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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 11 days

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Recollection

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith confronts Lord Denholm about his mental manipulations.

For @whumpril Day 15: Mind Games.

Contains: Intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, temporary amnesia, mind control, begging, manipulation

~~~

“Milord?”

Elze’ith’s pulse pounded in his ears, but he held firm, knocking lightly at the door to Lord Denholm’s study. As nervous as he was, he couldn’t continue on without addressing the uncertainty and fear lingering in the back of his mind. Best to confront Lord Denholm now, when they were both calm, when Elze’ith could afford to take whatever consequences his boldness might bring.

“Come in.”

The fire in the hearth bathed the room in warm light, but did little to ease the chill in Elze’ith’s bones as he stepped into the study. Lord Denholm was sitting on the large, plush couch, a tome in his lap, a curious expression on his face. “Ah, my light. What brings you here at this hour?”

He gestured at the spot next to him; after hesitating for a moment, Elze’ith sat. It took an effort of will not to wring his hands. He wasn’t used to direct confrontation, but he knew it was unwise to let his apprehension show. “I… was hoping to talk to you, Milord.”

“Of course.” Snapping the tome shut, Lord Denholm offered a beneficent smile that did nothing to assuage Elze’ith’s anxiety. “What is on your mind, my light?”

He took a deep breath. Steadied himself. “I… have been noticing some… oddities.” Even after all of his time thinking and preparing, now that he was trying to bring things forward, he couldn’t quite find the words. “In recent… weeks,” he paused, struck not for the first time that he didn’t know how long he had been in the castle. Shoving the thought aside he pressed on, “I… have felt at odds with my own mind. Threads of thought and reasoning that I lose and cannot reclaim, emotions that are not fully my own…” He averted his gaze, trying to suppress the shudder that wanted to rip through him. “It has been… disconcerting. And it started when I came to stay with you here.”

There was no direct accusation that Lord Denholm was causing any of this. He didn’t dare. But the implication remained; something strange was going on in Elze’ith’s mind, and he knew that Lord Denholm had to have something to do with it, one way or another.

“I see.” Lord Denholm placed his hand on Elze’ith’s thigh, the gesture making him tense ever-so slightly. It didn’t matter than he didn’t want to be touched right now. It never seemed to. “I can see why this would be distressing, my light. I am glad that you came to me about this.”

Something like hope flickered in Elze’ith’s chest. He didn’t dare kindle it. “Of course, Milord. I… do not know who else I would turn to.” As painful it was to admit, it was true. And maybe admitting it would help get him the relief he sought.

“What must it feel like, to not be able to trust your own mind.” Lord Denholm’s voice was calm, as though he were idly musing, even as his aura thickened with animus. The small flicker of hope in Elze’ith’s chest immediately extinguished, replaced by dread. “To know you are forgetting things, to not know where your thoughts and emotions originate…”

Elze’ith swallowed. “Milord?”

The weight of malice in the air thickened. In the back of his mind, Elze’ith felt the lingering presence of Lord Denholm grow stronger as something seemed to slither inside, as though it were rooting around for something. A gasp tore itself from his lungs, his eyes wide with confusion and uncertainty and fear.

“I wonder just how frightening it could be.”

The slimy, slippery thing in his mind sunk into something and twisted. Pain lanced through his skull, making Elze’ith double over. Though the pain faded quickly, it was replaced by a wave of dizziness, a sense of overwhelming wrongness that settled over him and didn’t go away. It took him several long moments to collect himself, and even then the profound sense of unease didn’t fade, nor did the knowledge that he was far less alone in his own mind than even he was accustomed to.

Gasping and trembling, he looked up. He was in Lord Denholm’s study. There was a fire in the hearth. Lord Denholm was next to him, hand on his thigh in a way that made his skin crawl. There was a tome resting innocently on the table in front of them.

He didn’t recognize the book on the table, had no idea if he had read it. He didn’t recall coming into the study; it could have been minutes or hours ago. He didn’t remember anything beyond waking up this morning, and his eyes widened as he realized his entire day was one strange, hazy blur.

What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?

(The presence in his mind burrowed deeper.)

“Light?” Lord Denholm’s voice snapped him out of his terrified thoughts. Elze’ith turned, eyes locking onto Lord Denholm’s curious expression. “Is everything alright?

No, it wasn’t. But he couldn’t say that, all of his instincts screaming that he wasn’t safe, that something was wrong. There was too much dark delight radiating off of Lord Denholm for him to feel otherwise. “I— I am alright. My apologies, Milord.”

“Oh?” Lord Denholm’s eyes seemed to sharpen. “Are you sure? Tell me what’s going on in your head, my light.”

Elze’ith knew it wasn’t a request even before he felt the pressure on his mind, almost painful alongside the dizziness that still clouded his thoughts. “I do not remember anything from today. I do not remember coming into the study, or anything we were doing prior to this moment.” His voice shook. His entire body shook. But he kept speaking. “I— I am very afraid. I do not know what has happened. I do not know if you took something, Milord, or if I just forgot, and both of those possibilities are terrifying. Especially because it could happen again, and I could lose even more,and I know I could not stop it. And I do not want to admit how frightening it is, and I do not want to lay the blame at your feet, because I am even more afraid of what you might do now.”

A hollow sense of dread gripped his bones the more he spoke, the more he was forced to confess. Sharing his fears, especially with the man at the center of them, was somewhere between mortifying and horrfying. More importantly, though, despite the fact that he had suspected for a while now that Lord Denholm had been tampering with his mind, this was not at all how he wanted to broach the subject. Such matters had to be handled delicately, not like this.But he could not hold back the traitorous words. All he could do was watch as a faint smile tugged at Lord Denholm’s lips.

“I see.” His slow, deliberate words made Elze’ith’s blood run cold. “You are afraid that I will take more, then?”

Elze’ith swallowed. “Yes, Milord.”

“Good.”

The tension in the air shifted, like a grip being released, and all of a sudden Elze’ith’s memories of the day fell back into place. Dizziness was replaced by pain was replaced by relief, but he was barely given a chance to collect his thoughts, to realize what had happened, to grapple with the implications of a day’s worth of memories being smeared and erased on a whim. Because the pain returned, sharper and deeper and more intense than before, as the strange foreign force in his mind surged and expanded and grew, roots branching out and implanting in every corner of his psyche. Letting out a strangled yell, he clutched at his head and folded in on himself, desperate for it to stop.

There were flashes, images, as Lord Denholm’s influence embedded itself within him and did its work. A face, one he knew better than his own, radiant and lovely and looking like home. A love, one he couldn’t bear to leave behind, despite everything that had happened. A person that he would do anything for, even this, because they (he) was worth every ounce of suffering. And Elze’ith screamed as those memories were pried from his grasp, pulled out of his reach, shrouded by a fog too thick to pierce.

It wasn’t like before. Even as the process ended, even as the dizziness and wrongness settled over him, the pain didn’t fade.He still ached. The pain was soul-deep, felt in every heartbeat, in every scrambled thought, in every lonely breath he took. As he sat there, shaking like a leaf, he distantly realized that he was sobbing, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto his lap. He was missing something, someone, someone so fundamental that he couldn’t fathom ever losing them, but here he was, with such a hole in his soul that part of him was surprised he was still alive.

Though he tried to find something to hold onto, some shard of memory to remind him of who had been so important, all he could grasp onto was too insubstantial to make sense of. It all faded fast, like a song heard in a dream, like dew in the morning sun.

(Like he will, one day.)

“Please.” He didn’t wait until Lord Denholm addressed him. This was too painful, too devastating, too miserable. He couldn’t do this. “Please, give them back. I— I can’t—“

Mustering all of his strength, he straightened as much as he could to meet Lord Denholm’s gaze. There was no mercy in those eyes, only cold regard, and satisfaction, and focus. “Oh? Are you sure? What if I told you that this was for your own benefit? This person has caused you so much pain, after all.”

Elze’ith might have remembered something like that, might have remembered something like betrayal and heartbreak. But he didn’t care about that now. Because he knew he had loved them at one point, loved them more than he loved the sun and the stars (other things he missed so, so dearly), and that love was more than worth the heartbreak of losing them.

Besides, the memory, however painful it was, had to be easier than this. Right now he was in utter agony, overwhelmed by a torrent of grief more potent than he had ever felt. He couldn’t imagine it ever getting any better, not without regaining what had been lost. At least if he remembered he would know what he was missing. At least if he remembered then he would have shards of happier times to cling to. This hollow nothingness was too much to bear. He wanted more than echoes and shadows of a past that had been his everything. He wanted—

(He wanted his partner—)

Please. I’m sorry, he called out in his mind, though he knew that this cherished, irreplaceable person would not, could not respond. I don’t want to lose you. I never wanted to lose you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back. Just please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me behind. I can’t bear to be without you.

“Please. I do not care how painful it is. I do not care what I have to do. Just— just please, give him back—!”

Desperation colored every word bright and sharp and potent. Lord Denholm studied him for a long moment, and Elze’ith found his fear surging. If Lord Denholm didn’t agree, if Elze’ith couldn’t find the right things to promise to get him to relinquish his memories, then—

But the swirling power and malice around Lord Denholm withdrew. The burrowing, writhing force in his mind went with it, causing Elze’ith to go rigid as everything cascaded back into its rightful place.“Very well. You may have your wish.”

Elze’ith cried for a long, long time after. In pain, in fear, but mostly in sheer relief. He had Altair again. No matter what else happened, he had Altair again.

He would never bring up Lord Denholm’s ability to directly influence his mind again. His point had been made more than clearly enough.

#flicker in the dark #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #lord soren denholm oc #altair buchannan oc #captivity #mind control #amnesia #manipulation #begging #whumpril2024 #WhumprilDay15 #Mind Games

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crash-bump-bring-the-whump · 11 days

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Whumpril 2024 - Day 15 - Mind Games

This is a followup to this thing, where we follow Mariano getting the news that he's being released early!

TWs: Suicide watch, aftermath of a panic attack, self harm mention, abuse of power, medication, gross food, dehumanization, captivity (in terms of being in prison), ableism, anxiety, nudity, implications of noncon (a situation could easily lead to noncon and the fear surrounding that possibility is explored)

Mariano's nerves buzzed. The air around him roared. Tears rolled down his face as his hands shook, even though he wasn't crying anymore. Blood from fresh burns dripped down his wrists into the new cuffs he'd been fitted with. They were stiff and warded, chained together with just a few links, and fully enclosed his hands.

"We don't want you to hurt yourself." Officer Rodriguez had said. He hadn't been rough when he helped Mariano change out of his usual uniform and into the thick, odd smock he'd be wearing while on suicide watch. It didn't really cover much, and he wasn't allowed undergarments.

Mariano didn't particularly care.

He followed, as obedient as ever as he was led down the hall and into his barren, new cell. "We don't want you to hurt yourself." Officer Rodriguez repeated, softer, when Mariano looked at him with wide, unseeing eyes.

He was led inside and guided to sit down on the single, thin mattress pad on the floor. He barely heard Officer Rodriguez tell him to take the pills in the offered clear cup. They didn't give him water. As if they had, Mariano swallowed them dry when the cup was tipped back against his lips.

Officer Rodriguez left.

The door locked.

It only locked one time, Mariano realized belatedly. It was also clear. Solid bulletproof glass, with one singular metal door at the bottom for food delivery and collection. He was dangerous. They'd used three locks his entire stay, why was it different now?

"So you're the one who went crazy?"

A new voice broke the silence and Mariano realized that there was someone beyond the clear door, now. He didn't know her. She was short, with a stern face and curly hair. Her name tag said Lopez.

"Answer me." The order didn't sound cruel. "I know you're not mute, or stupid. It was just a panic attack." She sounded tired.

"Yes." Mariano finally said, voice hoarse. The sessions with Doctor Castillo had been slowly building his voice back up, but he still couldn't talk for long after one. "That was me." He wiped his face on his bare bicep, the cold sweat on his skin didn't help him feel any better.

"Why? Everyone wants to get out of here. This should be a dream come true."

"They're making a mistake." Mariano pulled his knees in closer, resting his chin on them.

Officer Lopez scoffed and shook her head. She never looked away. She didn't speak again, not even when she changed out with a night guard.

The next morning was more of the same.

Mariano woke slowly, with no cold air wrapping around him or crawling under his uniform to sink beneath his skin. There was no stark winter sunlight shining in, just the ever-present fluorescent lights and Officer Lopez's eyes on him. He was warm. It felt like heaven.

"Your food is on the tray." She said simply, and Mariano looked to the metal tray sitting on the floor. A box of lukewarm skim milk, the kind he'd seen in school lunches, a paper cup of water, already soaked through and flimsy, and the familiar tiny, near-burned loaf of the various grains, vegetables, and meats the cafeteria served, baked into a shape that could possibly, maybe call to mind meatloaf, if you squinted and didn't think very hard.

He crawled over and sat in front of it on the floor, biting into the loaf first. Normally he would've picked it apart and balanced out the unpleasant insides with the much more tasteless, crunchy outside, but the mitts wrapped around his hands restricted most of his motion beyond curling and uncurling all the fingers on one hand at once. Officer Lopez's lip curled as she watched him gnaw on the tough food. He couldn't find it in himself to be bothered.

"That's all you get for today." She added. Mariano nodded, washing down the almost-rotten beef and lettuce and corn and chicken with milk that really wanted to be water. "Being here doesn't mean you get special treatment."

The actual water was barely enough to rinse the taste of the milk out of his mouth, and the cup kept almost caving in completely. But it was enough. Mariano was grateful for that.

"I know." He said.

"You don't deserve special treatment just because they think you're safe enough to release." She didn't sound angry. Mariano couldn't tell how she felt. "I bet this is even worse than being in solitary."

"I don't mind it." Mariano said, sliding the tray towards the door. "It's warmer in here."

"You don't get access to the library." Officer Lopez said, exchanging the tray for a rattly paper cup of pills. There was still no water. Mariano swallowed them all without complaint. "And you're not going out to the yard."

Mariano set the cup down in front of the door and crawled back to the mattress pad, knees aching and weariness already tugging him down again. "That's alright. The cuffs are comfortable, and you don't make me nervous."

"You won't get to see the sun or get any fresh air at all until they say you're not a danger to yourself." She continued. "And you might not get to shower."

Mariano nodded, shifting to lay his head on his own folded elbow. Something about how the cuffs folded his magic in and kept it so securely contained was reassuring. It felt like having a heavy blanket draped over his soul, one that he could hardly even imagine lifting. He wanted to feel it forever. "I understand. I won't be difficult for you."

Mariano dozed.

When he woke up again, there was another tray of food, and a second cup of water with his evening pills. Officer Lopez didn't say anything this time. Mariano didn't ask about her earlier lie. It didn't matter.

The next day was quiet. Officer Lopez didn't have more questions. She didn't say anything when she slid his food and medicine through his door. The silence was comfortable, even if she watched him like a prowling lion the whole time. She only broke it hours after breakfast.

"Shower time."

The walk to the empty shower block was quiet, and Mariano felt something in his chest warm when he realized that he didn't have to press his palms against his body or hold them towards the ceiling. The wards would hold firm. He was safe.

The curtain-less stall was off in the corner.

"Face me. You know how this works, try anything and I shoot you." The words were rough, but Mariano just nodded. "Good."

As he let Officer Lopez take the smock from his body, he realized that she was still tense. He kept his eyes averted from her, on the tile floor near his own feet. Her gaze burned as it slid over him. She hesitated, staying still instead of immediately stepping away.

He wondered, with a sudden, cold sort of nausea, if she wanted something else from him besides his good behavior. He'd promised not to be difficult for her. There wouldn't be anything he could do. She reached for his arm and he took a shaky breath in, only relaxing when her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Try anything and I shoot you." She repeated, quieter.

Her key slid into the cuffs. They unlocked. She slid them off of him. When he raised his eyebrows in surprise, she scoffed. "Now you can wash that mane properly."

She set down the bottle of soap he was supposed to use, stepped back, and Mariano hesitantly turned to start the water. It was cold, bracing, and the soap felt terrible in his hair. But it always did.

It was fine.

"Do you regret it?" Officer Lopez asked. "What you did?"

"Every day." Mariano didn't hesitate. "I would go back and stop it sooner, if I could, no matter what they threatened me with."

"They threatened you?" Officer Lopez didn't sound sympathetic. She sounded closer to being curious. Mariano didn't mind.

"Almost none of my scars are from the people we killed." Mariano said, simply. "It doesn't matter. I still should've done something."

Officer Lopez didn't ask anything else. Mariano finished showering three minutes later. He was led back to the cell, hair still dripping. He wasn't offered a towel, his smock clung to him. He sat on the floor until he was dry again.

The next few days were unremarkable until evening fell, towards the end of the week.

"I watched the trial." She started. "Do you think you're a good person?" She asked, leaning against the wall.

"I don't." Mariano said, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Officer Lopez hummed. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid of what will happen if I relax." Mariano took a deep breath, held it, and released it. "I don't think good people have to worry about that. They can just relax without thinking about it."

She was quiet for a while longer, arms crossed . "You're not even playing, are you?"

Mariano sat up, roused from his half-doze. "Playing?" He looked at her, an eyebrow raising. "What do you mean?"

"You really mean all of this." She added, arms uncrossing. "You're not playing mind games."

Mariano looked her in the eye for the first time since he'd been committed to suicide watch. "Why would I do that?"

She was quiet again. She looked him over, gaze no less prying. Something was different about it, though. She hummed, shaking her head. "The doc's right. You'll be fine out there."

Mariano didn't know how to feel about that.

The next day, when he was allowed to change back into his uniform and go back to his cell, he still hadn't decided. He wanted to believe everyone, but it just seemed too easy. He didn't have enough time to worry though.

Not an hour after going back to his cell, he was signing his paperwork, receiving his belongings, and meeting his crying parents at the gate. He was free. His time had been served, whether he liked it or not.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

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vicvinegarandhughhoney · 11 days

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Whumpril Day 15- Alt Prompt 4: No Appetite

Hey, you want a cheese fry?”

Dr Gallant shoves the little cardboard receptacle underneath Coop’s nose, and Neela sees him blanch. His fist jumps up to his mouth.

Oh.

Coop goes out to a work gathering with the stomach flu.

#er 1994 #dr nick cooper #glenn howerton #whump #whumpril #whumprilday15 #sickfic

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tildeathiwillwrite · 9 days

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Please Don't Kill the Messenger

(The Watcher and the Thief, Chapter 1 Scene 3)

Whumpril Day 15 (Mind Games)

Whumpril Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

previous part

TW: gradual loss of senses, magic whump, mentioned death, mentioned injuries, creepy whumper

Context: Octavian has been sent from the elven blockade to the Draigo stronghold with an urgent message. Unfortunately, he doesn't get very far.

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Octavian moved quickly through the forest, following an old deer path south. He’d been across the Fells so many times, moving between the blockade and the Draigo stronghold near Valdove, that he knew its paths and trees like no one else.

He would have gone faster in his other form, but Iason had given him two messages. One was verbal, the other in a scroll tucked into his pack. The scroll was for the eyes of the Draigo Council only, and the verbal message was for the person who oversaw the justice division. For Marcella. Or Maelyn, if the Council was meeting when he arrived.

A rogue magician has struck in the Fells.

Simple, easy to remember, and Octavian had more information if they requested it. She had brutally killed two sang who had slipped past the blockade and almost murdered the Caenum Watcher’s apprentice. The attack occurred between Zariya and the blockade. And Octavian could sketch the runes he’d glimpsed on the boy’s body with near-perfect accuracy.

But he wouldn’t. They were too dangerous to risk the wrong eyes seeing them. But he was sure Marcella would understand. The rest of the Council might not, so it was best he pass along the scroll and get back to the blockade as soon as possible before they asked too many questions.

A twig cracked nearby. Octavian placed his hands on his knives but did not slow his pace. Like it or not, that magician was still wandering around the Fells. She was injured, sure, but she would know healing runes and—

The stench of blood hit him all at once. He stopped in his tracks and glanced around wildly, trying to locate the source.

It was strong, too strong, there was so much of it, how did he not notice it before? Surely he would have caught some of the scent, the wind—

No. There had been no wind.

As Octavian came to this realization, the Fells plunged into darkness. He cursed, drawing his knives and backing up the trail. It had to be the magician, but how? Hector said he’d shot her twice, and it had been only a matter of hours since!

She was clever. Blinding both sight and smell would place him at a severe disadvantage. How she’d known Octavian would come this way, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that. Sound and touch were his remaining senses, and he couldn’t afford to let himself get—

Everything went silent. Completely silent. Since when could magicians—

“Well! So you’re the messenger!” The voice had no source, as if it had been projected into his head.

Octavian continued moving back, relying solely on the ground beneath his feet to navigate. He raised his knives, trying to sense the world around him through the soles of his boots.

“A little bird told me you’re on your way to the Draigo,” the magician said in a sweet, perky tone. “I’m willing to bet it’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“Your skills of observation are uncanny,” Octavian muttered, “considering you brutally murdered two sang and nearly did the same to the boy.”

The magician laughed, a harsh, bemused sound that echoed throughout his skull. “They’re sending you over that?! Ha! After I took care of the sang for them? Ungrateful, much!”

Octavian turned into a slow circle. “And the young Watcher?”

“He simply got in my way,” the magician dismissed. Air displaced behind Octavian, and he whirled around, slashing blindly. The only thing they sliced through was air. She must have ducked away.

The magician tsked softly. “Can’t have that, now. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Enough with this game!” Octavian snapped, backtracking in a random direction until he hit a tree. “Are you going to kill me or not?!”

Silence. The magician hummed softly in thought. “Hm, no. I don’t want you dead.”

Octavian’s hands suddenly went completely numb, the knives slipping out of his fingers and landing somewhere on the ground, unseen and unheard. The strange sensation spread up his arms with terrifying speed. “How are you doing this?” He demanded, voice shaking as he stumbled, trying and failing to maintain control.

“Oh…” the magician said mockingly, “has the devar gotten used to his rune resistance? Don’t worry, love, when I’m done with you, there will be no need for such fear any longer.”

The last thing Octavian felt before his entire body went completely numb was cold fingers closing around his throat.

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @whumpril @phoenixradiant

#this is such a whumpy fic isn't it #first outlines of this story were from before i knew what whump even was #and yet...#my writing #whump writing #whumpril2024 #whumprilday15 #mind games #gradual loss of senses #magic whump #mentioned death #mentioned injuries #creepy whumper #whump #octavian de silv #tales from valaria #tfv #the watcher and the thief

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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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Again and Again (Part 3)

Mayans!Juice AU

Day 15 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: isolation / flinching / "Do you trust me?"

Part 1 / Part 2

Warnings: 18+, angst

Word Count: 3k

A/N: I started this series back during Whumptober, so it felt fitting to post another installment of it for Whumpril! Hope you enjoy!

SOA Taglist: @espieviolet99 @littlekittymeow @chibsytelford @juicyortiz @i-just-read-stuff @justreblogginfics @buckybarneshairpullingkink @paintballkid711 @jitterbugs927 @fanfic-n-tabulous @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @beardburnsupersoldiers @choochoo284 @artemiseamoon @nessamc @garbinge @narcolini @cositapreciosa @darqchilddaydreamz @withmyteeth @camelia35 @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Despite the days that had gone by, and the fact that the worst of the physical pain was over, Juice had barely set foot outside his house. The few times he had, it was to go and get things that he needed—groceries, alcohol, cigarettes, weed. He had yet to set foot back at the clubhouse again. The mere thought of it made him shake, so he couldn’t imagine what his brain and body would put him through if he actually went and showed up.

He was lying on his back on his couch in the living room, staring up at the ceiling. His mind was wandering and taking him nowhere good as it went. The lights were off, but there was enough sunlight coming through the windows to keep the room from being too dark. This was where he had spent most of the last couple of weeks. Even when it was time for him to try and sleep, he hardly ever went and laid in his bed. That was one thing he wouldn’t have been able to explain even if he tried.

The sound of someone knocking at his front door caused him to snap his head immediately in that direction. His heart began thudding quickly in his chest as he stared at the door, with all of its locks firmly secure because he’d checked them each three times. He laid still, partially waiting but also partially unable to try and make himself move. Logically he knew it was most likely someone from the club, or maybe even the nurse that they’d sent over to check on him.

After the first couple of days, when they were all reassured enough that he wasn’t going to eat his gun, they didn’t have club members camped out at his place around the clock anymore. Someone always checked in once a day, usually Marcus, either with a phone call or an in-person visit. Juice still hadn’t figured out if the club had been asking Daniela to keep coming and checking on his injuries and his overall state, or if she was just the type of person who cared that much. She had brothers in the club, after all, so maybe it was just a sense of duty.

He must’ve been replaying the days in his head for longer than he thought, because there was another set of knocks. Juice was trying to will his body to move, but it was slow-going. His feet had hardly hit the floor when he heard Marcus’s voice from the other side of the door.

“It’s me.”

Juice forced himself to pry the words from the back of his throat, a herculean effort when it shouldn’t have been one. “Coming.”

One slow step in front of the other, he made his way over to the door. Even though he knew it was Marcus, and even though he knew that if something was wrong Marcus would’ve warned him somehow, Juice still had his gun clutched tightly in one hand as he reached to start undoing the locks with the other.

When he finally pulled the door open, Marcus was standing patiently on the other side, his facial expression not giving away any particular emotion. That was something Juice had noticed he was good at—keeping things close to the vest. Marcus, to the extent of Juice’s knowledge at least, had never lied to him. He was always honest. But when it came to what he was feeling about something at any given moment, it was rare that Marcus wore his opinion on his face. Juice was trying to figure out if he found that to be a comforting thing or not.

Stepping to the side so that Marcus could walk through, Juice nervously drummed his fingers on his side of the door. Pushing it shut, he immediately set about redoing all of his locks. He tried to make his voice sound as normal as possible as he spoke to Marcus, even though the frantic movements of his fingers instantly negated his efforts. “All good?”

Marcus watched him, his expression still not giving anything away. He waited for Juice to turn and look at him before he finally nodded. “All good.”

“What’s, uh,” he tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, like that would somehow make it seem more casual, “what’s going on?”

“Just came to update you.”

Juice’s eyes widened. “Update me? About…about what?”

Marcus could hear the panic edging its way into Juice’s voice, and he kept his as steady and as neutral as possible. “Templo tomorrow.” He paused, seeing how Juice’s expression didn’t relax any. “We need you there.”

That wasn’t the answer Juice had been expecting. He’d spent day after day pacing around his house waiting for the worst. Truth be told, he was half expecting one of the guys, or Marcus, to stop by and ask for his kutte. It felt like all the trouble Juice had been drowning in when he was in Charming, just took on a new form and followed him right to Santo Padre. He was wondering when the Mayans would get sick of the constant clean-up like the Sons did.

“Why,” he sniffled and shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest, “why do you need me there?”

Marcus’s brows came together for a brief moment before he recovered and answered, “Because you’re part of the fuckin’ club.”

From almost anyone else, that response would’ve sounded annoyed, or even angry. But not from Marcus. The way he said it was so matter-of-fact. A large part of that was because he wasn’t annoyed or angry with Juice. He wondered when that fact was finally going to sink in with the young man that was standing in front of him.

It wasn’t that Juice didn’t want to be at Templo, or that he didn’t want to be part of the club. He did. He wanted all of that more than almost anything. But after all that had happened, the thought of just going about his life like it was business as usual was impossible to wrap his head around. For years he had just gone from one mishap to the next, and they seemed to keep getting worse as the years went along. He’d always been able to rally, though, always been able to move onto the next thing.

Now, standing in front of Marcus with trembling hands and flashbacks that made beads of sweat gather along the edge of his forehead, it was all finally starting to catch up to him at once.

Taking a breath, Marcus asked, “What is it?”

Juice’s eyes that had previously been glued to the floor snapped up so that he was looking at Marcus. “What is what?”

“What’s keeping you in here?” He made a small gesture to the house.

Juice shook his head, eyes dropping back to the floorboards beneath his feet as he tried to string together an answer. He didn’t even know where to begin. It felt so obvious and yet so complicated all at once. Because, yes, danger was a part of what they did. There was no way to be an outlaw and do it safely. However, it wasn’t just the feeling of danger. It was something deeper than that, something internal and far less tangible than the threats lurking outside his door.

He still didn’t look up as he started to speak. “Everywhere I go…bad things happen. To, to me. To the people around me. No matter what. Queens…Charming…” he hesitated like he didn’t want to spit the words out, “Santo Padre. Bad shit. Every, every fucking time.”

“And it was all on you, huh? Every time?”

Juice knew what Marcus was doing. It wasn’t the first time that he’d had a conversation like this. And he knew that in a way, Marcus was right. It wasn’t very often that the man was wrong about much anyway. This, however, this Juice knew that if one of them was approaching the situation rationally, it was Marcus. All of that and he still found it so hard to believe him.

“I know,” Juice finally said. “I know there’s more to it but I just,” he ran his hands back over his head, hating that he could feel tears stinging at the edges of his eyes, “I can’t shake the feeling. Bad luck has followed me across the country and down the border. How long was I here before…?” his voice trailed off.

“I told you,” Marcus said firmly, “what they did was about the club—it wasn’t about you.”

“But it happened to me!” Juice finally broke, emotion cracking his voice. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment as he tried to get the shake in his voice under control and failed. “Because it always happens to me.”

Marcus didn’t say anything for a moment. Side-stepping Juice, he made his way deeper into the living room and took a seat on the couch that Juice had been all but glued to for the last few weeks. Leaning forward, Marcus braced his forearms against the tops of his thighs. He finally looked over at Juice and waited for him to come and sit.

It took a few moments, but Juice finally picked up on the cue. Walking over, he put his gun back on the table before sitting down next to Marcus. He could feel Marcus staring at him but he didn’t look over at him. He knew that wherever this conversation was going, he wasn’t going to be able to hide from it. He’d hidden from a lot, locked up in his house the way he had been, but now Marcus was here and it didn’t seem like he was going to leave until he got whatever answers he was looking for.

Juice gnawed at the inside of his bottom lip before saying, “I don’t know if I’m worth the trouble that follows me.”

Marcus nodded, not in agreement, but in thought. He looked down at his interlocked hands for a moment, at the Mayan ring that rested on his finger. He felt the weight of the kutte that hung on his shoulders.

“Are you going to turn in your kutte, then?” Marcus finally asked after a bout of silence.

The knot in Juice’s stomach tightened, his eyes widening as he looked over at Marcus. The lack of emotion on the man’s face left Juice wondering if it was a question or a request. “N—I…I don’t…do you…do you want me to?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yea, but—”

“If I didn’t want you in my club, you wouldn’t be.” He paused, twisting the ring on his finger. “This isn’t about that. This is about whether or not you still want this. If you can still do this.”

It had been a long time since decisions with this much gravity really felt like they were Juice’s to make. He’s been a “Yes Man” for a long time, and he was pretty good at that. For years he’d listened to the decisions being made and contented himself just following the directions that he’d been given. But now he was the one who had to make the choice, and it was one that was going to decide whether taking off to Santo Padre was worth any of the stress it had caused.

Juice knew that he still wanted this. For all of the pain and the mess that it had caused, he still wanted it. For years now it had been all he ever wanted. Belonging somewhere had been the only thing he wanted for as long as he could remember. For the first time in a long time it felt like an attainable goal—he just had to get out of his own fucking way.

“I, uh,” he sniffled, trying to force his bubbling emotions down, “I don’t know if I can, Marcus.” The pause that ensued felt a few seconds too long. “I want to, but I don’t know…”

“If you want to do this, you gotta show up.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t leave much room for argument either. It was the plain reality of it all.

And Juice knew that he was right. Marcus was understanding, he was fair in a way the men he’d worked with in the past never had the capacity to be. But he still had a club to run. He still had messes to clean up. The question now was whether or not Juice was going to be one of those.

Juice shook his head slightly, fear once again rearing its ugly head as he thought about all of the worst-case scenarios. “Why…why do you even care so much? Why are you doing all of this? It’s not,” he shook his head, “it’s not like you owe me anything. All I’ve fucking done is—”

He was cut off by the feeling of Marcus’s hand landing on his shoulder. Juice flinched at the contact, instinctively going to pull away before he realized what was happening, that he was safe, that the gesture was one of comfort and not aggression.

Juice got his tone back under control taking a staggered breath as he repeated his question, “Why are you doing this?” The familiar sting of tears in his eyes came back as he asked, “Do you even trust me? Can…can you even trust me?”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t hesitation. There was no trace of guesswork on Marcus’s face as he sat there looking at Juice. The silence was more to make Juice sit with his own line of questioning than anything else.

Marcus took a deep breath. “Trust is all we’ve got.”

The statement hung alone in the air. After a few seconds, Marcus removed his hand from Juice’s shoulder. Juice thought that his body would relax at that, but none of the tension dissolved out of him. His leg began to bounce as the two of them sat there. He knew that it was his turn to say something, that Marcus would be more than content to sit there and wait until Juice finally forced himself to give some kind of answer to the original question that spurred this conversation in the first place.

Even though Juice cleared his throat, his voice still came out as a whisper, like he was on the brink of losing his voice. “I’ll be there.”

Marcus’s expression didn’t shift at all as he nodded. “Good.” He paused, giving Juice the opportunity to say anything else that he needed to get off his chest. When silence ensued, he asked, “Nothing else?”

Juice gave a small shake of his head, still not looking directly at Marcus. “No.”

Standing up, Marcus brushed his hands on his jeans before starting to head back towards the door again. “Tomorrow, then.”

Juice nodded, forcing himself up off the couch so that he could follow Marcus and lock the door behind him once he’d left. “Tomorrow.”

When Marcus pulled the front door open, he immediately came face-to-face with Daniela, who was still in her scrubs from work. She took a small step back, a surprised laugh slipping out of her as she looked back and forth between Marcus and Juice.

“Hi, sorry.” She adjusted the small medical bag that was slung over her shoulder. “I was just, you know, um,” she patted her bag, “checking in.”

Marcus nodded in approval. “Thank you.”

She gave a warm smile. “It’s not a problem,” her eyes drifted over to Juice, her expression softening a little, “really.”

Marcus gently rested his hand on the outside of her arm as she slipped past him, allowing them to swap places so she was inside the house and he was out on the front step. He and Juice exchanged one more brief look, each trying to figure each other out just a little bit more, before saying one more quick goodbye.

Daniela waited and watched as Juice shut the door behind Marcus and did all the locks. Her sympathetic smile lost a little bit of its curve as she watched him go back and check the locks, and recheck them again.

“If it’s not a good time,” she offered, “I can always come back later.”

Turning around and facing her, Juice shook his head. He was trying to look less rattled than he really was, which was difficult with everything that had happened within the span of the last half hour. Still, she already showed up, so he wasn’t going to turn her away.

“It’s fine,” he forced out.

She didn’t want to turn it into a debate, so she just nodded. “Okay.” She gestured to the couch, and as they both stepped towards it, she asked, “You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head as he sat down. “I’m good.”

She nodded again. Some days he talked a little bit, other days the two of them sat there in near-silence as she checked him over. It looked like it was going to be the latter. “Okay.”

Juice watched her as she pulled her medical bag onto her lap and opened it to look inside. He wished he had better things to say to her, anything, really, but he was coming up empty. She never seemed fazed by it.

“Thanks,” he said softly as she pulled her stethoscope out.

She gave him a tiny smile. “Of course.”

That was all that was said between him as she got wrapped up in making sure that he was at least physically alright if nothing else. Meanwhile, Juice’s mind was miles away trying to wrap his head around how he was going to pull himself together enough to do what needed to be done. This was just one day, one meeting, and it was taking this much out of him. As he flinched slightly from the cold metal of the stethoscope, he briefly wondered how he was supposed to handle all the days afterward, too.

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crimsonlyinglilly · 12 days

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Day 15 Mind Games

Finally caught up for whumpril, day 15 on the 15th of April

Familiar faces and back into a past life, Tristan plays mind games with Elias and Elias doesn't stand a chance.

Warning for manipulation and the threat of ignored consent, Tristan and Elias's relationship is a toxic mess.

-----

He made a request he knew would push Elias to far.

“No i can’t-'” Elias snaps suddenly stumbling back from the bed and Tristan before he froze as he realised what he had said.

There was a look of horror before he managed to regain control of himself, “no, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean-” he started back tracking, shaking his head as he returned to his place on the bed. “Whatever you want, sir” he told the watching Tristan as he settled on his knees on the mattress.

Tristan smiled.

He knew he was pushing too soon after Elias’s last strange episode of illness, the boy was barely hiding his exhaustion and sensitivity to touch, he had been working for this since shortly after he had taken the other in.

He wanted Elias to know Tristan would listen to his no, wouldn’t ignore them and use him anyway, wanted the other to see him as something beyond another client from the streets.

Tristan had realised that despite how much work it had taken to get the boy to accept him and everything he had been supplying him since he came to live in the house that was how the boy saw him.

He wouldn’t accept that.

Tristan didn’t want a professional relationship, he didn’t want Elias to be able to hide behind that distance.

He wanted his pet to trust him because then he could break that trust or threaten to and watch Elias shake.

He wanted his pet to lean into his touch, because then he could withhold that touch.

He wanted his pet to want to please him, so Elias would crave his attention without Tristan even asking.

He wanted his pet to love him.

And he was going to get what he wanted, he had hundreds of years playing these games and Elias, his poor sweet Elias despite the intelligence he had and how jaded he had become after years on the street and whatever came before, was a drug reliant teenager.

So he ran a hand down the teenager’s back until the tenseness faded,

“It’s ok, you can trust me.” he told him in a soft calm voice,

“I- just, Sir?” Elias looked at him with wide eyes, confusion clear, it was an expression he had never seen on Elijah Mikaelson but one he was learning to enjoy.

“You can tell me when it’s too much, you still need to recover right?” he asked gently as he soothed the young man.

Elias nodded at him, his eyes never leaving him looking for any trace of a lie and Tristan almost grinned as he caught a moment of awe, instead he carefully moved the other to lie by his side, resting his head on his shoulder and threading his fingers though silky soft hair.

“Will have to arrange your punishment when you're feeling better.” he told him, keeping the smirk that wanted to show to himself as the boy looked up at him, with wariness but not fear.

It wouldn't do to surprise the other with it, he wanted Elias to trust him to hear him and with his lines but remember his place as Tristan’s plaything.

“You take it so well.” he complimented, showing only soft fondness as he gently placed a kiss on the other’s forehead.

The natural eagerness to please within Elias did nothing but help Tristan’s plans as Elias’s cheeks flushed and he looked away, unthinking curling further into Tristan and with it falling further into his grasp.

He didn't stand a chance, but soon Elias would be happier this way, with Tristan being the only thing that mattered to him.

#whumpril2024 #whumprilday15 #Mind games #fanfiction #elijah mikaelson #tristan de martel #the originals #fic #tvd fanfiction #au- familiar faces #the vampire diaries #the vampire dairies au #the originals au

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lingeringmirth · 11 days

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it'll be fine

Day 15 of @whumpril, prompt (from alternates): no appetite.

Stranger Things | Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler| Rating: T | Words: 100 | angst, S2 complian, hurt steve, unhealthy coping mechanisms, stancy breakup.

cw: unhealthy eating habits.

Also here on AO3.

Food isn’t important, not when he hurts, when he wakes up with a headache and a queasy stomach from his emotions and the alcohol he’d consumed at the party.

He doesn’t eat breakfast, why would he?

It’s fine, it’ll be fine, has to be.

#whumpril2024 #whumprilday15 #alternate prompt: no appetite #steve harrington centric #stancy #angst #s2 compliant #drabble #cw: disordered eating

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bg-sparrow · 12 days

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Fandom: Back to the Future || Rating: T || Genre: Whump, Angst, Some Humor || Summary: In which Marty finds himself living an outlaw’s life alongside Buford Tannen in the Old West, where danger, death, and disease abound.

whumpril 2024 || day 15 - caretaker makes it worse

Marty’s hand slipped, jabbing the inflamed gash on Buford’s ribs a third time. Marty hissed apologetically; Buford roared. He fought Marty for the needle. “Give me that.” Marty held it out of reach. “You can’t see it to stitch it, Buford –” “Stop pulling on it!” Whiskey flooded the wound. Buford grunted and gritted his teeth as Marty dabbed it dry, pinched the lips of the lacerated skin together, and tugged another stitch tight. “I’m gonna stab you when you’re done,” Buford panted. “Then I’m gonna hold you down and give you stitches.” More whiskey. “ Fuck –!” Marty smirked. “Shut up, Buford.”

#whumpril #whumpril2024 #whumprilday15 #caretaker makes it worse #back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly #buford tannen #frenemies #drabble #stand there and bleed #fanfic #whump drabble

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uuuhshiny · 1 year

Photo

Russell Crowe in Heaven’s Burning

#by uuuhshiny #uuuhshiny's gifs #Russell Crowe #whumpril2023 #whumpedit #blood #whumprilday15 #flinching #he hurts pretty #RC gifs #Heaven’s Burning

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pandoramoments · 12 days

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Every time he was down here, every time he saw her face, Cobb was bowled over by the fresh wave of grief and regret.

Why had he done it?

He'd been so confident, so foolishly confident in his own skills, his own understanding... and now Mal was dead because of his manipulation.

Should he have left her behind? Trapped in a world of their own making? Should he have remained with her, leaving their children behind? The research still wasn't there for taking children into deep dreams and seeing if they can grow and mature without the changes to their physical body, and he want going to try it.

He tried talking to her, tried convincing her that they were dreaming, but she hadn't believed him.

And he'd resorted to mind games to wake her up...

#my art #inception #mal cobb #dom cobb #whumpril2024 #whumpril #whumprilday15 #mind games

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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 1 year

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Whumpril Day 15 "Do you trust me?"

Taglist: @elim-flower @devourerofcheesecake @thedarkmongoose @whumpsday @whumpshaped @heavenly-whumper

Event: @whumpril

#Whump #Whump art #Whump embroidery #Whumpril #Whumprilday15 #Do you trust me?#Abraham original: Hot off the press

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crash-bump-bring-the-whump · 1 year

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Whumpril 2023 - Day 15

Prison! Prison! Prison!

TWs: Ableism, dehumanization in a prison context, isolation

Isolation | Flinching | “Do you trust me?”

"Since you're new, you'll be on the easy stuff. Meal deliveries, escorting the chill prisoners places, that sort of thing. You'll be fine."

Paulo really wasn't sure how this was meant to be easy. The other prisoners had been alright, more or less. They'd assigned him the white collar guys, the ones in for fraud or theft. Business men. The kind that had likely never thrown a punch in their lives.

The groups were well-behaved, greeting Paulo and teasing him gently for being the newest hire. "You got the short end of the straw, eh?" The men who could've been friends with his father said, laughing amongst themselves. "We're a rowdy group, watch out. José plays a mean game of chess." And so they went, taking their hour in the yard jovially. No fights, no arguing. They just wanted some sun.

Now, though, Paulo found himself standing in front of Ortiz's cell. Solitary confinement. "It's just for his safety. He gets nervous around a bunch of people, and this is cheaper than keeping him medicated." His trainer had been adamant that it was okay. It had to be a prank.

Ortiz would eat him alive. He'd come out of that cell swinging. He'd smell fresh meat and they'd find his corpse during the next patrol.

Paulo rapped on the solid metal door. "Yard time. Hands on the wall." He announced, giving Ortiz one minute to comply. When he unlocked the door, scarred hands were up against the blank, stone wall. "Turn, palms towards the ceiling." Biceps that dwarfed his own didn't even tense as Paulo cuffed Ortiz for the walk.

"You know the drill. In front, hands facing yourself. Run and I shoot." Paulo just managed to keep his voice strong and even.

"Yes, officer." The flat, hoarse voice that answered didn't even seem bothered by the threat of being shot. He had to be crazy. "It's good to meet you." Ortiz said, walking in front of Paulo. "Is Officer Rodriguez alright?"

"I don't have to tell you anything." Paulo barked. Ortiz hummed, nodding. What was he nodding about? What had he decided on?

They kept walking.

Ortiz glanced in at the various common areas as he walked past. Paulo tensed. He was going to have to stop a rampage, wasn't he?

He didn't make a move to go into any of them, though. No one waved to him. It didn't seem like he knew anyone here, really. Not beyond Rodriguez, anyway.

They reached the pat-down area just before the yard. "You have fifty minutes." He said, uncuffing Ortiz once he'd made sure he didn't have any weapons on him. It felt like letting a tiger out of its cage with how those black eyes followed his hands. What was he supposed to say to this guy, again? "And no lying down." Whatever that meant.

"Understood, officer." Ortiz said. Paulo didn't like the small smile that flickered before he keyed the door open for the prisoner.

Ortiz just started walking. He had his head tilted back, face to the sun. His eyes were closed as he walked in a slow circuit around the yard. Guns were trained on him the whole time. He never stopped.

It was like Ortiz was in his own little world.

Paulo hated it. Even when he got a polite nod in response to his recall command and those terrible hands pressed to the wall again to come back inside, he couldn't relax. It felt like he was missing something. Only when Ortiz was safely in his cell again and the three locks turned, did Paulo let out a breath.

"So did you talk with Ortiz?" Paulo's trainer asked, not looking up from his crossword puzzle. "He's nice, right?"

"He's terrifying." Paulo grumbled, crossing his arms as he sat. "Crazy motherfucker."

"You'll get used to him." Rodriguez said, laughing. "He's weird, but just give him some books from the library and time to walk outside and he don't even care that he can't be around anyone. I'll take his crazy any day."

#whumpril2023 #whumprilday15 #isolation #imprisonment #dehumanization #mage of violence #ableism

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