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ashintheairlikesnow · 7 months

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The Seas No More

CW: Thoughts of murder, nonhuman whumpee, magical whump, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, some noncon-y from Gilly, choking

The moon hung heavy and full, pale light shining through the window onto the only water the siren could have now. The rope with its looped end now hung by itself above him, gently swaying seemingly of its own volition.

A reminder.

Left there so be did not forget the hissing gasps for air or his hands opening and closing where they had been bound behind his back, helpless to save himself as his toes left the safety of the ground.

A reminder of the look of shining need in the eyes of the siren’s captor as he watched life fade with every denied desperate gasp.

A reminder of how, just before he could fight no longer to live, his captor would let the rope go and watch him crash back into the tub, water splashing out the sides, new bruises blooming.

Above him was the constant threat that it could happen to him again, if he dared to disobey the captor’s commands.

Not that he could even begin to try.

Not any longer.

Not with the cruel magic written into his skin.

The siren tried not to look at the rope, feeling his throat click painfully with every remembered swallow, but he couldn’t really escape it without the sight of his landlocked prison taking over. Stone floors and stone walls threatened to close in on him with every passing second, and he would rather mourn what he had lost than fear what he was forced to have.

Panic threatened around the edges of every breath, but he fought it back. Barely.

Deeper in this place, in another room, his captor laid out in a comfortable human bed, covered in the cloth that kept him warm. It would have taken so little to kill him, and the siren now was unfettered. There were no ropes digging into his wrists, nothing looped tight around his neck. No wooden bit between his teeth to keep him from singing.

It would have been so easy to stand, and walk into that bedroom, and bare his teeth.

Except… he couldn’t.

He kept trying, over and over again, for hours while the moon slowly rose in the sky. He would open his mouth and try to sing the man in here, to lure him with soaring tenor song to put his own head under the water and hold it there until his very lungs burst and then the siren could walk outside and find the ocean and-

Nothing came out but whispers, his own magic fizzling away before it left the heat of his body.

He couldn’t sing.

It was like being unable to breathe, just a different way of choking, and yet being forced to keep living anyway long past when he should have died with the sense that his lungs needed to expand but they couldn't remember how.

His voice caught halfway up his throat when he tried to use it, and what came out instead was a strange rasping croak paired with a sudden flickering burn along one of the things painted on his right arm.

He cradled it close, now, staring at the symbols that meant nothing to him… but he understood enough to know that he was caged this way, captive to the very enclosure of his own skin.

He could not even die to escape it.

His heart skipped and then began to race, and he curled up even more, burying his face between his knees with his arms around them to hide everything but his hair, terrified of what it meant to have a voice that someone else could command, but which was kept from him.

His sobs were nearly silent, present more in the shaking of his shoulders than in any hitch of his breath. If the man woke to his weeping, he feared there would be more pain. There had already been so much.

The moonlight in his hair felt like a caress, like the way his mother touched him when he was young, a quick graze of fingertips as he swam with his sisters, a loving smile.

The moon was enormous tonight, such a feature of the sky it seemed as though it might be about to fall and crash into the ocean. As if the moon, the creator of sirens and mermaids and all the ocean things, would come chasing after her lost son to save him and take him back home.

The waves created by the goddess coming down to earth, the siren thought, would crash upon the land far, far inland and wipe away all the plague of men with their greedy hands and grasping fingers. With his eyes closed he could picture them in their thousands, swept out to sea and prey for those like his own people or the black-and-whites up north, tossed about by the shimmery silvered dolphins with their playful violence, ignored by the enormous whales who would eat their krill while evil men died beside them.

It was a beautiful imagining, so he followed it further, let it lead him from the fear that threatened to overrun him entirely.

He pictured the moon's gift pouring through the windows here, his captor coughing up seawater he couldn’t stop inhaling, begging him for help. Those stupid greedy eyes would be wide in fear but the siren would do nothing but watch…

And smile...

And then feast upon the remains.

He would bury his teeth into soft skin and rend it apart, watch blood bloom and dissolve into the saltwater, giving him strength to go back to the ocean.

The moon would shine the way for him, show him where to swim, unceasing, until he found his way home. His mother and sisters would have known how to survive the great waves of the moon’s crashing. The moon’s own children would be sheltered from her wrath, and they’d be there on the rocks with their arms open to greet him.

If any sailors had survived, the siren could rejoin his sisters in singing them onto the rocks, and he would take new joy in dragging them into the darkest waters until their lungs burst and they could be brought back to land for the meal.

It would be a fitting revenge, for how they had dragged him away and into the air.

He found himself smiling, just a little. The vision of destruction calmed his fear and settled his heartbeat. His body throbbed on the right side, remembering pain from whatever dark magic had been done to him by the woman who had kind eyes even while she hurt him. While she made him… this.

She had finished and looked tired, swaying on her feet, and left with one final soft touch of her hand to his face.

She had done this to him. The moon would kill her, too. But… she had settled her fingers in his hair, stroking gently, while she had painted over his back with her strange paintbrushes and humming ink. She had held him in her arms when the second agony came, even while the man who held him captive had scolded her.

She had soothed him, whispered things he thought must be apologies from her tone, and encouraged him to rest his head on her shoulder. She had only said soft things, and his captor had not started to truly hurt him until she had taken her leave and gone back to her sleeping-place for the night.

Until he and his captor were alone, she had stood between them even as she built the bars of his cage into his body.

He… changed his imagining, then.

He let his dream shift and told himself the moon would show her mercy, kill her quickly so she had no time even to know what had come upon her. The siren wouldn’t eat her. He would lay her out on a sunny rock somewhere higher up, closer to the sky, and let her go back to her own gods that way.

A kindness, for holding him while he screamed, even if she had been the reason for the screaming.

No human had ever held him before.

“Areyto.”

He stiffened, turning away from the moonlight to look back at the doorway. His captor stood there, hair a mess and little round metal-and-glass things down to the end of his nose. The hated man spoke the hated word that the siren had been given as a name. And he… had to answer, now.

Something in the magic had twisted inside his mind, and he knew he had had another name, a real name, but the magic had stolen it from him, taken the sound of his mother's voice whispering it in love away.

All he remembered now was that the human man called him Areyto.

The magic burned, a lick of fire just beneath his jaw, and he winced, closing his eyes as the obedience was compelled. “Ye-es…” He managed, voice still hoarse from his earlier screaming. “Master?"

His captor’s smile widened, and Areyto felt sick at the sight of it, slick like the whale oil that sometimes they found in shipwrecks, dirtying his skin like the black rocks they burned in their metal cooking things.

“I can’t imagine I’ll tire of that,” His captor said, cheerfully. “What a rush, to be called what I am by what belongs to me. What is mine." The siren understood only bits and pieces, but he understood enough, and let his eyes drop back down to the water he sat in. His captor either didn’t notice or didn’t care - he kept talking.

He never stopped talking.

In his dream, Areyto thought, he would rip the man's tongue out first.

His captor chuckled. "Can’t sleep either, huh? I understand entirely. We had an eventful day. I keep thinking about it… thinking about what we’re going to do together. A thousand years… we could do anything. I could do anything. Imagine what I could become with a thousand years of knowledge built up, with all that power and influence. A thousand years of knives being unable to penetrate my organs, of no weapon able to murder me.”

He stepped into the room.

Areyto fought the urge to cringe away from him, trying to hold still and seem unmoved, unafraid, when panic beat inside his chest like a seabird’s frantic wings. He could not escape this, no matter what happened. There was no way to cover himself enough from the human man's filthy smile and glittering eyes.

He listened as his captor stepped closer, and then closer again. He could feel the heat coming from him when he stood beside the washing-tub. His nose wrinkled at the smell of sweat.

Areyto did not look up.

He was afraid the tears would begin again if he did.

With effort he held perfectly still even when his captor touched his hair, disgust like insects crawling from the roots down the back of his neck, his very nerves desperate to hide away and escape from the way fingers scratched his scalp and twisted into the curls.

His captor pulled and the siren’s head was forced back until it knocked into the metal side of the tub, looking up at the human man. Those eyes, behind the glass and metal, shone with ugly triumph.

And… something much worse. Something he recognized only because the man looked at him like that over and over again.

“Out,” His captor ordered - and the buzz of magic moved the siren’s body for him as he found himself standing, stepping out of the washing-tub that was his only hint of safety here, looking down at the ground to avoid the way his captor’s awful eyes moved up and down his body. There was a desire to his expression that was terrible in a way Areyto didn’t yet understand… but he knew to fear.

“Kneel,” His captor commanded in a whisper.

Areyto dropped to his knees, shuddering when that hand with its heavy weight was again in his hair, resting on top of his head, rubbing his thumb between his dark curls. He kept his eyes on the ground and tried to remember his dream about the moon falling into the ocean, the thousands of evil humans swept to their deaths for he and his kind to feast upon.

This man would die slow, and in agony.

“Say, ‘yes master,” His captor ordered, voice thickened. "Say it for me."

Areyto fought not to, but pain burst in a sudden burn down his back and he groaned, shuddering, unable to fight the agony for long. “Y-... yes, Master,” He whispered, hoarsely rasping hated words. Once he obeyed, the pain vanished all at once.

Where it had been, though, there was something hollowed out inside. A sickly self-loathing, a seed taking root that would only ever grow.

His captor smiled, fingers sliding down to take the siren’s chin in hand, tipping it up until their eyes met. His captor was flushed, breathing more heavily, and he stepped closer. It would take so little, the siren thought as the man’s thumb pushed into his mouth and pressed against his tongue, to bite him.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do anything at all but taste salt and skin and hold still as his mouth was forced open, tongue pressed down, before his captor let go and let him look away.

“You have a lovely face,” His captor said, and Areyto didn’t know the words very well but he knew there was something hideous in the way the man formed the sounds. “It’s too bad you weren’t a female siren, isn’t it? Terrible waste of such beauty. I guess you need a male siren for some sailors, that makes sense, but why could I not have caught a female one? Seems like a ghastly joke, doesn't it?"

The siren, looking towards the window just to try to wash himself clean with the moon, swallowed around the nervous heart beating in his throat. When he saw the way his captor’s eyes dropped to watch his neck shift with the motion, he wished that he hadn’t.

His captor sighed, wistfully, crouching slowly down with a grunt of effort. “I suppose it’s not like anyone else would ever know… You can’t tell them. You wouldn’t even know who to tell or what to say. Besides, you’re not even actually a man, either, are you? Wait. No, Gilly,” He muttered to himself, “No, that line of thought is much much worse. You’re overthinking it. It’s yours, now, and who’s to tell you what to do or not do with your own things? Might as well be my own hand." He met the siren’s eyes, with a smile thick and heavy on his skin, a smile like a hand around his neck. “Besides… you really are too beautiful to waste. I know what I promised Beibei, but…” He trailed off, swallowed hard, moving his fingers to graze along the siren’s jaw and watch him shiver. “She won’t know, will she?”

His captor paused, as if waiting for a response. When the siren only stared at him, he sighed and pushed himself to standing.

Then he backhanded the siren across the face.

Areyto hadn’t expected it, and was thrown to the side, landing hard with one arm bent wrong beneath him, a bright flash of pain. He cried out, but before he could push himself back up those thick fingers were back in his hair, pulling him by his scalp along the floor, through the doorway, into the bigger room.

His cheek hurt where the man had been wearing a ring that had torn skin open, hot blood dripping down his face and onto the floor. He managed to scramble onto his hands and knees, half-crawling and half-dragged along, until he was shoved, and then kicked, and his ribs joined his other pains as he came to a stop and found himself staring at the big human bed in a room that had little else in it.

He didn’t know much about how humans lived - only what he had learned in his time imprisoned here, and what could be gleaned from swimming through the shipwrecks after he and his mother and sisters had eaten the sailors. He didn’t know why the man had brought him in here.

But he knew enough to miss his time alone in the metal tub of water. At least that prison had been a solitary one.

Tears burned hot, blurring his vision. He could hold them back no longer. When he hitched out a sob, his captor gave a shuddering exhale behind him, making a groaning sound that Areyto understood too well, with a new fear that broke like a cold wave against his back and into his chest.

“Listen to you,” The man murmured. “I’m going to enjoy this. And if I want you to… so will you. Isn't that something..."

His foot pressed into the siren’s back, forcing him down onto the cold stone floor until he could barely breathe for the weight on his spine. It felt like having the rope around his neck again as he clawed at the floor but found no help there, no rescue.

No way out.

“Beautiful,” His captor whispered. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Really mine. Say ‘yes, master.’”

Areyto pressed his forehead against the stone, the words coming obediently from a throat that no longer belonged to him. He couldn’t hold them back. “Yes… m-master.”

The man’s foot briefly left, but then was replaced by the weight of his body, sitting over Areyto’s lower back, one hand between his shoulder blades and the other gripping into his hair, forcing his head back. “Don’t hide from me. Say it again.”

“Yes…” He gasped - wanted to fight, but felt the threat of the agony returning in the symbol on his neck. Tears stung the cut on his face. “Yes, m-... master-”

His captor groaned again, and it felt like the sound was right beside his ear. He felt the man’s hot damp breath on him and would have begged for mercy, if he could, but those words weren’t allowed to him now.

“Again,” His captor demanded, yanking on his hair so hard his scalp burned, fingernails digging into his back. “Say it again!"

Areyto's wail went from nearly a whisper to something sharper and loud when he felt a tongue move up his neck over the marks that branded and caged him, hot and wet and repulsive. “Yes-... ye-es… master!”

“Again.” His captor’s voice was rough, and he pulled away but then his tongue was replaced by his hands closing around the siren’s neck, grip tightening in a sickeningly familiar feeling.

Spots danced before the siren’s vision, the world spun. He tried to obey, but had to fight for every single searing gasp for air.

His captor moved against his back. “I said say it again.”

“Yes…” Areyto’s chest heaved, his lungs burned. There was nothing to fill them with, and it took the last air he had to finish the words. “M-... m-ah-... master-”

“Good. Again.”

His captor’s grip tightened.

“Y-... yes-... M-...” He couldn’t finish. The moon moved behind a cloud. Even the goddess hid from her child's fear and shame.

Areyto fell tumbling into the mercy of the dark.

Taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump

Covers @whumptober prompts 10, 11, and 12

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quietlyimplode · 7 months

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 10: You said you’d never leave

Warnings: nightmares, discussions of time in the red room (and all that entails)

Word Count: 1.8k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha and Clint discuss finding Yelena (and all the ways it could go wrong).

A/N: The set up for tomorrow. For everyone who’s kept up and comments, my love for you is tenfold. It’s what keeps this going. Thank you.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2014

BUDAPEST

Isla sits and waits.

She’s going to give Natasha ten minutes.

The black widow scratches at her thigh and takes a sip of her Italian coffee.

Budapest is chilly, but not what she would call cold. It makes Isla smile that the city where Natasha made her escape, is the one she had chosen to reconnect in.

Nevertheless, it had given her an opportunity to go shopping and purchase a new identity and set of katanas.

She sees Natasha, her red hair tied back framing her face, a single braid.

Isla knew what that meant, someone is watching.

If more braids, a different communication system, one that only the Red Room girls knew.

A French braid vs a Dutch one, could mean the difference between safety and danger, but she didn’t think that Natasha still trusted that.

Still, Isla focuses on the world around her, the sounds of people talking, idle chatter, cars and then… tunes it all out, focusing on the widows approach.

Natasha had, of course, seen her.

Isla wonders what language she will approach her in and is unsurprised to hear the Russian safe words flow out of her mouth.

She nods, and answers appropriately.

“You wouldn’t prefer English? Hmm? Your new language and lack of accent are impressive, but I suppose that is what happens with immersion.”

The dig rolls off Natasha as she responds in Russian again, smiling and crossing her legs.

“Still as pernicious as ever.”

Isla rolls her eyes, not understanding the word, thinking she will have to look it up.

“The money is deposited,” Natasha nods, “tell me what I want to know.”

Isla looks around.

“You have a sniper trained on me?”

She waves to the right, a movement of her fingers.

Natasha looks around and sees the slight glisten off mirrors under the table.

“Of course,” she nods, “and I suggest you don’t move from your seat until twenty minutes have passed after I go, otherwise…” she makes a sign for explosions using her mouth to puff out sounds.

Isla laughs.

“I didn’t even feel it underneath me.”

Natasha leans forward.

“Tell me, where can I find her?”

Isla laughs again.

“Straight to the point. I’m surprised you didn’t look sooner. She won’t want to come with you, you know? She’s the Red Room’s heavy hitter, a killer with skill and style, no conscious, no remorse, the perfect assassin.”

“Much like you were, little Natasha, before you became a traitor,” she finishes.

She leans back.

“Do you think the Red Room went easy on her after all you did? Anyone attached to you was reprogrammed, sent to the hole, the scientists and to Odessa.”

“Do you think we didn’t get punished? They wondered where they went wrong when their best efforts resulted in a traitor.”

She rolls up her sleeves, showing acid burn marks that makes Natasha look away.

“Those closest to you, of course, got it worse, and Yelena? Well, even though she hadn’t seen you or known you for years, well, let’s just say, they made her stronger, performed more experiments on her.”

The words hurt the way Isla wants them too.

Even though Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, there’s a subtleness in the air, and no longer is Isla on the defensive.

“You want to know where your sister is?” she laughs, easily.

“She’s where she’s always been; where you’ve never wanted to go.”

She shrugs.

“The question is; will you do to get her back?”

Natasha regains composure. Subtle as it is, Isla feels the shift and focuses on her.

“As agreed, as paid for,” she says, voice low, “tell me where she is.”

Isla produces a piece of paper.

“How does it feel to know that despite your best efforts to get rid of the Red Room, it just moved to a new location with a new figurehead. Do you really think Dreykov was the puppet master? Killing him did nothing.

It just made them stronger, more malicious, more deranged. And we? We got caught in the crossfire. He was a buffer, using the Red Room more for his personal gain; when they came in, they used it how it was intended. For war.”

She takes a breath, feeling the vitriol pounding through her.

“Little girls doing the bidding of wealthy men. Trafficked and sold as good little soldiers. You sister. Me.”

She snarls.

“But it doesn’t matter to you, fighting aliens, fighting Hydra, what does it matter to the great Natasha Romanoff, the black widow of Russia; defector to America?”

Isla wants to stand and move but is aware of the pressure plate under her.

Natasha is right, they gave her money and they have her at cross hairs.

She makes her heart rate slow, realising how much composure she had lost in her tirade, and Natasha, just absorbing it with her sunglasses on, face neutral and legs still crossed.

“Yelena is currently on a mission in Singapore, she’s collecting information on the G8 summit being held.”

Isla finally passes her the piece of paper.

“You’ll find her there, but don’t expect to be welcomed back.”

Natasha takes it and stands.

“The second transfer will come when you leave,” she tells her, looking down.

“Oh, Natasha?” Isla holds her drink up.

“It’s been good to see you.”

Brows furrowed, Natasha holds up the piece of paper and leaves, disappearing into the crowd.

Isla sips her coffee, then picks up her phone.

“It’s done,” she says into it, then snaps it in half and throws it under the table.

“It’s a trap,” Clint says, his voice raising slightly, “she gets you riled up and wanting to go after them, and you go because you want to help her.”

He gestures to the hotel map and points.

“This has got to be the worst access, even if I sit on the tower across here, and watch any extraction, we’d need a whole team to get her out; and if we take a whole team; it’s an international incident - even if it has nothing to do with the G8 gathering.”

Natasha hums.

“But we have to try, she’s there? Maybe even if I can talk to her-“

“What? Convince her to do that? Defect?”

Natasha frowns at him.

“Yes? I mean isn’t that the end game? Saving her?”

Clint crosses his arms over his body, then raises them up in surrender.

“We can’t take a team, even if Tony or Steve go, they’d create publicity, and we can’t afford that, we need to go-“

“Not as ourselves,” Natasha finishes.

“It’s a trap,” he starts again, “what would be protocol, if they wanted to pick you up?”

She looks at the map and the surrounding areas.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell you what I would do, but who even knows if they were telling the truth.”

Pausing, Clint calls Tony.

He picks up on the second ring.

There’s a crash and he swears.

“Hello,” he says finally.

“Can you screen entrants into a country,” Clint asks, “that have come through in the last week and in the next two days?”

Tony scoffs.

“Of course I can.”

They hear him walking and a low hum of a machine.

“This is about her, isn’t it?”

Natasha sighs.

“Yeah, it’s Yelena. How long do you think it will take you?”

Tony starts typing, and they assume he’s setting up a program. He’s silent before he answers.

“Give me twenty four hours.”

Natasha nods and thanks him, then hangs up and sighs.

“What now?” Clint asks, looking at the map.

“Make a plan then try and sleep I guess,” she replies.

She lets Clint go to bed, her mind still swirling with a question to no solution.

If it’s a trap, if Yelena will come, if she will defect, if it really is all her fault, how the red room is still standing, what happened after she left.

Her mind is a mess of questions and she makes herself focus on one.

How to get in and out with Yelena.

Everything else, all the other questions can wait.

Into the hours of the morning, she goes over everything, the way in, the way out, getting in and out of the country.

Her back up plans have back up plans.

Somewhere around 3am, Clint pads out, eyes bleary.

“Come to bed,” he asks, “we have some big days ahead.”

Natasha knows it’s true. Her eyes have been closing for the last twenty minutes and she knows she needs to rest.

Brushing her teeth, she wonders if it will work, then follows Clint into bed.

Mind heavy, sleep consumes her, followed by dreams and then nightmares.

Yelena sits in a chair, she’s 5 and Natasha covers her mouth with duct tape.

“Shut up,” she tells her.

Scared eyes watch her.

The dream morphs and there a dead girl on her left.

Yelena is holding a knife, blood on her hands.

“Did I do it right?” she asks, and looks up to Natasha who looks down on her, horrified.

It morphs again.

Yelena chases Natasha, she catches her and pushes her down, hitting her as Natasha protects her face.

“Why?” she screams.

“Why?”

“You said you’d never leave!?”

Natasha drops her guard and lets her hit her.

She did promise, she deserves the pain.

The third hit she feels herself being shaken.

“‘m sorry,” she moans.

“Nat? Natasha?”

Light fills the room.

Then a cold breeze.

Natasha shakes the dream.

Feels it fade away.

Clint sits on the edge of the bed, waiting, but she has no words for the dreams that plagued her.

“Bad dreams?” he says redundantly, handing her water.

She takes it and nods, not elaborating.

He switches off the light and turns off the fan.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks in the dark.

Reaching across, he takes her hand and places it on his chest.

“I promised her I wouldn’t leave,” she whispers.

“But then you got ripped apart,” he says softly, “that wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t go looking for her, that is my fault,” she continues.

“Natasha,” he admonishes, “you did your best with the capacity you had.”

She’s not ready to hear it, rolls over and backs into Clint’s arms.

“You always thought Barney would come back,” she whispers.

“But he couldn’t, and he didn’t,” he whispers back, “and sometimes we can’t change the things that have happened and we can’t go back.”

Natasha sighs deeply.

“I know.”

“Doesn’t make it better though, does it?”

Natasha feels silent tears fall.

She shakes her head against the pillow.

“We’ll get her Nat. It’s not your fault, okay? We’ll get her.”

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sowhumpful · 7 months

Text

No. 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Broken Phone | Stranded | “You said you'd never leave.”

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Animal trap | Captivity | “No one will find you.”

#Whumptober2023 #No. 10 #No.11 #Stranded #Captivity #No one will find you #GIF #hawaii five o #Rope #In the middle of nowhere #Restrained #chained #ankle chained to the floor

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strawberrylabs · 7 months

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Whumptober day 10 with Brother!Bennet!

Prompt: You said you'd never leave

they/them pronouns used

Whumptober Masterlist

she/her version, he/him version

Summary: You promised Bennet that you'd stay with him despite his misfortune. But what happens when you break that promise?

Warnings: Blood, gore, burns, graphic injuries, alludes to death, pain, broken bones, missiles/rockets (ruin guard)

When Bennet was adopted by the adventurer's guild, you were asked to look after him.

Of course you accepted.

Something about him just drew you in.

Next thing you know, you have a little brother who's with you every second of the day.

You taught him how to use a sword, How to control his vision when he got it, how to treat wounds, how to cook.

Even if he tripped over his own feet, burned his vision a little too hot, used too much ointment or burnt the food, you never gave up caring for him.

When he was a little older, he started worrying about his bad luck making you go away like it had so many other people in his life.

But time after time he brought it up, you assured him that you would never leave him. That you’d always stick by his side. You’d always be there to patch him up, to wipe his tears, to hold him when the nights got a little too dark.

Whenever he asked why you’d always reply

“It’s what big siblings are for”

The first time you called yourself his sibling he cried.

He clutched his heart and smiled as big ugly tears ran down his face.

After that he made it a point to call you his older sibling, never failing to try and be the best younger brother he could.

The two of you often did everything together.

And that used to include commissions too- until you joined the knights.

Not much changed really, you were still as close as ever, only now you couldn’t help him on commissions..

It worried you at first, when he started coming back covered in more and more bruises and scratches, less treasure from the chests.. And less people in his team.

You were annoyed at the people who had left his team, especially when he was so proud to have formed it in the first place.

But when he never stopped smiling, and continued on with resilience even hardened adventurers didn’t have.

Over time your fears and worries all but subsided. You knew Bennet would not give up no matter what came his way in the future.

And for the most part, everything was manageable. A few scrapes, a few bad commissions. Nothing serious..

Until one day Bennet hadn’t come home.

Bennet was always home before you were, usually he’d prepare some tea or coffee or whatever your usual drink is for you.

But today he wasn’t there.

Most people would probably wait, simply thinking he’d gotten caught up with something.

But you knew better. Bennet would always find some way to let you know if he was going to be late. Always.

You ran to Kathryn and asked where his commission was. Sensing your distress, she told you

Stormterror’s lair.

The pit in your stomach grew. Stormterror’s lair was dangerous. Everyone knew this. The fact that that was where Bennet was, and he was late? Something was wrong.

You never ran so fast. You let Lawrence and Swan know to send backup as you ran out the gate, thinking of nothing but finding your brother.

When you made it to Stormterror’s lair, you heard a yell of ‘help!’ echo around the air.

“Bennet! Where are you?!”

You ran in the direction of the voice, your feet aching from previously running all the way from Mondstadt.

You hear your name.

You come to a halt when you see him; foot trapped underneath fallen rubble, scratches and bruises all over.

“I knew you’d find me! My bad luck is no match against my big sibling!” Despite his words and smile, you were not blind to the tear tracks in the dirt of his face.

He was expecting to die here.

Your heart clenched.

“That’s right. No matter what happens. I’ll always be there to beat your bad luck.”

Your words of comfort seemed to have spurred the universe on to spite you.

The familiar, dreadful sound of a ruin guard powering up reached both of your ears.

No wasting more time, you tried to lift the stones off Bennet’s foot- said boy gritted his teeth in clear pain.

Before you have the chance to move the rubble off of Bennet’s foot, you move to defend him from the incoming rockets.

You just pray to Barbatos, as you brace yourself to take the hit, that you survive.

The small rockets collide with the ground next to you, the heat of the explosions seering your skin.

This is fine.

They missed.

Just have to hurry before it figures out the angle.

If only you had remembered your weapon in your panic to find Bennet. Then you could have taken it out.

But alas, it would seem you’ve escaped the bad luck for too long.

Before you get a grip on the debris again, you feel another barrage of mini missiles collide with your back.

You refuse to scream. But you can’t hold back the groan as you feel your skin melt under the heat, blisters forming along your back.

The sticky sensation of warm blood from where the body of the missiles collided runs down your back.You can barely think. It hurts so much.

But you must get him out of here.

“Hey! Stop! Get out of here! Please! Don’t risk your life for mine, I'm begging you!” Bennet sobs as he watches your face contort in pain above him.

“Don’t worry kid. I’m not going anywhere, and I sure as hell am not dying here. I will get you out of here- I’ll get us both out of here.”

You can’t manage to lift the stones in the time you have between attacks.

You have no choice. You just have to shield him with your body until help arrives.

You position yourself in front of Bennet, bracing yourself for what you know is coming.

Another round strikes you.

Your skin burns. No- it boils.

The heat melts your skin and the molten metal fuses to your flesh.

You can feel your ribs crack and break from the sheer force of the impact.

It’s at this moment you’re glad the machine isn’t closer to you- If it were, the impact of the rockets would surely impale you.

You bite your lip, drawing blood. You refuse to make him feel worse by screaming or crying. But you don’t know how much longer you can hold.

“Please!! STOP!!” Bennet pleaded with you

More missiles. More sticky blood. More broken bones.

“I beg you! Please just run!”

More Missiles. Melted skin.

“You said you’d never leave! I can’t watch you die!”

You manage a smile.

“Exactly. I said I’d never leave. I don’t plan on leaving you here, and I don’t plan on dying.”

More missiles. This time you screamed. Your flesh has been burned to the bone. At least you can’t feel your back anymore; the nerves are all burnt away.

Bennet is no longer forming coherent words, just a mix of sobs and “please” and “this is my fault”

You look down and see you’re standing in a puddle of blood and flesh. The tar like concoction reeks of rotten meat and charred flesh.

Just as you’re about to think about giving up-

“There they are!”

The missiles stop, being redirected somewhere else.

The voice in your mind faintly registers the voice of Kaeya along with other knights.

They’re here.

You lasted long enough.

You fall to your knees, heaving air into your burnt lungs.

Bennet was safe. He’d be ok.

“Hey! C’mon You said you wouldn’t leave me! We’re so close, please!” Bennet’s voice is hoarse, and it cracks as he pleads with you once more.

Your vision is foggy and sounds are muffled. The adrenaline has begun to wear off. It hurts.

It hurts.

You barely register being picked up.

You blink.

You blink slow.

And you don’t open your eyes again.

…

At least, not yet they don’t.

note: I couldn't let reader die- i couldn't do that to Benny</3

@loyal-to-dottore here's another sibling one pookie bear

#genshin impact #whumptober2023 #no. 10 #blood tw #burns tw #gore tw #bennet x reader #bennet x reader angst #bennet genshin impact #brother bennet x reader

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darkkitty1208 · 7 months

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Entry for day 10 of Whumptober 2023, prompt no. 10: Stranded.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Doctor Strange (Movies), Iron Man (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Tony Stark & Stephen Strange, can be viewed as slash or pre-slash or gen Characters: Tony Stark, Stephen Strange, mentioned Peter Parker - Character, Mentioned Guardians of the Galaxy - Character, Mentioned Thanos Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant with Movie: Avengers: Infinity War (2018), Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Hurt Stephen Strange, Hurt Tony Stark, Stranded Series: Part 12 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Their only choice is to survive out of whatever supplies are left in the Benatar. It would mean being stranded in space and waiting for the inevitable, but it's better than staying on a desolated planet where all that remains is dust, rubble, and the memory of a loud snap.

What if, instead of Nebula, Tony and Stephen are stranded together in space after the events of Titan?

#whumptober2023 #no. 10 #stranded #marvel cinematic universe #doctor strange #iron man #fic #fanfic #stephen strange #tony stark #ironstrange #my writing

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 2 years

Text

Whumptober Day 10 (Aaron Hotchner x y/n Hotchner)

No. 10 POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS

Taser | Whipping | Waterboarding

Alt: tears, whimpering

Warnings: child abuse (straight after the cut), alcoholism, homophobia, f-slur, homophobic parent, internalised homophobia

Word count: 1629

A/N: we’re bending canon a little, Hotch joined the BAU a lot sooner (like 8 or so years before aha hope yall don’t mind, we’ll say after he got his law degree thing, he did a few years of law-ing until aged 24?)

@whumptober-archive

“No, no, no, no, no, I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I s-swear-” Your words are rushed and messy as you say them, scurried back.

"Shut up, boy," Your father slurred. “My son, the faggot,”

You gave a sob, your stomach dropping. You felt like you were going to be sick. You had been cocky and it got you caught. His car wasn’t there, how were you supposed to know he was home? You had kissed your best friend, Michael, after the two of you had decided to test the waters into being more than friends and gone on a date (to see a movie). And he had seen through the blinds.

“I’m sorry, dad, I’m sorry, I swear-” The strike was expected, but still took you by surprise. You didn’t fight back, knowing that there was no point, that he was too fueled by hatred and alcohol to care.

When the hits eventually stopped, you waited, curled up on the floor, waiting for him to leave the room. You heard him wander upstairs, shutting his bedroom door loudly behind him. You drag yourself up, wincing in pain as you do. You climb the stairs slowly, knowing that moving any faster would cause more harm than good. When you enter your room, you shut the door gently behind you.

You limp to your bed, throwing yourself down, whimpering as you did so. You reached blindly under your bed hidden at the bottom of a box of photos is the cellphone Aaron got you, telling you not to tell your father about it. He'd just take it away and right now it was your only link to the outside world. You pause when you’ve got the phone in your hand, letting your emotions flood through you for a moment, sobbing loudly, hand covering your mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle them. When you’ve recovered, you dial Aaron's number, you knew that because of his work he had to keep his phone on at all times.

Aaron’s phone woke him up, turning over with a roll, he saw at the time. 3 AM. His stomach dropped seeing your name flash on his phone. “(Y/N)? What happened?”

“I pissed him off,” Came your pained reply. “I just wanted to hear your voice. Calms me down,”

Aaron gave a sigh at his brother’s words. “I’m coming to get you,”

“I can take it, Aaron,” You mumbled.

“I don’t care. I’m coming to get you,”

“I can take it,”

“(Y/N), I’m doing what I should have done at eighteen,” Aaron said strongly, “I’m picking you up and you are going to live with me and Haley,”

"No, Aaron, it's fine, really, I'm fine,"

"No, (Y/N), it's not. You're not fine either," Aaron said, "Lock you door, pack your things. Don't open the door unless it's me, okay?"

You nodded, mumbling an okay as you walked to the door, locking it. "I've locked the door,"

"Good, now pack everything you can." He said, you heard shuffling, assuming it was him getting out of bed. "I will be there soon, pack as much as you can, we'll come back for the rest."

"Okay," You whispered, "Are you sure this is okay? Haley won't mind?"

You heard Aaron quietly explaining the situation before another voice popped up, "Of course I don't mind, (Y/N)," Haley responded. You relaxed, okay, Haley didn't mind. That was all that mattered. If she didn't mind then it was okay. Everything would be okay.

"How long until you get here?"

"I'll be there in half an hour, okay?"

"Okay,"

“How bad is it?” You paused, wincing in pain. “(Y/N)?”

“I’m fine,” You hear Aaron sigh on the other side of the line.

“(Y/N)-”

“I’m fine.” You don’t mean to snap, but you do.

"Are you going to be okay until I get there?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"(Y/N), come out, come out wherever you are," Your blood ran cold at the slurred voice from the hallway.

"Aaron, please hurry," You whispered.

"I will." You gulped as your father slammed his fist against your door.

"Come on (Y/N)!" He yelled, "Just open the door,"

Ignoring the voice of your father and the pain spread throughout your body (motivated by the time limit Aaron had given you), you looked around your room, gathering your school work from your desk and floor, shoveling it into your school bag. When you had finished with that, you moved on to your clothing. You knew that if push came to shove, Aaron would let you steal some of his clothes if you needed it. You were just hoping you didn't necessarily need to.

You don’t reply, trying your best not to listen to the comments he yells through the door, the threats, taunts, you block them out the best you can as you continue to pack. You’re nearly done, school work all in your backpack and you’ve got the majority of your clothes in another bag.

You hear the front door open and slam shut and you know it’s Aaron. Your father is silent on the other side of the door as Aaron loudly climbs the stairs, letting you know he’s here. Perfect timing, you’ve just finished packing all of your essentials into the bag. You zip it up, clutching it and your backpack in your hands tightly.

“What are you doing here?!” His slurs are more pronounced now and you imagine he’s also swaying on his feet.

“I’m taking (Y/N),” Aaron’s voice is tight and leaves no room for argument.

“You want him? Have him.” Your father snarls. There’s a soft knock on your door.

“(Y/N)?”

“Aaron?” You ask, wanting to make sure it’s him before you open the door.

“Yeah, come on,” He says, you give a small ‘okay’ as you unlock the door. You can tell that Aaron’s trying not to react to the sight of your face, littered with bruises and cuts (some of which are slightly bleeding). “You all packed?”

You nod, holding up the two bag. “Alright,” He says, “I’ll take them, you go sit in the car.” You give him an unsure look but nod and do as he says. As you’re making your way down the stairs, you hear Aaron beginning to talk. “You come near him again, I’ll kill you.”

“Shouldn’t be talking to me like that, boy, I’m your father,"

“You never were a father.” Is his response before he, too, makes his way down the stairs. “Come on, I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

You shake your head, “Aaron, no, I’m fine,” You argue as he places your bags in the boot of his car before the pair of you climb into his car.

“I just want to check, alright?” You huff but nod, knowing he won’t let it drop (and because if Haley finds out you wouldn’t let Aaron take you she’d give you her signature look of disappointment).

You watch the nurses and doctors eye Aaron up with caution at your condition. They think he’s the one who did this to you, you know it and Aaron does too - you watch his hands tense at his side. He hates the idea of people thinking he hurt you. “Are you alright?” You ask softly.

He turns to you, giving you a strange look, “Should I be the one asking you that?”

You grin, giving a small laugh, “You look worse than me,” Aaron laughs and you join in, wincing as you do and concern flashes across Aaron’s face. The nurses and doctors, seeing this realise that he couldn’t have been the one that hurt you.

You’re called in not long after that, into a small room, you sit on the bed, Aaron stood close to your, hand protectively on your shoulder, letting you know that he was here. “I think it would be best if you gave us a minute alone,” The doctor says as she looks at Aaron. Aaron nods, removing his hand from your shoulder.

“Please don’t make him leave,” You whisper, looking at the woman with wide, pleading eyes. “It wasn’t him, please don’t make him go,” She nods and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Who was it?” She asks, you look at Aaron, unsure whether you should answer.

When Aaron nods, you turn back to her, “My dad,” You say.

“We’re looking into ways to press charges.” Aaron adds.

“What? When did we agree to that?” You ask, looking at him in confusion.

“I meant me and Haley,”

You scoff with a smirk, “Of course, she’s got you wrapped around her finger, you know,” Aaron merely rolls her eyes.

Severe bruising, bruised ribs, and a mild concussion. But otherwise you’re fine. You’re still sat on the bed, Aaron sat next to you, waiting for the discharge forms.

“What set him off?”

“I-” Aaron’s heart broke as your voice cracked and you took in a shaky breath. He knew that you were unsure whether or not to actually tell him what had happened.

Aaron gently rubbed circles on your back, “Hey, I’m not leaving - not again. I’m your brother, through thick and thin,” He soothed, “Nothing will push me away, okay?”

You nodded, “He saw me kissing Michael.” Aaron wiped the tear that had fallen, carefully guiding your head to his chest.

“It’s okay,” He whispered, you gave a sob. “It’s alright, I promise. I won’t let anything bad happen to you again.”

“I- I tried not to like him, I promise, Aaron I promise,”

“Hey, (Y/N), I need you to listen to me,” Aaron paused, waiting for you to nod. When you do, he continues, “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter who you like as long as you both treat each other right, that’s all that matters.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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ajpendragon · 7 months

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Promise

“No!” Alan’s shout rang through the house, causing several heads to peek out from their respective rooms. “You can’t leave. You promised me you wouldn’t!”

The door slammed behind him, leaving a stunned eldest brother staring blankly at nothing. Virgil appeared from his room, hair rumpled and paintbrush tucked behind his ear. “What was that about?”

Scott startled. “I was just telling him I was going to be leaving for college in a few weeks. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I’ll be close enough that I can come home on weekends and breaks, so I won’t even be gone for that long. He’s just overreacting.”

Virgil shook his head at his brother. “Scott, of course he’s overreacting. The last time someone in his family left, she didn’t come back. And now you’re saying you’re going to leave him too. He doesn’t understand. All he knows is you promised you wouldn’t leave him, and now you’re breaking that promise.”

Scott sighed. Memories filled his mind of a hysterical baby brother, desperately calling for his mama. A promise made to calm the tears, a promise that Scott had no intention of breaking.

“I have to go after him! He’s right. I did promise. I’m not trying to break my promise, but I do need him to understand. I’m not leaving him, not truly.”

Virgil nodded, clapping his brother on the back. “Sounds like you’ve got this handled. Go fix it!”

Scott jogged out of the house, heading towards the most likely place for Alan to have fled. The barn had been the hiding place for upset Tracys for generations.

As he entered, he had to squint to see in the dim lighting. “Alan?” He called softly.

His brother didn’t answer, but he could hear muffled sobbing coming from the hayloft. The ladder was old and rickety, and Scott clung tightly to the rungs as he climbed up after his baby brother.

“Alan?” He could see the bright red sneakers sticking out from behind the hay, but wanted to give his brother the chance to initiate the conversation. If Alan wasn’t ready to listen, he wasn’t ready to talk.

He sat there silently for a while, counting the spider webs hanging from the beams to keep himself from fidgeting. It took a long time before Alan came scooting closer, silently tucking himself beneath Scott’s arm. Scott drew him closer, letting him rest close for a few minutes before he spoke.

“You promised you wouldn’t ever leave me.” He whispered.

“I know, Squirt. And I know this feels like I am leaving you. I’ll come home every weekend, and whenever we have a holiday, and if you ask nicely, I’m sure one of your brothers will fly you down to visit me. And you can call me whenever you want.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Scott stood, wrapping his arms around Alan. “I love you and I always-“

Scott had forgotten to watch where he was standing, and stepped backwards off the edge of the loft, sending them both tumbling down off the ledge.

The impact knocked the wind from both of them, and it was a moment before either of them were able to move. Alan recovered first, sending up a piercing cry.

Startled from his work for the second time that day, Virgil came running out of the house. He scooped Alan off the ground, checking quickly for any injuries. After he was satisfied that the boy was unharmed, he turned to Scott.

Scott had taken the brunt of the fall, twisting midair to ensure he hit the ground first. Blood was running from a cut on his forehead, and his leg was bent at a weird angle.

Virgil sent Alan running to the house for Grandma while he attempted to stem the bleeding. “What were you thinking?” He demanded.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was just trying to make sure my brother didn’t hate me. I wasn’t worried about anything else.”

“Well, next time you’re climbing around in the barn, please save a little part of your brain to watch your step.”

“I think I can do that.” Scott forced a smile, although it looked more like a pained grimace. Grandma arrived, quickly taking command of the situation and getting Scott moved into the car. A quick trip to the hospital later, and Scott was home, leg secured in a bright blue cast and with strict orders not to walk on it for at least a week.

And as much as he chafed at the forced inaction, the ability to spend some more time with his brother was taken full advantage of.

#whumptober 2023 #no. 10 #you said you’d never leave #thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #alan tracy #thunderbirds fanfiction

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amm-amethyst · 7 months

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You Said You'd Never Leave

Characters - Scott Smajor, Jimmy Solidarity

Relationships - Scott Smajor/Jimmy Solidarity

Description -

After the battle, when night and sand had fallen over abandoned weapons, Scott left his Hobbit Hole in search of the one he loves. Or loved.

He had to collect Jimmy's body.

Whumptober day 10 Prompt: "You said you'd never leave"

Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/50734918

#whumptober 2023 #no. 10 #“you said you'd never leave”#3rd life #fanfic #trafficshipping #3rd life fanfic #life series #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #flower husbands #life series fanfic #my fanfic #trafficblr

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whump-tr0pes · 2 years

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Lamia Lenis - Part 5

Or, a Carlo/Maxim/Dara/Ilya/Dee crossover AU collab with the amazing @deluxewhump

Or, @whumptober prompts no. 2 “Nowhere To Run”, no. 7 “Shaking Hands”, no. 10 “Poor Unfortunate Souls”, no. 14 “Desperate Measures”, no. 16 “No Way Out”, no. 19 “Knees Buckling”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Maxim the vampire lives a quiet life with his beloved mortal, Carlo. That is, until Maxim’s friend Dara, an angel of the Lord, brings two creatures to Maxim’s doorstep - Ilya, a human bloodbag barely clinging to life, and Dee, their beloved demon who is willing to kill to keep them safe. Maxim and Carlo find more than they bargained for when they take in the traumatized pair.

Contents: captivity (sort of), isolation, blood, vampire whumper, muzzled, bargaining, offer of implied nsfw

Carlo put the heavy blue pot on the gas stove, waiting for the click of the gas and the little rush of flame. He took a seat at the small kitchen table beside Ilya, who was staring out the window into the blackness beyond the property.

“It's woods, out there,” Carlo said gently. “Just lots of woods.”

“And a town,” Ilya replied, their gaze faraway.

Carlo looked at their reflections in the glass. He shook his head. “It's far. Farther than it looks from the road coming up here. And it’s cold.”

Ilya blinked, turned their weary, haunted eyes toward him. “Not in the daytime, with the sun out. He lets you wander around, doesn’t he? He doesn’t lock you in.”

Carlo held their gaze, though something made him want to flinch away. He knew that look, that feeling. The feeling of being trapped— of being prey. Like an insect in a spiderweb, waiting for sundown. How could he explain he did not fear dusk, anymore? That he waited for it anxiously, but not out of fear?

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t lock me in.”

“So you could leave.”

Carlo swallowed. “I have nowhere to go.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed a fraction. A drop of bright blood had seeped through the bandage on their arm.

“I don’t want to go,” he explained. “I—I feel safe here.”

“Safe?” Ilya hissed.

Carlo blushed. “Yes,” he said a little too defensively. “Maxim… he took me away from another house. A….another vampire’s house. I’d been there for months. I don’t think… I don’t think I’d have lasted much longer if he didn’t take me when he did.”

Recognition crept over Ilya’s features. They looked Carlo up and down, taking in his soft cashmere sweater, his pink cheeks and his soft, clean hair. Yet they glanced a moment too long at the scars of his wrists and neck not to have noticed them.

“Those aren’t…”

“From him? No.” Almost proudly, Carlo added, “Maxim’s never left a mark on me. It doesn’t even hurt. I always…” he trailed off. It felt almost too intimate to share, though he wanted Ilya to understand. “I always let him. He doesn’t… he doesn't take it. I have to give it.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Why, then? Why wouldn’t you just say no?”

Carlo got up to stir the soup, hoping it was warm enough to serve already. He felt Ilya watching his back as he did. Because he takes care of me. Because I love him.

“Because it’s what I am,” he said at the stove, knowing Ilya was listening. “Vampires like me. They find me. And this one keeps me away from them.”

There was a creak, and Carlo glanced back to see Ilya lean back in their chair. Understanding settled in their features, hardened their mouth. They threw a glance at the demon, who stood at the door to the kitchen, as if guarding it. He wore the muzzle still.

“I get it,” Ilya whispered, nodding slightly. “I get it.”

Carlo bit his lip. “It’s not like… like that,” he said, mouth twisting. “Not like… whatever it is you’re thinking right now. I… I like being here. I like being… being his.” He hated the embarrassment that burned his cheeks, the shame that twisted in his stomach. The last thing he needed - the last thing he wanted - was Ilya’s judgment. “I w-wouldn’t be alive if not for him,” he said, weakly.

“Is he going to keep us?” Ilya said. There was something different to their voice now, a steely hardness that made Carlo shift his weight uneasily.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, fingers tight around the wooden spoon he realized he was somehow still holding.

Ilya rose slowly from their seat and took a step towards Carlo. “Is he going to hurt me? Hurt him?” they hissed, jutting their chin out at Dee.

Carlo shook his head. “N-no,” he whispered. “No. Never. I told you, he’s not… he’s not… like that.”

Another step closer. “Does anyone else live in this house? Does anyone else know we’re here?” Ilya said softly.

“No,” Carlo murmured. His head was starting to swim. It suddenly occurred to him that both Ilya and Dee were between him and the door. And the drawer just inches from Ilya’s hand contained a knife - and a few other things, but most importantly a knife, a sharp one for some specific use that Carlo couldn’t even remember at the moment. His fingers were going numb around the wooden spoon. All he had to defend himself against a knife was a wooden spoon and a pot of hot soup - at least until Maxim returned with the key to Dee’s muzzle. Something about a specific type of iron, angel power type of stuff…

Carlo couldn’t remember right now. His throat tightened, and he felt the heat of the stove against his back. “Ilya…” he said softly.

“We can’t be trapped again,” Ilya said, and their voice cracked. Their hands were shaking at their sides. “Me and Dee. We can’t. And the Vampire wouldn’t take the bait, so…”

They took another step closer. Carlo let out a soft, airy sound of fear, and smelled the back of his shirt begin to singe. “P-please,” he croaked.

Ilya slid to their knees in front of Carlo, head bent, shoulders bowing with bitter exhaustion. Dee whimpered softly and glanced down the hall. Carlo’s stomach roiled.

“Please,” Ilya breathed, and tipped back their head. Their eyes were rimmed with tears. “Please, just… tell me what you want. If you get us out, I’ll… I’ll do anything.” Their chin quivered. A tear rolled down their cheek. They raised one shaking hand and traced their cold fingertips along the waistband of Carlo’s soft woolen pants.

@womping-grounds, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @whatwhumpcomments, @cursedscribbles, @whumpywhumper, @stxck-fxck, @whumps-the-word, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood, @finder-of-rings, @inky-whump, @thatsthewhump, @orchidscript, @this-mightaswell-happen, @newandfiguringitout, @whumpkitty, @cinnamonflavoredhugs, @pebbledriscoll, @im-just-here-for-the-whump, @endless-whump, @grizzlie70, @oops-its-whump, @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather, @butwhatifyouwrite, @carnagecardinal, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @wolfeyedwitch, @batfacedliar, @extrabitterbrain, @pumpkin-spice-whump-latte, @rabass, @melancholy-in-the-morning @whyisnamingthingssohard

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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years

Text

It Will Be

For @whumptober 2022, No. 10. Using Alt prompt 8: Made to Watch

Jameson’s masterlist

CW: PTSD/trauma recovery, panic attack, references to past torture, noncon, murder, dehumanization

It's too hot to move.

Nat’s air conditioning is broken, and while the guy fiddles around with it outside, Jameson lays splayed on the hardwood floor in the living room directly under the ceiling fan, his joints aching with the heat.

Heat is supposed to help, he thinks, but his bullshit body only throbs worse with every trickle of sweat he feels moving slowly down his temples to soak into the soft hair growing in where his bald spots used to be. Still there… but less obvious now.

Brief bursts of relief come with the brush of cool air from the fan, or when he manages to get his stiff fingers to close around a cold wet rag he’s keeping nearby to wipe his face with.

He took his shirt off - only Nat and Vince might see him, and the scars aren't new to Nat. Vince is gone, off to meet someone and, he told Nat before he left yesterday, start unraveling this stupid pointless life.

Nat told Jameson after he was gone that Vince is selling his house, planning to disappear and start over. Like he's one of us, Jameson has said, and Nat only smiled.

Very like that, she had said quietly.

Jameson gets it. He couldn't go back to Nanda anymore, even if Nanda was still alive. Nanda would barely recognize him, and probably wouldn't like him like this. He wouldn't want to leave Allyn, either, and Nanda would hate Allyn's willowy grace and softness.

And Jameson wouldn't give them up to go back, not anymore. It feels like a betrayal to Nanda, but it’s not like Nanda is here to punish for it.

Jameson just isn't the pet any longer - and Vince, having slit a throat in his own house, isn't really just Vincent Shield.

Nat likes and trusts them both, even though both of them are killers, murderers who didn't pull back when they thought their own survival was on the line. It makes Jameson wonder what Nat has done, that she's so unfazed by it all.

Maybe they just aren't the first killers she's made a home for.

The TV’s on, but he isn’t really listening to it. It’s just droning background noise, a pile of nothing important that lets his brain slide like syrup through his nonsense thoughts about Nat and Vince. It’s sort of nice to do absolutely nothing.

Nearby, up on the couch, Trash Cat sleeps on her back, paws curled, her little pink tongue just barely visible peeking out between her teeth. One of her paws twitches, as if she hunts mice in her sleep and has caught one.

For all the misery of the heat, it isn't so bad to just lay here with the air moving slow over his skin like Nanda's softest kisses.

“... investigation reopened by federal agents,” Drones the TV, Jameson barely aware of the words, “As new evidence emerges in the cold case involving longtime Rancher's Rest resident Robert Weber, recently revealed to be responsible for a string of disappearances throughout the Western United States over the past three decades when his own sudden death resulted in the discovery of more than two dozen bodies, many still unidentified. New evidence suggests that at least two of Weber's victims may in fact still be alive."

Jameson shoots upright so fast he lurches, stomach flipping as his back protests how he twists to look, wide-eyed, at the television screen.

Robert?

A still photo of the front of Robert's house is right there behind the news anchor's shoulder, overgrown by now with a weedy front yard and little saplings popping up from unclean gutters, a broken window. Yellow crime scene tape winds around, muddy and faded with time and sunlight.

How long has it been there? When did they find out about him, about his basement? How long ago did they find his house and realize what had happened inside? How long after Jameson had fled, begging his legs to cooperate until he could find somewhere safe to hide?

The yard looks awful, except for the bobbing bright yellow heads of too-tall dandelions, untouched and unencumbered, free to tip themselves up like tiny suns.

Robert would hate it being so messy outside, Jameson thinks. Even the rosebushes look straggly and dead or dying with no one to water them. Robert loved his rosebushes.

It's with a sudden flush of bitter, hateful satisfaction that he thinks, good. Everything you touched died, why not the roses, too, motherfucker?

Two unknown sets of fingerprints. One set… one set had to be his, right? He feels a droplet of saltwater escape the nape of his neck, dip under the neck of his shirt, and trickle slowly down the center of his back. His legs bend at the knee, just a little, without his consent or knowledge. He can't stand up.

"Sets of fingerprints lifted from inside the house have long been of interest to investigators," Continues the news anchor with an expression of carefully neutral severity, leaning into the seriousness of the subject while staying distant from it. Her voice is a burst of something floral on Jameson's tongue, like rosewater, but bitter. "The FBI now says that they have been able to locate a match for one set for the very first time."

All the sweat on Jameson turns to ice.

He doesn't even try.

He just swallows, unable to look away as a photo of the man himself is on the screen, the little tagline Prints identified in Rancher's Rest cold case.

It's Robert, sitting at the kitchen table. Oh, Jameson knelt by that table for many meals, waiting to be fed whatever scraps the bastard put into a bowl and set on the floor, forcing him to eat without his hands or starve. In the photo, though, Robert’s seemingly alone, just smiling and drinking a beer.

So who took the photo?

It wasn't me, Jameson thinks, even as he wracks his brain trying to find any such memory. He wasn't allowed to use his hands, ever, except for when Robert wanted to fuck into them and then laugh at the pet's defiant glare as he made him beg before he'd clean off the muzzle and his face. He wore those fucking mittens too much to have ever taken a photo. The fucking mittens. What Robert, cackling with laughter, called his paws.

Oh, are they hurting today, dog? Maybe if you're good I'll let you have a couple drinks and settle that hurt down…

Jameson's fingers ache now, too, as if simply remembering summons the pain. He looks down to see them curled at the knuckles, not quite in fists, and shudders - but then he looks back to the TV.

Seeing Robert's face… it feels like even after he's dead, he can make Jameson look at whatever he wants.

Robert never, ever had people over, never let anyone in the house. He always had a victim in the basement, or at least all their rotting bodies stinking up the air-

Jameson groans, leaning over and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. He can still smell it, that's the worst part. Just remembering it brings back the goddamn smell. His stomach flips just recalling the decay, the sickly-sweetness layered underneath the Lysol spray or scented candles from the fucking Wal-Mart. It always smelled like death, underneath everything else. He jerks forward, fighting the heave that tries to travel up his throat.

Robert knew his house smelled bad. He never let anyone in the house.

So who the fuck took the photo, if it hadn't been Jameson?

Had there been someone else before him, or after? Someone who wasn’t killed over moments or days or a couple weeks at most, someone who was allowed to stay in the cage in the living room, watching the light behind the curtains to track the passing days?

"The little town of Rancher’s Rest was torn asunder a few years ago by the discovery of more than a dozen bodies buried in the basement of a beloved, longtime local resident who turned out to be hiding a very dark secret."

Jameson flinches as if the Anchorwoman had slapped him when she speaks again. He'd gotten lost in his mind, distracted by the memory of Robert's smile, and the way he would press his fingers into the paws until he could feel Jameson's trapped fingers twitching, desperate to straighten out again.

He wore the mittens all the fucking time except in the cage and the basement… until he left. He'd had them off when Robert tried to make him help bury the last one…

Did they find his prints on the shovel handle? On doorknobs, or the dresser where he'd gotten some clothes?

But, no. Two sets and only one identified. Maybe it's someone else. Whoever took the photo of Robert, maybe.

Please, he thinks with a desperate fear followed by immediate, painful shame for being so weak. Please not mine, please don't let them be mine.

"Between multiple still-unidentified victims, implications found in Robert’s own belongings that he may be responsible for even more deaths than previously known, and the lingering question of the fingerprints, this cold case has never been far from the mind of FBI investigators. Today, at a press conference held at the Butte county courthouse in Chico, lead investigator Agent Roland Brandt announced a person of interest has been identified in relation to prints found inside the home."

There’s a second where she stops speaking, and Jameson can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can only think to himself, in a loop that lasts forever and happens in an instant, please don’t let it be me please please don't let it be me as the screen shifts to recording of a man in a dark suit standing before a small handful of reporters.

Jameson's eyes close, but a hot breath that chills against his neck forces them open again. Watch, Robert whispers, voice dripping like oil inside him. A flash of cold white light. Jameson stops breathing. He can hear his own blood rushing through his ears, but it isn't enough to drown out the news.

“I-I don’t want to-”

Watch, you useless goddamn dog, Robert says. The hair at the nape of Jameson’s neck moves, shifted by the air from the ceiling fan, but Jameson feels it as Robert’s fingers grazing the short soft hair just at the base of his skull.

He does what he’s told.

No matter how hard he fought, he always did, in the end.

They'll know, he thinks, even his thoughts spiking with panic, barely even coherent, just fear, and the pain. They'll know I did it, they'll know I killed him, they'll find me and scan my barcode and send me back to WRU to be refurbished, they'll find Nat, they'll find Allyn…

They'll take me away from Allyn-

"... find some prints remaining on a series of photographs found in the deceased's possessions," The investigator is saying, sounding almost bored even as the hysterical wordless fear is rising higher and higher within Jameson's mind.

His hands hover in the air, knuckles bent and twisted into a shape they are no longer forced to hold. His breath is short and shallow, gasps that barely have oxygen, and he feels dizzy as his lungs cry for more and he can't provide it.

They won't even let me remember Allyn-

"Thanks to some accidental preservation due to being packed how they were, we have strong fingerprints, and now a strong match."

They'll take my memories of Nanda away-

"No," Jameson whispers. Tears run down his cheeks, blistering hot compared to the cold fear-sweat everywhere else. He blinks them away as they blur his vision. "I won't lose Nanda. You can't fucking take him away, I'm the only one who really knew him, you c-can't-"

"A recent arrest made in Idaho has given us our first break in this case in a long time. Unfortunately, the individual posted bail and disappeared before we received notice of the matching prints. I've distributed the mugshot of the person of interest we are searching for-"

Wait. Idaho?

Jameson feels Trash Cat rub the corner of her eye and her cheek against one of his frozen hands, as she pushes her way onto his lap, a warm slight soft weight that starts up a loud, cracked purring.

The mugshot is the next thing on the screen. It's a man older than Jameson, by a decade, maybe a little more. He has short blond hair, kind of ashy-colored, slightly longer on top and shorn short on the sides. He isn't looking into the camera.

He has scar around his neck, an angular face with sharp cheek- and jawbones. There's a scar on his nose visible even through a television screen. It's small, but Jameson knows what it means.

He knows what the neck scar means, too.

This man has worn a collar before… and a muzzle.

His eyes are empty, blank above a flat expression. He went into his own mind a long time ago, and maybe never came all the way out.

Jameson knows that look, too.

"If anyone has seen this man or comes into contact with them, please let us know immediately. He is approximately six feet, two inches tall. Officers who arrested him stated he has an accent, probably European, but they weren't sure. He did not provide any answers to officers’ questions, and his identification was proven to be falsified. His current alias is Charles Ingvall, also known as Chuck or Chaz.”

Chaz? People are still nicknamed fucking Chaz?

“Charles Ingvall is currently wanted for human trafficking charges. We have reason to believe he has become involved with the criminal elements in the expanding pet liberation movement and is guilty of trafficking runaway pets over the border with Canada. Since his fingerprints matched one of the unidentified sets of prints in Robert Weber’s house, we believe he has information pertaining to Robert Weber's case and that he resided in the house for some time."

Jameson exhales.

Someone else.

They're hunting someone else.

It's not him.

Someone else left that house alive, and they're looking for that poor bastard, not him.

Then he remembers the other set of fingerprints, still unidentified, and feels himself go cold and still again. If they ever check with WRU, they’ll know it’s him. They’ll tie it back to Nanda’s death, they’ll know…

Jameson curls over Trash Cat, who makes a soft mrrow of protest, but she doesn't try to twist away. Instead, she settles in, and purrs louder.

It's not him they’re looking for…

Not yet.

But one day, it will be.

Told you, he nearly hears Robert whisper, with that awful laughter creeping around the edges of his tone, that I’d own your life and your death, too. And doesn’t this count?

For Whumptober taglist: @whumpworld

Jameson’s taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#whumptober2022 #no. 10 #altprompt 8 #altprompt #made to watch #ptsd tw #trauma recovery #sadistic whumper #referenced murder #escaped whumpee #haunted by whumper #sort of #referenced dehumanization #creepy whumper

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firstdegreefangirl · 7 months

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Can't Live With Him, Must Live Without Him

“That’s just like you, isn’t it?” She knows the words will cut deep, wants them to hurt, wants Ian to feel even an ounce of the pain he’s put her through. “Overpromise, underdeliver.”

Ian’s face falls.

Good.

“Come on, Po – come on.” She cuts him off before he can win her pity.

“No.” Poppy turns sharply, trying to hide the way she can feel her bottom lip trembling. She blinks away hot tears as she steps into the stairwell. Her legs carry her just a few steps further, barely out of sight, before she slumps against the wall. With the cuff of one hoodie sleeve, she wipes furiously at her eyes.

She won’t give him the satisfaction of making her cry.

Outside, she hears Ian swear loudly, on the heels of a loud clatter. It spurs her on; she doesn’t want to be standing here if he comes back inside.

This time, she makes it all the way to the Grimmpop offices before she stops, dropping into her chair. She folds over, head thumping against her keyboard until she reaches up and shoves it away. It falls off the desk, but she doesn’t care. If she could muster the focus, she’d push everything off the desk. The mouse, the computer, her drink in its gas station cup, all of it.

Instead, she screams into the crook of her elbow, and pretends not to notice when it turns into a sob.

For years, she and Ian have worked together. It hasn’t been seamless, by any stretch of the word, but they’ve worked. Through the arguments and the creative differences and the bickering, they’ve always been able to come out the other side.

This time? She doesn’t know if they will.

Read the rest on ao3 here!

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rpf-bat · 7 months

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WHUMPTOBER DAY 10

Pairing: Johnny Cruz x Archie Cruz

Prompt: “You said you’d never leave.”

Word Count: 593

Summary: Archie shows up drunk on Johnny’s doorstep, looking for a fight.

#whumptober2023 #no. 10 #‘you said you’d never leave’#santa cruz rpf #johnny cruz x archie cruz

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quo-usque-tandem · 3 days

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No. 10 by Rothko

#art #painting #No. 10 #Rothko #The Museum of Modern Art #MOMA

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honmyoseagull · 6 months

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Fandom: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Dark Avengers (Comic) (Beware the warnings on the site)

Relationships: Akihiro | Daken/Lester | Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter Whumptober 2023, Prompts 9 to 16, Slow Burn, Feelings-challenged characters, pyschopaths in love, Revenge, Patricide mention, Brothers, Bullsnikt - Freeform Series: Part 2 of OLD DARK DAYS Summary:

Fighting together (or against each other) is easy. Fucking, they learn to manage. Kinda. Since this is Daken and Bullseye we're talking about, they're rubbish at dealing with their feelings, though. And the more they run from them, the more it hurts. Literally. Also, it wasn't what they had planned with their day, this 'Meet the Family' thing.

@whumptober-archive

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10ths-writing-corner · 2 years

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Whumptober #10- Poor unfortunate souls

Btw this is all because of @geekyfox2, blame them

“Stop squirming, I’m only trying to help.” Jackie snapped, both hands holding down Henrik by the wrists. Holding him down against the dirty surgical table. Henrik kept frantically trying to pull away, but his efforts were futile against the hero’s strength. Icy blue eyes stare wide open with fear, tears welling when fingers squeeze his already injured wrist to the point he can feel his bones beginning to give. He saw Jackie. Jackie was staring down on him, his indigo eyes holding malicious intent… Nothing like the light and kindness the hero always irradiates…

That was not Jackie.

Not when he had that twisted grin plastered on his face. But he couldn’t help but to hope this was some sort of joke, that his friend would stop this horrible prank and just carry him away from this nightmare. That’s what the irrational part of the brain thought.

“You are not him. Y-You are not h-him. You— You are not—“ Henrik kept repeating like a mantra, though a short yet sharp scream erupts from him when electricity shoots through his body. His body spasms uncontrollably, and he can already feel himself slipping from consciousness from the unbearable pain. Though, before that can happen Jackie let’s go of him and the shock disappear. Henrik takes shallow breaths, his eyes dazed from the pain. He can’t feel any of his limbs, he knew the hero wasn’t holding him down and he could’ve escaped. Run away from him. But the more he tried to move, the less his limbs responded to him.

“Doesn’t that feel so much better?” Jackie whispered, his gloved hand caressing Henrik’s bruised cheek. The doctor wanted to pull away, and he only hoped in his eyes it showed how repulsed he felt by the touch. “You’re safe with me, Hen. I’m gonna keep you safe.” The impostor Jackie whisper with so much security, it almost made Henrik lower his guard, almost forget in the predicament he found himself. He almost begged for him to take him away from here, is the thing he wanted the most…

But of course it was all lies.

Before Henrik knew it, a wet rag was smacked on his face and panic is soon to take over. He couldn’t see, and at this point it might be a good thing. Though, what comes next has Henrik screaming. Ice cold water splashed on his face, and he can’t breathe. He’s choking and coughing and gagging trying to grasp a gulp full of air.

“Sto— Stop! Leave—!” Henrik begs hoarsely, coughing the little water that did go down his windpipe. The impostor then removes the wet rag, a distraught look on his face.

“Leave? You’ve been begging for me to come save you. And here I am, keeping you safe…” Jackie sneers, his upper lip now twitching with disgust. “You are nothing but a selfish man. You deserve this. You don’t deserve to be saved.”

He knows what he’s saying is a lie. Jackie would never say such things to him. He would never. He wouldn’t hurt him… he wouldn’t. Nonetheless, the words stab him like knives through the heart. “Y-You are not Jackie.”

There’s silence around them, and at that moment Henrik can feel the pressure of the demon suffocating him as it seeps through his facade. All he can do is close his eyes, and soon hears static humming close to him. His hairs stand on their end, and his breathing quickens alongside his heart. A whip cracks, the sound making him horribly flinch and shake in fear.

“You should’ve listen to the hero, puppet. You should’ve just let him save you…”

Tag list

~~~~~~~~~~~

@dmnfox @number1120 @chey-doodles @randowaffle @caesardoe @itsonlyparker @definitely-asexual-volcano @potatoarenice @lilsprout-exe @lildevyl @gotta-get-that-pma @hellspctre @justaninnocentstudent @anon-jameson @droid-dreamerr @glitchyartist @antis-gauge @ghostofodellion @miishae @ongaku-ato-kakikomi @innocent-angel3 @mysterio-is-the-truth @synder-sync @n-anon @immabethehero @fankayart @k--sm

#jacksepticeye #jse community #henrik von schneeplestein #dr. schneeplestein #dr schneeplestein #jackieboy man #Antisepticeye #whump #angst #tw torture #torture tw #nine months #whumptober #whumptober2022 #no. 10 #poor unfortunate souls #writers of jack

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