Whump? Don't mind if I do

Main: @justanothermaltesegirl

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The Party

Tw: sexual assault, drugging, hinted non-con, murder, mild gore? Very mild tbh

A/N: this is part of the murder-gang series, along with The Man, 15 minutes, The Plan, Maria, meet Eden and Good and Quiet, Eden, meet Emil

20:00

As the black SUV pulled away, disappearing into the night’s fog, the three assassins gathered around each other. Emil brought his hands up to his face, blowing hot air and rubbing them together to stop them from freezing over. Dante took a deep breath, he was no stranger to this kind of humid cold that seeped through his clothes down to his bones.

Eden closed her compact. “Everybody clear on the brief?”

To the boys’ affirmation, she nodded and they walked over to their entrance point; a forgotten door in the back of the building. Servants’ quarters. Unguarded. And dressed the way they were, they didn’t give anyone reason to look at them twice. Common People tended to disappear into the background, in the eyes of the rich and privileged.

Three floors up and a well disguised garbage bag later, they found the perfect room for their transformation. It was easier for the boys, who just had to put a jacket and bowtie on, but Eden was quick, and soon enough the three looked like theyd been peeled out of a catalogue. Emil with his slick black hair, Dante with his broad shoulders, and Eden. Dante thought, as he saw the way her hair curled around her cheekbones, that her name had been most apt. So beautiful it was biblical.

She caught his eye, and smiled. He smiled back.

Emil patted both their shoulders, “Right, lads, off to a-killing we go.”

“Oh my god,” Eden rolled her eyes, “say it a little louder, why don’t you?”

Dante had methodically gathered all their old clothes and wiped down every surface they'd touched. An easy disposal of the evidence and they had never been in the room.

20:30

They entered the party unnoticed, immediately going their separate ways; Eden to speak to a wealthy businessman who never once met her eyes, and Emil to another one across the room. Both knowing their target demographic well.

Dante took a glass of water off a tray and settled by a third corner, beside a window - an age-old habit of watching the world outside, in his bubble, as reflexive as breathing.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Pop.

Dante nodded, looking over at the man who’d approached.

“Yes, it’s very quiet”

The man nods, sipping his drink; “Yes, far more peaceful than this,” he gestured, “Almost grotesque display of hedonism”, big words, big boy. “I’d much rather be out there, personally, but you understand, needs must - obligations, obligations.”

Dante nodded, a sympathetic smile that conveyed agreement.

“Are you here alone?”

At that he shifted, gesturing vaguely around the room. “There are a few people I know, but yes, essentially.”

“Handsome and lonesome in the corner, you’re practically asking for someone to come over” the man smiled, “you seem to be a rather private man … do you wanna go somewhere a little more private than this party?”

Dante looked past the man briefly and Emil immediately caught his eye, immediately came to the rescue.

As Dante was about to speak, Emil slapped his shoulder, smiling, his body relaxed, leaning against Dante’s well-hidden tense frame. “There you are, babe, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

He turned to the man, easy smile, sharp eyes “My goodness, I’m going to have to leash him - you go out for one cigarette and it’s an hour of searching with this one.”

The man’s smile was strained, “Im sure you two have a lot to catch up on then, I’ll leave you to it.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Emil turned to face Dante with a smirk, “You really need to get better at saying “No”, man, what was the plan tonight? Just keep nodding until suddenly you’re in the asscrack of Europe in some apartment with no means to get out? Just to be polite?”

“If I were to be more assertive, the first one who’d complain would be you and we both know that.” The slightest hint of an accent still stained Dante’s words. It had been the right choice not to speak so much.

“Complaining’s all part of the game, babe.”

They watched as Eden laughed, her arms wrapped around the arm of the man she'd been talking to. She thanked him for the drink he’d brought her, the boys watching as she drank it all in one smooth motion.

The bitter taste of the special toothpaste the academy made them use, washed over Eden’s tongue. The chemical reaction instantaneous, the Rohypnol inactivated.

She fluttered her eyelashes slowly, “My goodness,” she slurred her words, “I’m feeling…dizzy… perhaps we can go somewhere quiet?” She looks up at the man, their target, with well-practiced doe eyes.

“Oh, absolutely sweetheart, perhaps it was just one too many”, he took her arm and led the way. Hook. Line. And sinker.

She let him carry her weight, leading her down several corridors into a quiet room. He set her down on the bed, she mumbled, he locked the door, she let her eyes roll back, he straddled her, pinning her down.

She could feel his face in the crook of her neck, his tongue tracing a line from her collarbone to her jaw. She wrapped her legs around him, flipping them in one swift motion, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart. Things not going according to plan?” He tries to kick up, panic, anger, indignance at not getting what he deserves-

“You are Alejandro Serian, yes?”

He lunged again, she dug her manicured nails into his wrists, right at the nerves. The door opened with a soft hiss, the boys walked in.

Emil was toying his favourite knife, Dante had his rosary beads in hand, the cross stretching right across his knuckle.

At that the man panicked. Eden was mildly offended.

“Dios, Cristo Santo-“

“Oh no need for all that” Eden caressed his cheek gently, “Your God is right here. And she’s fresh out of mercy.”

21:45

“You gotta hand it to her,” Emil started, wrapping the sheets around their victim, “the woman works smoothly.”

Dante nodded - both men had discarded their jackets and bow ties, their shirt sleeves now rolled up to their elbows. Their usual body disposal method, of dousing their victim in an obscene amount of gasoline and lighting him up, had been met with remorse from all three. They were right in the middle of a forest, they didn’t want to start a fire and kill any animals.

So they'd had to resort to the old, significantly more garish method of butchery. Dante had taken over for that, he’d prepared plenty of animals growing up, and knew exactly where to apply force at the joint to make it snap.

Child traffickers were easier to slaughter than pigs. He’d prayed for his soul, asking God to make sure Satan skewered him well.

They needed to be quick, before the smell of blood reached the rest of the party. Conveniently, the garbage human being they'd just disposed of had chosen an excellent room - well out of audible range from the party. Tying his own noose, just how Eden liked them.

As they wrapped up the remains and bagged them off into the trash chute, Dante finished scrubbing his hands clean and re-dressing. Eden reapplied her perfume.

Emil left a note for the host of the party. In crisp black ink, on the academy’s starch paper with the emblem at the top. “You’ve been noticed. Memento Mori”

23:00

“I’m serious!” Emil laughed, Eden collapsed back in Dante’s bed, holding her stomach, laughing so hard tears sprang to her eyes. Dante shook his head, working his way through a pint of ice cream.

“Eden, Eden, babe - would I lie to you?”

“Oh my god, absolutely yes you would” she wiped her eyes, setting her head on Dante’s lap.

“Okay that one’s on me - but I'm serious, he just keeps saying yes to shit, we are seriously gonna find him butt-ass naked in the middle of the road one day because somebody asked for his clothes” Emil flicked Dante’s forehead, Dante smeared peanut butter cookie crumble onto his nose, Eden took some onto her finger and ate it.

And just like that, they fell asleep, collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs and hair and smiles.

[rachealsaccount]

the tma fandom really had me hyped up to hate elias bouchard going into this series and. I’m halfway through season two and all this man has done is tell jon to go to sleep and politely ask him to stop stalking his employees.

[rachealsaccount]

hi! elias bouchard is a rat bastard motherfucker

[faewaren]

Gansey when a person is stubborn and difficult and kind of mean: Do you want to. Come live in my house.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Whump Dialogue

"I said I was sorry!"

"And I said put your hands on the fucking table"

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Whumptober Day 15- Lies

Masterpost

Elze’ith tries to get in contact with Altair from Castle Tergoria.

Contains: Intimate whumper, gilded cage, manipulation, minor gaslighting, minor blood, references to future punishment

~~~

Two days after Lord Denholm fed on him for the first time, a servant brought a vanity to Elze’ith’s room. It was made of beautiful dark oak, with three drawers on each side and a large mirror. The servant didn’t give their name when Elze’ith asked, but he thanked them all the same before they vanished back into the cold stone halls.

That evening, after being dismissed by Lord Denholm, he sat down at the vanity and placed a hand on the mirror. Magic thrummed through the glass as he cast a spell. In his mind he pictured Altair— his smile, his bravery, his magical signature that Elze’ith knew so well. The magic seeped into his reflection before diffusing into the ether, and after a moment, Elze’ith felt it connect to Altair, somewhere far away in the valley.

If Altair could make it to a reflective surface— a still pool, a patch of ice, a well-kept piece of metal— the spell Elze’ith had just wrought would allow them to speak through their reflections for a time. It was something they had done many times when they were separated during hunts. How long it would take for Altair to find a conduit for his side of the spell was a different matter, but the magic had made contact, so Altair knew that Elze’ith was calling for him. Elze’ith could wait.

Keep reading

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Eden, meet Emil

The first time Eden and Emil met was at the infirmary. Eden had only been at the Academy for around three weeks by that time and her room hadn’t been equipped with… All the amenities she would need, so when nature eventually caught up with her she didn’t know where else to go to get tampons other than the infirmary. 

Emil had gotten wasted. Again. 

Emil reclined in his bed, “You’re new”, he sounded accusatory. “When did you get here?”

Eden didn’t particularly think he deserved an answer, but then she didn’t really have to think about it for too long because as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out again. She rolled her eyes. Tragic. 

The nurse came over with a few tampons and handed them to her, “ The Academy will set you an appointment with the visiting doctor, you won’t have to worry about dealing with this whole mess for too long, your peers usually get an IUD. But, until then, these will have to do.”

It didn’t particularly sound like Eden had a say in the whole ordeal but to be fair she didn’t really mind. This would be one less thing to deal with, she supposed. 

She glanced back at Emil as the nurse rolled her eyes, walking over to him. “This is going on your record, you fool.” He rolled over, giving her his back. 

The second time Eden and Emil met was in a Modern Politics class. She sat at the front. He sat at the back. He smiled and waved at her as she walked in, she manoeuvred awkwardly into the nearest desk, glancing behind her to see if he was gesturing to someone else. She realized too late that he wasn’t and by the time she turned to return the gesture, the professor had walked in.

She wasnt surprised to notice he didn't contribute to the discussion at all. It was weird…at the academy. At her old school, her old private boarding school which was ranked top in the country, people still pretended not to care, snickered when she answered questions, and rolled their eyes at her effort. But here, at the academy, everyone tried to prove themselves. She knew a big part of it was the overlying threat of incarceration if the academy didnt deem you worth its time and effort, she assumed the others had found themselves here under the same circumstances she had. So, why was it that Emil didn't seem to care? Why bother joining if you're just going to try your best to get kicked out?

Eden decided then that perhaps he was just pathetic.

The third time Eden saw Emil was in the gym. She was doing some strength training when he walked in, expectedly late to his session and deeply hungover. He winked at her and walked over to his coach, who’d already gotten started on berating him. One emetic episode and electrolyte drink later, he was on the treadmill. 

He was doing agility training next, dropping ten, twenty feet and landing ….almost like a corpse, she thought. She decided that she didn’t particularly like him too well. She didn't like people who didn't put in an effort. She watched as he worked out for another while before the effects of tylenol wore off and he was rushing over to the nearest bin again. 

He didnt make it. 

She rolled her eyes.

The next time Eden would see Emil would be in a meeting with their advisor, who would tell them that the academy believed they would make a good team. Eden wondered if God ever tired of his ineffable, tiresome sense of humour. 

[funnytwittertweets]

[justanothermaltesewhumpblr]

some zuko whump

zuko gets captured by the northern water tribe after the siege. they agree to transfer him to General Fong personally.

a short whumpy drabble taking place on the ship the nwt uses to transfer zuko to the earth kingdom.

Arnook walked towards his cabin where he knew the prince would be waiting for him. He’d asked Pakku to bring him up from the brig; a cold, metal case given to them by General Fong, that kept the Prince’s body temperature low enough that he could hardly muster the energy to keep himself warm, let alone attack.

It had made him docile, Pakku had remarked to the Chief. When he was allowed out to eat and relieve himself, the animosity of that first day on the ship was gone. The boy, pale and shivering, would simply thank them for the food and sit quietly by himself as he ate. His legs still chained together.

Arnook paused briefly before the door. He stretched his hands, cracking his knuckles before entering. Inside, he was greeted by a dark figure in the middle of the room. The Prince was kneeling, a sign of deep supplication common to his nation. His head pressed to the floor, his hands stretched out in front of him in a placating gesture.

Arnook could see the boy’s frame tremble slightly at the sound of the Chief’s arrival. He didn’t dare move.

Arnook cleared his throat, walking over to the chair behind his desk.

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Zuko.”

The boy shook his head softly. After a beat, he cleared his throat softly; “No, sir.”

The Chief sighed. Of course, even all that time in the cooler hadn’t been enough to make the boy’s loyalty towards his Nation budge. No matter, they would simply have to do things the hard way.

“The Attack on the Northern Water T ribe. Did you know anything about that, Zuko”.

The Boy didn’t move. It sounded, though, as if he’d stopped breathing.

Arnook took that as an affirmative.

“Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you know, boy.”

Zuko’s fingers trembled where they lay, splayed out on the floor. Ready to be crushed under Arnook’s boot. It was a sign of respect, on the boy’s part, to offer himself for the Chief’s violence. Arnook thought it a barbaric gesture, imposed on the young of a barbaric nation. Yet, he wasn’t too disgusted by it to be above using the position against the boy, if it meant protecting his tribe…his family.

“I…I didn’t know anything, sir”

Arnook scoffed. Zuko flinched.

“Truly…I’ve been out of contact with most of the Fire Nation’s Generals for the better part of the past three years, and-and I’ve spent the past two months here, sir, so I really didn’t know-“

Arnook stopped listening. He didn’t need the boy’s rambling lies to waste his time. He’d already told his chief navigator to change course of the Aknuut back to their home. They had to defend it… …if they got there too late, they at least had to do burial rights.

He huffed out, aggravated by the waste of time.

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are remotely informative, Zuko, stop talking.”

The boy pursed his lips, forehead still pressed tightly to the floor, his dark hair falling over his eyes. It had regrown since they’d capture him… since Pakku had cut off the ridiculous pony tail he’d been captured with.

“You have no honour to protect, boy. Only my favour to earn. So think, wisely, whether you really want to work against the only thing stopping the crew from skinning you alive.”

Zuko shuddered, his fingers twitched briefly.

“I didn’t know anything-“

Arnook sighed. A waste of his time.

“Right, well, I don’t have the time to dedicate to interrogating you. Pakku, come in please.”

Pakku entered, having waited just outside the door as Arnook instructed.

“Take the prince up to the deck. Tie him to the mast and,” He reached back, taking the switch they’d had the Prince pick the last time they made port. They’d tested it out on him, there and then. Just to make sure he hadn’t brought them anything harmless. “Bring him back when he’s ready to talk. The men have my full permission to participate as they wish.”

At this, the Prince’s head shot up. Golden eyes wide-“Please-Chief-Sir, I-I’m not lying, I didn’t know anything, please-“

Arnook waved his hand dismissively. He’d heard enough.

Pakku grabbed the boy by his shoulder, he turned back briefly to try his luck once more but was immediately silenced by Arnook’s cold glare.

He pursed his lips, hanging his head in defeat as he allowed himself to be led up to the mast. His breath laboured.

He was in the middle of a boat, in the middle of the ocean. No means of escape, nor communication.

He allowed his hands to be tied around the mast in front of him. Allowed the back of his shirt to be ripped open as Pakku took two, three, four steps back, switch in hand. He could almost hear the sound of Azula’s laughter, as the wind whipped his hair around his ears. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to think of Father.

Pakku guided the barely-conscious prince back to the cabin by his neck. He’d made sure his grip was tight enough to bruise, and was pleased when, as he let go, bright red imprints remained.

The prince dropped to his knees again, taking longer to resume his earlier position, his back, bruised and bleeding as it was, exposed to the room. He shivered slightly, as he pressed his head to the wooden floor once more.

“Are you willing to make yourself useful, Prince.” Arnook sat back in his chair, welcoming the sight of the bleeding fire prince. Zuko nodded, ever so slightly.

“Yes-yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. It seemed as if the screams Arnook had heard reaching his cabin had strained the boy’s already-hoarse voice. “Th-thank you, for giving me the opportunity to redeem myself, sir.” The line sounded rehearsed. As if he’d been instructed to say it. Arnook was not impressed.

“I… I knew General Zhao was going to carry out a-a siege, on the Northern Water Tribe, sir. I wasn’t a part of it…neither was my crew. My sole mission was to capture the Avatar… so I didn’t much get involved with the rest of the Fire Nation.” Arnook bristled at the obvious lie. As if the prince would not get involved in his own army’s business.

“I took a completely different route, I was neither part of the invasion, nor the central attack.” Arnook felt his fists start to tighten. Irritation itched its way through his blood vessels, making his skin crawl.

“I didn’t know he would attack the moon spirit-“

“ENOUGH!” Chief Arnook slammed his fist against the desk, eliciting a sharp flinch from the boy. His hands drew back to cover his head briefly before, shaking, they moved back to their position on the floor, mere inches from Pakku’s boot.

Arnook stood with sharp anger. “How could you lie, knowing what we’re capable of - having sampled our discipline!”

The prince was shaking now, his entire frame withering beneath the Chief’s rage.

“You have wasted our time. Your nation has threatened our spirits. And yet you lie here, trying to shift blame to your delegates, to your inferiors. Have you no shame?! Have you, not even, self preservation?! Do you think we will stop at the switch, boy?! Do you think we will hesitate to show royalty the true power of the Northern Water Tribe?!”

The prince dared not breathe a reply.

“Pakku. Hold him up.”

—

That night, as the Prince was returned to the cooler, a new shirt stained by the blood seeping lazily from the shallow cuts on his back, he could barely pull his knees to his chest as they closed the door and locked it. He leaned his head forward on his knees, the blood trickling from his nose slowly staining his trousers. He closed his eyes, shuddering a breath of relief that, at least, the day was over. And at least, he only needed to focus on remaining warm.

He felt tears burn at the back of his eyes, his throat burning a sob from his lungs. He swallowed thickly, focusing on his breathing.

[huffylemon]

[utopian819]

me mentally skipping to the whump part when I don’t even know why he’s being whumped 😭

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Maria, meet Eden

Maria sat alone in the grey room. It was cold, and smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee.

She’d been here once before.

She’d been younger then, wrapped in a blanket, shaking, speechless as she was now.

Her parents had just died.

Rather.

Her parents had just been murdered.

The sweet nectar of the satisfaction of retribution melted over her tongue the way the arsenic had in her victim’s earlier that night.

She sighed. The officers would come in soon, probably offering their condolences before starting the procedure of giving her her inheritance. She was nineteen years old now. No more guardians. Shed made sure of that before executing her plan.

The door opened, two middle aged men walked in with a manila folder and a heavy sigh.

“Maria Abades”, they began, she knew the spiel well by now, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Emanuele Biltró”-wait, what?!-“Soledad Biltró”-how-“and their three children, Matías, Sebastían and Sofía Biltró”.

No…no no it was only Emanuele…maybe Soledad - but not the children. Definitely not the children.

She was sure she’d put it in his cup. Only his cup.

She managed to croak out a “what”. Her throat was dry, shut. Sebastían was three years old.

She put it in Mani’s cup. Just his cup. She was sure.

She’d been planning it for months, ever since that day in the basement when she had gone down to help Estella, one of the cooks, to bring produce up to the kitchen. She'd been searching through the boxes and shelves for tumeric when she’d accidentally knocked over a few of the jars. Scrambling to pick them back up, she noticed that as her knuckles knocked against the back of the shelf it sounded hollow. A false back.

She made a mental note to return to the cellar, knowing Mani and Soledad never expected her to be down there in the first place, never expected her to interact with the staff.

She’d gone back at night, carefully moving the jars and popping open the back of the shelf. A manila folder dropped into her lap.

Abades.

She couldn’t help herself, she opened it, immediately rifting through the pages, articles about her parents, articles about her father, his work, his writing. The accusations, the evidence … he’s been about to expose everything.

Mani knew.

He'd contacted the right people, paid the right price, and organized the funeral once his plan had been carried out successfully. He'd even volunteered to take in the newly orphaned child; bless.

She remembered at this point, in this room, with these men, that it was at exact moment that she had known what true, fierce, unadulterated hatred was.

“I don't know what to tell you, Mari… you’re looking at life in prison here…”

She thought maybe she’d ask for a lawyer. Thats what her parents would have done. She would argue, and, and fight it, and deny it- Matías was seven- deny it, demand a lawyer, don’t say anything-

You killed the children.

She pursed her lips. She felt like she was breathing grease. She wanted to vomit. She was going to faint.

She realized her mouth had been hanging open; and so she closed it.

One of the men bit his cheek, she knew him and he knew her. She’d called him tío a lifetime ago, a memory infused with the scent of bandeja paisa and arepa, a guitar strumming to the sound of laughter.

She realized at some point that the other man had been speaking to her, something about lawyers and court and prison and proof and tragedy and loss as if he knew anything about such things.

And then she was alone again.

She took the liberty of getting up out of her chair, walking a couple steps to the bin, and vomiting. Profoundly.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when the door opened again. That was, of course, the entire point of interrogation rooms.

She knew that…because she wasn’t stupid. She’d put the arsenic only in his cup-

“Maria Abades” One of them approached; a woman with dark skin and hair clipped close to her head, wearing a matching suit to the men who accompanied her. “I’m Angelica Wilson”, Maria got the feeling that wasn’t her real name. “These are my associates, William Pope, and James Cartier. We’ve come to speak to you.”

They looked like lawyers, but wore less arrogance and more relaxed authority. Like they didn’t need to prove themselves to the world. The casual flare of the woman's shirt, her gold detailed watch, the clean, elegant shape of her nails … Maria was used to wealth, she’d grown up surrounded by it… But this, this wasn’t just wealth. Their posture, their clothing, this was so much more; they were so much more. They looked out of place in the drab room, as if the only backdrop that could fit them was a kaleidoscope of steel, and silk, and liquid gold.

“I’m sure this has been explained to you, Maria, but you’re facing some very heavy charges here. Life in prison. That’s not something any nineteen year old should be familiar with. We want to give you options.”

The woman leaned forward, her hand reaching closer. Maria felt compelled to take it.

“We’re willing to offer you a contract; community service of sorts. A means for you to work off your debt to society.”

One of the men - William, reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper with a curled, elegant insignia on it, "The academy would enable you to study different languages, to hone your skills, particularly we think you would benefit from furthering your studies in Chemistry and biological systems. Particularly, drug dosing and tracing."

Maria felt a chill run through her body, she thought she might vomit again. They knew.

"In exchange for such training,"the man continued, placidly "you would be required to carry out some tasks - all in the interest of world peace."

That last part felt, to Maria, like it had the same cadence as when Emmanuele would shift funds, cut taxes, assign transfers… in the interest of having a well functioning society.

She looked around the room again, wondering for a moment what the men watching her from behind the double sided mirror, were thinking. Did she look panicked? Calm? She'd been avoiding looking at her reflection - for fear that seeing herself would incur a visceral reaction she did not want these people to witness.

For just a brief instant, she wished she'd drank the arsenic instead.

“You would be provided with an entirely new identity - a fresh start.”

Maria knew that was... convenient. Far too good an offer to refuse.

She also thought asking for the catch would get her absolutely nowhere.

Option B was a jail cell.

“It’s a lot to take in" the other man, who'd been silent up to this point, broke through her thoughts. "I wish we had the time to let you think this through but unfortunately we’re on something of a timer ourselves. What we can offer, if you need more time, is to come back when another slot opens up. What do you think?”

Prison or this.

Prison or This.

Guilt sickened her, powerlessness gripped her, she couldn’t give her life up, she couldn’t face herself.

Prison or this.

“… … Do I need to sign anything”, they smiled. She tasted bile.

____________________________________________________________________

She gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her hair had been cut, a bandage lay over her elbow where they’d taken blood samples. Her freckles barely showed in the fluorescent lights overhead. She tried to ignore the dark blue bags under her eyes.

Angelica stepped up behind her, looking at her reflection with a smile.

"What do we think?"

Maria nodded drily, she figured the clothes they'd provided for her upon exiting the shower were more comfortable than a prison uniform.

"Come, sit, we need to build you from the ground up."

Maria sat across from the woman as she brought a pot of coffee over for them both.

"You'll need to learn to speak without an accent, although you are already most of the way there. You'll need a name, something completely unrelated to your former self."

Maria thought for a moment. She sipped her coffee, and in that moment a pain, sharp and sweet hit her chest. She missed her mother.

She remembered sitting in her mother's room, watching her put on her earrings as her father waited downstairs. Her mother, spritzing perfume onto her wrists and neck, the sweet lavender scent.

She had a painting, just above her bed. A beautiful garden, with a stream running down the middle, and an apple tree. The beginning of everything.

She remembered being awed by that painting as a child, sitting in her mother's bed, watching it for hours, each time finding a new detail.

She began writing on the pad the woman had given her. A new history, a new name, anew identity. The beginning of everything.

The woman read through it, and smiled.

“Welcome to the Academy, Eden”.

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The Plan

Tw: implied non-con, captivity whump.

Might make more sense to read Good and Quiet first

The bell outside Eden's door rang softly. A small hiss announced the arrival of dinner.

The meals were her only connection to any sense of time. This was meal #2 of day #94.

It had been seven weeks.

She had been isolated for five of them.

She takes the tray that slides into her room, and settles into the back corner with it. A bowl of what she figured was oatmeal with protein powder sat in front of her. It wasn't appetizing, but then again, she hadn't had much of an appetite to begin with. Still, it was better than what she knew the boys were getting.

That was the price she'd been paying.

Every second, of every day, of the past seven weeks, she had been locked in a room, with nothing to distract her than two screens built into the wall. One showed her Emil, the other showed Dante.

She'd watched them both break.

The Man had told the boys that they were alone, and that the rest of the triad had left without them. He hadn't tried the same with Eden ...perhaps he knew it wouldn't work...perhaps he knew watching them would eviscerate her worse than isolation ever could.

She stirred the oatmeal.

Dante hadn't eaten in four days. Emil, six. She watched what happened to them, every single day. She'd watched the beatings, the loneliness, the tears.

Sometimes they would be interrogated. Eden had seen Emil give up his real name, she'd learned things about Dante she had no right to know. She'd heard him pray, the soft words she had no hope of translating, emanating from bloodstained lips.

The Man rarely visited her. Other than a minor outburst of emotion on the first day of her isolation, he opted to forget her existence altogether.

The bruises from that encounter had long since faded by now.

I don't normally resort to violence with women, you should know that. But for my brother's killer, I'll make an exception.

She heard a door open; the left screen. Emil.

"Hello John, how are we doing, beautiful". The Man looked straight into the camera. A little show to go with your meal.

The Man had taken to using Emil's birth name ever since he'd wrung it out of him. Boasting the memory back to his victim. It made Eden sick.

It wasn't her fault they were in this situation. She knew that, deep down. But watching the fresh lines of blood spatter across Emil's back, watching the Man force Emil's eyes to the camera, the knowledge of the fact felt like a fistful of sand in the wind.

"Smile, darling, I like to watch these back"

Eden set her food down. She turns her back to the screen, looking for a volume button for the nth time.

A sickening crack.

She starts to count. First in Russian, then in English, finally in Spanish - she got to the twenty three before she realized, with a lurch of her stomach, what it was she was counting.

"Goodness… you're incredible…" The Man takes a step back, admiring his handiwork.

She's pacing now, hands tugging at her hair, the repetitive thud, thud, thud.

"Now then, darling, let's make this session useful." Emil spits blood near the Man's shoe. He's met with a sharp kick to the jaw.

She smiles lightly, proud. Stepping closer to the screen than she had in weeks.

"I can still let the guards in, for….aftercare, John. I suggest you cooperate. … You had a friend when you got here, a girl. What was her name, John."

Silence.

She fumbles, trying to find something, anything, for leverage. The screen is a seamless continuation with the wall. She takes the oatmeal, starting to smear sections of the wall. Nothing, nothing, nothing!

"Come now, sweetheart, you don't owe her anything. She left you behind without a second's thought."

Again, nothing from Emil.

Eden braces herself.

"Have it your way. Don't say I didn't try." He leaves, the door soon filling with the figures of the security guards.

Eden covers her ears. It doesn't help.

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Guys I colored my dream drawing :3

Look at the poor baby after his vicious whipping.

[justanothermaltesewhumpblr]

“You never struggle, do you darling, never beg me to stop. You just sit there, and take it…which must mean, on some level, you must want this as much as I do”

The whumpee averts their gaze, in truth, they never thought asking for mercy was an option.

[justanothermaltesewhumpblr]

The Man

Dante’s head hangs from his shoulders, his back aches, not as sharply as it had when the welts had just been carved into it with a whip, but still enough to rob him of any hopes of sleep. 

He feels cold, his hands tingle from hanging above him, he imagines Eden, briefly, holding them, tracing the path of the veins from shoulder to fingertip, her fingers brushing his skin, her touch soft, gentle. 

He feels empty. 

Would he ever feel that again? Ever see the look in her eyes as she explained what worked how, and why and when and she’s just so brilliant, so wonderful, so intelligent, so…great.  

How cruel life was to give him someone like that only to take her away so soon. 

Would he ever tell her. 

Would he ever see her, hold her, touch her, kiss her.

His stomach aches, he hasn’t eaten in a few days. Perhaps they’ve forgotten about him locked up here in the dark. The only source of light is a narrow strip under the door from the hall outside. Even that hasn’t been on for a few days. 

Perhaps this was the end.

Cmon dude, really? You’re giving up? What would big brother say? Do your homeland proud and get some morale, eh comrade?

Emil’s voice rings in his ears, he smiles softly, imagining how he would’ve tackled the situation. He’d probably have figured his way out of it already, maybe smack talked his way through the guards, flipped off the building as he walked away and put on sunglasses, explosions raining behind him. 

Like those movies he’d told him about.

Eden would’ve figured it out too, she’d have devised a key from a stray hair pin, maybe figured out the pattern of the guard schedules and snuck out dressed as one of them in broad daylight, probably would’ve found a way to tie up one of the guards in her place, if not… if not him. She’d have figured it out. 

They both would’ve. 

He missed them, so deeply, so vehemently. It was so much worse to have and lose than to never have had at all.

The hallway lights up. Footsteps. Closer.. closer, he lifts his head in time to see the doorknob turn, the door open, The Man walks in, a smile playing on his lips.

‘How are you darling, it’s been a while. Did you miss me?' 

He leans back, ever so slightly, meeting his gaze. He doesn’t spit at his shoes, doesn’t scan his body for cues he could use to escape. If there’s anything Dante can do, it’s to feign obedience and loyalty. God knows he’s had enough practice. 

'I brought you a little gift, something fun - you see, I was getting somewhat bored if I’m being fully honest- I do apologize darling, it’s why I was gone for so long.’ his energy is manic opposite Dante, a hollowed out, near lifeless form, watching in silent placidity.

'but this should, what’s the word, ah yes- revive! Revive the relationship, close your eyes darling’

Dante takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. If he keeps him interested, keeps him occupied, he won’t go after the others, won’t bring them back. 

He feels something cold and metallic wrap around his neck, clicking shut. 

‘Open up! What do you think?’

It's…. It’s a…ошейник. What was that word? Hed read it once, when he and Eden were reading those children’s books in the library- the dog thing-leash? No, no, harness….no no no-

'It’s a collar! Oh it makes you look so handsome, darling!’

Collar.  It’s a collar. 

'And look!’ The Man’s grin widened as he produced a small remote control from his back pocket, 'Style and function!’ he presses the button-

Electricity surges through Dante’s body, he arches his back, a groan escaping him, his fingers tingle, his stomach flips inside out, his neck burns burns burns, his breathing is slow, raspy. He rests his head back against the concrete wall. 

The Man pulls his lips tight, a small smile, 'Oops, didn’t realize how powerful these things were. I wonder if you can alter the voltage - there’s probably a YouTube tutorial out there. But for later. Until then, are you hungry darling? You must be, I brought your favourite! Soup!’

He walks over to the door, opening it part way and pulling in a small bowl, 'Here sweetheart,’ he holds it up to Dante’s lips, 'Drink up' 

Dante takes a deep breath, forcing himself to straighten, the smell alone feels like a hot poker burning sweetly into his middle. He’s so hungry. 

He starts drinking, barely pausing to chew the vegetables when another surge runs through him, he gasps, chokes, his stomach somersaults and instantly he heaves, returning the soup back to the bowl. Mostly.

'okay okay I promise that’s it,’ The Man laughs, almost bouncing with excitement at the fine practical joke he’s just pulled off, his smile turns sour then drops, 'Oh look at what you’ve done now, darling, what a mess. And all over my new shoes too.’ He gagged, 'You always have to cut my fun short don’t you.’ He sighs, setting the bowl down near Dante’s knee. Close enough to tempt him, well, in it’s partly digested state, the effect was more of synching his stomach shut. He felt bile rising in his throat.

The Man walked back over to the door, ’ I’ll have someone round for that later, God it’s making me sick, you know I’m an empathetic vomiter. I’ll leave you to it then. Oh,’ he paused in the doorway, one hand on the doorjamb, the other holds the remote, he waves it lightly, smiling once again, 'Ill be thinking of you’

Dante rests his head back, a light sheen of sweat covers his head, his eyelids droop.

Keep him focused. Keep him interested. Keep him occupied. 

God, he misses them. 

[justanothermaltesewhumpblr]

15 minutes

religion tw abuse tw 

The cold from the wooden rosary beads bit into the palms of his hands as he drew the sign of the cross and rose to his feet - morning prayers finished. His knees ached slightly from habitual kneeling, and he had to stretch a bit before walking to restore full feeling to his limbs. 

The rosary beads tucked into the backpocket of his trousers, his thin jacket buttoned to the top. It was still dark outside, but Njikolai had work to do. 

His back stung, his shirt scratching the sensitive, still healing welts from last night. It made him limp. He winced, his breath condensing in the air in front of him as he shuffled as quietly as he could to the kitchen, making some jasmine tea for himself. It was almost 4.30am, he had to get a move on if he wanted to make a dent in his chores before breakfast. 

He worked in silence, his jacket folded on a bench so he wouldn’t get any dust on it. He dusted the statuettes, the candles, and wiped down the altar, kneeling in reverence every time he passed in front of the eucharist despite his sore joints. He had to do the windows today - Father Morris had added it to his list last night before bed, after he received his discipline. 

The windows were large, 15 foot tall stained glass which had to be cleaned very delicately, one wrong move and the entire design would be ruined - the cost to fix that would take several months’ offerings…would be carved into his back with Father Morris’ leather belt. He’d have to use the ladder, balance it against the wall, close to the window, careful that even if he slipped, the ladder wouldn’t damage the glass.

He didn’t mind cleaning the windows. They were beautiful, the kaleidoscope of motifs streaming light over the altar and the marble floors, making the church ethereal. 

In truth, he actually quite liked cleaning them, being responsible for how much light pooled in, how clearly the images showed, a stream of colour in an otherwise brown and white church.

He kneeled again, as he crossed the altar, back to the sacristy to prepare eucharist and wine for Father’s 6 am service. The song books were put in order, the pews wiped down, 5.27 am. He climbed up the spiral staircase, up the tower to the bell, watching the minute hand on his wrist.

5.30am.

The sound of the bells rang through the village, a ripple of lights switching on spread outward from the church, soon enough people would gather and service would start, he’d listen in of course, and receive eucharist, but most of his time would be spent in the church tower, punctuating whatever Father preached. 

After, he watched as people filed out, all bowing to Father. Everyone respected him, deeply… as it should be, a man of his regard, as pious as he was deserved such reverence.

He too bowed as he approached the man, closing the church doors before they both headed up to the kitchen, where Njikolai prepared breakfast while Father read the newspaper he’d been brought. 

“Remember the windows today, Njikolai” 

“Yes sir,” He remembered to always stand with his back straight in his presence, head bowed forward, eyes downcast. Father Morris was a large man, tall with broad shoulders and heavy arms. More than that though, his presence took up the whole room, made it feel like there was none for Njikolai, like he was intruding, unwelcome. 

Every action carried out under Father’s scrutinizing gaze was magnified a thousandfold, every scrape of the teaspoon against the mug, every bite of toast reverberated through the church, everybody could see, everybody could hear. It was wrong of him, to attract so much attention, when all he’d been raised to do was to disappear into the shadows of the church and work from behind the scenes. 

It was sinful.

“And of course, the mud tracks on the steps outside, those will need to be seen to as well.” He shook himself out of his reverie, plating Father’s food as gracefully as he could, while his own charred bread and jasmine tea went cold. 

“Yes sir,” He took the folded paper out of his pocket and added it to his list. Despite how early he woke up every day, there never seemed to be more than 15 minutes a day he could take for himself, to just sit in his room and watch the street below as people bustled about their life. He liked it, watching them, imagining where they could be headed, what thrilling excitements life outside the church held. He could spend hours imagining. 

But then he’d remember his list, and the consequences of not finishing his duties before curfew. 

His back ached, his shirt scratching the bruised skin. 15 minutes, he told himself, not a second more. 

[justanothermaltesewhumpblr]

Good and Quiet

cw implied non con 

The hand in his hair is soft, warm, comforting. It pushes back the wisps of blonde hair, a moment ago matted to his forehead with sweat. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, his stomach aches but he can’t be sure why exactly. 

“Oh? Have you woken up, my sweet? Look at me darling, let me see those beautiful eyes”

Emil raises his eyes to meet his captor’s, “You must be exhausted,” the older man smiled, “Don’t worry, we’ll have an easy day today. Hmm? How does that sound? We’ll even undo your cuffs if you’re really good”

He nodded faintly, the numbness in his hands had become a resident discomfort along with the strain on his back, neck and knees. He couldn’t move, he wouldn’t dare ask.

“Ssh, ssh” The man ran his hand through his hair again, shaking his fingers free from the knots before tipping Emil’s chin up, gently.

“As much as I love having you here darling, we both know I need something from you. Now, I’m a fair man, I’m willing to make a trade. You cooperate, and I won’t let my men have their fun. You behave, and I’ll have them bring you some food.”

Emil nodded, his stomach ached so badly, he felt as though he’d swallowed lead. 

“You give me information,” He reached into his back-pocket and pulled out a single cigarette, Emil’s breath hitched in his throat, “And I’ll let you take a little walk. How’s that sound?”

This is ridiculous. He knew, he knew the only reason he let him have his cigarette every other day was to keep the addiction strong, to have a tool to use against him the same way he had the first time, but… But it had been so long-

And he was so alone-

And for so long that was his only solace-

“What…” He swallowed, forcing his voice through his dry throat, “What do you want to know….”

He’d given up on concealing his origins at this point, his voice, his real voice, had been exposed very early on, and forcing an accent simply felt childish and humiliating. 

His captor smiled, “Let’s start small, you came here with black hair, and we quite easily found out that’s a lie, you came here with a perfected mid western accent, and again,” he traced his hand from his hair to the side of his head, cupping his face, “A lie, so tell me, darling, what’s your name,” He smiled, watching him closely. 

“I…I already told you, it’s Emil…you asked for it before… it’s Emil-”

A fist caught the end of his name, cutting his lip. “Now now, let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be. Your real name, darling, come on now - hurry up”

“It-it’s Emil, Emil Sinclair - I’m from Woodsworth south London, I’m-”

Another fist, his nose seeped blood, it spilled into his mouth as his captor gripped his hair and forced his head up, the blood suffocating him as it poured down his throat. 

“Pl-please, please”, He sputtered, gasping for air, “I’m telling you-”

The man let go of his head, Emil gasped, retching, spitting blood onto the floor in front of him. 

“I thought you’d be better than this. It’s a shame really, I thought you’d come far.” He sighed, shaking his head as he started to walk out, “I’ll see you in a few days,” He handed over a small key to the guards watching at the door. 

He’s all yours. Take him down, and do what you will with him. 

“N-no-” Emil’s eyes widened, “No, no,”

The guards opened the door, one of them walking over to him, already picking at the lock on his left wrist.

“Please, please no don’t-don’t leave me, don’t-It’s John!”

At that, the captor paused. The guard finished uncuffing him, already taking his baton out.

“It’s John. John Frasier. The academy gave me the fake name so I could forget, about-about my old life, I’m sorry…. I’m sorry please…don’t go…”

The man turned, smiling softly, “Good boy, John.” He holds out the cigarette, and the young spy’s expression brightens, he reaches out for it, “It’s a shame, though….If only you’d behaved that well from the start.” He dropped the cigarette on the ground and walked out, closing the door behind him. 

As would usually happen after the door shut, the guards would lock it, they’d take out their batons, and do with him what they would. Then, after, if he was good, and quiet, they’d let him crawl to the cigarette, and light a match for him. Every cigarette, every time he was good and quiet for them, was a new burn mark on his torso, was a new treat earned. 

[pretty-face-breaker]

A sickening crack sends the whumpee crumbling against a wall and they draw their quivering hand up to the blooming bruise on their cheek. A drop of blood on their thumb. Throbbing in their skull from the point of contact.

Their breathing shakes as they eye their assaulter with confusion. “Wh-…?” 

“Because.” The whumper rubs their fist, grinning. “I wanted to.”