phillip graves x reader, kidnapped user, protective/possessive graves, @whumpuary day 5: ransom, not good enough
Phillip's hands braced on the table, his eyes closed as he tried to gather himself. For a moment, no one dared to speak. They'd seen him angry before but this was different. This quiet rage terrified grown men; even his own men.
“They sent proof?” he asked with surprising calm. “Proof of life?”
A tablet was slid across the table. He glanced and closed his eyes again to push down the visceral rage rising up. One look had been enough. You, bound to a chair. A bruise blooming dark along your jaw. Your eyes unfocused but alive. Glaring at the camera. Alive.
His jaw tightened so hard it ached. Ransom. Someone had dared to take you for ransom. Money wasn’t the problem. It never was. He could wire the ransom ten times over without blinking, but he’s seen this game before. Pay the money, buy time and still get a body back.
He would not let that be you. Not you. Never you.
His mind flashed without permission. Images of you, half asleep in his bed, mumbling his name. Your fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to buy a moment longer before he had to leave. Your soft laugh when it was just you and him. Always gentle and sweet and trusting and his.
“No negotiations,” Phillip said, voice lowered into a lethal hiss. “I want eyes everywhere. Satellites, drones, informants. Burn through favors. I don’t care what it costs. Find them.”
And his men scrambled to comply, practically falling over themselves, as Phillip's eyes wandered to the image they sent of you.
I'm coming, sweetheart. I'm coming.
By the time Phillip steps into the little hole these rats had been hiding out in, it was already aflame. The last bits of gunfire sounded, largely replaced by shouting now, as his Shadows rounded up your captors and forced them to their knees. His focus, for now, however, was on the door, which was being guarded by five of his men.
Inside, you saw slumped over in a chair, wrists rubbed raw, eyes helf closed, hair falling in your face... He swallowed down the urge to run back and beat your captors to death on the spot.
Instead, he came closer and dropped to a knee before you. Gently, he whispered your name. His heart pounded when your fingers twitched and slowly, your head lifted.
His hands were gentle as they cupped your face, smearing blood on your cool skin as his thumbs brushed your cheeks. It was like coming home.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and unguarded. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You blinked at him as if unsure that he’s real. He cut the bindings himself, caught you when you sagged forward, and pulled you against his chest. His arms were steady and calm as they pressed you in, burried your face in the crook of his neck.
His eyes closed as he held you, felt you. I got you, baby.
His second-in-command cleared his throat behind him. “Sir. Orders on the kidnappers?”
Phillip didn't look back. “Don't kill them,” he ordered calmly, holding you closer. “That's not good enough.” Only then he turned, eyes cold and endless. “Pack them up. I'll be handling them personally.”
The Shadows noded and dragged the screaming men away.
“Let's get yu home,” he whispered in your ear and brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I'll never let anyone hurt you again.”
With little effort, he lifted you and stood, cradling you like something priceless. As he carried you toward the waiting plane, flanked by his shadows, his heart calmed as you tucked your head beneath his chin.
Having you against his chest helped. It was almost enough to make him consider simply executing your captors, but then his eyes dropped to your wrists. To your bruised cheek. He felt your tremors. His expression hardened again.
He was not the type to be weakened by his love. It hardened him, into something violent and destructive, something that did not know mercy when you were concered.
He boarded the plane with you in his arms, one hand pressed firmly to your back.
Once he arrived at the Compound, he would get you treated, showered, tucked into bed, and then he would slaughter your captors until they would not be recognizable as human beings anymore. And once he was done, he would wipe his hands, and slip into bed with you.
You would never know the blood he spilled in your name, and he planned to spill enough to drown anyone who might want to hurt you.
tags: whump, fluff, kissing, love confessions (kinda), crying
word count: 1.1k
author’s note: reupload! not stolen. idk if I got him in character, Colin is honestly really hard for me to write 😭
You hadn’t meant to yell at him. You really hadn’t. The stress of the case and the whole day had gotten to you and it all bubbled out in a moment of weakness as Colin got back into the car. You ripped him a new one, chewed him out for not having found anything yet, for not listening closely enough to you, for doing a shit job on the case.
It wasn’t really true, you knew he was trying, but he was also so soft he didn’t read into darker motives like you did, and that made him susceptible to manipulative suspects.
The car ride back to the station has been silent, suffocatingly so, and it’s odd to not hear Colin filling the space with his endless theories and side rants.
But he surprises you by breaking it with, “Hey, uh. Wanna stop for a smoke break ‘fore we get back to the station?” He hardly glances at you, smile gone and eyes downcast.
You sigh softly. “Yeah.” You pull over into a little walking trail entrance; a stony dirt clearing surrounded by tall trees and chirping birds. The sky is overcast, grey light filtering through the canopy above as Colin hops out of the car without preamble and marches off into the shadows beneath the pines.
You wait for a few minutes and he reappears, settling back into his seat and wiping his face with his sleeve, attempting to be inconspicuous but he seems to have forgotten you’re a detective.
“You don’t smoke,” you recall slowly as Colin takes deep breaths and stares out the window. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
Colin’s shoulders tense and he lets out a watery sigh, turning back to look at you with a furrowed brow and red eyes like he’d been crying out there. “Nothin’, just not- not feelin’ well, is all,” he lies, sniffing hard and turning to face the front. “Let’s go.”
“Hey.” You shift so you’re facing him fully in the seat and say, “I’m sorry for yelling at you.” He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean it,” you insist. “You’re a good detective and you’re doing your best and— I don’t know, the stress just got to me, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
Colin just blows out a long breath and frowns down at his lap. He shakes his head briefly and chews his lip.
“Well, say something,” you prompt, unused to not hearing him ramble at any given moment. “Zabel.”
He ignores you, closing his eyes like he might be able to shut out the whole world that way.
“Zabel,” you repeat, sternly.
His lip wobbles and you can tell he’s close to tears again. Heart twisting in your chest, you soften, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm and murmur, “Colin. Talk to me.”
You startle as Colin rips away, growling low in his throat as he throws his door open and hops back out of the car, slamming it behind him as he stalks off. You hurry after him, struggling with your seat belt before bolting across the dirt and down the walking trail after him.
He’s running one hand through his hair, messing up the perfect comb job he had, the other pulling on his collar; making him look absolutely undone.
“Zabel, wait up,” you pant, sprinting the last few feet to reach him. “Please— I’m sorry, what else can I say—?”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he snaps. He sees the way you blink and pull away in surprise and he winces. “Sorry, sorry. I just— you’re fucking right,” he sighs, voice breaking. His lip trembles again as he looks down at you and says, “You have every right to yell at me because I’m… I’m a fuck-up.”
“You’re not a fuck-up,” you say.
“No, I am!” he yells. “I really am. You don’t even know what happened on my last case— I am not the detective you or anyone else thinks I am.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes again, but it’s too late: the tears have begun to well and drip down his red cheeks. He presses one fist against his eye and his angry words dissolve into a whimper. “I’m just not good enough.”
Your heart breaks— his words, seeing him like this, it’s all too much to handle all at once.
“That’s— that’s not true,” you try, but you know he could never believe you. He shakes his head, as expected. You sigh and step closer, and Colin blinks at you, confusion clouding his black eyes. “Colin, listen.” He opens his mouth to protest, or maybe just ask about you calling him by his first name, but you continue, “You may not be the best detective.” His breath hitches. “Hell, I’m not the best detective. I can’t find a girl who’s been missing a whole year. But you know what you are the best at?”
Colin glowers and sniffles, “Oh yeah, what’s that? Doin’ coffee runs?”
You snort a laugh and his gaze softens slightly. “No,” you say. “Being my partner.”
Colin stills, his tears stopping as his mouth falls open. He stutters hard, “I— You— p— I— what?”
You nod, suddenly sheepish. “It’s— You’re a good partner, Zabel. The best I’ve ever had because— well, you care about me. You care about people. You… memorized my coffee order.” He blushes. “You ask about my family and you always anticipate my needs. You make the phone calls I don’t have time for, and you make me laugh even at the worst times, and—” Colin holds his breath and you look up at him, hesitant, heart racing.
“And,” you add slowly, “You make me happy. I’ve never felt this happy looking over a murder case. Maybe I’m crazy, but— but I like that you can make that happen.”
You should have seen it coming, but for once, Colin didn't have that nervous look on his face before saying something to you. His lips crash into yours in an instant, stealing your breath and catching your lips in a soft, warm embrace. You consider pulling away but reciprocate before you can follow through, moaning softly into his mouth as he kisses you. He doesn’t press, his tongue doesnt breach your teeth or test your limits. His hands don’t even come up to hold you, he just kisses you soft and firm, like a reminder of something he can’t put into words.
You gasp when he finally pulls away, his eyes still rimmed red but his smile is finally back. “I guess I do my job better than I thought, then,” he concedes in a honey smooth tone reserved for you alone.
You smile small and shocked, breathless and still able to taste him on your lips as he starts back toward the car without another word.
Maedhros woke from a fitful slumber as rough orc hands grabbed him. He was dragged from his filthy cell to a large dim chamber lit by evil looking torches that gave the room an eerie green glow. Orcish hands shoved him up against a wall. His arms were stretched out and locked in manacles well above his head. Hard-booted feet kicked his ankles apart to then lock them in manacles.
Spread-eagled against the wall, he was fully vulnerable. All the scars and bruises he had received so far were on full display. Unable to move much, and with his legs chained, his weight pulled heavily on his wrists. His shoulders ached. The rough iron cut into the soft flesh of his hands.
They left him like that for what felt like an eternity of horrible anticipation. Tables in the room held cruel looking instruments and the red-hot flames of a brazier flickered in one corner.
After what seemed hours, the brazier burnt down to the hottest coals, the heavy doors opened again. The Dark Lord’s chief lieutenant strode in. Sauron wore the visage of an Elf, tall and with fiery hair that seemed a mockery of Maedhros’s now shorn and matted locks. His footsteps echoed on the glistening stone and the evil fires cast his face in twisted shadows. He stopped before the wall where Maedhros hung.
“What a pretty plaything we have here.” The foul Maia’s voice came in a sinister purr. He ran his gloved hand over the instruments on the table, very slowly. Maedhros gulped, fighting not to show his fear.
Finally the Lieutenant chose a long iron rod with a thin sharp point. He plunged it deep into the coals of the brazier. Maedhros eyed it with growing anxiety.
When the tool was red hot, Sauron removed it. Iron gloves protected his hands, in a menacing style like the rest of his armor.
He stabbed the hot metal into the soft skin of Maedhros’s bicep. The Elf’s skin sizzled and the smell of burning flesh began to rise. He gritted his teeth in pain, fighting down a scream as his tormentor set more of the cruel implements in the brazier. The sharp-pointed one was removed from his bicep, only to be thrust into his thigh.
A scream tore from Maedhros’s lips.
The other tools grew red-hot in turn. A sharp hook was plunged into his shoulder. A three-pronged instrument found a searing sheath in his other thigh.
Maedhros writhed in agony, thrashing against the chains. His throat grew hoarse with screaming.
The sharp instruments were all removed in turn. The first implement was removed and returned to the table. Then the hook, tearing a small chunk of flesh as it came out. When all were removed, he hung limp, sweat drenching his body.
A different device was put in the fire next, a long iron rod. When it reached a temperature to sear flesh, Sauron drew it out. Maedhros watched his movements.
With a sudden move, the rod cracked into his side. The force jerked his body against the manacles and the blunt pain was quickly replaced with searing agony in a long line across his ribs. The red-hot iron struck again. Across his thighs, his belly, his chest, his arms.
He had thought he could not scream more. He was wrong.
The pain overwhelmed him and he fell into blissful darkness.
Then cold water was thrown over him, cutting harshly into his wounds and setting them alight in fresh agony.
He awoke again, screaming. The iron had been reheated. More blows came. He cried out in his own tongue, and in Valarin, the guttural cries tearing at his already-raw throat, and in Sindarin. He begged to Eru and to the Valar.
When his body was littered with burns and lines of blistering flesh, Sauron finally set down the iron. He looked over Maedhros’s body as if it was a canvas of fine art.
A cruel smile twisted the tormentor’s lips. “Now I must sign my artwork, must I not?”
He drew one last device from the table and held it before the Elf’s reddened eyes. A brand, shaped in the design of a cruel eye.
“Please… no…” the words barely made a noise as they escaped his weary throat. Sauron only smiled and thrust the brand into the fire.
As it heated, he trailed a finger across the Elf’s chest. “Here, perhaps, in the center? Or upon one of thine arms, that you can see it at all times…” He drew the brand from the fire. “Nay, above your heart that I may claim all your being for my Master.”
He pressed the brand to Maedhros’s chest. The evil sigil burned against his flesh, cutting deep with a vicious heat. He felt the heat pierce deep into the layers of his chest, the skin sizzling. A nearly silent scream tore from him and his body arched in agony.
When it was done, the fallen Maia set the device on the table with a satisfied look and swept from the room, gesturing for the Orc guards outside to return the Elf to his cell.
His eyes were on yours the moment you entered, wide and worried. Of course you hadn’t listened. Of course you had followed him. He was crazy to think otherwise. And then he was falling, the heft of walkers and debris crashing through the floor below and into the lowest level, out of your sight.
“Daryl!” Your voice carried throughout the desolate fitness center, caring not for the further threats it could summon. Your friends chased your fleeing form, steps loud on the stairs to the lower level. You had told him it was unstable, warned him that it would collapse under the weight of the walkers. He led them anyway, adamant to separate the herd from you and your comrades. “Daryl, answer me, goddamnit!”
The dust was still settling, walkers that were fortunate enough to not be buried were staggering or dragging themselves toward the promise of a fresh meal. You dodged and ducked and tore across the room toward the enormous pile of rubble.
“Oh god,” you sobbed, fingers already raw and bleeding from digging through the rough stone and splintered wood. You tossed what you could lift, knees aching from the concrete below them, scraping the skin as you crawled forward. “He’s here somewhere!” You managed to evade the reach of trapped walkers, still yearning for that single mouthful of flesh.
“It’s unlikely he sur—” Ezekiel started, cut off by a stern look from Carol. Your desperate expression snatched her gaze.
“Keep looking!” She called.
You nodded, placing your weight on a plank of wood and feeling it give. Sitting back on your heels was all that prevented you from tumbling into the water below. Staring into it, your eyes widened. Before you could warn the others, you heard a dull, repetitive thudding from somewhere. You glance upward, the opening in the floors above leading all the way to the outside. Rainwater had collected, filling the pool!
“There’s water!!” You shouted, the thud sounding again! There was still the chance that he had missed the opening, that he had been crushed beneath the debris.
“A pool!” Carol cried out, warning the others. “Watch your step, you’ll fall through!”
Switching on your flashlight, you held it beneath the water, met with milky yellow eyes of the dead. The lack of oxygen wouldn’t kill them and there was the concern of Daryl being infected by the blood in the water. If he hadn’t already been bitten—
“Here!” Jerry shouted, lifting a large slab with a loud grunt. “He’s here!”
You pulled your hand from the water with a choked off sob, dropping the flashlight in favor of crawling up the pile and down the other side to where the soldier was crouched. “Is he breathing? Is he alive?”
“He’s alive.” Jerry confirmed, a large hand squeezing your shoulder. “He’s alive.” You nodded, sniffing back your tears in favor of triaging the prone archer. He was a mess; covered in a thick layer of dust, the substance caked into every wound you could see.
“We can’t move him.” You whispered shakily, hands hovering. Beyond the lacerations and contusions, what other injuries could lie hidden beneath the skin? His chest was rising and falling, eyes rolling beneath closed lids. You looked around at the rubble, granting only a second’s thought toward how goddamn lucky he had been to have that slab fall at the perfect angle to protect him from the debris without crushing him. How lucky you had been. “Daryl.”
His face scrunched up, eyes clenching and jaw tensing before his mouth moved to form words you couldn’t hear.
“What?” You leaned closer, tilting your head so that his quick breaths were puffing out against your ear.
“Your—knee’s on—on my hand.”
“Shit!” You quickly moved the offending body part, laughing through your tears as you leaned over him once again. “Are you okay?” The look he shot you once his eyes forced themselves open spoke volumes. “Right. Stupid question.” Before you could comment further, he was struggling to sit up, hissing through clenched teeth, his face red with exertion and pain. “Don’t move, you idiot!”
“M’fine.” He contested, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Just need a minute.”
“Or ten.” Carol quipped from above the two of you, smirking when you turned to look up. Her expression unwavering, she bent to squeeze Daryl’s shoulder, a silent expression of relief and gratitude. “Let’s get what we came here for and get him to the infirmary.”
“Don’t need no doctor.” He pushed against the ground, only making it a few inches before he plopped back down, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You were saying?” Your mouth split into a grin in the face of his irritation. Rubbing his back in slow circles, you nodded to Jerry, requesting some assistance.
Daryl scowled, knowing he’d be forced to give in or face your wrath. “Fine.”
Leaning in to kiss his cheek, you silently thanked whatever deity could be listening. “That’s what I thought.”
Main Masterlist — Writing Masterlist — OC Story Masterlist
The Little Things Masterpost
Taglist: @melpomenelamusa, @ryo-aspen, @whatwhump, @fleur-a-whump (You can always ask to be added or removed)
Content Warning: Injury, mentions of past torture & past captivity, self loathing, thoughts of worthlessness and nit deserving anything.
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Redrose castle was a terrifyingly serene place. So peaceful and silent, almost as if not allowing any sound to disturb such a peace. And the place was big, too. It was so easy to get lost in here, with all those twists and turns and hallways that people swore changed their layouts if walked too often.
And so, it was no wonder Remi didn’t find their way back to their borrowed room. They had been wandering around the stone cold halls with their flickering torchlights, trying to get back to the soft bed and the silk blanket and the tray of steaming broth they knew should wait for them there.
Oh, how they now regretted refusing lunch. Well, they hadn’t outright refused, just… the thought of taking food without earning it didn’t sit right with them. And from a Vampire, no less. What if the Duke had poisoned it? What if he’d fed them hope just to keep them small and weak and pathetic, just how the Hunters had done it.
They didn’t deserve the food provided, and didn’t trust it either, so they had done the only thing they knew how to do: pretended eating only to spit it back out and feed it to the plants’ soil, hoping no servant would notify their Master.
But how, with nothing but a few slices of bread and some sips of honeyed tea having sustained them since Moonrise, they regretted it so dearly. They knew the pain of hunger, had survived the worst of starvation, but the thought that this could have been avoided burned them with a shame they couldn’t admit without feeling their eyes fill with useless tears.
Eventually, either through sheer luck or a divine nudge, the human found their way into small, empty kitchen. It was nothing like the humble grandeur of the main kitchen though. Remi wondered if it was meant for the servants. But there were no servants here, so it might also just be one of many abandoned rooms?
That possibility shattered, however, when the smell crept towards them. A wonderful, aromatic, herbal scent they knew only from their first days at Redrose Castle, when they were still weak and horribly malnourished. A broth so potent with only the best of marrow and herbs and whatever else kind of ingredients belonged in it.
So this must be a servant kitchen. They must have prepared it and left it to stew and set while they went about their duties and obligations. For one traitorous, horrible second, they thought whether anyone would notice if they’d just steal a sip. A single scoop missing surely wouldn’t be of much significance…
But that wouldn’t be fair! The servants who made this deserved every last drop, much more than a whimpering, helpless human that has done nothing to deserve the mercy they’ve been given. Remi wasn’t good enough to receive such a meal, nonetheless take it without asking!
The Hunters would have punished them for looking so longingly at the cauldron alone. Would have grabbed them by the neck and locked them in their room with nothing to eat at all. Or worse, dragged them to Luther, who might have forced the boiling hot liquid down his throat until he could barely cry without it burning their every muscle.
No, no, no! They wouldn’t take! But… but maybe they could wait for whoever made this and.. and ask for a scoop? But what could they offer in return? Nothing, really. Other than a good word with the Castle’s Master, and even that would be an empty promise. Keziel wouldn’t listen them, especially their naive blabbering about some merciful servant.
“Oh! I didn’t expect anyone—!”
Remi startled so hard at the sudden voice, they stumbled into the cauldron, hot liquid sloshing dangerously, but the metal brought to a boil was enough to make them squeak in surprise and pain. They recoiled, before sinking to the floor, cradling their burned wrist with a pathetic noise lodged in their throat.
“Oh my— Oh dear! Are you alright?! Come here, show me that, how bad is it?” The woman—a short but no doubt elder demoness with bronze skin, crimson markings and black and gold garments—rushed to his side, kneeling down with no hesitation to steal his hand before they could hide and excuse it.
They wanted to warn her, say it was nothing, maybe say they deserved it, too, for thinking about stealing the precious soup. But her assessing crimson eyes and way too understanding demeanour shut them right up, making their hand go limp as she examined it closely, rummaging through a pouch the human hadn’t noticed before.
With a carefulness that made Remi having to suppress the reflex to cringe away from such kindness, she dapped a salve onto the burn, then bandaged it in linen so tightly yet so gently, they had no idea how to feel.
“I must apologise, I didn’t think you so easy to spook,” she hummed, amusement and motherly pity playing in her face. When the human glanced to the door and the hallway beyond, the Demoness guided him to the table instead, insistingly placing him in a chair with the same demeanour of a mother laying her ill dreaming child in its cradle.
“Please, stay a while. I’m Eudora, the Castle’s apothecary! You might not remember, you were quite out of it then, but I was the one that nursed you back to health when the Younger Master first brought you here,” she went on, skittering around the kitchen with such purpose, Remi had trouble keeping up with what she was doing until it was too late.
In the end, she shoved a bowl of fresh broth and a plate with still steaming bread onto the table table before them, sitting down opposite to them with a smile that wouldn’t take refusal without a well intentioned war of words. And the human was sure he’d lose that one.
So, with a careful sigh and an unintentional relaxing of his shoulders, he started to carefully but deliberately empty the bowl, secretly trying not to whimper from his stomach finally getting filled again.
I'm late again! But I still did it! Yay for persevering!!
More unofficial, non-canon TTWS. Once again, Heather's POV. Also written when I should've been sleeping. Or doing 'productive things'. Not sure what that means, so I wrote whump. Here is whump. Enjoy whump. <3
Tag List: @the-ellia-west @tildeathiwillwrite @sunflowerrosy @willtheweaver @octopus-reactivated @stars-hide-our-fires @whumpuary
Comment on this post or my tag list post to get on the Whumpuary tag list and/or my normal tag list, whichever you want just lmk <3
The man pulls Iris closer, his arm around her neck and his masked face too close to hers. I try to hold the gun steady. The others on both sides trade shouts and barbs. Thomas says he’ll murder everyone. One of the masked lackeys goes on to tell him why he won’t.
ransom | burns | not good enough
I don’t listen. I don’t care. I care about that man, ever silent, his eyes on me as he holds the gun against her head. I care about the fury radiating off of her, the ache in her eyes because she thinks she shouldn’t have gotten caught. I care that she’s blaming herself for them ripping her half-drugged from the med bay. That she’s still not blaming me for putting her there.
“It’s okay,” I breathe to her. She winces from the pain and I try not to stare at her wounds. Burns marring her left arm, running up her neck. Bandaged, but I can still see them in my mind like I’m back there again. My war, her scars. If I had been there sooner…
“Heather.”
The rasp in her voice kills a part of me. I have to fight back tears. My pistol starts to shake. I can feel his satisfaction. He knows he’s already won. He’s not threatening. He’s not pushing for a decision. It doesn’t even matter what he’ll ask for, he knows exactly what I’ll choose. That’s why he took her.
“Heather…” Thomas says it, a hand on my shoulder pulling me out of my own head. “Heather, whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
I don’t shrug him off. I let the heat seep through my jacket, the one I threw over my pajamas after the alarms went off. He starts to pull me back, but I don’t—I won’t—budge. I can’t. I can’t let her down again.
“What do you want?” I call over the ruckus. The room quiets. I tighten my grip on my pistol, ignoring the eyes on me. A girl in her PJs, holding a pistol on a grown man in tactical gear. I don’t have to see his face to see the smile in his eyes. His voice is rough, deep and clipped.
“You.”
Thomas’ hand vanishes and he steps forward, gun pointed straight at the man as he steps between me and the threat.
“Over your dead body,” he spits. I see the masked men’s guns turn towards the two of us, the tension multiplying. “And I’ll gladly make that happen, you filthy—”
“Thomas, no!” It comes out shrill and foreign. A reaction, not even a thought. He turns quickly, his gun lowered, still keeping his body between me and the man.
“Heather, I’m not letting you do this,” he hisses, his eyes matching the conviction in his voice.
I shake my head and blink back tears. Every time I close my eyes, I see her blood on my hands.
“I have to,” I whisper.
“This isn’t just about you.” He grabs my shoulder with his free hand and shakes me like he’s trying to rattle some sense into me. “You’re too valuable. We can’t let them walk out of here with you—”
“I will burn the world for her,” I breathe. “You’d…” I stop myself. It’s still a habit, not using past tense. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. “You would’ve done the same for him.”
He almost flinches and I almost feel bad, but I know I don’t have time for that right now. There’s bigger things to worry about. I take a deep breath. Then I push past him and holster my weapon, putting my hands up.
“Let her go,” I say, my voice loud but the tremor audible. “You want me, I’ll come, but you let. Her. Go."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Here’s the first chapter published of the third prompt for Whumpuary. Yes, this is multi-chapter, no, I wasn’t planning this, no, I have absolutely no idea how long this will be and yes, I won’t post new prompts until I finish this. Have fun!
