idk if you write nsfwhump but if you do could you make something with whumpee and caretaker with comfort and fluff? like whumpee is crying because they're being intimate with someone and, for the first time, it doesn't hurt

Hello, Anon. I absolutely write nsfwhump (sometimes it's more vague than explicit), and I can definitely write you a comfort/fluffy piece :D

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced restraints, referenced/implied noncon, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee, flashbacks, ptsd

Whumpee led Caretaker back to their bedroom. They were sure that they wanted Caretaker more than anything. And they were sure that Caretaker wanted them. But Caretaker had let Whumpee take the lead after everything.

The first time Whumpee tried to be intimate with Caretaker after they had gotten home, they had frozen and sobbed. They could feel the ropes Whumper used to bind them to the head board on their wrists, though the rope burns had long faded. They could feel Whumper's lips on their neck as Caretaker went to kiss them.

Caretaker had stopped instantly and held Whumpee as they sobbed. Whumpee sobbed because of the memories. They sobbed because of the flashbacks. But they mostly sobbed because they felt Whumper had completely ruined them. They loved Caretaker and now every time they went to show their love, they only thought of Whumper and what Whumper had done to them.

But tonight was different. After months of therapy, months of recovery, Whumpee felt tonight was the night. As they kissed Caretaker, they only thought of Caretaker. As Caretaker caressed their body, they only felt Caretaker's touch. And as they touched Caretaker's body and Caretaker touched them, Whumpee began to cry.

"Love, I'll stop. What's wrong?" Caretaker said as they started to pull away.

"No....don't. I'm just....I'm just so happy." Whumpee smiled through the tears streaming down their face. "I'm so happy because I feel only you. Think of only you. It's only you, Caretaker. I love you so much."

Caretaker smiled and kissed down Whumpee's neck. "And I love you. And only you."

16 is so Primeboys coded omg

oh, they’re all c!primeboys coded bc I made this list after getting frustrated that all the whumpy/angsty prompt lists were too /r coded and i wasn’t able to use any for c!prime. also the wittebanes.

(if u want some more super c!prime coded ones check out dialogue 1, 2, 9, 20, and 25, and other 5, 12, 14, 19, and 20)

Anyway… been thinking bout seer au a lot so here it is.

TW: Abuse, dehumanisation, kidnapping, isolation, blinding, mutilation, what's essentially glorified slavery in a fantasy context (mages are forced to work for the king in this case), possessive behaviour, manipulation, severe codependency, referenced torture, referenced restraints, gaslighting, and forced medication/drugging. Yeah, the Seer AU is a doozy.

——

There were ways of telling people apart without sight- or Sight, for that matter- and ever since he'd been blinded, Tommy had gotten very good at them.

For example, Dream's strides were long and loud, and he tended to stay as close to Tommy as possible. It’s not like anyone else would be allowed to enter his chambers, of course. That'd have been a risk to the Kings property, after all. That’s all mages were, according to law, according to traditions. According to stupid bullshit, more like. But it was something Tommy could do to keep his mind sharp.

“Fuck off.” Tommy groaned, burying his face in the soft pillows.

“C'mon, Tommy, that’s no way to speak to your king.” Dream's voice was light, like this was still some kind of silly, joking situation. Like nothing was wrong.

“I'm not kidding around, prick. Leave me alone. Haven’t you already done enough?”

Dream sighed. “Tommy, are you having one of your moods again? I'm just here to bring you some food. Would you rather starve to death while you're healing?”

“Healing from you gouging my fucking eyes out.”

Dream paused. “I mean, yeah? I was helping you with your Sight. You didn’t want to wear the blindfold, so I thought that'd be more comfortable. Really, you should be thanking me.”

“You're unbelievable, man. Just, you’re so fucking… I don’t know.” It was how Dream always got- crueller than ever whenever he tried, ineptly, to be better, and then expecting some sort of reward for fucking Tommy's life up. It was as infuriating as it was painful.

It had happened after the enforcers dragged him away from his home on the street, with Tubbo, and Dream expected him to be all grateful for providing him with food and shelter even though he was a glorified- slave, really, no matter how much Dream pretended to be civilised. It had happened after he'd given Tommy a cane so he could walk when he fucked up his legs bad enough as a sick punishment for an escape attempt he couldn’t walk without one. It had happened a million more times than Tommy could name, and now it was happening after he took his fucking eyesight for his own selfish gain.

Tommy didn’t even fucking want his Sight. He never wanted to be a mage- the stories he heard, even dripped in propaganda, sickened him. Life in a gilded cage as the King's attack dog, never allowed to make a decision of their own and treated more like some sort of mythical animal than a person, sounded like a worse hell than the one he'd run from in the first place. At least Father never pretended to be anything but a cruel, drunken bastard mad that his favourite punching bag had died and taking it out on the child with her golden hair.

No, he was born with a gift that was more like a curse. The Sight hurt his head, dizzied his senses, and being forced into using it again and again by Dream until he passed out wasn’t exactly Tommy's idea of a good time. Neither was being dressed in fancy robes, having his hair scrubbed throughly with soaps that stung at his eyes and tied up painfully tight to be, essentially, shown off as a pretty tool in court, people oohing and aweing at his every movement while he was forced to do petty predictions for the entertainment of the rich fuckers who'd have kicked him while he was sleeping in alleyways, and now looked at him like some sort of show dog, pulling and prodding when they thought Dream wasn’t looking.

It was Tommy's own personal Hell.

The sound of Dream punching the wall in frustration didn’t even make Tommy flinch anymore. “It’s- I don’t fucking understand, Tommy! I give you a home, shelter, luxuries second only to myself. I give you the freedom to roam the grounds as you wish, and I spend hours each day talking to you, bearing my deepest secrets. I love you as if you were a brother of my own, not merely a servant useful to me, yet this is how you treat me?.”

Laughter bubbled in Tommy's chest and spilled out without meaning, harsh and bitter without any humour. “You love me? You love possessing me, you mean. You love having someone you can force to serve as your own personal spy. You love having someone to beat and torture on some made up punishment bullshit whenever you please. You love having something to show off to boost your own oversized ego. You love having someone you can make serve as your confidant, your own personal fucking therapist, because they have no way to tell anyone all your fucked up secrets. But me?” 

Tommy raised his arms in the air, in a way that probably looked incredibly awkward considering he was sitting propped up awkwardly in a bed too big for him, but he didn’t fucking care anymore. “You don’t care about me, do you? If you did, you’d let me go, let me see my friends, you wouldn’t literally lock me in chains and tear out my eyes, would you? No, what you care about is Tommy the seer, Tommy the punching bag, Tommy the emotional support prisoner. Not Tommy the person.” His voice had turned scratchy, like he was crying, but no tears came out. “But you’re right, I guess. You don’t treat me like a servant. You treat me like a slave. A pet. Anything but a human fucking being.”

An awkward silence descended on the room, and Tommy just felt too angry to even flinch away from the hit that was almost certainly coming, if not being dragged into one of the interrogation chambers again for more serious punishment. Instead, he felt annoyed, impatient, at Dream dragging out the certain punishment to come. Instead, though, Dream pulled him into a warm hug, and Tommy couldn’t help but lean into its comfort. It reminded him of Mama, in the scant few years he had with her, and fuck, at this point he'd take that no matter how much it hurt.

“Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy…” Dream's voice was infuriatingly calm. “You poor thing, so confused and angry. It’s my fault, really. I didn’t consider how it must seem to you, alone all your life and used to being used. No one ever cared about you until I did, right?”

“Shut up,” Tommy half-sobbed. “Shut up. You'll never be Mama, or Tubbo. You're like Father. I hate you. I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t, do you? You’re just scared, and you must be in pain. I must have not given you enough medicine this morning.” Dream absently ruffled a hand through his hair, and Tommy bit his tongue and pretended it was Mama. “You'll feel better soon, and it’ll all go back to normal, I promise.”

“I don’t want it to.” Tommy's voice was barely even audible at that point, so rough and tired. He didn’t want to continue to exist in this tailor-made torment, and he didn’t want to keep playing happy families with the man who ruined his life, and he especially didn’t want to take any more of the sickeningly sweet medicine Dream made him take, even though it made the burning in his eyes die down. It made his head so fuzzy and wrong, like his thoughts were all flooded by swamp water and he couldn’t understand anything and he hated it. “I'd rather die.”

“Oh,” Dream's voice had slipped into that inappropriately playful tone that sent shivers up Tommy's spine again, “You're far too valuable alive to me to have that choice.”

19 for maze

Masterlist

19 (stress position)

From this prompt list

Cw: tiny whumpee, stress position, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper, mild lab whump, non con touching and kissing, burning

The vines that encircled Maze’s wrists pulled him up to where he could stand flat on his feet. He squirmed against the restraints. Kicking and swinging, Maze was able to lift himself up, but couldn’t get out of the vines.

The metal panel that he stood atop was thin, and he was almost scared it’d bend under his weight. Briar lit a candle and lowered it under the panel, and he sobbed, realizing what was happening.

The metal warmed under his feet. Quickly becoming unbearable. He pulled himself up by the vines, grabbed them as the restraint wasn’t enough to lift him, holding himself above the heated surface. The second his feet left the surface, they clicked a timer.

“Wait— please! Don’t leave me like this!” Tears fell, and he writhed to get out of the hold.

“Oh but how else will I find out how long you can hold yourself up? You’re so light, and can lift much more compared to your body weight. I want to know if you have the endurance to match that strength.”

“Please.” His eyes were wide, glassy with tears. A vine wrapped to fit between his teeth. “Mmhh!”

They left the room after checking the timer was working.

——

His arms burned. He couldn’t hold himself up for much longer, but the prospect of the burning metal beneath him was too terrifying to contemplate. He was shaking with effort.

Briar returned, and stopped to examine him with a magnifying glass, checking for burns. He strained as they circled behind him. Without warning, they pressed a soft kiss to his back. The movement pushed him, straining his arms.

He almost fell at this. They went to sit in an opposite corner of the room, reading a book in a language he didn’t know.

——

When he finally fell, his arms were ablaze moreso than his feet where he touched the hot surface. He heard a small sizzle before being lifted. He could only scream behind the gag, barely enough strength to keep his eyes open, much less try and move.

They tilted his chin with a sharp nail, and every little nudge sent waves of agony through his arms, through his stomach. He collapsed to the table when the vines let go.

Laying there, he wanted nothing more than to drift of to sleep, for the fiery ache to fade. Briar marked down the time, and put a gel on his feet.

“This’ll get those burns healed quick and clean, ready for us to test again tomorrow!” They cheered, blowing out the candle to save it for later.

Wedding whump, as the couple or simply as a guest.

Being under so much pressure to be perfect for this *special day*

As a guest, being so freaking overstimulated because weddings are sensory hell even when you haven't been locked in a dark basement for months.

Whumper being a bride/groomzilla and controlling every aspect of the celebration. Especially whumpee.

Being legally and/or publicly bound to your torturer.

Being punished for an imperfect performance or lapses in etiquette.

[and if you want to go really dark, the looming threat of the wedding night]

tw: implied/referenced sa, dv, human trafficking (all fictional)

yes !!! to !!! all !!!! of! !!! this !!!

bonus if whumper and whumpee were enemies before whumper conquered whumpee.

bonus if whumpee’s hands are physically restrained behind their back. but since it’s the special day, the rope (or chain) is pink and decorated with ribbons and glitter, etc.

bonus if they aren’t even hiding whumpee’s restraint because all the guests know what whumpee’s role is.

and the looming threat of the wedding night? yes. whumpee is unable to keep their own body from trembling in fear during the entire ceremony, thinking about what’s going to happen to them tonight.

Collector’s Bounty: Part 1

Welcome to my newest WIP! @whumplr-reader gave me the prompt “ransom doesn’t arrive, whumper needs to do some quick black market organ work to make up the money they thought they were getting”, and I loved it so much that I’m making a whole series about it. This is part 1. Tw: referenced/threatened human trafficking. Enjoy!

~~~

It turned out Jackson Hawthorne’s family didn’t care about him nearly as much as Aris had been counting on.

The Hawthorne family does not stoop to ransoms or blackmail. The law is on your case and rest assured, you will be caught.

A paltry, two-sentence note typed on crisp stationery had been left in lieu of the tens of thousands Aris had demanded.

And he needed that money. A hit job for his newest client had gone south, and if he couldn’t come up with enough cash to clean up the mess, he’d be paying in blood— this time, his own. He snatched up the note, crumbling it into his pocket and stalking out of the dilapidated warehouse towards his car. 

How dare they? 

Going 90 on the deserted byways back to his place did nothing to vent his frustration, so he had his favorite balisong in hand by the time he’d yanked the car into park, mindlessly flipping it through his fingers as he fumbled with his keys and headed towards the basement. 

Cliche, he knew. But also windowless, dark, and nearly soundproof. He’d fortified the door to the staircase, added a few extra bolts, but the room was otherwise unmodified. And for now, the only bloodstains littering the cement floor were an old, rusty brown. 

But not for long. 

If he couldn’t get a show from the family, he could have fun toying with his captive.

“Looks like your family doesn’t give a shit about you, Hawthorne,” Aris snapped as he slammed the door shut behind him, taking the stairs two at a time. Jackson was exactly how Aris had left him, albeit with signs of struggle. The chair he’d been tied to had shifted, rope burns smudged angrily around his wrists and ankles, the gag stuffed in his mouth was tangled and spit-soaked. But none of Aris’s friends had been dumb enough to lay a hand on him. 

“So here’s the deal,” he continued, stalking around the chair and raking a hand through his captive’s soft curls, his grip tightening when the man jerked away from the touch. “Just because your family won’t pay up doesn’t mean I don’t need the money. And right now, you’re still my most valuable asset. You’ve gotta make yourself useful somehow.”

He twirled the blade one more time before ghosting its tip over the man’s throat, steel dipping into arteries and sinew but not yet drawing blood. And for a rare moment, his captive stilled, eyes widening in terror, a gasp frozen in his lungs. 

“Make no mistake, you have plenty of worth to me, even dead. A human heart can sell for nearly a million bucks. That’s tempting, isn’t it? But Sebastian Hawthorne wouldn’t take well to his eldest son succumbing to some mystery killer, now, would he? And having a revenge-seeking millionaire on your ass isn’t the greatest way to maintain anonymity.” 

He removed the knife without fanfare, drumming his fingers against the back of the chair. “But sex sells, that’s what they say, anyway. Pretty young Hawthorne boy, one night only, anything goes?” He grinned and slipped the blade under his captive’s belt, giving it a playful tug. 

Jackson thrashed against the restraints on instinct, his terrified gaze hardening with rage. A string of furious retorts were muffled by the gag, surfacing as nothing more than a pathetic collection of desperate sounds. 

Aris shrugged. 

“I mean, not my cup of tea, but cash is cash,” he continued indifferently. “Although I have to say, Sebastian’s precious heir getting ruined by mob brats would warrant a revenge campaign equally vigorous.” 

He withdrew the knife once more, gazing dramatically into the distance as if lost in thought. A few beats of tense silence passed, then he slid the knife under the gag, cleaving through tattered fabric without fanfare.

“Don’t like my ideas, huh? How about you come up with something better?” 

Jackson stammered wordlessly, the ferocity of moments before draining away like it had never existed.  

“I— I— I uh—“ 

“Can’t think of anything?” Aris murmured. “Then it looks like we’ll have to stick with plan A.” 

“No— I— fuck— uh— I can wire money from his account— if you let me go— I know his passwords—” Jackson sputtered. “I’ll get it to you, if you let me go—” 

Aris laughed. “Let you go? I’ll stop you right there, pretty boy. You get out, you owe me nothing. I shoulda known you’d be too boring to have any good ideas. Guess we’ll go with my original idea, then.” 

“No! Please—” 

His thrashing grew so furious that the chair tipped over, throwing him to the ground with it.  

“Not that one, you can stop freaking out,” Aris snorted, nudging his captive’s face with his boot. “Aww. I almost don’t wanna put you back upright, you’re finally where you belong.” 

“But alas. It’d be a lot harder to get you out that way.” 

Jackson’s face lit with hope like a kid’s on Christmas morning, and Aris’s twisted smirk only grew. 

“Don’t look too excited, champ,” he mocked. “You’re not getting out of here in one piece or anything.” 

“I mean, you’ll be mostly in one piece, but a kidney sells for at least a hundred thousand bucks, sometimes two. Seems like a fair trade, doesn’t it? I get my money, you keep your life and go back home to mommy and daddy like nothing ever happened.” 

The thrashing recurred with renewed vigor, and Aris rolled his eyes, whipping his gun from his hip and holding it in front of Jackson’s face.  “What are you gonna do when you get out of that chair? Take me down with your bare hands before I blow your brains out? Get your hands on my keys, slip past me, and make it through the locks and out to my car before you realize it won’t start without my fingerprint?” He slid the gun back into its holster. 

“Face it, Hawthorne, you’re lucky I’m considering letting you go at all. You’re cute when you’re terrified. Probably even cuter covered in blood. I could just keep you. Cut some pretty designs into you, sell a kidney, a lung, some bone marrow every once in a while— a gram can go for three thousand, and that regenerates. Hurts like hell and all. Weakness, nausea, muscle pain, risks of nerve damage, and some massive needles are involved. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” 

Aris knelt down next to Jackson’s trussed-up form, glaring at him until he made eye contact. 

“Listen to me. I like a fighter. If you kick out at me, try anything  stupid, whatever, that’s only gonna make me want to keep you for good. By all means, make this fun for me. But it’s not in your best interest. Understand?” 

Jackson nodded shakily, gaze shifting to the floor. 

“Alright then, here’s the plan. I’m gonna cut these ropes, get you outta the chair, and handcuff you. You’re going to follow me to the car like a civilized person, and depending on your behavior, you’ll either get into the backseat or I’ll shove you into the trunk. Either way though, I’m gonna sedate you, which is a protection for you as much as me. Because we both already know you’ll be tempted to do something stupid like jumping out of the moving car. We’re gonna make it to my friend’s place, prep you for the procedure, and the rest… well that’s not your problem. Except that you’re probably gonna need to stay put for a couple of days afterwards while we monitor your vitals and make sure you won’t die as soon as you’re shipped back to the mansion. Any questions?” 

Jackson listened with a distant, hopeless expression, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away, swallowing hard. Any real questions would go unanswered, he knew that much. 

“You really like hearing yourself talk, don’t you?” he muttered instead. 

Aris shrugged unapologetically. “Yep. You’ll get used to it.” 

With that, he sliced through the ropes on Jackson’s ankles, then freed his wrists. His captive slumped to the floor in a heap, not even bothering to catch himself. He just curled up and buried his face in his hands. 

“Come on, Hawthorne,” he said casually. “We don’t have all day.” 

“How bad does it hurt?” Jackson asked softly. “I— I know it’s gonna hurt. But… how bad is it?” 

Aris’s mocking smirk returned. 

“Poor thing. I’ll just let you know, it’s gonna be hell after you wake up. You’re gonna wake up and ask to be knocked right back out again, cause pain meds are an expense I’d rather not pay for. It’ll ease up after a week or so, I’m sure you can tough it out. If your family ends up being reasonable, you’ll make your way back to them soon enough and they can pump you with as much morphine as your spoiled little heart desires, how ‘bout that?” 

He heard the panicked hitch in Jackson’s breathing, watched as his eyes widened in terror, and plucked a syringe out of his jacket pocket. 

All this stress couldn’t be good for his body or anything inside it. 

“It’ll be over soon,” he said gently, holding the needle behind his back. With his other hand, he helped Jackson to his feet, then shifted to hold him by a shoulder before sinking the syringe into his neck, pushing the plunger in a smooth motion. 

“Wait— but—” Jackson stammered. “I— please— I— I’m—” 

“You’re too damn cute for your own good,” Aris murmured, cutting off his terrified babbling.  “I’ll spare a few bucks for the morphine, alright? Least I can do now that you know twenty thousand bucks is worth more than your life in your family’s eyes.” 

And in the midst of weak, half-slurred protests, Aris scooped up the Hawthorne heir in a bridal carry and hauled him off to his fate. 

Taglist: @burntcoffeewhump

Fic Finder/In the mood for...

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1. itmf pining. WangXian or Yizhan but either way so much pining it's a forest. With a happy ending. Please!

Cut to the Feeling by vesna (mrsronweasley) (E, 32k, YiZhan, Famous XZ/not-famous WYB, Soft Boys)

Stripped by vesna (mrsronweasley) (E, 16k, YiZhan, College/University)

next time there's no doubt by annemari (M, 35k, WYB/XZ, future fic, getting back together, past miscommunication, learning to communicate better, hurt/comfort)

The Upgrade Clause by fyredancer (E, 40k, YiZhan, Modern AU, Non-Famous XZ, Sugar dating, Mutual Pining, Blow Jobs, Love Bites, Sex Talk, Happy Ending)

even if the sky falls by fyredancer (E, 27k, YiZhan, Canon Divergence, Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Voyeurism, femboy XZ, cam/streaming, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Vibrators, Top WYB/Bottom XZSpanking, Safewords, Light BDSM, Restraints, Anal Fingering, Fisting, Sexual Roleplay, School Uniforms, First Time, Barebacking, Friends to Lovers, Blow Jobs)

Fixtures and Fittings by ella_minnow (E, 42k, WYB/XZ, interior designer XZ, motorcyclist WYB, pining, famous/non-famous, slowest burn)

Satisfaction Brought it Back by feenwitch (E, 16k, YiZhan, Magical Realism, Animal Transformation, Getting Together, Cohabitation)

听候发落; As You Wish by sunsandships (E, 99k, YiZhan, tw: mentions of homophobia, tw: light internalized homophobia, tw: smoking, tw: mentions of suicidal ideations and mental health issues (of non-main character), Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Non-Linear Narrative, Translated from Chinese, Top WYB/Bottom XZ, bjyx)

The Scent of Happiness by vesna (mrsronweasley) (E, 48k, YiZhan, soft baker XZ, famous WYB)

yesterday, tomorrow by sophiahelix (E, 80k, YiZhan, Movie Sets, Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, Mutual Pining, reverse slow burn)

With Joy and Purpose by feenwitch (E, 29k, YiZhan, Robots & Androids, Space, Android WYB, Slow Build, Happy Ending)

forehead kisses, break my knees by kinkywrists (M, 54k, YiZhan, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Exes to Lovers, Slow Burn)

小偷玫瑰 · Voleur de Roses by fefedove (M, 14k, YiZhan, Friends With Benefits, Police, Closeted Character, Ambiguous/Open Ending, xz is an asshole, yibo is dumb, they fuckbuddies, slowburnish, Angst)

Pretty Dead by Verona95 (M, 252k, YiZhan, Strangers to Lovers, Police, Detectives, Crime Scenes, Investigations, Age Difference, Dark, Angst, Happy Ending, Fluff, Smut, Murder Mystery, Murder, Bottom WYB/Top XZ, Top WYB/Bottom XZ, Small Towns, Bratty WYB, Slow Burn)

A Weekend in Sanya by biscutpoo (Not Rated, 22k, YiZhan, Getting Back Together, Weddings, Sharing a Bed, Angst, Pining, bjyx, Post-Break Up, Tropical Destination Weddings, Top WYB/Bottom XZ, Non-Famous, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Close Your Pretty Eyes by DeviyudeThoolika (E, 20k, YiZhan, High School, College/University, Angst, Mutual Pining, the slowest burn, BJYX | WYB/XZ is Real)

~*~

2. Hi, I'm looking for a modern era fic. Xiao Zhan was in love with jin juxuan and was dumped by him. The world believes that xz betrayed him with another man. Later he owns an art gallery where he helps artists by displaying their works. Xz parents are rich and powerful. xz has I think a one night stand with wy who is a famous star and enters into a relationship with him. End of the story wy agrees to help run xz father's company. Hope you will be able to help me as it is truly a beautiful story

FOUND? Encounter by thetaintedblade (E, 129k, YiZhan, Top WYB/Bottom XZ)

Update: story appears to have been deleted, link will not work anymore - Mod C

~*~

For the first time I complete a challenge! Specifically @whumpcember Everything in here is a QSMP fic, some of them are in my xcom au. Majority is Tazercraft, there's also some Philza&Missa QPPs, Philza/&Forever (read as you wish), various combos of Brazilians, Foolish&Leo, BBH angst, and even a tiny bit of Pac angst set in Purgatory! Oh and a mini study of Jaiden in purgatory I love that one.

It's not even all the horrible times I wrote this month, just the 31 for this

List below cut. With different summaries to the actual fic ones lol. Do double check TWs on the fic tags, the endings are happy or at least hopeful UNLESS specified otherwise. I've not double checked the links >.<. They're all fun in their own ways, but I bolded some of my favourites.

The Final Day Before The End . Pac looks after the other members of Soulfire on the last day of purgatory. T rated, prompt: fever

Bury Me In Satin . Forever is suffering with the Shadow Virus. He's looked after. M rated, tw: fever vomiting near death experiences. prompt: sickness

Faith and Trust on Torment Island . Forever gets to learn about Philza's birdhouse times. T rated, tw: dissociation & derealisation. prompt: hypothermia

Bloody Fingers . 100 words on the fact BBH is dying and hiding it. M rated, tw: majory character sickness, no happy ending. prompt: hidden injury

Live Like You're Dying . Missa does his best to protect Richarlyson from an errant Code, and uses his body to do so. M rated, tw: temporary character death, major character injury, altered respawn mechanics, mercy killing. prompt: impaled

Monsters in the Bedroom . Ramón, and nightmares. T rated, tw: implied child abuse, character dies but its only a dream. Prompt: nightmares

Mistakes Were Made . Pac goes to bug Forever on Richarlyson's command, and finds him passing out. He and Mike look after him. T rated, tw: disordered eating. Prompt: fainting

Duerme Pequeño . XCOM AU. Trump is alone in the dark, until someone comes for him. (Max and A1 are also here). T rated, tw: child abuse & neglect (not by QSMP characters). Prompt: isolation

Salvation . Quackity drowns and has his memory ripped away. T rated, tw: drowning, torture, memory loss, bad ending. Prompt: brainwashing

The Other Piece Of Me . Mike wakes up in the Order hospital. G rated, tw: hospitals. Prompt: Freezing

Sick Day . FitPac sickfic. The most generic sickfic in the world. There is soup. G rated, no tw, prompt: illness

The Beaten and The Damned . Roier has a horrible time now left alone on the island. Kidnapping is almost pleasant for him. M rated, tw: kidnapping, referenced canon character death, open ending (bad but there's /some/ hope). prompt: Touch Starved

Sensory . Cellbit gets chained up and blindfolded. Experience his time and rescue through his other senses! T rated, tw: kidnapping, injury. Prompt: restraints

Blessed Be The Martyr . Character study of Jaiden in Purgatory. M rated, tw: canonical temporary character death. Prompt: Cornered

Vision, Reality, Diety, Friend . Tallulah and Chayanne wake Fit up because something is wrong with Philza. The visions are proven more terrifying and tangeable than they seemed. T rated, tw: burns, unreality, mindfuckery, vomiting, breathing problems, serious injuries with no access to proper medical care. Prompt: Hallucinations

Remind Me How It Feels To Hear Your Voice. XCOM au. Mike has his mind ripped apart by a Cucurucho with psychic powers. He is rescued, and reunited with people. M rated, tw: kidnapping, torture, psychic violence, actual violence, serious injuries, hospitals, imprisonment, self-sacrifice, self-neglect, memory fuckery. Prompt: Head Injury

Book, Blackstone, Blaze Rod, Quartress . Philza's PoV of 15. Another Diety contacts Philza. She proves herself real, but people get hurt. T rated, tw: burns, unreality, mindfuckery, vomiting, breathing problems, serious injuries with no access to proper medical care. Prompt: Fire

Like Any Other Tuesday . Lich!Missa AU. 100 words on Missa and pain. G rated, no tw. prompt: Chronic Pain

Melodies Stuck Inside Your Head . XCOM AU Forever and Cellbit watch as a kidnapped Mike telepathically contacts Pac while in grevious trouble. Alt PoV of part of chapter 1 of 'Remind Me How It Fells To Hear Your Voice'. T rated, tw: assumed character death (he's okay but the grief is heavy). Prompt: Exhaustion

And The World Burns Turqouise . Mike tries to wake up while asleep. T rated, tw: nausea, hallucinations, aftermath of drug use (kelp cocaine). Prompt: drugs

Our Memory Will Be My Lullaby . XCOM AU. Felps get a call at 1am. It's Pac, under attack, with vital information, and having just watched Mike be kidnapped. T rated, tw: Open Ending (proven fine in another fic but this fic ends bad), offscreen kidnapping. Prompt: tears

Oh, Won't You Sing Me To Sleep Now? . XCOM AU. Pac's PoV of 21, plus some after. M rated, tw: Open Ending (proven fine in another fic but this fic ends bad), kidnapping, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, depression, blood, broken bones. prompt: Sacrifice

On A Bed Of Roses . An alt end to Forever's possession arc, in which he dies but Rose lets him respawn unpossessed. Philza has a horrific time. Read just chapter 1 for a bad ending, 2 as well for a good one. M rated, tw: temporary character death, self-harm, grief. Prompt: Begging

Orange Juice and Cookies. Forever does a silly and gets work. Cellbit looks after him, but is frustrated about it. t rated, TW: blood, gunshot wounds, ill-advised medical techniques, everyone's being a bit of a bitch but domestic too. Prompt: bullet

Hold The Last Burning Ember. XCOM AU. Felps has been rescued but is in a coma after brain surgery, Forever tries to look after him. All of the other Brazilians are missing, and Forever loves them as family but has no idea if they're safe. M rated, tw: heavy grief, mental health issues, depression, major character injury, offscreen torture, linear narrative split by non-linear flashback sequence, unethical military practices, lack of proper medical care due to fic circumstances. Prompt: Coma

You're Okay, You're Alright . Philza gets a new poison which prevents him healing, and fully expects to die. He is saved, however. no respawn au. M rated, tw: blood, needles, major character injury, hospitals (order med bay), implied temporary character death. Prompt: Collapse

Despite All This Waiting Tragedy . XCOM AU. A civilian rescue mission goes horribly wrong. Everyone gets out alive, but it's not pretty. M rated, tw: blood, explosions, nausea, head injuries, major character injury, near death experiences, hospitals, possession, lack of proper medical care due to not having access. Prompt: Bleeding Out

All Ye Who Enter Here . 100 words of purgatory vibes. G rated, no warnings. Prompt: abandoned

29. 'Til Hell Starts To Freeze . XCOM AU. SpiderBit meet cute in which Roier is an assassin and Cellbit is undercover in the (au version of) the Federation who killed his mark. But got a little stabbed in the process. T rated, tw: blood, murder. Prompt: Stabbed

30. Butterfly and Pa . Foolish can't find Leo. Turns out she's sick, and delerious, and her fever made her wander. T rated, tw: sick child. Prompt: delerium

31. Can I Do Anything When I'm Also Missing? . Pac and Mike as homeless teenagers, having just finished picking pockets to get money for the night. Pac is sick, and Mike steals medicine, and mostly just looks after him. T rated, tw: homelessness, sick child, violence to child, theft. Prompt: homelessness

Caretaker & Whumpee Introduction Ideas/ Prompts (Stranger Edition):

Instances where Caretaker stumbles upon a poor little helpless whumpee, what will they do? (Okay so this one turned more into a rescue whump scenario than just a confused, rando Caretaker situation- still strangers though!)

(TW: Implied/referenced past torture, defiant and feral whumpee, restraints and gag)

Caretaker marched into the room searching for Whumpee- there, their eyes meet. Whumpee defiantly lashes out, acting on their only measure of self preservation, unaware that Caretaker is here to help. Whumpee pulls on their wrist restraints, digging them deeper into their already raw, lacerated wounds surrounded by blue and black bruised skin- the skin discoloration peaks behind dried smeared blood covering more areas of their body than it doesn’t.

Whumpee tries to yell and scream in an attempt to scare off this stranger who is sure to be some associate of Whumper’s, despite the gag in their mouth that does not allow a single intelligible word to escape their sore, drooling mouth. Their jaw feels nearly locked open from 24 hours spent in the ball gag.

Caretaker looks down at Whumpee with sympathitic pity as they take a key out of their pocket that unlocks Whumpee’s restraints. Whumpee sees this, but they are still stuck in a panicked survival mode and continue to scream muffled profanities at Caretaker as they unlatch their shackles. As Caretaker frees one of Whumpee’s arms, they begin hitting and clawing Caretaker because the only thing worse that being chained to the wall is when they are dragged out to the middle of the room, promising nothing but senseless beatings that last for hours on end- tortured for no reason other than to satisfy Whumper’s sadistic blood lust.

Caretaker ignores Whumpee’s weak blows, barely feeling any impact from Whumpee’s fists as adrenaline surges through their veins, numbing their pain responses. Caretaker is set on freeing Whumpee and getting them to safety no matter what it takes. Caretaker will drag Whumpee out kicking and screaming- the only thing mattering is Whumpee rescued from this fucking dungeon and freed from the grasp of Whumper. Whatever injuries Caretaker gets in the process will heal.

Caretaker knows they’ll be able to sleep well tonight once they complete their job, knowing that Whumpee is safe at last after months of searching- that is, assuming that this rescue mission will be successful.

Hey it's been quite long I haven't asked, can you please write about what Caretaker would do with whumpee everyday when they are both in the icu room while Whumpee recovers from injuries.

Absolutely, I can write this! (And I haven't forgotten to finish your other request, it's just marinating so I can finish it, lol).

Please enjoy!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced wounds, referenced forced to watch, referenced restraints, hospital, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker stared down at the healing wounds on their wrists. It was either stare there, stare at the wall, or stare at Whumpee. And they'd been staring at Whumpee for the last few hours and couldn't take anymore. It was too hard.

They could barely swallow around the lump in their throat when they thought about the only thing they walked away with from their time with Whumper were these scars on their wrists from the rope rubbing. While Whumpee walked away with much worse.

Whumpee hadn't woken since they slipped into unconsciousness as Caretaker ran to the ambulance with them. Hadn't woken since EMTs worked tirelessly to save their life. Hadn't woken since arriving that the hospital and being ripped away from Caretaker and into emergency surgery. Hadn't woken since Caretaker was guided into the ICU room where they lay, tubes coming out of them in various places.

Caretaker had been powerless to help Whumpee. Had been powerless to do anything except watch Whumpee suffer at Whumper's hands. Watch Whumpee grow weaker and weaker. And finally watch Whumpee succumb to unconsciousness.

They were still powerless and could only watch.

The nurses were kind and assured Caretaker that Whumpee's body just needed some time to heal. That being in a coma helped. That the medical team felt it was very likely that Whumpee would wake again.

The waiting was killing Caretaker. They dragged their gaze up once more so they could stare at Whumpee. Stare at the consequences of their failing to stop Whumper. Stare at their consequences of failing to save Whumpee sooner. Stare at their world that was slowly crumbling.

Caretaker took Whumpee's hand in theirs. "Please, please forgive. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. I need you. Please, Whumpee. I'm so sorry."

srry… disc war bad end au brainrot.

No. 21: “See the chains around my feet.”

Vows | Restraints | “Don’t move.”

TW/CWs: Referenced mind control, murder plots

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

Punz stepped forward and immediately the boy in front of them spun around, a sword slipping into his grip and coming to rest against Punz’s neck. “Don’t move,” he hissed. “Wait, Punz?”

Punz smiled. “Hello to you too, Purpled. It’s been a while.” It really had been, and things had changed. Purpled had always been a bit cautious, maybe even paranoid (which Punz supposed was their fault, really, as the one role model parent the kid had consistently through his life), but it had only gotten worse. His whole demeanor was more withdrawn, defensive, now.

“What are you doing here?” Purpled asked, cautiously pulling his sword away from them but still holding it tightly. Good. They weren’t planning on getting killed today. “How did you even find me?”

“I heard that Quackity blew up your base. Thought you might want some help getting revenge on me,” Punz told him smoothly, sidestepping his other question. It wasn’t technically a lie, even if it wasn’t the full truth. Nobody needed to know that.

“Why do you care? I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear anything about Quackity doing something to you, and, if you didn’t notice, we haven’t talked in months.”

Punz grimaced at the accusation. “And I’m sorry about that, but you weren’t exactly reaching out yourself or clammering for me to talk to me. I was also possessed for more than half of that, so,” Punz shrugged, “eh, a bit of a difficult time for both of us.”

Their smile twisted. “And that’s where Quackity came in, of course. Blew me up while trying to get at the Egg. Whole canon life gone in an instant, and it wasn’t even about me.” Punz scoffed. That was some common ground, at least. They were both mercenaries, and that meant they both knew what it was like to be targeted for something you were paid to do (to be treated like a weapon and nothing more, loyalties ensured with coin and that meant you didn’t have to worry about treated them well because they would obviously never desert you, because they weren’t people, and Punz was going to stop themself there).

Purpled relaxed a little bit at that despite their bitterness. “He would fucking do that.” He rolled his eyes. “And that’s it?”

Punz nodded. “Yep. But, well, if you don’t pay back your debts, anyone’s free to take advantage of you. We both know that,” they added.

“Of course.” Purpled narrowed his eyes. “We both know that.” He sighed. “So, you want to help me go kill Quackity.” 

“Kill him and burn Las Nevadas down,” Punz clarified, voice clean and even.

“I’m not opposed that,” Purpled commented. “Would be fucking catharic.” He raised his gaze up towards Punz again. “And if I said ‘no, I don’t want your stupid help’?”

“Then I’d leave. Let you deal with it yourself,” Punz responded flippently.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone else about it?” Purpled asked. They could hear the tiny bit of desperation he was trying so hard to stamp out in his voice.

Punz smiled. “Of course not.” They wanted Quackity dead, by any means necessary. (He had to pay for what he had done, and if Dream wasn’t going to come take his pound of flesh, Punz would do it for him instead) No way they were going to foil a murder attempt by going and telling him about it.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Do we have a deal?” Punz asked, reaching one hand out, one eyebrow raised.

Purpled took their hand and shook. “We do.”

My friend Valkyrie and I made lists of things that are "mecore" for fun. Here's mine.

TW: mention of self harm, NSFW as hell

Soxcore:

Silly knee socks, cannabis, gin and limeade, mismatched footie socks, foxes, fuzzy blankets, cute plushies, creepy plushies, stained glass, colored glass, granny aesthetic Halloween decor, big cocks, 2D muscle men, 2D hot twinks, 2D dommy mommies, cryptids (esp. Mothman), ghost sex, monsterfuckery, jean overall shorts with rainbow straps, band/punny/nerdy tshirts, silky fabrics, stupid adorable cats, mint and dark chocolate KitKats, sprite, original ramune, instant ramen, sailor moon, David Bowie, InuYasha, Fruits Basket, eeveelutions, pins and buttons, pet play, shibari, restraints, holding hands during sex, kitchen witchcraft, wholesome witchcraft, baking sweets for people you care about, one man show in the kitchen, rain in every form, distant thunder, reading smut, toe beans, male ahegao, soft yanderes (all yanderes), impressionist art, making a playlist for every occasion and mood, 2D simping, Ren faire, overcast days, having a moody day, spending the day in bed, cute shoes/boots/heels, rubber toe sneakers (high and low top), cardigan sweaters, nightmare before Christmas, dad hats, witch hats, flower crowns, silver or gunmetal jewelry, vampire movies, goth femmes from 90s cartoons, hugs, gentle casual touches, surprise kisses, tickles and cute pokes, tappy fingies, blushing, being flustered, being oblivious to flirting, being clumsy, being derpy, string led lights, cool spectrum colors (miss me with those warm tones), the sound of water (especially underwater sounds), the moon and stars, walking at night, soft nighttime breezes, running through the woods, shoulder freckles, weirdly good with animals, being shy but polite, being an open book in a comfortable conversation, constant body language, can always read their emotions plain on their face, hand gestures while talking/talking with hands, wild arm flailing (muppet flailing), muppets, tabletop gaming, spring, daffodils, hyacinths, lavender fields, heather meadows, orchids, weeping willows, big old trees, passionate infodumping, platonic cuddling and spooning, granny floral prints, paisley, tarot cards, reading tea leaves, reading runes, amethyst, goldstone, lapis lazuli, smoky quartz, geodes, found animal bones, fangs and claws, pointed ears, oddly shaped pupils, burying your face in things (pillow, crook of lover's neck, cat belly, etc.), early emo shit, random hodgepodge of different 90s aesthetic and nostalgia, those fuckin cups from the 90s with that purple and blue pattern, wildberry poptart colors, wildberry poptarts, smutty dating Sims, hot fictional men who will kill my character, dead doves, the most toe curling fucked up fanfics imaginable, romcom BL, crying a lot, crying from any intense emotional response even if it's positive, crying because of a piece of media, crying for release, crying in the shower, curling up on the floor and clutching yourself tightly while you sob, singing in the shower, singing around the house, singing to my fur children, a live narration of my actions done in song, changing song lyrics to be about silly things, doing character voices in everyday conversation, speaking in meme references, referencing old vines and then having to explain them because someone hasn't seen that one,

gin gins (ginger hard candy), being touch starved, touch as primary love language, sleeping while hugging a pillow, side sleeping, sleeping in, suddenly realizing you've been awake far too long, coming out of a hyperfixation like time travel and figuring out what year you're in now, surprise naps, nap roulette, garlic rye chips, cheese, cheesecake, baby, so so baby, masking mental health in public and to unfamiliar people, thinking no one would ever put up with you, cutting, cutting scars, tattoos that cover scars, piercings and body mods, Oreos, walking down train tracks with a friend, cosplay and LARPing, musical theatre, standing in the rain just to feel it on your skin, stretching like a cat, nose and feet are always cold for some reason, mushroom swiss burgers, psychedelics, MLP:FiM, beanies all winter, choker necklaces, space as an aesthetic, glass pipes and bongs, glassblowing, small venue punk and rock shows, the concert poster plastered bathrooms of a small punk venue, please pet me uwu, neon hair dye, anatomically inaccurate plastic Halloween skeleton animals, clingy but pushes it down, needy but won't ask for things, multiple texts in a row, reading constantly, crowd anxiety, corvids, cephalopods, freshwater shrimp, dying after a fat bong rip/fat dab, simping, passive darling, needing a caretaker relationship, Alolan Vulpix and Ninetails, Greek food, dumbass fudanshi, animal crossing, pop punk, early techno, sad indie, 80s-90s goth kid music, red bean ice cream, ramune flavored candy, Marius from Lez Miz, hobbits, DC, drawn/animated furries, hugging people in fur suits at cons, nigiri sushi, onigiri, the works of Neil Gaiman, femme authored classic literature, classic and modern poetry, occult nonsense, romantic literature, the works of D.H. Lawrence, fantasy fiction, bi panic, "you're so funny" thanks it's a coping mechanism, cast iron wood stoves, generational cast iron pans, family recipes, emerald and silver, dainty works of metal art like broochs, pins and hair pins, band and random sew on patches, night mist, kintsugi (using liquid gold to fix broken things), memories that are so obscure and buried in references and inside jokes it's almost a two person play to explain them,

looking like a Victorian ghost, looking like the host of a punk rock children's show, seaside cliffs, sea storms, Vicky's story in The Gargoyle, The Gargoyle, househusband vibes, chill edits of toonami anime, stupid puns and wordplay, over the shoulder glances, over the edge of sunglasses glances, not getting rid of plushies because you don't want them to be sad and miss you and you're worried about whether or not they'll have a happy life elsewhere, having spoiled fur children because you're a pushover, kissing while crying from happiness, walking arm in arm, face touches, hand on face, hand over hand on face, soft neck and shoulder bites, bite marks, hugging from behind and kissing the top of someone's head, headpats, rubbing your nose on soft things, judging a mug solely by how it feels in your hands, loose leaf tea, having a tea shelf/cabinet, a nice, comfortable pair of boots, lemon, vanilla, clove, sandalwood, sage, lavender, bed head, wants to make you breakfast, embroidering memes and shit posts, wooden rocking chairs, owns way too many accessories, various collections of seemingly mundane items that have more meaning than they should, casually sex/sexual health positive but shy about personal tastes, awkward creetchur vibes, gives genuine compliments to strangers often, always gassin up the homies, forced optimism, character/pop culture mini backpacks, sunglasses with colorful lenses, I like you so I did a deep dive of your Spotify, can and will remodel the house for you, "I can fix that", "please let me put together the furniture it's like a big puzzle!", painting/customizing bits of furniture or clothing because I got bored, making friends in the smoking area, smoke breaks because I'm anxious/overstimulated, telling the band "great show" at the merch table, things that glow in the dark, fireflies,  forest rivers and streams, moss covered stones, trees or tree roots that have a surprisingly comfy place to sit, reading a book outside, the smell of books, libraries, old libraries, book spines under fingertips, page edges and corners against fingertips, holding a book to your chest to feel the story close to your soul, overcast days that press down on your soul a bit and make everything feel slightly heavy and bittersweet, crock pot meals on cold days, clutching the edges of sweater or hoodie sleeves, frost covered grass, misty dawns, museum dates, chai lattes, nose boops, edible mushrooms, flowering trees, needing white noise/music to sleep, borrows your hoodie because it smells like you, walking through a cemetery together reading the stones and imagining the lives of the people buried there, "ooo they have a charcuterie board!", Ghibli food and domestic fluff vibes, will absolutely cook with you or for you, spooky cute, gently bonks my head against you like a cat, slow blinks/bleps of affection, book dragons, I really like this new song so I'm going to listen to it on repeat for hours on end, corner store snack runs, PS2 startup noise

play the game

(( dead dove: do not eat ))

pairing | billy hargrove/steve harrington 

summary | after kidnapping steve, billy wants to play a game of russian roulette. ( OR i watched law and order svu last night and this idea hit me and please read warnings bc this is some dead dove: do not eat shit )

a/n | honestly debated on posting this bc it's pretty fucked up but if people are interested in law and order svu then maybe some people would be intrigued by something intense like this. BILLY LIVES RENT FREE AS A SOFT BABY GIRL IN MY HEAD OK I LOVE HIM AND THIS IS JUST A COMPLETE AU ONESHOT PLEASE DON'T HATE ME sSDIGSDIGSDpgndsgin. find it on ao3 here !!

warnings | kidnapping, russian roulette, referenced past murder/r*pe, threats of torture, violence, gun violence, drugging, forced alcohol, restraints/duct tape, dosgndsogsosdng pleasE don't read if you're sensitive to dark matter i love you please stay safe

All right! It’s zee wango, zee tango!

Billy smacked his hands against the steering wheel as the music started up. He’d put in his favourite mixtape, one he’d spent too long working on that had all of his favourite hype songs on it. They were the tunes that got him wound up and full of energy, the ones that made him bounce in his seat and feel ready for a fight. 

But there was no need to fight this time. 

He took a glance at the back seat, smile spreading over his face. Steve looked so sweet while he slept, and even sweeter with a face covered in bruises. His lip was busted and one of his eyes so swollen they were close to closing up, yet he still looked so gorgeous, so pretty. 

With a soft little groan, the pretty boy’s good eye fluttered open. He knew he was moving, but he had no idea how. He couldn’t process that he was in a car, on a highway. He could feel the blanket atop him and his hair sticking to his forehead, but he couldn’t move. 

He couldn’t speak, either. There was thick black tape over his mouth. 

Hargrove turned down the music a bit and pulled his car over to the curb. “Didn’t mean to wake you, sweetheart. So used to playing my music real loud, didn’t think anything of it.” 

Steve started to come back to life a bit more then. He took in his surroundings and tried to sit up a bit. His feet and hands were bound by the same tape that covered his mouth, and it was useless to try to pull them free. When he was just starting to try to shove the blanket off, Billy was crawling into the back seat, coming close enough that Steve froze up. 

Billy.

Memories hit him almost as hard as the panic. Being tied to a chair, cigarettes being put out on his chest, the butt of a gun hitting his forehead so hard that the entire world went black. 

“Shh, shh,” Billy cooed, reaching to stoke a hand over Steve’s hair. It was greasy and stuck in the blood on his forehead, but Billy didn’t care. “Easy now, Stevie. It’s just me. You overwhelmed? Music still too loud? It’s alright. I know you probably have a killer headache.” But he made no move to turn the volume down. “We’re in the car, baby. You’re in the backseat. I told you you’d wake up in here. You need to learn to trust me.” His fingers moved to the duct tape that was plastered to Steve’s mouth. “You gonna be a good boy for me if I take this off? Don’t want any screaming. No one’s gonna hear you out here, anyway, sweetheart. We’re almost there now. Almost at our perfect place.” 

After Harrington gave a little nod, Billy pulled the tape off with one quick motion. It hurt, the lips beneath were stripped of a layer or two of delicate skin, but Steve was just happy to be able to breathe a little easier. He gasped for air for a few seconds before attempting to speak. “Water,” His voice was weak, hoarse. “Need water.” 

“I’ll give you some water after you have another drink,” Billy cooed some more, reaching across to a bag he had on the floor of the car. He pulled out a bottle of straight vodka, a bottle of water, and a prescription bottle of pills.

“Please,” Steve croaked when he saw the bottle being twisted off the vodka bottle. He didn’t want alcohol. “Water.” 

“You’ll get some water. Be patient,” Billy scolded softly in response, shaking his head a bit. One hand went to hold Steve’s chin, pressing hard on his cheeks to force his mouth open, and then the other proceeded to pour vodka down his throat. 

Steve sputtered and choked, coughing on it and making a mess, but Billy didn’t mind. He merely leaned forward to lick the liquid off of his fingers, Steve’s chin, his neck. 

Another whimper for water came, and Billy chuckled as he pulled back. “Right. Some water for you now. I told you I’d give you some after you had a drink, and I’m keeping my word. I always keep my word, don’t I? Just like when I told you I was going to put my cigarette out on your pretty chest, and I did.” Steve’s face crumpled until Billy held the water bottle up. Even when he tried to lean forward to get a swig, it was still out of his reach. “And just like when I told you I was going to fuck your whore of a mother in front of your piece of shit father before ending them, which I did.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before finally, he brought the water to Steve’s lips, and the boy thought he was in heaven for a moment. The liquid was room temperature, but it may as well have been ice cold. It felt so good on his tongue and sliding down his throat; the horrible taste of the alcohol was washed away and the residual burning in his throat was soothed. 

But then it was gone. 

He was sure he’d barely had a few mouthfuls when Billy pulled it away. 

“And now I’m telling you that when you wake up again, we’ll be home, and I’ll get to play with you properly. I’m going to have so much fun with you, Stevie. Really gonna scar you up and make you mine.” The words fell on deaf ears because the only thing Steve could focus on was the water bottle. He tried to shift towards it, desperate to feel it on his sandpaper tongue again. “I’ll tell you what. You take some medicine for me, and you can wash it down with some water. That sound good?” Hargrove popped open the medicine bottle in his hands. He took out two pills and held them to Steve’s mouth. “Open, and you get some water.” 

Steve had no idea what they were but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the water, and as soon as he opened his mouth and let Billy press the pills to his tongue, the water was brought back to his lips. It wasn’t immediately taken away again and he chugged it until the bottle was empty, and by that point his eyes were heavy again. 

“Night, princess. When we wake up, you’ll finally be home.” 

Then the world went black. 

***

The next time he opened his eyes, Steve was in a room. It was dark, dingy, but he was on a bed that smelt clean enough. He could see a dresser, see horribly outdated wallpaper, and a door. It was so close, just a few feet away, but when he tried to move, he couldn’t. 

His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed, scratchy rope biting into his skin. 

He started to pull against them, desperate to break free of the binds, when Billy, looking fresh and clean, came wandering in through the door. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas when he saw Steve was awake. “My sleeping beauty! You’re awake!” 

Steve tried to talk, tried to plead to be let go, but he was silenced by the duct tape and how groggy he was. He felt hungover and tired, but mostly frightened. The fear was all consuming, gnawing at his stomach like a parasite. 

“I’m sorry if you were awake on your own for awhile. Had to pop out and get a few things. I love hardware stores, you know? They have everything. Rope, tarps, blowtorches,” Billy’s smile turned sinister then, like it had when he’d delivered the death blow to Mr Harrington’s head, but it was just for a moment, and Steve froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The fear paralyzed him. “Oh, it’s alright, sweetheart.” And then Hargrove’s face was melting into something sweet. “I only got the blowtorch in case you try to leave me. You know what I’d do it you tried to run?” He grabbed one of Steve’s ankles and yanked off his sock in order to run his fingers along his foot. “I’ll melt all the skin off these pretty feet of yours, and then you won’t be able to try again. And if you do?” His finger trailed to the back of Steve’s ankle. “Then I cut right along here. I don’t want to have to do these things, Stevie, but you’re mine now. I can’t have you running away, can I?” 

The smile he gave Steve was no longer sinister, but soft, somehow, even though he was talking about torture. All Steve could do was stare at him. He didn’t entirely feel present, like his mind was somewhere else and his body was left at mercy to the man before him.

Billy reached over to pull off Steve’s second sock for good measure before letting him go completely and grabbing the gun out from the place it was tucked into the back of his jeans. “I want to play a game now, sweetheart. You ever hear of Russian roulette? I’ve always wanted to try it.” 

He climbed up and onto the bed, and then atop of Steve to straddle his torso. Once he was comfortable, he made a show of dumping the bullets out of his revolver and plucking a single one off of Steve’s chest to load back into it. He spun the cylinder around and then closed it up. “You feeling lucky, Stevie? Lucky enough for the both of us?” He grinned again when he realized the man beneath him was sobbing. His body shook, one good eye getting red and puffy. After a few seconds, he reached to pull off the duct tape from his mouth again, and was greeted with the sweetest sob he’d ever heard. “Shh, baby. It’s alright. I’ll go first. I’m not afraid of dying, but I hope for your sake I don’t take the bullet. It’d be a real slow death for you to die on this bed. Going from dehydration if horrific, I’ve heard.” 

And then the gun was brought up to his temple. 

“Don’t, don’t. Don’t do this,” Steve was almost in hysterics, and Billy was thriving off it. He was loving every last second of it. It was like he’d taken a hit of the finest cocaine in the world. “Please, don’t do this.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but was immediately met with gentle tapping to his cheek. 

“Stevie,” Billy’s voice was a gentle song. “Eyes open, or you’ll go first. Open them. Now.” 

But Steve turned his head away, keeping his eyes firmly shut. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see the brain matter and blood splatter across the room when the bullet shot through his head.

Hargrove grabbed his chin and snapped his head back up straight, violently enough that Steve’s eyes shot back open. He was met with the sight of the gun pressed to the little spot between his eyes and he was silenced. He couldn’t beg, couldn’t plead for his life. He couldn’t even sob. Billy moved the gun down over his nose, and then hesitated for a second in order to shove his fingers into Steve’s battered cheeks to get him to open up, just like he had with the vodka earlier that night. 

Then he slid the gun into his mouth. 

The metal felt cold and heavy against Steve’s tongue. Billy pushed it in far enough to make him gag, taking a second to fuck his mouth with it and enjoy the sight. 

“Fine. You can go first, then, honey, if you really want to. Don’t tell me you want to die already? I’ve not even gotten the chance to play with you,” Billy pouted at him, mockingly. “Who’s going to be your last thought, baby? Your parents? A girlfriend?” He wrinkled his nose. “Or someone else? Me? I’ll be the last thing you see, I’d love to be the last thing on your mind, too.” He pulled the gun out when Steve gagged and tapped it against his too-white teeth as he took a second to think. “Right. Enough dilly-dallying. Let’s play. You ready? On the count of three. Keep your eyes open for me.” 

It wouldn’t be a problem this time; Steve wasn’t able to close them even if he tried. They were fixed on Billy, his eyes, his grin. His pupils were so blown, Steve was positive the man had to be on some sort of drugs.

“Good boy. Keep your eyes on me. Three.” He skipped the first two numbers and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet didn’t go off and Steve choked out a sob around the gun. It was a strangled sound, almost animalistic, and Billy finally pulled the gun out entirely to listen to it properly. 

“Lucky boy,” he cooed, putting the gun right back up to his own temple. “What do you think, sweetheart? Will I be as lucky as you?” He pulled the trigger without any sort of hesitation, and no bullet went off. “Again?” He grinned a big, wicked grin, and pulled the trigger again, and again. Both times nothing happened, but Steve was wailing harder by the second. His wrists were yanking so hard against his restraints that the skin was rubbed raw, starting to crack and drip blood. “That’s it, pretty boy. Sing for me. I love to hear it. Only two rounds left, you think I’m going to get lucky again?”

What Steve didn’t know was that the bullet was a blank. It wouldn’t actually shoot. He’d switched the bullets out for blanks when Steve had been sleeping, solely for the game. Neither of their lives were in any real danger, at least not because of the gun.

“Don’t do it, don’t,” Steve sobbed and sobbed. He could barely get any words out of his mouth, they were struggling to form and were coming out as incoherent babble. 

Billy snickered and clicked the gun again. That time, Steve screeched and shut his eyes. 

But nothing happened. Even if it had been a real bullet, Billy would have gotten lucky. “Open your eyes. Look at me,” he murmured. It took a bit of coaxing, but when Steve finally opened his eyes again, he opened the chamber and let the bullet fall out onto Steve’s chest. “Let this be a lesson for you, Stevie, that I always get what I want. I want to live? I live. I want you? I have you. You’re mine now. All mine.” 

And then, like they were lovers who had just spent a few minutes teasing each other as foreplay, Billy bent down to kiss him. It was rough and hard and possessive, a power move to remind Steve who he now belonged to. 

Russian roulette may have been over, but the real game was just beginning. 

Don't Be Late

CWs: slave whump, minor whumpee (17), sensory deprivation, restraints, referenced eye whump, whumper POV (at the end), sadistic whumper, disproportionate retribution, claustrophobia, abuse

Masterlist

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

Kensington thanked the cashier, putting the items into the reusable bag. He stepped out of line, breathing in the fresh air.

His favorite time of the week was when he was sent to get groceries on Saturdays. The farmer’s market always set up along main street, and it filled up quickly with free people and slaves getting groceries. The cashiers were usually kind, having to work with slaves often. It made him feel better. Calmer. Master had been so much more aggressive lately, but it seemed that he and Kensington had hit a soft lull in his harsh patterns.

He took out the list again, checking the pictures that Master had kindly printed off for him, since he couldn’t exactly read. Things looked different, now that he could only see out of one eye. His eye had healed up well from the incident a few weeks ago but Master had cut the retina, rendering him permanently blind in his right side. It took longer for things to focus in his vision, and he sometimes tripped over things at home. A couple times Master had snuck up on his blind side just to smack him upside the head.

He hated what had happened to him, and he hated that Master acted as if it was Kensington’s fault. Sure, he deserved a punishment, but Master had been doing things that were permanent with his finger and his eye … Kensington feared what would happen next.

He’d gotten all the groceries he’d been assigned, so he nervously checked the time on the big digital clock on the building down the street. 2:30. Kensington exhaled in relief. Factoring in the 10 minute walk home, he still had plenty of time to get there before 3:00 pm. That was really Master’s only rule regarding Kensington going out, that he had to be home by 3 pm. There were so many rules to follow at home about his chores and privileges. He liked that he had a bit of freedom outside, that he could walk around outside for hours and talk to strangers he’d never see again. He was legally obligated to wear a collar, and the one Master gave him was thick black leather that sometimes dug in and chaffed (and he suspected was actually for a dog), but he didn’t really mind.

He sat on a bench on the sidewalk, taking out the leftover money and counting it, making sure he had it all. It was then that he remembered that the peanut butter was half-off, leaving him with three extra dollars. Kensington thought for a moment, debating his options, before standing up and heading to a small booth on the corner.

The cashier smiled and greeted him, asking what he’d like.

Kensington ordered a cinnamon roll, handing her the three dollars. It wasn’t often Kensington did something for himself, and he did feel a little guilty… but Master would never know. Plus, Master had been feeding him a bit less lately, and the cinnamon roll tasted so good.

The clock now read 2:41, and Kensington didn’t want to cut it too close, so he began to walk home, eating the cinnamon roll as he went. It was a really nice day. The sun warmed his skin, a light breeze ruffled his hair. It made him wish he was let outside more often. He frowned suddenly, Master’s voice in his head. Maybe you would be allowed outside more if you hadn’t snuck out. This is your fault, Kensington.

Yeah. It was.

He crossed the street and then made a right turn to walk down a few blocks -- but the roads were all closed with construction blockades. Construction workers and trucks blocked off roads -- and all roads down that street. Kensington couldn’t get in.

Panic hit him as he realized what that meant. He looked at the big clock -- 2:48. He had to backtrack and take the long way around to Master’s house -- a trip that would now take at least twenty minutes.

Kensington backed away, clutched the bag of groceries, and took off running.

How could he have been so stupid?! That road was totally clear when he’d gotten there only a couple hours ago, but now, with only a little time left to get home, he was going to be late. This had to be the universe punishing him for spending his master’s money on himself. He thought that he’d deserved something nice, but it was clear now that he didn’t get to decide that. Only master did, and he hadn’t given him anything.

Kensington’s side began to ache, and his heart raced in time with his heavy breaths. Tears stung the back of his eyes, fear gripping his heart. Master was going to make him cut off another finger. Or drown him in the bathtub. Or whip him until he couldn’t stand up anymore. Maybe he’d kill him. Ever since he'd bought Kensington he’d only been getting more and more violent and impatient -- there was no telling what punishment he’d come up with for disobeying the only rule he had to follow outside the house.

He rounded onto Master’s street, slowing his steps as he got closer to the house. He worked to calm himself, but his heart only raced faster as he went up the to the door. He took a deep breath, then reached forward with shaking hands to open the door.

But he’d hardly pushed the door open before Master’s hands pulled him inside.

The bag of groceries fell to the ground as Kensington cried out in pain, the grip on his arm too tight. Master threw him down, seething.

“Do you know what time it is?!” he yelled.

Kensington flinched away, hiding his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I -- I got everything, I just had to take a diff--”

“Do I look like I care that you -- son of a --” Master cut himself off and punched the wall, causing Kensington to curl up even more. Master paused and took a breath, thinking. He suddenly left the room, digging around the junk drawer in the kitchen for a moment before coming back, duct tape in hand. “Hands.”

Kensington obeyed unthinkingly, not wanting to do anything to make him more angry. His wrists were quickly taped together in front of him, and then Master layered tape over each of his hands, forcing them into fists. He looked up in question -- but Master obscured what was left of his vision by layering duct tape around his head. He winced as it pulled his hair, but didn’t dare make a sound.

Not when his master covered his mouth in layers of tape, or his ears with headphones. Not when he picked him up and led him down the hallway before leaning down and taping his ankles together too.

Not until Kensington felt himself get pushed down into the dreaded small, suffocating space, and he felt the rush of air as the door closed in front of him, did he begin to scream.

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

Grayson pushed his slave into the hall closet, then slammed the door shut and locked it. As soon as the lock (that he'd installed specifically for this) twisted shut, Kensington’s muffled screams started. Grayson only shook his head and went to pick up the groceries that had been carelessly thrown on the ground.

The screaming would stop eventually. The kid would either pass out or retreat somewhere into himself, and at the rate he was going he would run out of air soon. He’d be fine for a few hours -- Grayson would get him out later tonight or sometime tomorrow maybe… It would really depend on how fast Kensington could learn his lesson.

Grayson didn’t necessarily like having to punish his slave, but the boy needed to be taught a lesson. He had only one rule to follow regarding going out, and if that rule was not enforced then what was the point of having it? Maybe he was giving him too many freedoms. Kensington was forgetting his place with being allowed to go outside and eat what he wanted and watch TV… Maybe Grayson would suspend all those things, just for a little bit. Just to remind Kensington what he is and where he belongs.

The screaming cut off suddenly, a quiet thump coming from the closet where the boy inevitably passed out and hit his head on the wall. Grayson chuckled, thinking of the way he had to be crying, his breathing sporadic and short…

Okay, maybe he liked it a little bit. But that wasn’t really his problem.

Walls

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced restraints, panic attack, PTSD, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee

Whumpee could feel the shackles around their wrist. Could feel the pain of Whumper’s touch. Could smell them even. They were trapped. The walls were closing in and they couldn’t get out. 

Whumpee thrashed and screamed. They couldn’t be a prisoner again. They couldn’t! They had to get away. Had to get away from the feeling. From the pain. From the terror. 

But they couldn’t. They were trapped in a room. Restrained. Stuck. Their absolute worst nightmare. 

“Shhhh, shhh,” Caretaker’s voice came suddenly in Whumpee’s waking nightmare. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

“T-t-trapped,” Whumpee managed to squeak out. 

Caretaker’s hand was suddenly in theirs. “Love, you have to stay in the bed. You’re too hurt. They need to help you.”

“C-c-can’t. Whumper,” Whumpee began, squeezing their eyes shut even tighter. 

“Whumper is gone. They can’t get you. Please, love, they need to treat your injuries. I...I almost lost you,” Caretaker’s voice broke suddenly. 

Whumpee wrenched their eyes open. “Caretaker?” They were in a hospital. There were no shackles on their wrists. Just soft padded restraints keeping them to the bed. They were hooked up to various machines and covered in bandages. They were safe. 

Caretaker squeezed Whumpee’s hand tightly. “I’m right here, love, I’m right here.”

Whumpee began to sob. “I’m...I’m sorry.”

Caretaker leaned in close to Whumpee, trying to wrap their body around Whumpee despite all of the medical machinery. “Don’t be love. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Whumptober Day 1: Drugging / Truth Serum.

Canon divergence. After capturing Tommy and killing Tubbo when they tried to kill him in the prison, Dream forces Tommy to take some special potions to learn the truth behind the attempt. Warnings for referenced torture and mutilation, eye injury, restraints, drugging, manipulation, self-hatred, victim blaming, and dehumanisation.

ao3 if you prefer

— Tommy winced in pain as Punz kicked him in the stomach again, too tired to even scream anymore. The chains holding him in place kept him from crumpling to the ground, leaving him awkwardly kneeling while his arms strained. They’d already been long forced out of their socket from when Dream had beat him to death, so at least it didn’t hurt any more than usual, but it was exhausting.

Through a half-lidded eye, Tommy couldn’t help but focus on the blood staining Punz’s hoodie a deep red, the chunks of horn and fur still stuck to it. All that was left of Tubbo. He was far too dazed to process that thought- that Tubbo was truly gone, that he’d never see him again. It just felt like a bad dream, like he’d wake up in the bunker tomorrow and message him, and he’d send back a picture of Micheal trying to eat snow or something.

That’s what would have happened, had Tommy not screwed it up.

“Prime, Punz, you’ll kill him; calm down. We need him alive for questioning, dumbass.” Dream’s voice felt like nails on a chalkboard, and Tommy would have flinched if he had the energy. “Besides, I thought we agreed Tommy was mine. Go experiment on the other one, if you can’t keep your anger in line.”

“He killed you!” Punz’s protests sounded more like a child whining than someone actually concerned and angry. If he were more cognisant, Tommy might have been disturbed by how plainly that showed the differences in how the two of them viewed death from everyone else- like a toy cruelly ripped from their hands, not an agonising and permanent inevitability. Instead, all he could think was that he just wanted everyone to be quiet.

“Punz.”

Punz let out an exaggerated sigh before turning away, deliberately smacking Tommy in the face with a swish of his heavy tail as he walked off. The impact against his eye socket sent so much pain through his face that he couldn’t help but gag, even as exhausted as he was. The feeling of the axe tearing out his eye was impossibly agonising, but it hurt worse to have anything so much as brush the empty wound left.

He whined in pain as a gentle hand pulled him up by his chin, forcing him to look up. Everything blurred in Tommy’s mind, leaving only a blur of green and white broken up by the same red as Punz was. “Shh, shh. They’re gone now. It’s just you and me, Tommy. Just Dream and Tommy, like old times.”

The words didn’t really process through Tommy’s head, but he still let out an involuntary shudder. Dream laughed, the sound like another blow to the head.

“You thirsty? I got a drink if you need one.” The clink of a glass bottle taunted Tommy, and he was suddenly aware of how painfully dry his throat was. He nodded his head desperately and, finding himself unable to speak, mouthed the word please weakly.

The smell of magic, sickly sweet yet with the faintest hint of burning flesh, invaded the air as the cap popped out of the bottle, and of course it was a potion. Even in his dazed state, Tommy wasn’t even surprised, just resigned. What did surprise him, as the bottle was gently brought to his lips and he weakly took tiny sips, the insides of his mouth too torn up by his braces for much more, was that he didn’t recognise the taste.

It depended on how a potion was brewed, of course, but even with someone like Wil, who sweetened the shit outta everything, you could detect it behind the flavouring. Healing potions, for example, tasted remarkably like strawberries- Tommy wasn’t sure why, you didn’t use strawberries to make them, but they did- while invisibility potions tasted like cinnamon, and the T Tommy took tasted terribly bitter.

This potion, plain with no efforts to hide its effects, tasted metallic, like the blood on your tongue after a deserved beating, yet it also had a faint spiciness to it. Tommy wasn’t a picky eater- he’d survived mostly on raw meat and dubiously safe berries before Wilbur had taken him in- but the taste was still intense, if not entirely unpleasant. Still, he was so thirsty he could think of nothing but gulping it down as quickly as possible.

Dream ruffled Tommy’s hair as he drank, in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. “See, look. I’m not so bad, am I? Sorry about Punz, he just gets… protective, y’know?” He laughed softly, the sound slightly less piercing. “Now, this, I worked hard on. It’ll dull the pain of, y’know, all that, and… well, I’ll let it be a surprise, actually! That’s fun.” Finally, he moved the bottle from Tommy’s mouth, far before his thirst could be adequately quenched. “Don’t you love surprises, Tommy?”

“No,” Tommy whispered, the words forcing themselves through his throat. They came out dry and scratchy, hurting even at the quietest of tones.

“Oh, it works!” There was a childish glee in Dream’s tone, and Tommy felt a pit settle in his stomach at what that meant. Dream getting excited seemed to always involve horrible things happening. “Okay, so what this does is that it makes it so you can’t lie, and you can’t stay quiet to hide the truth either. I hate that I can’t trust you, Tommy, but trust has to be earned, okay?”

Tommy gave a blank stare, and Dream wheezed in laughter. “Yeah, yeah, probably too much for you right now. Let’s keep it simple, ‘kay? Can you tell me why the fuck you came into my house and tried to murder me?”

Tommy flinched at the slight hiss in Dream’s tone, preparing for a blow that didn’t come, as the explanation forced its way out. “I- I didn’t want to kill you, it’s just- you- you were gonna torture me forever, ‘cause you hate me, you told me yourself. So I had to- to do something first.”

“Oh, Tommy.” Dream sounded weirdly sad, and Tommy couldn’t comprehend why. “I promise, I don’t hate you. I mean, I stayed when Wilbur didn’t, right? I could be your new big brother! Do you like that idea, Tommy?”

“I don’t wanna be alone,” Tommy said pitifully, and he hated himself for it. No, he didn’t want to spend a single fucking second more in Dream’s presence! Dream had to be lying about the whole truth thing, because the idea that- that he could ever answer anything but fuck no was a lie. “I’d- I’d do that, if it meant I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

“See, look? You could have just told me that when Wilbur left, and then Tubbo wouldn’t have had to have died. Do you think that’s your fault, Tommy?”

“I’m not the one who cut his fuckin’ head off.”

“But do you think he’d have died if you didn’t barge in here because you thought I hated you?” There was no venom in the tone, just a sickly sweet kindness, yet it brought tears to Tommy’s eyes. He knew that tone. It was worse than any vicious insult tearing him down could be.

He took a hiccuping breath, unable to stop himself from shaking his head. He made a strangled sound as he bit his tongue, muffling the no his mouth was already forming. He- it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. This was a trick. Yeah. It had to be.

“Aww, don’t sulk, Tommy. I’ll let you have play dates if you’re good. I mean, I’ll certainly need a new subject to figure out immortality with, and that’s a fitting punishment for him, don’t you think?” Dream laughed, a mix of cruelty and childish innocence mixing into a static mess that hurt Tommy’s head. A drink had helped him be a bit less dazed, but he still felt like he was pushing through a wall made of jelly just to think.

“I- no. No, Tubbo- I dragged him into this. I deserve the punishment.” I deserve it. Tommy remembered that thought rushing through his head in Exile. Maybe… maybe it was true. It seemed easier, at least, to believe it. “I’ll take it. Just- just leave Tubbo-“

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was a low growl, and it stopped Tommy in his tracks, air suddenly feeling so heavy he had to hyperventilate to get a single breath. “You both deserve punishment, I think. And that’s the worst punishment I can think of for you. Making you watch as Tubbo suffers the consequences of your actions. Maybe you’ll know better than to fight the truth.”

Was that what he was doing? Fighting the truth? Tommy’s head hurt at the thought. He thought- he thought he hated Dream, he thought Dream hated him. It was fucking confusing. Had he just been lying to himself all along? Was this… was this his fault?

He let out a small sob. “Please. ‘m sorry, Dream.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for anymore. Something fuzzy like television static had raced its way through his body, replacing agony with pins and needles in both his injuries and his head. “I’ll be good, promise.”

A gentle hand ran through his curls, and Tommy tried to focus on the soft touch and not the fear bubbling in his mind, the tingling in his fingers, the claws getting caught in his hair and tugging out strands. “I know, I know. Like in Exile, right? Did you miss that, Tommy? Did you miss me?”

“Mhm.” He nodded faintly, his eye half-shut as sleep felt more and more tempting. “I- I don’t- I don’t miss when you’d hit me, or make me cry and shit, but it made fuckin’ sense, y’know? It made sense, and- and I knew what I was meant to do. I knew what I was.”

“And what was that, do you think?” Dream sounded more curious than demanding.

“A- a puppet. A pet. A plaything.” Tommy felt sick saying it. Even exhausted, it sounded wrong, it sounded awful. Oh, he knew Dream saw him like that; he wasn’t stupid. But he- he wasn’t fucking okay with that. “And you- you were my owner. And it fuckin’ sucked. But it- it was so much easier than everything being all change-y. Even when it’s the good change.”

Dream hummed, sounding somewhat pleased with that answer. “That’s interesting. I’ve always wanted to know how you really saw me, y’know? I’m definitely gonna use that potion more. This is going to make fixing you so much easier.”

Tommy furrowed his brows. “Wha-“

“Ssh, shh. It’s okay now. You don’t need to try and speak any longer.” Dream reached up, releasing his wrist from the manacle with a loud snapping sound that made Tommy’s head feel like it was being hit by a sledgehammer, swiftly doing so on the other side. Without being held up, Tommy collapsed fully onto the floor, his face getting stained in his own blood. He tried to lift himself up fruitlessly but couldn’t even move his arms. “You’ve got a long eternity when you wake up, after all.”

The last thing Tommy heard before the static in his head finally lulled him into a dreamless sleep was laughter, both comfortingly familiar and chillingly a promise of worse to come.