Light Me On Pyre

An (adult-ran) sideblog to spam my favorite whump prompts and stories I find. Other blogs of mine are @PyrePostings and @PireFyreLight.

[gottawhumptheblorbo]

Imagine stoic Whumpee, exhausted and in unbearable pain, finally breaking and bursting into tears when they’re ordered to ‘get on their knees’ by Whumper who is slowly unbuckling their belt with a nauseating glint in their eye

Whumpee sobs and begs incoherently until eventually Whumper laughs and tells them to ‘lighten the fuck up and learn how to take a joke’

[gottawhumptheblorbo]

Cue bitchy Whumpee with a death wish saying they know how to take a joke.

After all they’ve taken Whumpers joke every night

[g5-iguazu-deactivated20240408]

i dont want wholesome nonbinary characters give that motherfucker a gun

[whump-tr0pes]

Beneath Gunmetal Skies - Chapter 7

Marcus knows his role on his team: he’s the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.

AO3

Masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Sacrifice | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service

Contents: military whump, living weapon, on the run, escape, blood, thoughts of death, Marcus still doesn't realize how much he cares about Jake (but he will), past torture, sniper, gunshot wound, 'I will only slow you down'/'I won't leave you', shock, field medicine, improvised tourniquet, touch aversion, begging

~

Marcus paused to catch his breath at the edge of the base. He and Jake had barely seen a single soul on their way here – not that seeing two Levs out on their own would be a cause for concern normally. It was more… the blood. Both their shirts were stained with it, and it was devastatingly obvious where it was coming from, even though the bleeding from their throats had all but stopped. If they were caught, they weren’t getting consigned. They’d be put on their knees and shot where they knelt.

“What’s past this?” Jake whispered, peering out into the empty field before them. The floodlights didn’t reach much past the building they were hiding against, but… there was no cover at all once they walked out into the field.

“There’s a fence about a hundred feet away,” Marcus said. “And some industrial shit beyond that. Past the fence… it’s the city, kid. You’ve been in it.”

Jake looked at him with that same wide-eyed look he’d been giving Marcus for months.

He’d been tortured in that city not twelve hours ago.

Jake swallowed hard. “And that’s where we’ll lie low?”

Marcus had to hand it to him – his voice barely shook at all when he said that. He shrugged. “Like I said, I didn’t think that far ahead. Farthest I thought was getting you out from under the needle. That’s been done. Now we just…” He took a deep breath. “You ready to run?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. Run in a zigzag.”

“Yeah.”

They took off running.

The grass was hard under Marcus’s boots; they weren’t watering it as well out here, where no one would see it. He dashed one way, then another. Jake was just as frenetic.

The zigzag was risky. It was a lot more likely to get someone’s attention, but then, it was a lot more likely to save them in case—

Didn’t help anything at all to dwell.

“Keep fucking running,” he ground out. “Don’t stop.”

Jake glanced behind him. His steps stumbled.

Marcus shoved him forward. “Don’t fucking look, run. Keep running until you reach the fence.” Right. Left. Right again.

With each step, Marcus anticipated the punch of a bullet between his shoulder blades – or just the flash of one passing through his brain, with the oblivion after. He couldn’t bring himself to glance at Jake. He couldn’t stand to be watching when that happened to Jake.

When they reached the fence, he couldn’t fucking believe it. It was just chain link, too – an eight foot chain link fence standing between them and freedom. No barbed wire or anything. He screeched to a halt, touched it just to make sure it wasn’t electrified. Nothing.

His hands made a cradle in front of him. “Alright, kid,” he panted. “I’ll boost you. Chop chop.”

Jake put his foot into Marcus’s hands and heaved himself up. When he reached the top of the fence he swung a leg over, climbed down, and landed with a thud.

He was free. The kid was free.

Marcus dug his toe in and started to climb.

A bullet whizzed past his head, through the fence. He heard the gunshot less than a second later.

Bullets go faster than sound.

He always seemed to forget that, when he was the one being shot at.

“Fuck,” he spat. “Kid, get down.”

Thankfully, Jake hit the deck in record time. Marcus scrambled up the fence. He reached the top, prepared to swing a leg over.

A bullet punched through him. Agony speared his calf, and he made a sound like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him. Blood trickled down his leg, instantly soaking his sock. He hung from the fence like someone’s goddamn laundry. He couldn’t move. He waited for the next bullet to pierce his skull and erase him.

“Marcus! No!” The kid leapt onto the fence, began to climb up to him.

Shock held him firmly in place, but he found his mouth. “F-fuck off, run,” he ground out through his teeth.

Another bullet whizzed through the fence, inches from Jake’s face. The sniper must be… at least a mile or two away. And a shitty one at that, fuck. Even in the dark, Marcus should have been dead. Jake, too. This was fucking inexcusable.

Jake reached the top of the fence and stretched over it, hands fumbling for Marcus. “Marcus,” he gasped. Jake tugged at his arm. “Marcus, come on, you’re at the top, just put a leg over and I can help you down…”

To his shock, a bitter sob broke through Marcus’s chest. “Don’t make me watch you get shot because you fucked up again,” he snarled. “Now fuck. Off.”

Jake’s mouth hardened. One arm seized the collar of Marcus’s shirt, and the other tightened on his belt. “You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that?” he murmured. He dug the toes of his boots into the fence, leaned back, and hauled Marcus up and over the top of it.

Marcus cried out as they both tumbled eight feet to the ground. His ruined leg folded under him. His mouth opened wide against the pavement in a silent scream. He waited for the next bullet. Instead, he felt Jake’s hands on his arm, pulling him upright.

“Fuck, Jake, you need to leave me,” he said – but his voice was edging dangerously close to a plea. “You need to drop me here and run, okay? Your chip is out. You can make it. Just—”

A bullet pinged off the fence and flew past them.

“I’m not gonna do that.” Jake slung Marcus’s arm over his shoulder. He took Marcus’s weight, began to move with him toward the dark warehouses in front of them. “Okay? I’m not going to leave you. I’m just not. So just… just… hold on, until I can get us somewhere I can look at your leg, okay? Can you hold—”

“Yeah, I can fucking hold on,” Marcus said through his teeth. Tears of pain leaked from his eyes. He let those fall. Those, he could understand.

One last bullet whizzed past them and buried itself in the parking lot just in front of them. They both kept moving. Jake passed the first warehouse on the block, forced the door on the second. Inside, it was just as dilapidated as it looked on the outside. But, at least it was empty.

It wouldn’t matter too much if anyone from the base came looking for them, though. Their chips may be gone, but Marcus was leaving a trail of blood that would lead any search party straight to them.

“Fuck,” he spat as Jake dragged him across the dark, echoey warehouse. He was getting lightheaded. And cold. “Jake… we’re gonna need to stop the bleeding soon, kid.”

“Okay. Let me just…” He helped Marcus up the stairs to the mezzanine, across a narrow walkway to an office that overlooked the entire warehouse. The door was unlocked. Jake didn’t bother clearing it before he dragged Marcus inside. Marcus bit his tongue and decided not to chew the kid out about it this time. Jake lowered him to the floor. Marcus was grateful for the windows along one wall, otherwise they’d be doing this entirely in the dark. The faintest glow of sunrise was just enough to see by.

Marcus only realized his hands were shaking when he tried to take off his belt. He fumbled at the buckle, not computing why his fingers kept slipping off. Blood soaked into the filthy industrial carpet beneath him. Jake pushed his hands away.

“Let me,” Jake said, and this time, Marcus relented.

Jake slid Marcus’s belt out of the beltloops and wrapped it around Marcus’s leg. He glanced around the office; his eyes settled on a stapler. It would have to do.

He slid the stapler under the belt and began to twist it, tightening the tourniquet. Marcus hissed out a breath, laid back against the floor. Jake only got one full twist before he couldn’t tighten it anymore. He strapped the whole contraption down and sat back on his heels. His hands were red with Marcus’s blood.

“F-fuck,” Marcus breathed.

“I’m sorry,” Jake whispered. “Marcus, I… I didn’t… I didn’t know this was going to—”

“What, th-that I was going to g-get shot saving…? F-fuck, why can’t I stop…?” Marcus’s teeth were rattling. With a start, he realized he was shivering.

“You need to stay warm,” Jake whispered. He glanced around the room, scrambled up to snatch a jacket from a hook on the wall. “Here. Put this…” He laid it over Marcus. “And I should probably take a look at it.”

“It didn’t h-hit bone,” Marcus said, staring at the ceiling. “And it’s a through-and-through, straight through my c-calf. I can f-feel it. What is th-there to see?”

Jake reached for the knife at Marcus’s belt. “I’m going to look anyway. Let me just—”

Marcus seized Jake’s wrist in a crushing grip. Jake winced and tried to pull his arm away.

Marcus just stared at him, unmoving. He couldn’t make his body do more than that. Yesterday, he would have pummeled the kid into the fucking ground for daring to try and touch him. Now, though…

Now…

“Please, don’t,” was all Marcus could manage.

Jake watched Marcus steadily. “I’m not going to do anything bad,” he said. “I just want to cut your pant leg off.”

Marcus’s fingers were leaving marks on Jake’s wrist. Slowly, he forced himself to loosen his grip. “That’s it,” he croaked.

Jake’s brow furrowed. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.” He got Marcus’s knife and made quick work of cutting away the ruined pant leg. He hissed through his teeth. “Holy shit. Yeah… a through-and-through. It’s pretty bad.”

“F-feels pretty bad,” Marcus said, staring at the ceiling once more.

“It’s not bleeding anymore, but maybe we should consider finding someone who can—”

Marcus’s hand shot out, hovered just a few inches in front of Jake’s mouth. Jake fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” Marcus whispered.

Jake sat up straighter. “What?”

There it was: the briefest crackle of radio traffic, the whispered response. A chill clutched Marcus from nape to stomach. “Fuck,” he breathed.

Beside him, Jake shifted to a crouch and made his way toward the door.

“No, Jake,” Marcus mouthed. It was the loudest he was willing to be. Not that it mattered. The blood trail was going to lead whoever was out there straight to the both of them.

At least his leg wasn’t going to hurt for much longer.

Jake held a finger to his own lips, spared Marcus only the briefest of glances. Silently as a cat, he stood in one fluid motion and disappeared out the door, carrying only Marcus’s knife.

Continued here

@i-eat-worlds, @quirkykayleetam, @foxesinsockses, @yet-another-heathen, @kixngiggles, @theloveofwhump, @maddys-nerd-blog, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @patheticlittleguy, @boxboysandotherwhump, @studyofwhump, @languageluna, @newbornwhumperfly, @violets-whumperflies, @basica11ywhumped, @whump-all-night, @clickerflight, @wolfeyedwitch, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @atlaswashere024, @twigsofmanyfaces, @apokolyps

[whumpologyy]

Unmade - Chapter 28.5

Lost & Found, Pt 2

Previous | Masterpost | Next

Content: missing person whump, law enforcement pov, misogyny/racism refs, grief/loss, angst

Taglist:@whumpyourdamnpears, @pleasestaywithmedarling, @whumpawaydarling, @hellodecisionparalysis, @inhurtandincomfort, @weibun-art, @hueningplushie, @whump-bunny, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @sorrowful-hyacinth, @daggers-and-dangers, @uraeus56, @whump-until-wretched, @alyscat, @light-me-on-pyre, @acelightningwhumper, @yet-how-they-creep, @kiiba-whumps, @jumpywhumpywriter, @withdrawingramen, @sunflowersmithh, @ziptiesnfries, @a-twisted-fiction

Chapter 28.5

This was it.

It had to be.

This man, their final "person of interest," had already seemed to fit the profile the team had been building. While it wasn't the end-all be-all, the profile was a vital part of the invesetigative process, and seeing how many boxes this man checked just gave the team another shot of adrenaline.

What they already knew: he was a loner, worked odd jobs, had spent plenty of time on campus within the vicinity of Vienna. Perhaps most importantly, had behaviors with women that were questionable enough to warrant attention but was calculated and organized enough to slip back into the shadows when those behaviors were brought to light.

And now that they had him — and all the information their analysts could dig up — there was even more.

He lived alone, in an isolated area, but nearby and for long enough that he was operating within familiar territory. Physically large. Not much social life to speak of. Demonstrated a strong distrust of law enforcement. Seemed to be perfectly capable of understanding right and wrong. Not much of a criminal record, but criminal records only proved what incidents had resulted in convictions. Not what events had actually taken place in a person's life.

The longer the DeNova case went on, the more Miller and the others became convinced that this was part of something bigger. Maybe a serial, maybe something organized. Whatever it was, it took knowledge and precision to snatch a well-loved, stable college student right off campus and not drop a trace of evidence for months. No strong physical evidence, no loose lips at a bar, and — thank God — no evidence of a body or remains.

So the team knew, both from experience and pure gut instinct, that finding this perpetrator didn't just mean finding Vienna DeNova — though that was, of course, at the top of all their minds, the ultimate goal and current focus. But what it also meant was digging up a trail. Other women. Probably bodies, but maybe not. Hopefully not.

But first they needed him to talk.

The man had been turned in by, of all people, a gas station clerk. Apparently their suspect was a frequent visitor and the clerk watched the news enough to recognize his face. When he'd come into buy some more beer, the clerk had gotten his name off his ID and called it in. Just like that.

That's what Miller loved about this job sometimes. You didn't need big bold heroes or dramatic takedowns. Just a neighbor looking out for their community.

So after months of work and wishing and grinding, their prime suspect sat in the interrogation room down the hall. A final puzzle to solve.

Once they'd figured out his real name, he hadn't been at all difficult to find. He lived in a rural community about thirty minutes out of town. State PD had showed up at his house and brought him in.

Now is when the countdown began. For 48 hours, they could hold a suspect without charging them with a crime — because, to be sure, though he seemed to fit like a glove, they didn't yet have any solid evidence that this man had committed any crime. Miller and the rest were prepping to talk to him and fill in the blanks. Number one, above all: figure out Vienna's whereabouts.

There was a restless energy to the room they gathered in, like they knew the information they needed was just a few steps away if they were able to reach out and grab it. The group was intentionally small: Grant and Miller as reps for the FBI, two reps from the state police, Herring as a witness so she could accurately convey information to the public and Vienna's parents, God willing.

And Carver. For Lakewood PD. But Miller registered him as more of an afterthought.

Carver was not late for once in his life, Miller noted. When Miller himself walked in, Carver was talking to Herring. Bold move. Miller supposed he was trying to act like the incident where she'd dressed him down a few weeks ago hadn't happened at all. Easiest way to keep an ego intact.

"This all works out, you won't even have your television show," he was saying to her. Almost like it was a disappointment.

The television show. Herring had arranged, along with Vienna's tireless parents, for the primetime show Disappearance Files to cover Vienna's case, get even more eyes on it. The filming was coming up soon. Maybe.

"I prefer not to speculate," Herring responded coolly. "Let's stay present and get what we need here."

She was right, of course. As she almost always was. Still, Miller allowed himself the smallest, most infinitesimal moment of imagining Zander's face when he told him. We found her. He'd finally get to tell Vienna herself that they hadn't stopped looking. Not for a second.

Then he pushed the thoughts away. It was nearly time.

There was a live video feed of their suspect sitting in the interrogation room, his large frame almost cartoonishly outsized for the tiny chair they'd provided. That was part of it, of course. Small metal chair. Lights unnecessarily bright. Heat cranked up. Let him be uncomfortable before the conversation even begins.

The plan was simple: send in one agent to rile the guy up, then swap him for someone much more sympathetic. It was very similar to the method they'd used with Lester and some of the others, but it was tried and true for a reason.

Miller was chosen to be the first guy up, the one to get under the suspect's skin. It was a no-brainer, really; from what they could see from what the analysts had dug up so far, the man was as racist as the day was long. Having to deal with a Black man acting as an authority figure, questioning him? Having congenial white faces replace him would be just the shot they needed to nudge him in the right direction.

Miller's job, then, was to treat their suspect with as much disrespect and belittlement as he could while still maintaining control of the conversation. Not exactly a tall order, Miller mused as he looked at the man on screen. Even if he could somehow ignore all the evidence they'd scrounged up that this guy was a racist, misogynistic bigot, this very well may have been the man who had caused so much pain for the community. For the DeNova's. Zander. The department itself, really.

It wouldn't take Oscar-winning acting, in short.

After a quick debrief, Miller went in. The heat hit like a brick wall, but he was ready for it. He intentionally didn't make eye contact with the suspect for a moment, leafing through the papers in the folder he carried like it was more important than the human sitting in front of him.

"Hello?" The man said irritably. Miller held up a finger and continued looking at the papers. He could see the man shift in his peripheral vision. Not someone who was used to being kept waiting, clearly.

Then he let the lavender folder slap down on the table with a THWACK noise. The man didn't jump. Just glowered.

"I'm Special Supervisory Agent Colton Miller," Miller told him, voice loud and clear. "And you're going to be talking with me today."

He could see the contempt in the man's eyes when he finally looked at him. The man spoke.

"I have nothing to say. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Then this should be easy. I have to say though, using an alias when applying for official jobs? Not something I see a lot of innocent men do."

The man rolled his eyes and said nothing.

"'Jon Smyth.'" Miller said it with a smirk. It really was ridiculous. "You really thought you were doing something with that spelling, huh?"

"Last I checked, privacy isn't against the law."

"No," Miller allowed, "but you were going a bit deeper than privacy here, weren't you? Completely unreachable. Even with your face plastered all over the state."

Miller let the silence stretch, but the man simply waited, looking at him impassively. Almost bored.

"Almost makes me think you were avoiding us."

"I prefer to live off the grid," the man said. "I'd barely heard of this girl 'til you called me in."

"Is that so?" Miller's eyebrows raised. "A major crime takes place at the exact spot you worked at last year, and you somehow miss it all?"

"Like I said," the man said flatly, "off the grid."

Bullshit. Even if he'd somehow missed his own face popping up on the news — which Miller very much doubted — anyone in the area with access to a television or a radio or a phone had heard about Vienna DeNova at this point. He moved on, not wanting the man to get mired down in his own lies.

"Tell me about the Lakewood job."

The man tonelessly listed off only the bare bone facts: the dates of his employment, his responsibilities, his work hours. All matched what Miller knew to be true.

"And then you were let go."

"No," the suspect corrected, the slightest bit of irritation edging into otherwise monotone voice. "I quit. Moved on to other opportunities."

"'Moved on to other opportunities,'" Miller echoed, leaning back in his chair with a loose smile. "Is that what they're calling it? I thought you turned and ran once the girls started complaining about you."

He saw it, just the tiniest shift: the man set his jaw. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I don't know where you get your information, but I was never charged with a crime."

"And yet you fled."

The suspect's eyes darkened.

There you are, Miller thought, adrenaline starting to buzz. There's the real you. Come out and play.

"College students are notoriously dramatic. One person says something, and you suddenly have a witch-hunt on your hands. I enjoy a quiet life. So yes, I chose to leave. That says nothing about my character."

"You see, you say that," Miller said, eyes locked with the other man, "but you know we did some digging on you. Seems like you have a trouble holding down a job." The eyes across the table flashed again, and Miller pushed further. "And you know, I can't help but notice, brother, a lot of your exits seem to involve some 'drama' with women."

Color rose in the man's face. "What are you implying?"

"Oh, did it sound like I was implying something? I meant to say it outright. I think you have a problem with women."

Miller saw it, each little sign: the man's nostrils flared, his fists curled, and he got impossibly redder. Miller had found the button. He leaned forward.

"Now, don't go getting upset. I see a lot of guys like you. What is it? You impotent? Can't say I can relate, but sounds like it'd be tough."

The man made a choked scoffing sound. An intentional smirk crawled across Miller's face. That's right, let it all boil over….tell me something to prove how wrong I am….

"Mommy issues are a big one too." Miller's adrenaline jumped as he saw the man stiffen. "Oh shit, don't tell me you've got both?"

The man's face twisted and Miller could tell he was about to leap out of his chair. He shifted his tone completely, no longer mocking but utterly authoritative and in control. "You're going to want to calm down, sir."

Whiplash. Remind him he's still in an interrogation. Remind him that right now, he's small. Then bring in Grant and the good cop team and let him crumble under their sympathy.

The man leaned back, shaking with rage. Miller knew he'd put his finger on something. These guys really were all the same, weren't they?

Silence lay thick in the room as Miller let the suspect catch his breath. The man glared at him over his thick beard — one that he must have grown, Miller assumed, to distance himself from his old picture making the rounds — blue eyes piercing. Oh, he was pissed, alright.

"So." Miller's voice was silky and smooth. "Let's keep learning about you."

He opened the lavender file in front of him. It was stuffed with fake papers to make it look fuller than it was, but the ones on top were real. Miller looked at the first page where the man's real name was displayed.

"Not Jon Smyth. Stephen Jourdain. You prefer Stephen or Steve?"

"I prefer Mr. Jourdain."

"Really? I prefer Steve."

Jourdain exhaled hard through his nose but said nothing. Miller looked up as if the sound had caught his attention.

"You're sweating, Steve. Nervous?"

"It's hot in here." Each word was gritted out through bared teeth.

"Really? I feel just fine."

Miller reviewed Jourdain's information for another couple minutes, letting him stew in the heat and tense silence, until he heard a double knock on the door. The signal to come on out. Well, they must consider Jourdain primed by now.

Miller stood, taking the folder with him. "Well, Steve, as fascinating as you are, I have to get going. Someone's got to oversee your property being searched."

Miller let himself take in Jourdain's furious expression for just a fraction of a second before turning and walking out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The cooler air outside the interrogation room hit like a fresh breeze. Damn bad cop role had all the discomforts. Still, Miller would be lying if he said he hadn't gotten a bit of twisted enjoyment out of toying with the guy. And hopefully it was one stop closer to Vienna.

When he approached the table the team was sitting at, he Miller sensed the grim atmosphere immediately. It was as if someone had popped them all with a needle and deflated all the air out of them. Grant's shoulders were heavy, Herring stared down at the floor. Even Carver seemed more listless than usual.

"What?" Panic suddenly rose in his throat. "Don't tell me — a body?"

"No." It was Grant that spoke. He cleared his throat and continued, "No, nothing to do with Vienna. We just heard from Jourdain's lawyer."

Huh. It threw a bit of a wrench in things, sure, but suspects lawyering up was standard practice. That wasn't all. Miller waited.

"He's on his way, but there's not much to say. There's video of Jourdain at a town hall meeting on the evening of May 9th. It's time-stamped and everything. Never left his seat. Solid alibi" Grant looked at Miller. "Nothing out of order at his house. Nothing strange on his devices, except some conspiracy theories. There's….nothing."

Miller stared at him for a moment. The room seemed smaller than it had when he had walked in just moments earlier. The wheels in his head were grinding in slow motion as his brain forced itself to the conclusion they all already knew: this man, no matter how many boxes he checked, had nothing to do with Vienna DeNova's disappearance.

And just like that, they were back with nothing.

"Fuck."

"I know, it's —"

"Fuck!" Before he knew it, Miller's boot hit the wall next to him. The noise seemed amplified in the small space.

The room went very still. Herring looked stern. The look in Carver's eyes was almost vindicated, like he'd had a theory confirmed.

Miller's eyes briefly fluttered shut. Don't do this. Not here. Not now. Not with them. Not you, the only Black man in the room. When he opened them, it was like a different man speaking. "Excuse me. I…I apologize. I just need a moment."

He didn't leave time to look at any of their faces before he swept out of the room. Beige walls and grey floor passed in almost a blur until he'd weaved his way out of the building. Miller took in a deep inhale of chilled October air, letting him cool him to the bone.

Solid alibi……There's….nothing.

There wasn't even room for it to be a mistake. For one of them to pull something out, some shiny piece of evidence that said, But wait! There's hope!

It was just….done. They hadn't caught a mastermind, or a serial predator, or the kidnapper. He was just some asshole.

And Vienna DeNova was still out there. Still alone. Still suffering. And that, Miller thought, his head starting to throb, was the best case scenario. That was assuming, optimistically, that she was still alive at all.

Cold steel bit his hands as he clutched the railing in front of him, bracing himself against the barrage of thoughts in his head.

He'd done the worst thing he could have done.

He'd let himself hope.

Not on facts. Not on reasonable expectations. Not on anything that, as an investigator, he'd learned was an absolute necessity in managing expectations. No, Miller had let himself hope out of pure desperation, on the longing to bring peace and closure to the DeNovas. To Zander. To the entire community. To Vienna.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the door opened and shut behind him. Grant.

Before he'd even fully turned around to face his boss, Miller was already apologizing, professional face back on.

"Listen, I'm really —"

But Grant just held up a hand. "No need."

And Miller quieted, because he knew he meant it.

Grant stood next to him, lit a cigarette. Times like this, Miller really wished he hadn't quit. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"….others' alright?" he finally asked.

"Disappointed. Just like you. Taking time to process."

Miller snorted. "That's what you call this, huh?"

"Absolutely, I do. And I'd rather have an imperfect human working for me than some emotionless robot, for the record." He glanced at Miller out of the corner of his eye. "You do your best work when you're invested. Even when it hurts."

Miller sighed heavily. "We were all just so sure…."

"We put all our eggs in one basket," Grant agreed. "Hell, I did it right along with you. I wanted this to be the one."

"Me too."

They both stared out at the darkened parking lot for a few minutes, the smoke from Grant's cigarette swirling around them like the tangle of thoughts in Miller's head.

"Going back to work tomorrow is going to fucking suck."

Grant barked a laugh at Miller's blunt statement, and Miller couldn't help but smile a bit at the sound. But thinking about tomorrow, about admitting to everyone that they were wrong, that they were back to square one, made the grin fade quickly.

"I mean….what the fuck do we do now, Grant?"

Grant clapped him on the shoulder, offered him a mirthless grin. "We keep going."

Miller managed to avoid the rest of the team when he went back in to get his things before heading out to his car in the lot. Grant had ordered them all home to rest, recuperate, and come back tomorrow ready to work the case just like they had been. It didn't take away Miller's feeling of a boulder on his chest. But at least they all had space to breathe, theoretically.

He flipped the radio on to fill the quiet. The DJ's voice filled his car, almost obnoxious in its chirpiness, but the words practically hit Miller over the head. He'd almost forgotten what day it was. He glanced at the clock — 8:07— then turned on his blinker and made a U-turn.

The Lakewood sport center parking lot was crowded. Made sense. Basketball was their biggest sport, after all. They'd had that big celebration last spring and everything. Just before….

Miller forced the thought out of his head as he turned his car off. Right now was not the time to be thinking about that. Wait until tonight, or tomorrow at debrief with the team. Right now, he didn't want a trace of grief or frustration of disappointment to show on his face.

The gym was, as the parking lot predicted, very crowded. Students wearing blue and green filled the bleachers. Some wore face paint of body glitter or colored hair extensions. Their world was still turning just as usual. In a way, it felt relieving. He had half expected to see a poster or two commemorating Zander's birthday, but didn't spot any.

Miller found himself a spot on the first level and leaned against the railing. He was late, unfortunately, but not by much — they were still in the first quarter, scores in the single digits, opposing teams trading the lead every few minutes. His eyes scanned the court until he found Zander, sporting his 86 jersey near the far wing.

Miller had never been a basketball player — football had been his sport, his outlet — but he knew enough about the game to recognize that Zander was, objectively, a good player. He was quick on his feet, constantly scanning the court, wasn't afraid to get into the thick of it. Played like a real team player, and earned himself plenty of high fives and fist bumps in the process.

He almost seemed like a different kid out there. He seemed somehow more….alive.

It wasn't until halftime that Zander bothered to look over towards the stands. He was grabbing a water bottle, and had just turned away when he did a double take at Miller. Miller just gave him a casual nod.

Ah, Christ. Miller felt a tug at his heart — Zander's eyes had absolutely lit up, just for a moment, just before he caught himself. The kid arranged his face back into a neutral expression and gave Miller a nod back before turning back to his team.

But Miller had seen it, as he did every so often, when Zander let him. A kid who just wanted someone to show up for him, to see him. And somehow Miller had become that guy.

God, it'd be annoying if Sydney was right.

The second half passed in a flurry of passes and rebounds and shots. Lakewood pulled further and further ahead, Zander sinking more than one free throw in the process. He never seemed to let himself celebrate much. Just nodded like he'd checked something off a to-do list and got back to the task at hand.

By the time the final buzzer blew, Lakewood won with an easy 84-68. The stands erupted in whistles and applause and cheers. Miller clapped along, the centuries-old weight in his bones feeling temporarily lifted. There was plenty of joy in the world. Plenty of good. He had to remember that.

Most of the students filed out of the building to return to their dorms or, more likely, afterparties, but Miller lingered by the exit. What, like he could show up and not tell the kid happy birthday?

A short time later, Zander came out with a few teammates, showered and in fresh clothes. That same expression came over his face when he saw Miller again, shock but a definite degree of excitement.

"Hey — I'll catch up," he said to the other guys, stopping by Miller's side as they nodded and move along.

"I don't mean to keep you from your friends. I know it's your birthday. And, hey, happy birthday."

"Nah, we're doing the birthday shit over the weekend. They've got class and stuff in the morning."

Miller had never known college students to use class as a reason not to party, but he let it slide.

"So…" Zander ran a hand through his damp hair. "You came."

"Of course. Had to see if you could back up all that trash talk." Zander huffed a laugh and looked down at his feet. "Turns out I don't have much of a leg to stand on."

Zander looked up at him with a little grin, and Miller was glad to see what he hoped was pride in it. Before Miller could say anything else, though, Zander practically blurted, “My parents didn’t come.”

Oof. Miller could see the immediate regret in Zander's expression, the urge to stitch back open the wound he'd just opened for Miller. So he kept it cool. just shrugged. “Their loss. You played hard.”

Zander swallowed. “…Thanks.”

Miller clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm, grounding. “Don’t thank me, kid. Just keep showing up.”

He let it hang, hoping it would stick in Zander's brain. Let tonight just be that. He doesn't have to know about dead-end leads or Herring's concern or anything else tonight. Just…keep showing up.

"Now, Mr. Twenty-One, let's go get you a beer. Legally."

And when he saw Zander's smile, bashful but undeniably delighted, he knew he'd made the right choice.

It was about a week later, back at work. Returning after the final lead fell through was, as Miller had predicted, pretty excruciating, but they managed. They'd had to put out the news that their person of interest had been identified but then dismissed. This had led to the typical barrage of disappoint and criticism, the accusations that clearly the team was not doing enough, that they were overlooking obvious clues, or that there may be a grand conspiracy coverup. The usual.

Telling Vienna's loved ones had been the worst. Herring had returned from her meeting with Vienna's parents with a drawn expression and promptly shut herself in her office for the remainder of the afternoon.

Miller had taken it upon himself to tell Zander. It didn't feel right to let him hear about it on the news. He'd expected a blow-up, but Zander just stared at him for a long time, then nodded numbly.

"'Kay. Figures."

Which, to Miller, was worse than any shout or kick could have been.

Now, they were focusing on the upcoming TV special. Disappearance Files was going ahead. A portion of the broadcast was going to be dedicated to their search for the person of interest, but now that this was old news, they were putting together a brief profile to share with the public.

Miller's phone rang. Front desk. He picked it up with one hand while continuing to type with the other.

"Miller."

"There's a young man out here who'd like to speak with you."

Was this not routine yet? Usually Zander just walked back.

"Yeah, we're just letting him through lately, as long as I'm in the building I don't mind—"

"I think you should come up." There was something pointed in the voice that Miller couldn't quite place. His fingers stilled on the keys.

"I'll be right there."

After hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand down his face. Now what? Were Zander's feelings finally bubbling over? Was it one of the cleared suspects back to chew him out?

As he made his way to the front of the office, Miller's mind was only half present. With the leads fallen through, there seemed to be an impossible amount of work to do but also a vast expanse of nothingness in front of them. So much ground to make up. So little tools to do it with.

But when he walked by the front desk and saw the young man standing there, the present hit him in the face like a bucket of cold water. Because it certainly wasn't Zander. Or one of the suspects. Or anyone Miller could have expected to see here, in this place, right now.

It was Conor.

Conor in a way were Miller almost couldn't place him, still quite thin but well-groomed: clean clothes, fresh haircut, shaved face. He looked….good. God, he actually looked good.

He looked at Miller with an uneasy, almost imploring smile, and without warning Miller only saw his little brother looking for approval the same why he had when they were kids.

"Hey."

[light-me-on-pyre]

The man glared at him over his thick beard

ah fuck it's not even him :(

"Not Jon Smyth. Stephen Jourdain. You prefer Stephen or Steve?" "I prefer Mr. Jourdain." "Really? I prefer Steve."

Well either way he's an asshole so get em lmao

"Yeah, we're just letting him through lately, as long as I'm in the building I don't mind—"

aww <3 like ig thats assumed by now but its so cute to see him casual about it like that

[for-the-ouchies]

Whumpee is very good. Too good to be true. When whumper tells them to kneel, they kneel. When whumper tells them to beg, they beg. When whumper tells them to hold still or relax, they do that, too. Whumpee is good, and still, and quiet, conserving energy because whumper likes them that way. They are very good for whumper, and they submit so prettily, and they are so fragile-looking…

And all they have to do is obey. And wait. They know when their opportunity will come.

Whumpee is very good, yes. They have decided that they will be good for whumper- they will kill whumper quickly, even though they could do so much worse. They hold still and sit pretty and obedient, and this gives them time to think, time to plan. They know they cannot afford to fail. That’s fine. They won’t.

[ninja-potato-shelby-solomons]

#dirty minds worldwide

[goodbyeapathy8]

Beloved mutuals, we gather here today-

[dduane]

Completely true. :)

[survivesurvivingwhump]

Whumpee who is raped by Whumper while they're in a weakened state from being sick and afterwards becomes a massive germaphobe who tries to avoid getting sick at all costs so someone can't take advantage of it like that again

ohhhhh that's so chewy, i love that. i love when the trauma manifests in ways that are related to the circumstances surrounding the rape not just the rape itself. that terror of being vulnerable, being helpless. tying the rape to the sickness, this wouldn't have happened to me if i weren't sick, this won't happen to me again as long as i don't get sick.

and then the next time they do get sick. and maybe there are people in their life, or a particular person, who they trust. people that make them feel safe. but this... there's trusting them and then there's this. there's the presence of another person around when they're sick, and the sheer terror that comes with that. how can they possibly take that risk?

what if they were so sick they didn't have a choice?

[knivestothroats]

victimeyez: “An ex-captive……….. is a kind of dead wife.”

[knivestothroats]

#so what you are saying is Buck is Fletcher's dead wife in the ITWS sequel

yes that is what he meant by this. like he said it unprompted but then started talking about fletcher and buck.

[violets-whumperflies]

Here's a fun way to torture or even execute your whumpee if you have access to an ocean: bind them to a post in the rising tide and wait for the waves to drown them.

At first, the tide is low enough that the main unpleasantness comes from exposure to the elements. Whumpee's skin becomes sunburnt. Ocean spray soaks their clothes, then leaves them shivering. Salt water stings at open wounds.

Slowly, over hours of increasing discomfort, the tide rises. It splashes Whumpee's shoulders, then their neck, then their face. They can't move; all they can do is brace for each new wave, holding their breath, eyes closed against stinging salt water. They time some of their breaths wrong and the water goes into their nose and mouth, making them cough and splutter.

The ocean is a forceful thing. Each wave pushes Whumpee backward, battering them within their restraints. If they weren't tied upright, they'd be pushed over. The worst is waves breaking against them, a rush of foam and noise and pressure.

The tide grows higher, and Whumpee knows they will drown soon. Yet each brief respite between waves keeps them clinging to consciousness. They choke on bitter seawater and wish they could just close their eyes and go. A splash in the face forces them awake again. Their lungs burn for the scattered breaths of air even as they become rarer.

Is Whumpee rescued before the water closes over their head for good?

(this post brought to you by The Three Musketeers II: Milady [imdb page has like 2 images of the scene] and my experience swimming in the ocean for the first time in ages)

[butterflywhump]

you can also bury them up to their neck in sand! if you don’t have access to restraints strong enough

Especially if you don’t want them to escape! That was an execution tactic by pirates and the mythbusters tested it in both wet and dry sand. In wet sand, with the tide and ocean water close by, it’s basically impossible to get out. The water refills any holes you are able to make with sand; so even if someone showed up to help rescue them in time it would still be very very very difficult to get them out.

(Tory was unable to escape from the wet sand and they had to let him out with the safety quick release. It’s a pretty interesting episode! I think it’s been uploaded to YouTube as well. The pirate episode.)

[whump-tr0pes]

Beneath Gunmetal Skies - Chapter 45

Marcus knows his role on his team: he’s the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.

AO3

Masterlist

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service

Contents: living weapon, recovery, gunshot wound, guilt, angst, past noncon, past gang rape, I'll tag nsfwhump for that, past beating, implied institutionalized transphobia, mentions of surveillance, paranoia, thievery, gun, on the run, Marcus is very in touch with his emotions why do you ask?

~

Lars went to run their clinic that night. Before they left, they made sure Marcus could get to the toilet on his own, and had enough food and water within reach if he didn’t feel like getting out of bed.

“You’ll want to get out of bed every few hours if you can, though,” they had said. “If you stay in bed too long, you’ll get blood clots, then you’ll be in a world of shit. Definitely can’t help you if that happens.”

As if Marcus wasn’t going to get up the moment they were out of the house. As if he could stand to let a moment pass without doing his absolute fucking best to start building his strength back up.

He didn’t even black out when he stood up. He was fine.

While they were gone, he wandered around the house, taking inventory of everything. He had to sit down every ten steps or so, but that didn’t matter. He was moving. He was fine. His leg felt good as new – amazing fucking timing that was – so all he had to worry about was his shoulder. He drank as much water as he comfortably could, to keep his blood pressure up. His left hand felt weak as hell, but he could at least open and close it. He tried taking his arm out of the sling Lars had given him. Pain punched through his wound, and he’d only avoided passing out by falling to his knees.

Too soon on that, then. But he could at least keep walking around. He could work on getting stronger, for Jake.

He couldn’t… couldn’t think much about Jake. Every time his mind wandered to Jake, to what was probably happening to him right now, the bottom would drop out of his stomach and he would freeze. Ghosts of sensation would crawl over and through his body: the whippings. The shocks. The— Everything else.

Tied down to a pool table, their laughter falling on his ears as he screamed and sobbed, “Please, I-I have conditioning in the morning, please don’t do this, please,” the sick motion of them fucking into him again and again, his helpless flinching as they beat him, the way his head had dropped forward toward the end and his tears had soaked into the green velvet—

He couldn’t think of that happening to Jake. He couldn’t. It… it wasn’t happening to Jake. Things like that happened to Marcus, not Jake. Jake just had to hold on through… whatever else was happening to him.

No. Marcus couldn’t think about that for long. So he just did what he had proven himself to be so fucking good at: completely amputating that part of himself. Jake was hurting, and Marcus couldn’t do a fucking thing to stop it. So he shut that part of himself off, killed it, smothered it without a shred of mercy. He had other shit to do in the meantime.

Lars’s place was well-stocked. They had plenty of food and more medical supplies than Marcus knew what to do with. No NanoStat, but that was fine. He could fix his shoulder the old-fashioned way. They also had a gun, which he found curious – or, at least, they had something in a locked gun case under their bed. Weird. They didn’t seem the type.

Then again, they didn’t seem the type to be stealing incredibly controlled substances from a drug administration run by AMTEC.

Maybe Marcus just hadn’t met very many normal people.

He looked around for the keys to the gun case. He searched for hours, in every nook and cranny he could find. He pulled every single book off the shelves – and they had more books than he had ever read in his entire life – and searched each one, in case one was hollow. He searched every drawer in the kitchen. He considered pulling up the carpet in their room, but decided that might give him away.

They didn’t have any cameras in their house, either, which he only realized after his third pass through of the place.

That made sense, though. Most home security companies directly contracted with AMTEC for their cloud services.

Pretty much everything in their home was low tech, Marcus realized. Low-tech fridge. Low-tech microwave. No TV. No plasma windows. No screens built into the mirrors. He figured he knew why; all that shit had cameras built in. If he remembered the hazy trip back to their place, they had a car, too, not a transport. A fucking car. With tires.

It was all pre-AI. After spending so long under AMTEC surveillance – after spending so much of his life with their cameras in his fucking eyes – wandering around a house that he was almost certain didn’t have a single camera in it made him feel… strange. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

The opposite of naked. Safe, maybe. He felt safe in this house, while Jake was out there being hurt.

It made Marcus sick. He shut the feeling down.

Marcus made sure to be back in bed when Lars came home. Not a single thing was out of place; he’d been careful. Lars looked exhausted but happy.

“Hey,” they said, putting their keys on the counter as they trudged in. “Oh, good. You’re still alive.”

“Still alive,” Marcus said, slowly getting to his feet. “Everything good?”

“Huh? Oh.” Lars kicked off their shoes. “Yeah. All good. Clinic went well. Got two new patients starting today, and that’s always exci—”

“No,” Marcus said. “I mean… no one followed you? No one… asked questions? No AMTEC?” He followed Lars into the kitchen. Before he did, though, he cast a glance at Lars’s keys.

There was a house key, a car key, a few other keys that looked like they belonged to different doors… and one small key. The logo on Lars’s gun case was emblazoned on it. Marcus looked up at Lars.

“Oh, no,” Lars said as they peered into the fridge. They were… remarkably okay with having their back to Marcus, especially after Marcus had attacked them with a hammer just a few hours earlier. “Just a normal day at the clinic. I just want to eat real quick, shower, and then sleep before my shift tomorrow.”

“Hm.” Marcus mentally went down the list of everything he would need. There was a spare backpack in his room, a few extra water bottles in the kitchen. Some bandages. Lars even had a few rounds of antibiotics in their stash of medical supplies. Some of Lars’s clothes, once they were asleep. Marcus hoped they were a heavy sleeper. And food. As much food as he could carry.

And, of course, the gun.

“You hungry?” Lars said, pulling out two containers of leftovers.

“Yeah.” He had to keep his strength up. “What is that?”

Lars pulled the lids off. “Leftover Thai. You want the vegetarian, or the chicken?”

“Chicken.”

Lars clicked their tongue. “Good choice. Gotta rebuild those muscle fibers.”

Marcus knew that. He would have chosen chicken no matter what, for that very reason. He waited as Lars microwaved the food. Once Lars handed him a container, he picked up a fork and prepared to dig in right there at the counter.

“Hey,” Lars said, picking up the containers and carrying them to the table. “At the table, dude. What are you, a farmer?”

“No,” Marcus said flatly. “Just a Lev.”

Lars flinched. “Yeah. Alright.”

Marcus inhaled his food. Lars watched him in stunned silence as he polished off the entire meal in about three minutes. They took another twenty minutes to eat their meal. Marcus fidgeted, glancing around the room.

“You can go lay down, if you want,” they said gently.

Marcus looked at them again, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“If you’re running out of energy,” Lars said. They nodded to the spare room. “You can go lay down.”

Marcus swallowed. “I’m not… running out of—”

“Marcus,” Lars sighed. “Go lay down.”

Marcus bristled. “Fine,” he grumbled. He picked up his takeout container and dumped it in the trash on his way to the bedroom. He dropped the fork in the sink. The noise it created made him flinch.

He listened as Lars fucked around in the bathroom for a bit, showered, and then went to bed. Marcus waited for about half an hour after that, then pushed himself out of bed. He crept to Lars’s bedroom and held his ear to the door. He could hear soft snores coming from inside. He returned to the spare room and got to work.

He snatched up the backpack and hung it from his good shoulder, stuffing the bottles of water into the bottom of it. He grabbed every nonperishable item he thought would fit on top of that. Next, the bandages and antibiotics. He set the pack down and cracked Lars’s door open. They didn’t stir. He rummaged around in their drawers, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and two shirts. They were smaller than him, but it would have to do. He shoved those into the bag.

Finally, Lars’s gun. He dragged the gun case out from under their bed. Lars stirred; Marcus froze, every nerve in his body blazing. They rolled over and started snoring again. He carried the case out to the kitchen.

Marcus snatched up the keys, holding them tight in his fist so they wouldn’t jingle. He carefully unlocked the gun case and opened it.

The gun inside was shiny and sleek. Marcus doubted Lars had ever even fired it. It was also fully loaded. He took it out and tucked it into the top of the pack, then zipped it shut. He left the open gun case on the table. No sense in putting it back and risking waking them up.

He was about to leave when he spotted a notepad hanging on the refrigerator with a pen stuck next to it on a magnet. He drew in a slow breath and let it out. Slowly, he walked to it and took up the pen. He wrote in his cramped, blocky script:

Sorry. Thanks for the help. Can’t risk AMTEC following me. Good luck.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him as he did. He made his way quickly down the street, panting, already dizzy. He barely made it a block to a dilapidated park before he sank to his knees, sweating through his shirt. He clumsily crawled under a slide and held his injured arm against his chest.

No matter what he felt, no matter how badly it hurt, Jake was suffering. Jake was being tortured, and he was getting closer to his execution every moment Marcus spent waiting to get strong enough to save him. He needed to get stronger, to save Jake. He needed to stay alive, stay away from AMTEC, for Jake.

He couldn’t think about that. He viciously shoved the thought away as he stretched out, resting his head on the backpack. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

Behind his eyelids, all he could see was Jake.

Continued here

If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.

@i-eat-worlds, @quirkykayleetam, @foxesinsockses, @yet-another-heathen, @kixngiggles, @theloveofwhump, @maddys-nerd-blog, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @patheticlittleguy, @boxboysandotherwhump, @studyofwhump, @languageluna, @newbornwhumperfly, @violets-whumperflies, @basica11ywhumped, @whump-all-night, @clickerflight, @wolfeyedwitch, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @atlaswashere024, @twigsofmanyfaces, @apokolyps, @grizzlie70, @whumpy-daydreams, @whumpwhittler, @painwithoutplot, @whump-blog, @alexmundaythrufriday

[whumpmehardandsoft]

Whumpee who survives, escapes, begins to heal, finds a cause and a new found family, and just tries to forget any of it happened.

Only to come to work one day and learn that their cause’s newfound benefactor is Whumper. They’ve become vital to the cause, through money/connections/supplies/intel. They’re starting to befriend Whumpee’s team’s members.

Nowhere feels safe anymore. Whumpee lives in constant fear of ending up in a room alone with Whumper, of being followed home. They’re too paranoid to be of much use to the group. The whole team notices, but Whumpee refuses to tell them what’s wrong, forces themself to treat Whumper like a casual acquaintance. Because if the team knew, they’d oust Whumper in a second, and too many lives are depending on the benefits Whumper brings to the cause.

(Or maybe, the Team would decide Whumpee wasn’t worth the loss and get rid of them instead. And even if it means falling back into Whumper’s clutches, they refuse to lose another family)

[justbreakonme]

Stoic whumpee desperately searching for a small, quiet, private place, just to scramble into it and let themselves break down. They couldn’t let anyone see but they just couldn’t hold themselves together anymore.

Sobbing with their hands clamped tight over their mouth, eyes squeezed shut, trying to get it over with, trying to cry it all out and force themselves numb again, but every time they think they’re calm enough to try again, another wave of grief and just…despair hits them all over again.

Does someone find them? A teammate? Whumper? A caretaker? Or do they manage to crawl out of their hiding place undiscovered, to save face for another day?

[whumble-beeee]

WE'RE SO BACK BABY CHAPTER EIGHTEEN FTWWWWW

I'm already about 1700 words in (my usual chapters are around 3000 to 3500) so I'm about halfway there! I honestly could probably even finish it today if I could give it my full attention, but sadly life duties call.

[inhurtandincomfort]

Eldwin repeatedly writing his name in his notebooks because no one uses it and he doesn't want to forget

[whump-and-more-whump]

And Eat It, Too

Content: BBU, institutionalized slavery, strangulation, just a general warning for some violence

prev <| masterlist

===

Ziya moved with much effort, grunting as he shifted off of his legs and pressed his back against the kitchen drawers. He felt numb, mostly. A welcome change from the violent bouts of sadness that had been chipping away at his soul ever since his day on the witness stand.

He dug his fingers into the squished remains of his cake, scooping up a handful and shoving it into his mouth.

“You shouldn’t eat that.” Niney’s piercing, grating voice was nails on a chalkboard to Ziya’s ears. “You’ll get fat.”

He chewed and he swallowed and he wiped his icing-covered fingers on his shirt before reaching down for another handful. “What, like you?”

Niney’s face twitched. His whole face, like an electric shock had pulsed from his eyebrows to his lips. He looked away.

“I’ll never understand why you let him talk to you like that,” Ziya said, “you always just take it like a fucking pussy.”

In his mind, he could hear Elise chastising him for using that word. His eyes would probably be burning at the thought of her if they weren’t already stinging with exhaustion.

“I’m not trying to make things worse for us.”

Ziya exhaled a laugh through his nose. “Pussy.”

Niney shifted his feet.

“Did you know?” He asked. “Did you know that I wasn’t going?”

“Of course not,” Ziya replied.

“I think… I think you’re lying.” Niney sounded unsure. He always sounded unsure, but especially in that moment.

Ziya took another bite. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“You should.”

Ziya rose to his feet, shaking the last remnants of crumbs and icing from his hand. “Why would I ever give a shit about the opinion of a guy who’s only ever capable of parroting whatever his master tells him? I don’t think you realize how fucking pathetic you sound.”

“I’d rather be pathetic than a cannibal.”

Hot flames flashed through Ziya’s chest, burning brighter with every inhale, eating up the oxygen in his lungs. “What was that?”

Niney bit his lip, averted his eyes.

“Fucking say that again,” Ziya took another step closer, bending ever so slightly forward so he could loom over Niney.

Niney’s eyes widened, his breath hitched. Good. He should be scared.

Surprisingly, Niney took a deep breath and turned his eyes to meet Ziya’s. That moment seemed to stretch for an eternity and all Ziya could do was stare into Niney’s eyes, burning blue like the flames of a gas stove.

“Everyone was talking about it at the courthouse,” Niney said. Maybe Ziya was imagining it, but he could have sworn the corners of Niney’s mouth twitched up into something like a smile. “You did it, didn’t you? You were dying, you didn’t have a choice. So you killed them and–”

Ziya flinched at the smack that echoed off of the walls, resounding through the room and ringing in his ears. It took a moment for his eyes to catch up, for him to realize that it was his hand that had caused the noise. He had struck Niney not unlike how Mr. Prichard had struck him a few minutes ago.

I’m sorry, he was going to say, but there was no way he would ever mean it. The words caught in his throat, his nose wrinkled at the thought of apologizing, and he really couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than satisfaction at the way Niney’s head snapped to the side, following the force of the blow.

Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be an invitation. Ziya expected Niney to turn away, maybe even apologize the way he would to Mr. Prichard. Instead, in less than a second, Niney closed the distance between them and Ziya’s back hit the floor.

He wheezed, the air punched out of his lungs, compressed between Niney’s knees and the linoleum. The back of his head knocked against the floor just hard enough to stab behind his eyes. He couldn’t move, not with the breath squeezed out of him. His muscles locked up. He was confined within his own body, a silent prisoner, forced to watch as Niney balled his shaky fingers into a fist.

The blow rattled Ziya’s spine, jolting his chest into triggering an inhale, flooding his lungs with much-needed air.

“Stop,” Ziya gasped, “stop it–”

The second blow was harder, catching Ziya’s cheekbone right on the bruise made by Mr. Prichard’s rings.

“Stop it!” Ziya wouldn’t say that he begged. He refused to think of it as begging even as he pulled his arms in front of his face to block the blows and said, “Nines, please, I’m sorry– stop– Niney–”

Niney didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. No words left his mouth, the only sounds being his laboured breathing, Ziya’s desperate cries, and the smack, smack, smack of knuckles hitting forearms.

He didn’t know when Niney would tire. He wasn’t sure if Niney would before Ziya was nothing but a pulpy corpse laying on the kitchen floor. There was no way in hell he was going to die in the middle of Mr. Prichard’s shitty apartment. He refused. He turned his head to the side and, as loud as he could muster, shouted, “HELP– MR. PRICHARD–”

Niney grabbed at his wrists, yanking his arms away from his face.

“PLEASE! HELP!”

“Shut up,” Niney hissed. His hands landed on Ziya’s neck, fingers resting just above that awful, itchy collar.

Ziya sucked in a deep breath. “BASTIEN–”

“Shut up!” Niney squeezed. His thumbs dug into Ziya’s Adam's apple, cutting off his air supply as easily as putting a kink in a garden hose.

Ziya gasped—he tried to gasp—but the breath stopped short, bouncing back out of his mouth as quickly as it came in. Two months ago, he would have thrown Niney off of him like a sack of flour. But he was weak. So weak that his feet scraped uselessly against the floor as he kicked his legs, trying desperately to buck Niney off with his hips. So weak that even though he hit and scratched and slapped, Niney held, digging his fingernails next to Ziya’s jugular.

“Just shut up.” Niney’s voice wavered. He leaned forward, pressing more of his weight into Ziya’s neck. Something wet hit Ziya’s chin. “Be quiet.”

Ziya met Niney’s eyes, he nodded, tried in vain to communicate that he would be quiet, he’d shut up, he’d do whatever Niney wanted as long as Niney let him breathe.

He couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing past his ears. It was hard to see, too. Everything was blurry and darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision. Through the pinhole, all he could see were Niney’s eyes. He saw blue, blue, blue and then nothing. Nothing.

The weight on top of him lifted.

He gasped.

Colour returned to his vision at the same time that the air returned to his lungs. He let his chest expand, blinked away the blurriness, and opened his eyes to the ceiling. Gratefulness washed over him. He was grateful for the air, for his life. He was even grateful to Niney for choosing to spare him.

SLAM!

He startled. It took some time to prop himself up on his elbows, moving between each inhale to search for the source of the noise.

There was a dent in the wall, a big one. Niney was crumpled next to it, curled into a ball on the ground with a thin trail of blood trickling down from his forehead. Mr. Prichard was standing over him.

“Nonono–” Niney was saying, as Mr. Prichard grabbed him by the hair. “No, sir– sir, please–”

Again, Niney went into the wall. The brittle drywall stood no chance, splintering and raining dust all over the two of them

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry, sir– I’m sorry–”

Ziya flinched when Mr. Prichard threw Niney to the ground, just like the cake. Niney landed at an awkward angle, he screamed when Mr. Prichard’s shoe landed on the side of his head.

Every kick drew a sympathetic jolt from Ziya’s nervous system. Four to the ribs, two to the chest, three to the head, and one to the neck. Niney choked at the last one, coughing as he curled in on himself, pressing his face into the floor.

Mr. Prichard didn’t like that, clearly. He grabbed Niney by the hair and lifted his head a few inches, just enough for him to meet Ziya’s eyes.

“I’m s– sor–ry,” Niney sobbed, right before his head cracked against the linoleum.

Mr. Prichard wrenched Niney’s neck back and slammed his head into the floor again and again. Blood flew from the gash on Niney’s forehead, the cuts on his lips, it splattered across the cabinets, the wall. His nose crunched, locks of hair tore from his scalp from the force of Mr. Prichard’s grip. At first he scrabbled to pry Mr. Prichard’s fingers away, then he twitched, then he stopped moving altogether.

“That’s enough.” It took way too long for Ziya to find his voice. “Sir, that’s enough. That’s eno–”

Mr. Prichard let Niney’s head drop, it thunked against the floor and Niney went completely still.

A few seconds that felt like an eternity passed, and Mr. Prichard stood. He looked down at Niney, nudged him with his foot, and went pale. Wet, mucus-y blood clung to Mr. Prichard’s shoe, pulling away in strings as he took a wide step back. He was trembling.

Ziya pulled his knees to his chest. “Mr. Prichard…”

“Are you okay?” Those dark eyes turned to Ziya, red-ringed and frantic. Mr. Prichard was kneeling in front of him, examining the bruises on Ziya’s arms, his face, the ring that he knew was forming around his neck.

“I’m fine,” Ziya rasped. He shifted to the side to get another look at Niney. “What did you do?”

Mr. Prichard stood abruptly and Ziya couldn’t hide the flinch. The sink handle squeaked and water rushed. Ziya looked up to see Mr. Prichard rinsing his hands, holding them there until the water no longer ran red.

He turned back, gripping Ziya’s bicep with cold fingers and hauling him to his feet. He used his other hand to grip Ziya’s chin, ripping his gaze away from Niney’s unmoving body.

“He’ll be okay,” Mr. Prichard said. It was obvious he was trying to convince himself more than anything. “He’ll be okay.”

“He’ll… be fine,” Ziya echoed, because Mr. Prichard’s hands were still stained a light pink and he didn’t want to find out what it would take to redden them again.

Mr. Prichard pulled him along, dragging him out of the kitchen. They stepped over Niney, walking down the hall and into the bedroom, the space that Ziya never visited unless he was cleaning it. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turned.

A police siren blared outside the window and both Ziya and Mr. Prichard froze, meeting each other’s gaze with wide eyes. Neither moved until the sired faded into the distance. The startled look on Mr. Prichard’s face would have made Ziya laugh if he weren’t trying so hard not to cry.

Mr. Prichard was the first to break, he stuttered out a shuddering breath and sank to the bed. His hands were still shaking, they seemed like they were only getting worse as he wrung them together.

Ziya spotted the half-finished bottle of wine on the cabinet, the one that Mr. Prichard had grabbed earlier. He picked it up and pressed the opening to his lips—there was only one glass and Ziya refused to drink from anything that had touched Mr. Prichard’s mouth—and tipped it forward. The wine was gross, lukewarm and sour. He didn’t really know what good wine was supposed to taste like but he was sure that wasn’t it.

It was better than nothing. The last time he could remember having a drink was with Jenna, she’d taken him to a family dinner and her cousin poured him a few glasses of champagne. It was a nice night, a nice memory.

Mr. Prichard swiped the bottle from Ziya’s hands and filled the glass nearly to the brim before handing the bottle back.

Ziya rolled his eyes and took another sip.

Mr. Prichard’s shoes scuffed against the carpet as he shuffled back to the bed and kicked them off with so much force that they hit the far wall. It made Ziya tense, even as Mr. Prichard sank down onto the bed, grasping his wine glass between his two shaky hands.

He didn’t want to talk about it, and Ziya was fine with that. Mostly.

Niney, or maybe Niney’s body, was still just outside the door. Ziya hadn’t stopped to see if he was breathing, hadn’t checked for a pulse. For all he knew, Niney was alive and every second he spent in that bedroom was a second that could be spent getting Niney to a clinic. Maybe even a hospital.

Ziya glanced at the door. He could just walk over and turn the deadbolt, that’s all he had to do. But he knew Mr. Prichard was looking at him looking at the door, and it made him feel cold and clammy all over. What if Niney was dead? What would he do? It wasn’t a stretch to think that Mr. Prichard would want to take care of the only witness…

He wrapped his arms around himself and took another sip of wine.

“You can sit down,” Mr. Prichard said, patting the mattress. His glass was already almost empty.

“I’m fine,” Ziya replied.

“Sit.”

Ziya sat in a stilted, automatic movement, practically throwing himself back onto the bed. He hugged the wine bottle to his chest like it was a shield, sliding his gaze to the ground to avoid Mr. Prichard’s stare.

“He was going to kill you,” Mr. Prichard said, “I had to do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Ziya muttered. The edges of the carpet were fraying and Mr. Prichard’s shoes had left grimy, bloody prints in the white fabric. It would take ages to get that out.

“I had to,” Mr. Prichard insisted.

“I know.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“He will.”

Mr. Prichard finished off his glass and set it on the nightstand, lying back and running a hand down his face. “I can’t go to prison.”

“You won’t.” Ziya put a hand on Mr. Prichard’s bicep, trying to offer an ounce of comfort. 

Mr. Prichard looked at him with wide, wet eyes. His bottom lip was quivering. It was pathetic, he might’ve beaten someone to death and all he could think about was whether or not he was going to get in trouble for it.

Ziya looked back over at the door. It seemed easy but it really wasn’t. The memory of Niney’s hands around his throat was still fresh in his mind. It made his heart pound, his hands shake. He didn’t want to go back out there alone and there was no way he was convincing Mr. Prichard to leave the safety of his room. Not that he had really tried to begin with.

“Lie down,” Mr. Prichard ordered.

Ziya looked down. The bed wasn’t small, but it wasn’t big either. Just barely enough for two people to lay side by side. Lowering himself into the empty space next to Mr. Prichard was awkward, even more so when Mr. Prichard reached out an arm and wrapped it around Ziya’s shoulders.

“We’ll take care of it in the morning,” Mr. Prichard whispered.

Ziya nodded, too tense to even think about forming a verbal response.

Mr. Prichard’s eyes fluttered shut and a minute passed before his breathing evened. Ziya wasn’t sure how he could sleep so quickly after what had just happened. He was still struggling to get his heartrate under control. He didn’t dare move, not with Mr. Prichard clinging to him like a lifeline. Instead, he just had to lie there and wait. So he did. Until, just after 2am, he heard a sound come from the other side of the wall.

A low, pained groan mixed with a sob. Whiny hyperventilating and then the thud, thud, thud of bare feet slapping against linoleum. Water running, a cupboard opening, and nothing. Nothing for about thirty seconds followed by the SMASH of shattering glass so abrupt that it made Ziya flinch. Another thud, and then more nothing. Except that time, the nothing stretched on for hours.

Some of the tension lifted from Ziya’s chest, at least Niney was still alive. It returned as Ziya was hit with the realization that if Niney was alive, the only thing stopping Ziya from waking up with a pair of hands around his throat was a flimsy bedroom lock and there was no telling if he’d even be allowed to stay there another night.

He couldn’t count on Mr. Prichard to protect him, for all he knew, he was one wrong word away from ending up just like Niney. The arm around his shoulder was heavy and he could feel Mr. Prichard’s breath tickling his face, a constant reminder that those bloody hands were only inches away.

There was only a week until Paris but Ziya was completely, unequivocally certain that he wasn’t going to make it to that plane.

===

A/N:

"I'm getting so much better!!!!!" - Bastien, last chapter

For realsies though, I'm still super unsure about how I feel about this one but it is how it isssssss

taglist: @light-me-on-pyre @paperprinxe @maracujatangerine

[kostusha]

to be loved is to be seen

[whump-tr0pes]

Beneath Gunmetal Skies 2 - Chapter 22

Chronic Pain for @badthingshappenbingo

Red is for posted, white is for requested/planned/written, feel free to send requests!

Marcus and Jake are finally safe from AMTEC - although their escape nearly cost them both their lives. Now they are free to heal and discover what they might be to each other - and they learn that AMTEC’s influence leaves not a single person in their lives untouched.

AO3

Masterlist

This is a sequel series to Beneath Gunmetal Skies. Start here, continued from here.

Contents: chronic pain, prosthetic, past noncon, recovery, PTSD, flashbacks, past cigar burn, scars, trauma reveal, fucky thoughts about noncon, Celeste's past revealed, past abusive parent, past transphobic parent, past self-harm (to escape parent and military service), ableist institution, reclaimed transphobic slur, medical poverty, nsfwhump

~

The arm was fucking annoying today. It didn’t hurt – Marcus had been beaten, stabbed, shot, and fucked by half the base by the time he was twenty-five years old, so this didn’t even come close – but it was a constant, nagging throb that began at his metal fingertips and radiated all the way up his arm, into the shoulder where the arm plugged in, and past that. Even the muscles that ran between his neck and shoulder hurt – only they didn’t hurt; he’d felt pain before, and this wasn’t pain. This was just… an ache. And it wasn’t bad. He could handle it. It was fine.

Working took his mind off things, and that was good. Being around Jake helped, too. And being around… other people. Normal people. Being around them, having them be okay with being around him… it was all good. It all helped. It all helped him feel like a person.

It made him feel more normal than the weird, anxious-ass guy who followed Lars around like a puppy all day, that was for fucking sure. Tobias. Wouldn’t last one goddamn week as a Lev, Marcus thought darkly.

No one should have to last a week as a Lev, came a thought on that one’s heels. That thought sounded and felt more like Jake. Marcus was okay with Jake living in his head. The thoughts that mind-Jake came up with were usually nicer than Marcus’s own thoughts, so he almost looked forward to the times they would pop up unannounced.

“Hey, um, Marcus?” came a hesitant voice from the doorway of the room Marcus was deep cleaning with a cloth and toothbrush, breaking his reverie.

Speaking of popping up unannounced.

“Yeah, Tobias,” Marcus said flatly, tilting his head so he could see the kid in his peripherals.

Tobias laced his fingers together in front of himself. “Um… Celeste said she had something for you at the front desk. For you or, um, Jake. But Jake’s giving someone an injection right now, so I just figured I’d—”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Marcus said, pushing himself from his hands and knees to his feet. He towered over Tobias once he was upright. The kid stepped backward into the hall to let him pass, and Marcus shouldered his way toward the front desk.

Celeste glanced up at him as he approached, then reached under the desk to hand him a white paper bag. “Your boy’s next dose came in,” she said as she handed the package out to him.

Marcus tore the bag open and fumbled with the orange pill bottle inside. “Next dose of…” He trailed off as he read the name on the bottle. A trickle of icy cold ran down the back of his neck.

Quinton, Robert.

“PEP,” Celeste said, waving her hand dismissively at the bottle.

Marcus stared at the bottle in his hand, reading the name over and over again. Quinton, Robert. He could see the name tag in his mind: white stamped into black, shiny and perfectly straight on a forest green uniform.

Robert             Quinton

Colonel            AMTEC

He could see the nametag on the jacket after it had been taken off and laid across the desk. He could see it close to his face as he was bent over that desk, a hand on the back of his neck to keep him down as he was spread apart and fucked.

He felt the scar on his hip flare to life, as if the lit cigar had been pressed there all over again.

He raised his gaze to Celeste, only too aware that he had frozen in front of her. “Wh-whose meds are these?” he managed through numb lips.

“Oh, they’re Jake’s,” she said distractedly as she adjusted her chair. “I just put them in under my dad’s name as a fuck you to—”

Marcus let out a choked sound. “Your dad.”

At that, Celeste looked up at him. She must have seen something in Marcus’s face, because her eyes went wide. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Why…?”

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus breathed. “Your… dad… And is he… AMTEC?”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ colonel or something, last time I heard,” Celeste snapped. “Why, are you…” She took a breath. “Fuck, Marcus, are you okay?”

He nodded automatically. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’ll… take these to Jake, and—”

“Wait,” Celeste whispered. “Did he… Did you know him?”

Gritting his teeth, grinding his forehead against the desk. One hand squeezing into a fist as his arm was pulled behind his back – not that he would have fought, not the colonel.

Not that he would have fought a fucking corporal. No one would have batted an eye at any of the enlisted or officers using him, as long as they didn’t damage him. By the time the colonel got to him, he’d already been so run through, it was practically expected. So he just squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together against the sick motion into him, the pain – that was pain – the horrible humiliation of having his pants around his ankles and his ass out for fucking.

Robert Quinton. He wasn’t even the worst, even with the cigar burn. He’d only fucked him two or three times, hadn’t even smacked Marcus around beforehand.

Celeste had asked him a question. Did you know him? “Yeah,” Marcus croaked.

She was watching him. There was no one else in the lobby, he realized belatedly, and for that he was profoundly grateful.

“Fucked you up, huh?” Celeste said.

Marcus just nodded again. He would have agreed to anything she said, really. He couldn’t feel his fingers. The pill bottle in his hand rattled. He nearly dropped it.

“Yeah, well.” She twisted her back in her chair. “Welcome to the fuckin’ club.”

He looked at her. “…what?”

She kept her eyes down, uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. “What is there to tell? He was trying to make me go into the AMTEC officer academy. Made me get the senator letters, submit my high school transcript, everything. I was set to go. I told him I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t hear it. Something about ‘making me a real man’ or some bullshit like that. He threatened to cut me off if I didn’t go. He owned my phone, my car, read my messages, tracked me everywhere…” She shrugged. “So the night before I was supposed to ship out, I fell down the stairs.”

Marcus blinked. “You… fell?”

“I fell.” She traced her finger along her wrist.

Along a scar at her wrist. A surgical scar.

“Oh,” Marcus breathed.

Celeste let out a bitter laugh. “AMTEC is very strict about who they let in. Or at least, who they let be an officer. They’ll let anyone join their fuckin’ city goon squad, but for the upper echelon, they have this, like… hundred-point physical you have to pass. You can’t have any ‘physical or mental defects’. At least when you’re a cadet.”

“I know,” Marcus said softly. “Levs have the same requirements.”

“Right.” She let out a bitter laugh. “When I fell, I broke my back, and fucked up my wrist pretty bad. I can do a desk job, but they won’t let anyone in who’s only cut out for that. Something about… battle readiness or some stupid shit like that. Plus, they don’t let trannies in at all now.” She snorted. “Dad wouldn’t pay any of my medical bills and kicked me off his insurance. Had to rely on the fuckin’ poor people shit, and that covers pretty much nothing. Ended up on a friend’s couch begging for mutual aid online. That’s how I met Lars, actually.”

Marcus didn’t say anything. The bottle was heating up in his hand.

“They saw my posts and let me crash on their couch, taught me some PT that actually helped a lot. They helped get me the job at the lab I work at now. And then when they started this place, I obviously had to help. So. Long story short, I guess, fuck that guy.” She pointed at the medicine bottle clutched in Marcus’s hand.

Marcus wet his lips. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you, so, it’s fine.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “I, um. I didn’t know, either. He’s kind of a monster, but it sucks finding out he was a monster to… someone else, too. Not surprising. Just shitty.”

Hearing the older man grunt as he pounded into Marcus, hearing their bodies slap against each other, hearing the colonel’s belt buckle jingle with each thrust, all while Marcus takes it in perfect silence. He’s been trained to handle pain. He can take far more than this without screaming.

“Y-yeah,” Marcus breathed. “Yeah, it’s… shitty.” He turned to go.

“I’ll see if I can get the scrip under a new name,” Celeste said to his back. “Since… I’ll see if I can do that.”

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Thank you, Celeste,” he said, and she buzzed him back through the door. Once he was alone again, he peeled the label off the bottle and tucked it back into the torn white paper bag.

If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.

@i-eat-worlds, @yet-another-heathen, @kixngiggles, @theloveofwhump, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @boxboysandotherwhump, @studyofwhump, @newbornwhumperfly, @violets-whumperflies, @whump-all-night, @clickerflight, @wolfeyedwitch, @atlaswashere024, @twigsofmanyfaces, @apokolyps, @grizzlie70, @painwithoutplot, @whump-blog, @alexmundaythrufriday, @atomicsandwichprince, @styx-n-st0nes, @jumpywhumpywriter, @pastlivesandleftoverstories, @light-me-on-pyre, @ziploc849, @thegravylady

[light-me-on-pyre]

yay cronic pain for marcus and also bonus celeste

he’d felt pain before, and this wasn’t pain. This was just… an ache. And it wasn’t bad. He could handle it. It was fine.

mhm. we'll see how long that actualy lasts.

The thoughts that mind-Jake came up with were usually nicer than Marcus’s own thoughts, so he almost looked forward to the times they would pop up unannounced.

aww hes trying to be nice to himself <3

Marcus was deep cleaning with a cloth and toothbrush,

boi that better not just be your standard cleaning rollout. you better be cleaning something small and delicate needing the fine bristles of a toothbrush and Not you not realizing there are better cleaning brushes now that youre a person hey come back here-

“Your boy’s next dose came in,”

aww your boy <3

But Jake’s giving someone an injection right now, so I just figured I’d—”

jake getting medical training 👀

He could see the name tag in his mind: white stamped into black, shiny and perfectly straight on a forest green uniform.

oh no

He could see it close to his face as he was bent over that desk, a hand on the back of his neck to keep him down as he was spread apart and fucked.

rip marcus.

not that he would have fought, not the colonel. Not that he would have fought a fucking corporal.

just all the way to the top huh

“I know,” Marcus said softly. “Levs have the same requirements.”

hm thats an interesting thing to say if she doesnt already know, and I'm guessing she doesnt based on how shes explaining things. Im sure she wont replay this conversation in her head later and also think that was an interesting thing for you to say, obviously ex amtec guy having this kind of reaction about an officer and the revealed connection. I'm sure that sound behind me isnt checkov loading another bullet into his gun.

[whump-tr0pes]

hm thats an interesting thing to say if she doesnt already know, and I'm guessing she doesnt based on how shes explaining things. Im sure she wont replay this conversation in her head later and also think that was an interesting thing for you to say, obviously ex amtec guy having this kind of reaction about an officer and the revealed connection. I'm sure that sound behind me isnt checkov loading another bullet into his gun.

*shoves a comically large rifle down the back of my pants* I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN I DEFINITELY HAVEN'T BEEN SEEDING HINTS ABOUT WHO IS WHAT AND WHO DOES WHAT THROUGH THIS ENTIRE BOOK 👀👀👀

I DEFINITELY DON'T KISS CHEKHOV ON HIS LITTLE RUSSIAN FOREHEAD EVERY NIGHT BEFORE BED OR ANYTHINGGGGG