right now.

The black teen shakes his head repeatedly.

“No,” he mumbles.

“Gus–”

“I need to–” Gus tries to stand up from the couch, only to almost fall. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not-!” Before Hunter snaps and tries to help him, Gus raises his voice.

“ Just give me some space, okay!? ”

Something about his voice changes.

Gus covers his mouth in utter shame.

Especially at how terrified Hunter looks.

Please… don’t do this, Philip.

“I-I’m…” Gus tears up, adding quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Finally, he runs to the bathroom before things get worse.

Although he hears his name being called, Hunter doesn’t go after him, and maybe it’s for the best.

Gus runs away from the gentle, haunting light, to the dark and even smaller bathroom. His eyes are blue again, so they’re the only thing lighting up the place. He uses Willow’s breathing technique over and over again, and again, and again.

And it won’t work.

It won’t work because…

Gus’ blue eyes aren’t the only ones in the room.

When he gasps and steps back, doing a light spell, he touches and feels the mirror behind him. Which means…

This isn’t an illusion.

Despite the fact that the eyes disappear.

Panting, Gus can only sit on the floor and cry like a child.

I can’t even trust myself anymore.

#the owl house #gus porter #toh hunter #philip wittebane #emperor belos #caleb wittebane #fanfiction #long post #death tw #hallucination tw #flashback tw #blood tw #possession tw

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wearejericho · 8 months

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open to all - human!connor major tw for trauma and death of a child.

❝ he's been in there for half an hour. we can't get him to talk. kid is in shock. can't say i blame him. ❞

the events are already on repeat in his head. what could he have done differently? what was the girl's mother going to say? connor had one job: save the hostage at all costs. and he'd failed. god damn it, he tried. he leapt for the girl as she was pulled over the edge of the roof. their hands even grazed. but he was too late. connor landed harshly on his chest, his front half hanging over the edge. he watched them fall. watched them land.

"connor! are you okay?" a familiar voice asks. but he can't speak. he can't move. hank has to physically pull him back onto the roof. "connor. hey. talk to me." nothing.

they'd trusted him. connor was trained in negotiation, and he was damn good at it. he didn't fail - it just didn't happen. why now? why this case? was he going to be fired? charged with manslaughter?

it's another five minutes before connor is able to stumble to his feet. and when he does, he dashes to a lower floor with a private, single-stall bathroom. the second the door is locked he collapses. it's hard to breathe. he rests his back against the wall, hands grasping at the side of the toilet bowl. he feels like he's going to throw up, or pass out, or both.

connor closes his eyes - tries to relax - but all he can see, all he can hear is little emma. what feels like seconds has been twenty minutes. then thirty. hank has been banging on the door for a majority of that time. he tunes it out. finally, the sound of a small metal key, followed by the door creaking open. connor buries his head in his hands and holds his breath. please, please go away.

#trauma tw #ptsd tw #flashback tw #child death tw #death tw #murder tw #hostage tw #vomit tw #just going all out on these tw's lol #just to be clear i know hank talks in this but the open is for connor #also this is a fully human verse thread: connor / the hostage / the taker are all human #mmm sorry this is heavy

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fletcherwilbury · 5 months

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@comfortember Day 8: Grief/Mourning

Warning for Illness, exhaustion, past major character death, flashback, repressed trauma

#comfortember #comfortember 2023 #comfortember day 8 #grief #mourning #tmnt #tmnt 2012 #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2012 donnie #tmnt 2012 casey jones #jonatello #illness cw #exhaustion cw #past major character death tw #flashback tw #repressed trauma cw

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another-whump-sideblog · 1 year

Text

Jane’s Pets Chapter 56: New Friends

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

When your vision clears, you’re not in the woods anymore. That’s all you can figure out before you collapse, dizzy and nauseas and with your head hurting so bad you can barely think.

You feel hands on you and hear concerned voices. You’re weightless for a moment, and then you’re lying on something soft. You cover your ears and squeeze your eyes shut.

The voices retreat, and you try to focus on your breathing.

“Shit, did she do something? What’s wrong with them?” Diya whispers.

“They seemed okay before the teleportation. It’s probably just a bad reaction. It happens, especially if you’re not in the best condition beforehand. There’s not much we can do for now, we’ll just have to keep them as comfortable as possible until they start feeling better. It shouldn’t last longer than a few hours.” Barron pauses. “Let’s get you bandaged up, Karen.”

Diya grimaces as Barron leaves the room to get the first aid kit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that would happen. I thought they’d be happy to be rescued.”

Karen stares at Diya intensely. Ey still isn’t used to that. “It was a fair assumption.”

Barron comes back and starts bandaging Karen’s face. “I think they broke your nose…” it mutters.

Diya wanders back over to Liam, who is breathing hard. That collar cannot be helping.

Ey gently removes the collar. Liam whimpers and their breathing gets faster.

Diya backs away, assuming that touching them is what caused the panic. “What should we do with this?” Ey waves the collar in the air.

“We’ll let Liam decide.” Barron says. “Can you go get some ice packs?”

Puppy pounds her fists against the bubble and screams. She’d be saying something - she’s not sure what, but something - if she was given permission, but she doesn’t have permission, so she just screams.

“Calm down, Puppy.”

At Master’s order, Puppy goes still. She’s a good girl, a good Puppy. She can push the anger down.

Master continues poking at the bubble before pulling some tools out of her void. She stabs it and hammers it and even fucking shoots it, but the bubble is unyielding.

Master teleports out of the bubble and starts poking the outside of it. “I’m disappointed. In both of you. You should’ve grabbed Bunny. Or attacked the magic user. Or the one grabbing Bunny. Anything but what you did. I’ll have to punish you.”

Kitty tenses, but doesn’t say anything. Puppy is calm. Master told her to calm down, so she’s calm.

Master stabs the bubble again. “Both of you, collars off.”

Puppy removes her collar. There’s blood on her hands.

She’d thought Master would like for her to hurt them, but Master didn’t even want her to hurt the stranger. Master would’ve preferred for her to grab Bunny. She hurt them, and Master didn’t order to her to. She didn’t hurt them because she had to. She hurt them because she wanted to.

Puppy knows she’s not a good person. It’s one of the many things Master took from her. Normally, though, she can convince herself it’s not her fault. Not this time.

Puppy feels cold tears running down her face and onto her neck. She’s calm. She’s a good Puppy. There’s blood on her hands.

When the pain and dizziness have receded enough that you can think again, you start to take in your surroundings.

You’re lying on a couch in what looks like a wood cabin. You can’t see any windows from where you’re lying, and the room is fairly dark. Diya is sitting in a chair next to the couch, but it looks like ey’s asleep.

You slowly push yourself to a sitting position. Pain explodes through your head again. You must’ve made a noise, because Diya opens eir eyes and yawns.

“How are you feeling? Sorry about… all of that. It looks like you had a bad reaction to the teleporting.”

“You can teleport living things?”

“Barron can. Do you want me to go get Barron and Karen? I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to all of us or if it’d be easier with just me, but if you have questions it’d probably be easier with all of us.”

“…I have a lot of questions.”

“Right. I’ll go get them.”

Diya hurries out of the room and comes back with two others. The magic user and the one Puppy beat up. Barron and Karen.

“So you’re Diya, Barron, and Karen, right?”

“Greg.” Says the beat up one. “You can call me Greg.”

The others look surprised. “It was due for a change.” They clarify.

“…Alright. Diya, Barron, and Greg. What pronouns should I use for you?”

Barron answers. “I use it/its pronouns. Diya uses ey/em. Kar- Greg uses they/them. And you?”

You’re not sure how you feel about Barron speaking for all of them, but the others don’t seem to have a problem with it. “I use he/him. Now that that’s out of the way. Where are we?”

“This is our base of operations.” Barron says.

Diya jumps in. “Our home. Where we live. We don’t have any more bedrooms, but we can get you a mattress and stuff. Or you can sleep on the couch.”

You nod. Ouch. “And we… teleported here?”

Barron frowns. “Yes. Sorry we didn’t warn you beforehand, it can cause reactions like the one you had.”

You swallow. “And you said that you can make sure Jane won’t find us?”

“Is that the monster? The little girl? Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, no one can find us here unless I want them to.”

“She has this… void thing. She can watch us while she’s in it. Will she be able to see this place through that?”

Barron furrows its brow. “I’ve never heard of something like that. But the magic around the cabin prevents people from using magic to see into it or magically locate it. So she shouldn’t be able to see you as long as you’re here.”

You’re safe. She can’t find you here. Tears spring to your eyes. “Thank you. I… are we going back for the others? I know they didn’t want to come, but they just don’t think safety is possible.”

“We can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. We can wait a while and try again, if you want. Maybe they’ll believe it after a while of you not getting brought back.”

That will have to be good enough. You can’t ask them to risk their safety again so soon when Kitty and Puppy don’t even want to leave. “Alright. Thank you. What can I do to repay you?”

Greg, who has been quiet for a while, abruptly leaves. Barron sighs. “You don’t have to repay us. We’d like you to help us keep the cabin tidy, and it would be very helpful if you could tell us everything you know about Jane so we can figure out what she is. But that’s not required. We’re not going to kick you out if you don’t help us.”

“I want to help.” You try to stand up, and your head seems to explode again. You fall to the ground. “Maybe… tomorrow, though.”

Barron and Diya help you back onto the couch.

“Of course.” Barron says. “The side effects of the teleportation should be gone by then.”

You should probably tell it about your head, and how that will still be an issue no matter how long ago you teleported. But suddenly, you’re painfully aware of the lack of pressure around your neck.

“What happened to my collar?”

Diya looks concerned. “I took it off because it looked like you were struggling to breathe. Do you… want it back?”

“Yes.”

Diya fishes the collar out of eir pocket. You grab it and quickly clasp it around your neck.

You’re safe. You know you’re safe, and yet you only feel like you can truly relax with the collar back on.

You’ll get to the point where you feel safe with the collar off. But not tonight. Tonight, the conditioning Jane did wins out.

“That’s… that’s way too tight, Liam.”

Diya keeps talking, but you can’t hear. You feel like a shockwave has gone through you. You feel a whip on your back and you can’t breathe and your head hurts and when did it get so hot in here?

“What’s wrong?!”

Aw, what’s wrong, Bunny? Does that hurt?

“I don’t remember, I don’t remember, please, I don’t remember it.” Your collar is on, you’re not being punished, so why does it all hurt so bad? You can’t breathe!

I don’t believe you. Hold still.

Someone grabs your collar and you scream, shoving them away. Jane isn’t here, you know that, but if she’s taking off the collar that means you’re going to get punished and you can’t, you can’t!

Don’t fight me.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please! I’ll be good, a good Bunny, please?”

It’s adorable that you still think begging will help you.

“Liam, you’re not there. You’re safe.”

What’s your name? What letter does it start with?

“I don’t remember! I don’t remember it!” She’s going to hurt you, she’s going to break your bones and cut you open! You can’t, you can’t.

Good! Good boy, Liam.

“Liam, can you tell me five things you can see?”

You’re not the brightest, are you? Stupid Bunny.

You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

Oh, I think that was a seizure.

“Can you hear me?”

Sweet little Bunny. Do you feel powerful?

You nod slightly. Wait, what? Your head hurts, everything hurts.

You just want me to stop hurting you.

“What can we do to make you feel better?”

You shake like a little bunny.

You can’t stop shaking. She’s going to hurt you.

What have you done to deserve food, Bunny?

“How about I just make suggestions, and then you just nod or shake your head for me. Does that sound okay?”

Be good for me, alright?

You nod.

We still have work to do, Liam.

“Would it help to get you a weighted blanket? That always helps me when I’m panicking.”

You can crawl if that’s easier.

You nod. You’re willing to try anything, you’re so confused and scared.

I’ll hurt Puppy and Kitty if you disobey.

You feel something heavy drape around your shoulders. At first it scares you, but it’s gentle, and it reminds you more of hugs from Puppy than of being pinned down.

“There. It seemed to help you before to be left alone, so I’m going to set some water and food down here and then go. Call for me if you need me, okay?”

Follow me.

You nod.

“It’ll be okay.”

Who wants to go first?

You curl deeper into the blanket. You’re safe, you’re safe.

You wish Puppy and Kitty were here.

Through the shaking and crying, you somehow manage to fall asleep.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

#whump #whump writing #whumpblr #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #nonhuman whumper #multiple whumpees #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #pet whump #2nd person pov #3rd person pov #discussions of torture tw #gun mention tw #flashback tw #i think the flashback scene came out pretty well.#very disorienting #jane’s pets

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watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees · 1 year

Text

Thank you

masterlist

tw: self harm, forced self harm, depression, captivity, triggering someone on purpose, knives, blood, non-con touch (non sexual), threats, blood loss, breaking someone’s psyche beyond repair basically, kidnapping mention, weightloss and malnutrition mention, dehydration, healed scars, multiple whumpers mentioned, flashback

I wrote this on my way home from university for the weekend (which is like a 4 hour train ride) and I made myself cry with it, and I haven't been able to proofread it or anything so,,, here it goes i guess

Tw again: This is a very fucking heavy piece, i cried through writing it im not even joking biggest dead dove do not eat

To be fair, she was totally unphased by the sight of the knife in Cole’s hand. She welcomed the pain that was to come as an old friend, crying or begging never helped, there was no relief when she was angry at the world, angry at the people keeping her captive, so she just accepted it. It was quiet and calm, maybe not the best decision, but the circumstances left her no choice.

He walked back to her from the table where he kept the array of knives and other fun devices to torture the girl.

“Stand up, please” he reached under her chin, lightly touching the skin. As she was standing up it looked like he was lifting her by the chin just with one finger, and though physically it didn’t work like that, the sheer threat behind the touch basically lifted her. She was a feather and he was the wind making her float.

She was noticably smaller than the man, even though they were almost the same height. Her figure was frail and weak. The long sleeved t-shirt she was wearing covered both her arms, whose muscles used to show through them, not in a bulky way but in one that earned some respect at the gym and she walked around freely, without worrying about being overpowered by someone; it took years of martial arts classes and trainings. It was all gone by now. She didn’t remember how or when it happened but she stopped caring. They didn’t allow her to work out even though she was promised to be let “doing her thing when she wasn’t needed” at first it was the restraints, then the comments turned into threats and punishments that slowly made her stop. It has been too long.

Now she was standing in front of the man, not being able to even breathe without his permission. Cole was always stronger and now he seemed superhuman compared to her.

He looked her up-and-down, twirling the knife in his hand. He seemed to have decided when he looked back to her face, patiently waiting for her to make eye contact.

“Roll your sleeves up” he gestured towards her lower arm with the knife. He grabbed her hand when she did so, and glided the knife playfully over her arm.

He must’ve felt the unevenness of her skin because he held the blade away from her and started carressing the barely visible scars.

She shivered from the touch, it wasn’t necessarily cruel or mocking like it usually is when he touches her, but these scars were different and he seemed to treat them differently and somehow that was so much worse. It was unpredictable.

“Was it… was it Luke?” he asked already knowing the answer was no. She looked away to the floor, felt her cheeks blush with a feeling similar to guilt but she couldn’t quite put a finger on what it actually was.

“No” she whispered. His hand stilled for a moment before carrying on with carressing her skin and turning the knife back towards her.

“Then you’ll be comfortably familiar with this feeling” he smiled and without a second of hesitation drove the knife into her skin. The blade didn’t go too deep, just enough to draw blood.

She stared at the fresh cut and suddenly she was back in her room. Some tiny red drops got onto the carpet and she was thinking about how she’ll have to scrub it out. There wasn’t anyone holding her hand, she was resting it on her lap for a moment. She promised it to herself so many times not to do it again, but she felt like she couldn’t help it when she found the tiny blade in the drawer on her desk. She held it up to the light and read the brand name again, feeling a bit sorry for the small piece of metal, it wasn’t designed for this purpose.

She drew another line on her skin, reveling in the radiating pain that shot up her arm again. It hurt so bad and still not as much as whatever she was dealing with at the time. She felt in control. And she did it again.

She caught herself falling against his chest, grabbing onto her bleeding arm. Not remembereing how she started crying.

“It’s okay” he held her by the elbow. He turned her around hugging her from the back. WIth his left still holding her wrist. The right accidentally dripping blood on her shirt and pants searched for her right hand. She desperately held onto him. As if holding his hand would bring any reconciliation. Suddenly the knife was in her palm and his hand over hers, making her hold it up. It looked so much bigger in her hand. The clean part of the blade glinted dangerously as the grey light from the window hit it. It was already dusking.

‘Your turn” he whispered into her ear, not even waiting for a response just pushing her hand back down, pressing the blade down for the fourth time.

His warmth disappeared from behind her. She was sitting at her desk again. Drawing her own blood over and over again. There was no purpose to it anymore. The pain from the wounds all mixed together it didn’t make a difference.

Why did she even do it? Everything was alright for a while, and all of a sudden it weighed her down. Did she really want something good turn for worse again? Was having it good a bad thing? She didn’t think she deserved it after all. That must’ve been behind the thoughtless movements. Breaking the skin over and over again. Opening old wounds. Creating new ones. Covering it all. That was the rhythm for weeks.

It all stopped when that particular someone held her hand for the first time and helped her up from where she was sitting in her room.

Now the feeling of the hand over hers was much colder. It didn’t radiate warmth and safety through her veins, making her feel at piece with whatever came along the way; it was empty as if Cole’s touch made it all evaporate into nothing cutting through space and time.

He rested his chin on her shoulder inhaling deeply, enjoying the shivers each breath sent down her spine. He felt the warmth of the tears that ran down her face staining his cheek as well.

“Now, thank me” he whispered, slolwy lifting her hand with the knife up. It took her a few seconds to understand the words though she still wasn’t in the place to comprehend them. “Did you hear me?” he asked gently, still threateningly. She moved her head in a way that could’ve been mistaken as a nod and that was enough on his part. He knew she wasn’t grabbing onto the knife so he let go, letting her hand fall limply down to her thigh and the knife to hit the cement ground with loud metallic clatter. She flinched back into his chest with a bit of delayed reaction time. He repeated the order, slowly and quietly.

“Tha- th- thank y-y-you” she stuttered.

“For what?” He let go of her cut up hand to reach across her torso and pull her into a snakelike hug from behind. He pushed a kiss into the crook of her neck smiling, when she didn’t know how to answer. She breathed in, but the air got stuck in her throat and no words came out.

“What are you thanking me for?” his smile grew even wider.

“F- f- for hurting me” her tone suggested she wasn’t sure of the answer being right.

“No” he answered sweetly “You hurt yourself, remember? You held the knife” he tightened the embrace making breathing even more difficult for her. She was panicking, he felt her pulse through her neck quicken.

“for holding m- … -lf” The correct answer struck her like lightning, she couldn’t get it to be audible the first time. Of course it was the one that hurt the most. She took a deep breath, and the words fell from her lips whether she wanted them to or not.

“Thank you for holding my hand while I hurt myself”

#self harm tw #forced self harm #depression #captivity #triggering someone on purpose #tw sh #tw knives #tw knife #tw noncon #tw threats #tw bloodloss #tw kidnap mention #tw weighloss #tw malnutrition #tw dehydration #tw scars #flashback tw #danse macabre original story

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squishablesunbeam · 10 months

Note

I LOVED Quinn's flashbacks in the latest chapter. Is there anything else that would trigger flashbacks for Quinn, maybe something less-specific than the Captain's room? Or is his trauma more inherently tied with the ship and its crew?

Ooooh I like this question!

There's definitely a good amount of trauma tied to almost every nook and cranny of the ship itself. So much so that Collins has repeatedly tried to convince Quinn to let them move over to Prim's other ship so he doesn't have to face it every time he simply goes to get breakfast or has to pass one of the crew's rooms. Quinn will have none of it though. He is determined to reclaim every inch of that space and call it home again.

But really, the things that would trigger a flashback are much more specific. Even with the Captain's office, it was the desk itself that triggered Quinn. Prim very much hopes that Quinn will be okay in the space itself once she gets rid of the desk and replaces it with a new one that bares zero resemblance to the old dark wood of the Captain's desk.

As Quinn has gone about trying to live his life, he's realized that he can no longer wash his face with cold water. The shock will instantly put him back in the cage with the hose spraying freezing cold water over him. There's certain ways he'll stretch his body, particularly on the cusp of sleep that will flash him back to times when he was in the Captain's bed and he's learning to just not do that anymore. There's this one small knife that used to belong to Percy. He never even cut him with it but that knife will floor Quinn once it shows up again at some point. Quinn will also have to move Collins' hand sometimes when a bad memory pours through his mind with a certain touch or brush of his fingers. Collins is pretty good at watching the subtle changes in his expression though and will often shift before Quinn has to do it himself.

And once they get to that stage in their relationship, sex will be 100% be difficult to navigate. Collins has already found that spot on his ear he'll never touch again until Quinn specifically tells him to and they'll work through it together when Quinn in ready. It's going to take some time before he can handle even the thought of someone inside him, even with as much as he wants to find a way to connect with Collins on that level.

Luckily though, they'll soon realize how much Collins really enjoys Quinn being inside him. 😉So they will make due just fine!

I hope this answered your ask properly!! There are really so many things that I could list! Our boy is walking delicately for the time being but he'll heal!

Oh, and for Collins' part, he's discovered he's become slightly claustrophobic and, while it makes perfect sense, it majorly pisses him off. Even the small shower stall in their room has become problematic 😔

#flashback tw #mention of past noncon #consensual sex mention #anon asks #thank you so much!#I could talk about them forever!#quinn asks #collins asks #claustrophobia mention

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starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 10 months

Text

Chapter 16 ~ In the dark

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Also on ao3

Genre: Fantasy whump

CW: nightmare, panic attack, flashback, unreality, low-level recounting of past tortures, angsty angst w/ a side of more panic

WC: 1930

Tagging my HD crew: @kixngiggles, @dont-touch-my-soup, @clairelsonao3 (if you want to be added or removed, let me know!)

AN: In which Carr freaks Resh the fuck out on multiple levels 😅

This is a bit of a short one. Don't worry, I'll make up for that next week by almost doubling the word count lol.

Resh

The encounter with that man had shaken him badly. He’d barely been present for Orla when she’d come to eat with him and had decided if he was going to be useless, he might as well try to sleep.

That had been a mistake.

Resh woke, sweat-soaked and trembling, in an unfamiliar room. Moonlight streamed in through the small window, but it didn’t touch the bed, leaving him swathed in shadow. The blanket was rough, the fibers coarse beneath his fingertips as he pulled it up to his chin.

It had taken him weeks to acclimate at the palace. To get to the point where he’d wake from a nightmare and latch on to something, something that he’d unequivocally tied to ‘not the torture room, not a dream’.

He’d failed to take that into account for this journey. Nothing looked right, so nothing could tell him he wasn’t still there. That he hadn’t had another cruel dream that tantalized him with hope, only to have it yanked away, time and again.

Was this real, or was this the nightmare? His throat felt tight, swollen, allowing only a trickle of air into his aching chest. The rapid thud of his heart almost drowned out the faint scuffle of a boot outside the door.

His heart stopped, then kicked back up at triple speed. It wasn’t real. None of it had been real.

The prince was back. He was back, he would take more skin, burn him, cut him apart, allow him to choke and choke and choke until–Resh scrabbled at his neck, scratching it with his nails as he wrestled with the scarf, finally, finally! ripping it free.

But his fingers didn’t feel scar tissue underneath, they felt that wretched vine, and his breaths wouldn’t come and the door opened and he fled.

Don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me, he chanted over and over in his mind, curling up in the corner as small as he could get.

A dark figure stepped into the room, hand hovering over a thigh sheath. Resh pressed harder against the wall, teeth clenched together to keep them from chattering.

But the figure heard and spun around, so fast the motion blurred–no wait, that was the tears blurring his vision when the moonlight reflected off steel.

It would be the knives this time, then. More, more practice, more cuts, more tearing, more pain. A sob caught in his ruined throat, emerging as nothing more than a huff of air, and he pressed his head to his knees. Don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me…

Hands lifted his face, and he cried harder, his whole body twitching as he fought off the desire to pull away. Don’t hurt me please don’t hurt please don’t please please–

And then, he was pulled into an embrace, arms wrapping around him, head pillowed on a soft chest that… vibrated? He held still, so so still, holding his breath, holding the sobs, wondering what the fuck the prince was playing at. He liked to mock Resh with gentle touches, a gentle voice, but he’d never… never…

Side to side, his body swayed with the barely there movements of the person holding him. Sound filtered through the blood roaring in his ears, a soft… melody? Singing? No, there were no words, just humming, but… it sounded like a… lullaby?

Resh dared to take a shallow breath and nearly froze again as the coppery scent of blood invaded his sinuses. A broken-sounding exhale left him, his fear reigniting, muscles clenching taut enough to snap. He wanted to push away–he couldn’t push away, that would make things worse when he could barely take the regular torture and he couldn’t do this anymore…

But the rocking never stopped, nor the humming. Minutes passed, and nothing changed. Nothing happened. Nobody hurt him.

Gradually, he calmed enough to notice the hand rubbing his back felt too small to belong to the prince. The chest his cheek rested against too soft. The humming too high-pitched, too… feminine. His fear-muddled mind finally pieced it together.

Carr.

Reality snapped back into place, and he relaxed fully against her, feeling near boneless with relief. Until he took his next breath.

Blood. There was blood on Carr.

Oh gods. Resh pulled out of her hold, his hands going to her arms, her chest, her abdomen, feeling for injuries until she batted him away with a muttered curse.

Where are you hurt? he asked frantically, but he couldn’t see anything–

“Resh, stop!” Carr said.

He couldn’t see anything and he tried to turn her face into the moonlight but she pulled away so he jumped up, knocking his hip painfully against the bedframe as he searched for a lamp. Ah! There! On the desk. Now where was the flint–

Carr grabbed his gloved hands, stopping his harried searching. “I got it, Resh. I got it.” She made quick work of finding the flint and lighting the lamp, then stepped back.

His heart was beating far too fast as he ran his eyes over her, not daring to touch her again. Not quite believing he’d dared to touch her in the first place, but he couldn’t think straight with the smell of blood so strong.

Where are you hurt? he asked. Who hurt you, what’s happened, I don’t see anything– He cut off when she held up a hand.

“Too fast,” she said. “I can’t catch what you’re sayin. Are you alright?”

Resh shook his head violently, slashing a hand across his chest before pointing at her. Who gave a shit about him; she was the one who stank of blood!

She stepped closer, peering at something. “You’ve scratched your neck, let me get–”

He reached for her arm as she moved to turn away but stopped short of grabbing it, clenching his hand into a fist and drawing it back against his chest. It was enough to capture her attention again, though.

“Alright, what is it? Speak slowly, the light isn’t that great for lip readin.”

Where. Are. You. Hurt? he asked again, gesturing with his hands as well. He kept searching her form, but her clothes were too dark, and he couldn’t see anything that might resemble a wound.

Carr’s brow crinkled, and she brought up a hand, touching her chest with a frown. “You think I’m hurt? I’m not, I’m fine, Resh.”

His eyes locked onto her fingers, to the dried blood caked around the nails. He couldn’t breathe through the pain that stabbed through him. Had someone tried to… tried to hurt her again? And this time, he hadn’t been there? His hand went to his throat, sweeping over the scars.

She caught where his gaze landed and snatched her hand away. “It’s not… it’s not what you think.”

He stared at her helplessly, flooded with questions he couldn’t ask because he couldn’t fucking speak, and the light wasn’t good enough for her to lip-read anything more than a short sentence or two. It was enough to make him want to scream. Instead, he forced himself to say something.

Were you attacked?

Her eyes slid away from his. “No. I… need t’ clean up. Are you okay now?”

Resh pinched his lips together, relief and despair mixing together into an unrecognizable tangle of emotions. One thing was clear, though; she didn’t want to talk to him. Again. Tears threatened, but he blinked them away, nodding. Before she could go, he held up his hand, asking her to wait.

She worried her lower lip but kept her attention on his mouth.

Can we talk in the morning? Before we leave?

Carr eyed him warily but still inclined her head. Then she shifted her weight, clearly antsy. “Is that all?”

He sighed, one worry draining away only to be replaced by a different one, and nodded.

She couldn’t get out of his room fast enough. It made him wonder if he’d imagined her rocking him while he panicked, humming a lullaby his mother had sung to him as a baby.

Once he heard the door to the room next to him close, he picked up his discarded scarf and sat on the bed. Staring out the window, he ran the silken fabric through his hands, wanting to put it back on but also unable to bear the thought of anything around his neck right now.

He wouldn’t be getting any more sleep that night.

~~~

Dawn’s light had barely touched the sky when Resh’s door banged open, and Carr appeared, a sleepy-looking Orla on her heels.

“We need t’ go. Now,” Carr said, sweeping in to grab his travel bag, shoving in any loose items she found.

Alarmed, he straightened, hastily tying on his scarf before grabbing his notebook. He’d prewritten several common phrases at the front, and he flipped to one now, jabbing his finger by the words ‘What is it?’ as he showed it to Orla.

“I don’t know,” Orla said, then covered her mouth as she yawned. “Some girl woke the innkeeper, who woke his wife, who woke Carr, telling her we needed to leave. She got me first. Said I could finish sleeping in the carriage.”

What the fuck? Carr finished packing his bag and swept from the room before he could ask her anything directly, leaving him and Orla no choice but to follow.

The stable was a flurry of activity while a baggy-eyed groom hitched the horses. Their driver stood nearby, grumbling about eccentric passengers. Carr shoved him and Orla in the carriage, then darted away.

Resh ducked his head out to find her speaking to the innkeeper and a girl with soft blond curls dressed in a slightly ragged skirt and blouse who kept twisting her hands in her apron. He was shocked when Carr placed a hand on the taller girl’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper something. The girl nodded, then hugged Carr, who actually allowed it, even though her spine stiffened. He leaned back in his seat before she could see him, and a few minutes later, she joined them.

The lamps he’d taken the time to light flickered, illuminating the cabin enough that she should have no trouble seeing his lips, despite the sun having not risen.

Resh made sure he had her attention before speaking. What is going on?

“Ummm,” Carr hedged, her eyes flicking over to his sister. “I might’ve… umm… we should talk about this later, maybe?”

Orla huffed. “When are you two gonna stop treating me like a baby?

When you’re older.

“When you’re older.”

“Oh my gods, you two!” Orla threw herself back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m gonna assume Resh said something along the lines of what you said, Carr, by the way you’re looking at each other.”

Resh blinked, feeling a little guilty.

“I’ll have you know that just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I know–” Orla cut herself off, wiping at her eyes. “I know more than you think. I wish you didn’t think you were doing me some almighty favor, leaving me in the dark.”

With that, she kicked off her boots and snatched a book out of her bag, burying her nose in it.

Okay. So Carr was hiding something, scratch that, several somethings at this point, Orla was upset over being excluded, and Resh… Resh couldn’t fucking communicate unless someone was looking at him, which both ladies were now studiously avoiding doing.

The carriage started moving, and Carr let out a relieved-sounding sigh.

Resh wished he could do the same.

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. Any other images are purely decorative lines. end ID]

#hidden depths #whump #whump writing #original writing #original characters #fantasy whump #warnings above the cut #nightmare tw #flashback tw #unreality tw #angst

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aquaticsoul · 11 months

Text

Amestris No More || Bad End Drabble

The King of Wonderland has not returned home and Sielu is dealing with the fact recovery isn't linear. Prompted by @shiroi---kumo . It was very ouch.

The first day had been concerning. The first night had been a bit rough. This morning though, he's curled up in the corner, not sure where the fear and flashbacks end and 'right now' begins.

Pilvi has not abandoned them.

Pilvi had never abandoned him in the first place. It had been Oscha. It had been Oscha the whole time, so why-

Why is he remembering it now?

Why is he plagued by the image of not-Pilvi walking away as clear as it had been the first time?

Why can't he just be worried in a normal way? Why does he need to be subjected to nine years of torture all over again - had he not moved past this? Had he not made any progress like he'd thought?

He'd been doing fine, hadn't he? Not quite his old self, but - not this. Not a mess. Not a wreck. Not the shell of a person who'd found Valo all that time ago.

He'd been Sielu, or at the very least Sielu-adjacent. He hadn't been this thing on the floor, this pet that can't catch its breath all over again.

It's just been this... this wretched imagery for however long he's been sitting there. The memories come and go in intensity, but the feelings are there the whole time and those nerves are being forcibly exposed. Where is the real pain, and where is it just his brain remembering what she had done to him?

He doesn't know, but it's not like he can just take it. This isn't going to help figure out where Pilvi actually is.

As terrified as he is, he lifts his head from his knees. The light returning is almost too bright, but -

No airship.

He's just at home, at least for now.

Safe. Home. Pilvi is missing, not abandoning.

He is alone. No one is really talking to him - he is alone with his mind even if it's declared war by making him feel like he is not.

Herba is not here. Oscha is not here. There are no plant-ghosts and there aren't even any plants.

He is in his room.

Alone. Safe. Pilvi is out somewhere. Pilvi did not abandon us and he would not do such a thing.

He needs help, and then once he's calmer, he can go find Pilvi and figure out why his soul bind feels unsettled.

Asking for help is okay. Asking for help is fine. No one will hurt me for it. I am allowed to.

Sielu pulls in a deep breath, forcing his hands to uncurl. His nails have been digging into his palms, and he does not want to injure himself.

Injury will make it harder to wrap his arms around his boy and bring him home safe.

He needs more than anything for Pilvi to get home safe.

#v ; amestris no more (bad end)#panic attack tw #objectification tw #dehumanization tw #abuse tw #flashback tw #ptsd tw

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i-can-even-burn-salad · 2 years

Text

Time

Thorns & Jasmine

In which Breannan tries to prepare some materials for class.

Warnings: Panic attack/flashback to captivity

This is a bit of a hard one to place. It sits chronologically shortly before or while Caldyn is captured, but I don’t think it’s a good entry to the series. Or perhaps it is. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet where to put it on the masterlist. Nvm I placed it on the masterlist.

It’s mostly worldbuilding fluff, with a pinch of angst, and me being needlessly mean. It’s also my entry for @whump-of-the-month May “Time”.

This one is also a fill for my BTHB.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The stroke of a brush on parchment. Filling the space between broad, dark lines with colorful patches. Red. A bit of a mind-numbing exercise, but a necessary one. Some of the materials of the earliest lessons were worn out, should probably have been replaced this season already. Posters explaining the races of Tere, listing animals, showing rows of numbers or artfully drawn letters.

Purple. This one was a circle, divided into twelve slices, each for one month of the commonly used calendar. As with the common language, it had been created by the humans first. A year cut up as a way to keep track of time that was largely meaningless here, under the branches of the Tiyatsin. Where in the other parts of the world seasons brought differences in weather and temperature, neither ever changed in the Sentient Wilds.

There were other ways to consider time here, a slower rhythm. Cyan. Instead of hours, most kalani were content to think roughly of the times between sunrise, noon and sunset. They had adapted the habit of counting seven days as a week — a number as arbitrary as any other would have been — but barely bothered to name the days. There was a certain need to name a period of time that would be more than a day or two, but less than really many days. Months were sometimes used, too, their names common knowledge, their significance not so much. Instead each year had two seasons, centered around the times when most of the saplings awoke.

Green. In a few weeks, this season would end, he would say goodbye to the class of students he had taught over those last two years. Shortly after, he would climb up to the highest branches, wait for the awakening of new saplings, welcome them into this world. Gather a new class, learn new names and new faces, replacing the old ones — in his classroom, never in his memories.

Almost thirty years of teaching had left him with many memories. Faces and names of curious, brilliant saplings, ready to face the world on their own. Blue. Some returned, for a while. Told their old mentor of all the things they had seen, they had learned. Of a wide, colorful world they had visited, bringing back tales and knowledge and trinkets.

Inevitably, those visits would grow rarer. They had other things to do now. Some would receive a Biotai, some find an occupation, some flock to other mentors, teaching advanced lessons, like he did with the human languages. Most found partners, moved out of the houses they had lived in as saplings, built their new life somewhere else.

Yellow. The last slice of the year. Breannan paused. The yellow wasn’t quite as bright as it should have been, even though he hadn’t even touched any of the black lines with the brush. He looked at the small bowl, holding the partially dissolved pigment. It had a brown tint. Breannan sighed. He probably hadn’t cleaned the paintbrush carefully enough when swapping between colors. One day he’d learn, start with the brightest colors first. Today was not that day. As a result, he’d have to clean the paint now, and then hope he’d be able to salvage his drawing.

With another sigh, he reached for the cup of tea on his desk. He had picked up this work to take his mind off things, but apparently his mind had been a bit too far away. Taking a sip, he almost choked, smelling that something was off a bit too late. “What…” Lowering the cup, he realized he was holding the wrong one. It wasn’t the wooden one, polished from years of holding it in his hands. It was the clay one, splattered with colorful specks on the outside, filled with water he had used to clean his paintbrush between colors. At least the paint wasn’t toxic — few things were to his kind — but the taste it left on his tongue was unpleasant. Breannan made a face as he put the colored water down, decidedly on the other side of the table.

Then he reached for the cup, the one that truly held tea, lifting it carefully, as if he had to confirm every step along the way that this time it was the right one. Or had been; it was his luck that he glanced down into it before starting to drink. Blue lines swam in the golden tea. Well that probably explained what had ruined his yellow. A third sigh — this one much heavier than the previous ones — and he put the cup down again, pushing it away. His mind really wasn’t where it should be today.

Thirty-two days since the last time this particular student had visited him. Not that he was counting them or anything. Ever since Caldyn had moved into the outskirts, his visits had grown rarer, but he had still managed to come by at least once, usually twice per month. Not even to tell him something, or ask him about anything in particular. Just to visit him, hang out for a while, share a tea and talk about everything and nothing at the same time.

It had been five years since Caldyn had finished his class, deciding against further education, following his calling as healer instead. In all this time, his visits had stayed the same. Breannan had started to believe it could be true, could really go on like this.

Thirty-two days. The first time it was more than a month. Breannan wished he hadn’t kept track. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the pattern. The time between visits growing longer, one day at a time. A carelessly spoken sentence, mentioning how Gawyn didn’t like it when Caldyn stayed away for too long. It was something Breannan had always found strange. He didn’t know what to think of Gawyn. The few times he had met Caldyn’s partner, their conversations had been limited to polite small talk. He didn’t like him very much. There was something unpleasant about him Breannan couldn’t put his finger on. The thought that it was mere jealousy wasn’t too far-fetched, though, so he had kept his opinion to himself.

Perhaps it was normal, this need to spend every waking hour together. It was one of many things Breannan would never understand. How people were drawn to each other, no matter if their personalities even matched. How they started to forget everything else, to view everyone who wasn’t their partner — or one of their partners — as less important. It hurt. It hurt even more when he considered that he’d never be one of those; the one who would be the most important one to someone else. Which was a selfish thought, considering he’d probably not be able to reciprocate. Not in the right way, at least.

He shouldn’t be so gloomy. Not over thirty-two days. That was barely a week longer than the longest time he’d not seen Caldyn before, which of course he also hadn't counted. Back then there had been an accident in the Outskirts, a thunderstorm devastating a village. Caldyn had been busy for weeks, taking care of all the injured kalani. Breannan hoped no such thing had happened again, but he hadn’t heard of any incidents. It would make the guilt that was already gnawing at him worse. He should be less selfish, should be happy for his friend — doing what he loved, living in a place he loved, with the person he loved.

Not that Breannan wasn’t doing what he loved, and living in a place he loved. His gaze wandered to one of his shelves, filled with trinkets of all sizes and origins. Almost all of them were gifts from his friends and former students. Looking at them, remembering each person who had gifted them to him, never failed to make Breannan smile.

Staring at a colorful glass bauble, he considered his options. Starlight wasn’t at the Tiyatsin currently, and probably wouldn’t be anytime soon. They were traveling across the ocean again, a ship mage on one of the pirate vessels. The thought of their fragile figure, standing atop the mast, arms spread wide, commanding the winds, made him smile. Some others had left their home as well, as many of the older ones did. After decades of living under the tree, many longed to explore the world. Breannan could understand them. He, too, sometimes missed the time where he had traveled to distant lands.

Lish was still here, but she was busy more than ever with the increasing attacks of the lost ones. It was concerning how many of their siblings were lured to join them. What had been a distant rumor a few years ago had grown into grim certainty: the Ceodh were a threat to their kind, a darkness spreading within. It made it all the more important to teach the saplings about compassion and kindness before they emerged into the world.

Corrie came by from time to time, but the nature of their occupation — a mentor like Breannan — always led to their talks returning to students and classrooms eventually. While their personalities were different, the lives they lead were too similar to leave room for much variety. The very same problem plagued his relationship with a few of the other mentors, though he wasn’t quite as close to any of them.

In fact, he wasn’t overly close to a lot of people. He knew outside the classroom, many people considered him aloof. Behind his desk, he was confident, spoke with vibrant meaning behind his words. Breannan had no doubts that he was a good teacher, though he took care to remind himself that he wasn’t perfect. But if he wasn’t teaching, if he talked casually to strangers and acquaintances, he kept the meaning behind his words low. He knew it was bordering on being impolite. He couldn’t help it. If he didn’t, he might slip up, might share a random terror, as rare as they had become in recent years. If he didn’t, they often caught on that he was one of the firstborn. There was something different about the meaning behind the words of those who had awoken before words had existed. And every single time he was worried they’d connect the dots, would remember his name, would ask.

He couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. It didn’t make the fear any less real. A fear that was creeping at the edge of his mind now, even though he was alone, and home, and safe. Breannan reached for the cup of tea, stopping himself at the last moment. Right. He should probably clean the cup and get some fresh tea.

Walking to the window, to pour the paint-stained water out, he found that it was raining. Walking to the shelf, peering into the pitcher, and the bucket, he found that he was out of water. The combination of those two circumstances made him sigh again. He wasn’t a huge fan of getting wet, but he had no other choice. Grabbing the bucket, he walked to the door.

The moment he left his house, water drenched him from head to toe. The rain was even heavier than it had seemed from inside; thick drops crawling under his petals, freezing cold on his bark. That’s what he got for delaying grabbing fresh water earlier, when he had seen — and promptly forgotten — that the bucket was empty. No way around it, though. Breannan started to walk. The feeling of drops running down his back was entirely unpleasant, stirring something buried in his memories.

Then thunder sounded, accompanying a lightning strike. For a moment, everything was bathed in white light, so much colder than the sun, shining mercilessly down on him, and down and down. Breannan’s legs didn’t carry him anymore, making him crumple to the ground. He was shaking before his back touched the wall of his house, smooth and hard. It wasn’t metal, but it was so cold, it felt like it. Another flash, the light so bright, and the rain falling down on him, he had to catch it, gather it. His bare hands scratched over the ground, not feeling the mud they dug in. If he didn’t stop the water, it would flow away, leaving him not only starving, but thirsty as well.

It was the taste of earth that snapped him out of it. It was wrong. There had been no earth, nothing natural. Metal and glass and crystal light, and the water, falling down on him, and those creatures, walking past, ignoring his desperate pleas. Breannan reached blindly for the wall, sliding his hand down until he touched the ground. Wet sand and short grass. He finally dared to open his eyes. It was dark; not the darkness of night, merely the dim light of heavy clouds, hanging in a sky that was already blocked out by the parent tree’s branches. With a sob, Breannan leaned his head back. He was home. He was fine.

The next flash of lightning only made his stomach turn, but didn’t send him back into his panic. Still, he had to get back inside, away from the storm. It took him several minutes to find enough strength to move. Sitting up straight, turning his head, looking around. In a lucky stroke of fate, he had dropped the bucket upright. Some water had gathered in it. Not much, but it would be enough to fill a cup or two. With shaking hands, Breannan reached for it, pushing it inside, not daring to lift it. He followed without getting up, crawling inside and sinking against the wall on the other side of the door.

It was by far not the first one of those attacks, no matter how rare they had become in recent times. It also wouldn’t be the last. And while he was glad no one had been around to witness it, a part of him also wished he wasn’t alone. Fingers playing with the stems and petals of his clothes, wiping off the stray drops, Breannan thought about his friends. Corrie would scold him for being careless, their stern tone born from worry. Arleigh would grunt, leaving it to him to carry a conversation, something he wouldn’t have the energy for. Lish would fuss over him, which would be nice if something had happened, but… nothing had happened. Nothing but a misplaced overreaction. He really should have a better grip on himself than that. And anyway, he wouldn’t be able to get to any of them, so thinking about it was futile. He should busy himself with something he could do. Like finally getting off the floor.

Getting his limbs to obey him wasn’t as easy as it should have been, but he managed to drag himself up. With shaking hands, he brought the bucket over to the shelf. Breannan filled a cup — a fresh one, that much awareness he managed to gather — with water and drank slowly. He would have preferred tea, but that would take too long now. Instead he plucked a leaf off the mint plant, placing it on his tongue.

Letting the taste fill his mind, Breannan walked to his bookshelves. He wouldn’t be able to work on his materials now, not only because he didn’t have any water to spare for the paint. With how shaken he still was, he probably wouldn’t be able to focus much, so he picked a book of stories and fables. Book in one hand, a couple of colorful crystal lamps in the other, he walked into his bedroom. One by one, he touched the crystals, then let go of them. They started to glow, suspended in the air by their own magic. Red. Purple. Cyan. Green. Blue. Yellow.

Once the last lamp was ignited, Breannan settled on his bed, wrapping himself into one of his blankets. He started to read, the steady pattering of the storm outside background noise for legends of giant snakes and swampy secrets. He had read those pages often before, some lines of text so familiar to him, he could speak them from memory. Cradled by colorful light, it was comforting. Sometimes Breannan paused, for minutes or hours, his thoughts drifting, imagining a faraway land he had never visited.

The soft light of approaching dawn wasn’t the most welcome sight. He had been unable to find sleep, and now there were only a few hours left before he’d have to be in his class again. Giving a quick overview over the currencies used in other parts of the world, a concept that was foreign to the kalani. At least it was a dry topic, one that didn’t require much of his attention and left him able to hand out assignments for the students to work on on their own later. And it was one of the days where he didn’t teach his advanced class in the afternoon, so he could return home. Perhaps he’d finish the drawing, if he could fix the yellow. It was more likely he’d crawl into his bed, though.

Breannan got up, his limbs stiff and his core heavy. As he walked into the main room, his gaze fell on the almost finished drawing. Counting time really was both a blessing and a curse. Thirty-three days. Perhaps he’d visit soon now. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps the number would grow, turn into a forty, a fifty. Whatever it would be, life would go on, and Breannan would keep himself busy with teaching and studying, perhaps taking on a new responsibility or two. One day, his friend would visit again, and one day, Breannan would stop counting the time in between, and it would settle into a new routine.

One day. Not yet.

Thirty-three days.

Tagging: @villainsvictim @dont-touch-my-soup @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whump-cravings @frenchfries893 @siren-of-agony @badthingshappenbingo

#Thorns and Jasmine #whump #non human whumpee #emotional whump #flashback tw #Sorry Nemi this does not even include blood #All just emotional #Horrible #But I've been chopping up Damien all April so there's no energy left for the others #On the plus side I used both words sky and darkness in this piece #:)#badthingshappenbingo #prompt: loneliness #fandom: original work #time day 2022 #time day #my writing

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