Whumper who has Whumpee tied up, unable to move away. Naked, seen, vulnerable. They left Whumpee alone for a while, stressing them out by doing nothing.
Eventually, they do come back. But they still don't do anything. They just sit there and look, making Whumpee panic even more. Whumpee tries to remain calm, but they feel so exposed and their body is freaking out even if they try to stay calm.
Finally they move, slowly approaching Whumpee and watching as they tremble without even having done anything to them.
"Shh..." Whumper soothes as the trail their hands over Whumpee's trembling body. "Don't be afraid, I'll be nice."
Summary: Simon has always wanted something soft to call his. The problem is that he's always had issues with women. When he stumbles across a dark website that traffics people, he knows he should tell someone. But that thought goes out the window when he sees her.
Content Warning: non-con. Reader is a trafficking victim. Stockholm Syndrome. Simon is not a good man here.
Simon never claimed to be a moral man. He knows that he's fucked up. He knows that what he is doing is wrong. He is aware that if people knew about his more perverted desires, he'd be questioned to hell and back. He knows that if his new pretty lover escapes, he's going to prison. Maybe even under it.
He knows. He just doesn't care.
So when he pins the pretty young girl beneath him in their bed, he doesn't think about the consequences. He only thinks about how good her cunt feels around his cock. He likes the struggle that she puts up, the way she claws at him. She cries, wails that he's too big, to just let her go, she won't tell anyone. She doesn't know that her begging gets him off.
"Please, it hurts." She hiccups through a moan. Her eyes are glassy with tears, "You're hurting me." Her breath comes through gasps, and he only adds pressure to her throat.
"Shh," He shushes her and kisses the tears on her cheeks. They taste like salt, and under that, he can taste her blush and makeup. It's sweet that she got herself all done up for him. "Just a bit more lovie, you're okay."
He can tell that she doesn't believe him. Her kiss swollen lips wobble. Another orgasm she doesn't want but needs is crashing into her. She's screaming, voice turning hoarse. It feels good when she clings to him. The clutch of her cunt around him is euphoric. He's happy that he found her and bought her. Such a pretty thing like her was worth the trouble and the price.
She was soft and smaller than him. Her skin blemish and mark free, a blank canvas for him to cut and draw his love upon her. There are already dark bruises blooming on her chest and on various places where he's sunk his teeth into her. He watches as her eyes roll back into her skull, head flopping to the side. Her body is limp but he keeps going.
His own release is at the base of his spine. It slinks up and spreads throughout his body. His hips stuttering and a low groan escapes him. He keeps himself flushed tight up against her. He can feel his balls draw up and the release he's been looking for finally, finally, hits him.
His Lovie, his pretty young thing, lays naked against the bed. She's sweet like this, still like a statue in repose. Everything about her is lovely, and she's all his. He doesn't have much in this world, but he now has her.
He doesn't pull out right away. He enjoys the softness of her flesh. In the back of his mind, he knows that he is no better than the terrorists and traffickers that he's killed. But again, he doesn't care. He bought his Lovie fair and square. She belongs to him and him only.
Her eyes open, and she's staring at him. Brows drawn up in confusion before she sighed in resignation. "Please, I wanna go home." She whispers.
Simon only smiles and brushes his thumb against her lips.
Summary: Fortune Teller finds himself unable to sleep, in an attempt to try and tire himself out he goes for a small walk, and stumbles upon Harlequin doing something he does not like.
An alternate take on ‘Nighttime Fantasies’ by @darthsuki
Fortune Teller tossed and turned in his bed, no matter how much he tried, sleep would not come to him. Rolling onto his back he let out a sigh and flung the blankets off of him as got out of bed, pulling up the hood of the hoodie he wore when sleeping and sliding his slippers onto his feet, he quietly left the tent opting to stroll around the grounds to hopefully tire himself out.
He stepped out of his personal tent and slowly began to wander, it was late and the lights around the circus had been shut off for the night, and it was quiet. Fortune Teller wandered quietly, thinking back to Pierrot and to the Human… it was dangerous Pierrot's infatuation with them and the human's increasing appearance in the Circus, but at the same time Fortune Teller hadn't seen Pierrot that happy in so long.
He had seen how his closest friend had brightened thanks to the Human and that left Fortune Teller with a slight moral dilemma, and that wasn't even mentioning the fact that Harlequin was now getting involved after he found out about the red ticket, the relationship between the two had been hostile to borderline mutual disdain ever since that horrible dreadful night, And much as he hated to admit it, he knew the they've all grown a little more secluded from each other in some way or form, with Pierrot's vitriol clashing with Harlequin’s pestering being the biggest rift.
Fortune Teller was so consumed by his thoughts he hadn't realized he had stopped walking right outside of Pierrot's personal tent.
Grey eyes glanced at the striped fabric that was the same red and black as the older troupe member's show tent, Fortune Teller remembered that Pierrot hadn't eaten that much recently and that he had put his whole being into his earlier performance that day and had been exhausted afterwards, All for that Human if he remembered right.
Fortune Teller glanced at the flaps that led into the tent for a second and was about to turn away, when he heard a muffled voice coming from inside Pierrot's tent. Fortune Teller frowned and glanced back, it was muffled and slightly faint but he was sure that the voice wasn't Pierrot's, “Harlequin..?” Fortune Teller mumbled with his curiosity piqued, he carefully went up to the entrance of the tent and slowly stuck his head through the flaps. He was met with the sight of Harlequin standing at the side of Pierrot's bed, with the red Performer curled up and sleeping, facing away. Fortune Teller's brow knitted in confusion and annoyance, was Harlequin trying to pull another prank on Pierrot in his sleep, he was about to call out when Harlequin spoke.
“Dear Pierrot….” Fortune Teller balks as he watches Harlequin climb into the bed close up to Pierrot sleeping form, Fortune Teller blinked, Bewildered, but before he could fully register Harlequin spoke again, “Whatever could you be dreaming about, sweet little thing.” Those words struck Fortune Teller, and he was at a loss for words and unsure what was happening. He continued to watch with furrowed brows, trying to figure out what Harlequin was doing, his confusion and slight alarm grew as he watched Harlequin seemingly pressing his face into Pierrot's neck, listening to Harlequin speaking to the sleeping Pierrot. Fortune Teller's confusion turned into alarm as he could make out Harlequin starting to nip along the nape of Pierrot's neck, and then Harlequin spoke again in a tone that sent an uncomfortable chill through him, as he faintly heard the words, “-Você pertence a mim.” Fortune Teller’s hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched in agitation as he watched Harlequins hand run along Pierrot's hip but he stood in his spot frozen as the sounds of Pierrot's unconscious whimpers while the sleeping red Performer curled up tighter which made Fortune Teller tense up even more.
Fortune watched stunned as Harlequin continued to whisper into Pierrot's ear, that was until he watched Harlequin bite down on Pierrot's neck and force his hands between Pierrot's thighs, ‘NO!’ Fortune Teller's mind all but screamed as his body tensed up, the primal urge to protect suddenly coursed through his veins in a rush. as he bore witness to Harlequin’s actions, and finally the small performer found himself broken from his frozen state as he moved.
Harlequin pressed his hand along the growing shape in Pierrot's pants as he cooed and whispered against Pierrot's skin… he was unaware of the smaller figure closing in behind him until a hand suddenly curled around his wrist and yanked it away from Pierrot’s clothed erection.
Harlequin froze, his eyes snapping to the clawed hand wrapped firmly around his wrist before his head turned and stared wide eyed at Fortune Teller, who stared back at Harlequin, grey eyes piercing the dark and bore into Harlequin’s eyes with a torrent of emotion that were a mix of something primally territorial, disbelief, and even betrayal. It was silent, save for the slightly heavier breathing of Pierrot's whose whimpers had stopped, the two youngest performers stared at each other for a long moment before finally Fortune Teller spoke, “I don't want to believe what I just saw, but I have to… you and I are leaving this tent and are going to talk about what the fuck your doing, Arlequim.” Fortune said his voice thick with emotions and low, trying to keep himself both calm and quiet.
Harlequin’s jaw clenched, he didn't think about what would have happened if he had gotten caught by the others, especially this late but now here he was, and reality was quickly settling in. Harlequin slowly stood from the bed and pulled his hand from Fortune Teller’s grip as he trudged out of the tent, with Fortune Teller stalking behind him, Harlequin’s ego and desire roared at him, that he could incapacitate Fortune Teller with ease and he knew he could. Yet he also knew that the smaller monster would raise a ruckus that would undoubtedly wake up the rest of the troupe and then it would be a real shit show.
The two stood outside a little ways from the tents, the night cool air blowing by them, Harlequin turned to look down at Fortune Teller with a sour look while Fortune Teller stared up at Harlequin with outrage, “What was that?! What possessed you to think that was okay?!” Fortune hissed out, as he glared at Harlequin who narrowed his eyes and his frown deepened but didn't say anything.
That in turn only made Fortune Teller's blood boil even more, “You're not even going to say anything?!” He demanded, his hands curling into fists and his claws dug into his palms but he didn't care as his mind was too clouded with emotions.
“... That human could never hope to make Pierrot feel like he belongs.” Harlequin finally muttered out, and it had a hint of that previous dark tone to it that made Fortune Teller's Stomach knot up, “What? … You…. Are you seriously jealous of Pierrot being in love with that human? Last time I checked the two of you can't be in the same room for more than 5 minutes without a knife being thrown and now you're trying to mark Pierrot without his knowledge?” Fortune Teller said in quiet exasperation as he shoved the green clad monster back a few steps, Harlequin scowled down at Fortune Teller, “We’re all he needs… and what could you possibly know about him that I don't, Cartomante?” Harlequin hissed, and stepped forward again to loom over the shorter male.
Fortune Teller narrows his eyes, scowling at both the audacity and hidden context to those words, “Im sure as hell know a lot more about him considering the two of you haven't had a normal conversation for the past century ... And Harlequin... I never thought that after everything we've gone through, after that night in particular… you'd never do something like… like this…”
Fortune Teller's head drooped, his voice was small and had a slight tremor, "I never noticed until that human came around and how Pierrot brightened up, that he was getting more and more distant and I don't ever want to see Pierrot go back to that….” Fortune slowly raised his head up to glare at Harlequin, “And I refuse to let you ruin that for him…”
There was a long silence between the two as they stood there staring each other down before Harlequin finally looked away, deep down he couldn't stand to stare at the hurt in Fortune Teller's eyes, so much for not caring about what was 'right'. Fortune Teller slowly took a breath, “I'm going back to Pierrot's tent, to see if I can patch up that bite mark before it scars…” the shorter monster says as he turns away walking back towards Pierrot's tent. Then the small monster pauses and speaks up without sparing a glance to Harlequin, “And don't think I won't be telling Jester about this, because Pierrot's is going to have questions and I'm going to be the one who has to explain them.” and with that the smaller monster disappeared into the tent and Harlequin was left alone outside, his Stomach was knotted, Indignation, anger, lingering desire and traitorous regret swirled around in his mind as he thought everything over. Harlequin flexed his claws and swallowed hard, he thought about the look of hurt and anger Fortune Teller gave him, he thought about Pierrot's looks of disdain at him over the years, and all the building up of his feelings and thoughts about the red clown and his little human bled away, ‘you really are a nasty monster aren't you? Pushing away the only ones who give a damn about you, breaking their trust, how pathetic... Do you really think you deserve him after what you did to Her?’ sneered a voice in the back of his head that sounded too much like the tone he used when he belittles Pierrot, with quiet huff he turned and headed back to his own personal tent, he knew he was going to face the music tomorrow…
Fortune Teller slipped into the tent and quickly made his way over to Pierrot and gently sat on the bed and pushed back some of Pierrot's hair as he looked at the bite mark and a small bit of blood that had stained Pierrot skin, it wasn't as bad as he thought, it seemed Harlequin hadn't done the full force of that bite, he could still patch him up and make it heal quicker without scars. He carefully got up and looked around the tent as he looked for the small medical kit that Doctor had gifted each of the troupe, for small emergency things if Doctor was indisposed. His eyes locked on the little box stashed away and quickly retrieved it and climbing back onto the bed he carefully started his gentle work, slowly he put the gel salve over the mark, Pierrot shifted and made a noise of discomfort, “I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Pierrot…” Fortune Teller finds himself saying as he carefully places the bandage over the mark before sitting back and looking at Pierrot. The older monster looked peaceful, his breathing was now easy and calm, no sounds being pulled from him. Fortune Teller let out a shaky sigh as he carefully put the med kit away and returned back to sitting back on Pierrot's bedside, sliding off the hood on his hoodie in an attempt to feel less restricted as with nothing else to do, he watched the entrance of Pierrot's tent for any signs of someone drawing close.
It was silent save for the gentle breathing of Pierrot as Fortune Teller watched the entrance like a hawk, ‘And for what? To Guard him? Protect him? You wouldn't stand a chance if Harlequin came back.’ the unbidden thought made its way through his mind, he shook his, no, he'd protect Pierrot. He would, he'd make sure he was safe, ‘and how can you? Harlequin is far stronger than you. All of them are stronger than you, even Bilheteiro.’ Fortune Teller clenched his jaw and shook his head as he focused back on the tent entrance. No, even though it was true that he wasn't as physically strong as his family, he was still strong in his own merit, he would protect him, he would.
‘Yet you failed to protect Columbina… you failed to protect your mama and papa… you will always fail to protect the ones you love. You weak little runt.’ Fortune Teller bit his lip as tears stung at his eyes, he hung his head, his clawed fingers running through his grey hair as he let out quiet shaky breaths. No. He refused, he refused to believe that, Pierrot was HIS Friend, HIS Family. It was Fortune Teller's duty to protect his family and their happiness, so if that meant also having to protect that human after of course keeping watch on that human and make sure it wasn't some ploy to hunt all them or would hurt Pierrot, and if that human truly loved him for him... then he would guard over them as well, for Pierrot's happiness... and if he had to fight against those who he called family to protect Pierrot, then so be it. why should he care of what they thought? Cause apparently he knew very little about some of his troupe mates as it appears, the bitter voice in the back of the smaller monster's head spoke. Fortune Teller took a deep breath as he forced away the tears and looked back up at the tent entrance with a hardened gaze as he forced himself awake, even as his body practically sagged, all the emotions that had been running through him gave way to exhaustion, something that he had originally been looking for, but now, he couldn't bare the thought of sleeping after everything he witnessed tonight. So he watched, in near total silence as the darkness outside slowly changed to soft orange light peaking through the thin gaps in the tent flaps, he was so tired and so focused on staying awake and keeping watch he didn't hear the rustling behind him or the sounds of confusion until a voice calls out, “Fortune Teller?” Fortune Teller jumps, startled for a moment before he looks behind him to see Pierrot sitting up in bed, looking at him with confusion.
Pierrot awoke slowly, sluggish sitting up and blinking heavily, as he did so he was made aware of a dull ache along his neck, reaching up he felt what seemed like a bandage along his neck, one that he didn't remember being on his neck when he went to bed, his brow furrowed in confusion before he noticed the other presence in the room, looking over his confusion grew as he saw Fortune Teller sat on his bed side facing his tent’s entrance hunched over slightly, “Fortune Teller?” He called out, he watched as the younger male jumped and turned to look at him, Pierrot's confusion turned to concern as he saw the exhaustion written all over Fortune Teller's face, “Oh.. Pierrot good morning.” Fortune Teller said as he gazed at Pierrot who frowned a little more, “Morning? But… are you alright Fortune Teller? Why are you here and why do you look so tired?” Pierrot asked.
Fortune Teller’s expression shifted uncomfortably as he looked at Pierrot, “... Something happened last night. But I need to ask, did you feel anything strange last night?” Fortune Teller asked as he gazed back up at Pierrot. Pierrot frowned as he thought back, and his dream last night, it was hazy but, he remembered dreaming of his dearest in the cafe, then to him performing to a delighted crowd… and then it got fuzzy, and then he remembered the feeling of hands along his body and the feeling of teeth on his neck and a voice… Harlequin’s whispering into his ear. Only for it to suddenly stop, the faint sound of another voice, also familiar but too distant make out words but it was angry and then the heat of someone elses presence disappearing, his dreams seemed to go back to normal as he found himself sitting at his vanity mirror when he grimaced at the feeling of something cold and jelly like being rubbed on his neck and… Fortune Teller apologizing to him?
Pierrot frowned in flustered bewilderment as he found himself looking back up at Fortune Teller who glanced away, “I'll explain but, we need to talk with Jester about it.” Pierrot looked at Fortune Teller for a moment before shaking his head, “maybe we should wait, you look exhausted…” Pierrot said with concern in his voice. Fortune Teller shook his head, “no. This can't wait. It's important we talk with him now.” The shorter male tries to get up but Pierrot carefully pulls Fortune Teller into a hug, and Fortune simply deflates in the hold, his head resting on Pierrot's shoulder as he hugs him back, “We can talk with him… just until it's a little later in the morning.” Pierrot gently pleads in a soft voice, And Fortune Teller lets out a resigned, shaky sigh, “Alright… it's just… I need to let you know I will keep you safe, you and that human you love.”
Fortune Teller’s eyes ended up landing on the bandage on Pierrot's neck and his expression darkened, a gleam flashing in his grey eyes, 'Never again...' The smaller monster thought, the vision of clawed hands running along Pierrot's vulnerable body crossed his mind as he hugged Pierrot tighter, “Even if I have to protect you from one of our own…”
Pierrot glanced down at Fortune Teller with mixed surprise and concern, even though he couldn't see his face, the tone of his voice left him with so many questions, just what had happened last night? And if he even wanted to know the answer.
If you're reading this then that means i built up the courage to post this fic, this is a whole lot more angst based rather than smut based.
Note this was made not as a piece against Greenapple, you are free to ship who you want without judgement but this is a sort of spur of a moment fic based on emotions i had while reading 'Nighttime Fantasies' which this is connected to.
Also note if you go to read the original fic from Darthsuki, PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ!!!
CW: female whumpee, gender based violence, non-consensual nudity and removal of clothing, misogynistic language, knife violence, blood, threats, non-consensual kissing. Please let me know if I missed any!
Masterlist
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“Babe, I promise. It’ll only take a second to grab, and then we’ll be on our way!” Jordan said. He turned the car into a parking lot and cut the engine.
“Fine, I guess,” Tara said reluctantly.
Jordan fidgeted in his seat rather than exiting. “Actually, could you come in and help me look? It’ll go faster that way.”
Tara closed her eyes and sent up a brief prayer for patience. She sighed and said, “Sure. Yeah, I’ll come help.”
“You’re the best, babe,” he said with a smirk. He kissed her cheek and got out of the car.
The two entered the building together.
“How did you even manage to leave your wallet in the frat house, anyway?” Tara asked. “It’s got your keycard, not to mention your driver’s license.”
“Wow, okay,” Jordan bit back. “First off, it’s not a frat house, it’s—”
“The office space for your fraternity chapter, where you can meet and study and get work done,” she finished. She’d heard it a million times by now.
He huffed and gave her an unimpressed look. “Don’t get snippy. Just because we’re running a little late for dinner doesn’t mean you can go all hangry on me.”
A little late? It was over an hour past the time that he said they’d be at the restaurant. He’d insisted she hold off on any snacks so she didn’t ruin her appetite, and she was practically running on fumes.
“And secondly,” he continued, tone harsh, “you act like you’ve never forgotten anything. How many times have I picked something up from the store for you because you forgot it when you were out? How many times have you lost one of your stupid bracelets or something, and I always help you look?”
She ducked her head. “You’re right; I’m sorry.”
How did he always manage to do that? Every time she got upset at him, no matter how valid the reason seemed at first, he somehow made her feel like a complete ass for even considering it.
“That’s more like it; I knew you could be reasonable,” he said. “Go check the back room; I’m gonna look out here.”
She nodded and went to search, fighting down the shudder that went up her spine as she entered the room. This was where the demonology majors in the frat tended to set up, and it had far more magical objects than she was comfortable with.
“Ligare,” Jordan’s voice came from behind her.
Tara’s legs went out from under her as something grabbed her ankles. She hit the ground with a thump and a surprised shriek. She was pulled across the floor, shirt riding up to let her back get friction burns on the cheap carpet.
“Jordan, help!” she yelled.
This is why she hated magical objects! You leave them alone for too long, and they get a mind of their own!
Jordan laughed.
“What the hell, this isn’t funny!” she shouted, craning her neck to see him standing in the doorway. At least she’d stopped moving, but that was a small comfort when she could feel the restraints digging into her skin. “Get these off me!”
She began to sit up. Maybe she could reach her ankles and get whatever it was off herself? It was unlikely, given that this was obviously magic and she had no talent for it whatsoever, but if her jackass boyfriend was just going to stand and laugh? It seemed like getting free was up to her.
“Praestringo,” he said.
Something wrapped around her wrists and yanked. She toppled backwards, arms above her head. Her head slammed against the floor, and the air left her lungs in a whoosh.
“You know, this is a good position for you,” Jordan said. “Really shows off your tits.”
Tara wheezed and pulled against the ropes.
Jordan stepped closer and made a gesture Tara didn’t recognize. The ropes around her limbs tightened and pulled, stretching her spread-eagle. There wasn’t even enough slack to let her struggle. The only movement she could manage was turning her head and wriggling her hips.
“Nice,” he said. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, but she could practically hear the leer in his voice. “Thanks for the show, babe.”
“Jordan?” she said, voice smaller and more timid than she would have liked. “What’s going on?”
“Hm. Well, I guess I should explain, considering you were always too chickenshit to learn anything about demonology,” he said. “Take a look at where you are right now.”
She turned her head from side to side, craning her neck to the limit to see as much as she could. She was… on a rug? The thin material did nothing to cushion her from the concrete floor beneath. On it, she could see symbols.
On a hunch, she twisted her hand, chafing her wrist against the ropes in order to touch one of the symbols. That wasn’t part of the rug. That was paint.
“A sigil?” she asked.
“Ding ding, give the girl a prize!” he said with a laugh. “I guess even you can pick this stuff up eventually. If you hang around enough intelligent people, at least a little bit of knowledge is bound to rub off.”
“You mean your asshole frat brothers?” she asked, incredulous.
The ropes tightened further, drawing a gasp from her.
“You know, dear, maybe this isn’t the best time to make stupid comments,” Jordan said, mock-sympathetic.
“Sorry, I’m- I’m sorry!” The last word was half-shriek. The ropes were pulling her limbs further. She could feel her shoulders and hips start to strain.
The pull stopped. The ropes loosened: not enough to even think about escaping, but enough that she wasn’t afraid her joints would dislocate any more.
“Much better,” he said.
She lay on the floor, breathing hard. Something hard and cold settled in her stomach as the seriousness of the situation was dawning on her.
This wasn’t a prank. Wasn’t something that they would laugh about later.
She didn’t know what Jordan had planned, but it seemed he wasn’t concerned about hurting her to achieve his goals.
“What…” she started. Her mouth felt like she’d tried to swallow cotton balls. “What are you going to do to me?”
He sighed. “I guess it was a bit much to expect that you’d understand.”
She swallowed down any acerbic comments she might have made in response.
“You know enough to recognize that this is a sigil, but not what type,” he continued. “Well. Allow me to explain. This is a summoning circle.”
Oh fuck.
“Help!” she screamed, loud enough that it scraped her throat raw. “Somebody help me! Call the police! Help!”
Anything else she might have said was cut off by a foot stomping on her solar plexus, driving all the air out of her.
“Tace,” Jordan said.
Something wrapped around her face, worming its way into her mouth and pressing down her tongue. She shook her head back and forth; it didn’t budge. She bit down; it didn’t give.
He sighed. “That’s better. Calling for help won’t work, this place is soundproofed to the hells and back, but that doesn’t mean that I want to listen to you screeching.”
Fuck you, she tried to say. Nothing came out but incoherent mumbles.
“You know what they say: silence is golden, but duct tape is silver,” Jordan continued cheerfully. “This isn’t duct tape, but, close enough. Apparently you know enough about summonings to realize what’s gonna happen to you, to get that kind of response.”
Tears started welling up in her eyes. Summonings were some of the most dangerous magical rituals there were, with the danger increasing in direct correlation to the power of the demon being summoned. And every summoning took a sacrifice. Something like an imp might be content with some honey and cream, or a cut of raw meat for the more carnivorous species. If you wanted something more powerful, though? You had to offer it something it would find properly enticing.
Most demons preferred their food fresh, after all.
“Aw, I know it’s scary,” he said. “And I’d tell you not to cry, but…”
He bent down and roughly wiped a tear away with his thumb. She flinched away from touch.
“Have I ever told you how good you look, with your makeup ruined?” he asked.
More tears followed the one he wiped away. She didn’t even like wearing makeup! The only reason she had gotten all dolled up was because this was their six-month anniversary, and he’d promised that he was taking her to a nice restaurant!
He laughed and stood. “I have to gather some supplies. Don’t go anywhere!”
She craned her neck to see where he went. The position pressed her skull into the ground even harder, making the spot where she’d hit it earlier in her fall ache even worse.
“Let’s see: got the circle, got the candles, the salt, the offering… still gotta set things up, but that’s all the ingredients but the blood.”
Jordan stood over her and looked down, eyes raking up and down her body. “You know, this is why none of us have done this before. Well. One of the reasons, anyway. Besides needing a proper meal as an offering, this summoning takes an ingredient that’s in short supply on campus: blood of a virgin. So! You get to serve both purposes!”
He knelt down near her head and set a candle outside the sigil. “See babe? If you weren’t such a prude, maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, the same way he’d done so many times before. In another situation it would have been sweet and comforting. Here, it made her feel sick. Sex had been a sticking point in their relationship for a while. He knew that she was still holding on to her v-card, and at first he’d seemed fine with waiting. The longer their relationship went on, though, the more frustrated he seemed every time she said no.
“I can’t be too upset, though,” he said. “If you had put out, I wouldn’t be about to become the most powerful warlock in the fraternity’s history.”
He set candles by each of her hands and feet, then walked around again to set a salt circle while chanting in poorly pronounced Latin. (She might have chosen Sumerian as her ancient language credit, but she knew enough Latin to know when the language was being butchered.) All the while, Tara’s brain was spinning like car tires stuck in the snow, all noise and mess with no progress being made.
Finally, he carefully stepped over the salt line and joined her in the circle. She squirmed as he got closer; was he going to stomp on her again? But instead of stepping on her, he stepped over her, straddling her torso and sitting down on her stomach. Tara’s panicked breathing got even faster and more shallow as his weight bore down on her.
He pulled out his pocket knife and flipped it open. “Hold still,” he ordered. “I don’t want to cut you. Yet.”
He gently traced the point of the knife down over her throat, skimming over her collarbones and into her cleavage before it reached the fabric of her shirt. He cut it open and peeled it back.
“Black lace; is this all for me? Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have,” he cooed as he traced over her bra. He cut away the bra as well, leaving her bare from the waist up.
“You really do have great tits,” he said, sounding almost regretful. He grabbed them, hands shockingly warm as he squeezed roughly. He pinched her nipples, causing her to flinch and squeak at the pain. He laughed and squeezed again before letting go and turning.
He cut off her pants next. She had a moment where she was stupidly indignant about losing her favorite pair of jeans, before remembering how little that was going to matter. He skimmed his fingers gently along her legs, starting at her ankles and going upwards, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake.
“A matching set; I am a lucky man,” he said as he hooked a finger under her panties.
She cried harder, thinking about how much effort she’d put into this outfit. She’d wanted to make tonight perfect, wanted to try to make up for how stressed he’d been over his recent midterms. She was so stupid, and now she was going to pay the price for it.
“Now, if you struggle for this, the cuts are going to be deeper than they need to be,” he said. “And that will hurt worse. So it’s up to you just how much pain you want to be in by the time I finish this.”
She didn’t understand what he meant until he grabbed her hand and forced it open, prying the fingers away from the palm. He set the knife against the palm of her hand and began to carve.
She screamed into the gag as pain blazed along her nerves. How could something as cold as a metal knife feel like it was burning?
He ignored her cries as he continued his work. He finished marking one hand, then moved to the other. Her feet were next. That was worse, somehow. She’d never considered the arches of her feet to be sensitive, but the pain as Jordan carved into them was near blinding in its intensity.
He straddled her again and sat on her stomach. The fabric of his jeans felt like sandpaper on her bare skin. He reached towards her face, knife in hand. She shook her head in what she already knew was going to be a futile attempt to ward him off. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked, using it as a handle to control her head.
“Hold still,” he snarled.
She shut her eyes as he brought the knife down towards her forehead. She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t do anything, not anything meaningful. Her screams were easily ignored, and her tears wouldn’t buy her any sympathy.
Her throat was raw, and more wetness than just tears was rolling down her face by the time he finished.
“There we go,” he said. “Just one more.”
He brought the knife down to the base of her throat. Tara, who was starting to give in to exhaustion and despair, began to struggle as hard as she could once more.
“Hey. Hey!” Jordan shouted. He slapped her across the face twice, forehand then backhand.
The slaps didn’t hurt more than the cuts. Still, the sound, the shock of it, the disbelief that he had just done that, made her go statue-still. Her cheeks stung and prickled, and a new feeling joined the dread and panic filling her: shame.
Of all that had happened, why was this what was making her feel that way? Everything else was terrifying, but in a way that was almost too much to believe. A slap, though? Somehow, that lesser attack felt real in a way everything else didn’t.
Jordan grabbed her jaw hard, blood-slick fingers digging into her stinging cheeks. He forced her to face him.
“Look at me, you stupid fucking slut,” he growled.
She stared wide-eyed at the boy she had thought she loved. There was no kindness in him, no humor, nothing of the person she had known. It was like looking at a stranger.
He’s really going to kill me.
The realization sank in like a stone dropped in a well.
“What do you think is gonna happen to you if you make me fuck this up, huh?” he asked. “You think I’m just gonna untie you and let you run off? Huh? No.”
He shook her head for emphasis. “If I get a sigil wrong because you don’t stop squirming, if I have to wait another lunar cycle before trying again, I will personally make the next month of your life hell. I’m not going to let you go. You’ll still be my offering, my blood sacrifice. But it’ll be after a month of misery. I need you alive in a month’s time; that doesn’t mean I need you in good condition.
“My place has a room I can soundproof. A little storage closet, tucked in a leftover space from bad floor plans. It’s too small to lay down, too short to stand up. Bare walls. Concrete floor. Dark, too. No one ever bothered putting a light fixture in.”
He bared his teeth at her. She couldn’t tell if it was in aggression or from sick enjoyment of the fear he must see on her face.
“If this summoning doesn’t work? I will throw you in there just like this, naked and bleeding. Maybe I’ll untie your hands so you can hold a water bottle. Maybe I’ll just leave a bowl on the floor for you, like a misbehaving bitch. I haven’t decided yet.
“Either way, I will stick you in that tiny, dark room. I’ll leave you there. You won’t be able to stand. You won’t be able to stretch out. You’ll be curled up on the cold, dirty floor, regretting your life choices. I’ll come by every couple of days to make sure you haven’t kicked it, maybe give you some scraps to eat. That will be your life for the next month.
“And then, on the next new moon, I’ll do this again. We will be right back here.” He turned her head from side to side, making her look at the room around them. “All your struggling is gonna do is prolong your torment.”
He let go of her jaw and sat back, breathing hard. “So. What’s it gonna be? Are you going to keep struggling? Or are you going to do the smart thing, and keep still?”
Tara tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks.
“Good girl,” Jordan said. The approval in his voice made her want to vomit.
It went against every instinct Tara had, to stay still and let him work. She should be fighting, should be making this harder for him. But…
What was the point?
Like he said, struggling wasn’t going to get her out of this. She was going to end up as demon dinner either way. It would be better to just. Get it over with.
The last symbol he carved was on her chest. It spanned from the hollow of her throat, where her collarbones met, all the way down below her breasts.
“And there we go, all done,” he said. Against her better judgment, she opened her eyes to look at him. “Don’t you just look good enough to eat.”
She glared, the only bit of defiance she had left. He only laughed.
“Now I just need to do the last bit of drawing, and we’ll be all set!”
He exited the circle of salt and knelt by the candles he’d set up. At each one, he dragged his fingers over her closest wound and used the blood to finger-paint on the floor nearby.
The symbols…
He wiped his bloody fingers off on her arm. Standing, he grabbed a leather-bound book and began flipping through it.
The symbols. The circle. It was something important, and she almost remembered it…
Jordan started reading aloud.
Demon summoning was stupidly dangerous, and more dangerous the more powerful the demon being summoned was.
The circle. It wasn’t just a way to bring a demon here. It was also protection for the summoner. Without it, a demon was as likely to murder or maim the summoner as they were to do their bidding.
Tara looked to where her hands were bound. If she could twist her hand just right, she could almost…
She could reach the circle.
She had no idea if this would work. It probably wouldn’t save her, either way. What kind of demon would pass up a free meal, after all?
She probably wouldn’t survive the night. But.
But.
If she damaged the circle.
She might be able to bring him down with her.
Jordan chanted, picking up speed as he became more comfortable with the repetitions.
Tara clawed at the painted line with her fingernails.
The candles flared, flames growing from tiny motes to foot-high pillars.
The chant was louder now, nearly shouted.
She felt her nails break and her fingers bleed as she worked at the paint.
Jordan called out the final word of the ritual. It echoed in the too-still room for a long moment.
A warm weight was suddenly on top of Tara. She looked up to see—
Black eyes staring back into hers.
The summoning had worked.
The demon was crouched on all fours on top of her. Its blue-black hair was long, brushing against her skin as it looked down at her. It reached one hand towards her face.
She struggled, tilting her head back and bucking her hips as much as she could, but she couldn’t stop the demon any more than she had stopped her boyfriend. Its hand touched her cheek, skin fever-warm against her own. Claws just barely grazed her, but even that was enough to know they were razor-sharp.
Without warning, the demon grabbed the gag and ripped it out of her mouth. The scream she let out was cut short as it bent down and…
Pressed its lips to hers?
“The binding is complete,” it said.
---
The summoned demon!
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I'm tagging some of the usual suspects! Let me know if you would prefer not to be tagged. For anyone else, let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
Contains: lab whump, magic whump, nonhuman whumpee, drugging, vivisection, non-consensual touching, mouth whump, blood & gore, thoughts of suicide, physical violence. A compliant whumpee who snaps.
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What is a lab whump story without a surgery while awake? The staff try to be humane about. Well, all but one of them.
If this chapter had a “last time on Buried Depths” recap, it would focus on Chapter 11: Possession and Chapter 19: Sleep Deprivation.
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The staff tell him to relax. It’s unfortunate that he’s awake at all, but if Jasper is put to sleep, then the parasite that is his powers takes over. He can still be sedated - he will be sedated - but he must be conscious enough to obey. They promise he won't feel pain, or even remember most of it. As long as remembers the consequences of losing control, it'll be okay.
Jasper sits on the edge of the surgical bed and tries not to kick his feet. He is thankful for the anesthesia, but he’d endure a lot of pain for the reward he’s been promised. This is a final exam. If he does well, they’ll never put a collar around his neck again. He’ll finally be ready to use his powers for good.
They have not told him what they are actually going to do.
His best bet is that they’re going to take a sample of his lungs. The Darkness that fills them has made every breath a death rattle, and his transformed skin is too opaque to radiation for any scans to be useful. Jasper takes a deep breath and ignores how the doctors startle at the sound. He is monstrous and undead. He is lucky to be given this chance to be useful.
His handler keeps sneaking glances at him that look almost proud, but his posture is tense. There is also another man. He has curly blond hair and is armed with a rifle and a smile from hell. Jasper avoids eye contact as he remembers fingers in his mouth. This is the torturer his sleep-deprived mind named the Blond Demon. Jasper wasn’t supposed to remember what they did, but even his haggard mind couldn’t forget being treated like an animal at a petting zoo. The demon stole his damn teeth. They were falling out, but still.
“Ready, Jasper?”
He snaps to awareness. His feet clang against the legs of the table. Most of all, he's hungry.
“This is your final exam. It’s gonna be freaky as hell, but if you keep it together, then you’re out of here”.
“I understand, sir”.
He is carefully maneuvered into place. Sometimes in the movies that Zachary watched, the villain tied the hero down to dissect him. He is glad that this situation feels entirely different. Captured super spies are always flat on their back. They spit insults and the villain mocks them back. Jasper is restrained, but it feels pragmatic. The medical staff sweep back his hair and position him on his side. His arms are above his head with his elbows bent, but they place cushions under his shoulder and between his legs. They tie his head down onto the mattress. Everything seems very calm. No one threatens him.
In the back of his mind is inherited trauma. The last bearer of the Darkness reminds him that the word is not dissect, but vivisect, because he is a living creature and he agreed to none of this. It half-heartedly makes the same suggestion as always: kill everyone, escape, and wreak bloody vengeance on the world. Jasper knows that the Horizon Guard in their glory will stop him. Buried beneath that fear of pain is another regret. Jasper has one last piece of surface-world morality, and it’s a desperate desire not to kill. If he’s deserving of a second chance, then everyone else should be too.
His hearing is too acute to ignore the doctors, but too many words are unfamiliar. He twitches at the pinch of the needles. None of this is very new. He’s had dozens of blood tests in his less than three months imprisoned. They’ve tried every scanner in the base, shoved swabs down his throat, and measured the capacity of his lungs under every circumstance they can mimic. This, whatever it is, is a final attempt to understand.
Like one understands a butterfly by ripping off it’s wings, the parasite suggests. It is not truly another voice in his head. It is an intrusive thought from another body of memories. Jasper sees red. He startles, but the Darkness is all under control. A lab tech is just hooking a bag of blood up to one of his arms.
“His heartrate is speeding up,” one of them remarks.
“We’re in the clear unless he flatlines. Then, run. And call baby Skywalker”.
His handler yells from across the room. “His callsign is Sapphire!”
Jasper exhales sharply. It’s funny how if he biologically dies, they’re the ones in danger. The thing in his chest cavity won’t let him go so easily. How many times now has he died? In March he was burned up by a villain’s spell, but so was half the planet, and everyone came back. He just came back wrong. Then his heart stopped when he lost control during a failed biopsy, and again fighting Sapphire a few weeks ago. It must be August now.
“Administering the sedative,” someone says.
The lights are very bright in this room.
“Jasper, how do you feel?”
The reply leaves his mouth fully formed.
“It’s very bright and I feel cold”.
Someone chuckles. He hears wheels sliding on tile, switches flipping. They position a heat lamp over him like an albedo-drake on a cloudy day. Like a what? He remembers a kind of alien lizard. Their scales were hinged. Mirrored white on one side for solar flares, charcoal black on the other for soaking up good sun. They didn’t do well in captivity. Jasper has too much chemical calm in his system to be worried by how easily he remembers.
“Would you like us to blindfold you?”
All he can see is the wall, the blood bag, and a jungle vine tangle of IV tubes. Jasper guesses there’s four medical staff, two guards, and his handler. He was so proud when he stopped needing a blindfold. He knows the layout of everywhere he’s seen.
“No, thank you”.
They test the sedative. Jasper can feel pressure but no pain. Everything beneath his jaw is ethereal. Someone is touching him?
“Bite this”.
The mouthguard isn’t the same as the one when he was waterboarded (the memory of pain is more distant than usual). There’s a hole in it. It takes too long for them to push a breathing tube down his paralyzed throat. When he really uses his powers, he doesn’t even need oxygen.
He can’t focus on the tube, or anything, but using his powers is a persistent suggestion. Why not? Because he can still feel temperature and pressure. The two prongs of his collar are cold against his neck.
Pressure on the side of his chest. First wide and soft, then razor thin. They cut into him. He can tell because the doctors say so, and because he can feel the skin splitting layer by layer. He stays calm. The Darkness does not want to lose it’s host. His eyes flicker up to the bag of blood. What’s going on back there?
What does it matter?
Something in between his ribs to match the breathing tube down his throat. The Darkness touches hard metal. Cavern elves work with carapace and hardwood whenever they can. Cultural tradition. Steel requires someone to face the bright lights and forge it, and few were ever so brave. Tendrils of magic as thin as the legs of an insect brush against the foreign intrusions. Metal holds his skin open. Metal bends his ribs apart.
The Darkness, aware as it is of the chemistry of it’s host, quietly hums that they’ve increased the dose of the sedative. Jasper does not react. He hasn’t been this tired since they kept him awake for days. He hasn’t felt this violated either. Well, only seven people are watching him now, and only two have their hands on -
The proper preposition is in
Every wisp of magic freezes like a predator before the pounce. The surgery pauses for a moment, then resumes. It’s hard to remember. Good. That means he won’t remember this. The mouthguard must be custom made to match his strange teeth. That blond guard and all his minions. They were only following orders.
The pressure scrapes into his core. They cut into his lung. The Darkness creeps up the scalpel’s blade as water moves up a cloth. He hears a shocked gasp and footsteps. There is a hole in his chest. Jasper imagines it like a hull breach, cold water flooding in. The Darkness obeys without question and knits the injury back together.
“What? No. Dammit,”
Jasper cannot apologize without gagging on the breathing tube, but he tries to appear submissive. He curls his chin down to his chest.
“Okay. We’re going to do that again”.
Metal splits magic. He is the thing threatening to spill free. Tendrils brush against her glove. It rejects this. It does not seek a new host. It wants the boy. Leave. Leave. Jasper knows they will leave when they are done. Even the crowd of hands eventually let him sleep. Metal touches metal. A high-pitched mechanical whine. He can’t feel anything below his neck, but his ears flicker, and that’s the beginning of the end.
“Oh, he doesn’t like that sound, does he?” The voice comes from just out of sight. It is the voice that mocked him with a cattle prod pressing into his back. The voice that pulled his hair and whispered in his ear and encouraged a crowd to do as they pleased. Something burns in his chest. Maybe it’s just hate.
“You shouldn’t even be here, Barnum. Shut it,” his handler says. Jasper feels as deeply protected by the act as he feels disturbed by the blade in his lungs. Barnum is the blond demon for sure. He tries to turn. Most of his body is dead weight, just like after all those days awake. The Darkness begins burning off the sedative like fog.
“Now, look what you’ve done! He’s panicking. Get out of here, Barnum”.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Isn’t he your good soldier?”
There is a scuffle out of sight. This demon must feel on top of the world. All this effort to contain a prisoner that he was able to abuse with no precautions but handcuffs and a few days of sleep deprivation. There was a crowd, but Jasper understands obedience. Maybe the demon wasn’t the one shining lights in his eyes or sticking hands down his shirt, but he was the one who gave permission. Jasper fell asleep in his hands when it was all over.
Hatred is rigid and unchanging, so Jasper stops moving. The buzzing machine is moved closer and he feels the vibrations in his exposed muscle. One end of it touches his lung. A button is pressed.
THEY ARE GOING TO TAKE IT FROM YOU
Take the Darkness? Oh, of course he would. That monster.
Tension in his chest. There is no pain, but he feels intimately that something is about to break. The machine spins and pulls the magic from his lungs. The Darkness lashes out and unwinds the molecules of sedative in his blood. His fingers clench.
YOU WILL BE WEAK AND HE WILL BE THERE.
He can’t be weak, he has missions to run. What good will he be without these powers? The last three months, all for nothing? He can never go home, there is so much blood on his hands.
YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO IF YOU ARE NOT USEFUL.
They’ll kill him like Rachel. He has nowhere to go, but the demon is here. If they rip the Darkness out of him he’ll die from the shock. Surely they can’t be taking all of it. Just a sample. A proof of concept that it can be controlled. He doesn’t need to be controlled. He has control.
Jasper bites down, hard, and the breathing tube collapses between his jaws. The whirring stops.
“Sample collection successful. The subject is clearly distressed, but restraints are holding”.
“Sick,” says the blond demon. “Can I see?”
HE HAS TAKEN ENOUGH
Jasper just had his lungs cut open without a glimmer of pain. Forgive him for forgetting that actions have consequences. He tears his hands free. The left goes to turn his collar to ash. The right rips the breathing tube. He coughs up something red, but feels no pain. It spills down his bare chest and melts the strap on his waist. In one second, he’s rising to stand. Jasper doesn’t bother to remove the IVs. He doesn’t even close the hole in his side.
He just rips the sample, the piece of him, from the surgeon’s hands, pushes her aside, and lunges at the man behind. The world is condensed to him and the demon alone. Heroes kill demons. His weapons do not scare him. The bullets sink into his chest like pebbles in water and the Darkness heals the wounds along with everything else.
“I HAVE GIVEN YOU ENOUGH”.
His rifle crumbles to dust. The demon sounds like he’s trying to call for help, so Jasper gags him with a hand. Fingers behind his teeth.
“Not so fun, is it?”
He should be running, but Rachel died trying to escape. They’ll kill him for this anyway, if he doesn’t die from the shock. The Darkness feels it’s way through the other man’s circulatory system. A second heart, a second pair of lungs. He doesn’t deserve this magic, but maybe he can be of use. The blond demon’s eyes turn black, without even the glowing red iris that makes it clear where Jasper is glaring.
The man stops struggling. His chest moves up and down, and slowly Jasper begins to breathe in sync. The only dead man here is Jasper. They’ll shoot him. They’ll make him suffer. He stands on unsteady legs. Everyone who could flee, already has.
When the power-dampener activates, he is terrified, but not surprised. Jasper looks toward the cart with the scalpels, but he is already sinking to his knees. Starving. suffocating. Maybe a man who was fighting to live could’ve managed to make an attack, but Jasper doesn’t have the will to seize a blade and put it to his own neck. He is too good a host to die by his own hand. Is he too good an asset to be killed?
They keep the power dampener on until he blacks out. He does not feel them carry him away. Handler Bridges watches the proceedings. He asks the blond demon if the blood on his face is his own. The guard says no, he's alright. Bridges hands him a towel - waits until he's distracted - and punches him in the jaw.
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Here’s an illustration of Jasper at the end. He looks undead.
I hope no one is disappointed that this is not the classic y-shaped vivisection. I have based it roughly on an open thoracotomy. They were going to do more before they got interrupted.
Four chapters remain of Buried Depths. I’ve been building up to these last few chapters for 8 months now, and so I’d really appreciate reblogs, comments, audience interaction stuff, etc.
Supervillain walked with purposeful, basking strides back towards the stage, villains parting like an honour guard for him as he walked. Villain walked behind, parading Hero after him, the whip cutting into Hero’s wrists and yanking them stumbling forward. Hero felt the coldness of Villain’s shadows possessing them, keeping them upright even as they longed to just pass out.
They didn’t want to fight anymore, they wanted to lie down and die with Superhero. They longed to plunge their… their sword that killed…
Tears somehow had the energy to keep streaming down their faces in bursts. They could still see Grieves striding forwards and grabbing the sword from Supervillain’s hands.
If Hero… if Hero never got caught then Superhero would be— they’d—
Villain dragged them up on stage and kept them by his side this time, letting Supervillain take centre stage. Grieves stood on the other side of the stage, next to Crow and the other boy from before who looked a little paler now, a little less relaxed.
“Superhero is dead. The heroes are scattered. We won!” Supervillain yelled. The shouts and cries of joy and laughter, the stomping and clapping and hollering and whistling, all of it sounded so far away to Hero who just sat staring at stage in front of them. They lost.
They actually… lost.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The good guys were supposed to win! The good guys won in every book and movie and— it can’t end like this? With Superhero dead, Hero on their knees immobile. Surely, surely someone else will come? Surely… Teleport? Or Medic? Or… or… Hero’s hands balled into fists as a fresh wave of sobs overtook their body.
It was pathetic and childish, and so, so tone deaf to the imminent life altering moment that was before them, but all they wanted in that moment was Vigilante. He’d know what to do. He’d hold them and hug them close and tell them everything would be alright.
Hero wanted them, longed for them, with every ounce of their soul. The grief was like a quilt, dulling their senses and making everything quiet, everything except that ache for the one person they loved; the one person who loved them most. The person they’ll probably never see again.
“The time has finally come for a world where we don’t have to hide our powers, where we can walk free from the shadows. Where the powerless will know who we are, and not fear us, but respect us.” Supervillain continued. He spread his arms and indicated the crowd to quiet down. “I know I promised a world where we would rule, but if I make that world then this cycle of violence will start again.”
Hero looked up, eyes on Supervillain as he spoke. What? Did Supervillain actually want peace all this time?
“I can see your faces, but fret not, friends. We will all be on the right side of history, and it will be the Heroes who suffer in the new world!”
Another burst of claps and cheers. Supervillain turned and gestured at the boy on the other side of the stage. Crow walked the boy up to Supervillain who smiled encouragingly. The boy couldn’t have been older than sixteen, dressed in a black hoodie and jeans. He glanced over his shoulder at Hero who stared at him, too tired to offer any compassion.
“I want to thank each and every one of you here for helping us win this war, forging a new world order, know you will have my gratitude eternally.” Supervillain grabbed the boy’s hand and Hero felt the pull of power at the contact.
Their eyes widened and their stomach drooped. “No,” they breathed. Hero tried to push against Villain’s hold but Villain tightened the collar of shadows around Hero’s throat and squeezed. “No! Get back!”
But their warning was lost in the sound of cheers and applause. That boy… he must be some kind of magnifier, extending Supervillain’s reach of his power but how far Hero didn’t know.
A ball of light erupted from Supervillain and the boy, burning so bright that Hero had to turn their face away to shield themselves from the glare and the light was warm, pleasantly so, and it seemed to get closer and closer Hero. They heard bodies drop around them and people’s cries of surprise and fear and then nothing but a single, searing ringing that echoed everywhere; so loud and clear it was as if Supervillain had dropped a bomb on the battlefield and all that was left was silence and bright, white light, and that ringing.
Hero woke up in the light, stretching for miles around until it was out of sight, encompassing everything. The sky, the horizon, the earth, the ground, nothing was safe from its entombment.
Hero walked along the white ground, footsteps repeating coldly back to Hero’s ears, Villain’s whip and the shadows no longer a concern. Their hands were free. They reached up to touch their face but it was still flakey with blood from the battle, and Hero was in their same clothes. Hero frowned down at their hands.
“Confused?”
Hero whirled, eyes wide as they settled on Supervillain grinning in front of them. He stood casually, one hand in his pocket, his head tilted to the side, icy eyes focused on Hero.
His voice echoed off the expanse of emptiness. “What did you do?”
Supervillain let out a pleased sigh. “I changed the world Hero,” he said. “All I wanted was for the powerful and the powerless to live in harmony with each other. I didn’t want all the bloodshed.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Believe what you want,” he replied with a shrug. He started towards Hero, and Hero braced themselves, lowering their centre of gravity, ready for a blow, but Supervillain just put a hand on Hero’s shoulder. Hero stiffened, straightening. Supervillain’s eyes were sympathetic and kind. “It doesn’t matter anymore now. I won, Hero, and I’m finally ready for you to see my new world.”
Hero blinked. “What?”
Supervillain continued walking past Hero, and Hero turned to follow them. “I had you in stasis for a few months,” Supervillain said. Hero paused, frowning, and the expanse wasn’t just white anymore. There was a black dot faraway that Supervillain was walking towards, leading them towards. “Just while I crafted the new world to my liking.”
“What!” Hero demanded, panic gripping their chest. “But you just— we were just at the stage, at the—”
“Heroes Guild?” Supervillain asked with a chuckle, shaking his head almost fondly. “That was months ago now, Hero. Or was it a year?”
A year.
A year?
Supervillain looked over his shoulder, blue eyes capturing Hero’s in his. “Grieves kept you alive here. I didn’t want you to suffer so I asked him to make sure you wouldn’t remember anything until I was ready to release you.”
Hero swallowed the lump in their throat. Supervillain was beside the black dot now, but it was a door. How did they get here so fast? When were they moving? Wasn’t Hero standing still? Hero’s frowned deepened.
Hero shook their head. “I don’t want to go. I— leave me here, please. Leave me so I don’t remember anything.”
Supervillain shook his head sadly. “I want you to see my new world, Hero. See what you fought so hard to stop, see that the fighting wasn’t worth it at all.”
The door was open. Supervillain was stepping through. “No! No!” Hero protested as Supervillain grabbed Hero’s wrist and dragged them through the open door into more whiteness. “No! Leave me! Leave me here! Please!”
Hero woke gasping, shooting straight up in their bed and clutching at the sweat soaked sheets. Their eyes darted around the room, looking for Supervillain, but they didn’t have to look far. Hero skittered back on the bed, shivering as they stared at Supervillain’s icy, smiling eyes.
“Hello Hero,” he said with his friendly voice. Hero swallowed, their eyes shooting to the door but there Grieves stood, glare fixed on Hero.
“Sleeping beauty finally awakes,” Grieves grumbled. Hero gasped, their chest beating in fretful staccatos, jumping and falling and plunging and pushing.
It’s a nightmare. This is just a nightmare and Hero will wake up and they’ll— they’ll—
Superhero’s face flashed behind Hero’s eyes. Hero’s eyes blew wide and they lunged forward, gripping the edge of the bed and threw up everything in their stomach which wasn’t much. Mostly bile and water.
They heard Grieves moan in disgust distantly as Hero shuddered, another wave of warmth climbing their throat as the battle came back to them in terrifying, vivid clarity.
The war… Vigilante… Teleport… they had lost. They— they lost, and Supervillain— a hand on their back and Hero flinched but they couldn’t move, afraid that if they did it would anger their stomach again and they didn’t want to throw up on the bed.
“That’s it, Hero,” Supervillain said warmly. “Get it out.”
Hero couldn’t reply before they were getting sick again, and then, somehow, they knew they were finished. They wiped their mouth with the back of their hand and sat up, shaking. Supervillain smiled at them.
“Here, sip some water. I’ll get someone to clean that up.” Supervillain said, pushing a glass to Hero’s lips. Hero blinked rapidly, steadying the glass with their two hands and tentatively taking a sip. The water was cool going down their throat, and pleasant. It washed away the taste of bile and acid and Hero wanted to swallow the whole thing, but Supervillain pulled the glass away. “Easy, Hero. If you gulp it down you’ll just throw it up,” he told them.
Hero sat back away from Supervillain’s outstretched hands, away from the water and glared at him.
“Come now, Hero. You could hurt my feelings with that look.”
“I will kill you,” Hero promised, their voice croaking from disuse, but the words were heavy, weighted with a vow that Hero would follow until their dying day. Or until Supervillain’s, whichever came first. Supervillain chuckled and leaned away, setting the glass of water on the table beside the bed.
“You can try,” Supervillain said with a shrug, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands on his thighs. Comfortable. Relaxed. As if Hero wasn’t a threat like this.
Because you’re not.
As if they were two friends catching up on lost time. Hero was new to Supervillain’s changed world. They didn’t even know what he did, let alone what his power was. This new world he promised, Hero wouldn’t be able to navigate it properly if he didn’t show them around. All they knew was that Supervillain killed Superhero and Hero would kill him for it.
Eventually.
After a brief adjustment period.
“No?” Supervillain asked, dipping his head to catch Hero’s eyes again. Hero swallowed the dryness in their throat. “Well then, perhaps we can have breakfast together. I can show you around.”
“How lo—” Hero’s voice broke and they coughed, trying to clear the clog. Supervillain grabbed the glass of water off the table and reached it towards Hero. Hero shook their head initially, but their throat was raw, burning and they took the glass from his hands. They almost dropped it immediately, and would have too, if not for Supervillain’s hand catching the bottom on his open palm.
“Sip,” Supervillain said, scoldingly. Hero gripped the glass with two shaky hands. They continued coughing and they couldn’t lift the glass from Supervillain’s hand, so Supervillain moved leaning forwards as Hero hacked. He was beside them in the bed, a hand on the back of Hero’s neck, cool and clammy against Hero’s burning skin and Hero hated how good it felt.
Hero leaned in and sipped some of the water. It settled the burning slightly and all too quickly Supervillain pulled away. Hero cleared their throat as best as they could, and Supervillain waited, patiently, until Hero nodded and Supervillain brought the glass back to Hero’s lips and they repeated the process.
They felt disgusting having their enemy so close to them, having to need his help to fucking drink water because their body was weak. Their muscles atrophied.
“Enough?” Supervillain asked and Hero nodded. Supervillain’s thumb ran over the back of Hero’s neck. “Good.”
He moved on the bed, getting off and letting his contact with Hero drop which Hero was grateful for. Their body was exhausted from that little exertion. They leaned back against the wall and watched as Supervillain placed the glass on the table again.
“How long?” Hero asked, their voice a little stronger than before. Supervillain smiled a little, as if Hero told a stupid joke.
“It’s coming up to the year anniversary since the world changed.”
The confirmation hit them like a train to the chest, like a bowling ball was dropped from the empire state building into their stomach from their ribs, far too heavy and crushing to comprehend.
“What?” Hero asked with a breath, tears pinpricking the backs of their eyes. “You left me in stasis for a—” they swallowed back a sob, “a year?”
Supervillain shrugged, turning his back to Hero and walking to the wardrobe beside the door. “It was necessary, Hero. I needed to solidify my hold on the world, make sure the memory was ingrained deep enough that it would take, and work to destroy records and such.” Supervillain continued, hangers clanging together as he looked through the clothes.
Hero swallowed. Was their brain slow or was Supervillain talking nonsense? “What do you mean ‘make sure the memory was ingrained?’ What did you do?”
Supervillain paused in his movements. He cast a glance back at Hero who was barely hanging onto their threads of consciousness and he started to laugh. Hero wished he were dead in that moment. They longed to grab their swords and spear them through his stupid throat and his lungs, and keep stabbing until he stopped breathing.
“Oh, Hero. I completely forgot. I never did tell you my power, did I?”
Hero blinked at him. They wouldn’t give Supervillain a show. They refused.
Supervillain smiled and turned to face Hero, two hangers with clothes in his hands. His smile was wide and dashing, and pleased and friendly. “I have the ability to alter memories.”
Hero stared. “What?”
Supervillain continued towards Hero, laying the clothes out on the bed. A hoodie and a tracksuit. Neither of which were particularly interesting to Hero at that moment. Supervillain set the clothes down and sat down on his chair again beside Hero’s bed.
“I altered the world’s memories of Heroes and Villains, of powers and the powerless. I made it normal for some people to be born with powers, and didn’t try and hide it from the world like Superhero wanted.” Supervillain said, his eyes glinting with corrupt pleasure, like he was enjoying seeing Hero’s entire world shatter on their face.
“And you know what, Hero?” He said leaning in. “Nobody batted an eye about it.”
“No fucking shit!” Hero seethed, leaning forwards despite their body groaning at them for the effort. “You altered their memories so they wouldn’t bat an eye about it, you dick!” Supervillain chuckled. It chilled Hero to the core.
“No, Hero,” he said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. It’s hard to implement memories that people don’t already want to accept. Well, granted, it’s harder but still do-able. Although, you’ll be happy to know that Superhero’s idea of revealing powered individuals while maintaining their secret identities, made it an easier pill to swallow.”
Hero glared at him, clenching their teeth to stop themselves from screaming, their fingers curling into fists by their sides.
“You can’t just make the everyone forget about our past! The war, the heroes—”
“Oh, yes I can, Hero. Not alone. That’s what the amplifier was for.”
Hero frowned. Amplifier? Their mind scratched back to yesterday— no… it wasn’t yesterday. It was only yesterday to them. But Hero remembered when Supervillain was on stage, Villain keeping Hero on their knees at the back and the— “the boy.”
“Yes. The boy. We had to look high and low to find him, but find him we did. Everything had to go to plan otherwise the war would be for nothing.”
“Why would he help you?” Hero demanded.
Supervillain leaned back into his seat. “Because he wanted to protect his family from it.”
The two of them fell silent. Hero was struggling to fight back tears at Supervillain’s casualness. They wished they believed that Supervillain was lying. They wished they could hope that he was, but Hero knew. They knew that Supervillain was telling the truth, and that fact was attempting to swallow them whole.
“Did you protect them?” Hero whispered.
“I did.” And Hero knew that was true too. It didn’t make them feel better about it. “But that’s not the important thing I want to show you, Hero,” Supervillain continued with a small smile. “I’m sure you’re wondering about what happened to the rest of your heroes, hmm?”
Hero’s heart lurched in their chest. No, they weren’t, and they were horrible for nothing thinking about them, but their mind was so focused on Vigilante, would he remember them? Would he still… would they still?… Fresh tears pricked Hero’s eyes, both from guilt and an overwhelming amount of pain at Vigilante’s possible altered state.
Could Supervillain make him forget about their relationship? Their love? Icy eyes drank in Hero’s obvious hurt and helpless grief. He couldn’t imagine waking up after a year and being told the world has changed.
“Please…” Hero whispered, tears falling down their cheeks as they raised their head. “Please make me forget.”
“No,” Supervillain said softly. Hero fisted their hands in the bedsheets.
“Why?!”
“Because Hero, I need someone who doesn’t agree with me to keep me in check.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you murdered Superhero!” Hero seethed. Supervillain’s expression darkened.
“Hmph, yes. Well, Superhero would be far too meddlesome. He would have found a way to undo all my work.”
“And I won’t?”
Supervillain smiled. “No, Hero. You won’t. I have you tangled in a web that you don’t even realise yet. But, don’t worry, I am willing to show you. As soon as you are dressed.”
Hero glared at him. They weren’t ready to see the new world. They didn’t want to go with Supervillain.
“Can’t you put me back in stasis?” Hero asked, their voice a harsh, breathy wish. Supervillain’s smile turned sad. Hero swallowed the lump in their throat, their nostrils flaring as their eyes drifted to the stupid, ugly tracksuit bottoms and hoodie.
“I want a shower.”
“You can have a shower.” Hero nodded. “I had a wet chair placed in the shower for you. I don’t want you fainting on me.”
The forethought that Supervillain had put into Hero’s awakening turned their stomach. Why had he thought of everything? Considered every possible discomfort and ensured Hero wouldn’t feel it? How long had he been planning this?
“Are you ready?” Supervillain asked, standing and extending his hand to Hero. Hero didn’t look at him, didn’t reply, but they grabbed his hand and let him help them towards a door in the corner of the room. He opened it and helped Hero in, and Hero didn’t apologise or care that much that they were leaning all of their weight on Supervillain. Their legs were numb and unused to carrying the load of their torso.
Hero saw the chair eventually, alert eyes scanning the shower, searching for a razor or something g that would let them hurt themselves but of course, there was nothing. Hero shrugged the thought away mentally, they could always slam their head against the ground until they were dead.
Supervillain set them down in the chair. “I won’t insult you by staying, so I have made a couple other safety measures.”
Supervillain pulled a pair of cuffs from his pockets and Hero recoiled, but their body was too slow and weak to respond, to fight against Supervillain as he cuffed their left arm to the right arm rest of the chair. He did the same with Hero’s ankles and Hero didn’t fight him anymore. They didn’t have the energy to fight a battle they knew they wouldn’t win.
“How will I take my clothes off genius?” Supervillain smiled. He held up a scissors and Hero rolled their eyes. “Of course.”
“I won’t look,” Supervillain said kindly, as if that made a difference. As if it would be less humiliating for him to cuff them and cut their clothes just enough so Hero could shimmy out of them in their current state with only one hand free.
“I can’t do anything like this,” Hero said through clenched teeth.
“You needn’t worry, Hero. Grieves made sure you were clean, he let you do the essentials like drink water and use the toilet.”
“Couldn’t have let me eat during that time, no?”
Supervillain dipped his chin back. “You and I both know how resourceful you are. What if you accidentally brushed Grieves and his power failed? You will be fine with just this for today. You’ll understand more about your time in stasis later, but you can rest assured, you’re not dirty.”
With that Supervillain turned the water on and left. It was refreshingly warm, not too hot or cold. Just enough that it returned some heat to Hero’s body that seemed to be seeping from every pore. Slowly they removed the shirt, which was hanging only by the loop of the collar, up and over their head and let the water touch their bare skin.
They sat in the water motionless for they didn’t know how long, long enough for their fingers to prune and only then did they open their eyes. A shelf was near their left hand and on it some shampoo and conditioner and soap. Hero rubbed it everywhere, too tired to try and fight to take off their trousers, they just slipped the soap bar underneath and scrubbed until their skin was red raw.
A knock at the door after Hero was done. “Are you finished?”
Hero thought about not answering him. “Hero?”
“Yes.”
Supervillain walked in and turned off the tap, his eyes closed and wrapped the towel around Hero’s chest. Hero wrapped it further, and told him it was okay to look when their modesty was satisfied. Supervillain unlocked their cuffs and escorted the dripping Hero back to their bed, the towel wrapped firmly around them now. It was soft, white and fluffy.
“I already laid out your clothes. I’ll turn around,” Supervillain said once Hero was sitting on their bed again.
“I assume you can’t make yourself new memories.”
“In the same way I doubt you can negate your own abilities, no. Why?”
Hero picked up the tracksuit, their nose scrunching with disgust. “Shame you can’t just make yourself memories of being stylish.”
Supervillain laughed. Hero glared at his back as they pulled on the half zip hoodie. “Of all the things you have to be angry at me for, Hero. I didn’t think fashion would factor into it.”
“Don’t worry,” Hero answered, yanking their trackies up their legs and tying the drawstring. They were annoyingly comfortable and soft. “I have plenty of anger to go around. And fashion always comes into it.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Do I get shoes?”
“Are you finished?” Supervillain asked. Hero half expected him to turn but he didn’t until Hero said, yeah, I’m done.
“You won’t need shoes for the time being.”
Hero stared at him. “Do you seriously think I’m in any state to run away?”
“Hero,” he said, gently scolding. A tone that set Hero’s teeth on edge. “You can’t even stand up by yourself. I have a wheelchair for you.”
Hero paused, frown drawing their features down. “I am not going around in a wheelchair!”
“It’s either that or I carry you like a child, Hero. It’s your choice.” Supervillain shot them a look and Hero glared back. They didn’t need a wheelchair. They could— Hero could stand up on their own! And they would fucking prove it.
Hero didn’t break eye contact as they grabbed the headboard of the bed and pushed themselves up to shaky feet. Supervillain watched them, saw their shaking muscles and weak legs and their determination as they took a step.
Their ankle folded and Hero almost fell but they caught themselves and let out a startled: “wait!” to stop Supervillain from swooping in and saving them from falling flat on their face. Hero swallowed and pushed themselves back up, sweating from the effort as they pulled themselves to their full height, wobbling only slightly as they lifted their burning gaze to meet Supervillain’s.
“See? I’m fine.”
“I’ll carry you then,” Supervillain said with a shrug, starting towards them. “It makes no difference to me. I just thought you’d want to retain some semblance of dignity.”
Hero backed up. Fear immediately wiping away the determination from before and Hero stumbled back, falling onto the bed and kicking up a leg to keep Supervillain back but he kept coming.
“OKAY! OKAY! Fine! I’ll— the wheelchair,” they said, trying to smother their panic with rage. They hadn’t felt this weak in… well, ever, and it scared them more than Supervillain did. “I’ll take the wheelchair.”
As if on cue there came a knock on the door. Supervillain straightened with his chilling, friendly smile, his eyes twinkling with an awful knowing that turned Hero’s stomach.
“Enter.”
The door opened and a wheelchair rolled through. Supervillain stepped out of Hero’s line of sight so they could get a full view of the door as Grieves walked through, grinning at Hero, followed by a familiar head of jet black hair.
“Medic?” Hero whispered, surprised they could get that word together with the lack of oxygen in their chest. Medic looked at Hero and no recognition flashed across his face. He was wearing an apron, with a bucket and a mop. His eyes narrowed when he saw Hero.
“Who are you?”
“Medic,” Grieves chastised and Medic winced. Grieves turned and placed a hand on Medic’s shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”
“Don’t touch him!” Hero growled, shooting to their feet. The world swam and they grabbed the headboard for support, but Supervillain caught them and started pulling them away, towards the wheelchair.
Medic’s eyes turned quizzical as they caught Hero’s, frowning as Supervillain turned Hero and shoved them into the chair. Hero’s lips curled back into a snarl, about to curse Supervillain out of it when Supervillain shot them a look, his icy eyes freezing Hero in their defiance.
“Would you like the same treatment as the shower or will you behave?”
“You’re a fucking monster,” Hero spat, tears welling up on their lower lids, blurring edges into colours and shapes. Supervillain didn’t move, his expression didn’t change.
“Will you behave?”
Hero grabbed the arm rests of the wheelchair, arms shaking from their white knuckled grip. They couldn’t answer, not verbally, so they nodded stiffly. Once up and once down, almost imperceptible, but Supervillain saw.
“Good,” he said, and Hero could hear the smile in his voice. Medic walked past Hero towards the vomit by the bed and set the bucket down, dunking the mop in. That’s all Hero saw before Supervillain turned their chair.
Grieves was by the door, arms behind his back, a grin on his papery face. Hero glared at him as Supervillain wheeled them out the door, their face flooding with shame. Only when they saw that the hallway was empty did they let the helpless tears fall.
Hero would right this, they vowed.
They would fix everything. They’d kill Supervillain and Grieves, and Villain and all other villains that were conscious to the change— the ones that remembered the old world — but first, they needed to get their strength back.
They needed to learn how the new world worked. They had to play nice with Supervillain while they learned exactly what this world they had woken to was. What a world looked like in Supervillain’s image.
If Grieves had Medic, he probably had Teleport too, but Hero couldn’t know until they saw her with him. And if Grieves had them, then Villain probably had…
Hero swallowed. Surely Vigilante would remember them? Medic and Hero were friends, but— but isn’t love supposed to survive every trial? Hero stared at their knees dejectedly. If Supervillain wiped everyone’s minds… nobody, none of the heroes or Hero’s friends would remember who they are. They’d just think Hero’s another of Supervillain’s generals.
“Does anyone remember me?” Hero asked. Their voice came out so quiet that even Hero wondered if they had asked a question out loud at all.
“No,” Supervillain replied, just as gentle as before. “Superhero is a villain in their eyes, the darkest days of our lives, so I wouldn’t try and cosy up to them by throwing his name around either.”
Hero sucked in a breath. “Did you enslave every hero?”
Supervillain chuckled. “Not all of them. My generals got their first picks. You can guess who Grieves chose.”
Hero clenched their jaw. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did.”
“Why?!” Hero demanded, slamming their palm on the arm rest of the wheelchair.
There was a pause. Supervillain stopped walking. Hero’s heart thumped loud in their chest. They felt Supervillain remove his hands from the chair, and he walked around to the front of Hero. Hero refused to look at him, but it didn’t matter. Supervillain tilted Hero’s chin up with the pads of his index and middle finger, until Hero’s eyes met piercing blue.
“I want you to acclimatise to your new life quickly Hero. Superhero would have run around and tried to form connections and rally his friends in vain to revolt against me. I want you to know that that idea will not be tolerated.” Hero felt their eyes burn with hot, frustrated tears that they refused to let fall. “And it won’t be you who is punished for your insolence.”
Supervillain leaned down, his hands going to the armrests of the chair, fingers wrapping around Hero’s wrists and pinning them as Hero shrunk back in the chair. Supervillain stopped a hair’s breath away from Hero’s face.
“It will be your friends. Medic and Teleport, and the little traitor Vigilante.” Hero struggled against Supervillain’s grip in vain, their blood rushing like a waterfall in their ears, deafening. “And I’ll make you watch as they are hurt for your petty defiance. Do I make myself clear, Hero?”
Hero was shaking. Their lips shut resolutely. Supervillain squeezed their wrists in warning. “Hero.”
“Yes.” Hero hissed. Supervillain smiled, leaning back. Hero swallowed the lump in their throat, grabbing their wrists and putting them in their lap when Supervillain pulled away.
“Good,” he said, chipper and happy. His mood changing as suddenly as a day became a year for Hero. “Let’s get some breakfast then. All this excitement has me working up an appetite,” he said, and he was pushing Hero’s wheelchair through the halls again, as if he didn’t threaten everyone Hero loved.
Everyone Hero loved. People who didn’t remember them anymore. The only person they had vaguely on their side right now was Supervillain, much to their chagrin, but that’s the way it was and would be until Hero was strong enough to fight back.
First, breakfast.
Then they could figure out a plan.
Find Vigilante and they could fall in love all over again, if that’s what it takes… Hero was ready to abandon being a hero during the war for Vigilante, they could do it again now. Stop being a hero and just find Vigilante and be happy.
It would be what Supervillain wanted. What Supervillain asked of them; Not to be an upstart like Superhero, not to fight back futilely. Hero closed their eyes and let Supervillain push them through unfamiliar halls.
GUUUYYYYSSS!!!! It’s finally gotten to the part of the story where the title makes sense now~ hehe, also, would recommend for those that want little tidbits/sneak hints/easter eggs I would listen to Jann’s song Gladiator on Spotify for the clues to the next arc of the story
Thank you for reading my happy fic, I love you all so much cause this one’s special, my poor lil baby, Hero is all alone :( with only their nemesis for safety and comfort :(
Whumper putting a warm and strong hand on Whumpee's cold, naked shoulder. Their grip firm, somewhere between reassuring and controlling.
Whumpee's arms are stretched above them, their wrists tied together and held up by a rope. They're vulnerable, unable to shield any part of their exposed body. Their breath hitches as Whumper touches them, and they wish they could flinch away, put their arms down, in front of their body. But there is nowhere to go. So they slowly exhale and try to stay calm.
"Good, Whumpee," comes Whumper's voice, their breath warm on Whumpee's neck. Whumper lets their hand flow lower, tracing Whumpee's skin, the shape of their body. While the warmth could've been comforting, it just makes Whumpee want to vomit.
Whumper's touch doesn't hurt. It's almost gentle, the way they're holding Whumpee, holding their shoulder, their waist.
Whumpee almost wishes they'd just punch them instead. Hurt them.
