Oliver was returning to Alexander's mansion. He was surprised that it was even happening. The days in the Maestro's manor felt like they would never end, but here he was, back in the gloomy carriage. He could see the city through the narrow window. Festive decorations were starting to appear, evergreen wreaths and red bows and candles in the windows. It must be close to Christmas.
He turned away, looking down at his shoes.
He felt so empty inside, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Nothing truly awful had happened to him since the first day, when he'd been ensorcelled into obedience. He hadn't been beaten, he hadn't been tortured. He'd spent most of the week cleaning, and although his leg hurt terribly despite the cane he had been afforded, he was otherwise uninjured.
And he was being returned to Alexander. Alexander, perhaps, would have a plan to destroy his sire and save them both. He should be pleased at being granted this reprieve, this hope.
So why did he feel so much like something desperately important had been ripped from him?
He thought it must be the overhanging dread from the Maestro's promise. Each day, as he dusted the furniture and cleaned the floors, he had tried and failed not to think of it. What would it like to be a vampire? What would it be like to crave blood, to sink his teeth into an innocent victim? Would any part of him truly remain? Would he spend eternity in the bleak manor, serving his new sire, never knowing any contentment or peace?
And would he always feel as empty as this?
"Speak," said the musical voice of the vampire next to him. "It's obvious you have something on your mind, and I'm willing to entertain it. It is not an opportunity you should squander."
Oliver swallowed hard, regretting that he let his worry show on his face. He was sure that even the most innocent of questions might bring him punishment. Still, if any question carried risk, he might as well ask the one at the top of his mind.
"What will it be like, sir, to be turned?"
The Maestro nodded slightly, seeming as if he had anticipated this exact question. "It will be like falling asleep."
"It won't hurt, sir?"
"It will not hurt you, not past the pain of the feeding," he said. "You will sleep, and you will die. Perhaps some part of you will be in a paradise, if you believe in such things. I do not."
Oliver didn't believe that, either, not really. "But I won't truly be dead, will I, sir? I'll be a vampire."
"Yes, there will be a monster with your face and your mind. That monster will be in unimaginable agony as it twists and changes what's left of you after your death. But I do not know if the human experiences any of this, only the vampire."
"I see," said Oliver, not sure about the distinction. Would he really be so different? He didn't know anything about Alexander before he was turned. Perhaps Alexander was unrecognizable now from the person he once was, perhaps none of him remained. Oliver could ask, if he dared.
"The vampire will be senseless, mindless, little more than a beast, until it drains a human of its blood. That's how our kind sustains our minds and bodies, by pilfering scraps of life from humans." He spat the words, seeming almost ashamed of this fact.
"I'll… I'll have to kill, sir?" asked Oliver.
"Yes, child. That's what it means to be a vampire, to kill and drain life." He scowled. "Growth, cultivation, creation -- these are activities for humans. Vampires cannot do these things except in imitation. Our only natural inclinations are to possess and to destroy. That's why it's crucial to mold you into perfection while you are still malleable."
Oliver couldn't help but wonder why the Maestro was telling him all of this, considering how he clearly saw Oliver as far beneath him. Perhaps he had no one to talk to -- certainly, Oliver had not observed any visitors to the manor in the time he'd been there.
"If humans can grow to perfection, sir, and vampires cannot, then why not allow me to remain as human?" He asked out of genuine curiosity, because he had no hope that he would actually convince the Maestro to let him be.
"A ridiculous question," he said, irritating flashing in his eyes, and Oliver flinched, fearing he had broken the sliver of peace between them. "Humans may be able to attain perfection, but they cannot stay there. All humans wither and die, but vampires are frozen in a single moment for all of time."
"I see, sir," he said, not daring to ask more questions.
There was a long pause, tension in the air, and Oliver was certain the conversation was over, until the Maestro spoke again. "You may become a great vampire lord, in your time."
"Sir?" Oliver couldn't even begin to imagine such a thing.
"You are similar to Alexander, brimming with the potential for power. But your heart is not as soft as his was. Alexander loved. For all my efforts to burn it out of him, I was not successful. The distorted scraps of that love persisted within him even after he was turned, and that made him unsuitable."
Oliver listened in fascination. So his master had been in love when he was human. It may have been long before his relationship with Fitz.
"But you, child -- you don't bear the scars of love. You have never loved and never been loved. You have never pursued any goal but books and knowledge. You kept yourself isolated by choice, with few desires. All of this gives you the potential to be a magnificent vampire, if correctly cultivated."
"I -- I don't know, sir." The thought was lonely and terrifying: an eternity without love, without desire, without passion. It sounded much like the Maestro's existence in his dismal manor. Would Oliver be the same, constructing his own silent hell?
Because as much as he dreaded the Maestro's words, he couldn't deny the sliver of truth. He had never loved or been loved, not even by his drunken father or his deceased mother. He had always imagined it might happen someday, but had taken no steps to pursue it, and the years had rolled on with Oliver still alone. Alone, that was, until he'd been purchased by Alexander.
"Perhaps you will become a vampire lord that can surpass even me," the Maestro mused. "Perhaps you will be the one to finally destroy me."
"I -- I don't think so, sir," Oliver stammered in alarm.
"Hmph." He seemed strangely disappointed, but then he always seemed disappointed. Oliver was sure he'd end up disappointed if he genuinely thought that Oliver would become a fearsome vampire lord. How could that be, if he was so frightened of the vampire beside him that he wished he could jump from the carriage? The only way it could be true was if the vampire carried nothing of him.
The carriage finally arrived in front of a familiar home. Oliver remembered how foreboding he found it when he had first been delivered to his master. Despite the fact that each window was dark, blocked with shutters and curtains, it looked downright inviting to Oliver tonight, offering relief from the oppressive presence next to him in the carriage.
As the carriage came to a stop, the Maestro reached over Oliver to open the door, making no move to exit himself. "Leave," he said. "This evening has been acceptable so far, and the sight of my failed spawn and his wretched lover would only spoil it."
"Yes, sir," said Oliver, grabbing his cane and scrambling out of the carriage as best as he could with his injured leg. "Um… thank you for your… hospitality, sir."
The dour vampire simply nodded before closing the door, the carriage driving off immediately. Oliver's shoulders slumped in relief as he took a deep breath of the cold night air, his shaking knees barely supported by his cane.
It took him several minutes to carefully hobble up the stairs. Now that he no longer needed to satisfy an unreasonable, terrifying vampire, his bad knee threatened to give out at any moment. It was as if he had only been running on sheer determination, and now that he had returned to relative safety, he was going to collapse.
Oliver grasped the metal knocker and pounded it three times. His hand had barely left the knocker when the door opened in front of him, revealing his master. He looked haggard, as though he hadn't slept at all since Oliver had left -- and it was quite possible that he hadn't eaten, either.
"Oliver."
Alexander said his name like a prayer, scooping Oliver into his arms, and Oliver allowed it, finding himself eager to indulge in the comfort. It provided only a slight balm against the dread still sinking into the pit of his stomach, but even so, Oliver fell against Alexander.
"I'm back, sir."
"Yes, I can see that," he said with a hint of amusement, not letting Oliver go.
Alexander nuzzled against Oliver's neck, breathing deep, confirming for Oliver that he likely hadn't eaten. Oliver could feel his aura seeping into his mind, the world going vague and fuzzy under the impulse to stay calm and still and let his master feed.
"Ah, there he is."
Oliver blinked, looking up at the vampire with a blond ponytail and a cheeky smile. "Hello, Mr. Fitz, sir."
"Hello, Oliver. Good to see you in one piece. You are in one piece, aren't you?"
"Let me see." Alexander loosened his grasp enough to let him examine Oliver from head to toe. "Where has he hurt you, Oliver?"
"Only my leg, sir," he said, as Alexander's gaze bored into him. "And that only because I was made to try and walk on it each day."
His master grasped his chin to take a better look at his face. "He's slapped you."
"Oh, yes, sir, he did do that at first. But the rest of the time, I did my best to be useful and attentive, and I was spared further injury."
"You've done well, Oliver, you've done so well to survive his attentions. I'm so pleased with you."
His master's praise warmed him, helped to banish a bit of the emptiness inside. "Thank you, sir."
"He didn't warp your mind or wipe your memories, then?" asked Fitz.
"No, sir, not that I know of."
"Here, let me help you," said Alexander, swiftly relieving Oliver of his shoes and coat, revealing the coarse uniform he'd been wearing. Alexander scooped him up carefully into his arms, and Oliver sighed in relief at not having to stand any longer. "You must be starving and exhausted. I'll make up some food for you, and then you can rest to your heart's content."
"Thank you, sir," said Oliver, curling up against his master's chest as he was carried into the kitchen. Although he hadn't been tortured or beaten, the past days had been entirely devoid of anything remotely like comfort, save for the precious hours when he was permitted to wrap himself in blankets and sleep.
"And of course I can take your pain away, as well," Alexander murmured, humming a low note.
His influence took effect right away, Oliver's mind floating away on a gentle cloud as the sensation of his agonized knee grew distant and fuzzy. He was so sorely tempted to just sink into it, to allow his master to sweep away the dread, if just for a moment… but he couldn't forget the important news he had to tell him.
"Master," said Oliver, eyelids fluttering open.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Your sire, he…" Oliver didn't want to say it. Now that he was back with his master, his time with the Maestro almost seemed like a nightmare. Talking about it would make it real again. But the Maestro and his plans were real, no matter how much Oliver wished they weren't, and he couldn't keep his worries from his master. "He told me that he intends to turn me, sir."
Alexander stopped in his tracks, and behind him, Oliver could hear Fitz groaning. "Are you certain?"
"Absolutely certain, sir. We discussed it in detail. He wants to make me perfect first, whatever that entails, and he wants for me to walk again. He says that I would make a great vampire lord."
Oliver hoped that Alexander and Fitz would laugh at that, reassure him that it was all some sort of prank, but both of them looked deathly serious.
"I knew it," said Alexander. "He thinks you would make an ideal replacement for me, no doubt. Another chance at the vampire lord he desires."
"But why, sir?" asked Oliver. "Why would he want to create a strong vampire? He even seemed to enjoy the idea that such a vampire could surpass and kill him…"
"He wants strong vampires under his thumb, doing his bidding, so that his power and prestige will grow," said Alexander. "I can't believe he would actually want a vampire to surpass him."
"I'm sure he thinks it's amusing that any vampire could be stronger than he is," said Fitz. "We can't let him do it." He said it with surprising finality. "You don't want to be his vampire minion, do you?"
"No, of course not, sir," said Oliver.
"Then it won't happen."
Alexander looked uneasy. "Fitz… we can't…"
"We're going to kill the Maestro Friday night, at his own ball -- Lex and Lily, with yours truly running interference and distraction," Fitz explained with a flourish. "We're all going to be free."
"Truly, sir?" said Oliver. "You're going to kill him at his ball?"
"That's right." Fitz grinned. "We're all going to be free."
"It's still a risky plan," Alexander added. "We can't make any promises."
Fitz shook his head. "It has to work, because I'm not going back there, not ever again. I'm not going to be his torture dummy nor his obedient little marionette, and neither are you. And Oliver will never be his pet vampire lord, forced to carry out his bidding in misery. It's not going to happen."
"Fitz…"
"You're the one who wanted me to have hope, all those years ago," said Fitz. "Well, here it is, my hope. We're going to succeed, because the alternative is unthinkable."
Alexander sighed. "I only wish it were unthinkable. I can think of it far too easily." He looked down at Oliver. "But yes, that's our plan -- use the ball as a distraction and an excuse to approach him, then strike him down before the power of the rune wears out. Here, let me take you into the kitchen, where I can make you up some food. We can discuss it more there."
Oliver allowed hope to permeate the dread that had been weighing down his soul the past few days. They had a plan, still. Three vampires with protection versus one -- the odds were in their favor. And then he wouldn't have to worry about the hellish future the Maestro had promised him, not ever again. He could understand what Fitz meant when he said that the alternative was unthinkable. His master simply had to succeed.
Alexander brought Oliver into the kitchen, sitting him down at the familiar table, which was strewn with what looked like today's newspaper. It seemed blurry, for some reason -- Oliver rubbed at his eyes. Perhaps he was tired, or his glasses had been smeared.
"What would you like to eat? A sandwich, perhaps? I have some potatoes I could fry up, and I bought some lovely cheese I thought you might enjoy…"
"A sandwich is fine, sir. Thank you," said Oliver, suddenly ravenous. The amount of food he had received at the Maestro's was enough to sustain him and not a crumb more, and he'd been perpetually hungry.
He picked up the paper, eager for a window to the outside world, a sense of normalcy, but even as he brought it nearer his face, it was still hopelessly blurred. The letters danced and swayed on the page, and didn't even look like letters, not as he remembered them, but more like some abstract art. Oliver realized with growing horror that the picture on the front page, some local politician giving a speech, was perfectly clear. It was only the words that melted and ran down the page, slipped through his mind's grasp. Terror gripped his heart, his breath coming out ragged.
"Oliver?" asked Alexander, turning away from the kitchen counter. "Is there something wrong?"
"I can't read, sir."
"Pardon?"
"I can't read!" he yelled, pushing the papers away, watching them scattered across the floor.
Alexander rushed to his side. "What do you mean? Is it your eyesight? Is it your glasses?"
"No, sir," he sobbed. "I can see everything fine except for the words on the page. I can see that they're words, I know it's the newspaper, but I can't make any sense of them, none at all --"
"Did the Maestro do this?" asked Fitz.
"I can't remember, sir." Oliver clawed at his face. "I can't remember him doing it -- but I know, somehow, that he must have done it, must have taken away my ability to read."
"Of course it was him," said Fitz. "Why else would this have happened? He's unfortunately quite adept at altering memories."
"It's all right, Oliver," said Alexander, "We can fix this. We'll get Lily to fix it. Do you remember anything about it, anything at all?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"That will make it more difficult, then, but with time and multiple sessions…"
"We needn't bother," said Fitz.
Alexander and Oliver both turned to him, shocked. "What on earth do you mean?" Alexander demanded. "If Oliver truly can't read, this is a serious matter. We need to restore him."
"I'm not saying it isn't serious. I can tell that Oliver's like you -- he can't live without shoving his face inside of some dusty tome," said Fitz. "It doesn't matter because it will be decided one way or another Friday night. If the Maestro dies, then his control over Oliver will lift, and it will be trivial to restore him to his full faculties. And if he doesn't… we'll have much larger problems than reading, frankly."
"…You're right," said Alexander, after spending a long moment considering Fitz's words.
"If we restore Oliver now, and then fail… he'll only get his ability to read taken away again, and even though he can't remember it, I doubt he wants to experience that twice."
"I don't," said Oliver softly, hanging his head.
Alexander stroked his cheek, lifted Oliver's face to look into his own. "I'm sure we'll triumph, and then you can read everything in my library to your heart's content."
Oliver swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yes, sir."
"And until then, I can read books to you, if you desire."
The thought of sitting by his master's side in front of a fire, listening to his mesmerizing voice, was enough to comfort Oliver, at least a small amount. "Yes, please, sir."
They had to triumph. They simply had to, or Oliver would never feel whole again.
Masterlist > Previous > Next
Oliver will be fine, I'm sure.
I'm on a break next week, and then I'll return with some scenes from Fitz's recovery in 1906.
Non-human whumpee rescued by a team of humans. But because of whumper they think all humans are dangerous and is always on their toes/really aggressive to the team until they discover someone on the team is also not a human !! So now everyone is confused as to why the new rescued who wouldn't look anyone in the eyes now follow caretaker like a baby duck
When Fitz woke up, it was pitch black, and all he could hear was the ticking of a clock. It must have been early, not even sunset, and Lex must have been asleep and lying still as a corpse, because Fitz couldn't hear or sense him there in the bed at all.
It was just as well, because something other than Lex was compelling Fitz, something stronger than Lex's song and Lily's manipulation, a hold on his mind too tight to shake. It lay curled and dormant in his mind like a rattlesnake in a den, waiting to strike when things were still and quiet and Fitz's mind was full of fear.
Fitz stumbled out of bed, somehow picking his way through the discarded laundry and other clutter in the dark, pushing open the thick wooden door. He didn't light a lamp, not yet, because he knew his way downstairs even in the dark, the stairs creaking softly under his bare feet.
He arrived at the music room and lit the thick candle that he knew would be sitting on top of the piano. It produced just barely enough flickering light for him to see the outline of the keys. That was enough. He didn't need sheet music to play this piece, not after he had practiced it thousands of times, whipped and beaten for his mistakes.
Strange that he should play it so much better now, that there was no threat of punishment. His hands flew over the keys as though he'd been born to it. His mistakes were few -- or perhaps he simply couldn't sense what his nightmarish tutor considered a problem, even after all those sessions. Lex had insisted that he really did play well now, and that ample food and sleep was part of the cause, the kind of thought that Lex's sire had spent so much effort burning out of his head. Lex said it was much easier to play without a terrifying taskmaster staring over his shoulder.
Perhaps any improvement was all simply wishful thinking, evaporating the moment he returned to the bleak music room he still saw in his mind's eye as he played.
He couldn't stop. He had to practice. For all of Alexander's reassurances and comfort, the greater part of him was simply waiting, his servile and diminished persona frozen in amber for the night when the Maestro would take him away again. The comfort now was only a brief respite, and he would be punished tenfold for daring to take it.
Fitzwilliam came to the end of the piece and started it again. And again. And again and again and again --
"Fitz."
He hit a wrong note as cold arms wrapped around him, restricting him from playing. Fitzwilliam was too lost in the nightmare to accept what was happening, and he instinctively fought to get free.
"You don't need to play that. You can stop."
"I have to -- I have to --"
Lex hummed in his ear, a command to be quiet, to stop fighting, and Fitz's distressed mind couldn't reject it. He slumped over in Lex's arms, defiance drained from him in an instant.
"Why do you continue to do this, Fitz?"
"I have to," he said, finding his voice again. "When he takes me back, if I'm out of practice…"
Lex held him tightly. "I don't want you to suffer like this."
But he would suffer like this, as long as the Maestro was still alive, and they both knew this. Despite the fog that still lingered around his memories, he remembered with startling clarity the night that Lex had tried and failed, and what Fitz had been made to do as a result.
"How can I make you happy?" Lex murmured in his ear.
"You can make me happy whenever you want, can't you? You can compel my mind to happiness regardless of circumstance."
"That's not what I mean."
No, of course it wasn't. He didn't want to have to sing Fitz into an artificial bliss, not permanently. What he wanted was for Fitz to return the way he was before -- cocky, charming, demanding his attention.
But Fitz wasn't that person any more. That person had burned brightly and was snuffed out painfully. Fitz couldn't assume that personality, except as artifice, a role to play. He couldn't be the man that Lex had loved, not in truth. And it was only a matter of time until the vampire tired of this pale reflection and threw him away.
"You could erase my memories of him," said Fitz. If he didn't have that torment haunting him day and night, it would make it easier for him to pretend, and maybe, with enough pretending, he could find the man he used to be.
"You know that we shouldn't. We've talked about this. You've already had so much of your memories toyed with -- any more would risk your sanity."
Fitz laughed. "Well, we wouldn't want that, considering I'm the epitome of sanity."
They'd had this argument before, and they surely would again, a tired song and dance, much like Fitz's compulsion to wake early and practice. But this time, Lex didn't respond with reason or chiding. Instead, Fitz heard a low sob. "Lex…?"
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice choked. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from any of this. I'm sorry that we're both stuck waiting for the torment we know is coming. I'm sorry things can't be different, that we can't simply be together in another place far from here."
Fitz said nothing, fighting back the tears himself.
"I'll do anything to make you happy," said Lex. "Anything within my power, anything to help you forget your pain. Please."
Fitz stewed over this for a long moment. There was nothing that would make him happy, and the only thing that made him forget his pain was enthrallment. But even so, it would be a waste to pass on his master's generous offer.
"The opposite of pain is pleasure, isn't it?" he said. "I want pleasure."
"Pleasure?"
Fitz turned around, grabbing Lex's shirt and pulling him closer. "It's the one thing your sire doesn't want us to have, more than anything else. I want to get as much pleasure out of life as I can get before we're taken again. I want to play my favorite songs, eat my favorite foods. I want to dress in fine clothing and go out on the town."
Lex looked dazed, caught up in Fitz. "We can do all of those things."
"I want to provide you with blood," said Fitz, his lips brushing Lex's neck as he pulled his master closer. "I want you to sing my pain and fear away. I want to luxuriate in bed together and forget that there's anything else in the world besides us two."
"Yes…"
"And I want to perform again."
"You want to -- but -- what happened last time --"
"I don't care," Fitz lied. "I don't want my last stage performance to have been… that. I want to feel like myself again. And I want to do something that your sire would absolutely loathe. Spit right in that bastard's eye."
"When he finds out…"
"He'll do what? Torture us both? He's planning on doing that anyway."
Lex swallowed hard, stroking Fitz's hair. "Are you certain about this?"
"Absolutely certain."
"Then there might be something I can arrange for you. I didn't suggest it before because of the certainty of word getting back to my sire, but… there's a club I sometimes visit, a vampire club where they have thrall performers. I'm sure they'd be interested in you."
"Oh, that's perfect." Nothing could be more spiteful to that hateful old vampire, and Fitz already had an inkling of exactly what he wanted to do.
And he had an inkling of how he might like to die.
He thought of the knife he'd hidden among his clothes, one small enough to conceal in his clothes and hide from Lex. Fitz wanted to be on stage, performing, when the Maestro sent another of his rotten minions to deliver his death warrant. That's when he would end it all -- slitting his own throat, dramatically, on stage, in front of a crowd of vampires, luxuriously wasting all of his blood to spite them all. It was the best way he could think of to go out.
And he knew he wanted to die rather than be taken back for a second round of torture and mental manipulation. He'd rather die than have his final, dimmed spark snuffed out. Lex's sire assumed that he held all of the cards, but he couldn't stop Fitz from choosing how he would die. And Lex would mourn him, maybe, and buy some other poor sap from the auction house, and Fitz would meet him someday in hell.
---
February 1906
As much as Fitz loved to be on stage, he loved to be backstage almost as much. He loved the anticipation as he waited in the wings, moments away from soaking up the audience's approval. As he watched the act before him, a pair of elaborately costumed thralls singing a jaunty duet, he shuffled his cards idly, then placed them back in his pocket.
He was glad he'd imposed on Lex how important it was that his dresses had pockets. Really, wearing the elaborate ballgown of a thrall worked out just fine for his act. The ruffles and lace were the perfect distractors for sleight-of-hand tricks, and the elaborate undergarments offered plenty of hiding places.
He wanted to love it. He wanted to enjoy the flashy garments and the attention they brought him. He wanted to bask in the vampires' approval, a charming and ideal thrall. But it was so much harder now than it was before, knowing that every show he gave inched him closer to his doom.
At least he looked absolutely fetching in his dress.
The vampires burst into applause for the singing act, and once it had died down, the host -- a vampire wearing a smart suit -- announced him: "A magic act performed by Fitz, thrall to Alexander Strand." Fitz emerged from the wings and looked out at the crowd.
At first glance, the vampires in the audience could have passed for any well-to-do audience at an upscale house. The main oddity was the amount of woefully out-of-date clothes among them, some which could have easily been a century old, and the look of undisguised hunger in their eyes. Fitz could feel their desire to feed from his position on the stage, and it took all his willpower to not succumb to a stupor. Lex assured him that this was a compliment of sorts, that his blood just smelled that delicious. Fitz couldn't help but wonder if their applause was for him or his blood.
If the vampires in the audience looked fairly ordinary, the thralls among them really drove home the difference between human society and vampire. The thralls' outfits ranged from the latest fashion to complete nudity, with a wide range of collars and chains and leather and lace in between. Thralls were draped across their masters' laps or kneeling by their sides, some of them seemingly asleep. Many of those aware enough to watch the show still had those dazed, blissed-out expressions. Thrall waitstaff walked from seat to seat, utterly hypnotized and bearing the scars of many feedings, delivering drinks and house thralls on leashes. A couple of the vampires were casually licking up blood from thralls' necks as though they were taking a snack.
One of the few vampires there without a thrall sat at a table in the back corner -- Lex, who regarded Fitz with a smile that counted as warm.
Performing for a vampire audience was so much different than performing for a human audience. He used to relish the feeling of being the one in control, of having command of the audience's emotions, making them laugh or gasp or cheer on demand. Here, every detail was engineered to remind him of his place beneath the vampires. He may be on stage, he may be able to make them laugh, but they still held every scrap of the power.
And even his Lex was part of their number.
He'd found enjoyment in it before, Lex holding such power over him, while he enticed Lex in return. It was intoxicating. But now that it was clear just how much Lex's sire controlled him in turn, it felt like a trap.
Of course, there would be plenty of time to think about that as he lie awake in bed next to Lex in the morning. For now, he had tricks to perform, banter to improvise, balls to juggle.
The crowd was in a good mood tonight, quite receptive to his act, so he launched into his favorite new piece. He would get a thrall on stage to hypnotize, and the vampires were always quite amused at the idea of one thrall mesmerizing another. Fitz scanned the audience for a good volunteer -- a thrall that seemed aware with a vampire who wouldn't be upset at Fitz borrowing their thrall temporarily. An attractive one in an interesting costume was also a nice bonus for holding the audience's attention.
Soon, he was pulling up on stage an absolutely darling young woman in a scandalously tight dress. She was plump with rosy cheeks and a winning smile, and the vampires were immediately won over by her presence. Fitz sat her down, dangled his pocket watch in front of her eyes, and murmured the words he'd learned mainly from Lex. He didn't have real mesmeric powers the way the vampires did, of course, but it wasn't hard to make a thrall relax and listen to his suggestions. After all, they came pre-hypnotized.
"Just relax and watch the pretty, shining pocket watch," he crooned. "Watch as it goes back and forth, so heavy, just as your limbs are starting to feel heavy, just as your eyelids are starting to feel so heavy, so sleepy…"
She was falling quickly as they always did, her eyes dazed and her lids fluttering, her gaze tracking the watch as it swept across her vision.
"That's right, you're doing so well. You're so relaxed now, so drowsy. Wouldn't it be nice to let your eyes close? Wouldn't it be nice to go to sleep and listen closely to my voice?"
The young woman looked so content as she shut her eyes and fell under Fitz's spell. She seemed happy with her lot -- Fitz always avoided picking thralls who looked miserable or abused. He couldn't help but wonder who she was before she was this. Did she have a life before this? Did she ever miss it? He supposed it didn't matter now.
Fitz's hypnosis act was merely parlor tricks, suggesting mildly silly and embarrassing things that no thrall would think to refuse. She was instructed to sing and dance, and she shimmied her hips while giving a decent go at "In My Merry Oldsmobile." Then she was instructed to pretend to be a vampire, and she mimicked biting down on an imaginary human, which gave everyone a good laugh.
Before long, the show was over, and Fitz was sending her back to her mistress, who smiled and clasped her arms around her returned thrall. Fitz himself received a hearty round of applause and cheers. Another success, and another night spent anxiously looking towards the back of the house as he took his bows. He was waiting for everything to come crashing down around him, a messenger with a single perfect rose to put an end to his good evening. His hand brushed against the knife hidden in his waistband.
But tonight was not the night he had to use it.
Lex met him backstage while he was washing off his makeup. "Your act is a hit once again."
"Of course it is. It's my act, after all," he said with a cocky grin.
This was the hardest part of the stage performance. Playing the part of a magician was easy. Playing the part of himself was far more difficult these days. But if Lex ever noticed how strained his smile was, he never brought it up.
Lex seemed relatively at ease as he lounged on a couch. "You did a wonderful job tonight. It was quite charming to watch you hypnotizing that thrall."
"Well, I was coached on my technique by the best," he said, draping himself across Lex. "It's not like it's all that difficult to hypnotize someone who's already deep in a trance."
"I suppose it isn't."
"What would be a real challenge would be to bring a vampire up on stage," he said. "I'm always tempted to. Wouldn't they be surprised to find the roles reversed!"
That earned Fitz a frown of disapproval. "Fitz, no, don't do that. That'd be absolutely taboo, and they'd run you out of the club for intentionally humiliating a vampire. Besides, it wouldn't work."
"Wouldn't it?" Fitz had just been teasing, but Lex's assertion that he couldn't do it was a challenge. "After all, it's possible for humans to mesmerize other humans with no special abilities at all. Vampires have minds, just as humans do. Why wouldn't it be possible?"
"You don't truly think you could hypnotize a vampire, do you?"
"I did say I learned from the best," he said, adjusting his position so that he was looking straight into Lex's beautiful eyes. "And sometimes, I think that you look so tired. So, so tired."
Lex's brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"
"Shhh," said Fitz, placing a finger on Lex's lips. "Aren't you always tired? I can tell you haven't been sleeping well. Wouldn't it be nice to relax a bit? Aren't you at least a little tempted by the idea of sinking down, down, down into a blissful daze?"
"That's… that's not going to work," said Lex, although his intense focus on Fitz's eyes said otherwise. "I don't know why you're…"
"Trying to help you relax? Why wouldn't I? After all, I'm your loyal thrall. You can trust me," he said, gently stroking Lex's hair. "Don't you think it would be nice to relax, just for a while? Doesn't any part of you long for it, to be the one taken care of instead of the one making all the difficult decisions?"
"I am often tired, but…"
"You're so tired. I can see it in your face, in your heavy eyes." Fitz was keeping his voice a soothing purr. "So tired, so drowsy, so very sleepy."
"That's not going to work," Lex repeated, but his face was relaxing, his eyelids drooping, as he gazed into Fitz's eyes. "You can't hypnotize a vampire with a bit of sweet talking."
"Is that so? Because I can just imagine you falling under my power, so relaxed and vulnerable…"
Lex's eyes went wide as Fitz pinned him to the couch, one hand on each of his shoulders. It was absolutely intoxicating to see Lex at such a loss for words. He leaned in close and whispered in Lex's ear. "What if you just allowed yourself to fall under my spell, just as I fell under yours? What if that entranced feeling were pouring into you right now, and you were utterly unable to resist it?"
Lex murmured something under his breath, and even Fitz was surprised to see how entranced he seemed to be.
"That's right, Lex," whispered Fitz. "You just want to rest and forget your cares. You just want your thoughts to slow and leave you be for a little while. You can't resist sinking into a place of deep relaxation and deep sleep."
"Mmm…" Lex's eyes were half-closed.
"And now you belong to me."
Lex snapped awake, his bleary confusion showing how deeply he had fallen for Fitz's little act. "You've made your point," he said tersely. "Don't do that again."
"But you seemed to be enjoying yourself," said Fitz, disappointed.
"I mean it, Fitz," said Lex, and he seemed genuinely disturbed, and Fitz wondered if his sudden mood shift was due to something far more deep-seated than breaking the mores of vampire society. After all, Lex had already broken the mores of vampire society by being so indulgent of his thrall.
"Fine, then, I won't," said Fitz, tossing his hands up and rolling off of Lex.
"You'd make a good vampire, though, I can see that much." Lex was still obviously uneasy.
"I suppose I might."
A good vampire? Fitz hadn't given it much thought. He'd feared the Maestro might want to turn him, but he'd never truly thought about what sort of a vampire he would be. But if he were a vampire, then he would be the one with all of the power, doing as he pleased. He'd have his own thrall at his beck and call, kneeling beside him and fawning over him.
If he were a vampire, he could have helped Lex with his plan to destroy the Maestro, fighting at his side. Maybe he could even confront the Maestro himself on equal terms, putting an end to him once and for all, earning his revenge.
If he were a vampire…
"Fitz, are you all right?" asked Lex. "I didn't seriously mean what I just said. I don't intend to allow my sire to turn you into a vampire if there's any way I can stop him."
"…I know," said Fitz, knowing that Lex really couldn't seem to stop his sire from doing anything he pleased, no matter what his intentions were. As long as Lex's sire walked the earth, they'd never be safe. They'd never be happy. They'd never go back to the way things were before, when Fitz could effortlessly charm Lex and Lex would let him with a smile.
But if he could take matters into his own hands…
"Fitz?"
"I'm just thinking about some alterations I'd like to make to my act," said Fitz. "Nothing serious."
Previous > Masterlist > Next
Thanks for continuing to read this story and being patient with my hiatus! Next week, Oliver is given a gift.
I've received a sternal rub before and my chest ached for days afterward, making this a pretty serious form of pain stimulus.
Try pressing your knuckles to your sternum and rocking them back and forth. Now imagine magnifying that sensation by x10,000. That shit hurts and if whumpee can only groan in response they are absolutely fucked, and they also will feel it later. Just in case anyone wanted a description of how bad it really is to add to their daydreams :3
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, past forced pregnancy, past noncon, implied noncon, implied incest, implied murder, child whumpee, minor whump, lady whump, lady whumpee, lady whumper, child whumper, conditioned whumpee, revenge, knives, anger as a trauma response
It had been seventeen years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about sixteen years of Adela… changing. Drastically. From innocent baby girl babbling about cows in children's books, to a violent kindergartener, to full-on assaulting another child on her first day of school, to then becoming sort of… reclusive.
For about a year after Sheila and Errol's marriage, things seemed to be looking up in Sheila and Adela's relationship. Only to then be torn apart yet again, for reasons Sheila couldn't comprehend. One day Adela was joking and laughing with her, and the next she wanted nothing else but to stay in her room.
There was a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had been only sixteen when she started sleeping with Errol. And at seventeen, when the acts started being less… consensual, she withdrew. She'd felt disgusting and repulsive. She'd felt like everyone around her just knew, so she wanted nothing to do with the world.
And she was seeing those same signs on her fourteen-year-old daughter, and she could do nothing. For two years, this went on. Sheila confronted Errol on several occasions, yelling and demanding he tell her what was going on with Adela, whether he'd been molesting her, whether any of his wicked friends had laid a hand on her, but every time, it was the same answer.
'Adela is happy, she's just a moody teenager.'
It was not long after Adela's sixteenth birthday that she came home one day without Errol.
Covered in blood.
The car was parked clumsily in the driveway, and Sheila didn't see anyone who could've driven it home other than Adela herself, who very much did not have her licence yet. Sheila didn't even know she knew how to operate a vehicle.
"Adela!" she cried when she saw the state she was in. She looked dead behind the eyes. "What happened? Is that your blood? Do we need to go to the hospital?"
"It's not mine," she said curtly.
"Where is Errol?"
Adela didn't answer.
Sheila was frozen in fear. If Adela had done something to Errol, and the authorities found out… She didn't want to lose her daughter to prison. "Adela, sweetie, listen to me. Listen very carefully. Has your father ever hurt you? Made you uncomfortable? Or have any of his friends done that? In the past years, I couldn't shake the feeling— But you never wanted to talk—"
"Mommy," she cut in, and it had been so long since Adela called her that, and Sheila stopped talking and just listened. "If you want to help, help me dig a hole in the backyard."
"You killed Errol," Sheila whispered. "You did, didn't you? What has he done?"
"Will you help me, Mommy?" It was like Adela was regressing, like she was back to being that little girl Sheila had loved so dearly, and who still loved her back.
"I will," she said. "We have more than one shovel. We can dig a whole quickly."
Adela gave her an empty smile. "Thank you, Mommy."
And so Sheila went out into the backyard and started digging. Adela went back out to the car, Sheila assumed to get what remained of her husband, then she came empty-handed and in freshly changed clothes to the backyard with another shovel and started helping Sheila dig the hole.
Once it was deep enough, Adela ordered her to go back inside and go upstairs. "Sweetheart, I don't think it's a secret that I hated your father. I can handle looking at his body," Sheila said.
"No, Mommy. I need to do this alone. You just go upstairs and take a bath. I'll handle it. Don't say such things — you must've loved him. You married him. We were happy."
"Adela…"
"We were a happy family. We are a happy family. Just go inside, okay? Take a bath, then start a batch of the laundry. I already soaked my shirt in advance, so the… stains wouldn't be that hard to get out."
It was like Adela was far removed from the situation. Like she wasn't even talking about the murder of her father that she'd loved and idolised for so many years. Would she have been that detached talking about murdering her?
For some inconceivable reason, Sheila went along with what Adela wanted. She just nodded and went back inside the house. When she passed the living room, she saw a few trash bags in the middle of the room, and she almost retched thinking about what must've been inside. She rushed upstairs and began frantically scrubbing Adela's shirt. There was no way this wasn't self-defence, or something similar, but the justice system wouldn't understand. They would come and question them when Errol's disappearance became evident — should she report his disappearance right away? — and if they told the truth, Adela would be taken from her. And she wouldn't let anyone take Adela.
She was still scrubbing when the backdoor downstairs opened and closed. Footsteps ascended the stairs, and Adela soon came into the bathroom. "Oh," she said, hollow. "You're still here."
"I can finish this later — take a bath."
"Yeah. Thank you, Mommy."
"Adela. Listen to me. I stand by you. Whatever you did… I'm sure you had your reasons. I wish I could've helped somehow, I wish—"
"What did I do?"
"Well, the— the—"
"I didn't do anything. I just came home from school. Have you seen Daddy anywhere? He's usually home by now."
It was eerie. Sheila would've lied if she said a shiver didn't run down her spine. "Daddy must have extra work to do," she said after a brief pause. "I'm sure he'll be home by dinner."
"Okay."
With that, Sheila walked out of the bathroom and let Adela take a thorough bath, scrubbing off blood and dirt. Sheila would take a bath later, once Adela's clothes were clean.
The rest of the afternoon she spent in a daze. Adela was helping her out with dinner, something she hadn't done in two years, and she seemed to be in good spirits. But Sheila could see it, underneath the mask she wore. She seemed empty.
"Adela, sweetie," she said when dinner was ready and Errol… 'still hadn't come home'. "I'm going to make a call, okay?"
"Okay."
And so Sheila went and reported her husband missing. "A few officers will come over soon," she said when she went back to the kitchen. "Remember to tell them everything that could help. I took the car today, yes? And you went to school, and then came straight home. Daddy sometimes works late, so it wasn't all that unusual that he wasn't home by the time we both got home. But by now, he should be home."
"Yes, Mommy."
"Anything else I left out?"
"Nothing. I hope they find Daddy."
Sheila gave her a strained smile. "Me too, sweetie."
The officers questioned them both, and the missing person's report was officially filed. Sheila was questioned for a long time before they finally left her be. They promised to find her husband, and she tearily thanked them.
After that, they had dinner together. Just the two of them. It was quiet for a long time before Sheila spoke.
"What did he do?"
Adela was chewing on a piece of meat, and Sheila could see her pause for a moment before swallowing. "Who?"
"It's just us, sweetie. I just need to know… He's done so many heinous things. I just need to know. Please."
Adela smiled. "Mommy, you're talking nonsense."
It was killing her. Errol had done something to her, or maybe his friends, and she didn't know what, and she didn't know how to help. Why hadn't she taken her and run years ago? Why hadn't she done more when Adela started to draw back? Why, why, why.
"I'm sure you've pieced it together by now," Sheila went on, undeterred. "That I was groomed. That he raped me. But I don't care about that now. As soon as I saw you after the birth, as soon as I held you, I loved you. From the very first moment. I wanted to protect you from the monster that I knew he was. And I— I failed. What did he do?"
The so-far-unspoken secrets were making the air thick and heavy in the kitchen. Adela stabbed another piece of meat with her fork, bringing it to her lips and biting down. "Daddy says not to tell Mommy; Mommy says Daddy is a monster. What to do, what to do."
She used to say a lot of things like this when she was little. But the desperation, the outburst, the genuine confusion of a small child receiving contradictory information and commands, were all missing. She almost said it in a sing-song voice. It set Sheila on edge.
"Sweetheart—"
Without a warning, Adela pushed her entire plate off the table, leaving it to shatter on the ground. Sheila was immediately up from her chair, backing away. There was something seriously wrong, and though she loved her daughter with all her heart, she was scared.
Adela stood up as well, knife she used to cut the meat with still in hand, and approached her. She wasn't looking up at Sheila anymore, like when she was little. They were on equal footing… in terms of bodily proportions. In terms of experience with knives, martial arts, murder, not so much. Sheila was breathing rapidly.
"Why didn't you love Daddy?" Adela demanded, her calm demeanour gone in an instant. "If you loved him like he loved you, if you fucked him every now and again, maybe he wouldn't have—"
"He never stopped raping me," Sheila said quietly, acutely aware of the knife Adela was brandishing. "Whatever he did to you had nothing to do with him not being sexually satisfied."
"Maybe it's the fact that you're old and ugly now," she said, then burst out into the worst hyena cackle Sheila had ever heard. Was that what Errol said about her? Old and ugly? She was thirty-four. "Or maybe I'm just better."
"Better at what, Adela?"
"At everything! I don't need Daddy anymore. He taught me enough." She put the knife against Sheila's neck, and she froze like a statue. "Do I need Mommy?"
"Adela, if you do this, there's no way you can cover it up—"
"Mommy and Daddy ran away together, leaving their one and only child to fend for herself. And that one and only child is so sad, devastated by this loss."
"Adela, we can work this out. We can do this together. We don't have to throw everything away because Errol did something horrible to both of us."
Adela lowered the knife. There were tears in her eyes. "Maybe I do need Mommy," she breathed. Against all better judgment, Sheila couldn't help herself; she hugged Adela close, not caring that she could stab her in the back.
The knife cluttered to the floor.
"I'm sorry I couldn't do anything," Sheila choked out. "I tried. I tried to protect you. I'm so glad you protected yourself in the end. I will never let them take you for it. Never. If I have to, I'll confess to killing him. I don't care what happens to me. I just need you to be okay."
Sheila sobbed as her daughter finally hugged her back, weeping as well. They stood there, embracing, in a wreckage of their own two messed up lives, and cried. And cried and cried and cried. Eventually, Sheila pulled away.
"I'll clean up. You go and rest."
"Mommy?"
"Yes, sweetie."
"Am I… ruined now?"
"Oh, Adela… No. No, you're not. You're still precious and sweet."
Adela didn't seem to believe her. She nodded anyway, then walked over to the stairs. "Good night, Mommy."
"Good night, sweetie."
As Sheila picked up the broken pieces of the blade, as she wiped away the juices of the meat and potatoes, she wondered what it would be like to go to bed tonight. She wouldn't need to be scared of Errol touching her; but she now had to live through the fear of Adela snapping and slitting her throat. What would she do if Sheila wasn't awake to talk her down?
She put everything in the trash can, then went upstairs to take a bath and go to bed.
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, past forced pregnancy, past noncon, lady whump, lady whumpee, child whumpee, minor whump, coercion, implied murder, emotional whump, manipulation, conditioned whumpee
It had been fourteen years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about thirteen years of Adela accompanying her father on torture missions. It wasn't hard to see the signs. She did the laundry — she saw the blood splatter.
Sheila was… worn down. It was clear that Adela wanted pretty much nothing to do with her, spending all her free time with her father. She tried stepping in sometimes, but Adela's violent outbursts just got worse and worse. Sheila was… scared. Scared of Errol, in a way, though she tried to mask it. But now, she was also scared of her thirteen-year-old daughter. And that devastated her. That was her baby girl. Her sweet Adela. And she was scared.
One day, after Errol and Adela came home from their 'outing', and Sheila was in the laundry room, trying to get out blood stains from Adela's clothes, Errol called out to her and asked her to come to the living room.
"I'm in the middle of something," she called back. "Can it wait?"
"Mommy!" Adela's voice came from right outside the door. "It can't wait! Come on, come on!"
It had been a while since Adela sounded so enthusiastic about anything involving Sheila, so she found it hard not to oblige. She left the clothes soaking in the sink, wiped her hands on her pants, and exited the laundry room.
Adela seemed very happy. Whatever this surprise was, she knew it, and was excited about it. "What's this about?" Sheila asked her in a low voice as they made their way to the living room.
"You'll see!" she chirped. "It's gonna be so good! Mommy, I'm so excited."
Sheila smiled. It was as if she had her daughter back, even if only for a day, or a few hours.
They reached the living room, and Errol was standing there, hands behind his back, clearly hiding something from sight. "Sheila," he said with a gentle smile. "I'm sorry for interrupting whatever you were doing. Come here."
In this house, surprises were usually not of the pleasant kind. Sheila's stomach was in knots as she approached, but she did anyway, if only for her daughter. She wanted to keep Adela happy. "What's this about?" she asked again, this time from Errol.
Instead of answering, Errol got down on one knee. "Sheila, I should've done this way sooner, but to be frank, I didn't think you would stick around for so long. But now that I see your commitment to our family, it only seems right that I do this."
Sheila swallowed. He couldn't possibly be—
He pulled out a small box from behind his back and opened it. In it was an intricate ring, an expensive-looking one, and Sheila felt like she was going to faint. "Sheila, will you marry me?"
"No," she breathed. "You can't be serious."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Adela's smile drop. Sheila backed away from Errol, not taking her eyes off of him.
"You ruined my life. You groomed me. You knocked me up. You're training my daughter to be cruel and uncaring. A murderer, probably. And you have the nerve to ask me to marry you?"
Errol closed the box again, hiding the ring once more. He sighed. "I thought this might happen." He stood up.
"And you knew this?" Sheila asked, turning to Adela, who looked like she was on the brink of yet another outburst. "And you were okay with this? Do you have any idea what your father did to me?"
"You talk of this pregnancy like you never wanted me," Adela said. And what was there to say? She didn't want a child. She certainly didn't want a child with Errol. But she'd come to love her daughter more than anyone else in the world.
"It's complicated."
"You're making it complicated!" Adela snapped. "Just take the ring and marry Daddy so we can be a normal family!"
"This is not a normal family, and I'm sorry I can't play into your fantasy. You're only a kid, so I get that you don't understand the situation, but honestly, Adela, at 13, I thought you'd be a little more mature than this."
Adela trotted over to her, and before Sheila could've realised what she was about to do, she reeled her hand back and punched her in the stomach as hard as she could. And though she was only a child, it hurt.
"Marry Daddy!" she demanded as Sheila was doubled over, gasping for breath. "Marry him or leave! You're not part of this family unless you marry him!"
Adela had become more and more violent over the years, but she had never hit her. "Adela—"
"I don't care! I don't care that you don't like him! A proper family is when the parents are married! Everyone in my class has married parents! I want a normal family, and you're taking that away from me!"
"You're being manipulative," she pointed out after she'd righted herself.
"And you're just being stubborn! Daddy knew this would happen. I didn't want to believe him; I thought you had common sense. But maybe that was thinking too highly of you."
"I'm not going to tie my life to—"
"You already have a child with him! And you tied your life to his when you decided to stay here and be an absolute killjoy at every opportunity! You act like my mommy, but you don't want to marry Daddy, so you're not really my mommy."
Sheila felt cornered. She was living with Errol, that was true. And she didn't want to leave Adela, that was also true. And if this was the price she had to pay to be able to stay in her daughter's life, then… then…
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll marry Daddy."
She looked up at Errol, and the insufferable smirk on his face almost made her backtrack. But she couldn't. Maybe this marriage would endear her to Adela a little, maybe she would listen to her more, maybe, maybe, maybe.
"Come here," Errol cooed. "Let me put the ring on you."
Adela watched like a hawk as Sheila approached Errol again and let him put the ring on her finger. She was now engaged. To a murderer. Adela cheered.
"Yay! Daddy said I'd be the flower girl on the wedding, let's go, let's go get a dress!"
"We don't even know when the wedding would take place—" Sheila tried.
"Soon!" Adela said enthusiastically. "Daddy said he already made preparations."
Sheila looked back at Errol quizzically. "Preparations? When you thought I wouldn't even accept the ring?"
"Well, I knew you wouldn't, at first. But I know you, Sheila — you would never let Adela down."
Adela. Her daughter, that just assaulted her minutes prior. Sheila closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "So when's the wedding?"
"Next week. I have everything planned out, except of course your part of the ceremony. You need a dress."
Her mind was reeling. Next week? And she needed to go wedding dress shopping? This was a nightmare.
"We can get in the car and go right now," Errol offered.
"Yes!" Adela said immediately. "Let's go, let's go!"
"I… I don't know…"
"Don't know what?" her daughter asked, dangerously demanding.
"This is all so fast, and, and I—" I don't want to marry Errol. Wasn't a child enough? "I need a moment to collect myself."
"Daddy always talks about how strong you are, you know," Adela said. "How that was what made him fall in love with you. But you don't seem strong right now."
Strong. Yes, Errol had said that about her many times. But she didn't feel strong right now. She hadn't felt strong in a long time. She wasn't the same Sheila that Errol 'fell in love with'. She was broken down, dejected, and it felt like life and her relationship with her daughter were slipping through her fingers.
But she had to be strong. For Adela.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go get dresses."
If the price she had to pay to remain in Adela's good graces was to take on Errol's last name and become a missus, if that was the price of potentially getting to be with her again, to talk to her, to play with her, to help her with schoolwork, to do all the things they used to do together… Then she'd do it. She'd do it for her.
"You will be a beautiful bride," Errol said, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her closer, and with Adela in the room, Sheila felt defenceless, like she couldn't even push him away, like she couldn't speak her mind.
"Let's just get it over with," she muttered.
Errol kissed the top of her head. She wanted to retch. "Enjoy this short engagement season. You're my fiance now. Isn't that exciting?"
Adela was bouncing around the room, repeating 'flower girl, flower girl,' and Sheila forced herself to focus on that instead of Errol's invasive touch. She even forced a smile.
"Yeah." If they were married, and something happened to Errol, she would at least inherit his money. Yeah, that was exciting. "Let's go get those dresses."
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, past forced pregnancy, past noncon, child whumpee, minor whump, lady whump, lady whumpee, emotional whump, manipulation, conditioned whumpee, domestic whump, child groomed to be a whumper
It had been ten years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about nine years of her girl growing and maturing, and growing colder and colder towards her.
That day, Sheila was in the kitchen when the front door opened. She left the dishes and rushed to her daughter, desperate to get her away from Errol. Adela's hands were covered in what looked like dried blood that'd been attempted to be washed off.
"Sweetie!" Sheila said, tears already forming in her eyes. This wasn't her baby. This couldn't be her baby. Her baby wasn't a murderous... thing.
"Hi, Mommy," she said unenthusiastically. "Daddy and I are gonna go upstairs to talk."
"Don't you want to come chat with me in the kitchen? I'm in the middle of something, but I'd love to hear how your day went."
Adela regarded her with a distant look. "My day was okay." Then, noticeably more passionately, "Daddy, can we go now?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Go on ahead, I'll just talk to Mommy a little."
"Okay!" Adela ran upstairs, and Sheila was left standing there, soapy water still running down her forearms and dripping to the floor. Alone with Errol. Because it was either Errol, or Errol and Adela. She couldn't get her daughter alone anymore. She couldn't talk to her. She couldn't save her.
"Adela has talent," Errol began, and Sheila immediately held up a hand for him to stop.
"Don't. Just don't. I don't care for your twisted worldview. Why is my child covered in blood? Is it hers? Or somebody else's?"
"You know I would've taken care of her if it was hers."
"So you're making her participate in bloody activities. Constantly. Still. Despite me telling you to stop."
"Do you want to have this conversation for the hundredth time? Do you want us to go back to the days where you had to be chained up because you acted so crazy?"
"It is not acting crazy that I don't want my daughter to torture others," she hissed. "What are you telling her during those times? When you have her alone? What are you telling her about me? Why is she acting so hostile when I try to talk to her? We haven't had a proper chat in weeks. She just gives me evasive answers and runs to her room. Did you put something in her room that's that interesting?"
"Maybe you two are too similar," Errol mused. "Maybe your personalities are clashing."
"Or you're purposely making it so that she doesn't like me. I'm her mother. I love her. You can't take her away from me."
"It's her decision who she chooses to spend time with."
Sheila pursed her lips. Errol was right. Sheile had no right to force her presence on Adela, even if she was her daughter, even if Errol was dangerous, even if. Even if. Even if.
She didn't like Errol being right.
"I have a right to try to ensure her safety, as her mother," she said in the end. "And you," she went on, poking him in the chest, "are not safe."
Errol grinned. "Oh, Sheila. That fiery passion in you. That's what I fell in love with. That's what I wanted our daughter to inherit. And she did."
She wanted to punch him. "You finish the dishes. I'm going upstairs and talking to Adela."
"Adela wants to—"
"You know what? I don't care what Adela wants right now. She's an impressionable child, and I won't have her be taken advantage of. I'm going and talking to her."
Without waiting for a response, Sheila stomped off, up the stairs, into Adela's room. Adela was sitting on the bed and looked up with a bright smile, that immediately faltered when she saw who it was that entered. "Oh," she said, not bothering to hide her disappointment. "Mommy. Where's Daddy?"
"Daddy is finishing the dishes for me. Isn't he so nice?" Sarcasm was dripping from her words, and Adela pursed her lips just the same way as Sheila had done minutes ago.
"You always try to talk badly about Daddy, when he really is nice."
Sheila turned around and locked the door.
"What are you doing?" Adela asked.
"We're going to chat. And I don't want any interruptions."
Adela looked... scared. Scared of her? Had she ever given her a reason to be scared? She certainly didn't think so. She thought she even hid her outbursts directed towards Errol well enough so that Adela never had to see them. But maybe she'd heard. Or maybe Errol told her something. She didn't know. She didn't want her child to be scared of her.
Sheila walked over and sat on the bed. Adela scooched an inch further. "Adela, sweetie, what are you and Daddy doing when you two are alone? Or when you're with his friends?"
"I won't tell," she said, determined. "That is between me and Daddy. He always tells me that."
"You... Well, let's just confirm one thing, for a start. You're not being hurt, are you? Has anyone ever hurt you? Or made you uncomfortable?"
"Never! Daddy and his friends are always super nice to me. They even bring me sweets that I like!"
"Okay. That's good, at least. Now that that's out of the way—"
"I won't tell. You'd just get mad and I'd have to chain you up again."
Again.
Sheila thought back to the times Adela had chained her to radiators. Sometimes leaving her for half a day. Without food, without water. She doubted Adela spared her a second thought during those intervals. She was off having fun with Daddy.
"Adela, you need to tell me. Right now. I'm done beating around the bush, I'm done being polite about it. This is serious. Your hands are covered in dried blood. What have you done? What has Daddy made you do?"
Adela looked away. She hid her hands behind her back, as if that'd do anything by now. "I won't tell."
"Either tell me or I'm calling the police and they'll interrogate you properly!" Sheila snapped at her, and she immediately wanted to take it back. Not the words, but the tone. She had never yelled at Adela before.
"Call them!" Adela yelled back. She had never yelled at her before either. She'd thrown fits, sure, but she'd never directly yelled at Sheila.
Sheila buried her face in her hands. What was she doing? She was a bad mother. Maybe staying behind and trying to protect Adela was a foolish choice. Errol's voice rang in her ears: this child will grow up to have only known me. Maybe there was never anything Sheila could've done.
"Mommy?" came Adela's soft voice.
A sob escaped her lips. She was a bad mother. A worthless mother. She was nothing but an incubator for a baby she wouldn't get a say in raising. She was nothing.
"Mommy..." Adela scooched closer this time. "Are you crying? Crying is for... for weak people. I never... I never cry."
Sheila slowly lowered her hands to look at her. Adela seemed uncertain. She'd been made to hurt others, Sheila was sure of that, but maybe hurting her own mother felt different. She wished Adela would feel bad for everyone she might've hurt. Or that Errol might've hurt. This was such an impossible situation.
"People cry when they're hurt. Or scared," she said quietly. "And right now, I'm both hurt and scared. I'm hurt that you're pushing me away, and I'm scared that... that Daddy wants to take you away from me entirely."
Adela shook her head. "He says it's good you're here."
"So why have you been so cold to me recently?"
"Because it seemed like you wanted to take me away from Daddy! And I love Daddy!"
Adela wasn't wrong there. If she could, she would've grabbed Adela and run for the hills. But she couldn't.
"Daddy is not a good person, Adela."
"Yes he is! He loves me! He teaches me things! He brings me to martial art practice!"
"Daddy hurts people, doesn't he? And he makes you hurt people too."
Adela fell silent again. Errol may have instilled in her a strong will to keep quiet about the sorts of things they engaged in, but it wasn't that difficult to read between the lines of a nine-year-old.
"Hurting people is bad, Adela. Unless you're in a situation in which you have to protect yourself, hurting others is bad."
Adela was quiet for a minute or so. Her lip quivered. Sheila could tell she was trying hard not to cry.
"Sweetie..."
That broke the dam. Adela broke down sobbing. Sheila immediately embraced her, pulling her close. It had been so long since she could hold Adela like this. She couldn't help but think back to when Adela was just a little baby, and she'd held and cradled her.
"I love Daddy! And I love what we do together! But it hurts you! And that hurts me!" she wept. Sheila kept caressing her hair.
"You need to tell me everything, okay? Daddy tells you more than he ever does me. If we went to the police together—"
Adela pushed herself away and stood up. "No! This is why I don't talk to you as much anymore!" She reached up and grabbed fistfuls of her hair. "Daddy tells me bad things about Mommy, and Mommy wants me to tell on Daddy! I can't! I can't do this!"
"Adela—"
"I don't love you when you say things like this!" she cried, and Sheila felt her heart shatter into a million pieces.
"You don't...?"
Adela shook her head vigorously. "Why can't you and Daddy just get along?"
"Because Daddy is not a good person!"
"I'm leaving!" Adela ran to the door, but Sheila was quicker. She jumped up from the bed and ran to the door as well, keeping her daughter from unlocking it and leaving. "Let me go!"
"Adela, sweetie, listen to me—"
"Daddy!" she screamed. "Mommy won't let me leave the room! Daddy, help!"
Sheila's blood ran cold. She didn't know what Errol would do to her if he heard that. So she stepped back, and Adela fumbled with the key to get the door open, then ran outside. Sheila collapsed to her knees on the floor.
Her baby girl. Her sweet, innocent baby girl. She was being taken from her day after day, and every time she thought the distance between them closed an inch, it opened up a mile just seconds later.
Errol barged into the room and found her on the floor. He lectured her about something, something something false imprisonment, whatever. Sheila didn't care. He didn't hit her, he didn't even touch her. So that was a step up. He probably wasn't that mad.
"Leave her room," he said towards the end.
"Yeah," she said dejectedly.
"Now. We want to talk in here."
Sheila dragged herself to her feet. Just then, she saw that Adela was standing not far from the door, listening to the entire exchange. And she didn't say one word in her defence.
I don't love you when you say things like this!
She walked past Errol and Adela, out of the room. She heard the door close and lock behind her. She stumbled back to her bedroom and lay on the bed, thoughts swirling in her head. She was a failure.
curious, will we ever get to see Sheila and Errol pre-Adela?
Vodka-orange and Cigarettes
masterlist
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, grooming, lady whump, lady whumpee, child whumpee, minor whump, nothing explicit happens to her but it is very uncomfortable, substance use whump (alcohol)
"You're very mature for your age," the stranger at the bar said, and Sheila stifled a giggle. Well, she was. She was mature for a sixteen-year-old. That was why no one asked for her ID before handing out drinks to her. Of course, the stranger didn't know she was only sixteen — she'd lied and said she was nineteen.
"Well, I do hang around a lot of older people," she said with a smile. "What did you say your name was?"
"Errol," he said, returning the smile. "What brought you to the bar today? It's a Wednesday night."
"Oh, you know..." Sheila traced the rim of her shot glass with her finger. "I can let loose every now and then, even on a weekday. College classes are flexible."
"Mhm," he hummed, and for some reason, Sheila got the impression her lie wasn't working on him as well as it did on the bartender, so she felt the need to make it more specific, more believable.
"I study engineering at the local college," she said. "I'm a computer engineer."
"What classes are you taking this semester?"
Fuck.
"Oh, you know... The boring stuff. IT, uh, programming..."
"The music is pretty loud here, isn't it?"
"Yes," she agreed instantly, hoping she would be saved from admitting she wasn't in fact a college student.
"Do you want to go outside? I want to grab a smoke."
"Sure!"
And so she followed the nice and kind of hot stranger out of the bar into a back alley. She didn't feel threatened — she knew basic self-defence, and honestly, she was just happy she was being taken seriously despite her age.
"So, how old are you really?" Errol asked when they were outside, with a smile that told her she didn't need to keep up the college lie. He even held out the pack of cigarettes to her, like a peace offering. Like he didn't care she was underage. Like she was worth it.
"I'm nineteen, I told you," she said stubbornly, taking a cigarette as if to prove her point. "Why would you offer me a cigarette otherwise?"
"Age restriction on things like cigs and alcohol doesn't do much," Errol said with a shrug. When Sheila placed the cigarette in her mouth, he lit it for her. "Smart people, charming people, will find their way around them. You've been throwing back vodka-oranges for a while before I approached you. Nobody cares."
Well... Maybe it was safe to tell. Just to this one guy. "I'm sixteen," she muttered, blowing out cigarette smoke. "But that doesn't mean I'm a kid, okay? I am mature. I mean, have you seen these?" She pushed her chest forward, and Errol laughed. She smiled to herself. She could make older men laugh. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Thirty-nine."
Woah. And he was dressed nice, too. She glanced at his hands — no wedding ring. Even if he had one, Sheila knew she was a better catch than most women. "What brings you to the bar on a Wednesday?"
"Well, you know, I study computer engineering, and college is flexible—" Sheila punched him in the arm. Not that hard, but Errol pretended to be seriously hurt. "So it's a one-way street?"
"It most definitely is. By the way, I will be studying that. Computer engineering. I was telling the truth, just a couple years early."
"Of course. Well, to tell you the truth, my work is flexible. I don't have anything planned for tomorrow, so I thought I'd drop by, see if anyone interesting was around."
Sheila was interesting. Her heart fluttered. "And you found the one."
"I found a lying kid."
She hit him again, stronger this time. "I told you, I'm not a kid!"
Errol rubbed the spot where her fist had connected with his arm, giving her an apologetic smile. "Of course, of course."
"What kind of flexible work do you do, Mr. Fancy?"
Errol dropped his cigarette and stepped on it to put it out. "I can tell you all about it at my place, if you're interested."
Sheila laughed. When Errol didn't, she realised he was serious. "What, you think I'm gonna go to a stranger's house in the middle of the night?"
"What, your parents wouldn't approve?" he teased, and this time, when Sheila went to hit him, he grabbed her by the wrist. He was strong.
"My parents don't have anything to do with this," she mumbled, suddenly a little flustered. "I'm just not an idiot."
"I know you're not, Sheila," he stepped closer, still holding her by the wrist. "I trust your judgment. Do you deem me safe enough to visit?"
Maybe it was the closeness, or the alcohol in her system, but she felt a little more daring than a moment ago. She looked up into his eyes. "Let go of me, then we can talk."
"I'm barely holding you," he murmured. "Can you not just pull your hand away?"
She tried. She couldn't.
"It must be the alcohol," she said. Then, without missing a beat, she raised her leg and kneed him in the crotch.
Errol did not expect that. He let go and doubled over. Sheila stood there triumphantly.
"Would a kid do that?" she asked, and a giggle escaped her lips. Errol groaned and straightened up again, giving her a strained smile.
"I take that as a 'yes' to my invitation."
"We'll see if your car's as fancy as your clothes, and then I'll decide."
"A gold digger in the making, are you?"
"I just know what's worth my time."
"Well, I'll lead the way, then. But if you throw up in the backseat—"
"I'm riding shotgun." Sheila threw her own cigarette away and stomped on it. "And I want another cigarette."
You can tell a lot about a person by entering their mind palace and encountering their greatest fears and darkest hopes in a labyrinth reflective of their subconscious thoughts.
i didn't want to write anything from povs like this, i wanted to exclusively tell the story from sheila's pov so the reader never really gets to know what is happening... but i can't resist. so here's a peak behind the curtains
masterlist
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, child whumpee, minor whump, child whumper, lady whump, lady whumpee, lady whumper, sadistic whumper, restraints, gagged, dehumanisation, gore, eye gore, knives, stabbing, gutting, dismemberment, child groomed to become a whumper
Jack woke up in a daze. He didn't know where he was, and when he tried to move, he found he couldn't. The dim lighting in the— wherever he was illuminated two figures before him. He wanted to call out to them for help, but his mouth had been taped shut.
Panic was starting to set in.
"He's awake, Daddy!" the... child? said. Was this a father-daughter duo?
"I can see that, sweetheart. Thank you."
Whatever was going on was not right. Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and Jack didn't know why, or how this had happened, and tears quickly started welling in his eyes.
"Can I remove the tape? I like talking to them," the girl who must not have been older than 10 said. Jack nodded eagerly; maybe he could talk his way out of whatever hostage situation he'd found himself in.
"Go ahead," he said, and the girl skipped and hopped over to the chair, reached up, and tore the tape off his mouth in one swell swoop. It stung, and Jack couldn't stifle a pained groan.
"Don't start with the noises yet," the girl said in a chastising tone. "It's not time yet. Men are supposed to be strong. Only weak people—"
"Help me," Jack cut in, desperate. "Please. Tell your daddy to release me. Please, little girl."
There was something wrong with the girl. She didn't look at all innocent, and her half-a-monologue was very out of place as well, but she was Jack's only chance. There was no way he could convince her father to let him go, if he'd already gone through the trouble of kidnapping a person.
"My name is Adela," she said, ignoring the pleas. Yet again, she sounded chastising, like he was supposed to know that.
"Adela, please, I don't know what's going on, I am very scared—"
Adela giggled and stepped back. Jack tugged against the ropes holding him tied to the chair, to no avail. "I'll tell you what's going on!"
It was so eerie, the way her father did basically nothing but supervise. Supervise as his young daughter talked to a captive in a basement. He could only assume it was a basement.
"Daddy kidnapped you because you were silly and went on a midnight walk alone!"
Her tone was cheery, her demeanour was somehow both child-like and beyond her age, and all Jack wanted to do was pinch himself to wake up from this nightmare. "That's it?" he asked, tears streaming down his face now. "That's my crime? That I took a walk?"
"You're so pathetic," she said, and he could tell she got the vocabulary from her father. "Why are you crying? I haven't even done anything yet."
"And you won't, right? You won't do anything? You and Daddy just wanted to scare me a little, right?"
Adela laughed. "Daddy would never run a pointless errand like that! And where is the fun in just catching something and releasing it immediately? We're not fishers!"
The dehumanisation in her language didn't go unnoticed, and it just set Jack more and more on edge. Something in his mind was telling him this wasn't the girl's first time in this basement with someone captive.
"Listen to me, Adela," he pleaded, and she stopped laughing, listening intently. "What you're doing right now is very, very bad. It's a crime, and it can get you locked up in a very bad place."
"Nope!" she said in a sing-song voice. "I'm too young to be held criminally responsible!"
How did she know those words?
"It can get Daddy locked up, since he's your father," he tried again, from another angle.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked, rocking back and forth on her heels and toes, hands clasped behind her back. The very picture of child-like innocence, in cirtumstances that were anything but.
"Adela," her father cut in, apparently knowing what she was about to say.
Adela turned back towards her father. "What? Does it matter if he knows? He's not leaving this basement in one piece."
Jack's blood froze in his veins. She said it so casually.
"I suppose that's true," he relented. "Fine, sweetie. Go ahead."
"Yay!" Adela turned back to him and walked over so she could whisper in his ear. He didn't know why that was necessary, since the only other person in the room already knew what she was going to say. "Daddy knows all the police in town. He's good friends with them. People have tried to get him in trouble before, but he knows what to say and who to call. You will never get anywhere."
Then, she skipped back to the centre of the room, smiling sweetly at him. Jack was stunned.
"S-So there's— there's nothing I can do?" he stammered out. "I'm going to die?"
"Yep! But look on the bright side," she said, holding up a finger, "you'll be good practice for me!"
"I have a wife! And two kids!" Jack sobbed. "My youngest is about as old as you are, Adela. What would you do if someone ripped your daddy away from you and killed him in a basement?"
"Nobody would do that to Daddy, because he is strong, and he knows all the right people, and he's careful!"
"Don't you have a smidgen of empathy?"
The smile disappeared from Adela's face. It was like she suddenly ceased to be a little girl, assuming the personality and expression of something ancient and terrifying, something Jack never wanted to see in a dark basement.
"I don't have empathy for low-lives like you," she said, deadpan. "You're nothing but a sack of meat for me to butcher. You're garbage, picked up from the street to make it cleaner. Your family won't miss you. Nobody will."
It sent shivers down Jack's spine. This girl was no ordinary girl, she was a monster. Maybe trying to convince the dad would be a better move after all? But as he raised his head to look at the dad, he found him smiling at his girl with pride.
No. It was definitely him who had trained her.
"Adela—"
"Let's start!" she said, cheeky grin returning to her face. She hopped over to a table Jack hadn't noticed in the dark, picking up an instrument he couldn't see in the dim lighting. It was only when she walked back to the centre of the room, under the one working light bulb, that he could see it was a butcher's knife. Was she... serious about the butcher comment? "Daddy says that even though my attempts in the past failed, because I wasn't strong enough, I should continue trying and seeing if I can finally sever limbs!"
"Adela, listen to me—"
"What do you want cut off first? Hands or feet?"
Jack felt like he was sweating blood. The light reflected off the blade and Jack could see tiny spots of what must've been dried blood on there. It looked sharp. And though Adela's tiny arms were not particularly muscular, he had no doubt in his mind that she could do a lot of damage with a butcher's knife.
"If you don't choose, I'll choose," she said, with the smile of a cat who got the cream.
"Do you want to start with that?" her father cut in, and Jack held his breath. What other thing was there to start with that wasn't even worse than this? "Remember last time? Chopping them up is usually the last thing we do. Don't you want to try out some other things first?"
"But I want to see if I've become stronger!" Adela whined, like... well, like a child.
"Patience is a virtue."
Adela lowered the butcher's knife. "Fine," she said, pouting.
"What are you going to do?" Jack asked, petrified.
"I guess I can start by gouging your eyes out," she said, like it was a chore.
"You what?"
Adela went back to the table and put the knife down. She didn't pick up anything else. Was she going to— to do it by hand? She was going to gouge his eyes out?
"Adela! Adela, please, I don't know what your daddy told you, but this is wrong, this is—"
"Open wide! Your eyes, I mean. I know doctors usually say that about your mouth." She approached him, and Jack immediately squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could.
"Adela, no!"
The girl laughed again. "They always do this, Daddy, don't they? I wonder if it's because I'm small. Whenever you give orders, they seem to follow them a lot better."
"You'll get there," her father said encouragingly.
Adela pried one of his eyes open, then took her thumb and dug into the inner corner of his eye, and he screamed, and there was blood, and suddenly he couldn't see out of his left eye anymore. The pain was unbearable, and Jack thought he might pass out from just imagining what the damage must've looked like.
"That's one down," he heard her say over the sound of his laboured breathing. "Daddy says there are bad people out there. People who look at little girls like me with bad intentions. You will never look at anything ever again."
She pried his other eye open and repeated the process, leaving Jack fully blind and reeling from pain. His tears were mixing with the blood.
"Adela... Adela, please..." he said, but at this point, he knew it was futile. She was cruel. A monster, created and engineered to be as demonic as humanly possible, likely from a young age. "Please, stop..."
"If I'm not allowed to chop you up yet, I want to feel you," she said, and though he couldn't see her anymore, he heard her walk over to the table. "Daddy likes this part best, he told me. So I like it too. I mean, not like... I don't just like it because Daddy does. I like it myself. From myself. By myself."
"Please, no..."
"I will cut across your tummy so your guts spill out," she said with a girlish giggle. Jack thought back to his wife. To his kids. They would never see him again. And though Adela said they wouldn't miss him, he knew they would. And they would keep wondering. Would his wife think he'd left of his own volition? "Ready? Set, go!"
Sharp pain exploded in his stomach. He had been stabbed. And then the girl started dragging the knife across, and Jack screamed, and screamed, and screamed until there was no air left in his lungs.
Then she started... fondling his insides. There was no other way to describe it. The sounds were absolutely horrifying, paired with that persistent giggle, and Jack was suddenly glad he didn't have eyes to see this with anymore.
"So warm," Adela commented. "It would be nice to crawl inside another human on a winter night. Have you ever thought about that?"
There was nothing but pained moans and groans coming from Jack anymore. He didn't understand how he hadn't passed out yet.
"Daddy, he stopped talking. Does that mean I can try to chop him up now?"
A sigh. "I suppose so."
"Yay!"
The small, curious hands retreated, and Jack was left there in the dark, with his guts spilling out onto his crotch and the chair underneath.
"I'll be good at this one day," Adela's voice came from close up, and Jack could only assume she had the butcher's knife in hand. "Like, really good. Daddy will be proud. Mommy... Mommy doesn't have to know."
So there was one sane parent at home. Good to know, Jack thought distantly.
"One, two, three!" The knife came down on his left wrist, and he screamed again. "Aw... It didn't go all the way through."
"Try again, sweetheart. That was a good blow."
"Okay!"
And that marked the beginning of Jack's last minutes spent conscious. Blow after blow to his extremities, Adela missing and having to retry, then finally severing some limbs... It was torture, plain and simple, even if she didn't intend for this part to be.
Hello and welcome everyone! This year, as it has in the past few years, we are celebrating Whumpmas (in July). With the original hosts' blessing and two new hosts/mods: @set-phasers-to-whump and @yet-how-they-creep
We are working day and night to make it happen as smoothly and professionally as it runs every year, the prompts will be announced in a day or two (before the 1st of the month, don't worry).
The rules stay the same: tag your works with #whumpmasinjuly2026 and #whumpmasinjulyday[X] and mention @whumpmasinjuly-archive so we can find and reblog your submissions.
For FAQ and more in depth rules take a look at the old account: @whumpmasinjuly
Stay tuned and help us get the word out, so everyone can find this blog!
black whumpees. black whumpees who were raised in a lab/living weapon facility/something to that effect and never had anyone teach them how to take care of their hair and always just had it roughly untangled with no regard for their pain meeting caretaker (also black) who knows how to do wonderful cornrows in whimsical patterns and softly comb their hair with more gentleness than they've ever known before. black whumpees with a creepy whumper who thinks their eyes—dark as the night, just as deep, just as starry, just as infinite—are the most beautiful thing on the world. black pet whumpee with a godawful no-good whumper who forces them to speak "proper" (= standard english or their setting's equivalent, whumper's definition of unproper being AAVE/ebonics) and who finally finds a safe space to let go and speak normally during recovery. black whumpee who got their hair forcefully cut/shaved in captivity getting to wear bright, beautiful extensions and braids to try and make up for what was lost, now that they have the freedom to. black whumpee snatched up and raised in captivity and isolated from their culture being tended to by a community who helps them reconnect with the lost time, good food making them tear up with nostalgia longing for a time they barely remember existed.
black whumpees in all shades of skin from bronze terracota to the deepest mahogany & with all kinds of hair from a curly cloud of sheep's wool to a fluffy, looser kind of curls & black whumpees in all shapes & sizes & all kinds of gender and sexuality or lack thereof & as robots and fairies and angels and vampires from all kinds of backgrounds & with all kinds of trauma. yes please.
