A light, but constant slapping on his clammy cheek. The hand doing it is pleasantly cool on his hot face.
His skin is only hot, because that hand had punched him in that very cheek minutes ago. He just remembered. His theeth hurt. Or maybe it had been hours? He doesn't know.
The touch agitates the bruise. It's not pleasantly cool anymore. It's cruel and intimidating. The slaps get harder.
A voice slowly reaching his attention, as do other details. His arms are bound over his head, his shoulders are burning. He's hanging limply in his restraines. His shoulder joints are about to pop. Pain crawles over his body like a colony of ants. His feet hardly reaching the floor.
His head hangs down to his chest, his eye lids are heavy. Something is dripping from his mouth, his nose, his chin. Everything hurts.
He is hot and cold, clammy and tired. His eyes refuse to cooperate.
The slapping's getting harder, more demanding. The voice's getting louder, more agitated.
"... me."
It's slowly getting through the haze in his hurting head.
" ....ay ..w...me!"
His head is lifted by a painful grip around his jaw. A firm slap, definitely the whole palm this time. His cheek burnes like fire. His head snaps to the side, eyes fly open in a haste. The fingers on his chin are gone. Everything spins, nausea hijacks his stomach.
"STAY WITH ME!" An angry voice shouts. His ears are ringing. Everything hurts even more with the senses of hearing and seeing overstimulated all of a sudden. A low groan is all he can produce, while the blurry colors in front of him slowly shift into a face with a cruel smile. The voice is calmer now.
Content warnings: minor character death, mentions of death, blood, guilt, hospital setting
Previous
@whumpmasinjuly
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Zanvir groaned as he reached behind his back to untie his medical apron. It wasn’t a far reach or anything, but his back winced in pain as his fingers unraveled the knot. People were saying he was getting too old for this two hundred years ago, and he ignored them for just as long. Only now did he start to wonder if maybe they had a point.
The apron came away and he set it on the bin, along with his cap and gloves. All of it bloodied from over fifty hours of surgery. It wasn’t the longest amount of time he’d ever spent in an operating room, but it was one of the most emotional. Even after all their work, all the sweat and tears he and Talic went through, they still lost Lylimeph and Prash. Even stabilizing Dosair earlier only delayed the inevitable. His body was far too damaged to last much longer.
Five lives lost in two days.
One of the hardest things any of them had experienced.
Talic had just finished helping him store Prash’s body in the ship’s morgue. They had walked back together to start cleaning up the operating room. He looked more tired than Zanvir had ever seen before. He watched him take one look at the blood covered sheets and medical instruments, then turn and walk slowly to the wall. His steps were swayed slightly from exhaustion, and he fell to the floor with his back against the wall.
The pain in his eyes when he looked up at Zanvir would’ve been a blow if he hadn’t felt it himself. There were still a few droplets of his dead patients’ blood on the edges of his cheeks, and dark circles encompassed the skin under his eyes. He sighed and lazily pulled his surgical cap off. His hands, still wearing gloves, gripped the fabric tightly.
“We did everything we could,” Zanvir said quietly. Though true, it didn’t offer much comfort for either of them. Talic pursed his lips together, tears starting to glisten his eyes.
“…D-Dosair’s not gonna make it,” his voice cracked from grief and dehydration, “I… It’s… It’s not gonna be enough…”
“I know.” Though it made his body screamed, Zanvir joined him on the floor. Talic was almost expressionless, yet his features were becoming twisted with guilt and grief each passing second. Zanvir was familiar with this look, how the high of healing and trying to save lives started to fall away and leave behind the ugly shock. It always happened, on good days and bad, but especially on the bad days.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the most rest either of them had gotten since all of this started. Talic kept his eyes fixed on the cap still wrenched in his hands, hands clenched around it like a lifeline. Then, unprompted, he released the cap and let it fall to the ground. He stared at his gloves, some blood still on them from moving Prash. Zanvir noticed the slightest tremble in his fingers, and knew he was nearly crashing down.
“I…I…I—I” Words were freezing in his mouth. “I… failed them… I’ve—I’ve never… never lost s-so many…”
Talic laced his fingers behind his head and bent down to his knees, not making a sound. For a moment, Zanvir saw the image of his two sons when they were younger, kids scared and confused and not knowing what to do. Talic was just a kid in his eyes, even with all of his training and experience. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him a little closer.
“You did your best, Talic. You and I gave them the best care we could under the circumstances, as shitty as they are. But you did the best you could.”
Talic’s silence was cut off by quiet, tearful breathing. His shoulders trembled under Zanvir’s arm, but he stayed curled into himself. Zanvir squeezed him gently and patted the back of his head. “It’s alright, Talic.”
“It’s n-not, r-r-really,” Talic managed to mutter out. “They—They’re our friends. I’m, I’m supposed to help them, but—but it didn’t make a difference.”
“It did make a difference. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it did. And Alek and Lexus are on the mend now because of your efforts. It made all the difference.”
Talic exhaled sharply and stared out into the room. Tears ran down his cheeks like rivers and his eyes were puffy. The wall of focus and care for his patients crumbling away, he was overwhelmed. Zanvir knew the feeling well, his years of experience just made the ordeal more manageable.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” Zanvir patted his shoulder. “You need it.”
Talic shook his head and pulled off each of his gloves. “No… not—not yet. Not until… I’m staying with Dosair until… until he goes.”
He wiped the tears away with the clean edge of his sleeve. Zanvir could almost see the heavy cloud over him as he sighed and stood back up, his motions still stiff and rigid. He looked back down at Zanvir, eyes still blurred with tears, and offered out a hand.
“You go rest,” he said, his voice a little stronger now, “I can take care of things here.”
Damned kid, Zanvir thought as he took Talic’s hand, grunting as he helped him up to his feet. His legs started aching as they bore his weight again, but he ignored it.
“No,” he said firmly, “Take care of Dosair. I’ll finish things in here.”
Talic opened his mouth, ready to protest, but stopped himself and looked back at the mess. As much as Zanvir knew it hurt him, this wasn’t the place he wanted to be. He wanted to be with Dosair and the others, doing the best he could to make things better. He looked back at Zanvir, nodding in appreciation before leaving for post-op.
Alone in the operating room, Zanvir sighed and started working. His own walls had taken quite a few blows today, but it wasn’t the time to let them fall. He’d find a time for it later, once everything was set and done.
The thoughts of a grieving man, who is about to do something bad.
Direct follow up to [Playground], part of [Your Ghosts Remember] with @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump.
(Just a 250 word scribble)
Content - grief, trauma, referenced murder, and some revenge plotting. Lead up to "caretaker turned whumper."
Six years ago, a ruthless hunter has pushed Isaac Reese over the edge of what had once been his life.
Since then, he has been falling. Falling into an endless abyss, sucked into a black hole. Unable to cope, unable to move, unable to do anything but wait for the impact. For the inevitable end.
It hasn't come.
It would've been a mercy. No more memories haunting him. No more guilt, no more shame for not trying hard enough, for not being fast enough, when it mattered.
For the past six years, her face - Sophie's, his wife's - has been the only thing he saw whenever he closed his eyes.
But now, there's another face. One that he sees when he's awake. He has photos of her everywhere, pinned to the walls of his one bedroom apartment, covering the empty half of the bed, even most of the floor. Ira has deep, dark eyes and bronze skin, a soft voice and a shy smile, like his Sophie had. Ira has a spouse and a job and a family and a life. Like his Sophie had.
Ira is the one who stopped Isaac's fall. She's given him purpose. She's shown him the way.
When Isaac is done, the hunter will be the one pushed off the edge. Damiel Cartier will the one falling. Isaac will finally be at peace.
And for that, just like his Sophie has, Ira Cartier is going die in agony.
CW. military whump, captivity, whumpee briefly thinks he’s going to be freed but isn’t, forced to undress in front of whumper, slapping, pinning to wall, death threats for not complying, torture alluded to
—
It must have been six in the morning when Pavel shook him awake.
Standing at the edge of his bed with a scowl, fully dressed, and with that glint barely visible in his face when he was muting his lenience and turning back to simple order, he shook him once then slugged his shoulder when all Emir did was groan the first time.
Rolling his eyes, Pavel bent and pulled him until a protesting arm shot out. “You sleep beautifully but you’re up early today, Suleiman.”
“Khalas, enough already,” Emir muttered, pushing off the hand. It took him breathing painfully and rolling to face the voice before he could crack open his eyes, allowing in the stream of darkness and unfamiliar cold. His head buzzed lightly when he met Pavel.
“You’re needed.”
Leaning on one elbow, Emir tried to tense himself awake. “I can see that. Good morning to you, too.” He made it a goal to look around the room, scanning it until the fuzz from his vision faded. Before he could scrutinize the other sleeping bodies, a thump brought his attention to his own bed where his olive-drab flight suit lay.
It took him a moment to register it but when he did, Emir inhaled gently. Then, reached out to it, stopping just before he touched the fabric.
Pavel watched his movements with a half-crack of a grin and chuckled. “You put it on, Suleiman.”
Emir wasn’t sure what to do in the few seconds that he looked over the suit, Pavel’s imposing presence thin as paper in the moment. His flight suit was here and more importantly, he was being told to wear it. A weight sat in his throat and he could feel himself hovering over the conclusion he wanted to hear.
He stopped himself from blurting out something regrettable.
“Wh-... What am I needed for?”
Pavel idled with the end of another's blanket as they slept. “You’re being interviewed.”
A part of him knew the hope was too good to be true but the answer sent a pang to his chest, still. His eyes slipped shut and he breathed away the emotion quicker than the other man could have noticed. The bedpost caught his foot as he miserably swung both over and he cursed sharply in a way that rang through the silence.
“Well, don’t say that on broadcast,” Pavel snorted and pushed his flight suit closer. “Listen, you’ve already wasted enough time and I’m not in the mood to beat you so hurry the fuck up.” There was a wrung out squeak when he turned and went to lean on the doorframe.
Emir’s head swam with a drowsiness that wasn’t only from sleep. Though slightly fearing Pavel’s mood on beating him to change if he didn’t start dressing, he rubbed sand out of his eyes and worked off his pyjamas until he noticed the catlike leer from Pavel. He swallowed.
“What?” Pavel nearly purred. “Do I make you shy? I’ve already seen you without clothes when you were getting torn to shreds a few days ago, now, change.”
Emir may have grumbled but he didn’t see a point in arguing as he lifted his shirt. “I’m just tired, don’t flatter yourself.”
The dressing was quick, clinical, though the fabric brushing over his skin brought a wash of hope over him that felt like spring rain after a decade of drought. It was something he needed and contrary to the other slivers of joy he usually killed before they could take shape in his face, this one felt better and he allowed it.
His march down the barracks felt suspiciously like the one he had taken when he first met General Levkin, whose name he had learned was actually Stanislav Levkin. An iron name, fitting to its man. There was that climb of unplaceable coldness again.
Emir felt claustrophobic in this cage of concrete and endless stretch of hallway, decorated in plaques he was shabby at reading, paintings of figures before his time, uniformed men whose names he couldn’t pronounce. He felt the oils watching his every step, some wearing a knowing smirk and others a cold frown of premonition.
“Who’s interviewing me?”
Pavel hardly glanced back over his shoulder. “Russia.”
Now that, Emir thought, was too half-assed and cryptic of an answer. He clicked to a halt on the stone floors.
“Tell me who’s interviewing me or I’ll stop walking and you’ll have to rough me up, meaning I’m showing up to that interview in bruises. I want to know who I’m fucking lying to.”
He saw Pavel’s shoulders tense as he stopped, neither out of anger or fear at the prospect of the little prisoner-soldier making him disobey an order - one Emir guessed somehow - but surprise. Again, only a glance back so he wouldn’t have to look at him. “Russia, I said.”
Emir prepared to struggle as Pavel turned and his surprise hardened.
“Who else do you think, stupid? You’re going to be asked questions about how you’re being kept here and you’re going to answer them the way we tell you to. If you don’t?” He laughed something almost shrill, as if expecting the question, “then Stas will make me make you scream until the whole East knows about you.”
His voice shook with anger with the last sentence and he approached Emir faster than the other man could react before he had him by the collar and slammed back into concrete.
“Look at me right now, Emir.”
He glowered at the taller man’s jugular. Pavel’s backhand came so fast, the pain didn’t come until his face whipped to the side. The slap’s crack echoed off the concrete, down into the dark of the morning barracks, sinking away as sharp as it had come.
“Look at me,” he voice ordered quietly.
Emir rubbed his jaw, glaring up at the green eyes filled to the brim with violence and something colder. Cautioning. “Is this how you treat anybody who asks you a question?”
This time, Pavel took him under the collar and lifted him up to his toes, knuckles buried into his collarbone. The cold of the rage had frozen his expression in gritted teeth but the two were too close for Emir to be able to tell. “You’re going to read the fucking script and answer the questions the way you’re supposed to. Then, you can go back to bed.”
“Alrigh-”
“And if you go off-script, or try to get some coded message through, or, God forbid, panic?” Pavel took him by the jaw just hard enough not to leave bruises. “Look at me, Emir. You will never see your family again. Do you understand? They won’t shoot you on live television but they won’t be waiting until the camera’s cooled off.”
Emir’s expression was darker now, and the man knew it was time to let him slide down.
“Look at me.”
His eyes just barely, weakly flickered up to Pavel’s and in that moment, he wanted to cower from the moss-green soberness he rarely saw in them. The threat hadn’t just sunk into darkness. It rang in both ears, growing higher in pitch each second the two held the look and Emir set his teeth.
He hadn’t realized his cheek was stinging until the look faded.
“I understand,” Emir finally answered but he had started walking again at that point.
He remembered how once, during his extracurricular pushups, Pavel had told him that the General had trained him to injure where the bruises wouldn’t be seen. And felt the buzz of skin where the knuckles had left their mark, just below his flightsuit collar.
CW: gunshot wound, blood, bullet wound described briefly
Hero raised their hands, feeling the metal forming the frame of a nearby car. They lifted it into the air with their powers and hurled it at Villain as Villain raised their gun. They dodged the car, and a gunshot cracked the air. Hero heard a bullet whistle past them, followed by a soft thud, but they were too focused on Villain to look back.
Tires screeched as a sleek black van turned the corner on the other side of the street, the side door pulled open. Villain gave a last dark look at them from the other end of the street before sheathing their gun and leaping into the car. Someone inside slid the door closed.
Hero clenched their fist and tried to force the van to stop as it tore down the street, burning rubber, but nothing happened. They tried again. Nothing. And what's more, they couldn't even sense the metal inside of the van. It was like something was blocking their power….
Obsaepium. The crystal that blocked superpowers. The metal frame of the van must be laced with it. “Bastard!” Hero shouted as the van turned the corner and disappeared. But as much as they hated Villain, they had to admit they were impressed. They’d thought of everything. They turned to the side. “We’ll get them eventually, Sidekick. Come on. let’s get out of here.”
No response.
“Sidekick?” Hero looked back.
Sidekick was leaning against the nearest building, hand pressed to their stomach, a pained grimace on their face. A red stain was blossoming across their left side.
They looked up at Hero. “So, slight problem.”
Their legs collapsed under them and they slid to the ground.
Hero rushed over to their side. “Sidekick? Oh no. No no no no no.” They lifted Sidekick’s shirt and almost gagged at what they saw. A bullet was lodged in the lower left side of Sidekick’s torso, shockingly bright blood seeping from the wound. The metal glinted a bright, iridescent blue.
“That’s… not normal.” Hero looked up at Sidekick’s face, which was already covered in a sheen of sweat and twisted in pain. Their eyes fluttered beneath the lids. They seemed dangerously close to passing out.
They touched the side of Sidekick’s face. “Hey, hey, hey. Look at me.”
Sidekick struggled to focus on Hero’s face, but their eyes eventually met Hero’s.
“We--we’re gonna get you help, okay? We can’t risk the hospital―Villain's people have infiltrated everywhere―but Medic’s place is close.” Their hands were trembling so violently that they had trouble dialing Medic’s number.
“Hello?” Medic’s voice crackled through on the other end of the phone.
“It's Hero. Sidekick―Sidekick got shot. With a―a weird bullet. We’re coming to your place, okay?” They couldn't stop their voice from cracking.
Medic drew a sharp breath. “Oh my God. Yeah, of course. You need a ride?”
“No, I got my car. W-we’ll be right there.”
Hero slipped the phone back into their pocket and prayed that Sidekick would survive the ride.
Claire watched the water turn pink as it washed over his hands, taking the evidence from his hands. The visible evidence at least, he'd be out of the penthouse permanently soon enough, even if they scoured the drain and got DNA it wouldn't do them any good. Tinsel was staring at him, wide-eyed, Claire could see his reflection on the metal faucet. When he moved to turn off the water Tinsel brought his gaze back to the floor, the picture of the perfect pet.
"They never properly broke you, did they?" Claire said.
"I don't know what you mean," Tinsel said, "Master."
"I think you do," Claire said. He filled the kettle with water and flipped the stove on, never taking his eyes off Tinsel. "Not that it matters. The hits did, and I never really planned on what I was going to do with a pet when I moved, assuming it was one I wanted."
Before the water got too hot, Claire poured it over his green tea and replaced the kettle on the stove to continue heating.
"It's quite convenient, actually. Millionaire dead upstairs, pet in a penthouse below commits suicide same day--it's not hard to connect the dots. Everyone knows how unstable your type is after all."
Tinsel turned to meet Claire's gaze, eyebrows drawn together in growing distress.
"Did, did I do something wrong?" Tinsel said, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I--"
"It's nothing like that," Claire said, "You're a liability. That and you lied,"
"Lied?"
Claire smiled as the kettle began whistling in earnest.
"Alright. So you're broken, let's assume you're telling the truth, come here."
Tinsel was quick but ungainly, eyes darting from the floor to Claire's face.
"In front of the sink," Claire said, sitting on the other side of the island, cup held casually by the rim. "If you're broken you follow orders, unquestioning, unhesitating. Like a good boy,"
The last line had an air of contempt about it, and Tinsel's adam's apple bobbed.
"So, Tinsel pet, I want you to pick up that tea kettle there, and pour the whole thing over your hand."
Tinsel stared back.
"Just make sure to get all the water in the sink, I don't want to be cleaning up a mess afterward," Claire gave a small smile as if he'd just asked what the weather was like today. Looking down at the sharp concrete sink, Tinsel extended his left hand, clinging his trembling fingers into a fist. When his eyes darted up to Claire again they were wet around the edges.
Clank. The handle made a faint noise as it was lifted, the scream of steam immediately dying to a sigh. Tinsel sucked in another gasp and stood poised, skinny arms shaking from the weight of metal and water.
"Well? Claire said, adjusting his blazer so his pistol was visible.
"I--" Tinsel faltered. "They didn't need to. Break me."
"Right. Which is why you keep being returned,"
Tinsel shook his head. "The party was over, they didn't--"
The tears hiding in his eyes finally began running over his cheeks.
"They didn't need me anymore. And the second, Mrs. Kastle, she died in her sleep a few days later. I walked in and, just, gone."
Looking back up, Tinsel was blinking rapidly now. "I'd never seen a dead body before."
"Touching," Claire said. Tinsel glared. That was new, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set and then he screamed.
It paused a moment as his hand pulled away from the stream of water, and he shoved it back under with a yell. Claire could have sworn there was anger in that cry, from the throat, hoarse and raw. The tea kettle dropped into the sink moments after, the rest of its contents glugging out as it rolled on its side, Tinsel hanging off the sink, clinging to the counter, half formed screams cracking behind his teeth.
When Claire walked around the stand over him, Tinsel was too hollow-eyed and shaky to pull away. He did whimper when Claire took firm hold of his forearm and lifted the kettle from the sink.
"Please, please," they didn't mean anything, Tinsel's hand was contorted with fear. Large blisters were raised wherever the water had touched, the skin red and off colored. Claire glanced down at Tinsel, whose head was buried against the counter, chest heaving.
This wasn't what Claire had been expecting. It was a copper kettle full of boiling water, even Tinsel had to recognize it as a weapon. Claire had even sat right across the counter. Not that he couldn't have dodged, he would have won the fight, but it would've been more interesting than a bullet to the brain. And instead--
Tinsel cried when Claire pulled his hand under the stream of water in the sink.
"Easy now," Claire said, "It's just to cool it off a little,"
The boy was starting to make little whines of pain as the scald set in.
"I thought said the whole kettle," Claire said, "There's quite a bit still in here, even after you dropped it."
Claire gave the arm a little tug, pulling a noise from Tinsel.
"Well?"
"Just," Tinsel whispered, "Just look at me."
His big watery eyes blinked up at Claire a moment before darting away.
"I'm--I can't, no matter what I do I'm still, I'm still pathetic and bad and, I shouldn't be scared. Pet's aren't--I'm so scared,"
Claire set down the kettle and adjusted Tinsel's hand under the icy water. He looked so fragile, but he wasn't broken. Not yet.
"One week," Claire said, "When I finish the next job your dead. Keep this under the water while I find some cream, I'm not going to listen to you cry about it all week."
Note: ´Theoretically it goes together with this but I have absolutely no idea how I could connect them. We will see. However, it is the same universe/reality.
Rayna could hear the voices. Normally, they were just a low whisper, easy to ignore but right now the voices were screaming and shouting and raging in her head. Later, Brennan would tell her that she screamed too but she didn´t realize it yet.
The only thing Rayna noticed where the loud banging and knocking on her mental door and the shrill voices demaning to be let in.
Far away she felt a warm hand on her shoulder, then on her cheeks. She could see Brennan´s mouth moving; they were talking to her but their words were drowned out by the sweet temptations and the horrific dreads in her mind. Those voices were pure chaos, pure madness and Rayna could almost feel herself going crazy.
But those warm hands were still there, holding her in reality.
"Look at me, Rayna. Look at me. I´m here with you." Finally she was able to hear Brennan even if only very quietly. Rayna did as they demanded.
Rayna just looked them in the eyes, slowly matching their breaths and after a few moments she was able to see their whole face clearly.
"Shut them out. Close do door. You can do it, you are strong enough."
"I can´t, Brennan, I can´t. They are- The voices are so mad at me, they are so loud. And they just - won´t listen to me. And they are always banging and pounding at the door, they want in so badly." Rayna was crying by now and her head felt like it would burst every moment.
"Do you remember what we did last time? Concentrate on everything around you. What can you feel? What can you see? What can you smell?"
Minute by minute went by before they spoke again: "Are the voices more quiet by now?" Rayna nodded.
"Good. Now shut them out one by one, until none is left."
Rayna closed her eyes to concentrate on every presence in her head and one by one fell silent.
What was left was an aweful headache and a consistent whisper.
“I can’t be sure. There’s truthfully nothing else that can be done.” Medic answered in an even tone.
Caretaker narrowed their eyes at Medic. “So that’s...what? Just it? They’ll just be like this forever?” Caretaker gestured to Whumpee sitting motionless on the bed. They swallowed as they focused on Whumpee’s thousand-yard stare. There was nothing going on behind those eyes. They were hauntingly vacant. Caretaker looked away, determined not to breakdown in front of Medic.
“Maybe not forever. We just don’t know.” Medic replies in the same tone as before. It was nauseating.
Caretaker sighed. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.” They dismissed Medic and returned to the room.
Caretaker slowly approached the bed, sitting down on the edge closest to Whumpee.
“So I don’t know if you can hear me or not...god I sound just like that useless doctor.” They shook their head. “Anyway, it looks like you’re here but you’re not really so I’m going to use your optimism against you and believe that you can hear me.” Caretaker took Whumpee’s cold hand in theirs. They started to rub it between both of theirs, creating some friction to get just a smidgin of warmth into Whumpee. “That’s what you would do right? Hold out hope for me if our roles were reversed?” They paused as they felt their throat tighten. “I wish it was me. You don’t deserve this. I’m so s-sorry” Caretaker ducked their head and sobbed. It was unfair. Whumpee should be up and moving, a tiny ball of energy that Caretaker never had a chance of containing. Whumpee was always the one to bring light to Caretaker and without them, Caretaker was blindly navigating in the dark.
Caretaker cupped Whumpee’s face and forced themselves to look deep into their lifeless eyes. “Please come back. Come back to me. Just...try.” They begged as they waited with baited breath for any sign that Whumpee could even hear them.
Whumpee remained hidden from Caretaker inside their own mind.
Caretaker used their thumbs to caress Whumpee’s cheeks. They stuttered on their breath as another sob broke through. “I’ll choose you every time, you just have to choose me too.” Caretaker did their best to pour all their love into their gaze, feeling their desperation dig a hole into their chest. “Please Whumpee, I’ll do anything.”
Whumpee stared back, looking so far beyond Caretaker they had no hope of breaking them out of it.
Caretaker took a deep breath and let it out in a big huff as they schooled their overwhelming emotions. They released Whumpee’s face and took their hand again. “It’s ok, Whumpee. You can take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you decide to come back.” They pressed a gentle kiss to Whumpee’s knuckles. Determined to watch over them until they were ready to return.
