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flail | they/them | writing and whump | 18+ | An adult runs this blog

[flailingfrog]

Masterlists

Nikole and Kit/Fissuring

After her mother dies, Nikole expects to get everything. And... she does. Kind of. On the condition she take care of her mother's boxbabe, Kit, for the rest of her life. The only problem is Nikole has hated Kit for the last 20 years and isn't about to stop now.

Beauveria bassiana

When you were damaged during training, it could've been the end of things, but luckily for you, you were placed on Clearance and you new owner's a bleeding heart... except maybe she doesn't have much as much patience for your needs as she likes to pretend.

Inhospitable

TBA

[flailingfrog]

The 24 hour novel challenge is this weekend and I think I'm going to go for it, though I'm going to be adapting it a bit (I don't write on Saturdays and don't have enough time to dawdle at it in 3 days, so I'm spreading it over 4 starting Sunday.) I have no idea what I'm writing yet, but I plan on figuring it out today!

Is anyone else thinking about or planning to participate?

[nikolai-infierno-deactivated202]

TELL ME A CURIOSITY ABOUT YOURSELF. NOTHING DISTURBING OR GLOOMY. SOMETHING SILLY LIKE YOU HAVE BRACES OR YOU HAVE A TATTOO OF YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER

I have a lot of bridge in my feet, I walk silly and I'm not a good athlete for that lol

And tag your mutuals!

@agoodpretender, @angiem03, @tiberious-possum, @fukitche

[justlikeotherchemists]

Thanks to @stars-hide-our-fires for the tag!

My fun fact: When I was in first grade, me and my classmates roleplayed as prominent Ukrainian politicians.

Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @meaculpameahugeculpa @bitowhump + open tag

[meaculpameahugeculpa]

Thank you, @justlikeotherchemists, for the tag!

(Also, can I tell you something? Based! When I was seven or eight years old I used to say that my ideal job was Prime Minister, haha!)

I can't pronounce the letter L clearly: it sounds very guttural, almost like a muffled G.

Tagging: @yet-how-they-creep @gods-mistaken-existence and everybody who wants to join!

[yet-how-they-creep]

Thank you! This is a fun one:

My mom calls me Chip, my dad Chili, but neither of these have anything to do with my birth name or even each other, I guess I just have a face that matches the C-H-I letter combo?

and hey @flailingfrog and @worldofwhumpcraft you're up (no pressure)

[flailingfrog]

Thank you for the tag!

I played Wolf Pack at school until I was 14, at which time I switched over to Infection, one of those tag games where every person who's tagged is additionally it, which sometimes ended up with more lore than you'd expected. I don't know if I was actually good at running back then or just very good at moving in ways that were, frankly, brazen.

I'll be honest, I still frequently want to play Infection, even if I know my knees would no longer enjoy it!

@for-the-love-of-angst I thought I'd kick it over to you :)

[yet-how-they-creep]

Smoke and Mirrors

me? updating this story? what?

Finn goes by he/they

masterlist

CW: angst, pet whump, parental death mention, smoking, relapse, memory loss, somewhat conditioned whumpee, body image issues, dehumanisation

It was a strange night. Xavier seemed to be entirely lost in thought. The camera and the various lighting setups had stayed back in the trunk, and they both sat atop the hood of the car.

Finn with their legs pulled close to their chest, an attempt to stabilise themself, though the hood was almost perfectly horizontal and rather flat, the metal under him still felt slippery. He didn't want to fall off it.

It was exhilarating to watch the night sky from there. The engine was still slightly warm under them, and it was a blessing in the cold evening breeze. They wore a pair of comfortable black trousers and one of Xavier's shirts. They weren't filming, he wasn't trying to train them to do anything, they just sat there in silence.

Xavier leaned back, resting his back and head on the windshield. He pat the safety glass next to himself for Finn to join, but they shook their head. They were painfully aware of just how much space they took up, even though it wasn't much more than the other.

Finn had chubby thighs and pudgy hips and stomach. They stood slightly shorter than Xavier did, only by an inch or so, they still perceived him as taller. He was stronger than them by a considerable amount, even though he didn't have much obvious musculature to show for it. His arms and legs were evenly toned, he worked for it, but mostly as a hobby made possible by his generous income.

They might just have been weak by comparison. Finn had always hated it, he thought. The gym just wasn't for them, even though Xavier dragged him along a couple of times, and the threat of filming a video there loomed over them every time he headed out there.

They didn't remember a single moment before they woke up on his couch, but they couldn't conjure up a reality where they ever enjoyed working out.

They wondered if there ever was a time before Xavier. Looking up at the sky, it was sort of familiar, they knew there would be stars and that they'd be far away, shining like someone threw glitter all over the place, but this felt like the first time they really saw it. He had no recollection of ever being outside in the night, far away from the city lights, that made it impossible to make out the bright little dots on the sky.

Xavier played with the end of his leash absentmindedly. He twirled it around his fingers, rolling it around and then letting it unfold, just to do it again and again.

Finn had to tear his gaze away from the mesmerising vastness of space after a particularly strong tug around his neck. He didn't seem to notice them watching, he was lost in his own head.

His eyes didn't look so unnaturally bright and icy in the dark, they looked quite normal. They were sure if they leaned closer they would see the reflection of the sky in them. He looked something akin to an average guy.

Finn didn't feel that visceral cold that would never leave their chest in his presence, now it was only the warmth of the engine surrounding them and the ever present, but small movements of the leather around their neck. Xavier's body just happened to be next to them.

They trained their gaze back to the sky. There had to be constellations somewhere in the chaotic sprinkle of lights, he knew that for sure. He didn't know any, but was sure they were there. They contemplated asking Xavier, if he would show them. Finn found that being able to recognise some would bring them a step closer to placing that distant familiarity somewhere in his brain where it was safe. Replace it with this memory.

Before they could take a breath to ask, Xavier cleared his throat and spoke first.

"My dad used to bring me out here when I was a kid" He stopped fidgeting with the leash. His voice was sort of raspy, with an emotion Finn couldn't place. He never talked about his family, and they were glad. They could pretend they were similar in that fashion, and that they both shared that ache of missing a part of themselves, not even able to bring it up. Of course he had a family, and of course he remembered them. Finn was the one, whose entire world was Xavier, their earliest memory, their owner, the substance that was supposed to fill the aching holes in their being, where their past had been ripped out of them. "He died two years ago today" he continued.

"I'm sorry, sir" Finn muttered. They didn't know if they should add anything at all. It was strange and uncomfortable to hear whatever he had to say.

"I used to think, I'd never be able to come back here" he said and finally looked at Finn.

"Why are we here then?" He thought he was brave for asking that so openly, but didn't dare look back at the other. They held their gaze on a particularly bright star above the treeline ahead of them. They heard fabric rustle and something heavy squeaking across the glass, as Xavier shrugged and sat up.

"Because now I have you, pup" he reached up and ruffled their hair in a way that he surely meant to be affectionate. His voice was warm and deep, and while he didn't look back at him, he was sure for once that his entire being wouldn't be in screaming contrast with it.

Xavier's fingers twisted in their curls slightly pulling on them and his fingertips rubbed on their scalp wrong, they wished he had taught them how to enjoy the touch. Finn realised the cold was back, but a milder version of it, sure, but it was back. "I don't think I'd be able to be here all alone" They hummed, uncertain if they should agree or disagree, it was a sound of acknowledgement.

This time they noticed Xavier move, they turned and looked. He patted down his pockets on his jeans. His hands shook slightly, as if he was unsure of what to do next. He found what he was looking for and pulled a palm sized rectangular object out. Finn couldn't see what was written on it in the dark, but he popped the lid open with practiced ease, the shake of his hands easing a bit and he pulled out a lighter and two cigarettes. There were only a few more left in the box.

"Here" he held one out for Finn, and a reflex they didn't know about bubbled up, hidden deep in their brain.

"No, thank you, I quit" they wanted to say, lifting their hands defensively, holding it between their body and the cigarettes.

That wasn't them anymore, they didn't think so at least. They had one purpose and one purpose only, and it was to obey Xavier. So they accepted it without a word and lifted it to their mouth.

They knew just where to place it between their lips and how to hold it between their fingers. They have never done this before, not that they could remember at least and it came as naturally as breathing.

"Ever smoke before, puppy?" Xavier asked, as he leaned in close, holding the small flame of the lighter for them. They just shrugged. They probably have, as all signs pointed to that. His voice should have sounded shrill, like icebergs colliding into each other, with the intent behind the question. He knew they couldn't remember and it was entertaining to poke at them for it.

Finn took a lungful of the smoke and blew it out slowly. For a moment or two he looked at the grey cloud, he just created astounded, even in such darkness he saw it wave and twirl around itself before it completely disappeared.

The bitter taste that coated their mouth processed just a second late. It seeped into every cell of their tongue, it pressed down on it like the muzzle Xavier had them wear sometimes.

They looked up at the sky again, and gasped. It looked a million times more vast and unfathomable. There were sparks of colour mostly yellows in some of the stars they didn't notice before, but were all they could think of now. The clearing they parked in looked less dark, the trees in the forest more pronounced. Things he had seen just a moment ago came into focus one after another.

The cold in his chest dissipated. The engine has cooled down almost completely, it was only their bodies' heat that still kept the metal a comfortable temperature, but it was perfect.

"Thank you, sir" The words fell quicker from their mouth than they could put a stop to them.

"What for?" Xavier laughed and took a deep drag of his own cigarette and laid back down on the windshield. With his other hand he still held onto the leash.

Finn didn't want to say the cigarette, but that was just it, right? They just lifted it, as a halfhearted answer to his question and took another deep breath through it that was followed by another wave of perfect tranquility.

"Don't mention it" Xavier was a living human being with the same aching hole in his heart where a family should be. They had never felt closer to him than in that moment.

He tentatively scooted up and leaned back on the windshield. It could break under both their weight for all he cared. Xavier beckoned him to lie down there a couple minutes earlier, so if he's okay with the possibility, Finn was too. Still, he was careful to shift his body in a way that it was mostly supported by the hood of the car.

Xavier watched as they found a comfortable position and he smiled. A normal smile that reached his eyes, not one of cruelty or for others, he looked content, loving even, too bad those small details were tucked away from sight in the darkness.

[flailingfrog]

I just wanted to check whumpblr knew about Good Boy AKA Heel (2025), not to be confused with Good Boy (2025) the movie about a haunted house from a dog's POV. Very whumpy, especially if you're into petwhump and kidnapping and such (at least, imo) and very worth a watch. I'd check doesthedogdie first though.

[flowersarefreetherapy]

A Silent Riot

(Title inspired by Sean Forbes, an incredible Deaf artist)

Posted from this poll

CW: BBU, dehumanization, ableism, Deaf whumpee, Deaf whumper

258 hums. Vibrations rumble deep in his chest and his throat, outweighing the vibrations in the walls from the air conditioning. Cold air brushes over his skin. Nausea twists involuntarily in his chest. The air means the door and he forces his stiff neck to raise his heavy head.

His handler stands there, arms crossed. 258 swallows hard, forcing his humming to stop. For some reason it bothers the handlers. His pinkie finger is still crooked from when he learned that lesson. The fresh polish on his handler’s body armor is enough of a warning. He’s never seen the shiny plates free of scratches and blood before.

She walks over and unclips his cuffs from the wall. 258 falls forward before he can catch himself. The expected blow to his stomach still stings. He swallows back the yell he knows they hate so much and instead breathes sharply through his nose. One deep breath then another, only to have the cold air cut off by leather cupping around his chin, the edges of the muzzle digging into the soft underside of his jaw and the bottom of his nose.

Right. As if I’m going to try that again. I like my jaw intact, thank you very much.

They pass the hall to the showers. Then the hall to the cafeteria which he was just allowed to enter. Sterile white light gives way to warm yellow bulbs. 258 pauses when he realizes the tile under him is no longer white. Instead it is a soft grey.

Where are we? What is going on?

His head snaps to the side. Pain blossoms across his face. A quick glance at his handler’s face shows a glare and her finger pointed as his throat.

Oh.

He glares, but the humming stops.

Fine. I’ll play the game. As long as I’m warm, I don’t care.

His handler stops outside of a wooden door. The air is warm now, melting away the chill in his bones. When he meets her gaze, she points to his throat and shakes her head. He rolls his eyes, but obeys. This is not normal. There is something different. The polished armor, the different location, the fear he sees across his handler’s face, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

She opens the door, 258 following close behind.

The room is small, warm, with three people standing in the middle. One of them wears a black jacket, three silver letters embroidered on the chest. 258 shudders at the sight and looks away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Next to him stands a shorter man, staring into space with a practiced neutral expression. Far too neutral to be natural. 258’s stomach churns, but marks him as not a threat.

The last person smiles when he walks in. A tall man, with swept back brown hair and deep lines across his forehead. He wears a dark red jacket and tan pants, with a watch on his wrist that reflects the warm light around the room. Everything about him screams control and the floor drops out from under 258. He drops his gaze to the ground, fighting to breathe past the muzzle.

A sharp tap on the side of his head, nail digging into his skin. 258’s head snaps up instinctively. He meets the man’s gaze again and for a moment, fear freezes him, only to melt away a second later as the man’s hands move.

Oh.

Oh.

Relief washes over him in a cool wave. The man signs in a fluid manner he hasn’t seen in so long. The handlers and other trainees don’t. His handler only knows how to tell him no and stop. It’s been too long and he blinks hard against a sudden burning in his eyes. It takes a moment for him to catch on to the conversation, but once he does, the relief turns once again to fear.

“Yes, he is exactly what I’m looking for. Online it says that he has been trained in protection, what exactly does that entail?”

258’s gaze darts around the room, looking for who would answer. His handler starts to speak and he stares hard at her lips, trying to glean whatever information he can from it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement. The shorter man signs as well, facing the man who asked, his gaze no longer distant but focused.

Interpreter.

Pain lances through his skull and down his spine after the thought. 258 subtle shakes his head, trying to clear away the sensation of ice picks digging into his skull.

“Tell him that 258 has been trained in several different martial arts, including elements from Krav maga and lethwei. He is also familiar with disarming opponents wielding the most common guns and other weapons. However, his most prominent skill is his eyesight and peripheral vision. 258 has 20/20 vision and is able to spot targets and danger before the other trainees.”

“Please, talk directly to me. I can assure you that” —258 frowns, not recognizing the name— “is far from important.”

“Oh, of course, my apologies. Um, yes, that has been 258’s training. If you access your customer account online, you will see all his training listed, along with additional courses he has taken. It will also be included in the information packet as well.”

258 shudders. It would be nice if the air was a little cooler, just to distract him from the panic knotting tightly in his chest. Another deep breath, feeling the way his lungs expand. He swallows back the urge to hum.

“Thank you.” The man turns to him, smile warm, but eyes as cold as the room he spent each horrid night in. 258 shrinks back, stopping when his handler grabs his arm, nails digging into his skin. “He appears to be quite docile. Why is he muzzled?”

258 swallows back the urge to bare his teeth. If he had the chance, and his handler wasn’t standing directly beside him, he would snap at the air. Nothing dangerous, no actual violence, just enough to show he’s a threat. All his skills listed for him to be reduced to nothing more than the leather and metal biting into his skin.

A glance out the corner of his eyes shows his handler’s answer flying off the hands of the interpreter.

It would be nice if he moved.

No! Stupid, stupid, stupid, you don’t have wants. You do what you’re told. That’s it. Just what you’re told.

The conversation seems to be winding down. 258 drops his gaze to the ground, the collar and muzzle weighing on his strained neck. If his handler wasn’t there, he would have rolled his shoulders and try to work out the knots in his back. Instead, he keeps every muscle locked, his spine perfectly straight, his breathing slow and even.

Despite everything, a bubble of hope wells in his chest.

Not only would he be fulfilling his role as he was made to, but also in a language he could communicate in. No longer would there be beatings from the handlers for not understanding their commands, or the flashing lights kept on at all hours till his head threatens to split from the pain.

258 will have a job. He will have an owner. He will have a home.

A tap on his shoulder.

258’s head snaps up.

His handler and the man shake hands. 258 catches the word “paperwork” before slipping his gaze away from the conversation.

The interpreter glances once at him, then quickly looks away.

The man turns to him. “I will see you later.”

258 dips his head in acknowledgeable.

As his handler leads him back to his cell, he takes solace in the fact that soon, this will not longer be his home.

[wildfaewhump]

Prev | Next

There's some kind of nature documentary on the tv. The narrator's soothing voice drones over swelling orchestrals that tug at ghosts buried under white walls and white light. Lourdes, hazy in Geoff's arms, wishes he'd given them more of whatever he'd put under their tongue. They're hovering on the edge of present, floating in the ebb and pull between focus and lassitude, and in the shadows things they shouldn't know whisper their pleas for release.

Geoff's fingers trace idly up and down their skin, a trail of warmth they can't find the willpower to chase.

"Unaware of the danger lurking in the thicket, the deer steps into the meadow."

On the screen, they watch as the camera pans between the deer, all delicate, glass-thin legs and tapered elegance, and the coiled, spring-wound musculature of the leopard lying in wait.

"Look at that focus," Geoff murmurs. His lips move against their ear, sending rippling shivers down the length of their body. Did he turn the air down? They're cold, suddenly.

"The way it's watching the deer," he continues. Underneath him, weaving in and out of his words, the documentary narration flows forwards, inexorable.

"A few more steps, and the hunter knows its prey will have crossed an invisible line: the safety of the trees will be too far behind it to reach."

"That kind of focus, where nothing else matters, where every inch of it is tuned to the thing it wants. It loves the deer, you know?"

A wave of sensation crests across them. Lourdes doesn't know what it is. A come-down from the drug, maybe. It feels too much like fear to be anything else. They shift a knee up and over Geoff's leg, clumsily turning over to nestle into his side.

"Don' feelgood," they pronounce, careful attention barely enough to slur the words out.

"Shh." He tucks the hair fallen across their face back behind their ear. A finger lifts their chin, twisting their neck until the tv takes up their vision. "Watch."

On the screen, the leopard's haunches bunch. The tip of its tail twitches. Strings scrape a jagged, sawed rhythm across Lourdes' ears.

Cellos.

They shouldn't know this. Lourdes shoves it down.

The deer looks up. Its velvet nostrils flare, scenting against wind that will not carry the predator's scent, as the narrator confirms in hushed tones. Why can't it see the leopard, Lourdes wonders, watching the cat's blurred outline through the grass. Why doesn't it run?

"Here it comes," Geoff whispers.

Cellos break on a pounding crash of timpanis. The leopard springs. Geoff's fingers grip suddenly, squeezing Lourdes' shoulder until bone shifts. The camera jolts to the deer, and under its bounding, panicked flight violins scream.

Motion blurs too fast for their compromised faculties to follow, but Lourdes feels the electric tension tightening Geoff's body against theirs. They turn their head into his chest, nauseously seeking stillness and the refuge of closed eyes, but he grips their chin and yanks their face around again. This time he doesn't let go.

"Watch," he insists.

The violins are still screaming. The extreme upper edge of their register frays the boundaries of what should and shouldn't be, and Lourdes sees a music stand. A splatter of blood across dun and dark fur. The scrolled tip of an instrument, nodding back and forth in wild abandon. Teeth, white drowning in red. Their face hurts. Someone is sobbing.

"Look at it," he says, low and fierce in their ear, a bass counterpoint gracelessly off beat to the violins as they cry terror for the deer's dying struggle. "It wasn't thinking about anything else in that moment. The deer was everything. That's how you get what you want. You have to love it to the exclusion of everything else."

The deer twitches. Its head drops, sightless dark eyes staring offscreen. The violins' screeling fades, dying into a soft lament only the leopard hears.

Their breathing is thick with tears and the aftertaste of mucus. Everything spins except Geoff's touch and the center of the screen. Lourdes searches for their body and finds their hands wrapped around Geoff's wrist, nails dug into a rictus grip that never stirred him from his purpose. Carefully, one by one, they grope for the control to loosen each digit.

The deer gave everything it was to its last hopeless flight, but Lourdes can't claim the same innocent right. They signed up for this.

[wildfaewhump]

I've had a draft for a short companion piece to this sitting in my notes for a while, and today some conversation with @justplainwhump inspired me to finish it :)

There's a nature documentary on the tv. Peyton tips his head back and exhales a thin stream of smoke before passing the joint over.

"Watch, watch-" Geoff elbows him, breaking off to take a quick drag before resuming, voice distorted around the effort of holding in the smoke. "The leopard's gonna-"

Peyton shoves his elbow aside and sneaks his own jab in, breaking Geoff's hold on the smoke and sending him into a coughing fit. He pounces while Geoff is distracted, clambering over him to snatch back the joint.

"Is he gonna kill it?" he needles. "No spoilers!"

"Asshole!" but Geoff doesn't shove particularly hard, letting Peyton subside back to lean on him instead. "Fuck, you made us miss it." he reaches for the remote and scrolls backwards until the killing leap plays again.

Peyton offers the joint back and squirms until he's lying down, head across Geoff's lap. "Hunting kinda seems tame compared to that," he muses. "Just- bam! And the stupid thing's dead."

"Nobody does anything with their hands any more," Geoff complains. "What about getting in there and just ripping something apart?"

"Right? Fucking boring, otherwise."

In between Geoff's legs, his pet stirs, waking with a groggy, raspy whine of fear. Peyton turns his head, watching until dark eyes, hazy and unfocused, find him inches from his own. Peyton watches the Lourdes' flinch, a delayed ripple across his face and down through the dark rings of bruises blooming around his collar, and into his shoulders like a wave receding from the beach.

"He's so slow," Geoff says above him, watching with avid, predatory hunger. "Look, he can't even move."

The pet's wheeze is pronounced. Something pinched last night, or twisted, or popped, and his breathing hasn't been the same since. Peyton remembers the way he spasmed around Geoff, throat squeezed mercilessly between his owner's hand from the outside and cock from the inside. He sighs, burying the faint twinge of discomfort. It's what they're for, and it's not like he didn't make sure the pet orgasmed too. He flops a hand up from his side to pet the dark hair, grown out a few months from the cut Geoff had preferred for this one. That's always a sign they're getting close, when Geoff stops obsessing over keeping them looking perfect for hanging on his arm at parties.

The Lourdes leans into the touch, lips parted slightly. His skin is clammy against Peyton's palm, his kiss weak. Peyton pulls his hand away, mildly disgusted. The poor thing feels dead already.

Geoff pokes him in the shoulder. "Move. I wanna get up."

Peyton grumbles but props up on his elbows long enough for Geoff to slide out from under him. The surrender of the joint to his custody placates him, and he flops back onto the couch to watch Geoff settle languidly onto the floor, pulling the Lourdes to sit leaning back against his chest as he does. He reaches for the remote.

"Not again, come on," Peyton complains. "We've seen it like ten times already, isn't there another bit you like?"

"I like this one," Geoff returns mildly. He wraps the Lourdes in his arms, one powerful bicep flexing around his chest while the other hand closes around his throat. The pet whimpers faintly, but then Geoff begins to squeeze and he goes quiet.

On the screen, the leopard crouches in the grass, watching some deer. Peyton's seen it so many times by now he can time the exact moment the cat springs.

Geoff's grip tightens around the pet. His eyes are fixed on the screen, body tense around the life in his arms as it starts to twitch, the reflexive struggle dulled by uncounted rounds of choking and passing out over the past day and night.

Peyton takes a long drag. It's getting boring by now. He surrenders to the comfortable floating sensation, listening to the music play out the deer's last moments.

On the floor, Geoff sighs. Peyton turns his head in time to see him shift his fingers to the pet's pulse. Dark eyes stare sightlessly at Peyton as the pet's head flops back over Geoff's shoulder.

"You good?" Peyton asks carefully.

Geoff cradles the pet close. After a long moment, he turns off the tv, then looks up at Peyton and smiles. The set of his shoulders has relaxed as if a weight has been lifted from him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

[whumpologyy]

"I love you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

[sootheandsavage]

The Whumper tilts their head, studying you like they don't understand why you struggle, why you fight against them.

"I love you," they say, smiling. "Don't you know that?"

You flinch. They notice, and slowly walk closer.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

This time the words come slower. Almost thoughtful. They reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Then their fingers stay there. Press just hard enough that you feel the pad of their thumb against your pulse.

"Nothing," they repeat, quieter. "You get that, right? Nothing."

You swallow hard, and stay still. They're too close, and there's no telling what they might decide to do next.

They smile. Small. Patient.

"I could leave you in the dark for three days straight, because that's how I show love. I could take your food away until your ribs show - because I care. I could break every finger one by one and kiss each one after and still mean it when I say I'd do anything for you."

Their hand slides down to cup your jaw. Not tight. Just holding your face so you have to look at them.

"You're shaking again. Cute."

They lean in until their mouth is next to your ear.

"I'll keep you alive for years like this. Starving. Freezing. Bleeding. Crying. Whatever it takes. Because I love you." A pause. "And because you need to understand you're mine."

They pull back just enough to meet your eyes. You want to scream, to bite, to defend yourself any way you can, but the muzzle on your face prevents you from making a single sound.

"So go ahead. Scratch. Try to run. Bite me if you think it'll help." Their thumb strokes your cheek once. "I'll still be here tomorrow. Feeding you. Putting a blanket over you when you pass out. Telling you I love you while I do it."

They let go. Step back, with a nod, their hands in their pockets.

"See? Nothing I wouldn't do."

Then they turn toward the door.

After they leave, their parting words linger in your head: "Get some rest, sweetheart. Tomorrow's gonna be long.

[for-the-love-of-angst]

MASTERPOST

In a cosmos governed by hierarchy, obedience, and binding contracts, mercy is considered a weakness—until someone proves otherwise.

Rook was once an angel who believed in the system. Daveed is an incubus who understands empathy well enough to survive it.

This is a story about chosen family, generational trauma, and the quiet terror of a universe discovering that freedom—real freedom—might actually endure.

Not a war story. A boundary. And the irreversible consequences of crossing it.

Content Warning: Posted on every chapter

Taglist: @oddsconvert @flowersarefreetherapy @imgoingtobiteyounow @angelwings-onfire @yet-another-heathen

Part 1:

Daveed Anastas - Meet Cute

Discordant Souls - Meet Cute Continues

Rook Rivera - Meet Cute Continues

Developing Relationship - Slow Moments of Learning Each Other

Friends and Family - 1 - Meet the Family

Daveed's Job - Ethical Feeding

Grocery Shopping - Domesticity

Rook's Job - Guardian Angel Rook

First Summons - Rook - Rook Gets Called To The Principals Office

Rook Keeps Choosing - Heaven Scolds Rook

Aftermath of Summons - Daveed Comforts Rook

Rook Keeps Choosing Daveed - What it Says on the Tin

Anchoring, Grounding - Comforting Each Other

Second Summons - Daveed - Daveed is Dragged to Hell

Hell -

Lower Hell

Daveed Returns from Hell

Overload

Tyell

Daveed Wakes

Daveed Doesn't Cry Loudly

Going to the Chapel

The Honeymoon Phase

We Make Plans, Heaven Laughs

Part 2:

Oh Baby, Baby

Oh What's in a Name?

Daveed is the Most Girl Dad

Family Picnic

Third Summons - Rook

Judgement

Daveed Reacts

More Torture for Rook

Amarah's First Birthday

Rook Loses Consciousness

The Search

Finding and Found

Rescue

Fallen

Part 3:

Recovery - 1

Recovery - 2

Recovery - 3

Recovery - 4

Recovery - 5

Coming Home

Empathy Spiral - Daveed

Friends and Family - 2

Daveed Goes Back to Work

When Angels Attack

Staras Clinic

Still Unconscious

Daveed Wakes Up

Family Reunited

Friends and Family - 3

The Contract - 2

The Contract - 3

Hells Summons - 2

Part 4:

The Sanctuary - 1

The Sanctuary - 2

The Sanctuary - 3

The Sanctuary - 4

The Sanctuary - 5

The Sanctuary - 6

The Sanctuary - 7

The Sanctuary - 8

The Sanctuary - 9

The Sanctuary - 10

Rook and Daveed Summon Heaven and Hell

The Sanctuary - 11

Epilogue

Things I Just Felt Like Writing:

First Day of Preschool

Rook's Guardian Training

What Led Rook to the City

MISC.

Face claims: Daveed, Rook, and Tyell

[honeyfaer]

"theyll hate you for this" "but theyll be alive" is THE juiciest thing to me

[honeyfaer]

i will ensure you stay alive above all else. even if what i do to make it happen is horrendous. even if it violates all your wishes or moral principles. even if you can never look at me the same way again, even if you hate me for it. because at least if you hate me it means youre alive

[whumpshaped]

"But I... I feel conscious. I feel. I'm sentient."

"Of course you feel. I made you to feel."

[for-the-love-of-angst]

CW: expect a whole lot of religious trauma and wing whump in the future, this is just the set up TAGLIST: @oddsconvert, @flowersarefreetherapy @cepheusgalaxy, @flailingfrog CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera

Daveed Anastas knows exactly when he has them. It’s the moment the man stops pretending he’s listening to the music. The bar hums low and intimate, bass vibrating through polished wood and worn leather, amber light catching on glass rims and the sheen of sweat along exposed throats. Conversations blur into a soft, meaningless murmur. It's background noise to the real exchange happening in this booth, in this narrow pocket of attention.

He leans back, easy, wings tucked tight beneath his jacket, posture loose in a way that reads harmless and inviting all at once. He takes up space without crowding it and allows the silence to stretch just long enough to be noticed. His smile curves slowly. Deliberately. It’s not sharp with hunger, not yet, and it isn't rushed.

It’s patient. Confident.

Empathy unfurls inside him like silk sliding off skin.

It’s immediate and intimate. Loneliness first, deep and old, worn smooth from being carried too long. Desire follows, tentative but persistent. Then the ache beneath it all—the need for closeness, for permission to stop holding everything together. It’s packed tight behind the man’s ribs, compressed by routine and restraint until it’s almost painful.

Daveed lets it wash over him, catalogues the layers, sharpens his focus until the man’s want rings clearer than the music, louder than the room. He filters out everything else—the bar, the other patrons, the messy spill of half-drunken lust nearby—until there is only this thread between them, humming and warm.

He lowers his voice, lets it slip into the space the man keeps leaving open.

“You’re holding yourself together so carefully,” he murmurs, gaze steady, intent, never quite leaving the man’s mouth. “Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

The words land precisely where they're meant to. They remain soft. 

The man swallows. His knee bumps Daveed’s beneath the table—an accident, clearly—but neither of them pulls away. The contact lingers charged and uncertain. Daveed feels the spike of self-consciousness, the flare of hope that follows it, and he answers without touching.

He lets a little warmth seep into his gaze. Just enough to be felt.

The desire flares in response, sudden and bright, curling low in the man’s body. Daveed feels it like a spark catching dry tinder. He leans in now, closing the distance inch by careful inch, until the man can feel his breath—warm, steady—and catch the faint, sweet-dangerous note beneath his cologne. Not overwhelming. Just there.

“I could make you forget that weight,” Daveed says softly. “Just for tonight.”

The words aren’t magic. They don’t need to be. They’re an invitation, not a command.

His fingers slide across the table, slow and deliberate, brushing the inside of the man’s wrist. It's barely a touch, more suggestion than contact. The instant skin meets skin, Daveed opens himself.

The feed blooms under his sternum like heat, spreading outward in a slow, pleasurable wave. The man exhales sharply, shoulders sagging as tension bleeds out of him, pleasure curling through his body in a low, steady pull. Not overwhelming. Not crude. Just relief—clean and honest.

Desire pours into Daveed in return, rich and heady, laced with gratitude and need. He draws it in with practiced ease, savoring the hum of it in his veins, the way it steadies him, fills the hollow places he never quite talks about. He keeps his grip careful, measured, making sure the man stays grounded, present, safe.

The man’s breath stutters. “God, what are you?”

Daveed smiles, close enough now that the question dissolves between them before it needs an answer.

“Not God. Someone who knows how to listen.”

He feeds until the edges smooth, until the desire settles into something warm and satisfied, until the man’s pulse slows and his shoulders drop completely. Only then does Daveed pull back and he does so gently, leaving warmth behind like an afterglow, a soft echo of connection instead of emptiness.

The man blinks, dazed, lips parted, eyes a little unfocused. “I feel… good.”

“You are,” Daveed replies, his voice velvet-soft again, the intimacy fading without snapping.

He stands, wings shifting subtly beneath his jacket, tail curling once behind him before stilling. He doesn’t give his name. He doesn’t ask for one. There are no promises and no expectations. There's only the clean memory of being held together for a moment.

Outside, the night air cools his skin as he steps away from the bar, the city’s emotional noise rushing back in waves. The hunger is quiet now, satisfied. 

He finds himself perched on the fire escape outside a third-floor bar, boots hooked through the rusted railing, metal biting faintly through the soles. The cigarette between his fingers remains unlit not because he likes the ritual of it. The weight. The pause. The way humans think it means something about restraint.

The night presses in thick and damp, heavy with summer heat and human ache. Sirens wail somewhere to the west, Doppler-blurred and distant. Below him, bass from the club thuds through brick and bone, a steady pulse that rattles the fire escape just enough to be felt. Desire leaks out of open windows like steam. It's sloppy, unfocused, and abundant. Loneliness coils around it, familiar and dull.

It’s easy feeding here. Too easy.

Daveed’s empath sense stays half-open by habit, a low hum of want and hunger and irritation brushing constantly against the inside of his skull. He skims it without thinking, pulling a little here, smoothing a little there, barely engaged. He’s almost bored.

Then, the noise clears.

It doesn’t vanish. His empathy never works like that. It never shuts off, never cleanly silenced the way some demons could manage. Instead, it clears, like someone flung open a window in a burning house and let the smoke pour out. Everything else drops back into distant static.

Alarms go off in his head.

Daveed stills, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, and looks down.

They’re standing on the sidewalk directly beneath him, turning in a slow, uncertain circle like they missed a turn somewhere important. Darkwash jeans. Black combat boots scuffed at the toes. A leather jacket thrown carelessly over their shoulders. Over their wings.

Badly.

The feathers are pulled tight, compressed in an awkward, painful attempt to pass as nothing more than a terrible fashion choice. It’s obvious to anyone who knows what to look for, and Daveed swears quietly under his breath. 

Ginger hair catches the streetlight as they move, copper-bright, shimmering when the lamp flickers because their grace presses against it, distorting the light just enough to be noticeable.

An angel. Here.

Lost, then. Or reckless. Or both.

Daveed frowns, unease curling low in his gut. Angels don’t wander into places like this by accident. Not intact ones, anyway. And if they are intact, they don't stay that way for long.

As if summoned by the thought, they tilt their head.

Their eyes track the fire escape with unnerving precision, landing on him as though he’s been highlighted. The moment their gaze locks on, something slams into Daveed’s chest. It's not lust or hunger.

It's interest.

Clean. Focused. Undiluted.

They smile like they’ve found something they didn’t know they were looking for.

“Well,” they say, voice carrying easily over traffic and music, clear and warm and unafraid, “you’re not subtle.”

Daveed snorts despite himself, tension cracking just enough to let amusement through. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

They step closer, craning their neck to look up at him. Curiosity spills off them in bright, careless waves, threaded with delight and something sharp-edged and reckless that makes Daveed’s incubus instincts stir. They don’t shield themselves at all. No barriers. No discipline.

Daveed feels everything.

Fatigue, worn deep and old. Defiance like a live wire. Longing - not sexual, not yet -but vast and aching, aimed at something they don’t quite have words for. It hits him hard enough that he has to brace a hand against the brick.

He’s not sure whether to shove the mess of emotions away or lean into them and drown.

They take his breath away.

“You’re a demon,” they say cheerfully, as if identifying a breed of dog.

“Incubus,” Daveed corrects automatically. “There’s a difference.”

And there is. He wishes people bothered to understand it.

“Of course there is,” they reply, unbothered. “And you’re an empath.”

He freezes.

“…Most people don’t see that,” he says carefully.

Their smile turns sly, eyes bright with interest rather than suspicion. “Most people don’t feel like a warm, judgy blanket when they look at me.”

Daveed laughs, startled and helpless. “I’m not - okay, maybe it is.”

They’re close enough now that his wings itch beneath his skin, glamour straining to keep them hidden. Their grace hums against his senses.not painful, not sanctified, not blinding. Just alive. Present. Human in a way the hosts of Heaven always hated.

“Are you lost?” Daveed asks quietly. “You shouldn’t be down here. City’s rough on your kind.”

They shrug, feathers shifting beneath the leather. “Heaven’s rough on mine.”

The words hit hard.

Their emotions flicker. There's defiance first, then exhaustion, then that bright, aching streak of longing again. Daveed feels it instinctively and, without thinking, lets calm roll back toward them. Just a touch. A gentle pressure, like hands on shoulders.

Their breath catches.

“Oh,” they say softly. “You do that on purpose.”

Daveed blinks. “Do what?”

“Make the world stop hurting,” they say, grinning. “Rude of you, honestly.”

Before he can stop himself, Daveed swings down from the fire escape. Boots hit pavement with a dull thud. Suddenly they’re eye to eye, streetlights painting gold into their gaze, close enough that the pull between them hums like a live wire.

“I’m Daveed Anastas,” he says, holding out his hand.

They take it without hesitation.

The contact snaps something into place. Emotion surges both ways, a bright, dangerous resonance that makes Daveed’s heart stutter and his empathy flare wide open.

“Rook Rivera,” they reply. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” he echoes.

Rook’s smile turns knowing, intimate. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?”

[salomeslashes]

No, sweetheart, you're not getting out of this alive. But if you behave yourself, I'll make it quick. Understood? Good boy. Now, get on your knees and open your mouth.

[fluffydancer618]

"Stuck in the timeloop as a punishment" is cool and all, but stuck in the timeloop voluntarily though? Oh, brother. Stuck in the timeloop cause you just can't move on. Stuck in the timeloop even if you know that it's not real and whatever should've happen already did. Stuck in the timeloop even if doesn't makes you happy. You just can't bear the thought of not being able to see them ever again. Stuck in the timeloop even if you know you should move on. Stuck in the timeloop even if you know they would want you to move on.

But maybe just a little while longer.

[whumpsoda]

An old story I’ve been thinking about and decided to rewrite…

cw: institutionalized slavery, whumpee with amnesia, pet whump, abused whumpee, shock collar, depressed whumpee

———

Pet stole a scratch at the reddened flesh around his ragged, tattered collar.

Unlike the rest - the little bell above the door licking their ears with excitement and hope of the visitor being interested in a purchase - Pet shrugged off the ingrained call of hope. That instance no longer lingered in him, flame flickered out time and time again as owners refurbished, retrained, or returned.

The shuffles of pets lining the maze of cramped, soiled cages washed the room, each getting into perfect position with their best puppy dog faces, the idea of even being given a mere glance filling their chests with blossoming warmth. Pet stole a glimpse of their kneels and their hanging heads.

The price of giving up on being bought, on trying, would be paid. He would undoubtedly receive some sort of punishment later on - once the buyer had left empty handed like they always did - for his willing disobedience. Maybe, in his twisted and naughty mind, that meant he could feel something other than a sickly nothingness.

Pet stayed in his position, one he rarely left, curled into a ball and sucking in any warmth he could gain from that his body had to offer to the always starkly chill concrete. His dingy cage held nothing but himself and his metal food bowl, one that would probably remain empty for the foreseeable future.

Breathing a hearty release of melted misery, he allowed his eyelids to cradle him back to darkness.

Not to sleep though, not as the front desk man’s words became clearer and clearer as he guided the owner into the last remaining hallway.

“-are all eager to please and be moulded as you see fit, of course.”

Two sets of feet shuffled into hearing distance, that of the pound employee and the buyer.

Pet was still eager to please - he thought so at least. That was so deeply beat into his unconscious, rightfully so, that he couldn’t imagine a day where he wouldn’t be. Even when being purposely bad, Pet couldn’t help the screams of his mind berating him for being so stupid. He couldn’t help the ache of his heart or the tremble of his lip at the thought of disobeying, even as he did it. He never had so much as a want to be bad, just a knowing discipline was all he deserved. Biting his lip hard, Pet shuffled his face between his arms and knees.

“This group is on the much cheaper side, most with irreparable damages. Some have had several owners and aren’t high on our list of demand.”

It was almost as if he had just stabbed Pet right through the chest. As if the employee was talking about him specifically.

A sob clawed at his curling throat as the steps got closer and closer, causing the idiot animal he was to quiver in both fear and anguish. He was so fucking stupid. Thinking he couldn’t hold hope any longer was just a dream, and as they grew near he couldn’t help but wish, if only for a second, that they would give Pet just one last chance. Pet held his breath, hoping to either hold back his insolent whimpers or to even just suffocate himself to death.

“Hello.”

A shiver roll down his back, freezing him rigid in place.

“No name?”

“Most of them don’t have one. They’re just numbers in the system, anyway.”

Were they-

“Can I see your face, please?”

Pet swallowed, gasping for stale air to fill his lungs. Head splitting in two, a spinning sense of sickness infected his brain in seconds.

Were they asking him?

Pet craned his neck, slow and steady, eyes guarded by overgrown, unkempt hair with an arm shielding the lower half of his face.

They couldn’t have been talking to him. He was just another braindead dog, a naughty one as well. Nothing special in the slightest.

But as his dark, dead gaze landed on those filled with life, fenced by rotting wire and accessorized by long, fluttering lashes, with a shallow gasp he ducked swiftly back beneath his knees.

The employee chuckled, weak and irritated. “Please, don’t pay him much mind. That one’s…,” he trailed off, sheepishly, “an odd duck, to say the least.”

The woman, probably blinking coarsely behind her fake eyelashes, asked curiously, “How so?”

He sighed deeply. “His records say he’s had about three different owners. Each one sent him through some different training, and he’s been through more than one refurbishment.” The employee knocked at his cage, shaking the fencing and sending the pet flinching.

“Oh.”

“I’d say they knocked a couple marbles out of place when they did it. He’s got a pretty shit memory. Easily confused, too.” He clicked his pen a few times, tapping it against the clipboard Pet had never seen him without. “He’s a guard dog, even, and those aren’t nearly as popular once they’ve been through an owner or two.”

Laughing a little bit, awkwardly, her fingers curled over the gaps in the fence. “I take it he, uh, doesn’t like to listen?”

Whining, grating and dumb, Pet allowed the noise to grip his throat and tumble out. Quickly and without thought he scrambled to his knees, especially clumsy as he knocked his forehead with accidentally extra force to the floor below him. Pain flashed across his head, and he whimpered involuntarily. He hoped maybe he could still please her, to display that he wasn’t all bad. He could still listen, even if he couldn’t exactly remember what she’d even originally asked of him. He didn’t mean to be all bad.

The buyer audibly jumped back as he did so, and in return he flinched with force - as if she could wack him through the door. She gasped before asking, “Are you okay?”

Pet heaved a ragged breath, snapping his lips tightly shut. Disregarding the quick puzzlement that was to come as she asked him the strange question he’d never been asked because why would anyone care if he was okay, neither was it a direct order to speak.

With a careless kick to the cage, the employee dutifully chastised him. “Answer her.”

How in the world would he answer such a question? “A- a- anything you, you want. Master.” Pet squeaked out, voice dry and cracking from infrequent use.

Listening intently for the inevitable point in which she would finally realize he was a lost cause, a mutt incapable of being fixed, he only heard a swallow of saliva between the seconds of her pause.

“Please, can I see your face?” She ordered once again, just as oddly kind and honeyed as the first time. Mind swimming with such sweet tones he had rarely ever had the privilege of hearing, Pet somehow managed to do as told.

Keeping his vision plastered to the cracks of concrete, pupils hidden by his lashes, he picked his face up from the ground to meet hers. A mere moment of excitement and wonder was all it took for him to forget the most basic of rules, stupidly stealing a look at her eyes, brown and beautiful and wet.

Gaze brimming with tears, she blinked them away rapidly, a smile glistening with slightly tinted teeth gracing her cheeks. With words as level and even as he’d ever heard, she spoke. “I think, um, I’ll take him.”

…

Was it all a trick?

Surely they wouldn’t have unlocked his cage, clipping him to a leash for the first time in forever, taking the woman aside to fill paperwork and leaving him to be prepped for purchase if it really was all just to break his spirit further.

Buzzing with a stomach burning mixture of both anxiousness and anticipation, he knelt below the worker as they checked off what he thought to be a list of duties to be done before he could be officially bought. The first of those had been a shower, where Pet knelt in the corner of the room beside a drain and obediently waited for the employee to wash him with a col spraying hose.

After being sufficiently dried, Pet was to change into something other than worn, tattered shorts all of the pets wore in the pound.

“Strip.” She told him, and he did so without a second thought.

Supplying him with an almost to tight tee and patterned pajama pants, he took them carefully and with awe, gently rubbing his fingers to the tender feel of cotton to his skin. They weren’t new, taken from the bins of dropped off second hand clothes the pets never got to wear until they left, but there wasn’t a chance on Earth he wouldn’t be eternally grateful for the gift. He was simply surprised the smallest of touches from his fingers didn’t leave the fabric visibly dirtied.

She’d even given him a new collar, this one metal pronged and dark grey with even a pretty pink bow taped to it. Pet wouldn’t have refused it if he could, joyous to have been given a collar other than the one that kept his skin crackling and coarse.

Chained to the middle of the room by his new leash, he knelt silent yet ecstatic. Vision swinging from corner to corner around him, Pet studied every inch of the completely white room.

In her white uniform the employee hunched over a white desk, gritting her teeth as she filled out what felt like an hours worth of paperwork. He inspected her too, her golden curls that washed down her spine and her starkly black baton clipped to her belt.

There was one window in the room that gave him a glance into the one beside them, the one that his new owner had been taken to to officially buy him. Chewing on his lip absentmindedly, he thought it might be nice if she could check and see how good he was being made up for her, how excited he was to be given another chance to prove himself and to serve her every whim-

Screeching with shock and affliction, his throat rang out as the collar lit up without warning, flashing him in a bundle of sparks.

“Head down.” The worker chastised, crisp and clean without care. Coughing, Pet nodded profusely, snapping himself back to tile.

Pet, sipping in a thick heave of air, released it right back to steady himself.

This time he only listened as she got up from her desk, sifting the papers together into a folder before reaching for his leash. “Be good. You come back one more time and you’re on schedule for euthanasia.” As if it meant nothing, she simply motioned for him to follow as she opened the door with a simple click.

Euthanasia.

As dumb as he was, Pet knew exactly what that meant. One more return and he was dead.

Without much time to dwell on his possible fate of death, crawling behind the worker he found his owner’s flats coming into view. To his dismay, his heart was skipping with what he found to be undeniable fear.

“If anything goes awry don’t feel any resistance to drop him right back off. It happens a good deal with these ones, and there’s no reason to be ashamed if you can’t handle him.”

Holding his breath, he only stopped once his master replied, ruffling his hair. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Maybe he was safe.

The front desk man shrugged, chuckling. “Alright, you do you.”

Without a sound Pet trailed as fast as he could crawling behind his master, practically light headed as the ring of the front door bell was cut off by the door slinking shut behind him.

While the prospect of being bought once more filled him to the brim with unimaginable bliss, his stomach stirred with the bile of horror. How in the world was he to live up to this new owner’s expectations? What if he was so braindead he couldn’t be trained anymore? What if her only goal was to buy a pet solely to be a punching bag? So many different scenarios closed in on him, coursing through his bones and rattling them to his core.

Pet winced as he bumped right into Master’s leg, so caught in his own head he failed to notice her stop behind a car. Plopping to his knees, he rushed to apologize. “I, I, I, I’m sorry-,”

“Oh God.” She spit, a lump catching sourly in his chest. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

Hanging his head, Pet’s lip quivered as he went to speak, to beg, before slipping them shut. He hadn’t been given any guidance to what would please her more, pleading or silence. He was stuck. He’d already upset her, and they were just out the door. Maybe she would return him right then and there, already deciding he wasn’t fit for service, only death.

He’d already decided what would happen before she’d made a move, and was no less than dumbfounded as arms wrapped over his shoulders. Not with intentions of malice he realized as she ducked her face into the nape of his neck, beads of tears soaking into his flesh.

“I love you, I love you I love you-,” she whimpered, soft and small and scary. “I never thought I’d find you.”

———

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[flailingfrog]

please add me to your tag list i am intrigued

[flailingfrog]

Beauveria bassiana is available in full on AO3

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Hi everyone. I plan on getting my August of Whump story up here during the rest of the month, hopefully before the end, but if you would like the rest of it now I have run it by my beta (ReservoirCat89 on AO3) and they think it's good to go, so it's on AO3 already in it's entirety and you can go read it over there. Tags are in the description.

[flailingfrog]

Beauveria bassiana, pt 11

Masterlist | Prev | Next

August of Whump day eleven: Nausea/vertigo

CW: BBU/BBU-adjacent setting, institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, dehumanization, abuse, ableism

-

Your stomach hurts. Everything spins.

Sam’s here again, and you’re supposed to be on your best behavior, to have your prettiest, most grateful smile on, but instead you find yourself turning a shade of puce.

You can’t pay attention with the ache to it, the way the world spins even as you sit, though it is easier to just stay sitting. Your head’s starting to hurt, too, which is a bad sign.

Finally, you guess Sam can’t take it anymore. She asks, “Is Mantis alright? She looks like she might need to lie down.”

You can feel The way Lexi’s eyes dig into you as she says, “Oh, she’s fine. I’ll be sure to send her to lie down if she really needs it.”