If Missy can’t find a suitable companion, she will make one.
Summary: A home truth, or two.
Whumptober Theme: Alt. 3 ‖ Comfort
Warnings: Kidnapping. Dark!Missy. MIHOW. Blood. Stockholm Syndrome.
Word Count: 697
NB: it’s happening and it’s poorly written help
You watch in silence while Missy shrugs off her jacket and rolls up the sleeves of her blouse, pushing the white cuffs to her elbows. The sight of her pale forearms makes your head swim almost as much as the concussion. With her back turned to you, she’s indecipherable, but the position does, at least, grant you the freedom to stare.
“I’m sorry,” you say eventually. Her shoulders twitch at your voice. “You know, for- for ruining the plan.”
“It’s fine,” she answers tightly, still not looking at you. “I’ll find another way. There are other planets, other power sources.”
“Yeah.” You wring your hands, frowning at the bloodstains there. “I’ll try not to get knocked out next time.”
“You will not be coming with me.”
Missy turns her fiery eyes on you at last. Shrinking back from the sharp edge in her voice, you feel another bolt of pain through your temples. For the first time you feel like she’s too close. Her skirts brush your knees when she twists around to face you.
“I didn’t spend all this time teaching you how to survive, keeping you safe just for-”
“Keeping me safe?” You wince at the volume of your own words, but she ignores them, speaking over the top of you.
“-just for you to get your stupid human skull smashed in-”
“You’ve never kept me safe! You tortured me! You kept me hostage!”
"You are not-!” Her teeth flash like she’s ready to lunge for your throat and she lifts a hand to her face, the slender fingers fluttering where she covers her mouth, and turns her eyes down. After a moment, she tries again, quieter. “You are not a hostage.”
“Am I not?” Despite the fury burning your chest, there are tears weighing down your lashes. You bat uselessly at the moisture in your eyes with clenched fists. “Am I a companion, today, then?”
“No.” Missy scowls, hands going to straighten her jacket before she realises she’s taken it off already. Instead, she smooths down the front of her blouse. “No, that’s not right, either. You’re just...”
When she doesn’t finish you prompt, your voice quaking, “just what?”
She lifts her ancient eyes back to you and smiles - really smiles. It’s not the predatory show of teeth or the disdainful curl of her lips that you’ve grown accustomed to, but something rarer; something that makes the skin crinkle at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her nose. Somehow, it softens you.
“You’re just mine.”
Barely supressing a shiver, you ask quietly, “so what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” She huffs and folds her arms. “Usually it means I play until I get bored, and then... well. You can fill in the blanks.”
“Yeah.” You wince at the thought. “Is that-? What the Lumiat was saying, about-”
“Yes.” She nods jerkily. “Yes, that’s what she meant.”
“So you kill me in the end.”
Missy’s expression is impenetrable. You drop your head again, picking at the rusty stains on your fingers, feeling tacky blood cracking on the skin of your face. You work your jaw restlessly.
“Well. That makes sense. That’s always- I always expected that.”
Still she says nothing. You breathe a shaky sigh.
“Do you know how? When?”
“No.” The response is hushed. You smile wryly to yourself.
“Would you tell me, if you did?”
“I might. It’s hard to say.”
“Right. Of course.” You risk a glance up at her and wish that you hadn’t. The way that she’s looking at you makes you feel two inches tall. “So what now?”
“Now we get you cleaned up. You look like something from the back room of an abattoir.”
She cracks another smile and it’s infectious. The curve of your own lips is weak, but unstoppable. When she crouches in front of you and brings the damp washcloth to your face you reach up to take it from her, but she loops the fingers of her free hand around your wrist before you get there.
“It’s alright, Missy. You don’t have to- I can sort myself out.”
“I know.” She squeezes, gently, almost comforting. “Let me do it anyway.”
Going with alternate prompt #3 this time, instead of prompt #14 (which was supposed to have been tear-stained). I guess there are some tears in this (and weirdly, not a whole lot of mention of fever?), but the tear-stained prompt as a whole didn’t work for me whereas the fever one was what inspired this, even if the POV character doesn’t really think about fever until the end.
It didn’t go in the direction I had planned and ended up being longer than intended, but this is the way I roll. Eh, I’m not gonna overthink this. It is what it is. Once again this is not heavily edited.
CW: vague and super-brief references to childhood abuse; what might be seen as a brief incident of domestic abuse (but accidental? I’m not sure really how to tag that without being spoilery?)
Characters: Luke, Charlie, Kate
The world had gone all topsy-turvy on Luke.
When his eyes opened, he was staring down at adobe-coloured tiles about three feet from his face. It took him a long time to sort out whether he was looking at the floor, the ceiling or a wall, but eventually it was the pressure around his face – a cushioned circle that left his eyes, nose and mouth exposed while supporting his forehead and chin – that told him he was facing downward. It took him even longer to realize he was lying facedown on a massage table, his head on the special headrest.
He didn’t remember going for a massage. He couldn’t remember anything from the past several hours, but he was absolutely positive he wasn’t scheduled in for any sort of massage or physical therapy, despite how often Charlie tried to badger him into taking better care of himself.
Luke decided this was the worst massage he’d ever had. The room was too bright and way too cold, and there wasn’t soothing instrumental music or nature sounds playing, nor could he smell incense or fancy massage oil. And he knew this wasn’t something Charlie or Kate had set up as a sort of romantic gesture, because either of them would use candles and there’d be a bottle of wine and some nice glasses set along one of the shelves instead of plain white towels and an assortment of feel-good self-help books.
Instead of music or the sound of waterfalls or ocean waves Luke could hear two people arguing over him, familiar voices speaking over each other in a sort of whisper-shout. Kate and Charlie didn’t sound angry, exactly; more like … scared? And maybe … frustrated? Luke spent a few seconds trying to make out what they were hissing back and forth, but even once he did his current circumstances still didn’t make any sense.
“—need to know what it was!” That was Charlie’s voice, full of frantic energy.
“I told you, I don’t know!” Of the two of them, Kate was the one who sounded closer to being angry, but Luke couldn’t figure out who or what she was angry with. He could tell that they were standing very close to him, possibly on opposite sides of where he lay on the massage table. He wished he was facing upwards, so he could see their faces and make better sense of what was going on. “He’s the one who would know! He’s the smart one!”
Oh, Katie, Luke thought, frowning down at the floor. Intelligence and education was the one area where Kate’s incredible confidence was lacking thanks to her unorthodox childhood. She was smart – he knew that for a fact – but she’d missed out on a formal education. In this instance, however, Luke had the sneaking suspicion they weren’t talking about something she should have learned in history or science, but rather something Luke had been taught as a result of his own unorthodox childhood. Although in Luke’s case, his background was actually fairly standard – for a Knight of Oberon. So-called “normal” kids probably didn’t get educated on the different types of things that went bump in the night, but sometimes Luke thought the world might be benefited if they were.
“—not saying you’re not!” Charlie hissed, and Luke had the sense that he’d missed the thread of the argument somewhere, because now his boyfriend sounded both frustrated and conciliatory.
“Stop fightin’,” Luke mumbled down at the floor. Charlie and Kate both immediately fell into a sort of stunned silence. “You’re both pretty.”
Kate huffed out a startled laugh, but Charlie just sniffed in a way that made Luke wonder if he’d been crying at some point. Or maybe it was allergies. Maybe allergies were the reason Luke couldn’t smell massage oil or incense.
“How do you feel?” Charlie asked, his voice sounding somewhat wet and thick.
For a brief moment Luke thought that seemed like an odd question – and then something, possibly just a current of air, moved over the exposed skin of his back and suddenly his world was on fire.
Pain like the edge of a heated blade seared across his back from the nape of his neck down to the base of his spine. It was hot and sharp and deep, like each individual cut slashed right down through muscle and bone into the very core of him, and he could feel each line as a separate fiery agony. He had never been more aware of just how much skin he had, how broad his back was, how many nerve endings there were and how each and every single one of them could scream out in separate and discordant pain. The only other time he’d felt anything even remotely like this was –
Fire.
FIRE!
Sudden panic swept through him at the familiar agony of flames. He was burnt. He was on fire. He was on fire!
Luke shot up like he was spring-loaded, lunging upwards and backwards as though the table underneath him was the source of the flames. His limbs were weak and uncoordinated and he flailed awkwardly, lashing out with his fists as he struggled to get away from the pain. One fist – his right – connected with something and there was a muffled grunt, but Luke paid it no heed, too desperate to escape the source of his agony to pay attention to his surroundings. His vision blurred and narrowed, the bright lights going dim and hazy, and as he launched himself off the massage table and his bare feet hit the tiled floor he felt his knees give way. He staggered, flailing again, this time for something to catch him before he fell. The world was swimming. There was a rushing sound in his ears and he collapsed, falling into outstretched arms.
Charlie’s grip was strong and sure as he levered Luke back up and onto the table. When Luke resisted being settled back onto his stomach on the table Charlie helped him to sit up instead, helping him to lean forward enough that he wasn’t putting any weight on the agonizing marks on his back.
“It’s all right,” Luke heard Charlie saying, as if from a great distance, “You’re safe, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Luke sagged forward into Charlie’s arms. It hurt, having Charlie’s hands on him, but it felt safe at the same time, the familiar strength and comfort he took from Charlie’s confident touch. After a few seconds resting like that he finally let Charlie lower him back onto the table on his stomach, although he resisted the effort to face down again, and instead propped his cheekbone on the headrest and kept his head turned to one side, facing his boyfriend. Kate seemed to have disappeared from view, and as Luke settled he realized his hand was aching and it was a new, dull pain entirely distinct from the agony of his back. He dangled his hand in front of his face and blinked in consternation at the fresh split over one of his knuckles.
“Katie-Kate?” Charlie called. He still sounded very far away even though he was standing directly over Luke’s prone form.
“’M all right,” Kate mumbled, voice muffled.
Above him Luke heard Charlie fussing and got the sense that this time it wasn’t directed at him. Kate made some kind of demurral, saying softly “It’s not broken, there’s just a lot of blood.” Luke stared down at his bloodied hand and felt his stomach give a sickening lurch.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. Charlie cursed under his breath – Charlie, who seldom cursed.
“What are you apologizing for?” Charlie asked him, his tone very careful.
“I don’t know,” Luke replied, feeling miserable and in pain and tremendously guilty because his knuckles were bloody and his hand hurt and he remembered lashing out and now Kate was hurt and he was almost certainly the one who’d done it. “I’m sorry.”
Suddenly Kate’s face was right in front of Luke’s, and sure enough her nose was bloody and her upper lip looked like it had been split. Her expression, however, wasn’t one of anger or disappointment. She was just calm and unfazed, pale eyes boring right into Luke’s own.
“I forgive you,” she said simply. Not It’s okay, because it wasn’t – not if he’d actually been the one to hit her. Just I forgive you, because all three of them knew that if Luke had hit her it had been in the midst of panic, that he hadn’t meant to do it, and he most certainly hadn’t been aiming for her. He had just been desperate to get away from the source of the flames that were even now licking their way up and down his back, and Kate had somehow been in the way. Then Kate grinned at him, and the blood on her face made the expression especially ghastly, but she smiled in that broad way that she did when it was just the three of them and she didn’t care about her crooked teeth or her lopsided smile. “I’m fine. I’ve taken worse hits sparring.”
That was true, but it didn’t make Luke feel a whole lot better. Still, she’d said she forgave him, and Kate didn’t lie. Not to him or Charlie. Not about things that mattered.
“I’m going to touch your back now, okay, love?” Charlie said, and it took Luke a few heartbeats to realize Charlie was speaking to him.
“Okay,” Luke said, then changed his mind. “No. No, it hurts.” He hated how weak and vulnerable he sounded, like a child in want of his parents instead of a thirty-something man who’d spent his entire life as a soldier and fighter. But his back did hurt, and moreover, it hurt in a way that was painfully, terrifyingly familiar, and he’d already lived through the agony of that torture once in his life. He didn’t want to go through it again, even with Charlie and Kate there alongside him to support him.
What he didn’t understand was why it hurt. Had he been captured again? Had the Scions of the Unforgiven taken him a second time, and was their pet sorcerer using blood magic to try and tear his body apart all over again? Or maybe the past ten years or so had simply been a pleasant dream, and he’d never been rescued, and instead he was still there, trapped inside that musty barn with his only his enemies around him. Disavowed by his Order, disowned by his family, with no hope of rescue or escape save death.
“Oh, darling,” Charlie said, and the tone of his voice was heartbreaking.
“No,” Luke said again. He tried to push himself up, to get away, but there were gentle hands on his shoulders – well away from the lines of agony that raked their way across his flesh – guiding him down again.
Charlie’s hands, Luke realized, because Kate was sprawling on the floor beneath the massage table, her face directly under Luke’s. She lay on her back, staring up at him, one hand coming up to wipe the blood away from her nose and mouth. Her dark auburn hair fanned out behind her like a ruddy halo. She stretched up and curled her hands around his wrists, drawing his arms down on either side of the headrest before threading her fingers carefully through his. One hand was slightly sticky with blood and her skin felt strangely cool against his.
“I’m right here,” she said, gazing up at him. “Charlie’s going to use his magic to heal your back –”
“As much as I can,” Charlie interrupted with a faint huff of frustration. “I don’t even know what this is.”
“Charlie’s going to fix your back,” Kate continued with determination, forcefully overriding Charlie’s protests. “And I’m going to be right here.” She gave his fingers a light squeeze, her hands small and pale against his own larger, darker hands. “Squeeze and yell as much as you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
Luke stared down at her hand, the one she’d used to wipe the blood from her face. It was, oddly enough, the one that held the hand he’d used to strike at her. The blood was a bright, vivid red across their skin, already going tacky and dry. He couldn’t tell which of it was his blood and which was hers, although he was certain the Knights of Oberon would have an opinion on the matter, what with him being descended from a line of Fae-blooded and blessed warriors, and she being the daughter of a demon. Demonic and fairy, their blood all looked the same in the end.
“Okay?” Charlie asked warily. Luke couldn’t see him, but he could picture his boyfriend’s expression easily: limpid dark eyes narrowed with concentration, lips pressed in a thin line, angular jaw set hard and firm. He was the most beautiful man Luke had ever known, made all the more beautiful when he was focused on his magic, on healing.
Kate lifted her head up enough to press a kiss to Luke’s fingers, interwoven with her own. “You got this. You’ll be all right.”
Luke sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a gentle fan that blew loose strands of hair away from Kate’s face. He nodded, chin pressed against the headrest, the fake leather cool against his skin. The room was cold – freezing, almost – and yet his skin felt sweaty and clammy. Aside from the pain of his back he felt achy, all over, but especially in his joints. It made him think of the few times in his life he had been ill – Knights were seldom sick by natural means, and he’d mostly outgrown colds by the time he was a teenager. But this was like the beginning stages of the flu, where his body was one general ache and the temperature kept fluctuating and all he wanted to do was nap until the worst of it subsided. Except that the worst of it was whatever had been done to his back, and as the pain flared out he realized he could feel each individual slash as its own separate agony. It still felt like searing flame, but also like someone had taken a razor or the tip of a knife and slashed it over him, again and again and again. What made it all the worse was the fact that he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he’d come to be in such a state, and based on Charlie’s frustration and worry Luke suspected that his partners didn’t know, either.
Charlie stroked one hand through Luke’s hair, and if it weren’t for the knowledge that doing so would put strain on already-sore back muscles, Luke would’ve tried to arch into the caress. Instead he let out another shuddering breath and squeezed Kate’s fingers. She squeezed back again. Her hands were small but solid; he knew he could squeeze as much as he needed to and she wouldn’t flinch, even if it hurt. Not that he wanted to hurt her, but that was the thing about Kate: he wasn’t afraid to. All his life he’d been mindful of his size and strength relative to other humans – either unfavorably, when he’d been a child and at the mercy of the adults in his life, or as an adult he’d been aware of how fragile normal humans were compared to him. Not with her. Not with Kate.
And not with Charlie, either. The two of them were so different from each other, but so strong in their own ways. Charlie was bright and warm and nurturing, and Kate was sharp and vivid and solid. He would never fathom what he’d done to be worthy of even one of them, much less the both of them.
“Okay,” he said, the word coming out breathy and shuddering. “I’ll be all right. Let’s do this.”
Charlie’s fingers carded through his hair a second time as Kate gave Luke another reassuring smile. Luke drew in another breath, and then Charlie’s magic washed over him and he let his partners carry the weight.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Whumptober 2022: No. 4 Waking Up Disoriented & Alt. 3 Dazed and Confused
It’s a fishy and rotten smell that wakes him up.
He stares at the deep canopy of branches and leaves covering the sky, swallowing the sun rays he can see peeking through a rare opening. The trees stand tall before him, their bark dark. The forest rustles all around him.
And Choi Han is not home.
