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pigeonwhumps · 5 months

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Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @ghost-whump @whump-tr0pes @actress4him @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @whumpinggrounds

Phoenix and Brynn are pulled out of a Pluto penal colony.

Set about 100 years before Reunion.

1.4k

CWs: multiple whumpees, immortal whumpees, institutional whump (penal colony), prison whump, talk of death, illness, malnutrition, exhaustion, beating, touch-starved, restraints, ptsd

"Phoenix Costello, Brynn Carmichael, over to the entrance."

The electromagnet keeping Brynn's wrists attached to the table releases and she struggles to her feet, her fatigued, battered body working against her as she shuffles towards the door. One of the guards shoves her when she's too slow and she stumbles, tripping over her ankle chain. She almost faceplants on the metal floor, stopped only by a gentle calloused hand on her arm.

Phoenix yelps, their hand withdrawing as a shock baton hits the point of contact. Despite the hot pain and tingling, Brynn misses their touch immediately.

"No touch between prisoners. Hands behind your backs."

Brynn links her hands together, and the electromagnet turns on, stopping her from separating them.

"It's your lucky day. No work for you, you're being transported. The shuttle's waiting. Follow me, single file, no dawdling."

The guard opens the door and Brynn shuffles through, feeling Phoenix at her back. At the end of the corridor is a set of steps leading up to a prison transport shuttle, and Brynn pauses, unsure how to walk up them without tripping. The guard in front hits her side with the butt of his gun, and when she drops to her knees, coughing, he takes her elbow in a tight grip and drags her up the steps. Her knees slam into each step, the impact shaking her bones.

"I said, no dawdling. I trust you still remember where to stand."

Brynn nods, and the guard releases her, his grip a painful ghost on her arm. She staggers upright and over to one of the prisoner alcoves, arms up against the wall and feet in the restraints. Once Phoenix is standing opposite, the restraints tighten and the guards exit the shuttle. It takes off, guided by the automatic pilot, and Brynn watches out of the tiny windows as Penal Colony 5 gets smaller.

This shuttle is much faster than the one that brought them out here in the first place.

Once the penal colony, and Pluto, has vanished, Brynn looks at Phoenix. She wants to ask how they are, how long they think they've been imprisoned, but she can't. Supervillain's voice echoes around her head, mixed with the guards and punishments for talking, for screaming, for stuttering.

Prisoners don't talk. You don't make a sound. Silence is better than stuttering. If you don't stop being so fucking annoying, you can wear your mask permanently.

Brynn can still taste the metal bit of her sidekick mask, even hundreds of years on.

She shakes her head to dislodge the memory and focuses on Phoenix, trying to establish how they're doing without asking. She hasn't had a chance to really look at them in forever, and... Christ. The coating of grey Pluto rock dust makes them look ghostly, the impression emphasised by their hollow cheeks and visible collarbones. Their grey jumpsuit is baggy on them, wearing thin and more hole than fabric in places, exposing their numerous bruises and cuts. They have a black eye that's very new, an hour or so old at the outside.

What did the guards do while Brynn was focused on herself?

Phoenix attempts a weak smile when they notice her looking.

"Can't, um, get worse now, right?"

Their voice is raspy, almost gone, and a coughing fit cuts off the end of their sentence. Brynn swallows hard. Pluto rock dust. She's seen people die from over-exposure to Pluto rock dust. Phoenix better not go dying. It won't be permanent, but she still doesn't want to see it again.

Brynn nods, trying to return their smile. She's not sure it works.

The shuttle is warmer than she remembers, but she thinks that maybe she's just gotten used to the cold over the years.

Brynn drifts off for a bit, or so she thinks, because the next thing she knows they're pulling into the spaceport orbiting Earth.

Surprisingly, the restraints fall away before the shuttle doors open, but neither Brynn nor Phoenix move. This could be a trap.

A smartly-dressed man enters the shuttle, eyes widening at the sight of the prisoners. "Blimey. I've seen the footage but you're in even worse shape in person. I'm Danny Smith, current President of the Humanity Division of the URIA. Follow me, please."

Important man then. Brynn pushes herself off the wall and almost collapses with nothing holding her up. Phoenix wraps an arm under her shoulders and they hobble out of the shuttle.

Brynn shields her eyes against the bright light and colours of the spaceport. The technology's changed so much in the years they've been away, but it's still so familiar, it makes her heart ache.

They follow Mr Smith down a long corridor into another spaceship. It's big, posh, with floor-to-ceiling windows. Nothing like a prison transport. What's going on?

They stop outside a booth near a basic medical bay.

"I need you to step in that booth one at a time. It'll take photos of you, and your height, weight, pulse, and blood pressure. It'll just take a minute. Then I can explain what's going on."

Brynn exchanges a glance with Phoenix. She doesn't trust it, but she can see that they're thinking the same as her – that they can't refuse to do this.

"Me first," Phoenix whispers, slipping out from under Brynn. As Brynn stumbles into a seat, they enter the booth.

Brynn doesn't like it. She doesn't like Phoenix going off alone, they're always hurt when they're separated, and she doesn't like being alone with this man either.

"You were in Penal Colony 5 for 37 years. As of half an hour ago, the rest of your sentences have been commuted, in light of certain discoveries. We need your help."

It doesn't feel real. Brynn blinks hard, lip trembling as she holds back her tears. They're out?

Phoenix exits the booth and hurries over to Brynn, taking her hand in direct defiance of– of everything. She nods firmly. She's okay.

"Doesn't hurt," whispers Phoenix in her ear as they help her over to the booth. She takes a deep breath as she steps inside.

Phoenix is right, it doesn't hurt, and she soon staggers out again, Phoenix catching her. They seem shakier now, as they wrap their arms around her. Brynn doesn't ever want to let go.

"If you two are ready, there's a room prepared. Change into some clean clothes and get some rest, there's food and a bathroom if you're up for that. Your belongings are inside too."

Brynn nods, holding onto Phoenix as they limp after Mr Smith. He gestures them into a fancy room.

"Someone will be here to do a proper medical in the morning, and we can talk more then. Any questions?" They both shake their heads. "I'll leave you to settle in then."

As the door shuts behind them there's a soft rustle of wings and Brynn turns to see a red-tailed hawk soaring towards her. Her red-tailed hawk. Her heart skips a beat.

"Horus!"

Her voice is quiet but she claps her hands over her mouth after speaking, she's not supposed to speak. Nothing happens though except for Horus colliding with her shoulder. She crumples to the floor, hitting a soft cushion, and cradles Horus. Oh, it's been so long, he's softer than she remembers. She's so glad he's immortal too.

Phoenix lets out a hastily-stifled sound of delight and Brynn looks over to see them pull Mr Frosty reverently out of their rucksack, holding him to them. Their photo album and memory book get the same treatment.

Brynn assumes, then, that her book is also around here somewhere, but she can't bring herself to move. She needs to, they both need to, they need a wash and clean clothes and food and a rest before anyone changes their mind, but for a long time she can't bring herself to.

Finally, she pushes herself up and over to Phoenix, taking their arm. They set down the book and pull her into a hug.

Well, that wasn't quite what she was aiming for, but she'll take it. She presses against them, burying her head in their neck.

"W-w-we should w-w-wash," she breathes regretfully.

"Not, um, letting go. Ever."

"W-w-we d-d-don't have to-to. R-r-right?"

Phoenix nods, and they get to their feet, clinging together because gods it's been so long since they could hold each other.

"Never, um, never letting go again."

#this one was languishing in my notes and i had to get it out #ill give you some of the penal colony itself one day #whump #whump writing #immortal cannon fodder #phoenix oc #brynn oc #immortal whumpee #disabled whumpee #multiple whumpees #whumpee and whumper #institutional whump

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bilightningwhumper · 6 days

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Stuck on a thing. I know I only have a few of the Mangst one-shots out right now. But writers block has me stuck on being able to finish the next few (ideas there; execution, not so much), plus this cold isn't helping.

Anyway, working on more worldbuilding while my brain clears up. Putting the poll first, context underneath. (Mild spoilers for New Eden Institution)

*seclusion not fully 100% for reasons below

So, I have Leslie (Rapunzel OC) and Rosalin (Odette OC). They're both in a similar boat.

Kidnapped young. Forced to look like pretty dolls for their captors. Find love (*love interest gets past the seclusion barrier) before being forced into the Institution because of their captors' jealousy. Kind of like the og fairy tales.

Now, either Leslie's first partner (one of two, in my version) either finds her in the big gated garden owned by Mama (real name Gaia/Mother Gothel OC) or they met in high school because Mama wants her to gain more skills to be "a perfect bride" (ie, Regency standards).

Then Rosalin, she's held in the same house as Teddie (full name Theodora/Odile OC) and Rudolf (Rothbart OC). So, being fully secluded from Teddie doesn't work, though Rudolf keeps her locked in a room when he isn't there and with him when he is. If she does go to high school, it's because Teddie convinced him to let her go.

Third option is they both go to a high school as a start to the New Eden pipeline. Either because of the love interests or they do have summer vacations, so authorities don't get suspicious and see said love interests in those time periods.

I might figure it out as the poll gets results, but it helps to ask to get unstuck, you know? And besides, if I don't go with what the poll wins, I can always do the idea with other characters in the New Eden universe. It's not like there's a lack of fairy tales out there.

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little-peril-stories · 2 months

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The Queen of Lies: Her Speech is Nothing

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contains: outdated/problematic/ableist language, icky gender and power dynamics, asylum, death mention, lady whump, betrayal, generally uncomfortable medical setting, statements by the antagonist that allude to sexual assault and fall into both ableism and victim-blaming

Please heed the warnings!

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Word count: 3000 || Approx reading time: 12 mins

Her Speech is Nothing

Teaser: After the darkness of the carriage, it was bright outside despite the lack of sun and the still-falling drizzle, and Bree blinked as her eyes adjusted. Something twisted in her stomach when she realized they were not where she expected. “Where are we?”

Baden spoke quietly to Dr. Gysborne, and Bree didn’t listen.

He brought her back outside, and she let him.

He did not tell her where they were going when he helped her into a carriage, and she didn’t care.

What difference did it make, anyway? She knew where they were going. He would take her back to the house, and she’d be his pretty possession once again, and unless she could find another way out, everything she’d done to escape her fate as Baden Hatchett’s wife would mean absolutely nothing.

The city rolled past, grim and soaked with rain. In a motion stiff and hurried, Baden tugged the curtains closed, concealing the world outside behind a bulwark of maroon velvet. With nothing to look at, Bree leaned against the wall and pretended to sleep. The minutes dragged on, poisoning every thought with guilt and sorrow.

She tried not to think of Jamie, who had to be cursing her very name—she, the silly girl he’d worked for so many years ago, grown into the silly woman who’d ruined his life and his brother’s. And Colette and Geoff? They must be cursing her, too, especially Geoff, for she’d seen the way he and Jamie looked at each other, the way their hands entwined whenever they were at rest.

It took all her self-control not to open her eyes and peer down at her own empty hands and think of the fingers that should have been laced with hers.

No matter how she tried, she could not banish Will from her thoughts.

Will, and how he must be hurting. How he must resent her, too.

“All right, Breanna. Let’s go.”

She opened her eyes. The carriage had stopped, and Baden was holding out his hand.

With no other choice, she accepted it.

After the darkness of the carriage, it was bright outside despite the lack of sun and the still-falling drizzle, and Bree blinked as her eyes adjusted. Something twisted in her stomach when she realized they were not where she expected. “Where are we?”

It seemed for several long moments that Baden would not answer.

“We’re at the hospital,” he said, pulling her forward. “Were you not listening? Gysborne suggested I take you to another doctor. To ensure you’re well enough to…” He paused. “Return.”

“I feel fine,” she said, although it was perhaps the most blatant lie she had ever told. “I want to go back. I only want to rest. I want to go home.”

Home. Bree felt sick. Home was not that cold and draughty manor with its locked windows and doors. Home could not be found in a four-poster bed shared with a man who didn’t want to be there, either.

Home was a tiny townhouse with thin, warped windows and uneven floors. Home was sunlight streaming through too-old curtains and mingling with the earthy-scented steam of freshly brewed tea. Home was a warm hand in hers, worn books with the pages falling out, generous laughter, and happiness like she had never known before.

Home was Will.

But, she tried to comfort herself, the sooner she made it back to the house she’d once called “home,” the sooner she might make it back out.

“I am concerned, and I want you to be well,” said Baden, his fingers crawling to her upper arm. “Come along.”

The hospital was almost pleasing to look at, rather like a house: a sprawling manor with glass windows and lovely, old trees dotting its grounds, tendrils of ivy swirling up the red-brick walls. On a sunny day, in the brilliance of summer, it might have looked homely. Welcoming.

Today, in the autumn gloom, it seemed to Bree like the nightmarish, haunted building of a Gothic novel; there was something insidious about the dim light, the choking ivy, the dead leaves scattered on the ground, the bare branches scraping at the air. Something about the shadows and the rain created the impression of bars over the windows—almost as if they had not left the prison at all.

“Good afternoon, doctor.” With a curt nod, Baden greeted the man waiting for them. Behind him, in the doorway, stood a nurse in a stiff white cap.

“Where are we? Which hospital?” she pressed. A sensation like thousands of tiny legs crawling over the back of her neck made her shiver with unease. “Baden, tell me, please—”

“Thank you for being so accommodating,” Baden said to the gentleman, shaking her into silence, “on such short notice. I would like you to examine my wife, Mrs. Hatchett. I have an initial report from Dr. Bernard Gysborne.”

Now there were two of them: the older doctor with cold blue eyes and a red beard peppered with silver, and a younger one with dark hair and a pale complexion. He was silent, watching Bree with a mixture of wariness and pity.

“Of course, Constable Hatchett,” said the older doctor. “I’m Dr. Richards. Please, come inside, out of the rain.”

“Baden,” Bree said, her heart pounding, although she did not know why it protested so, “I want to go home. Please. Now.”

But Baden said, “Once I am convinced of your good health, Breanna.”

“I’m not hurt,” she said, pulling away from the door. “You heard what Dr. Gysborne said. The cut is healing. Please. Let’s go.”

He jolted her forward with an impatient sigh. “Come along.” As they crossed the threshold, the wind began to howl outside, and the rain began to fall in a violent barrage once again. “This is for your own good.”

So he said, yet this examination seemed much the same as Gysborne’s. In a bleakly lit room lined with dusty wooden panels, the younger doctor, whose name Bree had missed, checked her breathing, her heartbeat, her eyesight, and her healing arm, while Dr. Richards asked a series of irritating questions that all had obvious answers—her name, her age, what had happened to her. It seemed to Bree he might have known if he’d simply read Mr. Gysborne’s report. There were a few others, though, that puzzled her: And what is your husband’s name? Where do you live? In what country do we live? What year is it?

“I’ve already been through this,” she said when her patience was wearing thin. By the desk, the doctors spoke quietly to the nurse. She could not hear what they said. “Baden, just show them Dr. Gysborne’s report. He already did these tests. Please, I’m—I’m so tired—I just—”

A crackle of paper had her lifting her head in surprise. Baden had listened; he had done as she said. For once, he had obeyed her.

Dr. Richards scanned the report with a frown.

“This seems insufficient evidence,” said the dark-haired doctor, peering over the elder one’s shoulder. “One prison medical officer’s quick assessment hardly seems adequate reason to—”

“You don’t understand,” said Baden harshly. “It’s much more than what is written here. You want evidence? You shall have plenty.” When he looked at Bree, she quailed again, her mouth going dry when she beheld the grey fire in his eyes. “Ask anyone who has witnessed her behaviour these recent weeks. Even before she was abducted. She forged my signature to join some silly women’s society—yet never once mentioned it to me, never even asked. She repeatedly, illicitly entered the prison under false pretences to visit a known criminal with whom, as far as any of us know, she had never had any contact before. And not just to visit him, but to enter his cell and care for him like she fancied herself some sort of nurse. She was caught, of course, and could not give a single good reason for why she did it.”

“Baden,” Bree whispered, a dreadful sense of cold settling over her body. “Why are you telling them all—”

“The housekeeper reported she wasn’t sleeping and was speaking and behaving strangely. She sent a letter filled with sheer nonsense to one of her friends, feigning a need to prepare for a visit from some fictitious cousin. She lied to me and my superior. She stole a set of keys from a constable. And she helped that blasted criminal escape.”

Dr. Richards gaped at Bree in horror, while the younger doctor’s face turned a brilliant shade of red.

“She was seen in men’s clothing, gallivanting around town and fleeing from those who tried to help her, and when we found her again today—just look at this!” He took hold of her arms and wrenched them both upwards, displaying the cut and the Iustitia aecum emblem.

Bree tried to jerk out of his grasp, to no avail. “Baden, what—”

“And this!” Releasing her arms, he forcibly tilted her chin up to expose the bruise, that scarlet letter on her neck that she should have known would spell her doom—the evidence of her infidelity, illuminated for these two strange men who now would not take their eyes off her.

Mortified, Bree jerked from his grasp and leapt to her feet.

But Baden was quick and strong as he always was; he apprehended her easily. As the nurse darted to block the door, Bree cried out, struggling to fight Baden’s grip while he held her still. No one else seemed to realize that Baden was clenching her tightly enough to hurt.

“Does any of that,” Baden snarled, his grip constricting even more as he pointed at the bruise on her throat, “sound like the behaviour of a sane person? Would a woman in her right mind let such a beast defile her in this way?”

Bree’s vision went, for an instant, pitch-black.

“It is clear to me,” Baden said, letting go only long enough to spin her around and force her to face him, “that you are very ill, Breanna, and I cannot help you through whatever hysteria you are presently suffering through.”

“Hysteria?” she repeated, as black spots threatened to eat away at her consciousness again.

“The lies. The sneaking around. The forged signature. Running away. The marks that bastard left on you.” Without warning, he let go. “Everyone agrees that you have been out of sorts. Officer Lenton. Mrs. Dennison. Your friends, even the silly one married to the soldier who tried to cover for you—even she was swayed in the end. It cannot be denied that you are unwell. And dangerously so.”

“Dangerously so…” she echoed. “What are you saying, Baden?”

“I am saying…” he began, his voice tight. No emotion leaked through now; he’d locked it away behind its usual frigid barricade. “I’m saying that you need help that I cannot provide, but I cannot trust you in our home, nor can I, despite all you’ve done, have my wife as an inmate in my prison.” He swallowed, every muscle rigid, his throat bobbing. “You have left me no choice.”

It sank in.

“No, Baden, please don’t do this.” Bree’s eyes finally took in what was all around her, what she had missed because she hadn’t been paying attention: boxes and papers stamped with three letters: G.I.A.

She looked frantically around again, seeking the answer.

Greyhurst Insane Asylum.

“You can’t leave me here!” she gasped.

“I can, and I will.” He shook his head. “You expect me to leave you in our house unsupervised? What will you do next? What will I come home to? A pile of ash and rubble? A corpse? A gang of thieves planning their next heist in my sitting room? No. I can’t. You’ve humiliated me, and perhaps you did not know what you were doing. In fact, I’m quite certain you did not. But all trust between us is gone.”

“Don’t,” she begged. “I’m not—I’m not mad.”

“Then explain yourself!”

Bree shook him off, and when, to her surprise, he let go, she backed away. “You’re just going to lock me away? I’m your wife! And I’m perfectly sane! How could you?”

“Do you see this?” Hatchett said, gesturing furiously as she tried to run, only to find herself immediately detained in the arms of the younger doctor. “Do you hear this? How she denies her mental infirmity? How she defies me at every turn? My wife has completely lost her senses.”

“You can’t do this to me!” she gasped, trying to wrench herself free of the doctor. “I’m—not—I’m not—ill!”

“The injury,” Baden said, pointing at her arm. “She did that to herself.”

Time seemed to freeze.

No. No. He couldn’t be saying that—couldn’t be using her own lie against her.

“Perhaps a straitjacket would be best?” Dr. Richards mused, utterly calm while Bree’s world crumbled around her. He rummaged in his leather bag for something Bree couldn’t see. “If she’s a danger to herself? Nurse Dugford, if you please—”

A straitjacket. One of those—god, one of those wicked contraptions they made poor, unfortunate folks wear that bound their arms—

“No!”

Bree’s shriek sliced through the air. Even Baden took a step back upon hearing the terror in her voice.

“I lied,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t cut my arm.”

Baden watched her, face impassive.

“He did it to me,” she choked, letting her limbs end their struggles, letting her body surrender alongside her resolve. As she gave her husband the story he wanted to hear. The only one he would believe. “It was him. He hurt me.”

“I knew it,” Baden breathed. His eyes flashed. “Why did you lie? Why do you insist on protecting him? After all he’s done?” He took a step toward her again. “What is he to you?”

Bree began to sob. How could he ask her that? For words she could not say, for an answer she could not give?

Her legs gave out beneath her, forcing the young doctor to cautiously release her. “Nothing,” she said. The word hurt. “He’s nothing to me. I was just afraid.”

Baden flung his hands into the air. “Nothing she says makes a whit of sense. This is the third story she’s given today to explain the cut. First, it was a pair of strange boys. Then she cut her own arm. Now, she didn’t.” His breath, too, was rapid. “He means nothing to her, but she lies and lies, all to save his sorry soul from the gallows.”

Gallows.

The gallows.

“The—what?”

But Baden ignored her, as if he hadn’t shattered her completely with that single word. But it was wrong—that word was wrong. What would Will’s sentence have been if she hadn’t helped him escape? Labour. Prison. Some other miserable, drawn-out fate.

Execution was never supposed to be the end of his story. Never.

What did he do to you?

He made good on his threats, didn’t he?

Would a woman in her right mind let such a beast defile her in this way?

No matter what she said, no matter what she did, Baden would only believe that Will had taken her by force in every sense of the word. And that was a crime a man like Baden Hatchett would never let slide. Not against his property.

A crime for which Will was now sentenced to pay the ultimate price.

You did this. A smug, sneering voice sang out from the recesses of her psyche, vindicated in every accusation that had hovered half-hidden in her thoughts from the first time she and Will kissed. No, even before. Long before—but she had buried them deep. You couldn’t stay away. You couldn’t keep your ridiculous whims to yourself. Couldn’t keep your legs closed. Couldn’t help yourself, and for what? Now, once Baden gets his hands on him, he’s dead.

Dead.

“You can’t do this!” Each word burst forth as if it might rend a hole in her very chest. “You can’t. He didn’t—he wasn’t—and I’m—Baden, please, you must listen, I’m not mad, and—and you can’t—you can’t—”

Will, dead, for being a thief. For stealing her away, for hurting her, for committing other atrocious crimes Bree knew he would never, never even think of.

And she, locked up for her lies.

“You will find,” said Baden coldly, “that everything which has transpired today is well within my rights under the law.” He pointed toward the paper still clutched in Dr. Richards’ hand. “Two signatures, superintendent approval, and reasonable evidence to make a charge.” His gaze grew even colder. “Entirely lawful, as a constable and as your husband. And so you will remain here at Greyhurst until you are deemed ready to be in society again.”

“But you can’t,” she said. “I’m not insane. I’m not.”

Will, dead, for daring to look at Constable’s Hatchett’s wife. For being the only person Bree had ever seen stand up to her husband.

She, locked up for loving him from the very start.

Baden said, “Yes, you are. But you will get better. In time.”

Will was dead, and she was the one who had killed him.

Like an arrow nocked and fired, her last and most abhorrent lie had sealed his fate.

Now, Baden would lock her away, hide her treachery, infidelity, and insanity from the world, so she could never, ever make it right.

Bree could only watch in horror as Dr. Richards, who was no mere doctor but the superintendent of the asylum, signed his name alongside Gysborne’s. As he beckoned the dark-haired doctor to do the same. As Baden took the pen and added his own signature, then wrote a final name that belonged to none of them. When Dr. Richards read the document out loud, Bree found she could not move a single muscle, even as her mind screamed and screamed and screamed.

“We, B. Gysborne and A.A. Dale, certified medical doctors, attest that we are graduates and practitioners of medicine; that at the request and in the presence of Medical Superintendent G. A. Richards, we have carefully examined Breanna Hatchett in reference to the charge of insanity made by Constable B. Hatchett and find that she is insane, and by reason of said insanity should be confined forthwith to a medical facility until it is determined that her mental infirmity has been cured.”

End note: If you are very uncomfortable with the asylum/mental health setting: Ch. 27 is from Will's POV so it's only discussed/mentioned, and the last chapter taking place there will be Ch. 29, although it will be mentioned pretty regularly after that.

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Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!)

✨ @starlit-hopes-and-dreams | @clairelsonao3 | @gala1981 | @pleasestaywithmedarling | @kixngiggles ✨

#lps the queen of lies #whump #whump story #whump writing #original writing #original story #original content #lady whump #guy whump #romance #angst #tw ableist language #tw asylum #death mention #betrayal #tw mental health institution #i don't know exactly how to tag for 'historical mental health language'

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thegaynessarchives · 11 months

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Alright fuck it please please please send me tma whump fanfic (especially Jon whump, h/c, or sickfics) or tma whump art I'm tired of digging through the depths of the internet for it

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crash-bump-bring-the-whump · 1 year

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BTHB 2023 - Fill 17 - Water Torture

Sometimes I just want to explore traumas that I figure out a character has, and sometimes I also want to explore the idea of "god, you know, yeah, I think that would make Mariano Act Like That as an adult"

TWs: Torture, water torture, near-drowning, whump of a minor, institutional abuse, child abuse

Shuddering, gasping coughing filled the room. Unforgiving fingers tangled in the trainee mage's dark hair, the only thing keeping the trembling boy from collapsing back into the pool. Diego waited.

The dark eyes of the instructor and his trainee met. The instructor nodded. Diego dropped the mage back under, mid-gasp. At this point, it took more strength to grant the boy air than it did to restrict it.

The mage's arms flailed, still struggling to try to push himself closer to air. The instructor wrote something down, his face still unreadable to Diego even so far into his training. He had no idea if this one was doing well, or failing. Sometimes it seemed like the criteria changed--were teenagers even really capable of passing all the tests otherwise? Some instructors had to be giving them slack.

Just as the mage's struggling began to slow and his back began to hitch, the instructor nodded. Diego brought him back up. Was his face red from the oxygen deprivation? Was it from stress? Was that water from the pool running down his face, or tears?

Diego didn't know why his chest felt tight at that thought. If these kids were almost old enough to destroy towns and spearhead invasions, they were old enough to understand the consequences of getting captured by an enemy. They were old enough to learn what enemies would do to get information. He supposed that they were old enough to learn what happened if you couldn't keep yourself safe.

Half an hour really wasn't very long at all, to the torturer of an enemy kingdom.

Down, hold, then back up. Down, hold, then back up. Diego repeated this until his shoulder began to ache. His instructor kept his gaze locked on him. He could feel him searching for any crack in his expression. Any ounce of pity, or remorse. Or guilt.

Diego made sure that there wouldn't be any.

His own son was the same age as this mage. Down, hold, up. He supposed it was just lucky that he'd been born without magic. Down, hold, up.

The little mage's struggling got weaker and weaker with every repetition. The minutes continued to tick by. Frantic coughing and gasping turned to desperate, deep breaths turned to smooth, silent breathing. The boy figured out how to subtly hold his breath, how to conceal his instinctive reactions. He stopped fighting. He began to focus on enduring.

The instructor checked his pocket watch. He wrote something else down. Down, hold, up. The boy's glasses had long since fallen off into the water. There was no attempt to grab them.

Finally, when the boy's eyes stopped even trying to flutter open, his breathing calm and even when he was pulled from the pool, the instructor capped his pen. He motioned his head towards the door.

His instructor's eyes never left his as Diego let the boy fall backwards to the unforgiving stone floor, finally releasing his grip. He did not wince at the sound of the boy's head hitting the floor. Turning, the instructor began to lead the way out. Diego risked a glance backwards as he left. Half-lidded eyes stared after him, slowly blinking.

Diego knew. The boy knew. They'd both learned the lessons that the instructor wanted to teach.

#whump #bthb #bad things happen bingo #mage of violence #the king's men #child abuse /#torture #water torture #near drowning #institutional abuse #man like no one in this kingdom is okay if they work closely under the king #it's a rough one!#this one's real dark!#no one's having a good time here!#Mariano started doing royal mage stuff at like 16 #so he's 15 here #he should be learning post post apocalyptic algebra not increasing his torture tolerance #Whump of a minor #Minor whump

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bltzgore · 4 months

Text

An experimental drabble in second person from the perspective of a highly manipulative and intelligent whumper (in a mental facitlity)

Tw: language, dehumanizing language, second person, minor gore, Just manipulation here no voilence yet

Next ->

Who am I? Why am I here? Such stupid questions, people always focus on stupid questions, the small picture shit. Well you fuckers aren’t going to get off my ass 'til I tell you anyway, so lets get this shit show on the road.

The name is Casey, I have other ones but that’s the only one you and anyone else who asks is getting. As of right now I am clinically insane. My most recent residence REDACTED Hospital for the criminally insane was actually a pretty cozy place. The beds weren't bad, you only wake up ready to tear your back out half the time. The food hadn’t killed anyone in the past week, at least not that they could prove. To top it off the place was rift with overly trusting orderlies and highly malleable lunatic minds.

In short, I ran that shit hole.

Why would I need you to understand? You won’t. It isn't worth the time I’d waste showing you my grand design in all of its unattainable glory. What’s the Bible say about this shit? My ways something something higher than your ways? Yeah. That. Some creatures are just fundamentally lower than others. But that’s ok, it's like a pet. You still love your dog or cat, you just don’t discuss books with them actually expecting to get any kind of response. They can’t understand a thing, they just like that you’re giving them your attention.

That’s you. A happy little dog who looked up at me with eyes that couldn’t comprehend the things I planned to do to you.

I never noticed you back then, not really. In the same way I don’t notice an ant unless they’re biting me. I didn’t notice you until you bit me. I was well into a game of family friendly poker. My opponents had plenty on the line, I suppose I did too, but I didn’t really. Because you only have risk if you know you can lose.

You must have used your invisibility to your advantage, because until you walked up to the table and said it no one had known you were watching.

“She’s cheating.” You had this shit eating smirk, like you thought you had some kind of power, like you expected me to crumble. You didn’t know much about me then.

“I am?”

“I saw the card in your pocket!”

The other occupants at the table started to demand proof of me. Two of them got up, and the third gave me a dirty look.

I saw your neck in that moment and stifled the shutter that came over me at the thought of what lay beneath that skin. “I’m sorry. What did you- oh. I know. Yes, let me explain.” I’ve never been caught cheating, because I’m not stupid. I plan for everything.

I showed you and them my “good luck charm.”

“My grandfather gave it to me.” I held up the card, old and worn, and torn in the corner. “I like to touch it when I’m stressed. He was a poker champ and this is the last card I have from his deck. It’s stupid, but I guess I’m a little sentimental.”

I watched the suspicion leave their eyes, but not yours. You didn’t press it, you pretended you were satisfied. Your apology was hollow, not forced, but not genuine. I know, because all the armatures sound like that. You fucked off and I won the hand.

I had already decided I wanted to make you pay for interfering in the matters of higher powers. I just hadn’t decided how yet. What I didn’t know was that you weren’t done with me either. But like the armature you are, you just up and talked to me.

You set your hips against the wall first, then your lower back, but you wouldn’t let your shoulders against it. “That wasn’t the card I saw.” You sounded like a frustrated child.

I decided to fish, I wasn’t sure how much you understood or were capable of understanding me yet. I needed to get a little dirty and dig. “Really? That’s the only card I have in my pocket.” I’m a much better liar than you, but to your credit you were arrogant and stubborn.

“I’m sure it is. But I didn’t want to make you strip in the common room.”

I felt my chest heat up, an engine just starting to get some fire in it. I welcomed a distraction in my down time. I let a grin slip, and made sure you saw it. “Really? I’d have done it voluntarily for 20 bucks.”

“You keep them down your pants?”

“Among other places.”

“Stop cheating.”

“Why?”

“Cause next time I’ll pants you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why don’t you want me to cheat? It’s just another way to win the game.”

“It’s not fair.”

Oh. You had morals.

“The hell would I play fair for? I don’t play for fun sweetheart, I play to win.”

You wanted more distance between us, I could feel it. I don’t like being close to people, it’s hot and sweaty, but I know exactly how it makes others feel. And I never forfeit a valuable asset. I was taller than you, stronger than you, smarter than you. And you knew it.

You sighed, your discomfort made you fidgety, and your already scattered eye contact lessened. “Just don’t do it. They have little enough as is.” You sighed and started to leave, you didn’t think your words meant a thing. You were right, but I was curious.

“Anything for you sweetheart.” I watched you leave, and waited to see if you would live up to my expectations. You didn’t look back.

Watching you walk away, I decided it was going to be you. I needed it to be you. I wanted to dissect you. Take a crowbar to your brain, pull it apart piece by shining red piece, and watch you crumble before me. I found a new game.

#whumper #whumpee #whump #whump drabble #whump scenario #whumper pov #second person pov #second person narration #institute whump #asylum whump #mental institute whump #tw language #Casey/Sam

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interdimensional-chaos · 1 year

Text

This is just me spit balling because I've been bouncing around the demon side of Redacted Audios

Do you know what we haven't seen yet? In both Canon and Imperial timeliness? A human AND Demon government. The Department is run by humans and has some demons on staff, but demons don't get to make the rules regarding their own kind. Humans do. Vega is right in saying humans are waaaay too wary about Demons, especially Inchoates, feeding off their emotions without permission. Even if he deliberately ignores that that particular issue is more one about consent and lack of education.

And with Avior and Starlights most recent ending, one thing has been nagging at me. "(The children of) Land and Sky must stand together again." Humans and Demons working together, for... what? Only together can we seal away the death God? Speaking of, the Meridean collapsing would mean the death of demons too, since they'd have no humans to feed on. Ergo as much as Vega is stirring up anti human sentiment with the Warden, he also has a stake in this.

Now if only someone could tell him that and if he'd listen.

Anyway my theory is Land and Sky standing together again also means a joint Demon and Human government could emerge from this. Because if they DON'T everyone's gonna die

#also uhhhh AU where Elegy has a demon run government and each demon is given a hu #a human to feed off of and oooh boy institutional whump!#redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted theories #that would be fun because then the resistance would be entirely to help hu #mans maybe

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quins-whump-stuff · 1 year

Text

982 | Chapter 4: Not Again

Contents: (institutional) pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanization, 1st person pov (whumpee's pov), profanity, emotional distress, food, imperfect caretaker, lady whump (whumpee), whumpee calls caretaker her owner, whumpee calls caretaker her master

Previous | Next | Masterlist

I'm still laying under the tree when my owner returns. Otis is curled up next to me, and I've been letting my fingers gently dance across his golden fur.

"Hey," my owner says, and I open my eyes. I move quickly to the sitting position, so that my feet are underneath me and my hands are in my lap again.

"Hello, Ainsley," I say.

"You can, ya know, relax. That doesn't look comfortable." I thank her and shift my ankles out from underneath me. "I've got lunch," she informs me, sitting down in the grass and placing two bowls in front of her. "It's not much, but I was going to make something special for dinner. If you're still hungry I'll, uh, get you something else though."

She moves one of the bowls closer to me, and I realize: she's giving me this food. Not the stuff they gave us for meals in the kennels, which tasted like cardboard. Not the treats which were sweet and sticky but vanished far too quickly. Real food. And it smells so good. It reminds me of the scents that sometimes lingered on the trainers' breaths after meals.

I realize that my mouth is hanging open, and I'm drooling. I shake my head slightly and then ask tentatively, "Ainsley, this is for me?"

"Yuh," she says, her voice garbled slightly by a mouthful of food.

“Thank you,” I say automatically, then try to figure out how to eat it. It’s liquid, so maybe I need to drink it? But it’s hot and since it’s not water, having it on my chin wouldn’t be very nice. I look out of the corner of my eye at my owner, who dips something metal into her bowl before raising it to her mouth and slurping. There’s another of the metal things in my bowl, and I pick it up to examine it. It’s thin, except for the end which is oval shaped and has a slight dip in it.

“So, uh, I thought of a possible name for you,” my owner remarks, “if you don’t like it or something, we’ll, err, find a different one. Or if you wanna pick a different one later too, that’s fine.” I nod. It’s not my choice, so I don’t know why she acts like it is. "Okay, um, this tree we're under, it's a willow tree, and you just looked so... peaceful and happy here. So I thought I could call you Willow, at least for now. Sound good?"

"Yes, Ainsley." Willow, I roll the name over in my mind. Willow, it sounds soft and gentle. Willow. My name is Willow. I like it.

---

She seems fine with the name, so I guess she'll be Willow, at least for now. She doesn't seem to have taken a bite of her food, but maybe she isn't hungry. She's just so timid and gentle, I can't imagine disliking her. I can't believe they called her defective. Her eyes are a silvery gray color that was slightly unsettling at first, but they don't really bother me any more.

When Willow picks up the spoon, she holds it awkwardly, hands shaking a bit. But, almost immediately, the spoon slips from her grip, tipping the contents into the grass. Suddenly, she looks up at me, eyes wide.

"I'm so sorry, Master! I will clean it up!" she says, lip trembling, tears welling in her eyes again.

"Yeah, uh, don't worry about it." Why does she keep panicking? What the hell did they do to her before? "It doesn't really need cleaned up, cuz we're outside."

My words don't seem to calm her very much, her frail shoulders shaking in fear. She seems worried that I will be mad at her or something, so I add, "I'm not upset." That seems to get her to relax.

"If you don't wanna use a spoon, you can pick up the bowl and drink from it. Like this," I demonstrate with my own bowl.

She takes a shallow breath, then follows suit.

We sit in silence as we finish our food, then I grab both bowls and spoons and stand to take them inside. "Willow, you should come inside," I say, "you got soup on your face. You might wanna, uh, wash that off." She nods, and gets on her hands and knees to follow me. I hold the door open as she crawls inside, then whistle for Otis to come inside too. I point Willow to the bathroom while I wash the dishes.

"I can't do this," I whisper under my breath. I wanted some company, someone I could talk to. And since nobody else will, I bought a clone, a human pet. I should have thought it through more. I was expecting a roommate who couldn't move out. I wasn't planning on this. I can't fix whatever happened to Willow. I can't even fix myself. This was a stupid, stupid idea.

But.

I need someone to talk to other than Otis. I need someone to talk back to me. I can't keep crying myself to sleep at night. I can't keep eating the same leftovers for three days in a row because I can't find a recipe small enough.

I can't be alone again.

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whumpshaped · 1 year

Note

so you're hate gonna hate me for this 😭 but I just recently read Dollhouse (absolutely amazing btw 🫶🏽🫶🏽) but is it still ongoing? and do you still make like little drabbles and whatnot about it? obviously it's absolute if you don't, just wondering!!

- 🐘

why would i hate u for liking smth i work super hard on,, it Is ongoing !! i can add u to the taglist if u dont wanna miss it !!

#or u can spend a euro on my patreon and even get chapters early #if u dont wanna give me a blog name tho thats fine :)#but yes its ongoing #ksw is finished #seven minutes in hell is discontinued #accountability and the july novel are on hold #everything else is ongoing technically #i dont write for the crack whump stuff without requests tho #and ive been horribly neglecting the institution......#asks #elephant anon

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sapphicccici · 1 month

Text

WoW Birthday Whump: Day 3

crying/ parting words regret/ "why...?"

This is more canon story of my barbarian oc Detali Gamble! It includes Cossim Vect, and Makkel Dextri. The three of them are a polycule and also prisoners who are forced to be gladiators and fight each other to the death :)

This also comes directly before my post from Day One !

Content: Forced to whump, Multiple whumpees, character death (!!), blood, improper use of guns, barbarian typical rage, male whumpee, female whumpee, mute caretaker, needles, drugs, head injuries, institutional whump, celebrity whumpee, defiant whumpee

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

“One last kiss, Tali?”

Detali’s heart skipped a beat.

Tali.

She stopped, gun held above her head, ready to deliver a fatal blow.

Cossim looked up at her from where he kneeled. His hair stuck to his forehead, matted down by the mixture of hot desert sand and blood coming from his several head wounds. His honey-golden eyes held a sadness Detali couldn't place.

Finally she shook her head at him. “Never gonna happen, baby.”

She swung the gun down on his skull. Cossim’s head snapped forward with the force of the blow, and his body quickly followed, leaving him face down in the sand.

Crowds roared around them and camera drones swarmed the scene.

Detali looked up at her adoring fans, but did not smile.

Something's wrong.

Cossim never called her by her name during fights, only her stage name: Medusa. And Tali? That nickname? It was special– used only in the gentlest moments between them. Why would he call her that now?

Hands landed on Detali’s shoulders and ushered her through the stadium-turned-desert, and into an elevator. She turned, watching through the sliver of the doors closing behind her as Cossim’s body was lifted onto a stretcher.

The groan of machinery made her ears ring as the elevator began to descend. She took the moment to try and catch her breath, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones. She always put her all into these fights. The warden had warned her what would happen if she were caught pulling her punches.

It felt like the elevator couldn't have moved any slower as Detali feared Cossim's fate. When they got out of the elevators, he would either be rolled to the right, to the infirmary, where they would resurrect him and he would be safe for another month, or they would roll his body to the left to the furnaces. Then…

The elevator door opened and she rushed out. She was met with a wall of cameras and microphones pushed into her face. She smiled as politely as she could muster as she caught sight of the stretcher.

Turn right, she silently urged. Please, turn right.

The stretcher turned left.

She snapped. She launched her body forward, screaming and shoving her way through reporters and guards.

“No! Stop!” She demanded.

Someone yanked her backwards, their arms wrapped tightly around her upper body, stopping all attempts at motion. She threw her head back in an effort to free herself but was met with a rock-solid chest.

“Let me go! Fuck off and let me go!”

She looked down at the arms wrapped around her. Tattooed black bands on the forearm confirmed her suspicions.

Makkel was trying to save her again.

She thrashed with all her might, but Makkel pulled her to the ground.

“He can't die! Please! It's his fucking birthday! Please!”

The prick of a needle stung in her neck. She felt the pressure of a fluid, a sedative probably, rush through her, making her dizzy.

She tried to lunge forward again as Makkel laid her on the floor.

Her vision started blurring at the edges, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Makkel shook his head at her.

Tears pooled in her eyes. “I didn't-”

Makkel tucked his arms underneath her knees and neck.

“I didn't tell him,”

She was lifted from the floor.

She managed to whisper, “I didn't tell him I loved him,” before her vision finally went black.

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cakeinthevoid · 9 months

Text

Prompt/Part 1 — Part 2 —

Part 3 — Memory Meal (Under My Skin — Jukebox The Ghost)

Longer chapter that may deserve some content warnings! Flashback to whumpee in cage (not explicit/POV), implied/mentioned captivity, mistreatment of individuals (mentioned), injuries (listed, mentioned)

Truthfully, Carrie didn’t know why it took so long for them to make this discovery. They should have just treated this case as they did every other: business as usual.

Carrie suspected that their success with most of the institutes patients is a result of the tried and true method of treating people normally. Yes, Carrie was also professionally trained in all the practical aspects of the job, but it was the softer skills that had greater effect. Their last resident needed to heal from severe leg injuries, but Carrie was almost more proud the day she had spoken kindly than the day she could walk again.

They smiled as they remembered her, Rosia—a young woman who came to their home so full of rage and righteous fury and left with a little more hope in her heart. Not a completely new person—she was just as biting with compliments as she was with curses—but Carrie liked to think she would find the good things with a little more ease than she had before. The stars knew she needed it.

Reflecting on all the most recent patients, Carrie found the idiosyncrasies of their most recent case…not disturbing, but it made them more uneasy than their typical case.

Carrie loved music—everything from punk to classical—and would play it often throughout the day. Most of their patients had their own favourites too, making it easier to bond with them over the shared interest. Willow was the first time Carrie had decided to hold back.

Susceptible to audio/visual cues. Prone to overreact. Easily stimulated. Danger to the public.

Those were only a few of the least worrying lines on the first page of the patient report they received those few weeks ago. They were expecting someone like a firecracker, like Rosia, or someone ‘violent’ like Lex—who at most could be called defensive—but instead an entourage from the institute arrived just to deliver a stoic Willow.

In a cage. A cage barely tall enough to stand in and uncomfortable to sit in.

Before they even brought Willow inside, four of the institute officers came in to do an audit of their home. When Carrie had said that the institute did their annual audit just four months ago, the lead officer had simply said this was a “special case.”

Getting information out of those officers was like pulling teeth.

The officers scattered across their home, even inspecting the field beyond the porch. Then they asked where the cell was. At that point Carrie pulled their own rank and announced they’d take it from here. The officers were skeptical but acquiesced. They looked eager to leave despite pitying looks at Carrie.

The lead left last with words of warning.

“Keep ‘em in the cage. I know you’re gonna wanna take ‘em out as soon as I leave—I read your files, don’t deny it—but at least this once, follow the institutes instructions to the letter. At the very least, keep ‘em locked up for a day or two.”

Carrie had wanted to respond, but he continued: “I like you. Heard good things, and you do good work. So I’d really hate to be called in to clean up your body. Whatever would be left of it, anyway.”

Either oblivious to or ignoring Carrie’s growing horror, he finished with a quick, “Just tie ‘em up when you feed ‘em and don’t hesitate to call for backup.” Then he pat them on the shoulder and took his leave.

Carrie had stood there in dumb shock for a good minute after the door shut.

Their kitchen timer went off and pulled them out of the memory, but they couldn’t shake their initial impression—especially when it was so far from what Willow was actually like around them alone.

Willow was their highest rated patient to date, and yet there had not been any serious incidents at all.

Granted, there was the time with the spoon…

Spoon. They needed a spoon for the salad bowl.

Carrie refocused their efforts on preparing the dinner according to the diet requirements outlined in Willow’s patient folder. They doubted this diet would sustain a healthy human, let alone someone recovering from broken ribs, malnutrition, and a painful amount of bruises and lacerations.

Carrie had long begun taking the institutes words as guidelines rather than law. No one had reprimanded them for it (not severely, anyway) so they assumed some reading between the lines was expected. All the food groups were covered and allergies were respected, but Carrie did enjoy taking liberties with how they did so. Cooking was not only useful, but an enjoyable way to de-stress.

Taking the chicken out of the oven, Carrie chanced a look around the corner and caught a glimpse of—nothing. They frowned slightly as they plated two servings. They were really hoping Willow would sleep some more.

As expected, once the cutlery clattered onto the table, it only took a few moments for Willow to meander into the kitchen. Carrie gave them a warm smile. They haven’t exchanged any words, but they adapted rather smoothly to a quiet system and schedule.

Willow slipped into a seat at the island table and rested their hands in their lap as they waited for Carrie to seat themself. Once they had taken their spot at the head of the island, Willow gave a polite nod and took up their fork.

Their hand still shook a little, but they were able to cut the chicken into bite sized pieces using the edge of the fork.

Dinner was a quiet thing. Willow would only nod or shake their head slightly every now and then. Carrie decided not to bring up the music. Attempts at conversation died soon after, but the silence was comfortable.

Tomorrow, Carrie would begin Operation Music Festival.

Tag list (comment/ask to be added!): @whumpkinpie <33

#Carrie #Willow #my cake #recovery #recovery whump #captivity whump #captivity #rehabilitation #vibrating because I am starting to really like these characters #not what I usually write but lovin it #hope you liked the longer chapter :))#again: feel free to comment/send an ask about what you'd like to see! maybe i'll fit it in #better yet give me title ideas lmao #non verbal whumpee #if u couldnt tell this chap is me trying to shove exposition down your throats in a smooth and subtle way B) (not subtle at all)#i already have THOUUUGHHHTSSS about Carrie and the institute guys i'm ready

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bilightningwhumper · 8 days

Text

Mangst 2024- Day 4

“Don’t look, you shouldn’t have to see this.”

Summary:

Hannah sees Sam's scars for the first time.

Notes:

Mild warnings for scars and mentions of torture, but it's somewhat brief. Went into hurt/comfort fluff territory again with this one. Characters: Sam- The Little Mermaid Hannah- Prince's fiance/bride Derrick (Mentioned)- Prince Dr Ismene- play on Dr Know-it-all, but more an easter egg than the character

Hannah’s POV

Hannah hurried into Evergreen Heart Medical Center. She wasn’t going to miss another one of Sam’s appointments. Honestly, it felt like he’d been telling her the wrong time on purpose. She couldn’t understand why Derrick had been told the right times while she’d always been able to catch just the tail end. Sam was her mate, too.

Speaking of whom, he looked surprised and startled to see her in the doorway.

“Hannah, what are you doing here?” Sam sounded casual, but his tense hands on his wheelchair arms gave him away. Having her here scared him.

“Derrick can’t make it so he told me when to be here instead.” she said as she came over to hug him. He was shaking, though he did cling to her when she went to pull away. “You okay?” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

He nodded, letting her go. Tense smile up at her. “Just would have appreciated more of a warning.”

Before she could ask why, Dr Ismene came in.

“Oh, hello, Hannah. Will your husband be joining us soon?”

She shook her head. “Just me today. Derrick had a work emergency.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, his dad made a mess and left Derrick to clean it up. Again.”

“Glad to see you’re still your snarky self, Sam.” Dr Ismene laughed. “Now do you want help, or have you been able to do this on your own?”

“I can do it.”

Dr Ismene nodded. “I’ll be right back, then. You mentioned to the nurse you’re running low on ointment, correct?”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to use less, like we talked about last name, but the pain gets worse when I do.”

She nodded again and walked out.

Sam took Hannah’s hand. “Don’t look, you shouldn’t have to see this.”

What? “See what?”

“My legs.”

“Oookay...?” She didn’t understand. “I’ve seen you naked before, Sam. If you’re concerned about your looks, I can assure you-

“Hannah.” He squeezed her hand. “You haven’t seen me since I came out of the Institution like this. And that’s been on purpose.” His smile didn’t meet his eyes. “Why else do you think I’m in this wheelchair?”

Hannah swallowed hard. She honestly hadn’t thought about it. She’d just been so happy to have him back. She squeezed his hand back. “I don’t care. You’re my best friend. Unless you tell me to go, I’m staying and I’m not going to look away.” Kissing his cheek, she leaned her forehead against his. “I want to help, if you’ll let me.”

“I just…” He let out a shaky sigh. “It’s not exactly easy to stomach. Even Derrick still has trouble helping me out.”

Kissing him softly on the lips this time, she pulled back, standing and offering him a hand. “Might as well rip the bandaid off, then. Or pants.”

He rolled his eyes at her, but took the offered arm, grabbing the side of the hospital bed for additional support.

Hannah did her best to stay as still and stiff as possible as he let go of the bed to undo his belt and pants. Seeing them drop so easily made her heart lurch, knowing he still had a long way to go before gaining enough to be a healthier weight. And then… Her heart broke as she finally registered what he’d been hiding from her for the past couple months.

Scars. Welts. Discoloration. Some skin was raised while parts looked like they’d gained permanent indentations. Incisions.

A hand was on her face, wiping away tears she only just realized were there.

“I’ll kill them.” she whispered. “Those fucking bastards.”

Sam laughed at that. “Language.”

Dr Ismene came in then, so Hannah sat down next to Sam on the edge of the bed. As she watched the routine exam, she tuned out a lot. She mostly just watched. Seeing every grimace Sam couldn’t hold back, every twitch sent through his legs as they checked his reflexes and movement. How bad had it been before? How long before they’d gotten him out had the Institution done this?

Before she knew it, the check-up was done. Dr Ismene left them with the promise of seeing them next week and prescriptions at the pharmacy to pick up.

Sam quietly asked for her help to get his pants back on. He looked worn out, even after just a half hour of mostly sitting and talking.

“Physical therapy is going to suck when we get there.” he grumbled.

Hannah didn’t answer, just ran her fingers through her hair and kissing the top of his head.

“Hey.” He stopped her from going to the back of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

She bit her lip, then asked, “When? When did they do this to you?”

Sam sighed, leaning back. He just looked at her for what felt like forever until finally, “After I saved Derrick from drowning.”

Her knees almost gave, a sob coming out. “Why?” She punched into the covers of the bed. “They had you back. You saved a life. Why just…” Her voice failed, too angry and upset to say anything else.

“Because they don’t like it when we’d try to run. And they wanted to know how I’d almost escaped. How the others did escape.” He shrugged, complete acceptance and resignation in his voice. “They didn’t want me getting out again and they wanted information.”

“Two birds with one stone.” Hannah said miserably.

Sam took her hand again. “Well, they got neither, so we’ve won, as far as I’m concerned.”

Hannah couldn’t bring herself to smile, but she squeezed his hand. “I’m glad at least one of us has a positive spin on this.”

He kissed the palm of her hand, making her blush. “I’m with you. And with Derrick. I can see my sisters again. The pack I made while in the Institution is safe. And they’re taking the Institution down. And we’ve got a blueprint to dismantle more of them, too.” He looked deep into her eyes. “You’re why I was able to hang on. I’m alive because of you. And I’m getting through this now because of you. How can I not be at least somewhat positive about this?”

Hannah blushed more. “Alright, let’s go home before I become flustered enough to make out with you in front of Dr Ismene’s next patient.”

“I mean, that is tempting.”

She ruffled his hair again as he laughed at her. Then she took the handles on the back of his chair, pushing him out of the room. Time to go home.

16 notes · View notes