#this isn’t that whumpy it’s like all implied
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She’ll never forget the bruises, but by god, she’s still alive.
@figuwhump
#this isn’t that whumpy it’s like all implied#cerise has been through some shit#whump#whump art#figuwhump#my ocs <2#oc cerise
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A/N: Don't read this if you don't like dark fics! Don't come at me if you don't like the content. Triggers are listed and the only non-"constructive" comments I'll take are about any triggers that need to be added. I said I was gonna post this like... three days ago but I kept going over it again so if I don't post it now I'm not gonna. JUST TAKE THIS! Let me know if I missed any uses of my SI's name when I was editing.
Context Needed: I normally keep the fics I write that are lore-heavy to myself, but since people said they wanted the dark fic… Reader is a rifter, which basically means that she’s capable of traveling dimensions, and is conditionally immortal. Reader goes by Black Robin and is implied to have a suit that shows a lot of skin and to have a flirty persona as a vigilante.
TWs under the cut because there's... a lot.
Light TWs: Self-loathing, reader diminishes her own worth, reader has past trauma with being left behind by people she cares about, Dick is giving reader the silent treatment at the beginning but it’s mostly pre-setting, canon-typical violence/blood mentions. “Good girl” gets used condescendingly.
Heavy TWs: Do NOT read this if you have any triggers related to rape/non-con. Nothing actually happens, but it heavily revolves around reader believing that it's going to. Seriously, don't read this if you don't like whumpy stuff, because you're not gonna like it. My love of whumper to caretaker shows through here. Lots of mentions of trafficking, reader is kidnapped by said traffickers, fear of rape/non-con, Dick is very mean. Like, seriously, he’s very OOC for the majority of this fic. Threats/implications of rape/non-con, inappropriate use of one of his escrima sticks (just in the mouth) reader has a spiral at the end where she’d convinced that Nightwing and Red Hood are going to rape her.
If it’s any consolation, this is technically hurt/comfort, so it isn’t all horrible. Just… most of it. Reader also forgives him far too fast in the end, but I can gladly share some more snippets of how this affects the reader character in the future. I’ve already got ideas for some short scenes that I’m gonna write.
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Nightwing was going to kill her.
He’d been explicitly clear: he didn’t want to see Black Robin out ever again. She’d nearly gotten herself killed, but she knew that wasn’t why he was so angry. He couldn’t have cared less about that, after all, she was a rifter and that meant that she was built to take pain and that death was a moot point. He was angry because she’d risked the mission, nearly let a trafficker that they’d all been hunting for weeks get away because she got too confident for her own good.
She’d snapped back at him when he told her that she wasn’t to wear the suit again, told him that he was just like Batman. That was the wrong thing to say.
He hadn’t talked to her since.
So, maybe she was trying to bait him a little by coming into Blüdhaven in her suit, maybe she was trying to get his attention back because she couldn’t stand being punished with the silent treatment. Maybe this was her fault.
Well, it was definitely her fault, but in her defense, she was thinking with her heart and not her head. She didn’t want to lose him, and in some twisted way, having him level her with lecturing and anger was still better than the radio silence.
She would have been fine. Nightwing would never actually hurt her. That wasn’t what went wrong.
Her suit didn’t have a panic button. It didn’t need one because she was forbidden from going out on her own even before she’d wrecked a mission and been benched. So, when she’d stolen a bike and made her way to Blüdhaven in costume while Bruce was off-world, Tim was with the Titans, Jason was off on a no contact mission, and Alfred was distracted with keeping Damian from abandoning his studies in favor of full-time vigilantism, no one knew where she was going.
She’d even been stupid enough to leave a note saying that she was heading home to visit family, and she wouldn’t be back for a while.
Alfred would have already found the note. Bruce wouldn’t start worrying for at least forty-eight hours with no word.
By then, it might be too late. Too late for her pride and her self-respect at least.
For now, she contented herself with growling and spitting at the traffickers, fighting the urge to be sick over the taste of her own blood soaking the rag in her mouth. She had no chance of picking the locks on the handcuffs, because she’d never gotten the hang of it while Bruce was teaching her, so she didn’t bother fiddling with them, instead preserving her energy.
If no one found her, she’d need her energy if she got the chance to run. They’d have to uncuff her from the chair if they wanted to-
She gulped, pushing down the thought.
Nightwing was going to kill her, but he was also the only chance she had of getting out of this without something worse than torture occurring.
She could see the leering. She could read the expressions. She promised herself that if she got out of this, then she was going to change the layout of her suit. She needed to cover more skin. She needed to flirt less with enemies too, apparently, because the men that had grabbed her had parroted some of her own lines back at her while they gagged her and dragged her back to this warehouse.
It was always warehouses. For once, she wanted to get dragged to a penthouse suite and get threatened and tortured by a classy villain.
Nightwing was going to kill her, but she couldn’t help the way that her chest lurched with relief and happiness upon seeing his form drop to the floor from one of the open skylights.
At once, all of the guns were on him, but, as suspected, he didn’t so much as flinch.
“Here to save your little friend? Awful bold to jump right in the middle of the warehouse full of men with guns, even for you, Nightwing.”
He tilted his head, the clench in his jaw speaking of rage.
She was sure she was saved, because even if he was mad at her and was going to give her a lecture that might have her in tears by the end of it, Nightwing wouldn’t hurt her. Dick wouldn’t hurt her.
“Save her? No. She’s just getting exactly what she asked for.”
Her stomach lurched this time, but it was with fear and a sickly cold feeling that crawled up her throat like it was being swarmed by ants.
Was she wrong? There was no way he would just leave her to her fate. He’d saved genuinely terrible people from situations that weren’t even as bad as the one that she’d found herself in, so there was no way he was going to leave her here, just because they’d had a fight.
Right?
The men’s guns all seemed to lower in the slightest bit, but they didn’t leave his form, “You expect us to believe you’re going to just leave her here? That you just dropped in for a friendly chat?”
“Oh, no. I don’t plan to leave her here. You just saved me the trouble of getting her pinned down is all.” He twirled one of his escrima in his hand, like it was a fidget toy instead of a dangerous weapon. “I appreciate you making my night easier, but I’m going to be taking her off of your hands now.”
So, he was saving her, right? He was contradicting himself, but she didn’t care what he said if he got her out of this.
“Thought you weren’t saving her,” the guns raised back to their full height, the leader scoffed, “you go play hero somewhere else for the night and maybe will give her back when she’s nice and broken in. Might not even charge you the full rate.”
She didn’t like having her suspicions confirmed about what they planned to do with her, but that was fine. She had guessed that, and it didn’t matter anymore, because Nightwing was here and that meant that these idiots were just delaying the inevitable rescue he’d come to pull off.
“Well, I guess you could consider it saving. After all, I might not be quite as into pain as some of your clients are, but you shouldn’t worry, I plan to make good use of her.”
What?
No, no, that wasn’t right. He was not actually implying that he was going to use her exactly how these men planned to. There was no way. He was Nightwing. He was-
They’d been flirting since they’d met, the kind of flirting that made everyone that didn’t know better think they were already an item. Even she knew that he was attracted to her, but… had she really pushed her luck this far? Had she really made him hate her so much that the only way he wanted to make a move on that attraction was like this?
She was having more and more trouble holding back on throwing up the meal she’d had before leaving Gotham.
“Yeah, right. You expect us to believe you want her as a toy?” The leader scoffed.
She wished she was that certain that he was lying about it.
Dick- Nightwing walked forward, still twirling his escrima as he approached her. The men parted for him despite keeping their weapons squarely aimed.
“Who could blame me?”
She could feel his eyes burning into hers even behind his mask. Her own mask was long gone, leaving him an unabated view of her frightened eyes. She was sure there was betrayal there too.
His escrima rested beneath her chin, and she forced her head back, trying to put distance between her skin and the weapon that she knew could easily shock her, “Look how pretty she is when she’s scared.”
She tried to muffle the whine that escaped her throat, but there was no way that he didn’t hear it.
What was going on? This was wrong. Was this- was someone wearing his face?
No, she couldn’t pin it on that, because no one knew about the way he’d yelled at her about never wearing the suit again, and there was no denying that was what he meant when he’d said she was getting what she asked for.
He really did hate her, then. She’d really, really messed up, and now he hated her, and for some reason the sting that knowledge made bite at her heart was worse than the fear at what he planned to do to her.
“And what kind of payment are we getting out of this? We could make hundreds at least by selling a vigilante, especially if we only rent her out. And this one can break over and over again, just to heal back up. She’d a goldmine of opportunities. Why would we just hand her over to you?”
Dick’s—no, no, she couldn’t think of him as anything other than Nightwing, because if she thought of him as Dick, then she was going to breakdown for sure; Dick didn’t hate her, Dick cuddled her during movie nights and carried her to bed when she fell asleep—Nightwing’s jaw ticked with irritation. Apparently, he hadn’t expected them to be so unwilling to give her up just because he wanted her to himself.
Was he waiting for this? Did he know what he was going to do as soon as he’d told her to never put the suit on again? Was he hoping that she would, just so he could use it to justify punishing her like this?
His empty hand trailed up her chest, just barely brushing her shirt, but it was enough to make a jolt go down her spine. He grabbed her jaw, the escrima stick brushing lightly against her cheekbone, “You’re going to let me take her without causing me any more trouble, because otherwise, I’ll be telling the Bat about your outposts in Gotham.”
Angry muttering began among the traffickers, but the leader remained silent, “That’s not much of a payment.” He hummed, like he was considering the offer, but anyone could tell that he already planned to ask for more, “Tell you what, you can take her out of here, no problem. I’m not interested in getting caught by a stray bullet in a firefight, and, honestly, keeping one of the Bat’s things seems like asking for trouble. She didn’t put up much of a fight, so you can walk out with her, after you give us a show.”
She gagged audibly on the rag in her mouth, tears finally escaping her eyes while she put renewed effort into forcing the rag out of her mouth. She wanted to beg and plead and cry. If he was going to do anything to her, at the very least she didn’t want an audience.
For his part, she could see his eyes widen just a fraction behind his mask, but the surprise quickly seemed to settle, and he flashed a smirk to the men that made her feel like she was about to start hyperventilating.
“Fine.”
No, no, no, no, no.
He pulled the gag from her mouth with the hand that had been against her chin, and she instantly opened her mouth to beg, but snapped it shut a millisecond later, her teeth clacking together almost painfully.
His escrima stick was resting against her lips, and his free hand was holding her jaw again, fingers squeezing against her cheeks in an attempt to make her open her mouth, but she wasn’t budging. She wasn’t stupid, and maybe cooperation would make things better in the long run, but she wasn’t letting him put his weapon in her mouth.
“Unless you want this to hurt a lot more later, you should cooperate right now. I’d hate to use this somewhere-“
Her mouth shot open before he could finish, fast enough that her jaw popped.
Okay, so she was letting him put his weapon in her mouth. She’d take the loss.
“Good girl.”
She hated that the praise stroked something in her, making her heart flutter even while he shoved the escrima stick past her lips and far enough into her mouth to hit her throat and make her gag.
Blood. Steel. An iron tang that made her brain go blank for long enough that she missed what he said next.
He didn’t appreciate that.
“Am I boring you?” He growled the words as his free hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head forward, making the escrima stick hit the back of her throat again with what was almost a bruising force. “I asked if you were going to behave, or if I was going to need to make you deepthroat this while it was on, but I guess I have my answer.”
Cold terror battered against her ribcage in place of her heart. All that was left in her chest was a black hole of absolute horror and fear that could hardly classify as a heart.
She didn’t realize that the sobbing in her ears was her own at first, too far into her own head and too tense while waiting for him to flick the switch to make this humiliation painful to know what was going on around her.
She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe!
And suddenly everything around her stopped and went deathly silent before gunfire began and the yelling of the traffickers became frantic and chaotic. The only words she picked up were “it’s the Hood!” and what normally would have made her think she was saved only made her panic more, because if Nightwing—the one that had held her while she cried and always agreed to musicals just because he knew she loved them—was going to use her as a toy, than that meant that Red Hood would too. She was sure he hated her too. She’d thought the way they bantered was fun and games, but she’d also thought that Nightwing cared about her and clearly, she was wrong about that. Nightwing had probably called him here so he could take out the frustration he had with her on her.
And then they’d tell Batman that they’d found evidence that she’d been trafficked and then they’d keep her locked up somewhere and- and- and- and- she couldn’t-
“Breathe.” A familiar hand fanned across her cheek, fingers brushing away tears that were immediately replaced with more, “Breathe for me, bird. It’s alright. It’s okay.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t catch her breath, but the escrima stick wasn’t between her teeth anymore, so she could beg now. She could plead and promise to behave and maybe if she asked nice enough and they believed her then they’d let her go after they were done with her instead of keeping her.
“Please, please, I’m- I’m sorry, I-I’ll never wear the suit again, I promise. I promise. I’ll be good. I won’t fight, I’ll-“
“Hey, hey, stop.” He pressed his hand against her mouth, not hard enough to force her to be quiet or to muffle her voice if she did continue to beg, but she silenced herself instantly regardless. “You’re okay, bird. Just breathe. I’d never hurt you. Never. There wasn’t a way to warn you about what was going on without cluing them in. I’m so sorry, bird. I really am.”
He sounded like he was about to cry, and the way he was holding her face in his hands certainly didn’t give her the idea that he was going to hurt her or force her down to her knees so he could-
“I could think of a hundred better ways to have gone about that, ‘wing.” Hood’s voice made her flinch and sink farther down in the chair she was tied to. She didn’t even move her legs or arms when he’d gotten the cuffs undone.
“I needed to distract them so you could get the files and I’m still injured. I wouldn’t even be out tonight if you hadn’t told me that they’d gotten their hands on her. If I’d tried to fight them, then they would have taken me out before finding you, so I don’t want to hear it. Don’t act like I wanted to do or say any of that.”
That was… fair. It wasn’t fair to her, but she had gotten herself into this situation and- she would forgive everything if it meant that he wasn’t going to hurt her. Actually, she’d let him hurt her if it meant that he wasn’t going to use her.
“Dick?” She whined out his name like a kicked puppy, tilting her face against one of his hands in a placating gesture.
“Yeah, bird. I’m here. It’s me. That wasn’t real. None of it was real, and you’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you, especially not me.”
Another sob tore from her throat, and she threw herself forward, into his arms. She was trembling and sobbing harder than he’d ever heard, and she was almost positive it was harder than she ever had in her life. His form wrapped around her, tucking her against his chest as he pressed his face against the top of her head and placed comforting kisses.
Jason sat on the ground behind her, one of his hands running circles against her back in an effort to assist in calming her, and it worked.
After her sobbing began to slow, Dick spoke up hesitantly, “I thought you would know. I never meant- I thought you would know that it wasn’t real. I thought you knew I’d never hurt you.” His breaths shuddered, “I thought you knew that I love you.”
“But you- you were mad at me. You told me- told me I could never wear the suit again and- and then you didn’t talk to me all week and I thought- I thought you hated me. And- and I came here to get your attention because you were ignoring me, so- so I would have deserved-“
“Hey, no. Don’t even finish that sentence.” His hold on her tightened and his voice turned even more tense, edged with anger, “No one deserves to be taken advantage of and you know that.”
She sniffled, tucking her face tight against his neck, and breathing in the scent of his suit and sweat. “You said you love me.”
There was a long pause, and Jason took it as his cue to leave, ruffling [Name]’s hair as he stood and headed out of the warehouse. He landed a boot against the ribcage of the leader of the traffickers as he passed by.
“I’m going to alert Blüdhaven PD. Half of their guys are probably on this group’s payroll though, so I’d get out of here before they show up. They’re probably hoping whoever shut down this location sticks around so they can fill them with lead.”
“We’re headed out now.” Dick stood as he said it, taking [Name] with him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung onto him.
“You said you love me.”
“I did,” he finally confirmed, “but I don’t think now is the time to talk about-“
“I love you too. So much.”
He went quiet again, feet still carrying them away from the nightmare that she’d just gone through, “I don’t expect you to forgive me for that.”
She tightened her hold around him, burrowing against him as a sign that she wasn’t holding any grudges, but also in an attempt to hide from the could Blüdhaven night.
“I knew you were after them. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in it. I just… I wanted you to talk to me again. Even if you were angry. I… I don’t handle the silent treatment well and… it felt like you were leaving me behind, just like everyone else always does. It felt like you had decided I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.”
“Never. I’ll never leave you behind, okay? I know that me saying that isn’t going to make you stop thinking that I might, but I’ll prove it, alright? I’ll never leave you behind.” He brushed his lips against her neck, and she couldn’t fight the light laugh that escaped as the gentle touch tickled her skin.
“Okay. I, uh, just… one thing though.”
“Anything.”
“Please keep the escrima sticks away from me for a while?”
She could feel him cringe, but he nodded, “Yeah. That’s fair.”
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Ok I’m about to go on a little rant, but bear with me.
Something I’ve noticed about tv shows (and movies, but let’s just focus on tv shows for the moment) is the annoying lack of realistic injuries/illness.
Look, I know whump isn’t for everyone, but even from a non-whump perspective, someone getting right back up from an injury breaks a lot of realism that the tv show would have been conveying.
For example, I will cite one of my favorite shows (and hyperfixation) Ben 10. Though this show’s lack of realistic whump is forgivable since it is meant for a younger audience, the themes of its whump are things I’ve noticed in shows for older audiences so hear me out haha.
We’ll start with the classic series.
Anyone who’s ever watched Ben 10 Classic probably remembers the episode “Side Effects” which is an episode in the first season of the show. The basic premise is that Ben gets sick, and the sickness spreads to his alien forms, giving them all different side effects leading Ben to have to adapt to a new unexpected handicap.
And though the main premise of this episode literally revolves around Ben being sick, the problem is treated very nonchalantly.
Grandpa Max literally knows that Ben has a fever “101 degrees. Sorry, Ben. It’s official. You’ve got a summer cold.” but still drags him along to the market and into the face of danger.
This boy is ten, Max, ten. A responsible grandparent would tell him to rest in the RV, not pull along the fever-addled kid throughout the city.
It doesn’t help that by the end of the episode (which canonically doesn’t last over even a whole day) Ben is already cured of his cold. At least attribute it to the Omnitrix healing him faster or something.
My next example comes from the Ben 10 Classic movie “Secret of the Omnitrix”. I don’t have any pictures for this one bc the movie is near impossible to find online. Sorry y’all.
If you’re unfamiliar with the premise, Ben accidentally activates the Omnitrix’s self destruct protocol which, once set off, would have the power to destroy the entire universe. To stop this from happening, Ben has to find the Omnitrix’s creator before it’s too late.
During this, Ben’s watch occasionally gives off discharges of electricity (which get worse if he uses the watch as well as speeds up the self destruct protocol) that hurt him. At first they’re not too bad, but there is one that goes off at a prison station that manages to knock him out completely.
Gwen actually does get worried about him this time unlike in “Side Effects” where she basically nags him the whole time, but the problem ends up being not that serious because a moment later, Ben is fine.
This is a trend for the rest of the series and it’s so so frustrating.
In Ben 10: Alien Force, there’s an episode called “Plumbers Helpers”. In the episode, at some point, a rock hits Ben on the head, knocking him out cold.
Though Gwen seems understandably worried, it’s basically for only a second because, once again, by the end of the episode a few minutes later, Ben is fine again even though it was implied that he had some sort of concussion.
In Omniverse, we get more of the same problem.
In the episode “Max’s Monster” from Season 4, Phil, a villain from the classic series, returns from a dimension known as the Null Void and repeatedly attacks Ben.
Ben gets beat up a lot in this episode, but one of the most notable times is when he’s electrocuted and drained so bad that he passes out.
However, this only lasts for a few moments before he’s back on the job again. He barely gets a chance to breathe.
This whole episode is chock full of Ben getting beat down, drained, and electrocuted, but barely anyone bats an eye. (I’d go so far as to say this is as whumpy as the show gets, but there’s absolutely no payoff as everyone around him treats the situation like it’s no big deal)
Another Omniverse scene where Ben is hurt is in the episode “Showdown Part 2” where Ben is knocked out by Malware.
Though there is now an appropriate amount of worry from his friends and family, there is once again no point as Ben ends up being, you guessed it, totally fine.
It’s a frustrating battle of nonchalance when something is actually wrong, and appropriate worry when things aren’t that serious.
The only time in Ben 10 that I can say they did it somewhat right is in the Ultimate Alien episode “Catch a Falling Star” where Ben is shot in the shoulder.
Though they obviously don’t show gore as this is a kids show, they do show the appropriate amount of care and pain (for an animated series that is) for his injury. Ben does not immediately recover, not even by the end of the episode, and he’s handicapped the entire time as well, not being able to fight to his full ability while in alien form and having to be careful in his human form.
This made the series more real to me.
Even as a kid, the lack of care confused me in those early Ben 10 episodes. It was either the correct amount of concern over nothing, or no concern over something that needed attention.
It’s almost like they didn’t want to commit to the fact that Ben was really hurt/sick and tried to compensate by pretending it wasn’t a big deal or literally making the injury a “no biggie”.
Though, for me, this doesn’t work in any media because now you’ve broken any sort of realism your audience had for the show before. And yeah, Ben 10 isn’t a very realistic show, but that’s why it matters to have those moments of realism. To make the fantastical and impossible almost seem possible.
I’ve noticed this in shows all over the place from Stargate to 21 Jump Street. Just once, I’d like to not have my suspension of belief broken by something as seemingly simple as tending to an injury.
Thanks for coming to my TED talk
#ben 10#whump#long post#analysis#ben 10 uaf#ben 10 omniverse#omniverse#ben tennyson#whump tropes#media#thoughts
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⛑ for the poor weapon whumpee - newbornwhumperfly
⛑ - Some tender first-aid
Thank you! Ainsel isn’t really in need of first aid as such by the time Idalis finds them, just some food and TLC, so this is wayyy back after their first, uh. Application. Which was a very nice change of scenery. I hope you enjoy.
Featuring: a healer who cannot pronounce ? lol
815 words
Content | Self-loathing, suicidal thoughts, dehumanization, strong language mentioned/implied: hand whump, whipping, burning
Taglist | @whumpy-writings @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @newbornwhumperfly @whump-cravings @whumpityy @nicolepascaline @whots-a-tag-precious @thegreatwhodini @shameless-whumper @neverthelass @quietshae
The weapon wanted to die.
Because that was all it was - a weapon to be used by its owners. It would rather be dead than live with -
a gush of heat, and then, immediately, screams. Terrible, animal screams of dying agony in a fire the townsfolk had no way to see coming, or flee from -
the scent of smoke that still filled the weapons tent, even here. The weapon was bound to its post again, wrists and ankles bound behind the wooden pole so its torn back was painfully pressed against it, but now, it welcomed the pain.
It deserved it.
The soldiers had gagged it when it couldn’t stop screaming, but it was still crying, moaning into the rough cloth filling its mouth. It was a monster.
A weapon. That was all it was.
It wanted to die.
Its hands had been bolted together before it was unleashed upon the town, but after, they hadn’t bothered to fix them together again beyond the ties around its wrists - satisfied, presumably, that it was well and truly broken to their will. The holes through its palms throbbed, every cursed heartbeat softly gushing blood into the roughly applied bandages, just enough to stop it from dying so it could remain useful. It fleetingly thought to try and tear the bandages off, try and really die, but even now, as it tried, the pain cowed it to its master’s will.
It dropped its head.
It was a monster.
It didn’t look up when someone entered the tent. A soldier, probably, here to pick up one weapon or another, or perhaps deliver its punishment for its incessant screaming earlier.
“Hey. Look at me.”
The weapon raised its head, expecting a slap or punch, anything to counterbalance the pain tearing through its soul, if a soul it could still be called.
It didn’t know the person standing before it, but that didn’t mean much, there were many in the royal army. They were carrying a bag unlike any it had seen the soldiers carry, though.
It couldn’t read their expression. Maybe it was finally too far removed from humanity for that.
“Okay, you’re alive. I’m s’pposed to take care of your hands, right.” They strolled around the post, then drew a sharp breath. “Damn, they sure messed you up, didn’t they.” They sat down behind the weapon.
The weapon tried to make sense of their words through the pain. Why were they talking to it like a human? It was no longer a human.
It didn’t want to feel the overwhelming relief of being talked to like a human.
It didn’t deserve it.
“Right, I’ll just take this off. What a messy job, fuck.”
The weapon could feel the bandages around its right hand unwrapped. Not torn off - unwrapped with uncanny gentleness.
It could only cry harder.
It didn’t deserve this.
Blood ran down its fingers when the plug of fabric pulled from the wound, biting into its flesh as it went. The weapon groaned with pain.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re gonna die if we don’t fix this up properly, right. It’ll heal, and then it won’t hurt anymore.”
The weapon found itself clinging on to every word, no matter how false. It hadn’t been talked to safe for taunts and insults and orders in so long.
It wouldn’t last. And it didn’t deserve it.
“I’m gonna clean this. There you go. Yeah, I know, I know. I’ll put salve on, that’s gonna hurt as well, but it’ll help you heal, right. Try and hold still for me, okay. Just a little more. Okay, one more dab. There you go. I’ll wrap it up again now.”
They moved on to the weapon’s other hand, chattering away just like before, and the weapon thought it was going to faint from the pain and the attention and the gentle voice and the tender hands.
Eventually, they were done. The hands pulled back, and the voice fell silent.
For a moment, there was only the awful smoke.
Then the healer sighed. “Look, they didn’t give me orders about your back but this needs cleaning up as well, right.”
And their hands were on the weapon’s back, dabbing at the torn skin, talking as if to a person, and the weapon cried.
Finally, they got up. “There you go.” They walked past the weapon, who could only look up at them in silent gratitude. Oh, it didn’t deserve this treatment, but it couldn’t help feeling grateful.
The healer paused, looking down on it thoughtfully. “Are you human.”
The words hit the weapon like a slap. The smoke on the air and the echoes of the screams in its head felt like reply enough.
Slowly, it shook its head.
“You look plenty human, you know.” They eyed it for a moment, then shrugged with a look of resignation, turned, and left the weapon.
#whump#dehumanization#self loathing#comfort#very little comfort but y'know#royal arms#ainsel#the healer who cannot pronounce question marks#I verily do not plan to make them a recurring character#but just in case#ask game answer#my writing
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Weston's head snapped to the side ...
Holy heck, going hard from the beginning, huh? Lol 👀 Not as whumpy as it could be but y’know.
For context (and not exactly spoilers but like... they kinda are. Idk if it matters that much though lol, Chapter 3 isn’t even finished so I offer this instead but anyway) Sherrif Graham and his crew end up bringing Weston back to Graham’s ranch.
CW: Broken ankle (previously broken), cowboy whump, gun mention, implied future escape attempt, implied past kidnapping, manhandling, punched in face
Weston’s head snapped to the side. Lightning. His vision went white like lightning, and the crack of Graham’s fist against his temple boomed like thunder in the evening quiet of the stables.
Weston had barely finished catching himself on the wall of one of the stalls when Graham hauled him up again by the front of his shirt, so that he was glaring into raging blue eyes.
“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’” he seethed.
Weston gritted his teeth against the sharp pain. Screw that. The generous “offer” Graham just granted him was anything but that, although standing on one foot, his leg raised to protect his throbbing broken ankle from his own crushing weight, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t at least tempting.
“You sleep here tonight,” Graham had said a minute ago, pulling Weston roughly into the occupied stables. “Tomorrow, I’ll patch you up good as new. Then you get to work.”
To which Weston had rightfully responded, “Screw you.”
Did he really expect Weston to say yes to that? No. Hell no. Weston wasn’t going to do anything for this no-good sheriff, least of all work for him.
But Graham still had his gun, and Weston was still unarmed. Hating himself for saying the words, still glaring daggers, Weston gritted out, “Thank you.”
Graham tilted his head, and his mouth twisted into a thoughtful smirk. “’Sir.’”
Weston’s look grew more venomous, but Graham was waiting and if he wanted any chance of getting out of there, well... Weston reached up and ripped Graham’s hands from his shirt. “Sir,” he spit, and seemingly satisfied, Sheriff Graham hummed and began his walk back past the rows of stalls.
“The hay ought to keep you warm enough tonight,” Graham added, and then he stepped out of the stable. The door shut loudly behind him.
Weston waited until he could no longer hear Graham’s footsteps before allowing himself to slouch against one of the stalls. He gingerly put his foot down with a wince. He needed whatever strength he could save for tonight.
Weston would be gone by morning. He meant it this time.
#not as good as weston's stuff usually is :/#it's been a while lol#cowboy whump#weston's wild west whump#✨content✨#sorta lol#thank you for the ask!#uh... yeah i'll tag#broken bone tw#gun mention#manhandling tw#punching tw#implied past kidnapping#yeah lol
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Follows and Likes from @tavecincertum | Requests/Ask box: Open
The Mayors Reading Archive: Recommended stories and authors.
How to write non-con without being explicit: A guide.
[How to Describe Blood Drinking]
[Navigating Small Whumper/Big Whumpee Power Dynamics]
[Whumpy Words]
☾ The City's Vampire Lore - A detailed Guide for a Universe
★ Vampire Cafes (blood, medical torture, dehumanization, starvation, body-horror, death, kidnapping, world-building, commercial slavery)
★ Blood Clubs (forced prostitution, starving, torture, force-feeding, dehumanization, heavily implied non-con, blood/gore mentions, death mentions, kidnapping, reconditioning, world-building, commercial slavery)
All prompts in this category, directly reflect The City's Vampire Lore. Embellished prompts and stories about how this customized Universe/Multiverse would work. Each scenario is made in mind of expanding upon the beliefs and creation of this specific type of Vampire.
- Feel free to use, expound upon, request, or suggest more information for this brand of Vampires.
★ Senses (imagine-prompt, torture, sensory deprivation, sensory play, whipping, power-play, lore building)
★ Amnesiac (imagine-prompt, reconditioning, dehumanization, reprogramming, amnesia, lore building)
★ No Biting Allowed (imagine-prompt, tooth whump, imagine-prompt, medical torture, referenced non-con, tooth extractions, mouth whump, lore building)
★ Fear (imagine-prompt, emotional whump, lore building, crying, implied torture/abuse)
★ Starving (imagine-prompt, blood, death mention, abuse, starvation, teasing, pain-paralysis, lore building)
★ Meals (imagine-prompt, blood, starvation, torture, abuse, lore building)
★ Vampire Blood vs Humans (blood, depression mention, sex mention, addiction, drugs/drugging, answered ask, lore building)
★ Blood Fix (Vampire Blood vs Humans) (imagine-prompt, addiction, symptoms of addiction, blood, blood-drinking, lore building)
★ Torture Handbook (blood, violence, torture, dismemberment, blinding, deafening, muting (removal/damage), breaking bones, burning/branding, freezing, wax play, medical procedures, implied/mentioned GORE, starvation, answered ask, lore building)
★ Torture Handbook V.2 (Master Edition) Now with estimated healing times! (Please refer to the prior handbook for trigger warnings.)
★ Pet Vampires (blood, blood consumption, enslavement, dehumanization, starvation, wounds, abuse, lore building)
★ Do Not Eat (blood, viscera, gore, blood consumption, medical lore, vampire medicine, pet whump, lore building)
Contents Include-
Vampire Caretaker/Whumper/Whumpee/Bad Caretaker/Ext.
Vampire enhanced scenes and situations
Guaranteed Vampire Presence in all Prompts
[Vampire Prompts Master List]
Contents Include-
Slavery Whump
Kidnapping Whump
Pet Whump Prompts
Box-boy Universe Prompts/Scenes
[Pet Prompts Master List]
Contents Include-
Non-Vampire Prompts
Non-Pet Prompts
General Whump Prompts
Whump Scenes
[Whump Prompts Master List]
Contents Include-
Vampire Whumper Prompts
Vampire Dialogue Prompts
NSFW/T Prompts (R18+)
Begging Prompts (R18+)
[Dialogue Master List]
Contents Include-
#1 - #22 (Ongoing, short prompts, randomized)
[VWP #Series Master List]
[Lifepets Master List]
This category consists of miscellaneous prompts, Miniseries, and Series that aren't related to Lifepets directly but may or may not exist in the same multiverse. Anything that isn't able to be fit into another section or any prompt challenges, seasonal celebrations, or group works will go here.
Contents Include-
Number Nineteen (Formerly vampire prompt #19)
Whumpmas 2021 Prompts
Whump of May 2022 Prompts
Whump Grab-Bag Prompts
[Other/Misc Master List]
[Mina & Lukas Master List]
Mina and Lukas - (Ongoing series, Chapter 16/(?), Updated 9/29/22)
#whump#pet whump#pet whump prompts#whump prompts#whump tropes#vampire whump#whump scenario#whump masterlist#whump writing#whump masterpost#whump ideas#vampires#masterpost#masterlist#vampire masterlist#vampire masterpost#vlor#the citys grid
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15 from love prompts with hotchniss (romantic if not implied lol)
and maybe hand write my url? love you <3
Love you too <3 find your url handlettered here!
This starts off whumpy, but it does have a happy ending! For once! I think this is the first nice ending Hotchniss fic I've ever written, so everybody say "Thank you Raegan!" 1227 words, no proofreading, usual shebang that goes here.
15: "thank you." /" for what?" / "loving me." / "it's not difficult."
Trigger Warnings: canon-typical violence/events, blood mention, hospitals, trauma response, slight implication of self destructive behaviour right at the end
read on ao3!
"No," he says. Even before she's finished her sentence. It's a testament to just how well he knows her and her brain.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," she sighs. It's a stupid thing to say. Because she knows what he's rejecting. It's the exact plan she's about to suggest.
He raises an eyebrow, obviously not believing her. "Oh? Fine. What were you going to say?" He isn't trying to undermine her. He views her as his equal, always has. But he can't let her do this. Not now. It's too risky.
She rolls her eyes, knowing she's caught. "That I should go in to try and get the unsub to confess."
"And that's what I'm saying no to," he says, voice completely level. Too level. He's hiding his emotions. Well, hiding them more than usual. And she understands his fear. Really, she does, because she feels it every time he puts himself in danger. But they don't have any other options. Not if they're going to get the unsub.
"Aaron," she whispers.
He flinches away. "Don't. Not here. Not now. Please." His voice breaks on the last word, a small crack in his armour that only she is allowed to peek behind.
The sheriff looks between them, so close without even realising, and the rest of the team, who are watching them with a collective look of sad resignation. They all know how this is going to end. It won't be pretty, but it will end in one way and one way only.
"We don't have any other options. I'm the unsub's type. I'm the only one who can go in there and get close to him. You know that," she says, loud enough for everyone else to hear. She's right. He just doesn't want to admit it.
"There has to be another way," he says.
"There isn't," Emily snaps, with more force than intended.
Aaron looks down.
"She's right. If we want to catch the unsub without endangering a civilian, then that's the only way," Dave says. When Aaron glares, he just shrugs, like he already knows how this ends. In fairness, everyone does. Even Aaron. He's just not ready.
"So, are we all agreed? Agent Prentiss will get the unsub to confess. My officers will be there as back-up," the Sheriff says.
"Thank you," Derek chimes in, when it becomes clear nobody else is going to. They're all watching Aaron, who is rubbing his thumb against his forefinger and clenching his jaw. He leaves without another word. Emily sighs, but follows.
"What's really going on?" She asks, when she finds him in the other conference room. He's looking at their board, but as she approaches, she sees that he's not taking any of the information in. He's staring at it so his tears don't fall.
"I can't lose you as well. Not now," he whispers. He's fiddling. She looks down. There's a very faint tan line where the ring Haley slipped onto his finger all those years ago used to sit. Of course. How could she have forgotten? The anniversary of her death is coming up. Jack is coping fine for the moment, but Aaron clearly isn't.
"You're not going to. Not tonight. Not any time soon. I promise." She can't, not really, but Aaron smiles regardless. But that smile, like everything in this world, comes at a price.
The last thing she hears before her world goes black is her name being screamed by a man that has already lost too much.
The first thing she sees when her eyes open again is a light almost too bright to be real. "My head-" she groans, as her eyes finally adjust to the sudden change of environment.
"We know. You got hit. Hard enough for there to be blood," the doctor tells her.
"Oh. Wait, what happened?" She can't remember anything after twirling her hair to get the unsub to misjudge her.
"Unsub realised who you were and what you were up to. He ran, you followed, so did the rest of us. Then you got trapped in an alley and he hit you in the head with a brick that had fallen. One of the officers managed to tackle him as he left," Derek explains. He's sitting in the chair beside her bed, holding a cup of coffee.
"I thought I heard Hotch," she says.
Derek nods. "He ran after you as well. Sheriff was really pissed off that he gave us all away- because you were chasing the unsub, I don't think he ever clocked that the rest of us were following behind you. But we got the guy. Everyone's safe."
"I'm glad."
Derek can tell that she needs to have a conversation with Aaron. He always can. He's a good friend like that. So he simply smiles, stands, and kisses her forehead before leaving.
Whilst he's gone, the doctors ask Emily all of their usual questions and run the various tests required. It concerns her. Not that she's been asked to stay overnight, she knew that was happening as soon as she came round, but that Derek has been gone long enough for all of that to happen. He comes back shortly after the doctor leaves, and he gives Aaron a quick but comforting hug before going over the team.
"Hey sweetness," he says from the doorway. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are red from tears.
"Oh my darling," she croaks, and he immediately goes over to her.
"How are you feeling?" He asks, kneeling by her side.
"I've been better. But I've also been worse, so it's fine."
He smiles.
"Aaron, I'm sorry."
"Don't. It's not your fault. I'm just glad you're alive and okay. When you collapsed- I couldn't hold it in. I just couldn't."
"I'm okay now though. We're all okay."
She carries on stroking his cheek until he nods. "I brought some of your favourite books from the hotel. Which one would you like me to read?"
"Did you bring Pride and Prejudice?" She asks.
Hotch looks stunned. "Well yes, but that's my favourite, not yours-"
"Read that to me."
"Are- are you sure?"
Emily smiles. "Of course I am." She rolls slightly, so Hotch can lay beside her. When he gets in, she rests her head on his shoulder, not even attempting to read the words over his shoulder.
When he reaches the end of the third page, she realises she needs to say something. She sits up, bumping his shoulder in the process, and he pauses. "Sweetness?"
"Thank you," she says.
"For what?" He asks, because it's not just about the fact that he's reading to her. It's more than that.
"Loving me."
"It's not difficult."
And he's not lying. Not in the slightest. She smiles and kisses his shoulder, then lies back down. As he reads, laying beside her like it's the most comfortable place in the world, she strokes his hair, smiling whenever he leans into the touch a little more.
Tomorrow they will talk. About how she endangered herself like that. About how all his fears worsen when it gets closer to an anniversary of something bad. About everything. Today, they are going to hold each other close, and be content with the fact that they are together, alive and in love.
#hotchley's 500#raegan <3#tw blood mention#tw hospitals#tw trauma response#hotchniss#okay bye guys#i'm going to try and watch that russian film!
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In Irons 1 - Freedom
(Prompt #29 for Summer of Whump)
This is the beginning of another new series. I wrote one drabble for it for Whumpay, but decided to rewind for some backstory to actually start off the series. This particular chapter isn’t super whumpy, but it will def get that way later!
If you want to be tagged in future installments, please lmk!
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, implied offscreen noncon, implied domestic abuse, wives treated as property
.
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There’s another ship coming into the harbor. There’s always ships coming, going, unloading and loading, off to another port further up the coast, or to some far off, exotic land. She has a perfect view of them from her bedroom window. They’ve fascinated her ever since she was young, but it wasn’t until the last two years that she truly longed to be onboard one of them. Any of them. She’d even be glad of a pirate ship if it would take her far away from here.
The bedroom door opens and Adelaide automatically tenses her shoulders.
“You’ve done your job, now leave. And make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Her eyes flutter closed. She knows what that means.
Setting down the hairbrush she had been using on Adelaide’s long, deep red locks, her maid bows respectfully before skirting around the master of the house and exiting the room. If only there was some excuse to get her to stay. But there isn’t, and it would only delay the inevitable, anyway, so she folds her hands stiffly in her lap and waits.
Heavy footsteps cross the wood floor until her husband comes into her field of vision, standing in front of the window with his hands clasped behind his back and blocking her view of the harbor. The candle on her dressing table throws strange shadows across his chiseled face.
“Two years and you still haven’t given me a child.” He states it like a mantra, almost every day. “Even a daughter would be acceptable at this point.”
There’s nothing to say to that, nothing that she hasn’t tried saying before and had it thrown back in her face, so she remains silent. He likes her best that way, anyway. There’s no reason to rile him up right now more than he might already be.
Finally Charles turns just enough to cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Take off that shift and get on the bed.”
She obeys.
It’s when she’s lying in bed later that night, wide awake while her husband snores, that an idea begins to form in her mind. She’s known for nearly two years now that she’s tired of being treated this way, but it’s just now that she begins to think about doing something to change it. Yes, her father matched her up with Charles Harrison with the best of intentions, and paid him a sizable dowry. Yes, she has tried her best to play the part of the perfect wife - other than producing a child - ever since then, solely to honor her parents.
But she’s had enough. She can’t keep pleasing her parents and her husband at the expense of her own soul, which is steadily being dragged down into the depths of despair every time she’s ordered onto the bed. It’s time for Mrs. Adelaide Wilson Harrison to make her escape and live her own life.
The very next day, while Charles is at work, she rummages through his wardrobe and chooses an off-white shirt, a blue waistcoat, brown breeches, and a dark brown coat. Nothing too fancy. For the rest of that day and all of the next she locks herself in her room and sews, adjusting everything until it fits her much thinner figure. When Charles is at home, she stows them away in various drawers and boxes that she knows he’ll never look in.
It’s on the third day that she finally tries everything on at once, throwing on a navy blue cravat, a brown tricorn, and a pair of her own stockings and shoes to complete the outfit. Smiling, she turns this way and that, admiring her reflection in the mirror and marveling at the feeling of freedom. She’s not sure how much of it comes from the actual freedom of movement, and how much of it is anticipation of the freedom that is nearly within her grasp.
There’s only one small thing standing between it and her right now.
Her hair.
Sighing, she steps closer to the mirror, wrapping a strand of it around her finger. She likes her hair. Besides her bright blue eyes, it’s her best feature. Sure, red hair seems to go hand and hand with the plethora of freckles that cover her entire face - entire body, actually - but it’s such an unusual color in this part of the world, especially as dark as hers is. It was her hair that first caught Charles’ attention.
She frowns at that thought, stares at the strand on her finger a moment longer, and drops it. No more procrastinating. It’s time for the hair to go.
Snatching up the scissors still sitting on her dressing table from sewing, she tosses the tricorn hat to the side and takes a deep breath, then begins to cut.
Several minutes later, Mrs. Adelaide Wilson Harrison is no more.
Mr. John Gray dons the tricorn once more with a confident tap, gathers up the already packed bag waiting on the bed, and without a second glance, marches out the front door and toward the harbor.
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Next
#summerofwhump#summerofwhump29#choices#control#in irons#adelaide the pirate#lady whump#lady whumpee#whump writing#whump#implied noncon tw#implied domestic abuse tw#pirates#haircut#running away#original fiction
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Whumpy Clintasha Whump
TW: implied child abuse, mentions of mental illness
"Why are you like this?!" Clint mutters brushing dried blood out of Natasha's hair. It's close to her scalp, it's must be hers but he can't see the cause. Not amongst the rest of it. "Can't you go one day- one day- without beating the hell out of some backwater asshole?!"
Natasha laughs, the motion dragging hairs back through her split lip.
He passes her a drink, there's blood on her teeth spilling out from her smile. She knows the drill by now swishing the water round her mouth accounting for the damages.
"Spit" Clint demands passing her a bowl.
She does looking up with a grin "When you become such a purist? Or do you only kill when the money's right huh? Like being Daddy SHIELDs little bitch?! I did what I had to do to resolve a situation"
"Resolve it!? Nat you just blew this for us, this safehouse, this life-"
"People were hurting"
"People hurt everywhere. There are jerks the Seymour in every town across every country. Hell, there's probably 50 more Seymours in this town alone"
"Well I better get to work then-"
"Look, Nat, I know this strikes a nerve but-"
"Don't give me that shit Clint, this isn't about Seymour or the trade or anyone's damn nerves."
"It's about the girls" Clint whispers tucking her hair behind her ears.
"I'm ruined" Natasha says tipping the bowl into the sink, carving out a trail through the dried soap suds, "We both know I cant take back what's done, all that red, I just do what good I can"
"You say there's so much red- but the only blood here is yours and you can heal, if you let it happen"
She shrugs, drawing in the dust on the windowsill C-L-E-A-N M-E. Her shoulder hurts and there's bruising on her ribs. It'll go. Infinity serum has its pros. "well we all have our coping mechanisms, I kill bad men to satisfy my saviour complex, you spend you life running from the thing you want most a home"
"This was my home"
"Are you sure cause if I wasn't incapacitated I would be counting this as the 2nd dumpster I've rescued you from this week Barton-"
"Yeah well, at least I'm only punishing myself cause guess what Natasha - Seymour wasn't the one to call the girls. His wife did. She was arranging tutoring for them. She was really going to give them a better life." He takes her hand in his squeezing it softly "Seymour was a arms dealer in way over his head. That was all he was. He didn't deserve to die"
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Art Masterlist
General Cw: Mostly Nudity (not detailed, I'm just too lazy to design clothes), Blood, Violence
This blog isn’t an art blog but it keeps appearing! So here’s a masterlist to organize it. Stuff I don’t like won’t be on here, even if it’s been posted. All art is made by me unless stated otherwise
*****
Whumpy stuff:
Impaled
- Reyo- cw: blood, impalement, implied death
Weep for what's lost (red banner art)
-Reyo and Niko- cw: Blood, Violence, Wing whump
Black Swan
-Vi- cw: Implied blood, Nudity
Wing whump gif
-cw: Wing whump, Bones, Non-detailed gore, Nudity (sketch)
Throwing knives
-Vi- cw: Captivity, Shackles, Knife injury, Blood, Wing whump, Pinned by knife
Vi's Song
-Vi- cw: Blood, Shackles
Vi’s black wings
-cw: blood, wing whump, amputation
Scorched
- Vi and Kados- cw: Nudity (out of laziness but it looks sus), Implied burns/injury
Vi 2013 (x2)
- Vi- cw: Blood, Nudity?
*****
Other stuff:
Reyo gif
Vi sort of realistic
Vi
Liminal red (Inverse)
Banner art for un-named masterlist (foxes)
*****
Other people’s oc’s:
Bumble bee
*****
Last update: June 6th
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for the prompt game, how about: 'The sound of a bone breaking'
Thank you :D <3 Does this count as whump? I don’t know
---
He’d ignored it at first. Taken the proverbial high road. They were little smears, after all. Possibly accidents. Not everyone in the Commonwealth had an appreciation for the finer points of dialect.
Maybe, when they implied Mal was a tramp, a scavver, they only meant it as a profession. Not everyone looked down on scavvers. Some claimed that proudly. Lots of folks wandered with no real home. The open road held appeal. Its own culture. Nate didn’t really believe them to be offering a compliment here. But a General couldn’t go around with a lack of self-control.
Benefit of the doubt.
Benefit of the doubt.
“Price is the best mechanic in a hundred miles of here.” Nate offered, and wondered if the person would recognize it for the lifeline that it was. “Impatient or not, if he bothered to give you advice about fixing your generator, you were lucky.”
“Pah!” They sneered.
Nate smiled without warmth.
“Haven’t you been listening, General? I know what I’m doing better’n that shitheel. His advice isn’t worth the breath it took to repeat.”
A blink of a pause. “Mal’s been my lead mechanic since we took the Castle back. You shouldn’t sell him short.” Warning had crept into Nate’s tone.
“Sounds like the Minutemen need a real expert.”
“I think I know well enough whether he’s doing a good job.” Nate wasn’t smiling anymore. “I’d thank you to speak more politely.”
The man lifted both hands and snickered, “No offense, General, but I suspect you don’t know enough to see you’re being cheated by that scavver, if you really think he knows jack shit. I’ll charge you fairly for it. Whatever he’s taking from you, he’s stealing, I guarantee it. Probably filching your supplies too to line his pockets.”
Nate hadn’t fully formed a fist before it collided with the other man’s jaw. Something snapped. A loud, splintering pop reverberated through Nate as one of his fingers malformed and the man hit the dirt.
Staggering back a step, Nate tried to stretch out his hand - which hurt - and grimaced. Just pain. Hardly worth considering in the defense of Mal’s honor. God, though, he’d have to explain this to Mal later.
Swearing and snarling, the man tilted a bloodied face back up in sheer shock. “You-”
Nate’s teeth were bared back, fist clenched again in warning, in spite of the sting and the bruise already forming. “Try it again. See what happens.”
----
Whumpy Prompt Asks
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Seasoned Explorers
Uhh yeah I finally had to turn in my writing portfolio AKA I finished my phat fiction story with a whumpy ending!
This is a VERY non-canon space pirate AU featuring Castys, Syll, and Erebus, all of whom are mortal and completely human here.
Castys Masterlist
Ingredients: character death, body horror, implied amputation, self harm to escape from danger
“Hey, Castys, I just picked up another old distress signal. And it’s close by, so we should be able to at least pop by and grab some valuables before we need to head back to base,” Syll said, glancing up from her command console.
“This better not be another planet with one of those giant evil apocalypse monsters still roaming around. The scars that fish thing gave me have not gone away yet.” Castys rolled down his sleeve as he said this, revealing a row of puncture marks that stood out on his bronze skin. He lazily examined them while still driving their spaceship.
“The cool thing about scars is that they don’t go away.”
“Oh hey shut up look at that it’s the planet-wow it’s super white.” Castys peered out the window at the huge white sphere that had come into view once the ship had slowed down. Syll got out of her chair and joined him in front of the main window.
“Is it winter in both hemispheres? I didn’t think this one was far enough from its sun to warrant this much ice. And I can’t see any structures or oceans or anything, everything must have been completely frozen over. It could be how they all died,” Syll mused.
“Well, if we get too cold we can always just stab ourselves with our thousand degree knives.” Castys pulled out his plasma knife and held it close to his chest, which probably would have killed him if the blade had been turned on. “Big toasty~.” He put it back in his pocket. “Anyway, could you go get Erebus up while I land this thing? I’ll do it in the southern hemisphere since it’s supposed to be summer there and less cold is good.” Syll nodded and went to wake Erebus, who was sleeping on the lower deck of the ship.
Castys landed the ship in a field next to a frozen city. The three of them met near the exit hatch, and Erebus checked the outside conditions display to see if the atmosphere would be breathable. It was, thankfully, but there was something else that stood out on this supposed frozen planet. “Guys… I don’t think that’s ice out there. The temp gauge says it’s warm out there. Like above-the-melting-point-of-water warm.”
“For real?” Castys replied, shoving Erebus aside to look. “Wack. Guess I won’t need all this warmy stuff then. Especially since this planet isn’t one where the atmosphere isn’t made of toxic gas that’s going to burn my skin.” He shed his warmer layers, and the other two followed suit.
When they stepped outside, they had to shield their eyes for a moment. Everything was a blinding white as far as the eye could see. Every tree and building was covered in a layer of glittering crystals. Flowers sprouted here and there, unnaturally still in the breeze. The ground crunched as they walked on it, the only sound disturbing the unnatural silence that pressed on their ears. The dead planets they pillaged typically still had some sort of life on them, something crawling or running or flying about, but everything here was completely still. Frozen, quiet, and crystalline.
Upon entering the city, they began to find the people. Their forms had been hard to make out from far away in the stark-white environment, but there were hundreds of them throughout the streets. Each and every one was frozen in time. Running, crawling, fallen to the ground, screaming in agony, in disbelief, reaching out to one another, staring up to the sky. Perfectly still statues with every flavor of pain and fear written across their faces.
“What...happened here?” Erebus had stopped in front of the form of a woman collapsed on her knees, a look of horror on her face as she stared at her own hands.
“Yeah this is pretty messed up.” Castys nudged the arm of a person lying on the ground, but they didn’t budge. “I don’t know if it’s as bad as that one planet with all the mushrooms...well, I’m sure y’all remember, but these guys are just like, perfectly frozen in their, uh, magic crystal death.”
“What does it matter? We’re not here to play detective for a dead planet.” Syll paid the frozen people no mind, weaving past them as she continued to walk down the street, looking buildings up and down. “Besides, there’s no use getting all sad about dead people we don’t even know. We see them all the time, pillaging dead planets as much as we do, and this time’s no different.”
“I don’t think we’ve seen anything exactly like this before.” Syll shot an annoyed glare at Castys and he held his hands up in surrender, continuing, “I get what you’re saying, though, so I’m down to stop staring at dead people and try to find some valuables.” He began walking with Syll, and Erebus reluctantly followed, giving the dead woman one last glance.
The three of them usually tried to find a museum or building of the sort when pillaging planets, since works of art of precious artifacts were worth a lot more galaxywide than the planet’s local currency ever could be. Normally, street signs and maps could typically assist in their search, but their crystalline coating made them impossible to read. Erebus tried to scrape the crystals off, but his efforts yielded nothing but more crystals. Wandering around looking for a museum was all they could do.
However, once they saw the building in the distance, they knew they had found it. It was much shorter than the surrounding buildings and was flanked by impressive columns and statues. The three walked through the open doors hoping there was something of value inside. The lights no longer worked, but huge windows along the walls allowed enough light in to see, even though the glass had been turned into the strange crystals. The situation inside the museum wasn’t any different from the outside. Every single thing had been converted to crystals, from the skeletons to the works of art, a blank white scene of greatness long-gone.
“I don’t think there’s gonna be anything worthwhile in here since it’s all crystal-y. Let’s just call this one a dud and head out.” Castys began to turn back and head outside.
“Wait.” Erebus held his arm out, stopping him. “A lot of museums have, like, a room with different minerals and stuff right? Maybe if this place had one we could go and see if this planet has some weird mineral that, I don’t know, spread all over for some reason? There’s gotta be a sign with information or something.”
“That would be a great idea except for, oh yeah,” Castys gestured to a large blank sign next to him, “words aren’t real.” There was an awkward pause. “Like reading words. Here. Because of the crystals. If there was a sign we couldn’t read it. Because everything turned into-” Erebus clamped a hand over Castys’s mouth before he could continue.
“Thank you, Castys. Shut up, Castys.” Castys responded in an even more mature manner by shoving his friend back, causing him to trip and fall on his back. “Ouch. Geez, dude. You made me bite my tongue.”
“OH NO! I’ve killed you, my dear friend.” Castys fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. “Forgive me for this grave sin.”
“Would you two stop fooling around?!” Syll yelled from the top of the large staircase on the other side of the room. “There might still be something worthwhile in this place, even if it is made of these weird crystals. So start looking.” Castys gave her a thumbs up and helped Erebus off the ground before beginning to explore.
After about an hour, the three of them met up in one of the rooms on the upper floor. There wasn’t much of a haul since most of the things they would normally steal, like gold and gems, lost their value upon becoming crystal. They did find a few small figurines that would still be valuable since their delicate craftsmanship was preserved and a few fossils that were probably detailed enough to be worth something. As they moved to leave, Erebus motioned for the other two to wait.
“I might know what these crystals are. I stopped by what used to be the gemstone room, and being in there helped me remember some stuff from that geology class I took when I was younger.” He held up a chunk of crystal he’d picked up from somewhere. “There’s one mineral that you can lick it and you know exactly what it is. Give it a try, Castys.” He tossed him the crystal.
“Well, you know I like licking things.” Castys immediately tried it out, much to Syll’s disgust and Erebus’s amusement. He made a face. “Eugh. It’s just super salty.”
“Wait, it’s actually halite? It’s the mineral that’s just straight-up NaCl, one hundred percent salt. I was hoping it was just going to be quartz or something, here, let me try.” Erebus motioned for Castys to give him the crystal back.
“So you just wanted me to lick a random rock for no reason? Why didn’t you just try it yourself?” Castys replied, tossing it back.
“Every scientist needs a guinea pig.” Erebus smiled. He licked the crystal and immediately winced. “Ouch, yeah that’s halite all right. Which I normally wouldn’t mind licking, but somebody made me bite my tongue.” He stuck it out for them to see the small wound, but where it should have been red, there was a patch of white. And it was growing bigger.
“Erebus, what is that?” Syll asked, moving forward to get a closer look.
“I-” was all he could say before his tongue became completely encased in the white crystals and Erebus found he couldn’t move it anymore. The spread of the crystals didn’t stop there. The patch of flesh-turned-salt grew bigger and bigger, radiating out from his mouth. He collapsed to the ground, frantically scratching at his skin, trying to get the rapidly forming layer of salt off. Castys and Syll looked oh in horror as every gouge he made in his flesh quickly changed from red to white, drops of blood only coloring their bleached surroundings for a moment before turning completely into salt.
“Erebus, Erebus!” Castys grabbed his hand, trying to do something, anything, to help his friend. “What the hell is happening?!” He yelled desperately.
“I-I don’t…” Syll felt rooted to the spot, like she was the one turning into a statue. All she could do was watch as Erebus’s movements became jerkier in his last act of grabbing Castys’s hand tightly with both of his own. And then he was still, completely encased in the same crystal as the entire planet, immortalizing his final moments of agony.
There was silence. Castys and Syll stayed perfectly still, as if they were waiting to see if the same fate would befall them.
“I-” Castys looked up at Syll, tears brimming in his eyes, “Syll, this is all my fault, I-I made him bite his tongue is that what killed him oh god I-”
“We don’t know what for sure, Castys.”
“Well then why aren’t I made of salt now too?! I licked it and nothing happened, but Erebus…”
“Hey, hey Castys, it’s okay, you didn’t know, there’s no way you could have known.” She knelt down and wrapped her arms around him, feeling him shake with sobs. She was too much in shock to cry now, it still didn’t feel real. But there was no way Castys could deny Erebus’s fate. His left hand was still tightly clasped between both of Erebus’s. He couldn’t stop staring at his face, one that was laughing and smiling a minute ago, now frozen in an expression of terror.
They weren’t sure how much time had passed, but when the light coming in from the windows began to dim, Syll stood and offered a hand to her friend. “Come on, Castys. Let’s...let’s go home.” Castys nodded wordlessly and started to stand, but when he tried to pull his hand out from Erebus’s, it wouldn’t budge. He tugged and tugged, but he couldn’t free himself from the dead man’s grip.
“Syll, Syll, my hand is stuck. He won’t let go.” He looked up at her pleadingly, the grief in his eyes beginning to mix with fear.
“Uh-I-I don’t…” She had an idea immediately, but she hated herself for thinking of it. She looked around checking her pockets and her bag for some other solution, but there was nothing else she could think of. Nothing else she could do besides use her plasma knife. “Hold still.” She turned the knife on, the superheated blade flickering into existence, and positioned it near one of Erebus’s wrists. “I’m sorry, Erebus.” The knife cut through the salt easily, melting it before it even came in contact with the blade. When she was done, Castys lifted his arm, hand still clasped between the disembodied salt ones. He began to try to pry them off, and Syll joined in once she had turned her knife off. One of the hands snapped with an audible crack, fingers breaking off and leaving behind jagged stumps. One of which sliced into Castys’s palm.
Red blood oozed out of the gash, but that red quickly faded to white as crystals began to replace flesh and blood. “No, no, STOP!” Castys screamed, holding his hand as far away from himself as he could, as if that would stop him from meeting the same fate as his friend. “Stop it please I don’t want to die I’m sorry Erebus I’m so so sorry!”
Syll felt like she was on autopilot as she grabbed his wrist in one hand and the knife in the other. There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. She couldn’t lose them both.
She turned the knife on and swung.
There were three severed hands made of salt lying on the ground. But there were two flesh and blood people. They were hurting, to be sure, but they were alive. They could escape. And escape they did, leaving the silent planet of salt behind.
#i wrote something#nemi's creative writing classwork#character death#body horror#implied amputation#castys#syll#erebus#watchmojo comin later tonight!#oop this is long and all the whump is at the end#i think this is the longest thing ive written with castys in it do you see why i love his stupid ass now#he's going to come back for a certain day very soon. nov 27 :)#erebus: *exists* me: damn what if i fucked up his tongue and was really mean to him#fr i feel so bad for him why do he always gotta get shafted#oh wait it's because i am the worst overlord to have#if these boys knew they could get out of dodge they would sell themselves away from me in a heartbeat#big question: would ANY whumpee actually want my evil ass as their overlord?#im thinking no...im very cruel#i hope people actually read this i feel like it might be too slow in the beginning#if you're here and you did: do you like the title :)#i thought it was funnie#i WILL be out here making geology whump okay#death by l i c c#it's how i would die tbh
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The Definition of Madness Chapter 5
Whumptober No. 26: Concussion
Fandom: The Man from UNCLE (2015)
Pairings: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo & Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller
Summary: They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.
Or, Illya gets stuck in a very whumpy time loop.
Ao3 Link
TW for this chapter: implied suicide. Only a very brief mention of it, and definitely no details of any kind. I think you can probably guess the context of this given the nature of the story. I will say that the latter half of this chapter is very warm and fluffy, so I'm not leaving you in a dark place.
*****
Previous Chapter
Illya’s not sure how he does it, but he manages to wake up hours before dawn. The safehouse is dead silent, and his partners will be asleep for a while yet. As quickly and as quietly as he can, he arms himself with every possible weapon he can strap to his body and throws extra ammunition and some random bits of portable food into a small backpack.
He practically runs up the mountain, covering the distance in less than half the amount of time it normally takes them. The forest is pitch black around him, but he doesn’t need to see where he’s going. He knows it in his bones, by this point.
The sun is just peeking over the horizon when he arrives at the compound. He doesn’t cut his way in, because he’s sure there’s some kind of silent alarm that gets triggered, and instead finds a tree that’s been allowed to grow too close to the fence. It’s not the easiest climb, but he makes it high enough to launch himself over the fence, tucking into a roll as he lands on the other side.
It’s odd, seeing the compound in the daylight. Somehow it looks just as deserted as it is at night, like it’s only ever staffed by a skeleton crew of guards. He knows better than to let himself get lulled into a false sense of security, though. There must be some hidden part of the compound that he hasn’t discovered yet, underground perhaps, somewhere the mysterious man in charge hides out. Somehow Illya has never seen him until someone has gotten captured, but he can’t possibly just appear out of nothing.
Illya finds a lone guard about his height and knocks him out, quickly stripping him down in a storeroom. His uniform is a bit tight on Illya, but it’s not too noticeable. Concealing his weapons as best he can, Illya pulls the guard’s cap low over his eyes and steps back out into the facility.
He should have done this ages ago, he thinks almost idly as he wanders freely through the compound. He learns a lot more about their targets, understands a lot more about the facility, and his partners are safe. Well, he doesn’t know that they’re safe. He has no idea what they’re doing, to be honest, but at least this time he can pretend.
If there is an entrance to some underground bunker, it remains stubbornly hidden. Illya has poured over nearly every inch of the compound, and so eventually he returns to the chemical building. He’d been avoiding it, in part because of the bad memories and in part because it always feels like a trap. Then again, maybe it feels that way because it’s where the information he actually needs is kept.
The building is empty, as it always seems to be. Illya finds a high, secluded perch on a nearby building and watches for a long time, hoping to see some sign of activity, but there’s nothing. He briefly wonders if the reason that no one seems to be around is because they are in the process of attacking the safehouse, but he pushes the thought from his mind.
Eventually he climbs down from his perch and creeps into the building. It’s a familiar space at this point, given that most of the loops seem to end with them dying there, but most of the times he’s there he’s too busy to really look around. To wit, this time he finds a door hidden along one wall, partially obstructed from view by lab benches and equipment. The lock on it is strange and high-tech, like nothing he’s ever seen before, and he wishes Napoleon were here. He’d probably be able to crack it no problem.
Illya spends a long time trying to figure out the door. Long enough that he is, finally, lulled into a false sense of security. Surely if they knew he was here, they would have acted by now. He’s considering putting some charges down and trying to just blow his way through the door, when the day finally catches up with him.
He hears the footstep behind him too late. Turns too slowly to defend himself. After all of the myriad ways he’s been attacked, it seems almost absurd that this time he’s taken out by nothing more than some kind of heavy club that smacks hard into his temple and makes him see stars before everything goes black.
*****
The thing is, it doesn’t kill him.
Illya wakes in a cell. The floor is cold, damp concrete underneath him, and even though the air isn’t particularly cool, it chills him to his bones. When he tries to open his eyes he sees there is a high, barred window letting a sliver of light in, but even that is too much for him. He winces and rolls onto his side, pushing himself up just enough to heave out what little is in his stomach before collapsing to the ground again.
Fuck. He hasn’t been concussed this badly in a long time. He forces his eyes open again and the world spins around him, but he can’t just lie here. He has to find some way out. Unfortunately his efforts to move end with him dry heaving again, and he curls reflexively into a ball. Maybe in a bit, then.
“So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Kuryakin,” a familiar voice says, some unknown amount of time later.
Illya pries his eyes open to see—who else?—the mysterious man in charge standing outside his cell. A small smile plays on his lips, mocking and smug, as he surveys Illya where he still lies on the floor of the cell.
“You look to be in pretty rough shape, there,” he says lightly. “Sorry for the rude welcome, but, you see, my boys can get a bit carried away sometimes.”
“Fuck you,” Illya manages, spitting the taste of bile out of his mouth.
The man laughs at this. “Ah, there’s the spirit I was expecting. You surprised us today, Mr. Kuryakin. Did you know that?”
“Just kill me and be done with it.”
Silence falls heavy in the air, and when Illya looks up again the man is staring at him with a calculating expression on his face.
“You’re the one resetting the day, aren’t you?”
It is perhaps the very last thing that Illya thought he would hear. Surprise chokes him and he erupts in a coughing fit, wincing against the blinding pain in his skull.
“I suppose that makes sense,” the man continues, “given all that you seem to know about the facility. Fortunate for us that we caught you, then.”
“What are you talking about?” Illya growls as he tries to force himself to his hands and knees.
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. I don’t know how you stole it from me, but no matter. I’ll get it back shortly.”
“Impossible.”
The man raises his eyebrows questioningly. “Did you never wonder how we always know where your team is, or what you’ll do? I spent fifty loops trying to outsmart you before I lost it. I have to admit, you lot are quite creative. Far more formidable than anyone else who has tried to come take us out. How many loops has it been for you, now? Have you discovered all of our traps?”
Illya doesn’t answer. The idea that he’s nearly thirty loops behind their adversary is staggering. He pushes himself up until he can lean against the wall, ignoring the lurch in his stomach and cursing how his head is at once throbbing and fuzzy.
“How does it work?” he groans eventually. Clearly there’s no use pretending he doesn’t know what the man is talking about. “How does it end?”
“You don’t think I’m going to actually tell you that, do you?” the man laughs. “As to how it ends: don’t worry, there is a cure, so to speak. Once we pull you out, I’ll take the reset back, and your pesky team will finally be eliminated.”
“None of this makes sense,” Illya says. Granted, his mental facilities aren’t at their best right now, but even so he’s pretty sure this is insane. He would never believe it for a second if he hadn’t been living it. “How can some drug do all this? Time doesn’t work that way. Reality doesn’t work that way.”
The man smirks at him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe it’s all some elaborate psychological torture to get you to reveal your plans.” He turns, then, and walks toward the door, pausing only for at the threshold to glance back at Illya. “What do you think?”
He leaves Illya alone in the rapidly falling dark of the cell. To be honest, Illya doesn’t know what to think anymore, but for the first time the idea of losing the ability to reset the day is terrifying. What if he gets this ‘cure’, whatever it is, and his partners are already dead? What if this is the day that he loses everything, and there are no redos?
That night, for the first time in this already too-long nightmare, Illya does the unthinkable.
*****
He wakes up in his bed at the safehouse with the mother of all splitting headaches. The early morning sunlight is just starting to come through the window and it’s already too much. There’s pretty much no way he’s making it up the mountain today, so he might as well stay in bed, but then he hears Napoleon humming and thinks maybe he should try to keep him from burning his hand.
Turns out, trying to push himself out of bed is a mistake. His head swims and he collapses onto all fours with a heavy thud, retching the bile from his empty stomach onto the hardwood.
“Christ, Peril, what’s wrong?” Napoleon gasps as he tears open the door to the room. He rushes forward and bends down at Illya’s side, one hand grabbing his arm while the other rests between his shoulders, rubbing small, comforting circles.
Illya groans and allows himself to be hustled back into the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes against the light. “Can you…” he mutters, gesturing blindly toward the window, and after a moment he hears the blinds shut.
A few moments later the edge of the mattress dips as Napoleon sits down next to him, then a tentative hand brushes over his arm. “Peril, what’s going on?”
“M’sick,” Illya mumbles, because how do you explain that you have a concussion despite the fact that you didn’t actually hit your head?
Illya pulls his arm off his face and squints at his partner in the dim light, and finds Napoleon staring at him with no small amount of care and concern written across his face. He reaches forward and lays his palm gently across Illya’s forehead, presumably checking for a fever, and for some bizarre reason Illya shivers under his touch. It occurs to him, then, that Napoleon didn’t end up burning his hand on the pan after all, and the realization shocks a laugh out of him.
“Well you’re not feverish, but you might be delirious,” Napoleon says wryly. “I don’t know what this is, but you’re obviously going to have to stay back today.”
“No!” Illya say sharply, then winces at the volume of his own voice. He clamps Napoleon’s wrist in an iron grip. “You can’t go. You and Gaby, you have to stay too.”
“Come now, Peril, I appreciate the concern, but the two of us can handle a little recon without you.”
“Please, Napoleon,” Illya grits out, clenching his eyes tightly closed, “don’t go. I…” I need you, he can’t quite make himself say. “Don’t go, just for today. For me.”
Illya squeezes Napoleon’s wrist again, and after a moment his partner’s warm palm covers his hand. At that he manages to pry his eyes open again and finds that same worried, careful expression on Napoleon’s face.
“Ok, Peril. Ok,” he agrees. “We’ll put off the op.”
He expects that Napoleon will get up and leave him to his misery, but his partner just sits there, watching him, his hand still covering Illya’s and his thumb absently tracing small circles on Illya’s skin. All at once Illya is thrown back in his memories to the kitchen, to the determination, and something else, in Napoleon’s eyes. It sends another shiver down his spine, which Napoleon apparently interprets as a chill. He pulls away to grab the blanket, and Illya tries to suppress a surge of disappointment at the loss of contact.
“I’ll bring you some breakfast in a bit, hm?” Napoleon says as he pulls the blanket over Illya’s body. He pauses, frowning, and somehow Illya can tell he’s remembering seeing Illya dry-heaving only minutes earlier. “Maybe just some toast.”
“Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, stopping Napoleon before he leaves the room. He turns back expectantly, but once again Illya feels lost for words. He chokes down whatever emotion is clogging his throat and sighs heavily. “Don’t touch the pan handle without a mitt, and don’t turn on the oven.”
*****
Reading is, unfortunately, not really an option in his current condition, and honestly playing chess isn’t much better. He sleeps a lot of the day, and Gaby plays a some simple card games with him, but he doesn’t see much of Napoleon except for when he comes in to deliver food. Illya tries not to feel disappointed. It doesn’t really work.
He discovers why his partner has been so scarce when he finally gets up in the late afternoon. The injuries he sustains from loop to loop at least have the benefit of healing a lot more quickly than usual, so he feels almost back to normal besides a lingering dull headache. Napoleon is, perhaps predictably, in the kitchen, and he tuts disapprovingly when he sees Illya enter.
“You shouldn’t be up,” he scolds, barely pausing in whatever he’s doing.
Illya ignores him and walks over to investigate. Napoleon’s shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and he appears to be kneading some kind of smooth, pale yellow dough.
“You’re not using the oven,” Illya says quickly, his gaze darting toward the appliance, but it appears to still be off.
“No, I’m not,” Napoleon huffs as he kneads, “even though you won’t tell me why. This isn’t for baking. I’m making pasta.”
Illya blinks at him, thinking he must be misunderstanding something. Surely Napoleon isn’t making noodles from scratch in their tiny safehouse kitchen. When would he have even gotten the ingredients to do such a thing? The whole operation seems extravagant, even for Napoleon. His partner is too busy vigorously kneading the dough to notice his confused look, though.
“Why?”
Napoleon laughs. “I can’t very well make my nona’s soup with dried pasta,” he says, no small amount of disdain lacing his words. “I think she might rise from the grave and beat me over the head with a wheel of parmesan.”
“All right,” Illya allows, like he understands why it would matter, “but why are you making the soup now? Here? The circumstances cannot be ideal.”
“Ah, well, it’s her famous get-well soup,” Napoleon explains. He pauses for a moment, still staring down at the pasta dough. “When I was growing up, any time I got sick she would come over and spend all day making this soup. Said it was better than any medicine a doctor could give.”
Momentarily, the dough seems forgotten. Napoleon looks like he’s lost in a pleasant memory, a small, melancholy smile curling the corners of his mouth. The image of a short, round Italian woman taking care of a small boy with dark hair and deep blue eyes forms in Illya’s mind, and he finds himself inexplicably warmed by it.
“And?” Illya prompts. “Is it?”
Napoleon snaps out of his reverie and sets about kneading the dough vigorously again. Illya wonders how he knows when it’s ready, but he doesn’t want to know badly enough to get a lecture on pasta making from Napoleon right now.
“Of course, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Like she always said, it’s got her secret ingredient in it.”
“Which is?”
To his surprise, Napoleon flushes an impressive shade of red at this question. “Wouldn’t be a secret if I went around telling everybody, would it?” he mumbles, barely audible.
Illya lets silence fall between them for a moment, only broken by the soft sounds of kneading. It’s really rather more mesmerizing than it should be, watching the muscles in his forearms move under his skin as he works the dough with strong, capable hands. Napoleon's hair is starting to curl from being in the steamy kitchen all day, a few locks escaping his pomade to fall across his forehead, and the whole picture is rather… arresting.
“You still haven’t answered the question,” he says eventually—and why on Earth does his throat feel so tight?—“Why are you making it now?”
“I would have thought that was obvious, Peril,” Napoleon huffs. “You’re sick, you get the soup. Which is also why you really should be in bed.”
He finally looks up at Illya, and his eyes are full of that same something that they had been after the explosion. And then, suddenly, everything seems to fall into place. Napoleon has been in here all day making this soup, the soup that his grandmother made him when he was sick, the soup that you clearly only make for people you love, because why else would anyone spend that much time making soup…
And he’s making it for Illya.
Abruptly Illya really does feel like he needs to go back to bed. Or at least sit down.
“Have you… have you made it many times?” Illya asks quietly, sounding nearly as unsteady as he feels.
Napoleon stares at him for a moment before he drops his gaze to the counter again. “No. No, I haven’t,” he answers, just as quiet. Then he clears his throat, clenching his jaw, and gives his head a tiny shake. “But I know how, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’ll be good.”
“I know it will, Cowboy,” Illya says. “Thank you, for making it for me.”
“Well, you know, it’s something to do while we’re stuck here all day,” Napoleon says dismissively, but it’s too late. Illya happens to know what Napoleon would do all day when stuck in a safehouse, and it’s not making extremely labor-intensive soup. “Now will you go back to bed? You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Illya takes the excuse, even though his fading concussion is certainly not the thing that’s currently making him so lightheaded. Gaby offers to play another card game with him but he begs off, claiming he’s going to nap, when really all he does after he climbs back into the bed is stare at the wall and think.
It would be one thing if the only thing that had clicked into place was Illya’s understanding of Napoleon’s feelings for him. No, that realization had the benefit—or misfortune? who could tell—of seemingly popping the cork on Illya’s own repressed feelings. Of everything he felt, but didn’t dare put a name to, that terrible day in the kitchen, and nearly every other repetition of this miserable loop. Told himself it was loyalty, told himself it was friendship, because good agents simply do not fall in love with their partners.
Turns out he is just as terrible a spy as he’s always accused Napoleon of being.
He’s not even close to done processing all of it by the time Gaby peeks her head into the room and says that dinner is ready, and does he feel up to coming to the table to eat?
He nods and follows her to the kitchen, feeling some kind of perverse comfort in the knowledge that he has, seemingly, all the time in the world to make sense of what’s going on in his heart.
The soup is, without a doubt, the most delicious soup he’s ever tasted. Gaby lets out a groan of delight more suited to the bedroom than the dinner table when she takes a bite and honestly, it’s all Illya can do not to echo her. He’s sure his face does something incriminating nevertheless, because the blistering warmth that fills his chest—warmth that has decidedly nothing to do with the temperature of the soup—is far more than he can reasonably control.
Napoleon, of course, looks exceedingly pleased with himself, but whatever emotions that had slipped loose earlier have been carefully locked away again. It doesn’t matter. Between Napoleon’s aborted confession after the explosion and the soup, Illya knows. To be honest, it’s a little embarassing that it took him 22 loops to figure it out, now that he knows where to look for the signs.
A year and 22 loops. God, he’s an idiot sometimes.
Next Chapter
#whumptober2020#no.26#concussion#the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic#suicide#the man from uncle#tmfu#napollya#napoleon x illya#napoleon solo#illya kuryakin#my fic
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It’s a long one, lads, but here’s the ✨ super special whump ✨ I promised! The reason? It’s the amazing @unicornscotty‘s birthday!! (Make sure to wish them a happy birthday! :D ) Happy birthday to one of the first friends I made here on Tumblr. <3 What am I doing to celebrate? Posting a Pirate Whump fanfic (OG story by @unicornscotty, hence it being the present)!!!
!!! Note: You don’t need to read the story to understand this fic, but once you’re finished with this, you ought to if you like pirate whump!
Super amazing story idea courtesy of @milk-carton-whump. Then I made it an AU because rivalry, am I right? Canonically, these two get along pretty well, but a prince and a pirate on the same ship? There’s bound to be some bad blood. Then, of course, a sprinkling of enemies to lovers because why the heck not! :)
Truth be told, I don’t know if it’s whumpy enough. That being said, I’ve been especially bloodthirsty lately, so there probably is enough whump XD. Hope you guys like it!
CW: Accidental self-harm (biting tongue), alcohol mention, bodily fluids (drool and blood), cuts, death mention (in passing), derogatory language towards the classes (monarchs and pirates), hitting, implied murder (but what do you expect with pirates, y’know?), lots of salt and sarcasm, pirate whump, stitches mention, spartan kick, swearing, swords against throats, sword fighting (!!!)
Now, without further ado:
ENEMIES TO LOVERS SLOWBURN AU - ONLY YOU NEVER GET TO SEE THE END >:))))
Alternatively:
Prince v. Pirate
Augustus calls them “scum” one too many times today. Luckily, Alex knows just how to push his buttons back.
They stare into the murky bucket of mop water by the mast, full and swirling with the grayish tendrils of dirty soap and muck from the ship’s wooden floorboards. Alex can feel Augustus’ presence by the bow of the ship. He takes up far more space than Alex realized when the two of them first boarded this boat.
But that’s... perfect, they think slyly. Someone who casts such a long shadow surely has that much more to lose.
“When we first met,” Alex calls suddenly, fighting the amusement in their voice, “you didn’t kill me. I doubt your father will be very pleased to hear that.” They laugh and give the mop another soapy swipe across the deck. Alex looks over their shoulder with a devilish grin. “A prince saving a pirate. A prince too weak to finish them off. I may be scum, but at least I’m not a coward.”
Alex’s grin only grows when they hear the stomp of Augustus’ approaching boots coming down the stairs behind them. “Careful, Gus,” they jive. “That day was a fluke. Mind you, if we do this again, your inexperience will be your downfall.” Alex spins on their heel and laughs at what they see: The prince wielding his sword, carrying himself in a learned but clearly off-centered defensive position. “Very well. I could give you some pointers if you’d like.”
“Pointers?” Augustus scoffs and moves in closer to Alex, sword low to the ground and too tight in his grip. He crosses his feet when he moves, too, Alex notes. All classic mistakes.
“The kingdom’s best sword fighters have been training me since I could walk,” Augustus continues lowly. “ I spar as one of the best in the kingdom. Don’t overestimate your prowess, pirate.”
Alex laughs. “You think sparring is anything like combat?”
“Sparring is combat,” Augustus spits back. “And as far as I can tell, your sword isn’t even drawn. Does that not invalidate all of the claims you’ve made so far as to your knowledge on the matter?” He gestures at Alex with his sword. “One of the first rules, be prepared.”
“Oh, not at all, Gus.” Without warning, Alex takes the mop in hand and swings it at Augustus’ exposed shoulder with a wet crack.
Augustus’ hold on his sword falters when his right hand instantly moves for his injured shoulder.
“First rule, gain the power in the situation.” Alex unsheathes the sword at their hip and holds it out, at the ready, gripped comfortably between their hands. The correct way, they mentally boast.
“You know,” Alex says, motioning with their sword, “if you’d held your blade a little higher and led with your chest, you would’ve been able to block that blow with ease. But what would I know?” Alex runs their thumb over the engraved hilt of their sword, etched with tallies. Ten to be exact. Ten men. Ten dead men. “I’m certainly not a seasoned fighter, not like the beloved prince.”
Alex’s eyes fall back on the prince, still nursing his shoulder with gritted teeth—at least, that’s what he wants them to believe. Alex catches the way his fingers curl around the handle of his sword with newfound determination, the flicker of mischief that crosses his downturned face.
If only he knew who he was dealing with.
Augustus lunges, sharp and quick, favoring his right shoulder but still far faster than Alex expects. But they are expecting it.
Alex drives their sword forward at an angle, and Augustus misses his mark by a good three inches. It was such a simple maneuver, such a simple counter.
“Now you’ve done it,” Augustus growls.
Alex rolls their eyes. “Hasn’t anyone told you good sword fighting comes with a clear mind?”
Augustus doesn’t hesitate with the overhead arc. Alex brings their sword up in a quick parry and forces Augustus’ sword to the left. “Don’t lock your elbows,” Alex quips, coming in with a left cut that Augustus barely avoids. “And never use that move unless your opponent is incredibly vulnerable.”
“Shut up!” Augustus swings his sword hard at Alex’s right side. “I don’t need advice from a pirate!”
Alex notes his breathlessness as they match his swing from the left. The swords collide, loud and dangerous. But Augustus breaks it up before it becomes a battle of strength.
Augustus goes for the arc again. Alex slips to the right and his sword hits the wood with a hollow thunk.
In the time it takes Augustus to get back in position, Alex has their sword at his throat, not quite touching but threatening nonetheless. “What did I say?” Alex purrs, moving in closer. “If your opponent isn’t vulnerable, you are, plain and simple.”
Augustus’s sword crashes into Alex’s, swiping it away from his neck. The motion shocks Alex and stopping the momentum pulls at their back uncomfortably. They barely manage to get their feet underneath them in time to block yet another attack from above with their sword.
Augustus wipes the sweat from his brow when the two part, watching Alex scramble towards the bow of the ship to compose themself. The smirk on his face is undeniable. “Vulnerable enough for you?”
“You’re vulnerable,” Alex snaps back, chest heaving, “and predictable.”
Augustus snarls, taking it upon himself to make the first move once again. Alex sighs but takes their sword to the ready position.
“I’m surprised you’re fighting so fairly,” Augustus muses, advancing on the pirate.
Alex takes a step back and startles when their boot connects with one of the stairs at the end of the deck. They need to move, that much they know, but for now they focus on the princely pain in the ass in front of them.
“Is that so?” Alex steps back onto the staircase, one step, then another, sword extended in front of them. “What does fair mean to you monarchs?”
Augustus’ expression sours as he begins ascending the stairs after them. “All sword, all skill. True combat. Noble combat.”
“‘Noble combat,’ hmm?” Alex reaches the top of the stairs and stops. “You mean as noble as oppression can be, don’t you?”
Augustus smiles, taking another step. “I mean as noble as a piliger who follows it can be.”
Alex nods, feigning understanding. “If I could make one note,” they start.
Augustus glares at them.
“Fighting fair gets you killed.” Alex pulls their sword to the right, and with Augustus’ sword so low, Alex has a clear view of his abdomen. “And playing dirty? Well…” Alex sets their feet. “Pretty par for the course.”
The kick Alex delivers to his stomach is solid. Augustus manages to keep a hold of his sword on the way down, but he hits the ground hard, and the moan that leaves his lips is wretched. Well-deserved but still wretched.
Alex clambers down the stairs and back onto the deck, equally impressed, amused, and horrified to see Augustus getting up so quickly. Augustus keeps one hand on his sword and the other on his stomach, and for a brief moment Alex considers kicking him until he stays down.
By the time Alex decides that’s exactly what they’re going to do, Augustus is on his feet with more fire in his gorgeous blue eyes than Alex’s seen since they started fighting.
This isn’t going to end well.
Augustus straightens and rolls his shoulder with a grimace. “I did say I spar as one of the best, pirate. Part of that is being able to get back up.”
Augustus comes in strong with a ruthless swing to Alex’s right side. Alex brings their sword up and out for a block, and although they don’t end up cut in half, their shoulders ache, then burn with a deep familiar pain. Still predictable, they note, wincing. Thank goodness for that.
Alex isn’t so lucky the next time. Another swipe, fast and aggressive, flies towards their face. Alex sidesteps but trips over their own feet. They’re quick but not quick enough.
They feel it, the sharp sting of sweat mingling with an open wound. Alex brings their fingers to their face and prods gently at where they think the cut is. When they bring them back to look at them, they’re covered in blood, superficial but maddening all the same.
Alex grins, glaring through rich brown curls as they click their tongue. “You’re persistent. I like that. But it does seem like someone needs to work on their timing.”
Alex lunges forward, faking with no spared conviction that they’re going in for a jab and instead plant their foot on the toe of Augustus’ boot. With a spin that’s just as practical as it is for show, they slam their elbow into his jaw. “Like so!”
On their way back to the mast, arm alight with near-paralyzing pins and needles, they catch a glimpse of the trail of blood oozing from Augustus’s lip. He bit his own tongue it seems. Poetic almost.
“Fighting dirty, are we?” Augustus brings his hand under his chin and catches the blood and drool in his palm. “You know, any other time, your kind would be hung for this. But I must admit I’m enjoying this.”
Augustus tosses his handful of fluids across the freshly-mopped deck, more blood than anything else, and wipes his hand on his pants before returning his bloody grip to the sword’s hilt. “Now then. Let’s continue, shall we, pirate?”
Alex bristles at the way Augustus spits it this time, pirate, like it’s poison. At this point, Alex thinks skewering him might not be a bad idea.
But no, that won’t be satisfying, not for the likes of him. Alex wants to humiliate him. They want to win. And all winning requires is submission. That and a little salt in the wound.
“You might want to reconsider, Gus,” Alex says. Their stance is defensive but comfortable, balancing on the balls of their feet just in case Augustus tries to make a move. “It is quite cowardly to submit to a pirate, but if the king knew what I planned on doing to you, I think he’d understand.”
Augustus scoffs. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I sincerely hope you don’t. I’m sure a missing arm would be quite the message to bring back to your fair kingdom.”
Augustus lunges in for a jab, all rage and false-assured thoughtfulness just like Alex expects him to. All it takes is a slip to the side and an outstretched leg to send them stumbling past them, fighting to regain his balance.
“What did I say?” Alex goads at Augustus’ back. “Vulnerable and so, so predictable. Switch up your moves and it won’t be so embarrassingly easy to send you reeling.”
Alex doesn’t even see the side swipe coming, but they most certainly feel the slice across their abdomen. “Fuck!” It’s heat, raw and burning, but it’s not pain, not yet, not with the blood roaring in their ears. They swallow their blooming panic in time to meet Augustus’ next blow, weaker than the rest have been, with equal ferocity.
There’s the shriek of metal against metal, invigorating at any other time, and the swords catch on each other at the hilt—the battle of strength and dexterity Alex was waiting for. Will Augustus break it off again?
Alex meets his eyes through their interlocked swords, brown on blue. No, he won’t break it off, not this time. The wolfish grin hiding the twisted agony behind his eyes says it all. That, and the trembling grip Alex has on their own sword.
“You look unwell, Alex.” Augustus pushes harder against Alex’s block and laughs windedly. “You may want to consider submission.”
Alex pants and grits their teeth. “And let you miss out on a… a valuable lesson? That’d be awfully rude of me.” They push back. “Besides, I could ask you the same thing. How’s that shoulder of yours?”
Alex breaks away and feels the first stab of agony rip through their middle, hard enough that when they swing in retort, their sword almost flies from their unfeeling hands.
“Keep it together,” they whisper, reclaiming their hold on the sword. Then, to Augustus, “If you’d broken the hold purposely, you could’ve reestablished your power in the situation, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Augustus says lowly. Alex notes the cryptic tone in his voice but not fast enough. Without another word, he charges Alex, sword held higher, chest out strong, back straight because of it.
Alex anticipates the collision and holds their sword at the ready, stepping back towards the mast in preparation for the inevitable block. What they don’t expect is the way Augustus’ foot hooks around their own.
Alex’s feet fly out from under them, and this time they’re the one who’s stumbling. In their search for ground, they go blind to everything around them until their back collides with the mast of the ship.
When the space around them registers again, Augustus is right in front of them and his blade puts a threatening pressure against their neck. His breath is hot and wet against their face. Under their chin, they feel the faintest trickle of sweat or, more likely, blood running down their Adam’s apple.
Checkmate.
Augustus stares into Alex’s eyes, still out of breath but gradually recovering. “How about that?” he breathes.
Alex stares back and chuckles softly, then groans at another stab of pain in their stomach as the adrenaline starts to wear off. “Not bad, Prince. Legs further apart though. You’re screwing your balance.” Alex dips their hands between themself and Augustus, careful not to nick themself with the sword at their throat, and touches at the tear in their shirt, feeling around for damage. It’s nothing rum and a few dozen stitches won’t fix.
Augustus follows the movement with his eyes, then raises them back to Alex’s face. “Anything else you want to teach me?”
Alex grins. In one swift movement, they drop their sword, tear the arm holding the sword to their neck away from them, and pull that same arm behind Augustus’ back, shoving him hard into the mast. “Yeah,” they say above his surprised grunt. “Never lose focus.”
Alex gives Augustus’ arm a final rough pull, their chest against his back before pulling away with a huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink.”
Alex walks across the deck to the sailor’s quarters. They hope Augustus can’t see that their body is on fire.
#*whispering* super special content#feel free to dm me if you think there's a typo in here 'cause real talk#the proofread game was kinda weak today#anyway#thanks for reading! hope you liked it! :D#pirate whump#accidental self-harm tw#blood tw#drool tw#alcohol mention#alcohol tw#death mention#derogatory language tw#swearing tw#cutting tw#hitting tw#stitches tw#kicking tw#sword tw#sword fighting tw#whump#whump writing#not my characters#alex and augustus belong to the lovely unicornscotty!#implied murder tw
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Whumpy stuff I don’t like
Nobody asked for this but I just felt I should get out stuff that is squicky for me/ I’m just not particularly into. It wasn’t on my intro post so it’s gonna be here. Not trying to be salty or anything, a lot of these are things I know a lot of people are into so that’s totally fine, I guess I just want people to be aware of what they probably won’t find on my blog. (And maybe I want to know if anyone agrees with me so I don’t feel so alone in my dislikes? lol)
-Surgery/ medical whump in general. Surgery freaks me out, to be quite honest. I’ve never had it but the idea of it is just yuck. So I don’t like imagining it happening even to my whumpees. And I just don’t really like hospitals/medical settings for whump, I guess because it implies the caretaker isn’t the one actually taking care of them. Idk, it’s just not something I’m into.
- Creepy/ “intimate” whumpers. Don’t get me wrong, this trope can be really effective if used right. I just feel like it’s done a lot and I’d rather see a whumper who isn’t super touchy or intimate with the whumpee for a change .
-”Plot twist” whump. You know what I mean. Those stories where it’s like, “[whumpee] woke up and felt someone stroking their hair and thought it was [caretaker], but it was ACTUALLY [whumper.]” Not into it. If there’s comfort in the story I want it to be hardcore, actual comfort. In general I prefer post-whump comfort to actual whump, so I like it to be genuine and not have the whumpee be betrayed somehow at the end. Honestly the comfort is a major part of whump for me; I want this character to be taken care of, and whump is an easy way to get there.
-Drugging/poisoning. Unless it’s some weird hallucinogen that forces them to see and hear horrifying things until it wears off, I’m just not into this. Don’t know why.
-Emeto. Now I love sickfic, don’t get me wrong, I tend to actually like it more than injury whump. But vomit just doesn’t do it for me. Only if it’s like, a symptom of some other underlying thing and only really happens the one time, but I’m not going to read a stomach bug fic.
-Institutional whump. So box boys, etc. I know there’s a bit of a debate here about this subgenre, and I think it’s an interesting idea but again, I want the whumpee to be taken care of by someone, and if they’re living in a society where whump is normalized, it’s unlikely anyone will because they’re all involved. Unless it’s a thing where someone finds them and takes them in after they’ve been whumped by this system because they’re against it all, or somehow aren’t aware of it so it shocks them when they find out.
-In general, life threatening injuries. Again, this implies professional medical care, where I much prefer people who don’t know what they’re doing. If they’re severely injured and this happens, they’ll probably just die. A serious injury fine, but nothing that they will probably die from. Idk, the threat of death kind of kills it for me, I like it when it’s more like, “I know we’ll get through this, but I don’t know how long it’ll take or how miserable you’ll be until then.”
That’s about it. I’m sorry if people hate this, I felt like I just sort of had to get it off my chest and once again you’re totally okay to like this stuff, I just probably won’t be posting or reblogging stuff with it involved. Feel free to let me know if you also aren’t into these things...I’m lonely.
#whump#please don't hate me for not liking this stuff#i know no one asked for this and no one cares about my opinion but hey#here it is
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Just for fun: Soulmate AU
I was reading a fanfic about an au where you’re born with a mark representing your soulmate somewhere on your body and i was feeling sappy, and this uhhh.... got WELL out of hand;;; So I’m gonna post it in two parts because otherwise it’s longer than I’m comfy putting in one tumblr post. (i’ll put it as one complete piece in ao3 when it’s complete, though.) Also, i wasn’t even sure this would be that whumpy when i first had the idea but UH
Please note!! This oneshot contains a fairly graphic suicide attempt. I’m tagging it accordingly, but please err on the side of caution and be safe.
TW for: suicide attempt, gore, implied parental abuse, drowning, mild internalized ableism, underage whumpee (at this point Kent is 17, Sol is 19 and Pax is about 21).
@whumpitywhumpwhump
----
Sol Michaelis has two soulmate marks instead of one—an eye with a slash through it sits just under his collarbone from the day he’s born, and then when he’s two a second one slowly filters in, twin patterns of three lines around each of his wrists, just above the veins, in delicate summer-sky blue.
To be honest, Sol doesn’t think about it that much. He’s got too much to do, always—he’s in every sports club where they’ll let him play on the right team, and he always has to force himself to study if he wants to do good in school; he doesn’t tell anyone because his dad’s a genius so he can’t let anyone know he’s stupid, but it takes him three times as long to do anything as he knows its supposed to, always. It doesn’t leave any time to think.
About three times a month, he has nightmares about drowning, where he braces his hands and tries to push up out of the water but there’s a big hand around the back of his head and it holds him under, and he wakes up gasping for breath, pinned down against his sweaty pillow by the feeling that it’s his fault, that he deserves it somehow, that it’s only justice.
He honestly believes they’re just normal stress dreams, and they usually don’t stick in his head that long. And he’s always so busy. He’s busy in high school and then all of a sudden he’s busy surviving instead, busy finding jobs he hates and doing them as many hours as he can, and just barely making rent and food money, and he really doesn’t have time to think about soulmates.
And then in the middle of a workday he drops an entire tray of dishes because his wrists are on fire.
----
With the caveat that they have never met, Pax Field sometimes resents their future soulmates.
There’s a specific flavor to feelings when they aren’t yours—you’re not quite feeling them, you just know they’re happening, in some room and brain you aren’t actually a part of. But you can’t ignore them, either, no matter how much you try. And Pax always tries. Their own feelings are plenty without worrying about the feelings of absolute strangers, thank you very much. And they’re never good feelings, or at least hardly ever; always cold prickly sorrow-embarrassment-shame around their wrists and hot itchy anxiety-fear-loneliness over their heart.
Occasionally at night, when Vic is out doing unethical science or whatever and they’re alone, they put their hand over their heart and rub the skin there, or they massage their wrists as softly as they can, and try to—feel outward, which they’re not sure is even possible; whisper into the skin of their wrists that this stranger should fucking relax, fucking lighten up a little. Once they woke up from a nightmare—unrelated to soulmates, presumably, since it prominently featured Vic—and rolled over onto their stomach so they could press both wrists against their heart and bury their face in their pillow and cried, hard, because they didn’t know what was happening but they knew it wasn’t fair and they also knew there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Then they woke up in the morning and did their absolute best to forget about it, because they don’t know these people and anyway they aren’t going to waste their time on things they can’t change.
But they’ve never felt anything like this.
It’s a Friday evening and they are, by the grace of god, alone in their apartment, which means no one has to see them stagger and then fall hard onto their knees in the middle of the hallway, staring at their wrists.
The little blue marks there don’t look any different, which seems insane, because they have never ever been more sure that something is wrong.
It isn’t like being in pain—it isn’t like being in their own pain. It’s like seeing a car accident on the news and hearing your phone ring at the same time and knowing you can’t get there fast enough, but you run out the door anyway, because you can’t do anything else, you can’t do this, you can’t lose him, he can’t do this.
Even though Pax knows while they run into the bathroom, slipping and sliding on nothing and having to catch themself against walls and doors, that whoever “he” is, he already has.
They saw this in a movie once, where someone had to warn their soulmate about a murderer or some fucking dumb thing. So it probably doesn’t even work, and their soulmate’s going to bleed to death on expensive bathroom tiles before Pax even gets to meet him.
But they can’t not do anything. They turn the shower all the way to hot, and the sink all the way hot too, and they close the bathroom door behind them and stuff a towel underneath—and the bathroom mirror still isn’t fogging up quick enough, so they breath on it, hard, too, even though that’s objectively dumb. Then they stand at the sink, staring at their own wild-eyed reflection as it fogs out, one hand clamped white-knuckled around the opposite wrist, which burns with pain that’s so much worse for not being theirs.
----
It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore, actually.
Well, it does—it stings like a really terrible papercut, except much deeper and almost the whole length of his forearm. But it’s getting easier to ignore, even when he makes fists and squeezes to make the blood come out faster.
Kent kind of thinks, at least based on the movies he’s seen, that you’re supposed to strip naked before you do this, and he knows that would make the least mess. But he’s in the bathtub, and he’s stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, so it shouldn’t be too hard to clean up, anyway. And the maids are mostly older ladies, or young ones working through college, and stuff, and he’s too embarrassed to let them see him naked, even if he never has to know about it. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathtub, with his hands in his lap, so the bottom of his boxers are getting wet and sticky, but that’s getting easier to ignore, too. The blood is bright against the white porcelain, by far the most he’s ever seen, and it’s hard to look away from. Kind of pretty, even.
His heart is going a little faster, now, and he thinks he might be sweating. He squeezes his fists again. It’s taking longer than he thought it would.
Maybe he should make another—
People are looking at him.
Kent sits bolt upright, looking around the empty bathroom. He has a sudden urge to hide his arms behind his back, and he thinks he can feel an embarrassed flush in his cheeks.
“I-I,” he says, like he’s going to try to explain, even though he has no idea what he would say.
“Oh, god,” the brown-skinned boy with the round face and black hair says. He’s on the floor in the middle of a big kitchen. There are people around him but Kent can’t see them as well. It isn’t like looking through a window, or like the boy is here with him; it’s simply the new experience of seeing clearly into a room he is not in.
“Call for help,” the darker-skinned person says. Their hair is long and lose around their shoulders in tight waves. It’s dyed a violent pink. They’re staring into their bathroom mirror with more intensity than Kent has ever been looked at with, and they must be mad at him; he grabs one of his wrists and squeezes it with his other hand, makes blood bubble out and gush over his hand and onto his leg.
“Fuck,” the black-haired boy screams. He’s kneeling in front of a metal dishwasher with a foggy reflective surface and he throws himself towards it, grabs the sides of the dishwasher with both hands. “Don’t!”
Kent loosens his grip, panting. He’s staring straight ahead, seeing the blank tile wall of his own bathroom and the industrial kitchen behind the black-haired boy and the bathroom behind the person with pink hair. His heart is pounding now, rabbit-fast, in a way that’s starting to feel scary.
“Don’t do that, baby,” the black-haired boy says, and his voice is shaking like he’s in pain, even though Kent knows, somehow, that he can’t be, that Kent would know if he was hurting.
“Who’s in the house with you?” the pink-hair-person barks, and Kent shakes his head, because his father is home but his father can’t see him like this, he can’t, he’ll make sure Kent doesn’t die so he can drown him himself. “Call for help!”
Kent shakes his head again, harder, trying to scoot back away from them, except they aren’t really here so there’s nowhere to go.
He’s lifted his arms, now, holding one wrist in the hand, and now there’s blood down both his forearms and slick on his legs, soaking into his boxers and the bottom of his t-shirt, and he’s—beyond embarrassed, scared, doesn’t want them to see this, doesn’t want anyone to see it.
Kent doesn’t think of the golden sun that’s always sat on his chest, over his heart, and he doesn’t think of the smaller slashed eye beside it, because he is not thinking of much at all, but he’s always been glad they were easy to hide under his clothes. Not because he was ashamed of them, but because if no one else saw them they were his and nobody else’s. Sometimes those marks are the only parts of his body he likes, the only parts he never wants to hurt.
Both marks are warm, now, but the rest of him is becoming cold so fast that Kent doesn’t notice.
“Oh, god,” the black-haired boy’s voice says again. He hits his fist lightly against the dishwasher, like he wishes he could come through it, and Kent stares at him, because he’s lovely, and he’s sad, and it’s Kent’s fault.
“I-I—” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“God damn it,” the pink-haired person says, and their voice is wild, almost a roar. Then they say, “Where are you?”
Kent shakes his head. “I—I don’t—”
“Are you in the city?” they snap. Their hands are braced on the bathroom sink, and they’re lovely too, and Kent didn’t mean—he didn’t think— “Hey!” they snap their fingers, eyes blazing, and Kent crashes back to earth with a start. “Are you in the city?”
Kent nods helplessly.
“Where?”
Kent blinks rapidly. Their eyes are so bright that he mumbles an answer before he’s even decided if he wants them to know or not.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” they say, diving for the pocket of their sweatpants.
“That’s near me,” the black-haired boy whispers. “That’s near me, that’s near me, I’m coming to get you!”
Kent balks, scooting back in the blood along the bottom of the bathtub, shaking his head rapidly. “You—you can’t,” he says, and then his mind goes blank with terror, because more than not wanting to be seen in bloody boxer shorts, “My father is home!”
----
Sol only kind of hears this, because he’s already scrambling to his feet and wrestling his apron off over his head.
“You can’t just run off in the middle of your shift—” his boss starts, and then cuts off because Sol’s apron has just hit him in the chest.
“Then fire me,” Sol says, and he takes off across the restaurant floor at a dead run.
The address is ten or eleven blocks away—the restaurant where Sol works is right at the edge of the fancy part of town, and the blue-eyed boy’s house is in the heart of it. Sol doesn’t have a car, but it makes objective sense to wait for a bus or run to the train station. He does not consider this for even a second.
Sol runs, hard, his work shoes pounding on the pavement in time with his breath, and it doesn’t occur to him that it’s a summer night, still hot, or that he’s wearing his binder, or that the sidewalk is crowded with strangers who yell and dart out of his way. He doesn’t see any of them, doesn’t feel his ribs aching, doesn’t feel anything except that the blue lines on his wrist are pulsing—warm one second, like he’s going the right way, and cold the next, because his soulmate is dying.
Sol is drenched in sweat by the time he grinds to a stop in front of the tall fancy apartment building—and he knows immediately which one it is, because there’s an ambulance parked out front with it’s lights flashing.
Sol rounds the side of the ambulance and the stretcher is halfway in, and he stumbles sideways and almost falls—but he can feel the warm pulse in his mark and the boy on the stretcher gasps and moves, arching his back slightly.
The EMT about to shut the ambulance door turns at the sound of Sol’s pounding footsteps, looking alarmed, and Sol raises his arm and waves it over his head.
“He’s my soulmate!” He pants, holding his arm out so the EMT can see the mark, pulsing and flickering in a way that makes panic burn the back of Sol’s neck, but definitely giving off a soft glow. “He’s my soulmate. We’re soulmates.”
The EMT frowns, and then opens the door back up and lets him clamber inside.
Sol’s never been inside an ambulance before; it’s cramped, with two EMTs hovering on either side of the stretcher, now staring at Sol, but Sol barely sees them because the boy on the stretcher is looking at him too, and there’s blood everywhere—they’ve put tourniquets around his arms, but only just now—and Sol loves him.
Sol holds up his arm, still panting, hard. The paramedic on the boy’s left frowns at him, then down at the boy, and then tugs the collar of his t-shirt down.
There’s a big yellow sun over the boy’s chest, glowing bright and steady, like it’s mocking the weak stutter-pulse of the glow at Sol’s wrists. Sol flushes, feeling almost embarrassed, like his mark is showing off.
The EMT sighs and gestures for Sol to sit down.
The boy on the stretcher gives a little gasp. His eyes follow Sol when he awkwardly arranges himself on the little bench next to the stretcher, bright blue and reflective as glass. The EMT on his right leans over to scribble something across the boy’s forehead with a black marker—“TK” and the time—and the boy blinks at Sol around the EMT’s arm, his lips slightly parted.
“Hey,” Sol says softly. He wants badly to take the boy’s hand, but it’s covered in blood and he’s worried he’ll hut him. He pats his knee awkwardly instead, and the boy gasps again, sounding punched-out and rough but not pained, exactly. “My name’s Sol. I’m one of your soulmates.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy whispers, staring at Sol, and it sinks into Sol’s belly like a punch, and he gasps, hard, because he can feel it, not like it’s his own but still so strong he can taste it: shame and guilt and heart-fluttering panic.
Sol folds forward, the wind knocked out of him, and lowers his head to touch his forehead, as gently as he can, to the back of his soulmate’s bloody hand.
“I’m not mad at you,” Sol whispers, and he hears the boy gasp again, his breath starting to come in hard quiet sobs. “I’m not mad, baby, I’m not mad, I’m not mad, I’m not mad.”
#suicide tw#cafe extras#soulmate au#whump#original whump#soulmate whump#suicide attempt#abuse mention#polyamorous soulmates#there will be significantly more pax in part 2 don't worry#...also significantly more kent's dad so maybe do worry about that
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