#wij24day28

[whumpinthepot]

@whumpmasinjuly-archive 2024, Day 28. Fill a whump prompt

I chose this one: Self imposed sleep deprivation by @teine-mallaichte and for some reason decided to ANIMATE A WHOLE GIF 😭😭😭😭 My animation skill is rusty at best and im not used to procreate but here we are lol

Clarence is too scared to sleep at the facility, their handlers are going to have to give them sleep medication soon if they keep this up.

[newbornwhumperfly]

with a minimum of interference...

this was a very exciting project for me, so i had to make it so, so sad 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 28: fill a whump prompt - i chose this beautiful prompt (self-imposed sleep deprivation) by @teine-mallaichte 😍😍😍 please forgive me in advance for turning into some heartbreaking backstory material for my boy morja...💔💔💔

CW: sleep deprivation, childhood neglect, accidental parentification trauma via latchkey kid syndrome, childhood poverty, oops it's all so sad folks please proceed with emotional caution <333

title insp. by this concept art quote by jenny holzer - “when you’ve been someplace for awhile, you acquire the ability to be practically invisible. This lets you operate with a minimum of interference.”

~

Makuahine was supposed to be home already. 9 PM, maybe later. She said it would be at nine. I'm sorry, Morja, I hope to be back as soon as I can from work, okay? It is eleven, beaming in the dark of the kitchen, and Morja is still waiting. 

It isn’t bad that she isn’t here at ten. Sometimes…it takes longer, sometimes. That’s what jobs are like. Morja knows that the buses are long and that sometimes work is longer than Maku thinks because bosses say stuff that's different, all the time, and that's a job. 

He’s not stupid. He’s able to understand. He's smart and responsible and knows money has to happen.

And still, even with money and obeying and jobs and taking care of the apartment and of Lehua, his eyes are itchy and burning. 

In the small walls, the hum of wires is quieter, the lights off, the small space all shadows. There’s so little space to walk around, just seven steps to the wall, seven steps to the other wall, where he can touch the buzzing fridge, the cold tiny sink, the table squished into the corner. 

Walk to the door. 

The latch, closed. The lock, turned. The other chair pushed under the handle, jammed up tight, secure. 

Morja walks to the corner by the door and, quiet, slow, rearranges the toys again. The little squishy floor-mat of blue and yellow stars was folded small, the little plastic basket had every toy stacked up. But maybe the trucks should go on the bottom and the soft toys on top. 

Trucks. Then the beanbag toys, laid in a row, little bunny, little cat, little dog. No, f-o-x. The two squishy stars. The big plastic ball on top. Neat, nice. Maku will be happy the corner is clean! He swept the floor with his little broom and got all the dust, even the tiny gritty bits, in the can. 

Morja likes when it is clean too. 

Stand up, knees and shoulders making the crackle noise, sore neck, rubbing his eyes again and his back hurts from bending. Walk quiet, so quiet, to the bedroom to check on Lehua. She cried and cried and was mad that Morja wasn’t Maku. Needed to be carried, wailing, until his arms hurt too much to hold her, hearing thumps and yells from the wall behind the kitchen at very loud screams. 

Morja doesn’t scream. He could. He could scream if he wanted but he’s too old for screaming. 

Lehua’s face is pink and clean on her tiny pillow, because Morja played and played and read and read the little book with its cracking spine and bright pictures and by the time she fell asleep, her cheeks were scrubbed from the snot and tears by the washcloth, snuggly and soft, and Morja did a good job.

The light through the blinds makes orange stripes over the tiny body, snuffling, curled around her blanket. Morja is extra quiet when he kneels next to the mattress to touch her head. 

Not hot.

Morja blows out, soft, cause that’s good. This mattress is so soft, bigger than his, with springy bounce. He knows he’s small for his mattress but this one is just nicer, wider, more room for stretching. 

Morja pillows his cheek on the mattress, his nose just so close to Lehua’s balled-up fist, and her chest rises and falls. Sometimes Morja lays awake and watches, when he can’t fall asleep. Watches Maku breathe, the weird rasping wet noise it makes, like a gasp. Watches Lehua breathe, so small it’s sometimes hard to tell it’s happening. 

Morja doesn’t like that kind of breathing, the air that happens when you’re sick. 

The mattress is soft under his cheek. 

Not so scratchy. 

No, c’mon, get up. Keep watch. It’s not Morja sleep-time.

Morja wants to keep the lights on, because, well, he knows he has work. Brightness will help. But it’s so important not to keep the lights on too much cause of money. He chews his lip, thinking. The school has given him pages to practice his language skills, he thinks the tall pale man with a pale shirt and pale hair said. Pale sheets of paper in his hands and so, so many lines. 

Even when it’s dark and there’s a throb behind his eyes, Morja can still be helpful and finish these lines for tomorrow. If he shoves himself into the very corner of the wall, where the bad-wet-smell of the room is strongest, a strong streetlight pokes through slats of window-blinds. 

It’s orange and white and burns in a way that thumps the inside of his head. But it’s bright enough to see the paper. Black lines thump against his eyeballs, neck sore as it bends low to the paper, one fingertip tracing.

What is the right answer to a stranger asking “how are you?” 1. “I am good, thank you.” 2. “I am good, how are you?” 3. “I am good.”

The clock on the top of the stove beeps, red and gleaming through the grills. 

12.00 AM

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhh.” 

Morja huffs through his teeth and rests his head against the wall. The stink and the hum makes his head throb harder but it keeps him up. Pangs shoot through his belly and his hand, sore, thumb and finger raw and indented-red from holding his pen, rubs over his stomach. Hungry is good, it keeps him- he can stay awake if he thinks about eating and how Maku will have maybe a snack from one of the late-car-places.

Dry noodles and powder rattling in a box.

S-t-a-t-e.

Meat in strips, hard and dry and hot.

R-a-e-t-e-a.

Chocolate in shiny wrapping, crunchy nuts and sweet goo and soft fluff, that is so rare.

N-e-w A-t-h-e-n-s.

Salt and sugar and butter and stuff that isn't on the list of what's allowed that Maku takes to the store.

1:00 AM.

Swimming black letters. Orange paper. Icky smell. Head hurts.

Maybe if he closed his eyes for a second.

But what if- Morja grunts and digs his fingers into the burn, sniffing hard. What if the door’s locked and Maku can’t come in? What if Lehua rolls off the bed? What if there’s a fire? 

What if something bad happened?

It’s the ache, like being hungry but worse, that keeps Morja up, more than his head hurting or his eyes itching or his butt and his legs getting sharp prickles. The what if thudding in his small chest, keeping his heart fast and his eyes watery. The worry keeps him awake, keeps him doing a good job, the worry helps.

By the time the sky gets oranger than the streetlamps and the chain rattles in return, Morja has learned how to keep the stomachache constant. By the time it is safe to lay down, he passes the hours to school with his hands over his stomach, the sharpness in his belly, in his chest, pressing, pressing, pressing. By the time he doesn’t need it anymore, it sticks. 

By the time he turns in his papers, clean and white and perfect, Morja learns more than one lesson to be perfect at.

~

so sincerely hope you enjoy what i've done with your excellent prompt, @teine-mallaichte!!! 😭🥰💖🥺

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @whumpzone @i-eat-worlds

@whumpthisway @whumping-every-day @whump-me-all-night-long @liliability @stoic-whumpee

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whumpster-draganies @scoundrelwithboba @kixngiggles

@redwingedwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @straight-to-the-pain @wolfeyedwitch @tears-and-lilies

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[whumpmasinjuly-archive]

Whumpmas in July day 4: ALL PROMPTS

These are all the prompts submitted for day 4 of WIJ 2024! These are the prompts to be chosen from when completing day 28.

You can click through each link for more details of each prompt, as I'll only include a brief summary of each here. Some links contain multiple prompts to choose from. I've divided them into categories to make it easier for people to find what they're looking for.

Hurt (Single whumpee):

👻 Ghost Whumper possesses Whumpee and uses their body to wreak havoc

💎 Pet Whumpee learns they've been designated as valuable

🐺 Fantasy creature Whumpee is captured by Whumper, a hunter, on the grounds of them being "dangerous"

📸 Whumper takes a picture of whumpee every day/week/month and puts it up on the wall, so Whumpee can see the changes Whumper is putting them through

🪡 Whumpee is a doctor. Whumper knows this and leaves Whumpee the supplies they need to stitch themself back up after each torture session

🤥 Whumper punishing whumpee for a made-up infraction/something that wasn't their fault in the first place

🦇 Vampire therapist starts sessions, one day the therapist decides to hypnotize whumpee

Hurt (Multiple whumpees):

🎣 Whumper captures Whumpee as bait to try to get to Caretaker, Whumpee believes Caretaker won't come, but they take the bait

🌀 Brainwashed or mind-controlled character being made to subject a loved one or ally to the same brainwashing/control

💔 Whumper offers first whumpee the chance to avoid further pain by helping torture second whumpee

💘 Whumper kidnaps Whumpee's friend in an attempt to break their spirit

Comfort:

☀️ Whumpee who has always been in captivity, in the outside world for the first time

❤️‍🩹 Caretaker brings Pet Whumpee home to aid them in recovery

⌛ Caretaker sees Whumpee for the first time since their captivity, and Whumpee has changed drastically

Dialogue prompt:

❌ "This is your fault, [whumpee], you know that, right? All the pain [caretaker] had to endure, just because you failed."

🚢 "Well," the captain said, opening the the door to the brig. The stowaway silently met his eyes from across the cage, and the captain gave a cruel grin. "Ready to speak yet?"

❓ "What happened to you?"

Sickfic or Whumperless:

🌡️ Character on a team is scolded for doing badly, only for everyone to find out she's been sick when she collapses

💤 Self-imposed sleep deprivation

🚑 Injured or ill character at the ER

Multi-prompt:

🧛 Role-reversal AU, Internal monologue, or Vampires

🧠 Amnesia, Unwanted memories, Protecting loved ones, or "Oh, you're hurt!"

🦋 Transformation: Magical accident, Newly human, Turning into a monster, and more

🎡 An off day at the amusement park, many sub-prompts included

Any late entries for Day 4 posts after I've made this post can be found in the prompts tag.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 28 @whumpmasinjuly-archive : Fill prompt from someone else's post on Day 4

I've chosen @serickswrites prompt for this which can be found here

CW - medical whump, self treatment, brief thoughts of passive suicide, doctor Whumpee.

Jake stared at the tray of medical supplies, his eyes lingering on the familiar instruments. If he focused hard enough, he could almost trick himself into believing he was back at the hospital, preparing for another routine procedure. That this was just another mundane day at work.

But none of it was true. The sterile, brightly lit halls of the hospital were a world away from the cold, damp basement where he was held captive. Here, the walls were rough and unforgiving, the air thick with the scent of mildew and despair. The medical supplies before him, though clean and meticulously organized, were a far cry from the well-stocked cabinets he was used to. They contained only the bare essentials, just enough to keep him alive and able to endure more suffering.

And the patient... the patient was himself.

Jake's hands trembled as he reached for the suture kit, part of him wondering why he even bothered. Maybe it would be easier to just leave the wounds untreated, to let the inevitable infections take hold and death take him. The thought of delirium, of slipping away into a fevered haze, was almost comforting. To no longer be aware enough to feel this constant gnawing anxiety and pain.

He imagined the fever gripping his body, the searing heat contrasting with the basement's chill, his mind dissolving into incoherent thoughts. There would be no reprieve, only a different kind of hell. The infection would claw at his flesh, burning and consuming, each heartbeat a drum of agony. No, he couldn't afford to give in to that false solace. Surrendering to such a fate would be a slow, torturous path. It would be a drawn-out death, filled with suffering that rivaled the torment he was already enduring. The infection wouldn't grant him the oblivion he craved; it would amplify his agony, transforming his last days into an unending nightmare.

His mind drifted to the man who had put him in this hell. He was methodical, almost clinical in his cruelty, a twisted mirror of the discipline Jake had once prided himself on. It was like some ironic game to the man, a cruel mockery of Jake's training and skill.

"Focus, Jake. You’ve done this a thousand times," he whispered. His hands moved mechanically, muscle memory taking over where his mind faltered. Each prick of the needle sent jolts of pain through him, but he forced himself to remain steady.

The echo of footsteps from above sent a jolt of panic through him. Was the man returning already? It was too soon; he hadn't finished tending his wounds from the last visit yet.

The sudden surge of adrenaline sharpened Jake's senses, and he forced himself to move faster. Every stitch was a battle against the creeping numbness in his fingers, the pain threatening to overwhelm his focus. He couldn't afford to make mistakes; infection was a luxury he couldn’t afford in this place. As he tied off the last suture, he let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing eerily in the basement.

A creak from the stairs above caused Jakes heart to race as he struggled to regain his composure, wiping the sweat from his brow and adjusting the ragged remnants of his clothing to cover the freshly stitched wounds.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and the familiar silhouette of the man loomed against the dim light. Jake's breath hitched as the man descended slowly, deliberately, each step echoing through the confined space.

"Good evening, Doctor," the voice dripped with mock politeness. "I trust you've had enough time to... patch yourself up?"

This got inside my head; so now there is a part 2 - here.

Whumpmas In July 2024 posts

[teine-mallaichte]

OK my prompt fill for day 28 of @whumpmasinjuly-archive got inside my head...

so here's part 2

part 1

authors note: I was that person during both my bio med degree and graduate medicine. The one who struggled to make ends meet, who never socialised - what was the point I couldn’t go on the night's out anyway, I was at work. The one with the out of date textbooks, who was always late to class but somehow still got good grades. The one who would watch the other students, the ones who were not the first in their family to go to uni, the ones who's parents sent them money, the ones who - from my limited perspective - have everything simply given to them.

I got over it eventually... mainly.

And spoiler alert I am not a doctor 😅 as it's pointed out in this fic "med school is hard when you're struggling to even afford food."

CW - captive whumpee, doctor whumpee, sadistic whumper, revenge whump.

Jake stared at the sutures he had so painstakingly stitched. A few days had passed, and despite his efforts, the signs of infection were unmistakable. The skin around the wounds was reddening, swelling, and beginning to emit a faint, foul odour.

"You don't look well, doctor," the man's voice seemed to echo slightly.

Jake looked up at the man, unsure exactly when he had arrived.

"An infection?" The man shook his head disapprovingly. "It seems even the best of us can fall victim to such simple ailments," he continued, his tone mocking. He crouched down, bringing his face level with Jake's. "Tell me, doctor, how does it feel to be on the other side of the table?"

"You know damn well how it feels," Jake shot back.

The man’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. "You still don't remember who I am, do you?"

Jake's brow furrowed in confusion. Something about the man's voice, the mocking tone, felt hauntingly familiar. He struggled to piece together fragments of memory, but they slipped through his grasp like sand.

The man’s eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction. "Fitting that you would not remember..." The man stood and walked to a table, moving items with a metallic click. "For years, we studied together. You just breezed through—popular, smart, rich," the man paused, taking a few deep breaths. "Do you know how hard med school is when you can barely afford to eat? I had two jobs," he yelled his voice echoing in the small space.

Jake's mind raced, trying to recall the details of his med school days. Faces and names flashed through his memory, but none matched the man before him. The man’s bitterness and anger, however, were unmistakable. Then, a memory surfaced—a student always on the edge of exhaustion, his face drawn with fatigue. The student has seemed to be a loner, never joining the rest of them on nights out, rarely socialising outside if the mandated group assignments.

"You were always the golden boy," the man continued, his voice now a low, dangerous whisper. "Everyone admired you, envied you. I desperately tried to keep up, and when I made one mistake—a small error that you could have easily ignored—what did you do?"

Jake's heart pounded as the pieces began to fall into place. A vague memory of a minor mistake in a lab that Jake had reported. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do—a way to ensure standards were met. He hadn't considered the consequences for the student involved.

"You reported me," the man spat, confirming Jake's recollection. "And now look at us. You are a doctor... because of course you are. And me? Well, not many people are looking to hire a guy with 90% of a medical degree."

The man turned away, rummaging through the medical supplies on the table. Jake's eyes darted around the room, seeking anything that could help him, any potential weapon or tool. But there was nothing within reach, nothing that could turn the tide in his favor.

"You never had to struggle for anything in your life," the man said, his back still turned. "The hunger, the exhaustion, the hopelessness. You've never known what it is like to have your dreams torn away."

Jake's breath came in shallow, painful gasps as he absorbed the man's words. The overwhelming guilt and fear coiled tightly within him, making it hard to think clearly. He could see now how his actions, which he had thought were justified and necessary, had shattered this man's life.

"I'm sorry," Jake managed to say, his voice cracking. "I never meant to—"

"Save your apologies," the man interrupted, turning back to face Jake, a scalpel now glinting in his hand.

Jake’s pulse quickened at the sight of the scalpel, the cold metal reflecting the dim light of the basement. The man approached slowly, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Sorry doesn’t change anything," he said softly, the blade gliding through the air with a deadly grace. "It doesn't undo the years I lost, the opportunities that slipped through my fingers because of you."

"What do you want?" Jake's voice trembled slightly.

The man grinned. "I want you to feel what I did." He stopped mere inches from Jake, the blade hovering dangerously close to his face. "I want balance," the man whispered. "I want the golden boy to know what it's like to feel hunger, exhaustion, despair... hopelessness."

The man pressed the scalpel lightly against Jake's cheek, not enough to cut, but enough to send a clear message. "I could have been a great doctor, you know," he said, his voice laced with bitterness.

Whumpmas In July 2024 posts

[wounds-seen-and-unseen]

Whumpmas In July: Day 21- Abandoned

Clearly, I did not manage to write the fic chapter I had intended to. Unfortunately, that seems like it will take some more time.

Therefore, here is a short blurb of what that chapter should have contained.

The fic in question is Yathamathi. (The first chapter of which was my entry for Day 12: Caught)

This chapter is the PoV of a military officer of the opposing side, who has some ties to Arjun’s countrymen, as will be seen in probably the end of this chapter or the next one. The chapter opens with him having a short argument with his father, then meeting Arjun and Krishn, who are behaving rather differently than he had expected, laughing and joking inspite of getting quite the rough treatment, insisting that they have not been abandoned by their country. (There is also a scene of the captors tossing suture material and bandages at Arjun after beating him and Krishn up, knowing that he is a doctor, which was supposed to be my day 28 prompt fill, of the prompt by @serickswrites ) ,Our PoV character is impressed, as well as reminded of an old friend by something Arjun says. His PoV ends when he hears Pandu’s interview on the radio.

We switch to Krishn’s PoV, exactly at the moment Pandu says his son is forsworn. Krishn tries to salvage the moment, but Arjun is having none of it, fully believing that he betrayed his country and he deserves to be abandoned. He chooses to drown himself in work, which has consequences that will be explored in the next chapter.

I will write as well as post this chapter when I can, for now, here is my entry, such as it is, for @whumpmasinjuly day 21 @whumpmasinjuly-archive

[snakebites-and-ink]

Whumpmas in July Day 28: Fill someone's whump prompt from Day 4

I chose to use this prompt (the first one) by @moons-cozy-corner

CW: Conditioned whumpee, self-imposed dehumanization

Whumpee was aware enough of what Caretaker was doing.

Problem was, they didn’t want it. Whumpee didn’t want to be independent, or free, or even a person. They just wanted to be a pet with a decent owner. Surely that wasn’t so much to ask? And they would happily be Caretaker’s pet, if only Caretaker would treat them as a pet.

But Caretaker was bound and determined not to. They never hurt Whumpee, at least, which was good. But Whumpee almost would have rather taken a punishment over all these humanizing mind games.

Whumpee sat—up at the table, that was one battle Caretaker had won—for dinner. They still wouldn’t start eating without some form of permission from Caretaker, though.

After their meal, the two settled in the living room. Caretaker sat on the couch. Whumpee sat down at their feet.

Caretaker had said they could sit wherever they wanted, but Whumpee could tell they would rather Whumpee sit with them, like a person. They would have to make it an order, though, or Whumpee was not going to do it, no matter how their instincts sang that they should be anticipating their owner’s wants and trying to please them, direct orders or no. Whumpee did want to be good, but right now their choices were between being a not-so-good pet, or not a pet at all.

Whumpee nuzzled against Caretaker’s leg. “Please pet me?” They put on their best puppy eyes.

“You know there are other ways to get positive contact. You could come up here with me. We could sit, cuddle, lean against each other…”

“No,” Whumpee said. They didn’t elaborate; if they explained their reasoning, Caretaker would go on again about how they were a person, not a pet, and they should be treated like a person. If they didn’t say anything more, Whumpee could maintain plausible deniability. Maybe they were a person who just wanted their hair played with. Maybe that way they could get Caretaker to pet them.

Caretaker sighed, “Alright,” and Whumpee felt a hand in their hair. The gentle touch felt so nice. Whumpee always loved being petted. But their enjoyment was undermined by the knowledge that this wasn’t genuine owner-pet affection, rather something Caretaker felt obligated to do out of respect for Whumpee’s wishes. Resisting Caretaker made them feel less happy. Yet the touch was such a sweet sensation. It was worth it, but only just.

When it was time for bed, they separated; Whumpee had their own room. Caretaker had also presented them with a bed for humans, not a pet bed. Normally they would have considered it spoiling them to let them up in a person bed, but Whumpee knew what Caretaker was trying to do. Instead of going along with it, they pulled off all the blankets and pillows and made themself a nest on the floor.

Before turning in for the night, Caretaker went to check on Whumpee one last time, and found them curled up in a bundle of bedding on the floor. Caretaker sighed, but pulled a blanket up higher onto Whumpee’s shoulder and brushed their hair from their face affectionately. Whumpee was sweet, but Caretaker had their work cut out for them.

Masterlist

[violets-whumperflies]

Whumpmas in July Day 28 

Prompt by @whump-me: “Whumper offers first whumpee the chance to avoid further pain by helping torture second whumpee. Second whumpee is sure first whumpee would never take a deal like that. They’re wrong.” 

This takes place later in my Weapon’s Wounds story than anything I’ve posted so far, and can be read on its own. Context: Rylan is a living weapon, Vale and Cass are his teammates, at this point they’ve been in captivity for a while with Dominic hurting Vale and Cass to break Rylan.

------------

When Dominic returned, holding a knife with a jagged serrated blade, Cass already wanted to cry. 

The knife’s teeth tore into her skin just as painfully as she’d expected. She grit her teeth, unwilling to scream this early on. Rylan and Vale were following her lead— or at least, she couldn’t hear them over her own shaky breaths and bitten-back whimpers. Dominic carved lines along her arms with no discernable pattern, crisscrossing to tear at already-stinging wounds. 

Then he took out a lighter from his pocket. “You don’t want those getting infected, do you?” he asked mockingly. “I’ll have to cauterize them.” His grin signaled just how much this would hurt. 

“No,” Cass protested, her voice weak. 

He held the flame up to a cut on her arm. She tried to squirm away from the heat, but between the cuffs on her wrists and the man’s solid grip, it was futile. The torn skin reddened, then blistered, then she couldn’t help the scream that burst from her as the burning just kept going. And that was only a part of the first cut. She sobbed as he traced every single line with fire, painstakingly searing each shredded blood vessel. It felt like hours of white-hot agony. 

Finally, finally, the last cut was cauterized. It was over. At least she could be left alone with her teammates and their attempts at comfort. 

“Now let’s move on to your back,” Dominic said. 

No. No, please, she couldn’t take any more of this right now. 

“Or, hmm, I’ll give you a choice. I do the same thing to your back, or you do it to your teammate there.” He gestured to Vale. “See, I can be kind. I’m leaving it up to you.” 

— 

Vale drew in a breath at Dominic’s offer. Cass wouldn’t agree, would she? 

It would be the smart decision, to choose to hurt Vale. And Vale would understand, really, they would. It made the suffering equal between them. In fact, if Cass didn’t hurt Vale now, Dominic would probably do the same to them later anyway. Vale was the team leader; it was their responsibility to make sacrifices for Cass and Rylan. 

And yet Cass would never choose to inflict pain on her teammates. She was stubborn and selfless and fiercely caring. She had drawn their captors’ attention, time and time again, to keep them safe. She always said she could take the pain. She would never… 

“Okay.” Cass’s voice was small. 

“What was that?” Dominic asked, as if he just wanted to hear her repeat it. 

“I’ll do it.” Cass’s voice was firmer this time.

Cass must have a plan, right? She was going to take the knife and stab Dominic with it and run? 

Dominic loosened Cass’s chains and handed her the knife. Vale held their breath. Dominic whispered something in Cass’s ear that made her flinch. 

Vale couldn't stand on their broken leg, and Cass loomed over them, despite her petite frame. Her arms were a mess of blood and burns. Vale couldn't blame her. They couldn't, even as the wave of fear rose within them. 

“Cass, don't,” Rylan said weakly. It was the first he’d spoken this whole time, aside from sympathetic whimpers as Cass writhed in pain. 

“No, it's okay, you're doing the right thing,” Vale reassured Cass. 

Cass knelt next to Vale and rested the knife against their leg, just below where it was broken. It would hurt more than the other leg, but Vale could see the logic— with the number of times that leg had been shattered and half-healed and broken again, it was probably a lost cause. 

“Go on,” Dominic ordered. “Give me a good show and I'll even leave you alone the rest of the day.” 

“I’m sorry,” Cass said, and drew the knife across Vale’s leg. 

It was a shallow cut, but the serrated teeth of the knife tore at already bruised skin. Vale let out a small noise. “It’s okay. Keep going.” 

Cass’s eyes were wide as they darted between Vale, Dominic, the blood on the knife. But she cut into Vale again. Slowly, the number of slashes grew, parallel lines down to their ankle. Each of Vale’s whimpers and groans elicited a wince from Cass, a grin from Dominic, and a flinch from Rylan, who had his eyes squeezed shut. 

Cass got as far as clicking the lighter’s flame on before she broke down. “I can’t do this. I can’t—” 

“Would you like me to do it instead?” Dominic asked. “I’m sure I can find plenty of wounds to cauterize, even make a few more… And then some on you as well.” 

“I—” 

Vale met Cass’s eyes. “You can do it. Be strong.” 

“No, you’re the one that needs to be strong, you fucking idiot,” Cass choked out. At least she sounded more like herself. 

Vale’s pride in her lasted until the flame touched their open wound, and then every emotion was eclipsed by pain. Cass held the lighter in place, her hand slightly shaking, as Vale’s skin bubbled and blistered. Vale clenched their teeth around a scream. 

It went on and on, and Vale retreated into their head but everything was white and burning and torture. Distantly, Rylan was yelling “stop, Cass, you’re hurting them, please,” and someone was sobbing. Cass was hurting them. Cass was burning each cut and there must be a reason why she’d do this, she wouldn’t just hurt them unless she had to. She would never hurt them. Unless it was to escape the same pain Vale was in.  

— 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” 

“I know.” Vale lay slumped against the wall, watching Cass curled in the opposite corner of their cell. 

“Why don’t you hate me? I hurt you, I tortured you—”  

“You did what you had to. I don’t blame you.” 

“I don’t blame you either,” Rylan spoke up. “It was scary to watch, but he made you do it.” 

“You shouldn’t trust me.” Cass’s small, scarred body shook. “I’m the kind of person who would hurt you just to save myself. I don’t want to be that kind of person.” 

Rylan nudged Cass. “Hey. I’m the kind of person who lets the two of you be tortured just because I don’t want to be turned into a mindless weapon. You’re not the selfish one here.” 

“That’s different; they’d use you to hurt lots of people. We’re acceptable casualties.” 

“That’s right,” Vale said firmly. “I am an acceptable casualty. And so is your idea of what kind of person you are. If we end up as broken shells of human beings, as long as Rylan is safe and free, that’s what matters.” 

But please, Vale thought, don’t let it come to that. Please don’t let it come to that.

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Oops, got a little carried away with this one! Thanks for the prompt!!

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