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emcscared-whumps · 6 months

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WiJ 2023 - 06: Deprived (4/10)

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Definitely not the monster I thought it would be, but this is all gonna be horrendous when I put it together lol, but that's a 6-snippets-i.e.-an-age-from-now problem. (God, why is the spacing on tungle acting so weird? Maybe I actually need to let this thing do all of the windows updates it wants... so inconvenient).

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CONTENT and WARNINGS: Panic attack, flashbacks, broken bones, crush injuries, spinal injury, mild description of gore, multiple whumpees, fellow whumpee acting as something of a caretaker

wc: ~1.3k

As if it could sense Cole’s distress, the debris’ weight atop him seemed to increase, forcing more air from his straining lungs than he could replenish. Each breath hurt like nothing else.

Jagged points of broken ribs dug into his muscle, while the smooth lengths dug into his lungs. Knives were the only thing comparable. He could hardly think.

Why was his ability failing him now?

Instead of the steady, reliable strength and vitality, an uncomfortably warm weakness coursed through his veins.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe.

It was all too much.

It’s not real! he cried inwardly.

It had to be another of his mind’s evil attempts at dragging him back into the past. That’s all this was, just another dream. He wasn’t laying here, on his back crushed under the unforgiving weight of concrete and steel, losing his mind.

Strained, scared grunts escaped his lungs as he gave everything he had and more to budge the weight with his free arm and twisted his broken body to free a leg to help, and broken whines built in his throat when he failed. In any other circumstance, Cole would’ve been embarrassed by such pitiful sounds, but the pain was so uncontrollable and immense that he couldn’t help them.

More sand hissed and fell onto his face, and rock slid against rock; a sure sign that whatever pinned him was shifting, gifting him a heavenly inch across his chest. Greedily, he gulped at the dusty air despite the agony that rent his body without his ability.

The relief that flooded him was immense; it was worth the pain.

Now, he just had to move from under it. He’d made it this far, surely…

Cole wriggled his torso, trying to cock a leg to help take the weight.

The load did not get lighter.

Oh no, oh no no no.

He wriggled again, but nothing he did or thought could wake his dormant limbs.

It’s not real, it can’t be real.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t…

Move.

Cole couldn’t move.

The strain was fast catching up—pain lanced and bled through every bone from his head, to his shoulders, to his ribs, and through the arm that propped the hunk of debris off his chest, but everything past his waist was… eerily peaceful.

There was no pain; not even discomfort.

Just… nothing.

Nothing.

He couldn’t feel the entire lower half of his body.

Cole’s mind raced. His chest, despite the small relief, constricted sickeningly tight. Fear ripped through his pounding heart, tearing his mind to shreds and stealing more air than the debris ever could. Around him, the faint din of machinery replaced the groans and cracks of the collapsed building, and the faint echoing voices of workers and his own, muted screams reverberated through the open floor of his old factory. The hazy ghost of a man had wondered beneath the pipes, still suspended by ropes that refused to retire. They had corrosion, Cole had seen it.

The sound of straining steel cords whipped through Cole’s mind.

The man had a partner, a kid… or was it two?

What good was he id he left him under the—he had to get him out from under—he was under the pipes and they were going to fall…!

The ropes snapped and the pipes fell and landed with a sickening crunch.

The man was safe, thrown to the side so harshly that Cole was sure something broke, but his kids would still have a father.

That was the only thought left in Cole’s mind as he fought for life, broken, pinned under the pipes in that man’s place, eyes burning neon blue for all to see.

“Call the hunters!” came a murky voice. It was soon joined by more.

It was going to happen all over again.

Cole struggled harder, unable to stop the cries that spilled from his mouth. He had to get out, he had to get away, they would go after Mel and Penny…! He couldn’t let that happen!

Something in him snapped, lending him the strength to push harder still, causing whatever was above him to groan.

A broken shriek tore through the fragments of memories that plagued Cole’s mind. A familiar voice whimpered and groaned, stumbling over his words. Cole couldn’t make them out over the thundering of his heart in his ears, and his too-fast, shallow breaths, but he was sure he heard his name. It hurt to wonder.

He just kept panting, he couldn’t get enough air, his chest hurt, he felt sick.

He was going to die under here. The hunters would find him, hurt him, and prolong his suffering.

“C-Cole…!” the voice gasped.

It was his name…

“Stop, st-stop…! Please! C-Can’t—breathe--! Hurts—!”

Can’t—

Breathe…!

Cole’s body shook now. He couldn’t fail, not again, he couldn’t let the pipes back down, but, slowly, the strain was becoming too much. He tried to breathe, but a cough rattled his chest, cutting his breath short.

Not enough, not enough.

He gasped again, greedily inhaling the staling, dusty air with a shudder.

“C—Cole—!”

Coles body failed him, sending the flat, concrete pipes crashing back down onto his body.

Already cracked ribs splintered further, but the chunk slid off him, releasing his chest.

He could breathe. He could finally breathe.

But that was the only thing he could do.

Darkness still surrounded him, and his injuries hadn’t yet healed. He could not stop the panic that clawed its way through his chest, and crushed his dry throat, refusing to relent. He didn’t move again save for the uneven dips of the breathless, shallow gasps which wracked his body.

The other voice spoke again, but Cole couldn’t comprehend a single word. All he could hear was the hazy yelling that echoed through the warehouse, and the sickening, humming laugh of a man clad in black, face adorned with a golden mask. It glimmered like the stars that swam in Cole’s vision, concealing the identity of a man whose eyes were filled with an unmistakable cruelty and ambition.

That look sent a shiver down his spine.

“C-Cole—” the voice said, “ye’re not—he’s not here—b-breathe—”

Fragments.

His mind refused to hear more than a few words at a time, and those he did, he couldn’t understand.

Suddenly, a cool, inhuman hand found his. The grip was shaky and weak, but, all the same, it wrapped its webbed fingers around his dusty palm and helped ease the uncomfortable heat of the stress and strain.

Cole’s breath shuddered in his chest, and he choked out a sob.

No one held his hand in those hazy memories, no one extended him even an ounce of comfort; no one cared for the demon broken and pinned under the pipes, but… the young belunae that laid beside him, trapped in the same, suffocating darkness did.

“Th-that’s it, I—think… yeah,” Pete said, voice hitching and strained, “just—breathe, l-long, slow b-b-breaths. Th-that’s what T-Timmy—w-what Timmy says.”

How he’d even begun to succeed, Cole didn’t know, but the smooth indentations of scales, the sharp but gentle claws that rested against his skin, and the steady shake of Pete’s hand seemed to act like a tether, softly pulling Cole’s mind back to reality whenever it strayed too far.

Cole couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel his legs, he still could barely breathe, but he wasn’t alone.

He coughed, fouling his mouth with dust and who knew what else.

“You—you okay, kid?” he rasped.

The young belunae would probably never know how much what he did meant to Cole.

He was content to leave it that way.

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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 1 year

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Mark

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze’ith tries to get some fresh air. Ivetta and Lord Denholm take steps to ensure that he never tries again.

Contains: Failed escape attempt, gilded cage, stabbing, intimate whumper, multiple whumpers, mental connection between whumper and whumpee, graphic depiction of injury, painful magical healing, manhandling, stress positions, mind/thought control, branding, magical whump

~~~

“Where do you think you’re going?

Elze’ith froze mid-stride. The castle doors were tauntingly close, only a few yards away. He had thought, at this early hour, he might have been able to make it outside. See the dawn sun. Feel the wind on his face. Even if it was only for a little while.

But evidently he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Swallowing, he turned towards the source of the voice. Outfitted in her patrol gear, Ivetta stood with her arms crossed and a frown on her face, sharp and composed as though it weren’t the break of dawn.

“You are not to leave the castle unless accompanied by Lord Denholm,” she said flatly.

“I just wanted to step outside for a few moments,” he protested, but it sounded weak, even to his ears.

Ivetta pressed her lips together. “Lord Denholm has made himself very clear.”

He hesitated. If he gave in, he might be able to escape Lord Denholm’s ire. Or, at the very least, prevent things from becoming any worse from himself.

But the doors were right there.

Throwing up a shield or releasing a burst of blinding light didn’t occur to him. He just turned and bolted. The thought of defending himself had barely entered his head when his left shoulder exploded in pain and a blow to his legs sent him off-balance. Ivetta pressed down on him from behind, and he let out a cry of pain and alarm as he thudded to the ground.

A knee pressed into the small of his back, but he barely noticed it. Wave after wave of pain rolled through him, centered on his left shoulder. His left arm had erupted in a cascade of fiery numbness; attempts to move that hand resulted only in weak twitches. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned in pain and tried to fight the nausea that spiked with each heartbeat.

From the back of his mind came a flicker of curiosity. Elze’ith tried to push aside the dread that was mounting in him, but it was difficult to regulate his emotions when he was in such agony.

“Lord Denholm!” Ivetta’s voice was strong, but unbothered. She held her position on top of Elze’ith, needlessly keeping him pinned to the castle floor. Presumably, her sword was buried in his shoulder, but Elze’ith wasn’t going to try to check. The last thing he wanted was to move in a way that would further aggravate his injury.

He wasn’t sure how long the two of them sat in the entrance hall. By all accounts, it couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes. But the time seemed to stretch and warp as the pain became the only thing he could focus on. Each breath he took became more labored, and the world began to spin. All the while the vague interest in the back of his mind never faded.

Eventually, he distantly heard the clack of footsteps against stone, and felt the overwhelming power that accompanied Lord Denholm’s presence. The curiosity in his head changed momentarily to shock, and then displeasure, and he couldn’t hold back a small whine.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Denholm’s voice betrayed no emotion.

“He tried to escape, milord.”

“I see.” The words were drawn out, borderline amused. There was a brief pause, and when Lord Denholm spoke again, the voice was closer, as though he were no longer standing. “Remove your sword and step back, Ivetta.”

“Sir.”

A cry wrenched itself from Elze’ith’s throat as the blade was pulled free, tearing through muscle and nerves anew. The removal was done cleanly, at least, but it still brought a burst of pain that had Elze’ith gasping. The weight on his back left him, but Elze’ith had no strength to even attempt to push himself upright.

Lord Denholm spoke again, his voice low and almost soothing. “You should have known better, my light. Ivetta wouldn’t have had to do this if you didn’t try to leave. We’re going to have to set things in order. Now, you need to heal your shoulder.”

It wasn’t a command. But Elze’ith didn’t want to let it become one. Nor did he want to leave the injury as it was, given its severity. With a grunt of exertion he raised his right hand to his back and began to pour healing magic into the hole in his shoulder.

Burning electricity ran up and down his arm as his nerves reconnected where the blade had severed them. His muscles stitched themselves back together, attaching themselves to bone and blood vessels. Straining, he pushed his magic further through his body until it reached the front of his shoulder and began to mend the damage there; the process was slower, as the distance made the magic less potent. He gasped raggedly through the pain until his skin finally sealed, and he was able to go limp once again.

A hand caught his before it hit the floor, lifting it back up and away from his body. Lips pressed against his palm, and a tongue dabbed at the blood that stained it. Stomach turning, Elze’ith clenched his eyes tighter and waited for Lord Denholm to be done. Exhausted from taking and healing the injury, he didn’t have the strength to pull away.

After several long moments Lord Denholm released his hand. There was the sound of stone scuffing as Lord Denholm presumably stood. “Help him up. We’re going downstairs.”

Apprehension shot through him. Downstairs were the dungeons; nothing good could happen down there. He finally forced his eyes open as Ivetta grabbed his arm. It tingled painfully at her touch, the nerves still not quite back to normal. With a rough tug she hoisted him upright; Elze’ith almost went down again, still dizzy and disoriented, but Ivetta’s unyielding grip on his arm kept him level.

By the time they arrived in the dungeons, most of the pain and dizziness from his earlier wound had faded. The nausea that churned in his stomach was for an altogether different reason as Lord Denholm led them into one of the many underground chambers. With a snap of his fingers, Lord Denholm lit a fire in a furnace set into the far wall of the room. In the orange-red light, Elze’ith’s eyes were drawn to the chains and manacles hanging from the walls, the too-pristine stone table in the center of the room, and the metal rods extending from the furnace.

He swallowed. The pieces were starting to fit together in his mind, and he didn’t like the conclusion he was forming.

“Take off your shirt. It’s ruined anyway.” Lord Denholm didn’t look at him as he spoke, instead striding further into the room. Ivetta finally released his arm. He took a shuddering breath.

“I just wanted to see the sun,” he whispered, but began to undo the buttons of his shirt anyway.

“Why would you want to do that?” Lord Denholm looked at him over his shoulder; his smile was pitying. “You already have everything you need.”

Then why go through all the trouble to keep me here? The thought was gone before he could properly grasp it. All that was left was a sense of longing, and shame for thinking he ever could have gone back on his agreement with Lord Denholm.

The blood on his shirt stuck to his skin, and he peeled it off with a grimace. Ivetta took it from him without a word, her expression as steely as ever. Though the wound had completely healed, leaving no scar, his skin was still stained with the red-brown of the blood that had poured out around the sword. The incongruity would have been disorienting, if he wasn’t so used to it.

Ivetta grabbed him again, this time with a hand on each of his arms. With a harsh push he was up against the table, and then his air left his lungs as he was forced onto his stomach on top of it. Lord Denholm grabbed his right hand and yanked him roughly forward so that he was entirely on the stone slab. Ivetta maintained her grip on his left arm and circled the table. There was a clinking of metal, and manacles snapped shut around each of his wrists, leaving them outstretched at his sides and slightly raised. The pair stepped around him once again, and his shoes and socks were removed so that manacles could similarly be placed around his ankles. The chains didn’t stretch his legs, but he felt their weight nonetheless.

Elze’ith tried to take a steadying breath. The way his arms were extended would affect blood flow, and he knew from experience that Lord Denholm wasn’t one to let him relax just because he was in an uncomfortable position. If he was lucky, this would be his only punishment for disobeying Lord Denholm’s rules.

If he wasn’t lucky… He had a feeling they were in this chamber for a reason.

Fingers trailed down his back, the touch cold and feather-light. He shivered. “Isn’t he beautiful like this?”

Ivetta merely grunted in response. “Do you want me to gag him?”

Lord Denholm hummed. “I suppose that would be best. We don’t want him biting through his tongue.”

Elze’ith’s heart skipped a beat. A hand threaded into his hair and wrenched his head up. For a moment he and Ivetta stared at each other. Then she grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it into Elze’ith’s mouth. He let out a muffled sound of alarm around the intrusion, but she paid him no mind, dropping his hair and grabbing the sides of the cloth to wrap around his head. His head thumped against the stone table, and he let himself lie there, breathing harshly through his nose.

Footsteps clicked on stone as Ivetta strode away. “They still need a few minutes.”

“That’s alright. There’s no rush.”

The fingers on his back trailed up his spine and along his arm. Elze’ith squeezed his eyes shut. Was being touched like this part of his punishment, too? His disgust was swiftly swept aside; at least Lord Denholm was treating him with some affection, rather than the cold disregard Elze’ith had experienced the last time he had been punished. This was better.

Right?

The minutes passed slowly, with Lord Denholm casually stroking Elze’ith’s bare form. Finally, Ivetta spoke up again. “They’re ready. Which did you want?”

“The runic one will do best for my purposes.” There was a clink of metal against metal, then footsteps approaching.

Lord Denholm tapped a spot at the base of Elze’ith’s neck, then his touch left entirely. “Right here. And remember—” For a moment Lord Denholm’s voice was right next to Elze’ith’s ear— “You’ve forced my hand on this, my light.”

In the next moment, everything he knew was fire, white-hot and all-consuming. Everything he knew narrowed to the base of his neck, the last spot Lord Denholm had touched, and the way it had exploded into agony. He was burning, burning, burning. All of his senses were overcome by it- the sound of his own ragged and muffled screaming, the acrid stench of his own sweat and burning flesh, the reflexive tensing and untensing of his muscles as he tried desperately to escape his bounds and get away. There was no thought, only the inferno that lay claim to him.

Hands landed on his back, too close to the centerpoint of his agony, and he bucked and shrieked in protest. A new sound found its way into the cacophony, and he didn’t understand what it was, only that it was familiar yet did nothing to assuage the terror and torment that roiled within him. The fire kept burning, and with the new sound, the new voice, it seemed to go deeper, past his skin and into his very soul. He barely had any breath left but screamed in pain and denial all at once. He was paid no heed; the fire seared its mark on him deeper than he could have imagined.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed. Eventually, though, the fire began to dim. His own screams morphed into ragged sobs. After a while he could recognize Lord Denholm’s voice, chanting something in the language of magic, and his frigid hands on Elze’ith’s skin. Though the physical pain had receded, the fire in his soul continued to smolder, until Lord Denholm pulled his hands away and Elze’ith was left in a painful, but tolerable, equilibrium.

“There we are. Much better,” Lord Denholm purred. “Now I’ll know where you are at all times, my light. No more trying to leave without me, alright?”

Elze’ith was still reeling. His thoughts were sluggish, like they were smoke and he was trying to catch them with his bare hands. Whatever Lord Denholm had just done, it hadn’t just been to cause him pain. What he had done, though, he couldn’t quite grasp.

Not that it mattered. He didn’t want to anger Lord Denholm further. Mustering all of his strength, he nodded against the stone.

“Good. Ivetta, help me get him down.”

His shoulders burned, and they fell limply when they were released. Perhaps he could have tried to push himself upright, but he had no strength left. He simply lay there as Ivetta and Lord Denholm moved around him.

“You decided to make the brand invisible?”

Oh.

“I didn’t want to mar his beautiful form,” Lord Denholm answered. “The magic still took hold. And the experience itself should be quite instructive.”

Again, Ivetta only gave a grunt in response. Within a few moments Elze’ith was free of his bonds, and Lord Denholm wasted no time sweeping him up into his arms. Elze’ith was too exhausted to feel much of anything about it.

Lord Denholm undid the gag from Elze’ith’s mouth with an almost tender touch. “I’ll take you up to the study. You can rest on the couch while I get some work done.”

Elze’ith closed his eyes and leaned into Lord Denholm’s chest. At least he didn’t have to walk out on his own. At least he was being given a chance to rest. At least all Lord Denholm had wanted was a way to track him. Everything still ached, but it could have been so much worse.

#flicker in the dark #whump #whump writing #silly writes #elze'ith sylrel oc #ivetta vernier oc #lord soren denholm oc #Branding #intimate whump #magic #mind control #mind reading #stress position #manhandling

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dump-o-whump · 2 years

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Mine — 2.5: Underwater

written for the august writing challenge (@augustwritingchallenge)!! :) i actually want to participate in a prompt list for once and i have a fuckton of ideas for this prompt so HERE WE GO. ALSO!! this was not written in order, this is the first thing i’ve posted of this series. ALSO!! this is technically kinda late?? but i’m posting it at 12:52am on the 2nd so cut me some slack here. ALSO!! i’m doing AU-gust kinda differently, as in i’m writing non-planned canon chapters for different series for each of the prompts instead of writing full on AUs ??

content: demon whumpee, angel whumper, lady whump/female whumpee, water torture, burns, drowning

•

Eliza was already terrified when Mae walked into the room. Her breath hitched and her eyes widenekd, but she bit her lip and prayed that she wouldn’t notice.

“Hey there!” Mae grinned. She was always grinning, but now especially. Seemingly because she was dragging a cart holding what looked like a massive fish tank. The water glistened in no light whatsoever, seemingly glowing. It was beautiful, although that wasn’t exactly at the front of Eliza’s mind at the time. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good, and she was scared shitless. She didn’t dare give a response.

Mae grabbed the tank with ease and dropped it on the floor next to the chair Eliza was strapped to. That added to her concern; she had always known angels had superhuman strength, but this was insane. The tank was at least 20ft tall and full of water, for God’s sake, and Mae was throwing it around like it was nothing. Eliza gulped.

“You wanna know what’s in here?” Mae leant against the giant thing and smiled conversationally. Eliza shook her head against the leather restraints, ability to hide her fear wearing thin. Mae laughed. “Well that’s just too bad, ‘cause you’re gonna find out.”

Mae leant down, effortlessly grabbed the chair holding Eliza, and sprouted her wings. They burst from her back in an agonising flash of light that earned a choked scream. Eliza hissed away, but each beat sent flashes through her closed eyes.

Then Mae dropped her in, and she gasped in shock.

She immediately regretted that.

She hit the water and her first thought was cold. Her second, ironically, was hot. The water burnt her every inch. It was like the feeling of an angel’s touch, but worse; it hit her all at once, filling her lungs as she desperately fought for breath, muffling her excruciated screams and pleas. The pain was immediately unbearable and all-consuming. Eliza thrashed desperately, but she couldn’t break free. The leather was tight and thick. She couldn’t get away from the burning no matter how hard she tried.

She couldn’t take it. It hurt. It hurt so much. Every inch of her was on fire, it all screamed in agony, and she would have done anything to make it stop. Anything Mae wanted without a second’s hesitation. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. She was underwater and it hurt.

Mae was shouting something. Eliza couldn’t tell, not through the hiss of her muffled screams. Probably some taunt. She didn’t care. Unless it was ‘I’m going to let you out now, sorry’, she didn’t care. She couldn’t. It hurt too much to care. It hurt. It hurt.

It hurt.

•

my pronouns are he/they

sorry if this is shit, i was half sleep when i wrote it lmao

@whumpsday is the only person who’s expressed interest in my stories so i thought i’d tag you :))

#whump #whump blog #whump community #whump series #demons #angels #angel whump #angel whumper #demon whumpee #water whump #burn whump #demon mythology #demon oc #angel oc #nobody is gonna read this lol #august writing challenge #mine series

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hurting-fictional-people · 3 years

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Betrayal Story - Part 6

Hii look at what I finally finished! sorry for taking so long to post this guys, I don't even have an explanation lol... I have something else already half written for the boys so hopefully I won't take so long to update the story again 🙃 anyways, I hope y'all like it <3

tagging @thelazywitchphotographer @swift-perseides @whump-it-like-its-hot @sunflower1000 @msrandonstuff @fromtheo-withlove @boxofsilence @lionhxartx @sometouchofmadness @paleassprince @livingforthewhump @1becky1 @shameful-indulgence @whatwhumpcomments @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @starnight-whump @writingbackwards @noodlesandkareokee @mylifeisonthebookshelf @nightwhumpee

CW: forced sedation, manhandling, drugged whumpee, needle mention, aftermath of branding/burning

Part 1 here, continued from here

Liam can’t move. Every time he does, his arms do too and the mere brush of burned skin against pristine bandages is enough to get him on the verge of tears.

The room he’s kept in is too barren, too small to provide any kind of distraction from the constant pulse of pain – too much and never abating. No one listens or cares when he begs for medication, for anything to ease the agony. The doctor comes in to see him, give him antibiotics and check if there’s no infection, but barely looks at Liam when he whimpers under gloved hands.

The first time he takes a glance at the twisted skin underneath the wound dressing, a breathy, hysterical laugh slips out, quickly followed by a silent gasp as Chase’s initials weigh on his arms. He was always his, in the end, wasn’t he? Even after being betrayed and stabbed and kidnapped, he could never get the agent off his mind. Now he’ll be on Liam’s body as well.

It takes all of his willpower not to rip the dressings off once the doctor and nurses leave, just to stare at the hideous thing his arms are now.

But in the silent room, with nothing to do but think and despair, Liam can’t stop looking at the bandages.

He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at it – at the white itchy gauze, and the burns that hurt underneath it. At the C and the R he knows are forever burned on his skin. Like fucking cattle, marked with his owner’s name. Like the stupid boy who thought he could give his heart away to the beautiful, mysterious man that smiled at him. If nothing else, it is a good reminder of how big of a fool Liam is. If he lives long enough for it to be useful, that is. If Jonah doesn’t decide he’s had enough of Liam soon.

Horror floods him at the thought, and when his heart speeds up, Liam can’t hold it any longer. He pulls off the bandages in one swift movement, holding his breath when a wave of fire licks his arms. It doesn’t stop him from ripping out the second bandage though.

His hands tremble on his lap as Liam stares at the skin above his wrists, red with blood and raw skin disfigured into letters. It looks just as ugly as it feels.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drips on his thigh. And then another and one more, until he’s openly sobbing, chest heaving and stomach twisting.

Lost in tears and the sight of burned skin that sinks into his heart and burns everything there too, Liam only realizes there are people in the room when a hand grabs his forearm.

“What did you do? I just bandaged that,” the nurse complains.

This time, this one time, he moves. Liam yanks his arm away from their grasp and stumbles out of the bed, away from the nurse that stares at him with wide eyes and a startled frown.

“D-d-don’t touch me,” he hisses, holding his hands as close to his chest as he can, and hissing again when sore skin rubs against his shirt. “Stay the fuck away!”

But instead of moving back or so much as talking to him, the nurse calls for the guards and starts walking in his direction.

Liam takes a step backward and presses his back against the wall, wild eyes searching for an escape, a weapon, anything, but salvation is nowhere near. “Please, don’t. Leave me alone.”

When the guards open the door and enter the room, Liam slides to the ground, as small as he can make himself, elbows on his knees, arms protecting his head.

“Get off!” he screams when hands grab at him, and thrashes in the hold. His foot connects with soft flesh, his knee with someone’s chin, but there are too many men. Too many hands for too little strength, no matter how desperately Liam fights.

They drag him through the floor as Liam writhes with every last bit of stamina he has, panic driving him to fight like he wishes he could every time he’s hurt.

A different kind of pain blooms as he squirms uselessly in unforgiving grips – one deeper, familiar, warmer. Liam still doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, he reopened the stab wound,” someone shouts over the cacophony of pain and panicked struggling. “Hold him down, now!”

Liam is pushed to the floor, and when someone squeezes both his arms to keep him there, right over the exposed burns, the world turns red, and a scream tears its way out of his throat.

“No, no, no, get off!” he sobs, kicking out even when a needle sinks into his arm. “n-n-nggh off, get, get o-off,” he tries again, but the world is already slipping through his fingers. He kicks out and thrashes as best as he can, but it isn’t enough. There are stronger bodies over him and the movement is barely there at all.

As much as Liam tries to keep his eyes open, they weigh too heavy, the drugs stronger than he is.

What isn’t?

Liam’s body relaxes against his will, slumps under harsh hands and angry stares, and all he can do is whimper when they drag his limp body to the bed.

Chase moves through life like a ghost, only a shell of helplessness and worry, and for the first time, his team notices. He hasn’t slept in days, not with Liam’s face twisted in agony ready to wake him up each time he closes his eyes. Has barely eaten, no appetite left when all he can think about is the boy he loves being hurt on his account.

How can he be free when Liam is locked up? How can he be the one who isn’t hurting when he is the only one who ever deserved it?

“Come on, I know that there’s something wrong,” Zoey says, crossing her arms.

If he could simply flee, he would, but with the hacker standing right in front of him, Chase knows it isn’t worth it. Even if he did leave, she wouldn’t stop trying to get the truth out of him. So Chase sighs and looks down at the blond woman who looks ready to commit murder.

“We all know it. You look like shit. What’s going on?”

It takes all of his strength to plaster a smirk on his lips and lean against the wall with a casual tilt of his head. “You guys worry too much. I’m fine, Zo. Probably could do with a little more sleep, but who couldn’t?”

As convincing as he hopes he sounds, Zoey doesn’t seem at all impressed by his acting. If anything, her frown deepens. “I know you, Chase. And you know me, so you know you can trust me. You look even worse than you did after that mission with the newspaper boy.”

Newspaper boy. If that was all Liam meant for him, maybe Chase’s heart wouldn’t be this tattered.

“Zoey. I am okay, I p– I promise.”

I never lied to you, he had said to Liam as he bled out in Chase’s arms. I betrayed you, yes, but not once did I lie. Stay alive and I’ll prove it to you.

But that was just another lie, wasn’t it? Liam is as alive as ever, and all Chase’s done is cause him more pain than any of them ever imagined possible. All he’s proven is his failure to keep Liam safe.

What is another lie when he’s already filled with them? Maybe that’s all he was always meant to be, all he will ever be – a betrayer. A traitor. A liar.

With a casual shrug that makes his stomach twist, Chase sidesteps his teammate. Before he can move farther away though, she grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“You are good at lying, but I can see the way your eyes have gone dull. I’m not going to force you to say it, but when you get tired of pretending to be fine, I’ll be here. Okay?” When Chase doesn’t answer, she takes a deep breath and nods. Zoey leaves him standing there, feeling dirty and raw, something stirring inside his chest and begging him to tell her everything.

Chase opens his mouth, the truth one breath away, and takes a step towards Zoey’s back. And then his phone buzzes, and reality comes crashing back as he looks at the screen and she disappears down the corridor.

Wanna see him?

It’s the first message he’s gotten from Jonah in days, and Chase holds his breath and freezes for a second at the words.

He’s rushing to his car even before his mind has caught up with his legs.

He’s standing in front of Jonah’s building in a matter of minutes, heart racing but mind weirdly quiet. Static silence, fear building up.

Jonah waits for him in the lobby this time, leaning against the open door of the elevator with a smile on his lips.

“Chase! Long time no see.”

“Where is he?”

“Straight to the point, huh. Boring as ever,” Jonah rolls his eyes. “I was feeling generous today, thought you might want to say hello. I’m not sure our dear boy will answer you, but you can try for yourself I guess.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Chase hisses as Jonah nods for him to get inside and presses the button.

“Nothing bad. He was just fussing about the pain, so my nurses gave him have a little something to relax.”

Chase steps into the elevator, two guards close behind, and fears he’ll shatter his jaw from how hard he’s clenching it.

“He also doesn’t really like his new… adornments, I don’t think. Ripped the bandages earlier today, wet the whole bed with tears.”

Jonah’s voice is light as he says it, the tone one would use to talk about something meaningless, something that doesn’t make Chase sink his nails into his palms and hold his breath. The man’s eyes are the telltale, shining with dark glee, and Chase can see the way Jonah follows his every movement like a predator, reveling at the little cracks in his unruffled façade.

“So when I offered him something to calm down, he didn’t even think before accepting,” he continues.

The doors slide open before any of them can say anything else. A small mercy.

The walk to Liam’s room is as quick as it is infinite. They stop in front of the door so incredibly soon, yet so painfully late.

“Be nice to him, I think he’s going through a phase,” Jonah chuckles as he nods for one of his men to unlock the door. “And don’t forget that this is your fault, dear.”

He barely realizes he’s entered the room until the lock clicks behind him. And then Chase’s eyes find Liam, and the world stops on its tracks, just like it always does when they are in the same room together.

He’s lying on his back, arms open and hands hanging off the bed, bandages covering the skin from Liam’s elbows to his wrists. His eyes are open, but unfocused, slow blinks that lead to nowhere even when Chase takes the first step towards him. His chest rises and falls slowly, rhythmically, a shallow blow of air through parted lips, and despite everything, Chase is happy that Liam isn’t in pain.

It is only when he stops beside the bed that Liam’s head lolls on the pillow, a sunflower looking for the sun even though no real light can reach him here. Still, he looks, and half-lidded eyes roam around the room before finally stopping on Chase’s face.

“Hey,” Chase says, curling one hand into a fist while the other clutches the edge of the bed.

“Mmgh,” Liam slurs with a shuddering breath and a crease on his forehead before trying again. “I, mm, I’m not, n-uh not feeling… well.”

“How can I help?” Chase’s voice is hoarse and low, pained, but Liam hears it. He hears it and he whimpers, shaking his head no.

Make it stop, his mouth forms, but doesn’t voice.

I can’t, Chase wants to scream, I’d give anything to make it all stop but I can’t. Instead, he softens his voice and tries to smile. “What if I do something to distract you? I… I was told you are under some strong drugs.”

Green eyes blink at him, and Chase is happy there are only the two of them in the room. He might actually lose it and punch Jonah square in the face if the man was here.

“How about I tell you a story? You’ve always liked them.”

Liam swallows, eyes darting around the room again, and even though Chase knows he isn’t listening, not really, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts talking.

“It’s about a boy who thought he could change the world, but instead changed the person who was sent to stop him.”

“Sou-sounds like a shit story,” Liam mumbles.

“Depends on how you look at it. Or who’s the one telling it, I guess.”

There’s a pause, and Liam sighs softly before talking again.

“Are you… are, are you really… here?”

The words slam into his chest, shattering anything left in there, and though Chase holds himself firmly still and keeps his face carefully free from anything but tenderness, something collapses inside of him. Maybe it’s his heart. It feels like it, and he wants to cry, to grab Liam and leave, but he can’t, and Liam strains to focus on his eyes, so Chase smiles like there isn’t burning agony rippling through him.

“Do you want me to be?”

“I, I don’t, I don’t know.” It is only a murmur, but Chase knows he’ll hear its echo in his nightmares for a long time – the uncertainty, the fear, the sadness. The helplessness.

I’m here. I would be here forever if I could.

But the words are only that – words. He can’t be here forever, nor erase all the pain he’s caused and continues to cause. So Chase picks up the pieces of his heart and pretends it doesn’t hurt to smirk and brush Liam’s hair away from his forehead like he used to do so long ago.

If he can’t take Liam away from this nightmare, the least he can do is pretend it is a dream.

“Then you should stop dreaming about me.”

“Ca-can’t,” Liam frowns, staring at the hand Chase just touched him with. “Will, will you leave? Again?”

“Only if you want me to.”

Liam looks up again, and something is missing in those eyes. A spark of life that was still there the last time they saw each other, but isn’t now. As Chase searches for the hope he always loved in the depths of Liam’s gaze, what he finds instead is sadness.

“Don’t go,” Liam breathes. “I, I, my h-head, it it it feels weird, Chase.”

“I know, love,” Chase says calmly, nothing of the wild desperation that rages inside of him seeping through the words. Not when Liam is this lost, this vulnerable. Not when it is the first time he has called Chase by his name after the betrayal. “It’ll pass.”

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, shifting on the bed. “But, I, I don’t remember… why.”

“You are okay, Liam. I promise. You’ll be okay.”

Liam closes his eyes and shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is only a whisper, gone even before he finishes. “I don’t believe you.”

Chase bites on his lip and creases his forehead, but none of it shows when he takes Liam’s hand in his own and gives it a little squeeze.

“I know. That’s okay too.”

But Liam isn’t there anymore to hear it. His body sags on the bed, taken away by the drugs, and Chase is left alone in Liam’s cell, watching the boy he’d kill and die for fall asleep. As he does, all Chase can think about is that he needs to get Liam out of here. Somehow, he needs to get him away, no matter the cost of it.

An hour goes by, and though it is one of the worst hours of Chase’s life, is it the first time he doesn’t feel like a part of his heart is bleeding in days. Not when he can see the bleeding part right in front of him.

He wants to wake Liam up, to hear his voice while he can, before he’s forced to leave again. But there’s peace on his face as he sleeps, and Chase can’t take him back to reality when he looks like he used to, like he could wake up at any moment and kiss Chase with a smile.

And then the door opens, and the memories vanish as Chase reluctantly gets up. As soon as he does though, Liam stirs on the bed, frail hand reaching out and grabbing Chase’s wrist before he can move away.

“You promised me… a… um, a story.”

Liam’s eyes open for a moment before closing again, but he doesn’t let go. Chase shoots one look at the guards waiting by the door and knows that nothing good will happen if he waits. He has to play nice if he wants to get Liam out.

Chase looks down at Liam again, and when he finds half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open, he can’t stop his voice from breaking mid-sentence.

“It’ll have to stay for another time, okay? I’ll see you soon, love.”

Liam’s eyes flutter back closed with a soft sigh. His voice is soft as the tears that sting Chase’s eyes when he speaks. “You al–, you always leave in real life too.”

Chase can’t find an answer before he is dragged out of the room by a firm grip he knows better than to fight. He yanks his arm away as soon as the door locks him and Liam on different sides, and hears the words rattling around his head while he is lead to sit in Jonah’s office to hear what the man wants next. All the way back to his house.

He doesn’t think when he calls Zoey. All he hears is Liam.

All he can see is Liam’s lost gaze, the life fading out of his eyes. All he knows is that if he lets him in Jonah’s claws one more second without doing anything, he might actually, truly, crumble down until he can’t pull himself back up.

He is sitting on his couch, hands over his face and elbows on his knees just like they have been since he got home, when his friend opens the door.

“Oh, Chase,” she breathes as soon as she sees his face and sits beside him. “What happened?”

He doesn’t get to crumble down. Not when it’s Liam the one being hurt. The one branded and tortured and kidnapped and betrayed. Still, when Zoey’s gentle arms wrap around him, he hugs her back.

“It’s Liam,” he says, fighting to get the words out through his heaving breaths, trying to force his mind to put them together long enough for someone else to know it too because he can’t do this on his own. He thought he could, he thought he was enough, but he isn’t and he needs to get Liam out, no matter what, no matter how, he has to, he has to before the light goes out in that beautiful green gaze. “He, I, he’s caught and it’s my fault and I thought I could keep him safe but I can’t and now–“

“Chase, breathe,” she commands, and he answers. It’s all he knows how to do, isn’t it? Answer orders. Look at what happens when he’s left on his own. “Let’s start from the begging.”

So Chase does.

(next)

#whump #whump writing #drug whump #noncon drugging #forced sedation #hostage whump #needle cw #captivity #hostage situation #betrayal story #angst #manhandling #aw look at chase finally doing something :') go on babe stop sitting around and letting your boy be tortured #pity liam is not gonna remember any of this later :) and will continue to think chase left him there :) yeah such a pity :)))#so what do y'all think of zoey? i didn't want to introduce another character because who cares lol but chase really needs the help

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Note

Is Drowning going to be continued?

Yes it will be! Enjoy!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4... I may make a masterlist with visuals on the character's faces soon.

This one is not my best work as I had no motivation today, but it filled with whump and angst? (I have no idea what that really means, but I heard it had something to do with mental side of whump). Not too much comfort and fluff.

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: (past) knock-out gas mention, mental torture, forced to allow someone to be hurt, threatening, feverish whumpee, IVs, needles, medical setting, burning (mention/threat), physical torture, blood, pnuemonia

"Did you really think that I was just going to let two million dollars fly past my head?" Villain asked as he reclined lazily upon the bed, one leg draped over the other.

"I didn't-" Hero took a deep breath, filling her lungs up with the vital oxygen, before continuing. "I didn't think that you had the nerve to betray me."

Villain tutted- a small chuckle filled with amusement. "I have more nerve that you give me credit for."

Hero and Supervillain were discarded on the ground, wrists tied to other's, in a white cell that could be described as clinically professional. Hero could feel the supervillain's uneasy breaths as his warm body was shoved against her's.

The room was quite capacious. A hospital bed laid in a corner with a chair by the foot of it. The chair was blocked by three sides of a hard-looking material that obscured the inhabitant from looking anywhere other than the bed. Next to the chair-like object, a vintage-looking table with a Bohemian placemat was placed. A small succulent grew in a plastic container, the circular green and purple leaves beaming under the LEDs that illuminated the room. There were no windows, or anything really other than the various moniters and implements.

Though Hero could not see him, she knew that Supervillain's head was loosely dangling. And, judging by the slow breathing, he was still unconscious from whatever drug was used on them. It wore off pretty quickly on Hero, but between Supervillain's already weakened immune system, and the fact that it was a gas, it effected him more greatly.

"What are we doing here? They could've just killed us and be done with it," Hero said, trying to adjust herself to be more comfortable. One wrist was bent painfully where the heroes failed to adhere to her comfort.

"Ever here of the term lab rats, darling?"

Lab rats... in a way, it was a vile term. Vulgar is a sense, but not mortifyingly revolting either. But still, it made Hero cringe as she put the pieces of the puzzle together. Medical room as a cell... they were to be experimented on. Or tortured medically. Or something along those lines.

"But he is sick," Hero pointed out, but the wicked smile on Villain's face made her regret mentioning anything.

"Hmm. Precisely my dear," Villain stood up and crouched in front of Hero. His minty breath gusting just along her cheeks. She crunched up her nose in protest, but the Villain still sat there.

"You see... there is this new drug that the heroes created to give people optimum strength and stamina. But the side effects are... let's say undesirable."

"Undesirable?"

"Yes. Intense pain and fatigue after the intial boost. It is derived from adrenaline, so just imagine that pure exhaustion he will be feeling."

"H-he?" Hero stuttered.

"Yes he," Villain chuckled. "What good would it be for you to be given this stuff?" He shrugged and stepped away.

Hero didn't get it. There had to be a catch, an unwaiting punishment on her end, but there was nothing. At least Villain didn't say anything.

"The doctor will be in shortly," Villain said and walked out.

The doctor. It had an interesting ring to it. Orderly and seemed to hold high authority.

Supervillain shifted behind Hero and coughed. Hero could hear his harsh breathing, the liquid within his lungs gurgling about.

"Where 'm I?" He groaned.

"Supervillain?" Hero chirped and grabbed his cold fingers with her warm ones.

"Hero," He replied, squeezing back. It was a weak gesture, but meant the world to Hero.

The two remained silent, cherishing the other's touch. It wasn't too long before a man in a white coat opened the door, followed by a timid looking woman.

Medic.

Hero felt an inner rage- one that was not only fueled by Villain's betrayal, but also by her former friend's initial disloyalty.

But she could not act upon it, because the second the restraints were unlocked, she was scooped up by a couple heroes. They carried her struggling body over to the chair.

Hero knew that they were going to seat her in there, so in one last desperate attempt to catch a glance at the supervillain, she looked behind her.

Supervillain was being ruthlessly dragged across the floor and to the bed. Gears turned and Hero suddenly came to the breathtaking realization.

She was going to have to watch the doctor administer the drug to Supervillain. She squirmed with more aggression. No! She couldn't let this happen. He was too sick, too weak, to withstand whatever miseries the serum brought.

"Let him go! You can have me!" She growled, but her attempts to protect the sick supervillain were fruitless.

"Calm yourself Hero. It'll be easier," the doctor spoke. His voice was deep and oddly calming, given the circumstances.

"No," Hero hissed, ignoring the doctor's attempts to charm her into compliance. She wasn't that easily brainwashed.

Hero was strapped into the chair. Leather straps were placed upon her forehead and temples, restricting any kind of head motion. Her hands were brutally cuffed by unpadded, metal sleeves on the armrests. Her ankles were also held steadfast to the floor by ankle cuffs and bolts. She felt so vulnerable and exposed as she watched the guards heave the limp supervillain upon the bed to restrain him in almost an identical manner. Except, a leather strap was placed around his chest and torso.

Once the two were settled and properly restrained, the doctor put himself between the two captives.

"I don't know what that insufferable villain told you to about the procedure, but he most likely completely over exaggerated it," he said, holding a clipboard.

Hero nearly sighed with relief.

"This drug is going to give Supervillain superhuman strength and energy. Once it wears off, it was be increasingly painful and will make him feel absolutely miserable."

"This," the doctor continued as he walked closer to Hero, eyeing her. "is your part of the job. We are going to bring in men and women alike and threaten to burn them with fire. This," the doctor tapped a red button that was just far enough for her fingers to reach, "will stop the drug flow and start a morphine flow to numb the pain. If you press it, the civilians will be hurt. Understand?"

Hero whimpered, sinking as far back as the leather and metal restraints allowed, fear and nervousness coursing through her like caffeine- raising her heartbeat and making her fidget.

A guard handed the doctor a tubular object. Hero jerked away as the doctor put the object close to her ear. Suddenly, and without warning, there was a stinging prick.

"Ow!" Hero exclaimed, but the pain quickly resided.

"Bring them in," the doctor ordered. The door banged open and the scuffling a feet was heard. There was a short scream and rattling of chains. The smell of gasoline filled the air as surprised whimpers echoed throughout the room.

Adrenaline pumped through Hero's veins as her brain made sense of the situation. She had to choose: Supervillain or countless other people.

Innocents.

It's the most logical choice to save the innocents, Hero told herself as the doctor and Medic hooked up an IV line. It was an improvised IV, no doubt about it. The needle had a tube that parted ways that each led up to their own bag of liquid- one was yellowish, the other green.

Supervillain groaned slightly, moving his head over weakly to watch the doctors inject the sharp needle.

"What'dya doing?" He asked weakly, pulling slightly at his restraints. His eyes widened, but only briefly as they almost slipped back closed again- exhausted from the pneumonia and drug in his system.

"Begin induction," the doctor ordered Medic who nodded stiffly. She opened a tab with the green liquid. Hero watched as the serum made it's way through the tubing and into Supervillain's hand. Supervillain watched too, with a dazed look to his gaze.

Within only a few seconds, Supervillain's body seized up as his breathing increased rapidly. He pulled desperately at the restraints, but didn't seem to be in pain.

Actually, his face shone with a newfound energy. In a way, he even looked happily excited.

"Hero!" A woman's voice rang through Hero's ears. "Hero, please. Don't let them hurt me please. Please."

There was a scream, then a couple more. Hero pulled back her head, trying to block out the screeches. The begs and pleas. It was all too much, way too much.

She knew that she couldn't press the button when the drug finished its cycle.

Within a few minutes, Supervillain's buoyant facial expressions receded gradually into a look of pure agony. He hissed, shaking his head back and forth with rigor, but his strength was fading until he was left sobbing and coughing weakly.

Even though he didn't show it after the sobs ceased, the supervillain was still in obvious pain. His lips raised periodically, showing clenched teeth. After thirty minutes, or so Hero guessed, the doctor spoke up.

"Take the civilians away."

There was another shuffle of feet, another slammed door and then silence.

Until the doctor spoke up.

"Release Hero and Supervillain." Guards buzzed around the two, unlocking restraints. The second Hero was free, she bounded over to Supervillain, nearly laying upon him.

"Hey, hey, hey," Hero wrapped shaky hands around feverish cheeks. Supervillain's eyes were half-lidded. The visible parts of the brown eyes were glassy and very unfocused, staring at the ceiling with no intent whatsoever. He was barely conscious and very weak.

Impossibly weak, with or without the sickness.

Medic worked to remove the IV carefully. It took a bit to ensure it was done somewhat safely, but the bruised, bleeding wound wasn't even disinfected.

This torture went on for days. Hero, being mentally tortured, started contemplating pressing the botton- before remembering her duty as a hero.

One day, when the doctors were done, Hero scooped Supervillain up. His pneumonia was worsening, blood seeped through his lips more often. The doctors started giving him antibiotics, but it was never enough.

"Do you regret this yet, Hero?" Villain asked that one particular day as he drew a chair up besides Hero and the shivering supervillain.

Hero didn't even hesitate to give the short, but meaningful answer.

"Yes."

#supervillain whumpee #hero caretaker #villain whumper #hero whumper #lab whump #medical whump #heros and villains #writing #threat #pneumonia #tw needles #mental torture #drugged whumpee #feverish whumpee

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Whumptober 30 + 31: Internal Injury and Left for Dead

CW: Blood, just like a whole lot of violence, organ removal, more than mild arson, whumper turned whumpee, character death, dissoci@tion, mild vampirism, some brief threatening pet whump and dehumanization + a noncon reference

TIMELINE: Begins immediately following Possession, end of the Bad Arc. One year after Danny is abducted for a second time.

Nate tastes blood on his tongue, thick in his mouth, but he’s tasted blood before. Bram’s skin is cold but it is always cold, and his panting breaths are heavy against Nate’s ear but he knows Bram’s breathing better than almost anything else, better than he knows anyone’s breathing but Danny’s.

Abraham Denner has been breathing in Nate’s ear, down his spine, inside his mind for seven very long years, and Nate is about to ensure he can never do it again.

Bram groans in pain, like so many other sounds he’s made against Nate’s ear before, whispering, I love you, you’re mine as Nate cried and fought and screamed and didn’t cry and moaned and gave in to him, to his eyes and his love, again and again and again-

Nate pulls back, his teeth and tongue black and red, blood smeared thick like oil around his lips and down his chin, and Bram’s eyes meet his, wide with rage.

Nate isn’t scared of Bram any longer.

His wrists burn from tearing free of the ropes, the scent of new and old blood is thick in the air around them. His hands close around Bram’s neck, a collar of skin, and he closes his grip slippery-red, thumbs pressing down on the windpipe of a man who will not die from this, because he already died centuries ago.

Ryan is in his mind and in his hands, guiding their strength, Ryan is darkness and white teeth sharpened to points. Ryan is glowing yellow eyes that stare out from Nate’s own. He is not alone inside himself, and they are the same, and if Danny is dead then Nate will make sure Bram follows him-

He’s not dead, Ryan’s voice whispers inside of him, and Nate bears his thumbs down harder just to hear Bram’s gurgling, rasping chokes, to feel his hands press against Nate’s bare chest and then claw there, digging in but Ryan is between Nate and the pain, pressing up against his skin, a barrier between Nate and true sensation. He’s not dead. We can still save him.

Nathaniel Vandrum’s life has been narrowed, day by day, month by month, year by year. He spent years under Bram’s spell, eight months a hunted animal. He spent four years keeping Danny alive, he spent a year and a half helping him learn to be human again, spent a year watching Danny suffer from a place too far for him to follow.

He has spent a year watching Danny bleed, and scream, and cry, and slip away inside himself with only Ryan there to bring him back out.

He is tired of watching Danny suffer.

He is tired of this.

He is so fucking tired.

He feels no pain from his broken right hand - Ryan stands between him and the pain there, too. He can feel Ryan twisting inside him, pushing him to close his hands tighter around Bram’s neck, staring down into his eyes. The things that move there thrash with desperate desire to survive but Nate has no mercy left in him.

He should be horrified by someone else being inside his body with him but he can’t be, he can’t let it sink in that he is moving as two people working together inside one skin, or he’ll slip. It takes one mistake and Bram will have him again, and if Bram gets him again he’ll be done, he’ll die before he’ll hurt anyone, but Bram would make him hurt so many people.

“N-Nate-” Bram’s voice is husky, but the anger boils inside it, and he grabs Nate by the shoulders finally and throws him off. Nate slams to the ground on his side, groaning and moving to scramble to his feet just as Bram, blood still pouring in thick black waves from the wound Nate tore open, stands and kicks him hard.

Something snaps in Nate and Ryan isn’t fast enough to take the pain. There’s a burst of it, an ache that overrides him, and he’s still for too long. Only a second... but too long.

Bram drags him to his knees by one arm and slaps him, his palm slamming into Nate’s cheek sending him back to the ground. Back up to slap him again, the other side. Kicked again and Nate coughs out air before he can find more to inhale.

Ryan is gone from inside him, collapsing onto the ground where he’d been standing before he stepped inside Nate’s skin, dark skin glowing faintly with the same yellow as his eyes.

Somewhere, Bram’s sister runs from her own mistakes, but Nate stares up as Bram walks towards him and thinks that Bram has never needed his sister to keep his puppies in line before, and he doesn’t need her now.

“You would… refuse the gift?” Bram’s voice is laced with his disbelief. He raises a hand to touch the uneven skin torn apart at one shoulder, looking at the blood there with something like wonder. “You’d try to kill me? After everything I did for you? After everything I gave you?”

“After-...” Nate coughs again, trying to get back on his feet, but as soon as he’s on all fours Bram kicks him again and sends him back down. His eyes move to Danny - limp on the ground, blood welling up around the blade buried in his back. Danny’s eyes are open, wide and so so blue.

So blue, and so empty.

Danny’s gone.

“No.” The voice is from Nate but it’s not his voice. It’s a whimper. A whine. Barely a protest.

Too late.

“I gave you the puppy,” Bram says, stepping between Nate and Danny, blocking him from the sight of the man he loves most in the world. The only thing left that he loves in the world. “Now I’ve taken the puppy away.”

Nate’s heart does not twist with fear. He doesn’t let himself grieve yet. Instead… he lets his head drop to the ground, into his arms, and he starts to weep. If the tears are anger, not sadness, Bram doesn’t notice. He chuckles, satisfied, and pulls Nate back onto his feet again. One hand gripped tightly around his arm, the other hand cups Nate’s cheek, gently pressing his jaw to tilt his head up, get him to look Bram in the eyes.

“I w-wanted to save him,” Nate whispers.

Too late, Vandrum. Always too late.

“I know,” Bram says with unnerving tenderness, and when he leans in to kiss Nate, the man doesn’t fight him. Bram’s lips are cold.

He spent half a year, once, being the perfect lover. He can do it again, for just a few minutes.

For long enough.

Bram licks his own blood off his lips when he pulls back, smiling now. There’s blackish red on his teeth, staining his pale pale skin. “You can’t save anyone, Nate,” Bram says, reaching up, running his fingers back through Nate’s hair. “You’re mine. Mine, forever. For the rest of fucking time, Nate, you’re mine. Mourn him if you want, but you were never meant for the puppy. You were meant for me.”

“Yes,” Nate says, and pitches his voice to be slightly faint and empty, the voice he used when Bram would wipe him away from himself. He looks into those colorless eyes and, like every day since Bram once forced a muzzle on Danny for months and nearly took him from Nate for good, he feels absolutely nothing.

“Bring Faerie Boy inside,” Bram commands with effortless certainty. “I know how to take care of his kind, too. Then we’ll decide what happens next.” Bram looks carelessly over at where Danny lays crumpled in the dirt. “Faerie Boy can bury the body.”

The body.

Nate has to steel himself with every ounce of willpower not to make a sound in response. He only nods and, making his expression blank, he limps over to Ryan, dragging Danny’s brother to his feet. Ryan’s skin feels like an open flame under his hand, far hotter than human skin ever should be, but the glow in his eyes is dulling. He’s too tired, too new at this. His strength is already waning, Nate thinks, he pushed himself too far.

“Danny’s n-not dead,” Ryan says in a croaking, cracking voice. “He’s, he’s not-”

“I know,” Nate responds, forcing him to move. He knows Danny is dead, though, and that this is just Ryan trying to convince him not to give up, give in, and let Bram rebuild his family - with his true love and his dog - with Ryan in Danny’s place. Bram is behind them, ensuring they go where into the house, and Nate half-drags Ryan up the steps. “T-trust me. I h-h-h… I’ve got a plan.”

Ryan laughs, dry and hopeless, but he allows himself to be moved. His neck is a ring of bright red agony, his wrists look the same. He’s skinny, after a year earning bites of food with obedience to torture, bony under Nate’s hands. His hair is dull and brittle, dried and tangled frizz instead of curls. “Sure… hope so.”

“When I m-m-move,” Nate whispers, barely loud enough for Ryan to possibly hear, just hoping he understands, “grab his l-l-legs to s-slow him down, and then c-c-come back… I’ll l-let you in.”

Nate deposits him on the floor next to the kitchen table without waiting for a response, letting him drop more roughly than necessary, pretending he is still in thrall as he pulls out a chair and sits.

He’s going to have one chance at this.

Bram pulls out a chair and sits across from him, giving Nate a smile. Brilliant, and shining, and loving, even as the love of Nate’s life is bleeding to death in the front yard. Nate might not be able to save Danny, now - but he can save Ryan, he thinks.

He hopes it’s enough for wherever Danny will be after he’s gone.

He hopes it will somehow settle Danny’s soul, to know Nate gave everything to save his little brother, after watching Danny break himself again and again to hold Ryan together.

If we’re damned for loving each other like they told me, Nate thinks with an all-consuming grief and conviction, I’ll see you in hell soon enough.

“We’ll have to go somewhere new,” Bram says, gripping Ryan by the hair, jerking him backwards. Ryan bares his sharp, inhuman teeth, and Bram snorts, ramming his head directly into the edge of the table, making Ryan cry out and slump.

Nate doesn’t flinch.

“I’ll dedicate you. Make you one of us. I’ll finish the dedication and then you’ll understand.” Bram’s hand is still gripped in Ryan’s hair, tightening on the curls until he hisses in pain, but it’s a faint and faded sound. “We’ll take the puppy with us and go find my sister. You know I never like to leave a puppy, Nate.”

Those eyes are back on his, and Nate gives Bram a slight smile - as if pulled out of him unwillingly, as if he’s falling into the depths of his eyes all over again. As if, without Danny to fight for, he has no fight left.

Danny might be dead - Nate’s mind skips from that truth, runs from it as fast as it can, circles around it endlessly - but Ryan isn’t. Danny would want his brother saved, and Nate…

He can do this.

He has to do this.

“Y-yes, Bram,” Nate says, soft and as empty as Danny’s open eyes. “I c-can help t-t-take care of Faerie B-Boy.”

At his feet, Ryan lets out a choked-off sob. Whether he’s only playing the part, or drifting into pure hopelessness, Nate isn’t sure. He can’t risk a look, can’t risk giving anything away for a second. Instead, he moves to lay his hand over Bram’s on top of Ryan’s head. Bram’s hand is cold under his.

Danny’s hands get cold, too, his long fingers feel like ice sometimes in the morning when he wakes Nate with a hug. He pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweaters, tugs them constantly down to cover the scars on the backs of his hands. His eyes are warmer than his hands can be, as Nate holds one of his hands in both of his, rubbing at them to warm up those cold fingers while Danny smiles-

Danny’s dead. You can save his brother. Focus.

“I l-love you,” Nate says, softly. He knows how to twist his tone just right, to make his voice foggy like the power of Bram’s eyes has once again papered over Nate’s will, his very self, to remake him in Bram’s image.

If there is a heaven, it will be Danny that I beg for forgiveness, not God.

“I love you, too.” Bram smiles, letting go of Ryan to hold Nate’s hand. Cold dead fingers. Nate forces his smile to widen, softens his expression. “My black-haired prince. Red got in our way. But it’s just us all over again, isn’t it? Just you and I.” He smirks, pale lips smeared with drying blood. “And the puppy.”

Nate nods, and pulls Bram’s hand up, to press a kiss to the back of it. Smooth, scarless.

Not the hand he wants to kiss at all.

“That’s why you had to watch it all, you know.” Bram sighs, content in this moment. There’s still blood running from the wound in his shoulder but he doesn’t seem to notice it, and the wound is closing before Nate’s eyes, skin knitting itself together. He won’t die, even if Nate kills him he won’t die. There’s only one way to be sure. Only one way to keep him from coming back.

“Wh-what? Why?” Nate tilts his head, closes his eyes so Bram won’t see he’s disgusted by his touch, plays it off as shivering desire, maybe. Somehow, somewhere back there, he gained the ability to hide some of his unhappiness from Abraham Denner.

They lost with their first attempt.

There’s only one more chance.

“So you would get used to it again.” Bram pulls his hand back and away, lays it palm-down against the back of Ryan’s neck, and Nate tries not to watch Ryan shiver where he kneels on the floor. Bram scratches his fingernails through the red, irritated skin, reopening old wounds from the iron collar. Ryan whimpers, whines with the pain, and Nate fights the memory of Danny’s scream behind his muzzle, jaw straining as the wire mesh cut in deeper and deeper.

Bram took the muzzle off - the new one remade, but it might as well have been exactly the fucking same - before Ryan and Ora came out. It’s still out there, isn’t it? Lying in the dirt, bloodied.

Nate almost loses his iron grip on his own emotions at the thought of Danny’s body in the dirt so close to the tool of torture that hurt him the worst. Not from grief, no - he still has that locked up inside his head, he will mourn Danny when he has saved Ryan, when it’s over, when it’s done. But the fury that comes with the realization that Danny’s eyes, still open and unblinking, will be staring right at the muzzle.

He catches himself. Holds the anger down. Gives Bram a soft, sweet, loving smile. “Used t-to it?”

“Right. Used to it, and… maybe a little bit appreciative.” Bram laughs, his high-pitched hyena’s laughter, smacking the wound he reopened on Ryan’s neck just to hear him cry. His eyes glow such a brilliant, bright yellow they turn nearly white, like staring into the sun - and then falter again, fade and go dull.

He needs to be strong enough to do one more thing, and Nate isn’t sure if he will be. But he’s going to try, anyway.

“I’ll l-learn,” Nate promises, and runs his own hand through Ryan’s dirty, greasy curls, catching in the tangles. He looks down, cold green eyes locking on Ryan’s dulled yellow, back to the color of old, cloudy honey, and uses his good left hand to tilt his chin up, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip. “You’ll b-b-be good for m-me, puppy, won’t you?”

Ryan’s eyes widen, just a little, flicker in the dim kitchen lit only by the light coming through the window over the sink, and through the open inside door. Outside the closed screen door, down the steps, fifteen feet away, Danny lies in the dirt.

“Oh, that’s good,” Bram says, rubbing at Ryan’s back. “What do you say, Faerie Boy? Can you be as good between us as you’ve been for me so far?”

Ryan’s lip trembles under Nate’s thumb. Nate smiles at him, the same soft loving look he’s been giving Bram. He is the personification of what Bram can do. He is the perfect vision of Bram taking control and making him someone he’s not, as he did for years with power, manipulation, and threats. “Bram asked you a qu-... a question, p-puppy,” Nate whispers. “Wh-what’s the r-r-rule?”

Ryan’s eyes well with such human tears. “Al-... always answer Abraham’s questions, never hes… hesitate and neh-... never lie.”

“So wh-what’s your answer?”

Ryan looks up at him, pleading, but Nate keeps his eyes, his face perfectly steady. I’m sorry. Just a few more minutes...

“I...” Ryan’s voice catches. He’s exhausted, struggling to pull threads of himself together. Whatever it is Ryan is, whatever it is he can do, it takes too much out of him. “I c-can be good for you,” He whispers.

“B-B-Both of us?”

Ryan’s eyes close tightly. “Both of you.” He has to spit out the words.

“Good b-b-boy.” Another rub over his lower lip, his skin is rough and chapped against Nate’s thumb. “Do you w-w-want a d, a drink, Bram?” He raises his eyes, lets his hand drop, but not before he taps twice on the front of Ryan’s neck next to his Adam's apple, deliberately spaced apart to make it clear it’s a message. “I th-think I remember how you l-like it.”

Bram smiles, twists a curl around his finger, yanks on it until Ryan winces. “Sure. Whiskey sour. Red made sour mix, it’s in the fridge.” He sighs, mournfully. “I suppose Red won’t get to make me my drinks anymore. Pity, he was always better at it than Faerie Boy.”

Nate swallows. He won’t cry for Danny yet.

Not yet.

He pushes himself to his feet, walking away and moving to the fridge. Slow footsteps, careful and solid. He feels strange, as though he’s far away from himself, watching his body go through these motions from a distance. Open the cupboards until he finds a glass, pull it down and add some ice cubes. Find the whiskey in a different cabinet, expensive small-batch distillery in Portland, he notes absently, pouring a shot, and then two, into the glass.

He pulls the sour mix, stored in a pitcher, out of the fridge and tries with every ounce of strength he has left not to think about how Danny’s fingers were the last to close around the handle, and now they never will again.

Not yet not yet not yet.

Cry when Ryan is safe. Until then, be for Ryan what Danny cannot be any longer. He owes Danny that much and more, he owes everything he could ever give. He pours in the sour mix, adds a cherry from a jar in the fridge. Picks a lemon up from a basket, staring down at it, and then his eyes move to the knife block, but he’s careful not to turn his head to make it obvious.

One chance.

He picks up not the chef’s knife but the smaller, sharper paring knife, and he feels Bram’s eyes on his back as he cuts three identical lemon slices, struggling to do it gracefully with his broken hand throbbing again, fighting him with every step. He drops the lemon slices into the drink, gives the whole thing a quick stir. Closes his eyes and breathes.

I’m sorry, Danny.

He turns around and throws the drink in Bram’s face.

Ryan is moving before Nate has even finished his own motion and he grabs Bram around the legs as he starts to stand up, slamming the man into the ground as he’s knocked off balance, pale eyes widening in surprise as Nate falls on him with his teeth bared and the knife in his hand, bringing it down over Bram’s heart.

There’s resistance, and pain, and Nate doesn’t care about either anymore.

Ryan’s eyes flare, glowing brilliant with one last spark of energy, and the shadows press like velvet against Nate’s back, overtaking all the light but Ryan’s. The kitchen is pure and perfectly black as Nate feels Bram’s blood bubble up cold around the handle of the knife as he forces it down.

Cold hands grab onto his like a vice, and he opens his mouth to scream-

Let me in.

Ryan is in his skin in his heart in his head, pressing the knife down harder, dragging it back towards himself, cutting into Bram’s skin as he fights them but Ryan is stronger than Nate and the two men working in one body open the emptiness inside of Abraham Denner and Nate shoves his hand inside.

It’s cold, like everything about Bram is cold, and it has a little give under his fingers. He grips as tightly as his hand will allow and Ryan is gripping alongside him as they pull backwards. Bram screams, the first true scream Nate has ever heard from him, high-pitched. Windows crack around them as the scream carries on and on and on, Nate’s head is pounding but he can’t feel it. Ryan takes it for him, presses himself along the length of Nate’s body, underneath his skin, against his eardrums, layers himself over Nate’s mind.

He is protected.

He uses the blade of the paring knife to cut the veins and arteries. Cold black blood coats his hand as he pulls out Abraham’s Denner ancient heart.

The shadows recede - or Nate can see through them now, he doesn’t know, the whole world seems strange and disconnected from him - as he pushes himself to his feet.

Nate-

“It’s not d-d-done,” Nate says to the voice inside his head of his dead love’s little brother, and he turns, dragging one leg as he moves out into the sun outside.

Danny hasn’t moved, but Nate didn’t expect him to.

Dead people usually don’t, unless they’re Bram or Ashley.

He is nothing but blood now, and the heart in his hands is still beating. Soft contractions of muscle with nothing to push through, no blood to rush through old veins. But still the heart beats. It’s not over.

There’s a burn pile over by a shed, covered with sticks and trash, and Nate walks to it with Ryan still inside him. The two of them look out of one set of eyes.

Burn it?

“B-burn it,” Nate confirms in a fierce whisper.

There are no tears.

Not yet.

He lays the beating heart down in the burn pile and walks away from it, moving to a shed to open the door. He stares, blankly, at a skeleton that faces him against the back wall, rotted away by now. It’s been a year. Death is still in the air but neither of them can smell anything any longer but Bram’s blood. Nate ignores the skeleton and finds a can of gasoline - Bram is predictable, always predictable - and carries it back out to toss about a third of the can into the sticks, taking special care to ensure some of it splashes over the disembodied, beating heart.

Left here, Bram’s body would eventually reform and wake back up.

Like Ashley.

Nate will not lose anything else to them ever again.

“I’m not your b-b-black-haired p-prince,” He says to the heart, and lights a match.

The gasoline catches immediately, flames rising with the sharp pungent smell. Nate doesn’t wait - he picks the can up again, sloshes it around to see how much is left, and looks to the house. “Go s-s-say goodbye to your b-b-brother,” He says. “I’ll come, t-too, when this is o-over.”

Danny-

“Go s-say goodbye.”

Ryan is out of him in a flash, and Nate is oddly lonely inside his mind as he makes his methodical way back to the porch. Ryan kneels next to his brother, hands out but not quite touching, as Nate moves inside. He passes Abraham’s body without looking at it. He lets the gasoline trail - a little here and a little there, splashes on the curtains, splashes on the rug.

With his leg throbbing, he moves upstairs with gasoline trailing on the steps. He pours a little on the bed, staring at the bloodied ropes tied to the headboard a little too long. Outside, he starts to hear the crackle of the fire catching outside. Good. The heart will burn.

Just like his.

More gasoline for the curtains - he’s getting low, he needs to conserve. He has to be sur the whole house will burn.

Then he stops in front of a room with no door, a room he’s seen in Bram’s texted photos and videos, in a few of the livestreams he watched. He watched them all, desperate for clues. Danny and Ryan had managed to tear the paper that covered the window once and before Bram had cut the video, Nate had been able to pause - and see beyond the rolling fields to a water tower in the distance.

One of his first clues.

In this room there are manacles attached to the wall, a broken chain of iron on the floor, pools of drying blood. Nate pours a little gasoline into the pool, watching the change in texture as it thins and goes oddly shimmery.

In the closet, he finds half-drunk bottles of cheap high-proof alcohol. He lets the trail of gasoline lead to those too, and opens them all.

Done with his work, he drops the now-empty can and walks through the house, reeking of gasoline and blood, and goes downstairs and past Bram’s body one more time without looking down or looking back.

His heart beats steady and calm inside of him as he lights a match and lets it fall onto the porch, to find the first thin trail of liquid.

He stands long enough to watch the flames lick into the kitchen, over Bram’s body. He stares long enough to watch Bram’s long wavy pale hair begin to darken and curl. He watches the flames find their way from kitchen to living room. He watches the curtains burn.

Then he turns and walks down the steps.

His hands have started to shake.

Ryan, kneeling on the ground next to his brother with his wrist torn open and pouring blood, pressing it against Danny’s mouth, speaks to him but Nate doesn’t hear it, turning from Danny’s body - too late too late too late too late - and going back to the other fire, to see Bram’s heart burning, turning black. It will be ash soon, and nothing else.

Nate doesn’t cry, no.

Still, he doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

The wind blows warm over his face and Nate takes in a breath. The world is blood and smoke and his failure to save the most important person in his life. The world is the empty feeling underneath his skin. The world is the grief trying to claw it way back up his throat to make him scream-

“Nate!” Ryan’s voice is right next to his ear and he jumps as Ryan grabs at his arm, spinning him around. The yellow eyes are dull, shadowed, bereft of power - but they still dance. You can’t torture the beauty out of Ryan Michaelson.

You can’t kill the light inside him, or the things that live there.

He smells like green hills and a rainy season over waving grasslands. He carries the scent of a predator that hunts at dusk and at dark. Blood soaks the hills, pours down the river, threads into the homes of sleeping people at night.

He’s smiling.

“Nate, he’s not-... Nate, listen to me!”

Nate jerks back into himself, blinking rapidly as his strange disconnect ends. There is fire all around the two of them, and Nate realizes for the first time that the shed will burn, too. It’s already dangerously close to catching. The air is starting to heat around them. “What? Wh-what, Ryan, I-”

“Danny’s not dead! I-I can’t-... but he’s not dead! He’s still breathing! We still have time!”

In the distance, the first faint sound of sirens. Nate raises his head, staring. “Who c-c-called the c-cops?”

Ryan lets out a peal of wild, half-hysterical laughter, and the sound is beautiful. “Whoever saw that bigass cloud of fucking smoke, Nate! Someone’s-...” He swallows, suddenly, sways as his knees buckle, and Nate catches him, arms around him, keeping him upright. “Someone’s... coming for us. Someone’s coming to h-help, someone’s... someone’s coming...”

“Someone’s c-c-coming,” Nate agrees, softly.

Ryan turns to look at him, then slides his arms around Nate, hugging him, burying his head in the side of Nate’s neck.

“Someone fucking came,” He whispers. “And Danny’s not dead.”

Nate’s eyes move over to the tall, thin body sprawled out on the ground, and watches as empty blue eyes blink once, slowly move to meet his.

He’d seen emptiness and thought it was death, but it was someone else buying Danny - buying Nate - some time.

He gently pulls away from Ryan and moves to the muzzle, picking it up in one hand. Someone else is still watching him, blue eyes following his movements, and he holds it out. “Never ag-again,” He says, softly.

Someone else doesn’t move. Just keeps watching as Nate drags himself to the fire and throws the muzzle in.

But when he turn back again, tears are running down Danny’s face, his lips twisting with the agony, and he whimpers, “Nate, h-hurts-”

Nate and Ryan both run to him at once.

When the fire trucks arrive, they find the three of them together on the ground, Nate and Ryan each holding one of Danny’s hands.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary, @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

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waywardwhump · 4 years

Text

Caretaking Vampire, The Masterpost

((Hi friends! This has been a fun little series. I very much enjoyed writing it, and thank you all for your kind words. This here is a masterpost of the entire Caretaking Vampire series, to make it more convenient to read in one sitting.))

((Thank you again! Hope you all have a good, whump-filled day))

The vampire caretaker has their all too human whumpee backed into a corner.

They hold their hands up, palms out, and they keep their voice quiet and low. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please! Please, nnn, don’t-”

The scent of panic pours out of the whumpee, filling the caretaker’s nose with every breath. It’s so thick that the taste of it lingers on the back of their tongue. The caretaker fears that the whumper will find them before they have a chance to escape.

They’re hungry. Even now, the pangs threaten to double them over. They’re weak with it. This is the first human they’ve seen in ages.

“I…need this,” they say, and god, it’s taking all the willpower they have to keep their words steady. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to…help…but I need this. I need your strength to get us out.”

The caretaker draws close. Puts their hands on the whumpee’s shoulders. Tilts their head to the side as gingerly as possible.

They put their mouth to the whumpee’s pulse.

There’s warmth, the rhythm of a beating heart, and they feel every muscle in the whumpee’s body coiled and trembling. They can’t fight, running away only brought them to this corner, so now the whumpee is freezing up. They whimper, helpless, “please…”

And though relief is just a few layers of flesh and skin away, the caretaker takes a moment to try and offer some form of comfort. They brush tender fingertips up and down the whumpee’s back. “I need you…to relax, as much as you can. I need you to breathe.”

They’re quick when they bite down. There’s no softening the pain of fangs cutting through the skin, no easy path into the carotid artery. Once they hit their mark, they inject more than half of their reserved venom.

The whumpee’s scream cuts through the air, and the caretaker prays that the whumper isn’t close enough to hear as they hold the whumpee tight to their chest to keep them from thrashing. It’s only a moment. The artery pumps a blissful mix of pain relief and paralyzing chemicals right into the whumpee’s brain.

It isn’t long before they go limp. The caretaker drinks heavy, desperate gulps, and the scent of fear fades to a drowsy mist.

“I’m sorry,” the caretaker says once the wound is closed. “I’ll make this up to you once we’re safe. I promise.”

______

Escaping the whumper was no easy feat. They claimed a large, heavily guarded territory, a territory which has served as the caretaker’s prison for far longer than they wanted to think about.

Even now, they’re not completely out. The burst of energy granted to them by feeding dwindles, and the coming light of the sun forces them to stop and seek shelter.

They keep the whumpee close, cradled against their chest like a plush toy, the weight and breath a comfort despite their fragile frame. The caretaker threads their fingers through the whumpee’s hair, both for the whumpee’s sake and for their own.

The whumpee’s hand curls into the caretaker’s shirt.

Fear rears up in the caretaker’s chest, a rising panic that they struggle to calm. They hold the whumpee a little tighter. They speak softly.

“The venom found in a vampire’s bite is designed to do two things. First it stops the victim from moving. Second, it soothes pain and induces a sense of contentment. The paralysis wears off first.”

The caretaker pauses, gathering their thoughts and steeling themself. If they can keep steady and grounded, then their presence will be reassuring; They can’t risk sounding tense or uncertain here.

“You might seem fine right now, but in a little while you’ll be able to feel the blood you’ve lost. You’ll be weak. Tired. Maybe a bit light-headed or nauseated. These symptoms are normal. They’ll be worse since I can’t get you food right now, but they’re normal.

“You’ll also…probably be afraid of me.” The caretaker exhales warmth against the top of the whumpee’s head, keeping them tucked under their chin. “Please don’t be afraid. I know you’ve been hurt. I’ve been hurt, too. We’re the same. I want to get out just as much as you.”

A slow breath in, a slow breath out.

And despite their resolve, a tremor enters the caretaker’s voice, their grip becoming desperate. “I just want to get out.”

The whumpee makes a small noise in the back of their throat. They’re still dazed from the venom, their eyes glassy from it, their movement half-hearted. They lean into the caretaker’s hold, arms moving to wrap around them in a tired little hug that does nothing to ease the caretaker’s fear.

______

The whumpee scrabbles back, freeing themself from the caretaker’s arms. Their loss leaves the caretaker cold, alone where they sit.

Making no move to pull the whumpee back to them, the caretaker curls in on themself, around the empty hollow in their chest. It hurts. They know they are not owed, but it still hurts.

The whumpee stumbles, their legs buckling in protest from their effort to get upright. Just as the caretaker predicted, they are dizzy from blood loss, shaking and weak.

They collapse against the wall of the cave, now sitting in a spot that was opposite the caretaker. Frantic, labored breathing, a hand reaching up to claw at some discomfort in their chest.

The caretaker resists the urge to follow them. “It will pass. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will. I promise.”

They don’t respond. The caretaker looks away, not wanting to cause more discomfort by staring. Their eyes settle on the forest just outside the cave. A world bathed by the too-bright sun, deadly to them. Untouchable.

If the whumpee tries to leave, the caretaker will stop them.

But the whumpee doesn’t move. They lay there, gasping, the scent of fear radiating off of them and saturating every inch of this tiny space. The caretaker takes deep, even breathes, trying to keep their own panic under control.

With a shaking, tiny voice, the whumpee says, “they’re gonna be mad. I wasn’t, I wasn’t supposed to, be out there. I wasn’t supposed to leave.”

“Neither was I,” the caretaker’s hugging themself so tightly now that it’s starting to hurt. “We’re the same.”

“You bit me.” They touch their throat, fingertips trembling, over their carotid.

“I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve, could’ve…”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I swear.”

The caretaker felt the whumpee’s gaze, and turned their head to face them. They saw exhausted, wet eyes. They saw something strained, something desperate.

The whumpee choked out through a sob, “I’m scared. You said, you said I’d be, but I’m always scared. Always. I…god, I don’t feel good…”

The pain in the whumpee’s voice makes the caretaker’s heart ache. “I know. I know it’s awful.”

“You bit me, and it, and, for the first time, for the first time in years, I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t scared. I, I can’t…”

Whatever else the whumpee was going to say teetered off. They wept helpless, wounded tears, sick and overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry,” the caretaker murmurs back.

Despite their better judgement, the caretaker peels themself away from their wall. They move closer, head bowed, as non threatening as a vampire could be. They place the palm of their hand on the whumpee’s back.

The whumpee grabs onto them, clinging around their torso like they were drowning. They bury their face into the caretaker’s shoulder to hide from the world.

The caretaker draws them closer, holding them again, shushing gently as the whumpee comes apart in their arms.

____

“It won’t kill you. It’ll feel awful when you come back, but it won’t kill you. The human body is good at replenishing blood.” The caretaker brushes a hand through the whumpee’s hair. “I’ll get you something to eat this time, I promise.”

The whumpee flinches at the contact. They hug themself tight, a small whimper escaping, though whether it was from fear or from discomfort it was hard to say.

It felt like the caretaker should say something, anything, to offer encouragement. “You’re doing well. We’re going to be okay. Just one more night.”

“It’s…gonna hurt…” the whumpee murmured back.

“It will. But then it’ll feel better, for a while.”

It was better to get this over with. The caretaker grabbed the whumpee’s shoulder, turning them around to face them and then pushing them back against the rock.

The yelp was sharp, their eyes widening, heartrate picking up alongside a surge of fear.

“Shhh,” murmured the caretaker. They leaned in close, seeking the pulse. They bit down hard.

A cry of pain. The caretaker held the whumpee tighter, expecting them to struggle and thrash as they had last time, but instead the whumpee wrapped their arms around them. Fingers dug into the caretaker’s sleeves as the whumpee keened, a strangled sob of agony.

The venom worked fast. Every ounce of tension left the whumpee’s body; they went limp, their breathing settled.

The caretaker held them close.

_______

There was no moon tonight. No light at all, just the clouds, rolling over one another in quiet anger.

The caretaker made their way through the trees with the whumpee in their arms.

It was a tense, frantic pace, interrupted with frequent pauses to tilt their head and listen to the still air. They barely remembered the path, but that was fine. They knew enough of where they were to get out.

The scent of the whumper’s underlings was faint here.

In some ways, the whumpee’s silence was easier to cope with. They weren’t afraid. There was no guilt. They were a steady and grounding presence for the caretaker to cling on to. In some ways, it was worse. They were already human, fragile, weak. To have them unable to utter a sound or move in any way made the caretaker feel how alone they were.

The whumpee could offer blood, but not speed or strength. Not protection. Not backup.

Thunder crashed from far away. The caretaker bit back a whimper, they can’t let themself falter in front of the whumpee. Even now, drowsy and subdued with vampire venom, the whumpee could still hear, and they would remember.

Rain started to sprinkle down. A calm, even sheet. It would not be calm for long.

The caretaker had nothing on them they could wrap the whumpee in. Nothing to protect them from the wet or the cold. They could only keep moving.

Something howled in the distance.

_____

The caretaker runs as fast as they can.

Rain falls in heavy sheets all around, a chilling cascade that feels as if the clouds have brought fourth the very ocean to fuel this storm. Water splashes up with every step, and what little heat they have left is stolen away with every gust of wind.

It’s too loud. All the noise from the weather keeps them from hearing anything else. They don’t know how close their pursuers are.

The ground below is little more than mud. More than once, the caretaker’s legs tangle in the undergrowth, thorny vines tear at their already ragged clothes. Lightening flashes, blinding white lines that sear across their vision, sending needles of static spiking through their skull.

So focused on running, on getting away, so overwhelmed by sound, they didn’t realize the wolves were right at their heel until they heard the snarl and snap of teeth.

Werewolves could not be outrun.

Paws fell on their back, knocking them forward, using their balance and weight against them. They fall forward, on top of the whumpee, the both of them skidding in the mud. The caretaker let go of them and stood, hovering over the prone, paralyzed figure to face three massive beasts.

These were the whumper’s guard dogs. Perfectly conditioned, loyal, vicious. The werewolves would either take them back to the whumper, or kill them trying. There was little difference between the two.

The caretaker threw themself into the fight. Lightening struck overhead. Teeth sank into them, into their arms, their shoulder, biting down hard enough to crack bone. They struck back, focusing on each wolf in turn, ripping throats out in quick, fatal blows exchanged for their own flesh and blood.

When it was over, the caretaker returned to the whumpee.

Limping heavily, trembling under their own weight. Blood dripped from their skin to mix with the water. Their breath came in uneven, shaky gasps. They had to keep going.

Holding the whumpee with their injuries was agony. Tightening their grip around such a thin, frail frame made things in the caretaker’s collarbone shift sickeningly. The world faded at the edges, frayed and blurry, twisting a little, but all the caretaker had to do was focus on taking one step in front of the other.

Again, and again, one step at a time. Ignore the pain, they’ve had worse.

That was a lie. They’ve never been this hurt before.

Their breathing grows more ragged. Their arms strain to keep the whumpee aloft. Their feet slip in the mud under them.

Finally, finally, they cross the line. They are out of the whumper’s territory.

They collapse, hitting the ground hard, and move no more.

The rain falls around them.

_____

Late in the night, the whumpee moves. The caretaker feels it, just barely, somewhere distant and far away. They move and shift, pulling away.

The movement sends the dull ache in their chest into a roaring fire, and they curl around the pain, a strangled yelp ghosting out their throat.

Everything is spinning. The whumpee puts a hand on their face, and they want to cringe away, bury themself in the earth and avoid more pain. How much blood have they lost? Are they still bleeding?

The whumpee draws in close again. Their hand presses against the back of the caretaker’s head. There’s a pulse beating against the caretaker’s mouth.

They bite down without thinking. No venom left to give, they haven’t been able to rebuild their supply, but the venom from before hasn’t warn off completely yet.

The caretaker drinks, and their pain eases. Some of their strength returns. They pull the whumpee closer, and as their skin warms, they feel how cold the whumpee is.

It hits them, hard, that this is the third time the whumpee’s been bitten without food.

They heal the bite and scramble back. The world tips, they pitch too far and hit the ground. Through the still pouring rain, they see the whumpee laying there, glazed eyes trained on them.

The whumpee’s breathing fast and shallow. Their heart races in their chest, fast and weak, and their mouth is blue from the cold. They feel like ice when the caretaker touches them.

Too much blood taken in too short a time.

“S-sorry, I’m sorry,” the caretaker says, hushed voice breaking through the sound of the rain. “You…”

The whumpee gave this freely. Guilt tears at the caretaker’s chest, because they know what they’ve already taken isn’t enough. They still can’t stand, and they need to do more than that. They need to walk.

_____

Despite the rolling clouds that lingered overhead, the caretaker knew it was daylight. Their skin crawled with it, an itch like static that crackled deep toward their bones. Everything in them ached. Half healed wounds lay bare and raw, strained muscles begged for them to rest.

They ignored it.

In weakened, shaking arms, they carried a bundle of apples, eatable berries, a handful of leaves from a tasteless, but human-safe plant. Anything they could find that would provide nutrients and calories. If the caretaker knew how to start a fire, they would have hunted for meat, but they didn’t. This was the best they could do.

They return to the cave they left the whumpee in. There’s relief in the dark, a sense of safety. No chance that a wayward ray of sunlight might catch and wound them further.

The caretaker collapses to their knees, breathing heavy, just needing a moment to sit. To steel themself. To keep going.

They grind an apple and some of the berries into a paste, mixing some scraps of leaf in. With the mixture gathered in their hands, they approached the whumpee where they lay.

The whumpee was utterly soaked and freezing from last night’s storm, and this was made so much worse by the blood loss. The caretaker did their best to warm them up again. They’d taken off those wet clothes and covered the whumpee up with dirt and twigs in an effort to insulate their own heat back at them.

There was nothing else. The caretaker had no bodyheat to offer, and no access to cloth that wasn’t drenched, no way to dry anything off with the cloud cover blocking off the sun.

The whumpee lay curled up in a shivering ball, their teeth clicking together and their breathing shallow and strained. Their heart beat too fast.

Hypothermia was the biggest risk.

The caretaker coaxed the food into the whumpee’s mouth, murmuring incoherent noises of praise. They would do this, over and over, all day, until the last apple was gone, but for right now they only needed to get the whumpee to eat one.

The whumpee was awake, but barely, and as soon as the caretaker was done they went back to their trembling huddle. The caretaker covered them in more dirt. Needed to, at the very least, keep them warm enough that they didn’t die. Discomfort was survivable.

With nothing else left that they could do, they collapsed, arms wrapped about their chest, around the empty hollow. They closed their eyes, focused on their breathing and on the feel of the cave floor under them. They started to doze.

A hand curled around one of their own.

The caretaker started, eyes snapping open to find the whumpee had scooted closer to where they lay. They squeeze the caretaker’s hand with trembling fingers.

The caretaker squeezed back, and gently, as gently as they could, pushed their hand away.

With a whimper, the whumpee reached for them again.

“I”m cold,” the caretaker murmured. “I’ll make you colder.”

The whumpee grabbed for their hand, anyway. Too tired, and too weak to deny themself the comfort, they let the whumpee hold their hand.

The caretaker closed their eyes, and the cave around them faded away.

____

There is a vampire in the city. They’re quiet, they keep to themself, but their arrival doesn’t go unnoticed.

They’re eyed suspiciously by timid humans, and glared at by their more territorial kin who expect a challenge. A few welcome them. A few run away on sight. Many know them by their face by the end of the week.

This vampire takes up residence on the outskirts of town.

They get a copy of their old doctorate. They find a healthcare office that’s happy to hire them.

Their old workplace, the hospital in the city, shut down a long time ago. It’s unfortunate, but they still manage.

The vampire lives with only one other person. A timid, nervous human, who’s past is kept secret, yet who’s scars suggest suffering.

There is a vampire and a human on the outskirts of town. The vampire offers care to those who come seeking it.

The human helps too, whenever they can.

whumpqhs

ur-certified-waifu

quirkykayleetam

burtlederp

inky-whump

endless-whump

lionhxartx

#Whump #Vampire Caretaker #Whump the caretaker #Vampire whump #caretaking vampire #Caretaker #Tw: trauma #Tw: torture #Tw: drugging #Tw: injury #Tw: blood #Tw: blood drinking #tw: nonconsensual touch #Tw: escape #Long post #Wayward's favorites #mine

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milk-carton-whump · 3 years

Text

Two stories in one day?? (That's not too unusual) but this one was some mouth whump requested by @tears-and-lilies so of course I will provide.

This is also just a random avian, its not Zeke.

CW: graphic description of mouth whump, teeth pulling, defiant whumpee, winged whumpee, biting, blood mention, restrained, muzzle

Like Pulling Teeth

The avian was shoved to their knees which was met with a pained grunt. They tried to twist out of their binds or the guards grasp, anything to break free. But the hold was tight and unforgiving. They were also currently sporting a stiff leather muzzle that allowed for little of anything besides breathing.

It was an understandable precaution since they had bit multiple of the canine captors and spit at countless others. They could tell the predators feared them and for good reason. They looked up when a rough but leader looking canine entered the room. The avian sat up on their knees and kept eye contact to prove their defiant spirit.

"So this is the flying rat that's been making my pack behave so frightened?" The canine sneered as he grabbed a handful of the avian's hair. He enjoyed the flash of pain that crossed the bird's face. "Anything you want to say before we decide your fate, bird?"

The canine removed the muzzle but without warning the captive avian bit down on his hand. While the creature on the ground had wings and was very bird-like in both appearance and behavior they hid a pair of sharp teeth in their mouth. The leader of the pack let out a howl of agony and ripped his hand from the grinning avian's mouth. They had some blood on their lips and chirped tauntingly.

The pack leader growled and grabbed a pair of pliers from a nearby table. The captive's look of defiance turned to one of horror as their head was held in place and their mouth forced open by the gruff canine. The intrusion of a hand in their mouth caught them off guard and worried as to what came next.The avian tried to desperately beg and apologize for the bite but it was too late.

"It's a shame really, you have such a beautiful face, what do you think it'll look like with some teeth missing?" He cooed with an evil grin crossing his face.

The pliers were cold in the avian's mouth and tears ran down their face, they knew it was inevitable but their pitiful pleas filled the room. The feeling of cruel metal on one of their sharp teeth made them flinch. They squeezed their eyes closed as the pliers yanked down and ripped the tooth from the jaw. A loud agonizing scream filled the air which was quickly replaced with miserable sobs.

The process repeated three more times with each being more painful than the last. The avian could feel the world around them going dark as the pain became too much to bear. They could taste the metallic blood in their mouth as most of it dripped down their chin. They mustered their last bit of strength to look up at the pack leader and give them a defiant toothy smile.

#mouth whump #teeth pulling #cw #tw #blood mention #winged whumpee #defiant whumpee #biting #muzzle #restrained

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 19: It Ended As It Began

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 19. Post-Httyd 2. It ends as it began, the two of them against a dragon greater than life. In the aftermath, the Riders search for their friend and leader. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS.

Rating: Explicit

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Snotlout, Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 1 638

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Grief”

Whumpee: Everyone

Author’s Notes: Written in the span of a day for the Whumptober prompt: Grief.

Probably not for the sensitive.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was by the defeat of a giant dragon that it began and so it is how it ended.

With the end of the Red Death and the Good Bewilderbeast of the Sanctuary, it is only natural that a new challenger would come to try to take the throne they left behind. The one manning it was a Night Fury, it's only natural that he thought he could win, unaware that it is this Night Fury and his Rider that ended the Cruel Queen of the North.

He was a Bewilderbeast and one very much unlike the gentle King that tragically lost his life in defense of his nest. He wasn't like Drago's either, an abused animal forced to do his bidding after years of abuse and conditioning. This one had come with ambitious intentions and he was willing to do anything to succeed.

He was young and in his prime, just fully grown and ready to take on the entire world. Unfortunately for him, a boy and his dragon were all that it took.

It's not like Hiccup and Toothless wanted to slay this one. When he came to challenge Berk's Dragon King, they tried the peaceful approach. On Dragon Island they met and there they tried the diplomatic way as dragons know of diplomacy, it just doesn't look the same as the way humans do it.

Too stubborn to let this go, the Bewilderbeast demanded a fight, thinking it was already won. And as things got violent and it became clear it was either him or them, they chose themselves.

Both parties got the last hit in. Toothless' last blast, well-aimed and strong, had torn the challenger apart on the inside. And the challenger's last pillars of ice had knocked them out of the sky.

It was agony for the Dragon Riders to be forced to stay on the sidelines. As it were Hiccup and Toothless, especially, who had been challenged, they were expected to do the fight by themselves.

Despite this, they had faith. They've defeated the Red Death at the young age of 15 and that was only the beginning of the things they've achieved and done. They had faith that the unbeatable duo would make it through this one as well.

But then they were taken out, too, and there was something about this crash that made it seem different from all the rest.

That is why, tear-stained and in a hurry, that they run towards Hiccup now.

After searching the beach that has become the site of another battle, a labyrinth after all the ice that has been spewn, they have finally found their Chief.

"Hiccup. Hiccup!" Astrid calls out to her husband, her legs carrying her as fast as they will go.

He's lying motionless on the snow-covered ground, on his front and facing away from them. All five of them run like they've never run before.

Before they can reach him, there's movement and for a moment he seems miraculously okay as he tries to get up on his hands and knees.

But only for a moment and the Riders aren't even given a chance to be overcome with a false sense of relief before it is taken away from them. Because even though Hiccup manages to get up on all fours, he lurches and throws up what can only be blood.

"Hiccup!" Astrid's call rises and she runs faster than she's ever run before to reach him. The sound of his coughing and retching becomes louder as she throws herself to her knees next to him, her hands landing on his shoulders.

He startles before he takes one of her hands and feels around until his blood-covered one reaches her cheek.

"Hiccup, what's wrong?" She asks, wondering what may be the matter besides the obvious. Why is he acting like this? Like he can't see?

"A-A-A" He tries to speak, tries to say her name while his eyes stare right through her from a face filled with pain.

Her name refuses to leave him and he collapses in her arms. She catches him and holds him close, the others arrive.

"Oh Gods, what's wrong with him?" Someone asks, watching as blood doesn't just cover his mouth and teeth, but comes out of his nose and ears, too. The crash had been devastating.

At this point, as the Riders settle on their knees around Hiccup, they don't know which would've been better, but they find the fact that he's still alive disturbing. Because the amount of blood leaving him as he coughs and wheezes is concerning.

Fishlegs reaches over, brushes Hiccup's hair out of his eyes before waving a hand in front of him. He doesn't respond and that means they can only come to one conclusion.

Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, they all share a look as horrible realization sets in.

"Hey Hiccup, Babe, you're going to be okay. We're going to get you back home and Gothi will look after you. She'll make sure you'll be okay." Astrid tells him, holding him to her and stroking his cheek.

He doesn't respond to that either and they're left to wonder what exactly that means.

"I-I-I-I-I-It's-It's-It's-" Hiccup tries again and again to speak, to utter a single word, but nothing will come out. Nothing but more coughing.

"What should we do?" Snotlout asks, oddly enough too distressed to react much. They have to do something to help him, sitting around in the snow isn't going to do much.

Fishlegs may have an idea as he makes another move, loosening Hiccup's armor enough to help him feel around underneath, the movement confuses him.

"W-w-"

"Hiccup, there's something I need to check. Please brace yourself." Fishlegs tells him before finding his abdomen to touch and feel around. Despite his warning, Hiccup still cries out in pain and surprise, completely taken off guard. They all cringe at his anguish and Snotlout has to take his hands when he wants to stop Fishlegs, not understanding what's being done to him.

"Shh, it's okay, Hiccup. Fishlegs is trying to help you." He tells him, raising his voice in a fruitless attempt to help him hear him.

Now undisturbed, Fishlegs continues his examination of Hiccup's stomach only for it to be rock hard. It is filled with blood, his insides a torn-up mess.

Even if they were on Berk, nothing could be done to help him.

Fishlegs communicates this with a single devastated look and the news sinks in for the other four.

"No..." Astrid whispers, her tears from before returning.

"What?! No! There has to be something we can do!" Tuffnut protests. They can't just give up on him like this!

"We can't just give up on him! Hiccup deserves better!" Ruffnut sniffs, her voice breaking.

Fishlegs removes his hands from Hiccup's person and the latter lifts a hand. His arm trembles as it takes effort to even move it.

"T-T-T-T-" He tries to say his dragon's name, pointing towards where he thinks Toothless must be. He thinks and they know it's completely in the opposite direction because they found him before they found Hiccup. It's the reason why they were crying before they even spotted him in the snow.

They are without their dragons because they didn't want to leave Toothless alone. Not even now that he's... And it turns out Hiccup is about to follow him.

His hand drops as he loses the strength to keep it up. It falls to the snow and Fishlegs picks it up to hold in his own. Snotlout lays his hands on his shoulder and an arm, squeezing to let him know that he's not alone. Ruffnut takes his free hand and Tuffnut lays a hand on his knee to tell him everyone is here.

Feeling them near him, as if only now realizing what they've already realized, Hiccup lays his head on his wife's shoulder and cries silently. The tears run down his face, but there's not a sob and barely a sniff.

He's accepting it. There's nothing that can be done and fighting this fact will only bring more unnecessary grief. The worst part is that he's still hoping his best Bud will at least be okay without him.

Nobody says a word as they wait, barely noticing the cold as it can never compare to what they feel on the inside. It wouldn't be of much use either, Hiccup can't hear or see them.

Lying against the love of his life, head on her warm shoulder, Hiccup's eyes slowly fall close.

"It's okay, you can go. We'll be fine, Berk will be fine. You did great as Chief and Dragon Rider, you can go now." Though he can't hear a word she says, she still sends these reassurances to him and hopes he'll be able to hear them in Valhalla. She places a kiss on his forehead and hopes he'll still be able to feel it.

He stills, his wheezing coming slower and slower. He becomes limp and heavier in Astrid's arms until he's completely slack.

They hold their breath as Fishlegs removes the chest piece to have a listen. When he draws back, there's a grieving look on his face.

"He's gone."

They all burst out in tears. Sobbing, they come closer together and hold each other as they cry. They can hear their dragons doing the same in the distance.

The only comfort they have is that Hiccup and Toothless left Midgard together as they were meant to. They are sure to be accepted as valiant heroes in Valhalla and welcomed by the greatest warriors Viking and dragon kind have ever known. And Hiccup, he'll see his father again.

In time, when their turn comes, they'll be able to see them again, too. He'll be waiting for them, they know he will.

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endless-whump · 4 years

Text

Simon/Oliver: Taking Flight

CW: Box boy whump, creepy/intimate whumper, referenced dissoci@tion

Masterlist

----

Simon had tried to take him back

Oliver curled as far into the corner of the couch as he could, blanket wrapped tightly around him. Everything hurt, but he refused to let anybody touch him. Even when Sandy came over again, checking over Simon and talking in hushed voices with Mia and Marie in the kitchen, Oliver refused to move or let anyone look at him.

His eyes were glazed over, soft, wheezing breaths sending pain shooting through his ribs, a low whimper sometimes escaping the back of his throat at the agony. That's what this was.

Agony

Agony at just the thought of Simon, completely unhinged and dangerous, not even pausing as Oliver begged him to stop. Agony at the blank look in his eyes as he was dragged down the stairs, pleading through the cries of pain.

Simon wasn’t safe anymore. Nowhere was safe.

He needed to get out

Oliver glanced towards the kitchen, where everyone was. And then the unguarded front door. Stabbing pain lit up his nerves at the sudden movement of his eyes, a headache quickly developing without his glasses. He considered getting them, but that would make too much time, and too much noise.

If he made noise, they’d stop him. Stop him from leaving.

If he was quiet, he could get out without anyone even suspecting anything. Nobody would guess he’d try to leave, not without Simon. He could use that.

Oliver winced in pain as he let his legs unfold, keeping his eyes locked on the kitchen as he set his feet on the ground. The blanket slid to the floor as he stood, and he moved quietly to the front door. His heart was racing, fear taking hold of his mind at the overwhelming knowledge this wasn’t allowed, that he was doing something wrong. Just like before, when he’d tried to escape and nobody wanted him to, when Simon stopped him. This was just like that, in a way.

He turned the handle slowly, shivering as the door was pulled open. It was cold, raining softly. The wood of the porch was cold under Oliver’s feet as he stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. This was it. He could turn back now, if he wanted to. He could go right back and hide in the corner again, wait for everyone to figure things out.

He couldn’t be a burden for them anymore. It was dangerous here now, and he couldn’t wait around for them to try and figure things out anymore. That just left time for him to get hurt again.

He had to let his instincts take over, he simply couldn’t fight them anymore. They’d been trained out of him at one point, but he was cracking. He couldn’t push back the fight or flight instinct.

And so, he took flight

Bare feet hit the wet asphalt as Oliver ran down the stairs and into the street, blindly sprinting to just get away. He was free, he was safe, nobody could touch him now. He didn’t know where he was going but he was going, and the thrill of being completely by himself was terrifying but freeing and somehow safe. Each step sent pain shooting through his chest, his breath catching, but it was easy to ignore now as adrenaline surged through him.

Empty road, sidewalk, grass, he didn’t care to pay attention. He just ran. They all felt so different and yet all blending the same under his feet, the main focus being the cold that clung to him and the urge to run and run and run until he was far, far away from anyone.

He was out, he was out, nobody could touch him anymore. No more hands and hurting and terror.

And then he stumbled, and that feeling of freedom shattered in an instant

Oliver fell to his knees, gasping for air as his arms hugged his toro, face twisted in pain. He tried blinking away the water in his eyes, droplets falling from his wet hair. The rain was falling harder now, a white noise that helped Oliver block out the loud thought of fear and run and free running through his mind. The rain could only hold back so much, though, the pain creeping back into his focus as the adrenaline started calming.

Maybe..maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Oliver coughed, whining in pain as tears filled his eyes. He choked on a sob, palms scraping against the rough ground as he tried to get up. This wasn’t a good idea, this wasn’t a good idea. This is why he shouldn’t be making these decisions, this is why he shouldn’t be free. This wasn’t what he was made for.

He swayed, shoulder hitting the ground as he lost his balance and fell. He couldn’t breathe, fingers scraping at the asphalt as he tried to get back up. He needed to get up, he had to get back. They were going to be so so mad, they’d be disappointed and upset at him and...and maybe they wouldn’t want him anymore. Maybe he’d get sent back. He needed to get back.

One second Oliver was staring at the empty pavement. The next, he was staring at a pair of black, leather boots. The ones with a small, barely visible imprint on the inside. An imprint he recognized.

Handlers boots.

He tried scrambling away, fear ripping out any sense of direction or coordination. His knees scraped painfully against the road as he tried to get away, practically dragging himself. The hands were quick to descend on him, though, and he didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Oliver yelped in pain as he was shoved to the ground, his head smacking on the asphalt. He couldn’t move, stunned, as hands grabbed at him, hauling him back upright. His vision was blurred, head spinning from the impact as he tried to regain his balance, bare feet dragging against the ground

There were too many hands, grabbing and shoving until he was dragged onto an elevated surface, the sound of loud footsteps surrounding him and an engine running

They’d gotten him in a car.

He tried crawling away, kicking and struggling furiously until a foot jammed against his leg, the person leaning all their weight onto the one foot until Oliver screamed in pain. Cloth was shoved into his mouth, muffling the agonized wail of pain that continued even after the pressure was released.

His arms were wrenched behind his back, something cinching tightly around them to keep him in place. He registered that his eyes were covered now, everything happening so fast in a flash of darkness and pain and fear.

His ribs hurt, pressed against the cold metal of the van's floor, his breaths shallow and panicked. Oliver shuddered as his chin was grabbed, tilted up as someone leaned close to him, and he was overwhelmed by the sickeningly strong scent of lavender and just a hint of cologne.

“I always knew you’d come back to me, Oliver.” The familiar, deep voice hummed, lips so close they were almost brushing against his ear.

He was going back, and the only one he could blame for it now was himself

----

Taglist

@insanitywishes @18-toe-beans @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @spiffythespook@simplygrimly @cinnamonflavoredhugs @finder-of-rings @deluxewhump @ashintheairlikesnow @briars7 @albino-whumpee

#whump #box boy whump #kidnapping #hurt #restrained #running away #box boy universe #angst #my oc's #my writing #Simon and oliver #and Cedric lol #whumpee #whumper

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