Whumpee hesitated. A flicker of defiance flashed in his eyes before being smothered by the weight of exhaustion.
He’d already lost once today. He knew resistance would lead to another beating. It wasn’t worth the fight.
Kneeling at Whumper’s feet, Whumpee reluctantly parted his lips.
“Good.” The tall man said approvingly. His eyes glinted as he took a drag from his cigarette, leaning forward for a better look at his seldom-behaved captive. Obedience was a good look on him.
“Good. Now wider.”
Humiliated, Whumpee forced his lips apart with all the strength he could muster. The burning flush of shame spread across his cheeks.
His gaze lingered on Whumpee’s parted lips, watching curiously as his tightened muscles began to quiver.
Pungent smoke billowed from Whumper’s smile, filling the room with its suffocating haze.
Whumpee’s tongue started twitching from holding his mouth open for so long. His eyes darted away when he noticed Whumper lean even closer towards him, flinching as the man’s shadow crossed his face.
Pinched between two fingers, Whumper dangled his cigarette directly above Whumpee’s open mouth.
When enough soot gathered at the tip, he flicked the ash onto the Whumpee’s tongue.
“No. Don’t swallow.” Whumper commanded softly. “Keep your mouth open.”
The bitter taste of ash coated Whumpee’s tongue, burning against the back of his throat. His jaw trembled from the strain of forcing his mouth open, every muscle aching as he fought the urge to spit the disgusting mouthful at Whumper’s feet. Humiliation seethed through him, burning hotter than the ember of the cigarette.
He hated this. His survival depended on it, but this, being treated as furniture-- worse, an ashtray-- he fucking hated it. But he had no other choice.
With a forceful breath, Whumpee lifted his eyes, refusing to meet Whumper’s smug gaze.
Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between Whumper’s fingers as he relished the spectacle of Whumpee on his knees in blissful, silent submission.
Random bursts of motivation have been hitting me, and yes, maybe it is because I have been getting a shit ton of praise from my girlfriend and all of the lovely people who have been reblogging/commenting/liking my silly little story, but we have another chapter!!!
CWs: vaguely referenced bondage, war surrender, yelling at caretaker, metaphorical sacrifical lamb, fatherly disappointment, desperate wishes for a normal life ;)
The walk back to his room was a haze.
Henley walked on leaden legs, only vaguely registering what was going on around him as he left the enemy camp and made the reverse journey to his home. General Jace had not escorted him from the camp, instead effortlessly summoning guards with a whistle; they had grabbed him roughly by bound arms and made to put the blindfold back on again.
The general had stopped them with a hand, and smirked.
"I don't think he'll be needing that", he had murmured, staring straight into Henley's eyes. No, past that.
Henley had fought the urge to drop his eyes, and instead, had stared back defiantly until the cloaked door of the tent flapped closed, and he was jostled forward by the enemy.
He came to, back in his room, as he shut the door quietly. Incapable of feeling anxiety as to how he had managed to walk himself back, he padded across the room to his chair. His right hand man, his best friend, his confidante, still lay, head on folded arms on the table.
Steady, calm breaths escaped Ezra, and Henley found himself using them as a guide. He matched his breathing to the sleeping man's, inhaling as his chest rose, and exhaling as Ezra blew the papers on the table with his expulsion.
The Prince felt a wave of affection for Ezra as he stood, breathing with him, observing him and being reminded viscerally of just how there he was. Ezra was always there for Henley. Even whilst unaware and unconscious.
How was Henley going to cope without-
No. He couldn't think about that. This wasn't about him.
Henley flopped down into the chair across from him, leaning forward and resting his head on his hands. Slowly, Ezra began to stir.
Henley adjusted his posture, heavy-lidding his eyelids against the adrenaline and adopting a sleepy expression as he dragged his gaze up to meet Ezra's.
The dogged smile that he received from a recently woken Ezra was worth the pretence, as they silently rose together and flopped onto the sofas, dragging blankets over themselves. Both ignored the perfectly made bed, as they lay opposite one another again.
"Goodnight, Hen." the drowsy right-hand man slurred.
"Goodnight Ez." the prince whispered.
He had a few hours of sleep before all hell broke loose.
***
It was late morning by the time that the true chaos broke loose. And it did not last very long.
Reports came through from the city's gates that the enemy were marching towards them, with speed. It was said that the general was at the front and foremost of those ranks.
Henley skilfully intercepted all messages before they reached the grand court, assuring the messengers that the court had made its decision to follow Henley's orders from here until the end.
The messengers, though mildly confused, had agreed, asking for direction.
And Henley told them to stand down.
Argument afer argument, he rebuffed, until the messengers stopped coming, and from his window high up in the palace, Henley watched as the fortified gates swung open.
Kelaoth was breached.
He watched passively as the army marched further and further up the hill towards the palace, expression fixed and controlled. The stark red of the uniforms draped a morbid sight over the city, like the walls were bleeding into the centre; the garish sight was enough to make Henley feel as though the city itself were protesting, rejecting her new ruler with the absolute certainty of the bloodshed that would follow.
Henley wished he could explain to her that this was the only way to prevent further unnecessary bloodshed.
This was the only way to make sure that his was the only blood directly shed by this war.
All was going well with his composure until Ezra burst into the room.
"Your Highness, they have entered the city, I have sent messengers to the barracks-"
"NO!" Henley shouted.
Ezra fell quiet. The silence buzzed. Henley had not turned, but he felt the shocked gaze burning through his back.
Henley stood still, breathing heavily.
"You will recall those messengers, and give them a new message."
"My lord?"
"They will stand down. Kelaoth is surrendering. Negotiations are finished."
"…Henley."
The prince shut his eyes, composing himself before swinging around.
The betrayal in Ezra's face was almost unbearable, but Henley would bear it. He had to.
"I have terms with General Jace that involve the safe transfer of power in this kingdom, and the protection of all of its inhabitants, including those of the high families."
Ezra's brows furrowed, "He was willing to let them all go? Why? That doesn't seem like the disgusting, traitorous bastard." The words were spat out.
Henley swallowed before he spoke again, "He agreed that only one person need be punished for this war, and there was no need for further bloodshed beyond that."
Ezra still stood, off-kilter, clearly still confused, "One person? What-"
Henley sighed, looking down at the floor.
The silence stretched as Henley could not bring himself to break it with the damning words. Instead, he let it slowly seep into his dear right-hand man's mind.
"Oh..." Ezra's voice betrayed his horror, "No, Henley; no, you can't, your family needs you. I'll go, I can stand in their pla-"
"This is not your burden to bear."
The words were whispered from a tightening throat; a shameful confession from a doomed man.
Ezra's face crumpled as he shook his head in denial.
"I am sorry."
He stepped tentatively across the room and gently pulled his friend into a hug, mumbling words he needed to say, into tangled black hair.
"Thank you for your services, Ezra Chaudhri, I release you of your duty."
***
Running his fingers over the ridges in his desk, scratched into by years of furious plans etched on parchment, Henley reined in his emotions.
He was a prince.
This was his duty.
Feeling a sudden urge to imprint himself on this place that was his, Henley took up his quill and reached in to the wall behind the desk. Digging the pointed end into the wall, he drove his initials in; A.H.R. - Prince Aisling Henley Rowan.
There. He had been here. Even if he lost it all… when he lost it all. He had still been here, once.
A sharp knock sounded at the door, followed by a familiar, angry, yet somewhat frightened voice.
"Aisling, get out here now."
The King's voice rang out, commanding through the obvious tremors.
Henley flinched before placing his quill back onto the desk carefully, lining it up with the bottom of the parchment so that it ran parallel the page. Unable to find anything else to stall this, he slowly walked to the door and turned the handle.
It swung open to reveal a rather unamused-looking king, frazzled in his ceremonial robes.
Eyes downcast, the prince spoke, "I believe we have someone to meet, Your Majesty, we hardly have time for father-son bonding time."
The King frowned at him in distaste.
"What have you done? I placed you in charge of armies because you were a good strategist, and now you have proven more stupid than I had ever thought."
Henley nodded along, too exhausted both physically and emotionally to fight his father.
"You were an excellent fighter; you seemed to want to do anything to protect this kingdom, our family."
The berated prince closed his eyes in pain at the reminder of all he would sacrifice.
"And yet now you have betrayed this country and tossed us into the hands of this evil traitor."
At that, Henley's eyes shot up, adrenaline from his fury pumping through his body lightning fast, sending his nerves sparking.
"Everything I am doing is for this country! How dare you, father!? I am doing what you were too stubborn to admit we needed to do! Either we surrendered and gave the best outcome we could to our people, or we watched them die fighting an unwinnable war!"
Henley paced frantically away from his father, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.
"Do you think I wanted to open those gates to him? Do you think I wanted to be marched through his camp, mocked and blindfolded, to have him tell me how hopeless our cause was? Do you think I wanted to promise him my future, my own life, just to prevent my own family from being brutally executed on the paved stones of the city our ancestors built?"
Henley fixed his father with a glare, finding a small amount of deviant pleasure in his father's shocked expression.
"No. I swear to you, that I do not wish for any of this. I swear on every King who ever walked these halls that I wish to live a free life. Free of obligations, free of war, free of fear. But I didn't get to choose that. And nor do I get to choose anything in this outcome, other than whether or not I have to watch my kingdom burn and my family be executed before I myself die."
He stepped closer to his father, reaching up and tipping the crown off his head, not flinching at the clatter it made as it hit the polished ground.
"My apologies, for not wishing you and my mother dead, nor the citizens of our country. I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me, one day in your long, long life. Goodbye, father."
And with that, Henley strode off down the halls, to meet the man who held his fate in the palm of his hand; a tight fist that was indeed.
If anyone else would like added to the taglist, drop me a comment or a message and I'd be overjoyed to have you! If not, every like, comment or reblog is much appreciated and truly makes my day. Love you all!
Villain hummed softly, his eyes fixeted on the glinting blade in his hand, as if it were an ancient artifact. With a deliberate slowness, he lifted his head just enough to catch the gaze of the hero, whose face had dropped in despair.
A small, twisted smile crept across the villain's lips as he wiped a trickle of blood from the knife's edge. "Every scream," he began, his voice a chilling whisper that sent shivers down the hero's spine. The hero flinched at the sudden sound, their fear palpable in the air.
"Every tear." Villain continued, closing the distance between him and hero where they were tied up, helpless and at their mercy.
"Every single ounce of pain you endure" He put force into his words, suddenly gripping hero's jaw, forcing them to meet his gaze. The hero's frozen pale face bore with bruises, cuts and dried tears of previous tortures they endured from villain's hands.
"All of it that you endure" Villain murmured, his voice low and menacing. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the hero's ear, ensuring that every word he said cut through the silence like a blade.
For simplicity sake I'm doing a post for each character putting their snippets in a vague chronology.
Alex (Asset 84) was trained for frontline combat.
He was acquired by the Facility at age 8 and sent directly to Complex 27 where he was placed in C Block, where his training began.
His handler at Complex 27 is Colonel Carter, a strict and overbearing woman determined to create the "perfect asset." She chose Alex as her test subject for this endeavour - pushing him to meet her harsh expectations and using extreme methods to test his loyalty.
At the start of his arc, Alex embodies the role of the typical living weapon, viewing both himself and all other assets as mere tools. He follows protocol with unwavering discipline, and his emotions are so deeply buried that he is barely aware they exist. However, after meeting and working with Asset 83 (Sam), cracks begin to form in his conditioning, and he slowly starts to question everything he's been taught.
By the time of the group's escape in On The Run, Alex is 26 years old and was ranked 15th among frontliners. His conditioning has started to break enough for him to be starting to regain a sense of self though he still finds many aspects of humanity confusing and overwhelming. He doesn't really understand emotions so that well and fluctuates on how he thinks of himself and other assets.
The following snippets (mostly prompt driven), presented in vague chronological order, take place during his time at Complex 27.
Content warnings are listed at the top of each snippet. But as a general guide Alex's story includes: dehumanisation, gaslighting, torture framed as training, torture framed as correction, self harm, violence , near death experience, noc con drugging, torture, psychological distress, halucinations, amongst others.
Kidnapping
Gaslighting
Fake execution
Waterboarding
Branding
Self Administered Medicine
Nervous Twitch (Sam and Alex)
Emotionless
Machine (sam and Alex)
Exhaustion (Sam and Aelx)
Warm blanket (sam and Alex)
Whipping
"I deserved it (sam and Alex)
"Gentle touch (sam and Alex)
"I'm here" (Sam and Alex)
“Are you okay?” “I have not sustained any damage.” “I meant like…emotionally.” (Sam and Alex)
Phantom pain
Assessment
Inside Joke (Sam and Alex)
Touch starved (Same and Aelx)
Halucinations
Drowning (sam and Alex)
Wake Up (Sam and Alex)
Human shield (Sam and Alex)
Forced to hurt somebody else (Charlie and Alex)
Protective Caretaker (Sam and Alex)
Post escape:
Silent tears
"Do you know what conditioning is?" (Sam and Alex)
Whumpee deliberately puts themselves in situations that make them relive bits and pieces of their trauma again and again. They know it’s irrational, but they miss an aspect of it that they perceived as positive – maybe their own strength and endurance, or maybe the silence that came after the storm was over. Their brain had blocked out the pain of the violence they’d been subjected to, but at the expense of their self-preservation instinct – and so they indulge in their past conviction and the rage and fear that kept them alive. They hate how helpless they felt once they got the help they truly needed, because from their perspective, their situation was bad, but “it could have been worse, right?”
The people in their primary support system are on edge. Some of them held Whumpee through their nightmares, others lost time, sleep and resources to ensure Whumpee’s safety, some had to reiterate the extent of the damage over and over to various actors when Whumpee couldn’t do it themselves... They all know recovery isn’t linear, but they were also hoping Whumpee was getting better. Nobody is addressing the elephant in the room, because everybody is tired and silently hoping that someone else will take the initiative to bring it up.
alright, so, clearly i haven't been posting much recently. the last few months have not treated me well. but i would like to get back into writing, and my ocs.
my future plan is to post three prompts on a monday, and then release a prompt based on the most voted one by friday. this will be my way of getting through the prompts that i piled up by biting off WAY more than i can chew. so, welcome to the first poll :)
my goodness those zhongli headcanons were so lovely!! may i request a follow up to that little scenario, perhaps some caretaking fluff…. i’m not sure who exactly the caretaker would be, childe, dr baizhu, etc etc, i just crave for that lovely man to get some care and comfort and rest ^^;
Hey, sorry this took so long to answer, but hopefully this is what you were looking for! I threw in a little angst, but our beautiful Zhongli finally gets the care he deserves. :)
Disclaimer: MiHoYo is the creator and owner of Genshin Impact and its characters.
Content warning: the following includes mentions of violence and mild description of injury. Read on at your own discretion.
Childe took the damp cloth from Zhongli’s forehead, placing it in the basin and wringing it out.
The young man shook his head at how much heat the rag had soaked up in just a few moments. His fever was getting worse. Baizhu had told him not to worry; he had cleaned every cut and abrasion he could find, while assuring him that a fever was nothing out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, it still concerned him. Zhongli’s temperature had risen significantly in the last few hours and he had no doubt it would continue to do so.
“Here…this should help with your headache.”
The harbinger carefully brushed dark, sweaty locks out of the way before pressing the wet cloth to his friend’s forehead. A soft moan of relief made his heart squeeze just a bit—he couldn’t imagine how much pain the poor man was in.
He placed his hand on Zhongli’s head, numbly stroking through the silky dark locks of hair. Only a few hours prior it had been matted and tangled with dried blood and muck. Baizhu’s little girl had spent over three hours shoving the several feet of hair into a bowl of water, combing through the messy clumps with blank-faced determination. Once returned to its previous satiny state, it was pulled back into a simple ponytail and tied with a pink ribbon.
Though his heart was heavy, Childe couldn’t help but smile at Qiqi’s kind gesture. She had been positive that her favorite hair tie would make Zhongli happy.
“Ugh…” a low grunt from the bed snapped Childe out of his daze. He turned to see two golden eyes squinting ahead as their owner reached out an arm, slowly searching the air. “Childe…Childe, where are you?”
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here.” The harbinger gently grasped Zhongli’s hand. “See? I’m still here. Can’t get rid of me that easily.” His smile wavered as shaking fingers clutched desperately at his own. “You’re alright.”
He waited patiently for Zhongli’s feverish brain to convince him that he was really there.
“Childe…” the sick man murmured after a few minutes. He sounded relieved, or tired. “I…please…please…”
“Zhongli? What’s wrong?” He searched his friend’s face desperately, gently tapping his cheek to pull him back. “Are you okay?”
For a moment, the man on the bed didn’t respond. He stared at the ceiling with glazed amber eyes, completely unaware that he was being spoken to. Childe felt his heart freeze over with terror. Was something wrong? He glanced to the door, ready to call for Baizhu.
He didn’t have to, because Zhongli finally spoke.
“Water…please…”
Mildly relieved, the redhead lifted the glass from the bedside table, moving his chair closer to help Zhongli drink. He gently eased his hand beneath the man’s head, murmuring soft apologies whenever he winced. He made sure the patient was steady before lifting the cup to his lips.
“Here you go. Drink slowly, okay?” He kept supporting the other body as his friend took grateful sips of the water. “That’s it. Have as much as you need.” Childe supported him as he drank slowly from the container, helping him lean back against the pillows once he had finished.
“Thank you, Childe.” He muttered weakly. “I’m grateful for your assistance.”
“It’s no problem, xiansheng.” The younger man leaned on the bed, propping his face in his hands. “You always help me when I need it. I’m glad I can do the same for you.”
Zhongli looked pale and tired, but a faint ghost of a smile flickered at his lips.
“It’s just my duty as your acquaintance.”
The two sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the clock ticking or Baizhu’s distant voice speaking to another patient. It was peaceful and quiet, and most of all, it was safe. Zhongli seemed to be comfortable enough; his tattered suit had been replaced with a soft pharmacy robe, and he looked very at peace while he rested. Even just watching him stare at the wall brought such relief to Childe, as well as other feelings he was struggling to push down.
“You had me really worried, you know.”
The harbinger murmured softly, running a hand through his ginger hair.
“You didn’t come back last night. Everyone was starting to get anxious.” The harbinger tugged on one of his black gloves as he chuckled grimly. “Your little yaksha friend was going feral. Practically foaming at the mouth when I brought you back. Archons, you were a sight…” he inhaled shakily.
“I-I don’t understand.” His eyes burned, stinging with a familiar sensation that he shoved away. “You’re the kindest person in Liyue, xiansheng. You listen to everyone, you help whenever you can, you give up everything to make people feel safe.”
His next breath sounded like a sob, but he wasn’t crying yet.
“And those—those cowards. Those worthless roaches who thought they could touch you, thought they could leave you bleeding—“ he slammed his fist against the mattress, hanging his head in dispair. Rage vibrated through every fiber of his being, making his shoulders shake with pure red fury. It wasn’t fair. Of course he had hurt people in the past, but they were imbeciles, useless maggots who challenged the will of the Tsaritsa. Not grubby little thieves who attacked and tormented innocent bypassers, or his friends. He looked up with a storm brewing in his ocean-colored eyes.
“I’m going to kill them, Zhongli. I’m going to kill every last one of those bastards. I don’t care if the Qixing herself throws me in jail to rot over it, I want to kill them all—“
Splash.
He looked down at the cold sensation of Hydro magic swirling in his hands and noticed he had subconsciously summoned his blades. The sharp weapons glinted in the dim lighting of the room, reflecting his angry face almost mockingly. His chest swelled with guilt.
Childe swished them away before turning to apologize to Zhongli, but his friend was fast asleep. His mouth slightly agape, shadowed eyes closed peacefully, his chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Childe sighed deeply, getting out of the chair to sit on the edge of the mattress. He held his head in his hands, letting his mind wander off. The anger cooled as quickly as it had flared up, like a bucket of ice water being thrown on a raging fire.
He glanced at the sleeping body, noticing that Zhongli’s hand was twitching ever so slightly, fingers grasping for something even in his sleep. The harbinger inhaled deeply, before sliding his hand into his friend’s.
