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whumpacabra · 2 months

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Day 15: “Who did this to you?”

Angst, knife wounds, bruises, rope burns, scars, shivering, crying, brief fear of homophobic hate crimes, vaguely referenced internalized homophobia, referenced death of a minor, referenced murder, firearm mention, implied past torture

[Directly follows Mouse]

Jackson was going to be in so much trouble for dipping before back-up could arrive. He was going to be in trouble for frisking a corpse without gloves. He was going to be in trouble for forgetting to re-enable his comm when chasing after a target of unknown threat level.

But mostly, Jackson thought he would be in trouble for taking that target to a quaint hotel at the edge of the city. If he was a less valuable agent, he might not be allowed to get away with a stunt like this.

The walk was long, cold, and dreary - at least Jackson’s heavy trench coat kept everything but his head dry. The stranger - ‘Wolf’ - didn’t seem to mind the weather, or at the very least didn’t complain and wonder aloud why they couldn’t flag down a taxi. He always kept a pace and a half behind Jackson, just out of arms reach. The same way he had followed Agent Smith when Jackson watched them from afar.

Curious.

Half the reason Jackson was willing to get in trouble was this stranger’s curiosities. The gun he had shot Smith with was Smith’s own weapon - Wolf himself appeared to be completely unarmed. (Not that a man of his physique needed a weapon to be lethal.) That was the first curiosity. The second was…everything after Jackson opened the closet door. He expected an ambush - a trap made from expired chemicals or improvised weapons. Not a man curled on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. Like a child hiding from a wrathful parent.

Jackson still wasn’t completely sure what a freelancer was, but it sure as hell couldn’t be this - skulking behind him like a shadow, avoiding eye contact, speaking so low he almost couldn’t understand the man. Command hadn’t been forthcoming on his identity - and Jackson knew they were keeping him in the dark, at least until the mission was done.

He was curious.

It wouldn’t kill him.

Probably.

—

The hotel wasn’t the best, but it was nice enough. Low profile, but off Command’s active radar for illegal activity hot-spots. Any good agent worth their salt had a few personal fake IDs, just in case. They wouldn’t be found here, not anytime soon.

“You can clean up first, I’m sure you could use the hot water more than me.” Jackson flashed a smile, but Wolf’s expression hardened as he nodded in reply, stalking to the washroom like a soldier on a mission.

Another curiosity.

Aside from a well disguised limp, Wolf moved like a soldier. He didn’t have the purposeful poise of an agent - American or otherwise. He took orders white seriously. Wolf hadn’t moved since he and Jackson entered the room, as if waiting for instruction. Blunt, to the point, comfortable in a hierarchy - now that didn’t sound like a runaway spy’s associate.

The bathroom door locked, and Jackson turned to the bed with a sigh. Of course they only had singles left. He paid for a couples room, even if it left his skin buzzing. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but his paranoia was acutely aware of how the secretary had raised a brow at his refusal for separate rooms.

(God, what did Wolf think of that?)

(...)

(What did they care? It was 2004 for God’s sake.)

(…)

(He still felt like the eyes of others always seemed to know what he was.)

Jackson tossed the duvet and the spare pillow to the ground. He could sleep on the floor just fine. He didn’t want to make Wolf uncomfortable. (And a small voice in his head whispered he didn’t want to give Wolf any more reason to kill him. How easy it would be for Wolf to kill him here, alone, without witnesses, and for his death to be brushed off as just another murdered poof.)

The agent turned out his coat pockets, setting what he had collected from the dead American on the bedside desk.

A room service receipt - it matched the hotel he had been staying at, but the wrong room number. Smith certainly seemed the type to choose two rooms for two people, but the sheer scale of the bill - the wine, the dinners - it didn’t meet the income of a spy in hiding. He had friends in high places (literally - Jackson would have to case the penthouse tomorrow).

The hotel room key was additional confirmation that Smith was likely traveling within the hotel. It was for the room Jackson had been stalking the last few days. The blinds were always drawn, but he could see light and movement from time to time.

The third item he snagged from the corpse was…odd. It looked like a car’s key fob, or a small, oddly shaped television remote. It only had four buttons. Unthinking, he pointed it at the television in the room, and clicked the most well worn button.

The yelp from the bathroom startled him - more so because he hadn’t expected to hear from his quiet guest. It hadn’t been particularly loud, but it had sounded distinctly pained. The thud that followed was equally concerning.

Jackson bolted to the door, stopping himself from trying the handle he knew was locked. He knocked softly, trying to keep his voice even.

“Wolf? Is everything alright?” When no reply came, he pressed his ear to the door. The sharp, agonized breathing between sobs was enough to spur him into action. “Wolf I’m going to unlock and open the door if you don’t say something.” His lock picking tools were easily slotted into the door’s mechanism. He had it unlocked, but he knocked again. “Wolf, are you alright?” The silence was deafening. “I’m coming in - please say something if you’re…”

The sight shocked Jackson to silence.

It shocked him to being 15 again. 15 and finding the corpse of a girl he had shared classes with stuffed behind the bleachers, obscenities carved into her bloodied and bruised flesh. That moment had led him here, more than a decade later. A professional MI6 agent looking down at a man beaten and bloodied that very same way, but by some cruel miracle still alive.

Jackson dropped to his knees, still processing the flesh in front of him. Bruises mottled from aged yellow to fresh blue along Wolf’s ribs, skin marred by scars and old burns. Cuts were tallied on his shoulder - like someone was keeping score - and the small, circular burns that trailed Wolf’s forearms were difficult to see against the thick bands of bruising from too-tight restraints and red rope burn. Wolf was kneeling next to the tub, keeled over with his back to Jackson. Between the blood and the bruises, the agent could make out two words etched across Wolf’s shoulder blades:

“BAD DOG”

Under the flickering fluorescent light, Jackson couldn’t read what else was carved across Wolf’s back, but those bloodied letters were cut deep into the muscle. Jackson let his eyes wander the room, finding Wolf’s rain soaked jacket and thin t-shirt neatly folded on the toilet seat. But Jackson’s eyes were once against drawn to Wolf when a violent shiver wracked his bare torso. The words contracted and stretched, weeping anew with fresh blood.

Unthinking, he let a shaking hand graze against the butchered carving before him. His words were soft, but the pity blooming in his chest made them waver with overwhelming compassion.

“Who did this to you?”

The trembling body under his fingertips stilled, and reality came crashing down on him as Jackson froze in turn. Wolf sat up slowly, broad back straightened until he sat taller than Jackson. (Blood ran in rivulets from the letters.) Dark eyes peered over his bloodied shoulder, damp with tears and expression unreadable.

Jackson was just about to jump to his feet, to mention that he had a medkit with a sterile suture needle, when Wolf lunged at him.

His brief panic at the sudden movement faded quickly as he realized what was happening. Strong arms had wrapped around him like a vice, but they were shaking - hands desperate and grasping at the back of Jackson’s shirt like he would dissolve without the contact. Jackson held Wolf’s head to his chest as he sobbed. He couldn’t touch his back without hurting him, and right now, Wolf just needed a shoulder to cry on. Jackson carded his fingers through sweaty, tangle hair and hummed soft reassurances.

Any thought of sating his curiosity tonight was discarded.

It didn’t matter who had done this, not right now. All that mattered right now was that they weren’t here.

[Directly before New Tricks]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

#whump #angst #past torture #knife wound #bruises #rope burns #scars #shivering #internalized homophobia #fear of hate crimes #referenced murder #freelancers #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday15 #I had so much fun writing this one!!! who doesn't love a good 'who did this to you?'#just. mmm. *chefs kiss* big fan of the canon wolf rehabilitation story line (even if I really miss writing Harrison….)

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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

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I Knew Finn Schneider

For @whumptober 2022, day 31: “You can rest now.”

CW: Referenced noncon, pet whump, beating, blood, brief emeto, murder… the works. But this, my friends, is the light at the end of Finn’s tunnel.

Somewhere near Highland Peak in California, 2005

"Checking in?"

The young woman sitting at the desk was bright and cheerful, her voice more chirping than speech. Her thick black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a plain navy sweater with a layered necklace made of brightly colorful beads and she had a pink glitter barrette at one temple, with some rhinestone stickers.

She must have caught Finn looking, because she gave him a slight smile. "My little sister helped me get dressed today," She offered, and he tried to smile back. What did a normal smile look like? He wasn't sure if his was right.

She didn't change expression, so he must have managed it.

"Kids are great," Noah said, matching her cheer as he leaned forward on his elbows, carefully taking back her full attention. "I called and made a reservation this morning? Under Ransom?"

"Ransom, Ransom… that's some last name." She had an accent, Finn thought, her consonants soft, faintly rolling her r’s.

"Yeah, we like to joke my grandpa made it up." Noah grinned, sunny and shining. Charming. Finn watched them, distantly wondering if he would smile like that ever again. “He was maybe a little bit of a criminal.”

"Nice. You're Noah?"

"That's me."

"All right, room for two, got it." She stood up, humming to herself as she fiddled with the hotel keys. "Hope you don't mind, we still do things the old way. The owner just wants to keep it all historic, you know?"

"Yeah, sure." Noah glanced sideways at Finn, who looked away. Afraid if he made eye contact, all of this would start to melt and he would wake up naked on Robert's bedroom floor. Or in his basement.

The movement made a paper on the check-in desk flutter and it caught his eye, freezing him in his tracks.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

It was a blurry printed out still from a security video, a man walking with hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

It was Robert Weber.

Even with his head ducked and a ball cap pulled low over his face - even with the photo so blurry Finn could see individual pixels - Finn knew the clothes he'd been wearing at the motel before he tied Finn up and went for breakfast, that first morning he’d been in hell. This looked like they had caught him leaving the restaurant, heading back for his truck.

Heading back to murder the hotel worker while Finn watched, leave him bleeding on the floor while Robert dragged a weeping, dripping Finn to his truck. Robert was smiling in the photo - the edge of his turned-up lips just peeked out from beneath the brim of his cap.

Excited, Finn thought with a flip of his stomach, knowing what he had waiting for him in the hotel.

Highland Peak Police, California State Police, and the FBI are looking for more information on a person of interest in the attempted murder of Kent Reyes on October 15th, 2003. A reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest is being offered by the Mountain Motel's owner, Charles Reston, with another $100,000 from Reston's company WRU.

The individual stayed at Mountain Motel from October 14th, 2003, through October 15th. He is described as a white male, with a slim build, approximately 5'10", with dark hair and dark brown eyes, between the ages of 45 - 55.

He drove a blue and white Ford F150 with the license plate V5G667R.

Donations are being accepted for Kent Reyes's family. Ask at the desk about donating or mail checks to-

The words blurred as tears suddenly burned Finn's eyes. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat.

"Are you okay, man?" The desk worker looked concerned, but Finn's throat had closed, his heart pounding. He tried to open his mouth. No sound came out.

I’m sorry, it’s my fault, it’s my fault-

"Oh, man. Hey." Noah's sympathy was perfect, smoothly focused, and he turned to put a hand on Finn's shoulder, leaning in. Finn knew not to flinch, meeting Noah’s gaze through a blur of sudden tears. "Let’s get into our room, yeah? Sorry," He repeated over his shoulder to the woman. "I'm actually driving my friend home for a funeral. It’s rough.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry. We lost one of our staff recently-“

Finn nearly choked on his guilt.

"My mother… my mother, actually. I mean, she had been sick for a long-… never mind, you don’t need to hear about my family problems.” She waved her hand, and Finn wondered with a jolt that felt like a blade in his ribs if his own mother was still healthy, if she had gotten sick and he hadn’t been there for her.

The desk worker was still talking.

“-plus, we had another just barely survive being attacked before that. I feel you.” She looked up at Finn – she was so short – and gave him a slight smile. “You be upset if you need to. It's just us, right? No problem. I’m right there with you some days. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets… it gets less heavy.”

What if the person who died is me? Does it get less heavy to mourn my own death?

"We appreciate that." Noah spoke before Finn could and squeezed Finn's shoulder once, hard, before he mercifully released his grip. He leaned over to look at the paper, briefly stilling at the image of Robert. Almost immediately, his friendly smile was back - never left, even - and he leaned over at her. "What's this about? Person of interest?”

She craned her neck, then sat back with a sigh. "Oh. That… our hotel manager, Kent. One of our staff… well. It's a hell of a story, but Kent was attacked and shot. He survived, barely, but he's still recovering."

Finn looked up sharply. "He survived?"

Noah shifted, and his fingers closed around Finn's wrist, not quite tight enough to hurt. Just a reminder that he wasn't supposed to talk unless he had to, to keep people from hearing his accent. He had to remind himself that Noah had promised that it would not be like it was with Robert, that he would live a different life now.

But the grip on his wrist made it hard to believe.

The desk worker's smile widened, a little. "He did. He's a hell of a fighter. He's doing physical therapy learning to walk again, he had to relearn… just everything. He has this goal of getting back to hiking by next winter, rock climbing the year after. He's amazing. The medical bills, though… well. I don't suppose you'd like to donate to help his family with the costs?"

Noah looked over at Finn. “What do you think? Should we donate?”

Finn thought of the hotel manager who had looked so worried for him, who had been about to go get him some help. Who, with a few more minutes, might have been able to save him. He gave the slightest, smallest nod, trying to plead with his eyes alone.

Noah sighed, then turned back with his charming smile back in place. "Sure. Add fifty dollars? Will that do any good?"

"Every dollar helps, every single one. Thank you so much." She ran Noah's credit card and then handed over the little key dangling off a piece of plastic with a room number. The sound of metal made Finn a little sick, remembering it in Robert's hand. "Here you go. Room 14, ground floor. You'll get your printed final receipt under your door in the morning. Check-out is at 11, breakfast options are available beginning at 7 am but we clear them out around 10. If you need anything, just pick up your room phone and hit 0, it'll go straight to me." She pointed at her name tag. "I'm Martina Ramirez, you can call me Marty. The night manager will be in around six, her name is Melinda."

"Got it. Thanks!" Noah jerked his head at the door, and Finn started to move, automatically following orders, taking slow, careful steps to minimize his limp.

"By the way-" Marty called out. Finn looked back, heart briefly in his throat. He felt Noah tense slightly beside him.

Marty gave him a soft, sympathizing smile. "I really am sorry for your loss. I’ve been missing my mom a lot these days, she loved this time of year up here.”

His mouth opened, closed again. He managed a half-whispered, "Thank you, I’m sure she’s proud of you," before following Noah the rest of the way out the door.

He appreciated the sympathy, but she didn't know she was sympathizing with the death of Finn.

They stepped back out into the warmth, and Noah took a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me I stopped at the same goddamn hotel. How the absolute hell did I manage that?”

It was the same one. Finn had known from the moment they came up the drive, the long and winding road. But it was… so hard to remember he had a voice. He kept feeling the straps of the muzzle, the pressure over his nose, as if it had never been removed. He hadn’t remembered how to speak in time to say anything about it. "Yeah," He tried, then winced as it came out like yah, unintentionally heavy with his accent. "You did."

"Fuck. Okay. Uh, well." Noah looked over at him, fiddling with the hotel key in his hands. The clinking metal and plastic would drive Finn crazy if it didn’t stop soon. "Can you handle it? We can keep going for a while?"

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"I want you to feel safe. Can you feel safe here?"

The words were all words he knew, but the combination baffled him. "You are… asking me?"

"Yeah. I am. Hey." Noah turned to look at him, and Finn went still, waiting for the screaming, the spit in his face, the terror. Instead, Noah paused, and then said in a low voice, "I promise you, this is not to hurt you. I am not going to hurt you."

"Yes… yes, sir." Finn didn't believe him, but Noah only sighed, glancing at the window to see if the hotel worker was watching them. Marty was on the phone, and it made Finn’s heart go cold. What if she knew, somehow? What if she was calling someone?

What if-

"You know what?” Noah sighed. “Let's just go to our room. We can talk more there." Noah walked to his truck, pulling two duffel bags out of the back, tossing one to Finn, who just barely caught it. He limped more with it in his arms throwing off his balance, but Noah didn't seem to notice. Finn trailed him to the fourteenth door, painted green with gold numbers. With a turn of the key, they stepped inside.

Finn felt his stomach twist at the familiar scent of lemon cleaning products – the same ones Robert used – closing his eyes and swallowing back the pile that threatened to rise even as a cold shiver went down his back. Still… there was no smell of decay and death beneath, and it helped him take one deep breath and then another, through his mouth, stepping into the dim space.

Two queen beds, side by side with a small cheap table between them. A phone, a lamp, a TV on a low dresser and the door to a bathroom at the end. Basic, comfortable, and clean. Finn's hands shook and he dug them into the sides of the black leather duffel bag to hide it.

"You can have the first shower, I'll go later." Noah set his bag on the bedspread and unzipped it, pulling out a thin t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, red and black against the cool pine green comforter. He glanced up at Finn still standing in the open doorway, staring inside "Listen… if this is too hard for you, we can still go somewhere else-"

"It is fine." Finn stepped forward and shut the door with one foot, pretending he didn’t almost lose his balance doing it. He shuddered as the room went dim, goosebumps rising on his arms, the outside light blocked by heavy curtains. Noah flicked on the little table lamp, adding an eerie yellow definition to everything, like a horror movie from decades ago, when everything felt like it had a film of grime over the lens. Finn dropped his bag on the other bed, hoping against hope that he was making the right decision to do so. "Do I… sleep on my own?"

"Yeah, you do. From here on out, man." Noah paused in the midst of pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, giving Finn a long, searching look. "Okay, listen. Now that we're alone, I have to admit-"

Finn tensed.

"-you aren't what I expected."

"I-... what?"

"Well, you were supposed to be-... I didn’t expect you to be… you."

Finn felt like he had forgotten every word of English he'd ever learned. He swam in confusion. "To be me?" He looked down at the blue-tinged veins under the thin skin just near his palms. Scarred from cheap scratchy rope but otherwise unmarked. “What did you expect?”

"Well, look. This is kind of a thing I do for work. But it’s all under the table, we don’t make a big deal out of it. Usually I pick up people who… you know what, I'll just tell you. I work with some people who buy or trade trafficking victims we find online and then free them. Usually, we get people who, you know, they got caught up in some bad shit and ended up stuck, they know the people who are hurting them. We can get them into rehab, or whatever, if they still have their passports we can just slip people out of the whole… all of it. Stranger abductions are literally less common than a one in a million chance. Plus... the news.”

“The... news?”

“You’re pretty famous, Finn. There was a nationwide manhunt when you first disappeared. It would compromise our security. You know? If I just go to the cops. Too much attention, too much scrutiny. The only way what we do works is if no one knows what we’re doing.”

Finn swallowed. His heart felt cold. Everything did. "I don't understand."

"No. Probably not, it's… a lot to explain and I’m used to not being able to, I don’t exactly have a speech ready. Just… let's get through the night. Then you and I can talk about what comes next. I'll find you someplace where you can go to the cops yourself, for home, or… whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about me, okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay… okay, good, that simplifies a lot-“

“No, I mean… I don’t want to go home.”

Noah blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. My mother… my mother would have to know he-... She would… that… Ich wurde vergewaltigt. I don't want anyone to know what he did t-to me. I don't want to g-go home." His voice shook so hard he was nearly indecipherable, but Noah didn't interrupt or tell him to shut up, quit whining, to go back in his cage and be silent. "I don't want-... I cannot."

"I understand. I get it, I do… Just… nobody has to make any choices now. It's not going to happen anymore, okay?”

Finn didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

Noah exhaled, roughly. “Okay. Take a shower, I'll head down the road for some pizza or something, and then… you can get some sleep after we eat. You can rest, now, Finn. But… I think you probably want to be clean, first.”

He would never be clean again, but he nodded, throat tight and nearly closed with something between dread and relief. He leaned over and picked out a shirt and pants from inside the bag, travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush, and went into the bathroom. The light was bright compared to the dim yellow in the room itself, painting everything with unflattering overdone contrast. The lemon smell was stronger in here.

When he saw the tub with its familiar shower head, for a second he felt the water, cold as ice, as it had hit his skin like a thousand knives while Robert laughed. Then he realized that it was a cold sweat breaking out over his skin, trickling down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt stretched too thin underneath his skin, heart pounding with a dull violence. Terror washed cold down his back, and Finn knew all over again that he was about to die.

The heavy scent of blood and gunpowder surrounded him, his own muffled cries around the terrible gag as the hotel manager had jolted to the side and then collapsed, like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child. He hadn’t moved, after that.

Finn had been sure he was dead.

Robert had been sure he was dead.

Finn had been certain he’d die, too, when Robert had turned to look at him. Somehow, he hadn’t. Somehow, he had survived to be here almost two years later, looking down into the same kind of bathtub, the same shower head, and the same little bottles of travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the same bar of soap.

He wanted to scream. It tired to tear its way up his throat to escape him, and he couldn’t quite force it back down. Finn swallowed, once and then again, but his heart felt like it would beat itself bloodily out of his chest. His stomach flipped and he turned, throwing himself towards the toilet and slamming the lid up so hard it bounced off the tank and almost hit him in the head as he dropped to his knees.

He leaned his head over and lost everything he had eaten during the drive. He threw up over and over again, until all that happened was his stomach clenching, sour spit and bile and nothing at all left beyond that.

It… helped, a little.

He was shivering by the time he could stop, but his heart had stopped pounding.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah called, voice faint and muffled.

“I am fine!” Finn yelled back, voice ragged and hoarse. “I get carsick!”

It was a patently ridiculous excuse, but Noah didn’t try to ask him to open the door, and Finn had never been so grateful to have someone be silent. He took deep breaths of the little soap in the package on the sink until the fake lavender smell overrode his memories. At least they had changed the scent of soap they used. Eventually, the lavender smell started to make him feel sick, too.

He turned on the shower and locked the bathroom door, shivering under the cold spray until it began to warm. When it was scalding, he scrubbed himself raw, washed his hair with cheap hotel shampoo.

When he came out, hair still dripping and dressed in the new, loose clean clothing with that thrift store smell, the room was empty.

Noah had left a note that said gone for pizza, watch whatever you want while I’m gone.

Finn looked through the curtains to see the truck was indeed no longer in its parking spot.

He could walk right to the desk if he wanted.

My name is Finn Schneider. I was abducted in 2003. My abductor is the one who tried to kill Kent Reyes. Call my mother or the German embassy. Call someone. Call anyone.

I'm not dead.

But in his heart, he knew better.

I knew Finn Schneider. Tell her her son died in October 2003.

His mother’s son never made it out of the house. Whoever he was now, whatever Robert had left after he had scraped Finn clean… he didn't want anyone to see what Robert had made of him.

So instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed into one of the beds. He was already crying by the time his head touched the too-soft pillow, nearly flattening to the mattress at the slightest weight.

He wept, hands over his face, in the silent way he had taught himself to cry inside the cage, until he had no more tears left. Then he took the remote and turned on the television just to have some noise, shivering as he changed channels until he found something other than the news or the sitcoms that Robert loved.

He settled on a cooking show, the voices a dull and comforting nonsense. The bed warmed around him, and he felt his muscles beginning to relax, one by one, against his will. By the time Noah came back with the pizza, Finn Schneider was fast asleep.

He was curled up in a ball, his hands pressed to the lower half of his face, pressing just a little, covering his nose, mouth, and chin.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep until it felt like he was wearing his muzzle.

For whumptober: @whumpworld

Finn tag list: @astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful ask if you want to be added to the taglist

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montammil · 8 months

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Playdate, Part 1

CW: Heavily implied/referenced murder, implied dead spouse, implied past violence, implied noncon drugging

I collaborated with @obsessedwhump505 to make this! Please follow them if parental whumpers are your thing!!

Crickets chirped in the foggy cold and darkness of the night. The moon was in the sky, almost midnight. The body—draped in a blanket—fell to the ground beside the river. Lawrence sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow when he saw something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see a shorter man, about his age, standing there with a shocked expression. He was about to grab the knife from his pocket, when his eyes laid on the body that the man had, as well. The other man also seemed to notice the body that Lawrene just dropped. They both visibly relaxed.

“I didn’t know this place was already taken,” the shorter man muttered, eyes directed at the limp body in front of Lawrence.

The situation made Lawrence laugh. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.” When the other man just huffed a laugh back, he smiled. “I’m Lawrence. I’d shake your hand, but… y’know.” He raised his hand to show it was caked in blood, mostly dried.

“…I’m John.” The other man muttered, clearly hesitant. Lawrence could see his hands also had some blood on them, but it was more wet and shiny in the moonlight. He glared down at the body bag in front of him and slammed his foot down aggressively on a part of it. A horrific squelch could be heard from inside. The other man looked back up at Lawrence and shrugged nonchalantly. “I saw him twitch.”

“You can never be too careful of course!” Lawrence said with a wide grin. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing all the way out here to take care of your…business? Obviously you don’t live nearby.” He asked. He hoped he wasn’t sounding too nosy, but he had to find out what this man was doing so far out in the woods. He could be a danger to Marshall.

Thankfully John didn’t seem too suspicious. “Eh, I kind of do. I have a house a few hundred yards away. No one knows about it, of course. I’m guessing you also live nearby, we’re pretty far out from civilization and you clearly can’t be caught with…” he side-eyed the corpse lying feet away from Lawrence. “That kind of thing.”

Lawrence snickered lightly as if he wasn’t ready to attack at any moment. “Yes, I have my own place somewhere a bit farther out. Lovely home, we should have tea sometime. Or maybe at your house?” He asked, waiting delicately for the right response. He didn’t want to visit whoever this was at all, but if he was a dangerous man he needed to be dealt with. For Marshall’s sake.

John looked away from Lawrence, lost in his thoughts. “Well, I don’t know. My house is cluttered and kind of a mess at the moment…” he mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit of clutter, my house can get pretty messy, too,” he exclaimed cheerfully. “But if you really don’t want your house, I can clean my place up. No big deal.”

“Well…” John pursed his lips. “I suppose tea at your house sounds fine. Do you have black?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s my favorite, too.” Lawrence grinned, the motion not quite reaching his eyes. He was careful not to be obvious with his movements towards the other man, but his hands were shaky. Barely, though.

With a nod, John replied, “Good. Um… should I come over tomorrow around noon? Will that work for you?"

Lawrence knew that John wanted to play this game of cautiousness, but so did he. “That’ll work just fine for me. Noon it is, then. My house isn’t far from here. Why don’t we meet here and then we can walk there together?”

John audibly sighed, but didn’t protest. “Alright. That’s…fine. I’ll be here at eleven.” With that he turned around and started to walk away. Lawrence watched the brunette stomp through the woods, briefly considering following him but decided against it. He had to prepare for a guest.

And he had to make sure he didn’t see Marshall.

When Lawrence got home, he could see Marshall sitting on the couch, an anxious look on his face as he fiddled with the fabric of the sofa. No doubt it was because of what Lawrence just had to do, but Marshall had to understand it was for his own good. No one could find out they were here. Well, except for the other murderer in the middle of nowhere.

He shook his head to brush it aside and put on a big grin on his face. “Marshall! Guess what!” he exclaimed excitedly. Marshall visibly flinched and looked up at Lawrence’s cheery face with both confusion and slight fear.

“...what is it?” Marshall slowly asked.

Sitting down next to him, Lawrence announced, “We have a guest coming over! Well, I do. I want you to be in your room the entire time, okay?”

Marshall seemed uncomfortable. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, still looking nervous and unsure. “Um, okay. You never have guests over, so… who is it?”

Lawrence paused and gave a half-truth, “He’s just a friend who’s visiting. I ran into him while…taking care of things, and he said we should have tea. It will be no big deal, Marshall, don't worry about it. We can spend all of our time together before and after he leaves, okay?”

“When will he be here?” Marshall asked next. Lawrence could practically feel the anxiety bleeding off of him.

“Well, he should be here at eleven-thirty, I leave to pick him up at eleven. Just be in your room by then, okay?” He placed his hand on Marshall’s cheek in an attempt to bring comfort, having washed them at the river. “I’ll get you when he’s gone, m’kay?”

Marshall hesitantly leaned into the touch. “Okay.”

“Wonderful! Lawrence chirped happily.

Meanwhile with our boyo Johnny!

John quietly fed Evan his soup, ignoring the scowl on his boy’s face. “You need this soup to be strong and healthy, son. No need to worry, I didn’t put anything in it this time.”

Evan just rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest being spoon fed. “Sure, if you want me to believe that.” he grumbled.

They finished the bowl of soup, and Evan watched John confusedly as he placed the bowl in his lap and sigh with a slight nervous tone. He knew John by now. He was never nervous. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a slightly nervous way himself.

John let out a huff. “Well, if you must know, I’m meeting with someone I met while I was out. Considering he was burying a body nearly right next to me, I need to make sure he won’t be a threat to you.” he explained.

Evan looked at him as if he had three heads. “Are you nuts?! You’re seriously meeting with another murderous psychopath for my SAFETY!?” Evan yelled.

“Volume, boy.” John warned, earning a glare, but he didn’t care. “Obviously he won’t say anything considering we were both out there for the same reason. But apparently he lives close by. If he is a danger to you, I need to figure it out now. And if he is, I’ll take care of it.”

That made Evan scoff loudly and turn away from John to curl into the sheets. “Sure, cause a psycho who kills people and lives in the woods is definitely a safe person to be around…”

“Aw, I’m so touched that you care.” John simpered. Evan whipped around to shout at him but John held up a hand to quiet him down. “I’ll be out tomorrow, hopefully not for long. Because of that, you’ll have to be sedated for a while so you don’t leave your room or hurt yourself. Do not protest, this is for your own safety.”

Evan was definitely about to protest, but the harsh glare in John’s eyes made him decide better. John adjusted the collar of his trench coat and forced a smile on his face. “Don’t worry, Evan, it’ll be okay. Now stay in your room and play with your toys. I’ll be back to put you to bed soon. You’re lucky I decided to let you stay up this late.”

With that John left the room, locking the door behind him. Sure, ten locks was excessive and probably overkill. But it was for Evan’s safety.

And so was meeting this Lawrence fellow.

______

As soon as Lawrence set eyes on him, he waved his hand out—honestly a little shocked that he actually showed up, given how reluctant he seemed. The other man waved back with a tight-lipped smile, walking over to him.

After greetings were made, the two men started their trek towards Lawrence’s home. As they walked, Lawrence couldn't help but notice John’s stare. It was fixated on him and he wondered what the man was thinking. He glanced back, a curious expression on his face. John seemed to snap out of it, looking ahead at the road.

Lawrence decided to break the ice. “So, I hope you’re hungry. I made a pretty nice lunch, I can guarantee that,” he laughed.

John laughed back, though it sounded a little hollow. His hands were clenched, Lawrence noticed, but he didn’t think much of it.

When sand hit their shoes, John eyed Lawrence with even more suspicion. “So you live on a beach? That must be convenient for you.” When he saw Lawrence’s confused expression, he tilted his head. “You know, for dumping bodies?”

That earned a laugh from the blond. “No, I don’t dump bodies here. I would rather keep it away from here, actually. I just like the beach.”

“Hm. Sweet.” John mumbled. “I didn’t even know there was a beach all the way out here…”

“Clearly you don’t get out much!” Lawrence chuckled as the two of them approached his house. His joke didn’t seem that funny to his guest but he didn’t push it. “Come in, come in! There are sandwiches as well as crumpets!”

John lumbered in with his back hunched, seemingly bored. But that could just be his way of trying to let people’s guard down. “Crumpets? I didn’t expect you to be British.” He said as Lawrence led him to the kitchen.

“Oh I’m not. I just find them delicious!” Lawrence explained. He pushed open the chair across from him and gestured to John to sit. The other man reluctantly did so and Lawrence took his seat with a pep in his step. “Now, let’s chat, shall we?”

And so they did. They talked while drinking black coffee, about their occupations (besides burying bodies in the woods) , their hobbies, their favorite foods, until the conversation couldn’t be avoided anymore and they moved onto talking about their less than normal occupations.

“Well, I have my own business to take care of.” Lawrence explained while adjusting his collar. “Losing your wife can take a toll on you, as it can be expected. I haven’t been found yet, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” Lawrence looked up at John slightly perplexed, as the man had gone quiet. He only looked down into his teacup and mumbled, “You lost your wife as well?”

Damn it. Wrong thing to say. “Well, yes,” Lawrence said, wanting to avoid any problems from the other man. “But I learned to keep moving forward, as you can only do-”

He stopped when he heard John take a shuddering breath and he looked to see the man was shaking. He couldn’t believe what he thought was happening was actually happening and incredulously asked, “Are you crying-?”

“No.” John stated, although he was clearly rattled. He stood up from the table aggressively and turned away from Lawrence, letting out a choked noise before asking, “Where’s your bathroom?”

Lawrence was so disturbed by the fact that a fellow murderer was crying in front of him, he simply stuttered out, “Uh, the third door down the right hallway.”

“Thank you.” John nearly fell down from how fast he tried to leave, the chair almost being taken with him. Lawrence watched as the man stomped away before sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He didn’t expect the man to cry but clearly he shouldn’t have mentioned his wife. Some people don’t have the strength to move on.

That thought instantly made him dig his nails into his face. Wait. Did he lock Marshall’s door?

As John made his way to the door, he turned the doorknob just to realize it was locked. He was about to go tell Lawrence he thought the door was jammed, when he heard the sink start running. Was someone else here? Lawrence didn’t mention anyone else. He stood there, staring at the door until it unlocked. Out came a young man—boy, perhaps?— dressed in a cute orange t-shirt with little polka-dots on it and a pair of baggy brown shorts.

John blinked. So did the boy. Before either of them knew it, Lawrence was scrambling in the hallway, pushing the small brunet behind him. “Oh, sorry about him, he’s not supposed to be out of his room.” The words were seethed, and Lawrence turned his head to glare at the boy. The boy awkwardly itched the back of his head.

“I had to use the bathroom, I’m sorry…” Lawrence seemed to have calmed down a bit at the apology.

He smiled, it obviously being forced. “John, this is Marshall. Marshall, this is John.”

Marshall timidly waved. “Hi.” He had a faded yet huge bruise on his left eye that looked directly caused, and he was visibly shaking.

John only blinked once again, a million thoughts clearly going through his mind at once going by the look on his face. Lawrence was ready to shove Marshall back into the bathroom to fight this man before John just shrugged and hunched his back once again. “Alright. Fine. Just let me use your restroom, please.”

Lawrence was shocked that John didn’t make a fuss out of it, but moved out of the man’s way to let him by. The second the door clicked shut Lawrence glared at Marshall, who cowered before him. “I told you to stay in your room!” he hissed angrily. “What if this man was dangerous and decided to attack you?!”

Marshall just whimpered. “I’m sorry, I really had to go…” he mumbled.

“I understand that, but if someone potentially dangerous is in the house, you stay in your room! No exceptions!” Lawrence growled, trying to not let Marshall’s scared whines get to his heart. He needed to be disciplined for this. “You will be punished for this, do you understand-”

The sound of soft crying from inside of the bathroom made both of them quiet down. Lawrence gave one last glare to Marshall before going to knock on the door. “John? Is everything alri-”

The door swung open before Lawrence could finish, revealing John who had clearly just finished sobbing his eyes out from how red and puffy they were. “Yes. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” Lawrence asked hesitantly. “You look-”

“I’ll be alright, Lawrence. Nothing a night's rest can help me with. How about we have coffee at my place tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Lawrence looked back at Marshall, who was quivering behind him, most likely scared of whatever punishment Lawrence would give out. He turned back to John with a wide forced smile of his own and nodded. “That sounds great! I’ll see you on your way out!”

John held up a hand and shook his head. “No need for that. I know where to go. Hope to see you tomorrow.” And before Lawrence could protest, John turned around to leave. It was a few moments before he could hear his front door open and slam shut.

Lawrence sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning back to face Marshall. The boy had his hands behind his back, and looked as if he was trying to disappear into the wall. He sighed and waved a hand. “Off to bed, kiddo. I need to think.”

Marshall didn’t dare question that, as long as he could avoid punishment. He nervously scurried back to his room, leaving Lawrence to think.

What was going through John’s head? Did he think he was abusing his son? Did he think this wasn’t his son at all? Lawrence knew both could be argued as true, but not to him. He was still doing this for Marshall’s own safety, but he also was genuinely curious about his life now. In a way, he felt bad for him. He still sometimes found himself crying over Nadia’s death, he understood the pain. He found himself genuinely wanting to be his friend.

A new question arose in his mind, though. What kind of secrets was John hiding?

____

John went to Evan’s room to see him still sedated, just as he had left him. He sighed, sitting down next to him, placing a hand on the side of his cheek. Evan didn't respond to the touch, nor did he wake up. Not that he was expecting him to.

His mind drifted to that boy he saw. Lawrence called him Marshall. John thought about what he saw in the boy’s face. That bruise. His fear. He didn’t know if Lawrence was purely abusive, or if there was more to the story. He didn’t want to assume given his own situation with Evan. But what were the chances Lawrence was just like him? He guessed past the murdering and shared love for black coffee and tea, that was as far as it went. Now that he thought of it, though, the boy seemed about the same age as Evan. Maybe a bit younger. It was hard to tell with his clothing.

Either way, whether Lawrence was like him or not, he needed to gauge if he was a danger to Evan or not. And if he was a danger, maybe to Marshall as well, he had to be dealt with. For both of the boys' sake.

#parental whump #parental whumper #noncon drugging #whump #implied murder #referenced murder

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revierie · 2 years

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“[NAME]! Stop killing people, for god's sake! They have families!”

“If they treasured their families they wouldn't stand in my way,”

#dialogue prompts #writing ideas #writing prompts #dialogue ideas #writeblr #referenced murder #implied murder

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factorialsfandoms · 11 months

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For the short fic ask game, how about number 5?

Right! From what I remember 5 was a forehead kiss so... Okay this is Rune Factory AU, as threatened, from when Bracken (read: Hyrule) was first taken to to the village... Doctor Odel is... A named version of one of the many old men, just one who is a doctor.

Bracken is ~9 here, just... having a really bad time.

This is kinda an unrelated scene as context and setup, then the actual kiss. The worms are not in my favour tonight.

When Rusl had called Doctor Odel out to the edges of the Lost Woods, he had been expecting many things - a member of the hunting party poisoned by the hallucinogenic spores, perhaps, or someone with crushing injuries from a more sentient vine. Being led to a clearing filled with bracken and brambles was not on that list, neither was how Rusl pointed to a spot where the other hunters were not looking.

Odel's sight had been gradually declining for some years, now; he squinted hard, trying to see anything there.

The red of ginger hair came first.

The red of well hidden blood came second.

And only combining them did he spot the child hiding within.

"We tried to get him out," Rusl sighed a little. "He wouldn't come, then when we tried to grab him he ran, but we can't leave him out here. Been pretending we're still looking so he doesn't freak out again."

They really couldn't; Odel had to wonder how the child had even found their way so deep into the Lost Woods. Alone, at that. Unless the parent was dead nearby, but...

"I'll handle it."

Rusl nodded, and gestured the other hunters to move along. To Odel he whispered a quiet promise to check the local area for monsters, just in case the child ran again.

Odel waited for them to leave, and then approached the patch of bracken where the child hid. He did not reach out, however, instead knelt down nearby. Old bones creaked and groaned, and Odel did his best to ignore them.

Once safely on the floor, Odel rummaged through his bag for his flask, and made himself a cup of tea. Not looking at the child he sat, and sipped at it for a little.

And then.

"Hello," he offered in the direction of the bush. "Are you alright, child?"

No answer at all.

Odel frowned, putting an end to the ploy immediately; given the reported skittishness, he should have at least heard some shuffling. Instead there was nothing, not even some leaves.

He thought of the blood again, shoving his flask away and ensuring bandages were to hand.

With aching bones and a little spite, he pulled himself back to his feet.

"Child?" he said again. "Do you understand me?"

Still nothing.

"I'm going to come to you," he spoke slower, explaining. "Please - I just want to help."

When no objection came, he did exactly that. In three strides he made it to the correct patch of bracken, and pushed the branches aside.

There was more blood than he had expected. The child was curled tightly around himself, pale, and his eyelids fluttered only slightly as Odel approached.

"I'm a doctor," Odel said quietly, trying to soothe the terror in hazy eyes. The spores, perhaps? "I just want to help. Will you let me?"

The child did not object, and so Odel reached down. It was only as he picked the child up that he realised he possibly should have called Rusl back to help, rather than rely on ancient bones.

Another moment, and he realised the child was impossibly light.

Not just underweight or even starving, but so light it should not have been possible.

The most obvious explanation was that the poor child was some sort of monster-born. It would... Well the forest would have let him through, but nothing else. The poor thing, no matter he was suffering.

Briefly, he wondered if it was kinder to put the poor creature out of its misery. But, no, no, this was a child - as human as not - and one capable of being human all of the time.

He was also gravely wounded.

With a few steps he bought the boy back to his bag. He set him down on a patch of softer grass, hurridly grabbing supplies. Everything would be treated properly when they got back to the Clinic, but for now he needed to stop the bleeding.

Odel's hands hesitated over the needles. If he were monster-born, the iron... Hopefully the tape would hold until they got back. He had some needles he used for the farm monsters at the Clinic. Maybe he should start keeping them in his emergency bag...

Sunken eyes, pale skin, clearly malnourished (what would he even need to eat?), covered in scratches and scars and a serious of thick whip wounds across not his back but his chest. Rags, not clothes. He might loose that eye if he were unlucky, but Odel thought he could save it, so long as the boy survived... So injured in the mud for who knows how long...

As Odel worked, the boy neither flinched nor made a sound. He just... lay there, eyes tracking him even as his body did not respond. Chances were he would remember none of this; Odel rather hoped so.

Once the bleeding was stopped and Odel thought his body would survive the spell, he called Rusl back. It did not take long to explain the situation and give Rusl's return token to the boy. Odel would bother Farore for a new one if the boy stayed, but for now...

He clicked the charm around the boy's neck, and pressed a finger to it. So, too, did he press a finger to his own. With a fragment of magic he activated the old spells, pulling them both from the Woods. It lasted only a few seconds before the two were found in the sacred grove; he bowed his head to that ancient tree, scooping up his patient.

The Clinic was only two doors down from the waypoint; the child would be safe here. They could find a way to hide him. Odel doubted that the hunters had realised, and he was not about to let them know.

---

Three weeks later, Odel was busy cleaning. Despite the infection he had expected setting in and his frail condition, the boy had survived. Still he did not speak or even make a sound, via trauma or magic or just the nature of himself Odel was not sure. And there certainly was trauma; when he had returned from helping Uli through the birth of her first son, he had found the boy awake, eyes blown wide with fear.

A promise it was okay, a kiss on the forehead, an offer to stay until he fell asleep; the boy clung to his sleeve as he did his best to curl up, still shivering from the dream.

Paying more attention at nights now, Odel could see them more often.

Whatever had driven the child into the Woods, it was nothing good. Still, the boy seemed more inclined to stay than to leave, having made no attempt to escape. They still had no name for him, the boy refusing if not unable to write either, and Odel would have to fix that soon.

Both parts. Writing lessons were the simpler, but the name... He could not just name someone else's child. But he could not just call him child forever... Later problems...

And that someone else; too old to be an abandoned baby, but he doubted the child's human parent was alive. Perhaps not either of them were. He would have heard... something.

The last he heard about monster-born children were reports of a mixed monster-human settlement being destroyed by a monster-hunting party. It had turned ugly when they chased a monster back, and found humans willingly beside them... Burnt, destroyed, ravenged... That had been a little under a year ago.

... He hated that it was not just possible but plausible the child had escaped that bloodbath.

Busy thinking about other things, he did not realise immediately that the boy was 'calling' for him, making an insistent beckoning gesture towards him.

Odel put down the brush, and turned to face him.

"Did you need something?" he asked.

The boy gestured a little more insistently for him to approach.

Odel did so, and he watched a calculation in his eyes. After a few long moments, a hand reached out and caught Odel's sleese, tugging it down. Caught off guard, even the fragile strength of a sick and injured child was enough to have him stumble fowards a little.

His chin was caught by the child, and then... something pressed to his head.

It took Odel a moment, and then he realised - a kiss to his forehead.

He paused, and let the boy finished, trying to think what had bought this on. Was it...

Oh.

"Thank you, child," he showed the boy his hand, before reaching out. He ran a hand over the boy's hair, watching as he relaxed a little. "Did you realise I was worried?"

A small nod.

Copying him, then.

Odel smiled softly, leaning over and granting the boy a gift of his own.

The boy yawned, silent as ever.

"Get some more sleep; I'll be right there."

The boy reached out, grabbing Odel's hand. He held it back, tracing soft patterns on the hand until eyes stayed closed.

#link factory #fanfic #harm to child #major character injury #though somehow still fluff #referenced murder #you know the good messy backstory stuff

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saturdaysky · 7 months

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you lose sight of it, somehow, when you consort with gods: how fragile mortals are, and how precious.

[gale of waterdeep & my pc, mayhew of nowhere in particular]

#mayhew is a gnome warlock/wizard who makes bad choices #mild act 1 goblin camp spoilers in tags that follow:#the fight was bc Mayhew hubris'd his way into Dror Ragzlin's mind but failed to hubris his way out #for some reason dror and all 99 of his favorite friends got mad about that #Shadowheart got HORRIBLY murdered in the spider pit. Mayhew got ensnared in vines while in an acid pool and taking arrows (lol)#i ran out of healing potions #gale and lae'zel survived to flee with the bodies of their friends #play on tactician guys it makes your games deliciously dramatic #anyway the rituals between mayhew and gale are intricate #mayhew #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #sky does bg3 #my art #referenced a pose from pexels -- they're a great site check em out #galehew

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mmeqkoi · 1 month

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ah yes, a face of a 13 year old 😭😭

#meqkoi speaks #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr spoilers #hsr gallagher #HSR SPOLIERS IN TAGS #mfer aint actually 13 years old #the T in Thirteen is capitalized #which if hes talking about his age then there wouldnt be a capital T #I’m Thirteen could be referenced to the Thirdteenth tarot card Death #spoliers at the end of 2.1 sunday supposedly died #assumebly killed by gallagher #Sunday was aware that Gallagher was responsible for the murder or Firefly and Robin #and from the beginning Sunday was suspicious of him from the start and was bargining on Aventurine making a scene in the amusement park #he said that he was the one who cleared the park from guest #and he even said that Gallagher and the memory dream meme are connected #which connects since the memory dream meme is also called Death #when March asked Gallagher how old he was he played it off with him saying hes thirteen which obviously looking at him is not the case #but they werent able to make the tarot card connection since it was random and said in a sarcastic way #How it was written and Gallagher looking right at us when he said I’m Thirteen #what he really meant was I’m Death #he and the memory dream meme are connected one way for another #he was talking to us the audience

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cartsandhorses · 9 days

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dare I say art museum date number two?

#dr. no 1962 frame referenced. If I find it I’ll link it #they’re married here but “dr. lecter please quit showing your nude drawings of me in public”#random person with the bag is definitely stealing something #do not watch movies with me. i will be pausing/writing down time stamps of frames that catch my attention #or worse yet pause the movie every time i see horses to improve my drawing #(age of uprising im looking at you specifically)#yes those are the ineffable husbands in the back #crowley doesn’t know whether to put their hand on aziraphale’s back or not #hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannigram #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal fanart #art #hannigram fanart #murder husbands #my stuff

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frontlinebicepsoftheninth · 1 year

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an underrated harrow line that goes hard is right before the lobotomy when she's telling ianthe she sucks compared to palamedes and says "You are not even so worthy of that brain as to wipe its bloodied remnants from the wall." like god damn

#a pinterest meme brought me here #because it referenced the following line which was harrow calling her a murderer conwoman cheat liar slitherer #which i genuinely did not remember and had to look up lol #htn #harrow the ninth spoilers #harrow the ninth #htn spoilers #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb spoilers #tlt #the locked tomb

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404-art-found · 1 year

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Being a war machine, V1 was not built with music appreciation in mind; its mind and budding sentience is hardwired for violence and personal gain. It listens to Gabriel play, listens to the terminals, and what does it gain?

V1 cannot (knowingly) create something new. It repeats what it knows works, it layers these repetitions atop each other to amplify their use to it. It can only mimic what it has heard before, note by note, at the exact pace they were heard, a mechanically measured replay. A perfect replication by its own hands, yet dull, unsatisfying, compared to replayed memory clips of music.

It feels it is doing something wrong.

#thoughts #my art #ultrakill #v1 #ultrakill v1 #[edit to add: top image Heavily Referenced from hakita's tweet of an in-game screenshot]#quite fond of the idea of it walking the tightrope between sentience and nonsentience; and gradually becoming more self-aware and-#-reflective as time goes on and it experiences more #anyways. I think it is incapable of creating things for the sake of appreciation for a very long time #mimicry upon mimicry and eventually something will break and become new; pointless but beautiful to it #imperfections in the playing of an organ. pointless showy-ness in the murder of husks. it learns to make.

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whumpacabra · 2 months

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Mouse

Panic attack, claustrophobic environment, self deprecating thoughts, begging, anticipated violence, exhaustion, firearm mention, broken glass mention, referenced murder, implied past failed suicide attempt, implied past conditioning and trauma

[Directly follows Cat]

He couldn’t breathe - he couldn’t breathe - fuck, he couldn’t fucking breathe -

What had he done? What had he done?

Why? Why would he do that?

How had he done that?

(Who was his handler now? )

The Wolf couldn’t breathe - couldn’t think - not with the sound and the light and the exposure of being seen -

The Box. He needed the Box. He had made a mistake - he disobeyed, indirectly - he needed to be put away for a bit until he could think himself to death and figure out what the hell he just did.

This ancient supply closet would do, filled with long expired chemicals and cobwebs. Small. Cramped. Dark. Door closed. Alone.

Think, you dumb mutt.

Breathing was getting easier, thinking wasn’t. His mind was filled with frozen molasses, the last few moments playing back like a rewound VHS.

He ran from the enemy. (Coward.) He collapsed from pain after vaulting over the fence. (Weak.) He threw away the gun, he hadn’t spared one of his handlers three bullets for himself. (Idiot.)

But before that - what had happened? He was tired, still bloody and exhausted from his earlier punishment. And with exhaustion came resentment - dangerous, volatile.

Something that could simmer low, unchecked by a brain too focused on mere survival. Something that would wait until his handler peered around a corner, groping for his pistol that the Wolf had lifted from its holster with steady hands. Something that curled in satisfaction at the fear in his handler’s eyes, anger burned away by acceptance as the first bullet cut into a tender, unprotected throat.

And now, having unfurled in all its glory, that resentment withered to sickly regret.

What was the Wolf without his handler? Certainly not whatever he had been Before. Now, he was a coward, weak and stupid and crying in a broom closet like a frightened child.

Boots disturbed broken glass, uneven footsteps intending to slip past less sensitive hearing. But the Wolf knew who was there, creeping down the hallway. He had been listening to those boots for days now. The airport. The hotel hallway. On the roof across the street.

(His handler didn’t ask what the Wolf heard or knew, so he hadn’t shared their tail with him.)

(Now it felt like a betrayal worthy of every second of agony he had endured over the last few days. Worthy of whatever hell lay ahead of him.)

The Wolf didn’t flinch as the door opened, but he hadn’t expected to be found so easily. (There was dust everywhere here - an observant tail would clearly see what door handles were recently used.) (Idiot.)

“You…alright there, mate?” The Wolf was so, so tired. Was he supposed to respond? Did it matter? “Hey, you hearing me? Look at me.”

The Wolf blinked, the ingrained desire to follow orders as soon as they were given turning his eyes from the floor between his knees to the face at the doorway. For all he had heard their tail these last few days, he had hardly seen the enigmatic man.

He was currently soaked, the Wolf suddenly realizing the drone in his ears wasn’t panic but the rain outside. But besides the rainwater beading down the stranger’s face, there was a pair of steely grey eyes looking down at the Wolf with an expression he couldn’t make sense of. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Annoyed?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.

The stranger dropped to a crouch in the doorway, the Wolf tensing in anticipation of a blow. Of unwanted hands. He tucked his head under his arms with a strangled sob, waiting waiting - just get it over with already -

“Easy, love, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Agent Jackson. What’s your name?” His name. The script. The Wolf uncurled a fraction, head still ducked but looking vaguely in the agent’s direction.

“I am Wolf.” His own voice felt clunky in his sore throat, iron on his tongue as he swallowed back the pain. The agent nodded, gentle grey eyes beckoning the Wolf relax against his better judgement.

“You’re a freelancer, right?” The Wolf didn’t know what that meant, but his empty stare was taken as confirmation. “Did Agent Smith hire you?”

“No one hired me. I work alone.” The Wolf bit his tongue until he tasted fresh blood. He had gotten ahead of himself, and now the agent was making that face again -

“You were with Agent Smith earlier, right?” He have a stiff nod. Lying would hurt more in the long run. He just needed to stick to the script.

“Why did you kill him?”

The Wolf’s breathing shuddered. He had, hadn’t he? He killed his handler. He was no different than the rabid dogs he had seen the project put down. A broken bastard that bit the hand that fed.

“I didn’t - it was a - please - please, it won’t - sir, please I can’t - ” Begging never helped, sometimes it hurt, but it was the only thing he could force between hollow gasps. But he couldn’t - he couldn’t survive another punishment. Not now. Not with wounds so fresh and a body so broken. “I can’t.”

Somehow, the agent seemed to understand. Somehow, the agent was generous enough to grant the Wolf a temporary reprieve.

“Shush, shh, it’s - it’s alright love, you’re not…I’m not fishing for a confession.” The agent swallowed, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced down the hallway. The Wolf could hear approaching tires in the distance. “Agent Smith had something that I’m looking for. An asset he stole; do you know what I’m talking about?”

The Wolf stared into those soft grey eyes. Wasn’t he the asset? But the Wolf wasn’t stolen - he was transferred, for a disciplinary interim. That’s what his handler told him. Did this agent not know that? Was this agent unaffiliated with the project?

“Nevermind - let’s - let’s get you out of here, alright?” There was a shuffle of fabric, and the Wolf flinched, folding in on himself. But no hands grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet. All that followed was a soft sigh and whispered words. “C’mon mate, get up; let’s get going.”

The Wolf glanced between strands of his own tangled hair, the stranger standing still. Waiting. Patient. Soft. Everything his handler never was. Everything a weapon like him wasn’t allowed. His breathing shuddered again as he gulped down a lungful of air.

Get up. An order. Lesson number one. Do as you are told, without hesitation.

His legs strained, shaking under him as the Wolf stumbled to stand in the cramped broom closet. He could feel himself trembling as he looked to the agent for approval. Those grey eyes flicked down the hall, expression gentle as he nodded and started walking.

“Follow me.”

One foot in front of the other.

Endure.

Again and again and again. Just to see another day of pain. Just to maybe see the sun once more.

Again and again and again.

[Directly before Bad Dog]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

#whump #panic attack #claustrophobic environment #self deprecation #begging #anticipated violence #exhaustion #firearms #broken glass #referenced murder #failed suicide attempt #past suicide attempt #past conditioning #past trauma #freelancers #the lad is havin a bad time smh smh #directly before tomorrow's prompt so *eyes* enjoy the wolf struggle bus :]

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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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