The whumpee, a retail worker, is closing the store alone. Late at night, the doors are locked, most of the lights are off, and the parking lot is empty. The whumpee knows that the security cameras don’t have audio, so they don’t have to worry about their boss listening in. Free to make as much noise as they please, the whumpee sings along to the radio to pass the time. After closing the register, they head to the back of the store to hide the cash drawer. Continuing to belt out song lyrics, they turn a corner and—they bump into somebody.
Startled, the whumpee drops the cash drawer and stumbles back. Coins scatter across the tiles, and they gape open-mouthed at the intruder.
“Don’t stop on my account.” The stranger flashes a toothy grin and takes a step closer. “You have such a lovely voice.”
“I, I don’t—” the whumpee stammers, their brain short circuiting as they struggle to process the situation.
“Keep singing,” they encourage, one hand resting on the waistband of their jeans where a weapon is most certainly concealed. “C’mon, don’t be shy now.”
content warnings: blood drinking, terminal illness, very brief emeto mention
—
Rolith never imagined he would step foot inside a vampire’s home for any reason other than to slaughter the fiend, yet here he is, knocking on the front door of Lord Serador’s estate with no malicious intentions to be found. He’s been tasked to perform a wellness check on the behalf of Queen Juliet, the matriarch of Willowfen, or the independent human settlement they both call home. As the town’s military leader, he receives his orders directly from her and spends a sizable portion of his time advising the crown. They’ve built up a healthy working relationship over the years, and she trusts him indubitably. She told him she was worried about Serador because he returned the Empyreal Wand (the Queen’s family heirloom, which she gave him in return for his help in solving their werewolf problem). Considering how badly the vampire initially wanted the wand, her highness saw his generosity as cause for concern.
Brows furrowing, Rolith glances down at the wand. Although Serador seems to be somewhat less of a prick than most vampiric nobility, Rolith still can’t imagine him helping them for free. There must be another reason why he returned it.
As time passes and his knock remains unanswered, Rolith begins to suspect the Queen’s worry was well-founded. Unwilling to wait any longer, he reaches for the door knob and, surprisingly, finds it unlocked. Perhaps Serador doesn’t consider the animal inhabitants of his domain to be any threat to his safety. Still, in Rolith’s experience, an unlocked front door is never a good sign. He might be young for a military leader (all of the older commanders perished in the fight to free Willowfen from vampiric rule, leaving the next generation to carry the torch alone) but he’s seen enough in his lifetime to know a bad situation when he sees one.
Without hesitation or any regard for proper manners, he slips inside. As soon as the door closes behind him, he’s consumed by darkness. All of the windows are covered, and none of the candles are lit, so he unsheathes his sword and casts Daylight upon the blade. The spell causes the metal to glow and illuminate the foyer. White brightness crawls into every nook and cranny, and he takes a look around.
He isn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
The manor is archaically well-decorated, of course, but it’s in bad shape. Nothing has been cleaned in ages: the painted portraits are peeling, the wood paneling is dusty, and the ceiling is covered in cobwebs. A shudder of unease rolls down his spine, and he heads toward the stairs, hoping to find Serador quickly so he can get out of this place.
“Hello?” he calls, marching up the creaking steps, “Serador? You here?”
He reaches the second floor and starts down the hallway toward the East Wing. All of the heavy, velvet curtains are drawn closed, but specks of light peek through moth holes. The state of Serador’s house reaffirms his suspicions about his well being. During the period of their alliance thus far, Rolith has noticed that there’s something not quite right with him. The vampire seems to have little to no regard for his health, the most prominent example being the time when he overexerted himself in battle to the extent that he was vomiting blood for hours after. At the time, Rolith tried to help, but he was brushed off. They’ve never discussed the matter. Even when he’s not visibly ill, Serador always has dark circles underneath his red eyes, and his pale skin is more gaunt than even a vampire’s complexion should be. There’s definitely something wrong with him. If only Rolith knew what the problem was.
Turning a corner, he spots an open door at the end of the hall. He heads straight for it, entering the room without preamble, anxious about what he might find.
“Mother of God,” a familiar voice groans. It’s Serador. He’s lying in his bed, his eyes slammed shut against the white glow. “Put that out.”
Rolith waves his hand to disperse the magic, and the vampire sighs in relief at the ensuing darkness. His comfort is short-lived, however, because the paladin immediately strides over to the nearest window and throws open the curtains, letting the evening sunlight in. Serador hisses. Rolith ignores him.
“Your door was unlocked,” he says, turning around to face him. Serador’s bed is ornate and massive, a large canopy frame that’s almost as tall as the ceiling. Propped up by a mountain of pillows and tucked under the covers, the vampire looks none too pleased about being seen in such a vulnerable state. His red eyes immediately hone in on the Emperyal Wand.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks brusquely. “I returned it to your Queen.”
Rolith sheaths his sword and places the wand down on the nearest surface. “But you didn’t tell her why.”
The vampire shifts. “I no longer desire it.”
Approaching his bedside, Rolith takes a moment to more thoroughly examine his appearance. Gone is the demeanor of a haughty immortal. The creature before him looks sickly, and the sheets surrounding him are covered in blood. His chin is stained red.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rolith demands. The vampire doesn’t answer, averting his eyes. He makes a face and then coughs into his elbow. His throat makes a wet, gurgling sound, and his shirt sleeve is soaked in crimson.
Alarm bells go off in the paladin’s head. The carnage isn’t from feeding. It’s not the blood of his prey. It’s his own.
“Serador.”
“What?” he gasps, breathless and clearly annoyed.
“You know what. You look like you’re dying. You need a cleric or, or something,” Rolith says, running a hand through his blonde hair and wracking his mind for a way to help. He doesn’t know much about vampire physiology. Information regarding their weaknesses is kept secret by the vampiric nobility. Before this very moment, he thought they couldn’t even get sick in the first place.
Intent on rushing out of the manor and grabbing the first healer he comes across, he moves toward the door to leave, but Serador clears his throat and makes him pause.
“A cleric won’t help,” he says.
Crossing his arms, Rolith glares at him. “So you know what’s wrong with you?”
Serador sighs deeply. He looks miserable. His cheeks are hollow, and his limbs sag with every movement as if his very bones are weighing him down. Rolith hates seeing him like this.
“I was cursed a long time ago, in a blood feud. The curse manifests as an illness of sorts, weakening me until eventually…” Rolith shrugs, “Well, I assume it’ll kill me someday. It’s been a decades now.”
The vampire’s casual tone makes it difficult for Rolith to immediately comprehend the meaning of his words, but the more he thinks about it, the more everything begins to make sense. He recalls every time he’s witnessed Serador utterly drained after battle, and the pieces of the puzzle slot together in his mind. “You’re cursed?”
Serador gives him a tired look. “Yes. I thought perhaps the wand could cure me, but I doubt it.”
Rolith raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even try?” At this, he marches over to the table and grabs the wand, determination pumping through his veins. “You’re dying. You should at least try.”
“It would destroy the wand,” Serador explains, struggling to sit upright, “and the odds of success are low. It’s more important to preserve it for future generations if there is to be any hope for an insurrection.”
Rolith looks at the wand skeptically. “I thought it was just an heirloom.”
The vampire coughs into his fist, his shoulders shaking in violent jerks. “The Queen’s father was a legendary cleric, as you know. If you and your people want to harness the power of the forbidden magics and overthrow the corrupt court, then you’ll need that wand.” He gives Rolith a pointed look. “I can’t teach you everything.”
The paladin frowns. It’s true Serador taught him illegal spells to use against the undead. The enchantments aided him in defeating an evil witch, but the vampire was burned by simply being in close-proximity when Rolith cast the spell. Serador has taken great risks in aiding them in their goal of freeing humankind… and now he would sacrifice his only chance at life for their sakes?
Rolith shakes his head. “Then there has to be another way to break the curse.”
The vampire sports a wry smile. “As much as I admire your optimism, I’ve been around for much longer than you’ve been alive. I doubt there’s a cure.”
“Well, I’ll find one,” he asserts, leveling Serador with a challenging look. He doesn’t appreciate being told what he can and cannot do by vampires, especially when he’s trying to help. He takes a step closer to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, fire burning in his blue eyes.
“You might’ve given up on your life, but I—we haven’t. Queen Juliet wishes to continue her alliance with you. Your help has been immeasurable, and I know the other paladins feel the same. You’ve saved my life multiple times. It’s only right that I return the favor.” Rolith takes a gamble and reaches for the vampire’s hand, squeezing his pale fingers in a reassuring grip. “I’ll help you break the curse. I promise.”
Serador meets his gaze with an unreadable expression. Rolith has always struggled to understand him because of their differences. He’s loathed all vampires for so long, it’s taken him a while to realize that Serador is a valuable ally and a good person. Before he can even attempt to dissect the nuances of his face, Serador breaks his silence.
“Do you ever cease to be charming?” he murmurs. It’s the first compliment the vampire has ever given him, and the words level Rolith. His breath catches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking.
“Only on my days off. Right now I’m here on the Queen’s dime.”
The vampire pulls his hand away to brush back several strands of long, white hair from his face. “Of course you are.”
Rolith smiles briefly before his face settles into a grave expression once again. Although he enjoys how far they have come since meeting each other (Serador no longer calls him ‘boy’ in a derogatory way), the pleasantness of their camaraderie is overshadowed by the revelation of a deadly curse.
“What can I do to help? You’re not going to be confined to your bed forever, right?”
“I should hope not,” the vampire huffs, smoothing down the stained sleeves of his black robes. “I should be back to normal in a couple days. It comes and goes in waves.”
“What about…” Rolith bites his lip and gestures vaguely, “When was the last time you fed?”
Serador’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “It’s been a while.”
Eager to help, an idea forming in his mind, Rolith continues, “Would that help? If you had something?”
The vampire sets his jaw. He doesn’t speak. Rolith takes that as a yes. His hand goes to his blade, and Serador makes an insulted noise.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I won’t allow it.”
The paladin unsheathes his sword and rests it in his lap. “Why not? I’m perfectly healthy, you’re on the verge of death… if I can hasten your recovery—”
“No,” Serador cuts in, his voice stronger than it has been all throughout their conversation thus far. He seems resolute in his refusal, but Rolith knows that a vampire’s morality blurs at the edges of hunger, so he takes a deep breath and presses the sharp edge of his blade against his palm. He pauses there, waiting for protest, but Serador doesn’t say anything further to stop him, so he drags the sword across his skin and slices open a thin red cut. It stings, but only a few beads of blood rise to the surface. He looks Serador in the eye. The vampire’s breathing is labored as if his fight against his baser instincts is a physical effort.
“I trust you,” Rolith reassures, even though he knows he’s already won this argument. “Just take a little bit, since you’re so worried. I’ll even get it healed later today.”
Serador raises a trembling arm and wraps his clammy fingers around his wrist in a delicate manner, gently pulling his hand closer. With his other hand, he caresses the inside of his forearm soothingly, as if calming a spooked animal. Shivers race down Rolith’s spine, but he isn’t afraid of a little pain. He’s willing to endure it for a friend.
Serador opens his mouth and slowly sinks his fangs into the cut, widening the wound a bit. An odd sensation spreads across his palm—the venom must be numbing him. The vampire seals his lips over the cut and sucks slowly, eyes closed. The whole affair feels strangely intimate, and although he knows blood is being leached from his body, Rolith can’t look away. He doesn’t tell him to stop, either. He was serious when he said he intended to find a way to break Serador’s curse. He doesn’t intend to let the vampire wither away anytime soon.
A couple minutes later, some of the color has returned to Serador’s face, and he pulls away with a wet pop. Rolith’s fingers are tingling, but otherwise he feels fine. The vampire licks the wound clean and then grasps his palm with both hands. Warmth spreads across his skin in a flash of golden light, and when Serador lets go, the cut has healed.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Rolith says, rubbing his thumb across his palm where the slice had been. Serador sits back against his pile of pillows, evening his breath. His face is placid, but underneath his calm demeanor, he looks refreshed.
“You didn’t need to offer yourself to me,” he counters with a tilt of his head.
“I wanted to.” Rolith wipes his blade clean on the sheets, earning a disgruntled huff from the owner of the bed, before sheathing his weapon.
“If I were in a better state, I would’ve never let you do something so unnecessary and, frankly, dangerous,” Serador insists, coming back to himself now. He looks embarrassed, but he really shouldn’t be, in Rolith’s opinion. “Don’t try that again.”
“Alright,” the paladin agrees. He doesn’t regret encouraging Serador to drink from him against his wishes. If it keeps Serador alive, he’ll do it, even if it makes the vampire uncomfortable. He recognizes that he overstepped a boundary, though, so he stands up from the bed and looks away. “I’m sorry.”
Serador snorts. “You’re not. But you should be.”
Rolith’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, unbidden. “I have to tell the Queen why you returned the wand, you know.”
“I suppose you do.” The vampire doesn’t sound happy about that. “While you’re at it, tell her to stop sending trespassers into my home.”
Rolith’s smile broadens into a grin. He pockets the wand, handling it with much more care than he did previously. “I might advise her to send a cleaning crew over, if anything.”
There’s a long pause, and then, “You are one of the most audacious humans I have ever met.”
Rolith laughs, daring to meet the vampire’s eyes. He looked genuinely affronted, which only amuses him more. “You clearly haven’t met enough humans, then.”
“Clearly,” Serador drawls, “Now get out of my house.”
“Gladly,” Rolith shoots back, even though he would rather stay and ensure the vampire doesn’t drop dead anytime soon. He slowly moves toward the door, hesitant. The hallway is dark. He glances over his shoulder briefly and catches one last glimpse of Serador. He’s looking down at his hand, the evening sunlight casting shadows over the bed.
Rolith steps into the darkness and leaves before he can be caught watching.
content warnings: female whump, minor character death, graphic violence, blood, and brief mentions of nausea
—
Baenviir is not unfamiliar with the Underdark. She is half-drow, after all. Her dark blue skin is a testament to her heritage. Below the surface of the sunlit world, she knows what dangers to look out for. She treads lightly, her golden eyes peeled at all times. This is not her first time in the Underdark, and she prays it will not be her last.
She cannot confidently say the same for her current traveling companions, however. Her faction has tentatively formed an alliance with another group in an attempt to strengthen their numbers. They need all the help they can get if they hope to stand a chance against the new threat brewing in the Underdark. Still, she doesn’t exactly mix well with her new associates. She’s never been the most sociable or quick to trust, especially not down here where lives can be so easily snuffed out. It’s best not to grow attached.
And yet… Gaheris.
She tried to ignore the human man at first, but putting him out of her mind proved to be extraordinarily difficult considering how loud he was. Granted, you could never be truly loud in the Underdark if you wanted to stay safe, but Gaheris’ talkative manner pushed at the boundaries of safety. Most of the members of her group ignored him, signifying the divide between the two factions, but she once made the terrible mistake of muttering a sarcastic remark in response to one of his over-the-top attempts to unite the two parties. Upon hearing her speak, he immediately directed his efforts toward her, and she’s been stuck with him ever since.
The thing is, Gaheris isn’t a bad person. In fact, he’s rather obnoxiously noble. He’s not helpless, either, with his knight-status, gleaming armor, and longsword. She has no real reason to reject his acquaintance, and yet…
It’s the Underdark. Not exactly the best place to make new friends.
Baenviir may not be unfamiliar with the region as a whole, but she is a stranger to the caves her party is currently navigating. Her and Gaheris walk side-by-side down the path, situated somewhere near the center of the group, their weapons strapped to their belts and their packs slung over their shoulders. They’ve been traveling for days, and even though she would never admit it, she’s exhausted.
Gaheris playfully nudges her shoulder. “Nothing like a pleasant stroll through some creepy caves to brighten the spirits, eh?”
Baenviir shoots him a glare, taking a step to the right to create some much needed distance between them. “Just wait until we come across a Beholder. That’ll really lighten the mood.”
The knight chuckles, amused. His green eyes glint in the dim light of the caverns. “Y’know, down here it feels more like we’re on vacation than anything. I mean, everyone we’ve met so far has been so hospitable.”
She snorts. “Yeah? Like the kobolds we ran into the other day?”
Gaheris grins. “Exactly!”
“One of them bit Valeheart’s calf like a rabid dog would,” she points out, cringing when she visualizes the nasty infection the human man is currently combating.
The knight falters slightly. “Well, we can’t all be winners.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says, well-aware of the goody-two-shoes morality hidden underneath his teasing.
“I don’t,” he admits, giving her a sideways smile, “I just like getting under your skin. I have to repay you for those drow lessons somehow!”
Baenviir hums in acknowledgement. It’s true he owes her for the kindness and attention she’s bestowed upon him. After all, she isn’t handing out drow language lessons to just anybody. He’s her only student. She doesn’t intend to make him pay her for her tutelage, however. She’s only helping him because she wants to. Besides, it gives her something to do.
She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can form words, a bloodcurdling scream echoes throughout the chamber. The sound stops her heart and sends chills rolling down her spine.
Immediately, her hands fly to her scythes, her fingers curling instinctively around the hilts as she scans her surroundings. She can’t pinpoint where the commotion is coming from at first, but, a moment later, an arrow soars over her head and lodges itself into a traveler behind her. The attackers must be charging from the front, then.
Gaheris unsheathes his sword, standing close beside her in a display of loyalty. He won’t leave her. Whatever threat comes, they’ll tackle it together.
In a matter of seconds, the previously peaceful cave descends into chaos, battle cries and magical blasts filling the air. Their travel formation immediately dissolves as enemies break through their ranks. Orcs, armed to the teeth and seemingly intent on slaughtering them all, rush forward. Baenviir grips her curled, poisoned-soaked blades and clenches her jaw, feet spread wide in a fighting stance. An enemy strikes down the party member in front of her, but before the orc can turn his attention to her, Gaheris slashes his sword across his abdomen, spilling his guts. Baenviir cuts his throat for good measure, ducking to the side to avoid being crushed when he topples to the ground.
She doesn’t spare a moment to gloat (she’s too much of a seasoned warrior to gloat). Spinning around, she lunges toward the nearest enemy, stabbing the orc in the thigh, making her howl in agony. She manages to land a punch, and the blow leaves Baenviir winded, forcing her to take a step back. Before her opponent can strike again, she slams both her blades into the orc’s chest. The metal sinks in deep, past cartilage and slipping between the bones of her ribs. Blood spills from the orc’s lips, and Baenviir rips her scythes free, her teeth bared in ferocity. The orc falls at her feet, and she moves on.
Her golden eyes narrowed in determination, her heart pounding furiously, she searches for Gaheris in the mess of carnage. As she makes her way through the crowd, cutting anyone who comes too close as she steps over the wounded and dying, worry seeps through the cracks of her mental fortress. What if he’s already been slain?
Finally, she spots him several yards away, engaged in battle with two orcs, his expression twisted into a snarl. Before she can even start in his direction, a sword slashes his side, leaving a sizable dent in his armor. From where she stands, she can see his mouth fall open in a pained yell, but she can’t hear his voice over the clamor of battle.
Her pulse spikes, and she sprints forward, leaping onto the back of the orc who attacked her friend, slicing his neck. Her scythes dig so deep, she nearly decapitates him, his hot blood gushing onto her hands. Even though he’s dying, the orc manages to grab hold of her and throw her off. She lands on the rocky ground with a thud, grunting. One of her blades slips from her hands, and as she rolls over to reach for the handle, a heavy boot connects with her side. Pain blossoms across her ribs, and she groans. Curling into herself to protect herself from further damage, Baenviir awaits the next blow.
It never comes.
She opens her eyes just in time to see Gaheris finish off the orc who attacked her, his longsword running him through. With a huff of effort and a boot planted against the orc’s protruding stomach, he wrenches his weapon free, staggering back as he does so. Baenviir snatches both her scythes and climbs to her feet, kicking the back of the orc’s knees to ensure he goes down.
Panting, she looks the knight in the eye, searching to see if he’s alright. He shrugs, gesturing to his wounded thigh. His leg armor has been penetrated, and red drips from the gash in his trousers. Baenviir’s stomach flips at the sight. He won’t be much use in a fight with an injury like that.
“Baenviir!”
The shout pulls her gaze from Gaheris’s wound to his face, which is alight with a primal fear that can only be found in the realm of death. His wide eyes are looking past her, so she spins around, and—
Another body slams into her own, knocking her back several feet. She trips over a dead body and loses her balance, her arms pinwheeling as she falls backwards. She faintly expects to land on the stone path, but instead she falls on uneven ground, her body tumbling fast down a slope that ends in darkness. Her heart drops into her stomach as she spins, completely out of control of her own movements, propelled down the steep embankment. Over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, she can hear Gaheris scream her name.
She crashes into a boulder, and pain explodes across her vision. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she’s out like a light.
—
When Baenviir wakes, she almost wishes she hadn’t. Her head aches like her skull has been split down the middle, a deep crevice in the bone that can never be mended. She’s dizzy even though she has yet to open her eyes, and she fears she’ll be sick if she dares to sneak a peek. Parting her lips, she sucks in a reedy breath. Her chest aches, even more so when her lungs expand. Her ribs must be bruised, if not fractured, from the battle and the ensuing fall. As she measures her own pulse, she takes stock, shifting ever so slightly. Her outer left forearm itches in a way she knows means she’s been cut, either on jagged rock or an enemy’s blade. Her right knee throbs as well. All in all, she’s a mess. She’s lucky to be alive.
Eventually, when she thinks she can stand to bear it, she opens her eyes. Her light of sight is black, stars sparking along the edges, and she grimaces as her stomach rolls. If she doesn’t want to throw up, she’ll have to take things slow.
Baenviir wills herself to be patient, suffering through minutes at a time, blinking repeatedly as her eyes adjust. She’s at the bottom of the embankment she was pushed down, further away from the faint light emanating from the crystals on the ceiling of the cave but not too far down to be trapped in total darkness. She can’t hear a single sound. The battle must be finished, then. She wonders who won. She assumes the orcs did, otherwise her party would’ve rescued her. Or maybe not. She would’ve assumed a missing person dead after a fight like that. Gaheris would’ve searched for her, though. He wouldn’t have left her behind.
Unless he was dead.
Dread stirs within her at the thought, and she forces herself to sit up. She feels wretched, but she knows she can’t stay down here forever. She’ll die of dehydration or be devoured by some wild creature. Crawling onto her knees, she reaches around on the stone ground for her scythes. She has no hope of survival without them. Movement hurts her right knee, the cap bruised in the fall, but she grits her teeth and powers through, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Finally, several feet higher up on the slope, her fingers brush against the familiar hilt of her weapon. She heaves a sigh of relief and grips the blade tightly, hugging it to her chest. She finds its sister soon after.
Once she’s strapped her weapons to her belt, she attempts the feat of standing. Leaning against a stalagmite for support, she hoists herself up, wavering as she struggles to remain upright. Her body is weak and trembling, but after a moment or so, she’s steady enough where she won’t immediately pass out and fall on her ass.
She takes a deep, slow breath, mentally preparing herself for the grueling climb up the slope back to the road, but an odd noise catches her off-guard. Pausing, she cocks her head to the side and listens. She hadn’t noticed it before, too distracted by her own pain and frantic search for her weapons, but a strange keening sound is coming from up ahead. It doesn’t sound like an animal. It sounds like a person.
Baenviir starts in the direction of the noise, dread and hope both finding a place in her heart. Squinting in the darkness, she can make out the shape of a body lying at the bottom of the hill. Cautiously, she approaches, unsure if the figure is friend or foe.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” a male voice hisses, and her ears perk up. Could it be?
“Gaheris?” she whispers.
The swearing stops. “Baenviir?”
She lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding and hobbles over to him. He looks like he just regained consciousness. He must’ve been knocked down the embankment as well, left for dead like she was.
He smiles at her, struggling to sit upright. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
Warmth blooms in her chest. She’s relieved that he didn’t abandon her and that he’s still kicking—for now, at least.
“You hurt?” she asks.
He leans against a boulder, groaning. “Always cutting to the chase.”
“You still have your weapon?”
He shrugs, but the motion seems to cause some discomfort, judging by his grimace. “Probably around here somewhere.”
Baenviir hums and crouches down beside him. His armor is dented in several spots, and his face is a mess of bruises, but her eyes gloss over those minor injuries. What really bothers her in the cut in his thigh, a deep gash that’s still oozing blood.
“We gotta deal with this.” She reaches for his armor, unlatching the lower half and discarding the metal pieces before moving on to rip apart the seams of his pants, prying the fabric away from his skin.
Gaheris grunts, squirming. “Can I at least keep my clothes on?”
Ignoring his weak attempt at a joke, she takes the scraps of fabric and ties them together, wrapping them tightly around the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t take care of this. Either that or die of infection.”
“What about you?” he asks, looking her over. “You hurt anywhere?”
“Nothing that’ll kill me,” she says, tying a knot that makes the knight wince. “But climbing back up that hill will be a challenge.”
“You’re telling me,” he grumbles, glaring up at the cave ceiling high above them. “Can’t wait to get out of this miserable place.”
Baenviir nods silently, sitting back on her heels. They need water, food, and medicine. Their packs were likely ransacked by whoever won the battle, but there might be something left on the road. Maybe they’ll find enough supplies to get them to the next settlement. If they’re lucky, they won’t die from their injuries.
“We shouldn’t wait any longer. We’ll only grow weaker by the minute.”
Gaheris frowns deeply at the thought of scaling the embankment. She can understand the sentiment.
“C’mon. Let me help you up.” She extends her hand, but he waves her off.
“Don’t think I can stand,” he says, shifting to his hands and knees, “I’m gonna have to crawl.”
She purses her lips, wanting to argue. There’s no point, though. She can’t support his weight as well as her own.
“Go slow,” she orders, “and keep a lookout for your sword.”
He grunts in assent, and she turns around, shuffling toward the hill.
As soon as she starts, she realizes she’s better off on all fours, her hands digging into the rock as she pushes herself up one step at a time. Her wounded knee sparks in protest, and her ribs creak with each inhale, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to continue. She has to do this if she wants to live. Every couple minutes, she glances over her shoulder at Gaheris to make sure he’s alright. If he slips and tumbles back down the hill, she doesn’t know what she’d do. He’s several feet below her, his limbs shaking from effort, and whenever she asks how he’s doing, he simply nods, too busy panting to speak properly. Will they have the energy to go on once they’ve reached the top? Or will they simply collapse?
Climbing the embankment takes significantly longer than it did for her to roll down it. By the time her fingers touch the dirt road, she’s soaked in sweat and suffering from a pounding headache. All of her muscles ache from exertion (likely a combination of the battle, her injuries, and the climb), and she flops over onto her back, closing her eyes.
“Gaheris?” she asks, too tired to lean over the edge and see how far he’s come along. “You almost done?”
She doesn’t get a response, and as the minutes tick by, her concern grows. She begins to consider helping him up the rest of the way, but before she can will herself to move, the sound of heavy breathing indicates his arrival. With a heave, he rolls over next to her, his face pale and drawn.
“Are you gonna faint?”
He makes an expression that seems to indicate he might, but after gulping down air like a dying man, a bit more color returns to his cheeks.
“I…” he says, patting his sheath, “I found my sword.”
True enough, the weapon has been returned to its rightful place. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” He wipes his brow, closing his eyes. “We should probably look around for leftover supplies.”
Baenviir turns her head and scans the road. She sees nothing but orc and human bodies. “We have time. Let’s just rest a minute.”
“For once, you have a good idea!” he exclaims, breathless, and despite herself, she laughs. Shifting to get into a more comfortable position on the ground, she allows her eyes to slip shut once again, her hands resting on the hilts of her blades. This won’t be their last time in the Underdark, not if she can help it.
“What did you say to me?” the whumper asks in a dangerously calm tone.
“Fuck off,” the whumpee hisses, teeth bared.
“No, not that.” The whumper grabs their captive’s chin and tilts their head back. “Just a moment earlier. I believe you said something along the lines of ‘you’ll never fucking own me, you piece of shit.”
The whumpee doesn’t bother with a reply, simply continuing to glare at their captor.
“Now, I can tolerate your rather excessive use of profanity,” the whumper begins, squeezing their captive’s jaw with enough force to bruise, “but I won’t condone lies.”
The whumpee snorts. “It’s not a lie. You don’t own me.”
The whumper’s eyes narrow. They’re silent for a long moment, and then they shove their thumb into the whumpee’s mouth, prying their teeth apart.
“Open up,” they demand sharply, and although the whumpee resists, biting at their fingers, the whumper manages to create enough of an opening to shove something past their lips.
The chemical taste explodes across the whumpee’s tongue, and they grunt in disgust. It takes them a second to process, but their eyes widen when they realize what’s happened.
There’s a bar of soap in their mouth.
The whumpee curses, but their words are muffled by the rectangular object filling their mouth. Nose crinkling, they grimace, trying to push the bar out with their tongue. The whumper clucks in disapproval, shoving the soap in deeper, all the way until it can’t go back any further.
Satisfied, the whumper steps back to admire their work. “Good. Keep that in there. Starting now, you’re going to tell me the truth. If you lie, I’ll have to wash out your filthy mouth.”
The whumpee squirms, gagging on the overwhelmingly repugnant taste. Their teeth dig into the waxy soap, and their gums sting. Tears spring to their eyes from both the discomfort and humiliation.
With a content smile, the whumper runs a gentle hand through their hair. “You see?” They caress the whumpee’s cheek, wiping away stray tears. “I do own you.”
“No, no—let go of me!” the whumpee screams, thrashing desperately. Their wrists are cinched together with zip ties, the plastic digging into the soft skin of their forearms, but their legs are free, so they kick out with all their might.
“Cut it out,” the whumper grunts, holding the burlap sack open with one hand—their other hand is curled around the whumpee’s upper arm, trying to maneuver them into the bag. The whumpee digs their heels into the dirt, resisting like their life depends on it—and it does. Just a few paces away, the river rushes fast, deep and deadly. The whumper has finally decided to get rid of them once and for all.
“I said let go!” the whumpee shouts as loud as they can, hoping someone will hear their frantic cries and save them from their doom.
With a growl of frustration, the whumper loops one arm around their waist and picks them right up off the ground.
“Put me down!” the whumpee yells, flailing wildly, but it’s too late. In a show of strength, the whumper dips them backward, tipping them over so they fall headfirst into the bag. The top of their skull bangs against the rocky embankment, and they’re momentarily stunned. Before they can gather their bearings, the whumper ties the other end of the sack shut. The world goes black.
Panic overwhelms the whumpee’s senses. They struggle as hard as they can, but they can’t get the bag open. The whumper hoists them over their shoulder and starts to walk.
“Please, no, no, you don’t have to do this!” the whumpee shrieks. “Please!”
The roar of the river grows louder. The whumpee is choking on their own breaths, sobbing. “Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill—!”
The whumpee’s sentence is cut off with a splash as they’re tossed into the river. The sack is almost instantly flooded, and they tumble in current, drowning in the cold, dark water.
Elle has a history of trouble with boats. Ever since she was a little girl living in Queensland, she’s gotten terribly seasick. She used to think she’d get used to it eventually, living on the coast and all, but she’s never gotten her sea legs. As a result, she tries to avoid sailing at all costs, which can sometimes be difficult considering where she lives. Tasmania is an island, and her apartment in Hobart isn’t far from the ocean. She can find a boat almost everywhere she goes in the city. Avoiding ships isn’t exactly an easy feat when you’re surrounded by the sea.
Despite knowing how her body reacts to being on the water, Elle purchased two tickets for a river tour as a present for her girlfriend. When she told Jade about her plan, her girlfriend was reasonably concerned, but Elle reassured her that everything would be fine.
“River boats are slow,” she said, “and I’ll take Dramamine.”
Now they’re here, on the bottom floor of the double-decker boat, gliding down a green river surrounded by trees and beautiful mountains… but Elle can’t enjoy even a second of it because she was wrong. River boats don’t move slow, and she’s nauseous as hell. She’s broken out in a sweat, and her brown bangs are plastered to her sticky temple. She’s tugged off her denim jacket to drape it over the back of her wheelchair—the last thing she wants is to get a gross stain on her favorite article of clothing.
Jade is standing behind her, rubbing her back gently. “How are you feeling?”
Elle bites the inside of her bottom lip. “Not very good.”
“Do you want some water? I know you took motion sickness medication earlier, but I packed Pepto-Bismol too,” Jade says, already digging through her backpack.
“Some water might help,” Elle admits. She’s gripping the arms of her wheelchair with white knuckles, breathing carefully through her nose. She does not want to throw up on this ship. There’s a bucket sitting in her lap, courtesy the helpful steward, but she’d rather not have to use it. They’ve isolated themselves from the rest of the group, sheltered in the handicapped section by the engines where they can’t hear the tour guide. At least if she does vomit, they’re far enough away where they can throw the contents overboard without unwanted attention.
Jade hands her a water bottle, and Elle sips slowly. Her girlfriend leans against the railing beside her, running one hand through her hair soothingly. The wind blows a light mist over them from the waves every couple minutes, and Elle welcomes the distraction. Anything to keep her mind off her stomach.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Jade murmurs, looking past her toward the verdant hills.
Elle frowns guiltily. “I thought for sure I’d be fine. I mean, I’ve never been on a river before.”
Her girlfriend’s fingers gently scratch her scalp. “Don’t feel bad, Elle, I’m not mad at you or anything. I’m just sorry you’re sick.”
“It’s not that bad,” she insists, trying to put on a convincing smile. “Honest. Don’t worry about me, just try to enjoy the ride.”
Jade doesn’t look like she believes her, and Elle deflates a little. She should’ve known better than to try and fool her. They’ve been together for too long for her girlfriend to fall for any sort of deceit.
“We’ve still got a couple hours to go,” Jade warns, setting her pack down by her feet on the deck. “You sure you can handle it?”
Elle forces a grin, but she’s sure it comes out more like a grimace. “Is that a challenge?”
Jade rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of smile on her lips. “No, it’s definitely not. You think I wanna clean up after you?”
“You won’t have to. I can take care of myself,” she replies. Jade squeezes her shoulder.
“I know you can, baby,” she says softly, “Just hang in there.”
Elle nods, but at this point even small movements make her world spin. She’s acutely aware of the rocking of the boat and the instability underneath her. She’s put her wheelchair into park, but it still inches back and forward a bit. Closing her eyes, Elle tries to focus. She just needs to power through the pain. Her stomach churns like a washing machine on the highest possible setting, and saliva fills her mouth. Tentatively, she takes another drink of water.
“Maybe Pepto-Bismol will help,” she finally says, opening her eyes and glancing over at Jade. “It might lessen the nausea at least?”
“Sure, babe.” Jade opens her pack and rips open the pill packet without hesitation, placing the pink tablets in Elle’s open palm.
It’s at this precise moment that Elle’s gut twists in that damning way. She drops the pills and clutches her bucket with both hands, doubling over and puking. It burns even though it’s mostly water, tears springing to her eyes. Jade pats her back, and Elle has never been more grateful that she tied her hair back in a ponytail that morning. She retches for longer than she’s comfortable with, but, eventually it ends. Sitting back up, she wipes her mouth with her forearm, and Jade takes the bucket from her lap, swiftly dumping the contents over the edge.
“Feel better?” she asks.
Elle frowns. “Not really. Still dizzy, but I don’t think I’m gonna be sick again.”
Jade offers a consoling smile. “That’s good, right? Here, I packed some breath mints.”
Elle gives her the side-eye as she retrieves the items from her bag. “You knew this was gonna happen, didn’t you? Before we left?”
Jade shrugs. “It’s better to always be prepared.”
Elle pops several mints onto her tongue and tries to eradicate the nasty, acidic taste of her stomach’s contents from her mouth. “Well, I guess I’m lucky to have you here.”
Jade playfully punches her shoulder. “You just figured that out now?”
“Shut up,” she laughs, still amused despite how shitty she feels. “You’re lucky I don’t try and kiss you right now.”
Jade snorts, throwing her head back. The breeze ruffles her blonde hair, and Elle watches her with a smile. Maybe the trip hasn’t been a total bust.
my hero academia oc whump commissioned by @everythingbaku
content warnings: torture, drugging, captivity, blood, very brief emeto mention
—
Waking is slow. Ren—bouncy, energetic, excitable Ren—is normally the first one up, rising with the sun while his husband grumbles about needing more sleep. Now, though, he feels sluggish and discombobulated, his eyelids impossibly heavy. Either he’s hungover from partying hard at a rager (unlikely, getting blackout drunk isn’t really his scene), or… something’s wrong with him.
Groaning, he cracks his eyes open. His vision is blurry, and the world is cast in black and white. Wincing, he turns his cheek away from the too-bright light, squinting at his surroundings. His tongue is dry, and he feels… off. It takes a moment for him to process the sensation, but when he does, his heart spikes.
He’s been drugged.
His awareness is quickly returning, and he realizes he’s not lying in his bed. No, he’s sitting in a chair, his wrists bound to the wooden arms, his ankles tied to the legs. His neck aches from his head being tipped back for however long he was out. When he lifts his head, the room spins and makes him woozy. He slams his eyes shut and takes several deep breaths until the feeling passes. When he no longer feels faint, he opens his eyes again to assess his situation.
Ren has been kidnapped. That much is obvious. He’s wearing his civilian clothes, so maybe whoever captured him doesn’t know he’s a hero. He’s a shapeshifter, so stealth is his trademark, but his inability to alter the color of his eyes (violet) and his hair (steel blue) sometimes makes him easy to detect. He’s been wearing colored contacts and a baseball cap to compensate, but… hopefully his cover hasn’t been blown.
He looks around the small concrete room, empty except for the chair he’s tied to and the led-lights shining overhead. He’s facing the door. It’s made out of heavy metal and doesn’t have a handle. The room he’s trapped in is more of a cell, really, and definitely not some amatuer goon’s basement.
“Shit,” Ren whispers to himself. He’s really gotten himself into trouble this time.
He perks up at the sound of footsteps, much more alert now. Someone’s just outside the door—multiple people, if his hearing is right. There’s the sound of multiple bolts being unlatched, and then the door swings open.
Three large, burly men shuffle into the cell, all of them wearing masks, effectively concealing their identities. They’re decked out in protective gear, and Ren notes the weapons strapped to their belts. They must be professionals. Ren swallows.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” one of them says, “Thought you might’ve overdosed. Hard to figure out how much to give you since you’re so tiny.”
Ren doesn’t validate the remark with a reply. Yeah, they’re not wrong. He’s not even five feet tall, and it sucks, but he can’t exactly help it, can he?
The cell is quiet for a minute or so. They seem to be waiting for him to speak, but he isn’t going to risk revealing anything incriminating. Finally, the goon who entered the room first, the tallest of them all, crosses his arms, taking a step toward him.
“Nekozawa,” he says slowly, and Ren stiffens. So they do know who he is. He changed his surname to Bakugou after he got married, but he and Katsuki have kept their relationship under wraps to avoid public outcry. Nekozawa is his father’s name and the name everyone knows him by.
He blows a strand of long blue hair out of his eyes. So much for undercover.
“And who are you supposed to be?” he replies snippily, tugging on his wrists to test his restraints. No give. It doesn’t look like he’s gonna be escaping anytime soon.
“You know who we are.” The man moves closer, lifting one booted foot and planting it on the space between his legs—not on his crotch but on the seat of the chair. Close enough to be intimidating (and probably a shitty political statement), but Ren isn’t easily cowed.
Sure, he can be gentle, caring, and loving. He has a soft spot for sweets and pastel t-shirts. His husband sometimes likens him to a kitten, simultaneously teasing and flirting with him. All of these things are true, but he’s still a superhero. He’s a badass, and he’s going to make sure these guys know it.
“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs in disinterest. “I don’t think I’d want to know you, anyway. You guys apparently don’t know a thing about hospitality.”
The man’s lip curls in distaste. “You have infiltrated our organization and have been collecting intel for months. You know more than we can allow.”
“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your bosses, right? If they’re so concerned, why don’t they come talk to me themselves?” Ren suggests. He doubts he’ll get the chance to land his eyes on the higher-ups of the criminal organization he’s currently trying to take down, but he might as well give it a shot, right?
Before Ren can blink, the man’s fist collides with his face. His head is whipped to the side, and he sucks in a breath as his punched cheek throbs in pain.
“Our superiors don’t have time to deal with the likes of you,” the man hisses, kicking the chair back. Ren falls hard, knocking the base of his skull on the floor. Stars dance across his eyes, and he groans, his head pounding. Fuck.
He must lose track of time for a moment because the next time he can see properly, his chair has been picked back up and he’s facing the goons once more.
“What do you want?” Ren asks gruffly. He’s not going to give them anything, not in a million years, but it might do him some good to figure out their agenda. They’re all so… composed, despite their violence. They’re clearly used to dealing with prisoners. No tricking them into letting him go, then.
“You’re going to tell us what you know,” the man who punched him demands, “and who you work for.”
Ren rolls his eyes, and the goon steps forward, fist clenched.
“I work for myself, thank you very much,” Ren quips, “Oh, and I’m not telling you shit.”
The hit comes, but he’s expecting it this time. Still, the blow to his already bruised cheek hurts twice as much as the first punch did. Stifling a noise of pain, he drops his chin to his chest. The coppery taste of blood quickly fills his mouth, and his tongue aches. He must’ve bit it.
A hand grabs a fistful of his long hair and yanks, forcing him to look up. The goon’s expression is unreadable, hidden behind his mask. “Will you cooperate or not?”
Ren grins, flashing his blood-stained teeth. “What do you think?”
The man lets go of his hair and steps away. Ren tips his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. He’s not as tough as he likes to pretend to be. Those closest to him know he’s a brave fighter who’s willing to die to protect his loved ones, and he has a public reputation as an advocate for civil rights. Still, he isn’t exactly eager to sacrifice himself or get hurt in any way. Living is pretty sweet—so is not being tortured, but it looks like it’s a little late for that now.
There’s an audible shuffle of heavy footsteps as the goons exit his cell, and the coor creaks as it swings shut. With a sigh of relief, Ren looks up—and he’s greeted by the sight of one lone man. Not everyone left the room, it seems. It’s the guy who didn’t speak earlier. He’s standing too close to Ren, his hands clasped behind his back.
Without a second of hesitation, Ren spits at him. The bloody projectile only makes it far enough to land on his shirt, unfortunately. Ren was aiming for his face.
The man doesn’t flinch.
“Cute,” he drawls, not even glancing down to examine the stain. “But you don’t have to pretend anymore, Ren Nekozawa. It’s just you and me now.”
Ren arches an eyebrow. “What, are you supposed to be good cop or something?”
The man chuckles, a hint of smile curling his lips. “I’m not good cop.”
Unease washes over Ren like an uncomfortable sprinkle of rain, damp and chilling. He tries not to let it show. “Bad cop, then? You gonna hit me some more?”
The man looks up at the ceiling as if talking to himself. “My associate was simply the prelude. Most people break from just the threat of violence. We figured you’d be a little less forthcoming, so I tagged along. I guess you could say I’m the main course.”
Ren pulls on his bound arms reflexively, just a little, and laughs humorlessly. “You gonna tear off my fingernails?”
“Maybe,” the man muses, “but probably not. I doubt you’ll need that much coaxing. You’re not as defiant as you pretend to be.”
Insulted, Ren scowls. “You don’t know me.”
The man nods in concession and begins to circle him like a shark. Ren doesn’t follow his path of travel, simply continuing to glare straight ahead.
“It’s true we’ve never met, but I know people, and you’re easy to read.” He cards a hand through Ren’s hair and twirls a blue strand with his finger. “You’re compensating for your size and apparent vulnerability. It must be difficult, being such a weak hero.”
Ren twists his neck around, dislodging the man’s grip, and tries to bite at his fingers. His teeth clamp around empty air, but his attempt does get the man to back off. Much to his dismay, the guy doesn’t appear threatened in the slightest.
“You’re not even good at using your powers. You stick out like a sore thumb with your height, your hair, and those eyes,” he continues, standing directly in front of Ren now. He plucks a small, thin knife from his belt. “So vibrant. I could help you, y’know. Cut them out, and you’ll be much less identifiable.” He positions the point of the blade just above his pupil, so close that Ren doesn’t even dare to breathe.
“Then again, a boy with two missing eyes might be hard to miss.” With a flick of his wrist, the man cuts a shallow line right underneath his eye. Ren gasps, gritting his teeth. Blood streams down his cheek like a river of tears.
“Fuck you,” he hisses, trying to maintain his bravado. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, and he’s gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. He wishes Katsuki was here to protect him. So much for being a badass superhero.
The man hums, wiping the blood off the blade using the collar of Ren’s shirt.
“There are two ways this can go,” he begins, retracting the knife and replacing it with a much larger one. Ren eyes the jagged blade warily. “You can drop the tough-guy façade and answer every question I ask you—”
“Fat fucking chance!” Ren interjects, snarling. The man raises one unimpressed brow. His mask only covers his eyes, leaving the rest of his face on display. Ren briefly wonders if his lack of concern for his identity is supposed to be an intimidation tactic.
“Or,” the man continues, splaying one palm over Ren’s collarbones and pressing him flat against the chair’s back. With his other hand gripping the knife, he slashes down the front of Ren’s shirt, cutting open the fabric and the skin of his chest. Ren yelps. “I can make you talk.”
Panting, Ren looks down at the gash. Blood oozes from the wound, dripping down his sternum to his stomach. His insides churn at the sight.
“So, Nekozawa,” he says amicably, as if he isn’t threatening to torture him, “What will it be?”
Ren squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. The work he’s been doing for the past couple months is important. The criminal organization he’s been spying on is guilty of abhorrent crimes and needs to be brought to justice. He thinks of the victims, past, present, and future. He thinks of his fellow heroes, all of whom are undoubtedly braver than him. He thinks of Katsuki, the love of his life. Katsuki would never surrender.
Ren opens his eyes and shoots his interrogator a defiant grin. “I’m not talking. You can try and make me, but it won’t work.”
The man smiles, as if that’s the answer he wanted to hear. “We’ll see, Nekozawa. We’ll see.”
—
Four hours later, Ren cracks.
It’s the knife in his shoulder that finally does it. The man digs the blade past muscle, all the way to bone, and twists. Ren screams, tears flowing freely.
“Who do you work for, Ren?” the interrogator asks for the upteenth time, calm as ever.
“I, I told you, I work a—” Ren begins, but then the knife twists again, and he shrieks: “Ah, Deku! Deku!”
The blade stills.
“I work, I don’t, I don’t report to anybody,” Ren continues, unbearably ashamed of himself for the name drop. He held out for hours only to break now. “We sometimes work together. He’s not my boss or anything.”
“Not good enough, Nekozawa,” the man sighs, ripping the knife out of his shoulder. Ren yells, his expression contorted in anguish. Yanking the blade out hurt almost as much as the initial stab.
Groaning, he slumps in his chair. His entire body is covered in cuts, some shallow and some deep. His pale skin is coated in sticky blood, and he emptied his stomach a while ago. Drenched in sweat, exhausted and dehydrated, Ren is pushed past his limits. He never thought he would surrender even the tiniest bit of information, but here he is, giving in like a coward. Fresh tears leak from his eyes.
The man sheaths his blade and takes Ren’s chin in hand. “Does Deku know of your current operation?”
Ren exhales shakily and lies: “No.”
Deku is an incredibly powerful superhero. He went to school with Ren’s husband, Katsuki, and they were rivals for some time. Deku is too well known for undercover work and is much more suited for direct attacks. He’s taken out several outposts after Ren gave him names and locations. They’re not working together directly, but they both know of the danger said criminal organization poses.
The man’s nails dig into his cheeks. “I don’t believe you.” He digs the thumb of his free hand into a deep gash in his side, and Ren’s mouth falls open in a wordless scream, his eyes rolling back. “Who else is involved?”
Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth from his bit tongue. “M’not… telling.”
The interrogator releases his chin and wraps his broad hand around his throat, squeezing tightly. Ren’s eyes fly open, and he struggles to breathe.
“I’ve been very patient,” the man begins, “And I appreciate what you’ve told me so far, but, frankly, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. Maybe I need to be more persuasive.”
Ren shakes his head a fraction of an inch, gaping like a fish out of water. He isn’t sure how much he can endure. He needs a break before he says something stupid. Black spots dance across his vision, and his lungs burn. Time passes impossibly long, and wet, sputtering gasps escape his lips. Eventually, just when he thinks he’s gonna pass out, the man releases his neck. Ren coughs, gulping down air, his vision blinded by tears. He feels so weak and pathetic. What kind of hero allows themselves to be caught and tortured? He doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself after this. If there even is an after. He doesn’t see any chance of escape, and what if no one rescues him?
Ren clenches his fists and steadies his breathing. He can’t lose hope. Katsuki will come for him. If not Katsuki, someone else. He won’t be left here to die. He just needs to hold out and keep his mouth shut.
The man returns to his side with a syringe in hand. He cocks his head and looks down at him with a faux-sympathetic smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Here, I’ve got something that’ll help you take your mind off it—and hopefully loosen your tongue.”
“No, no,” Ren protests, squirming in his bonds. He tries to crane his neck away from the needle, but the man grabs his hair and holds him still. Ren whimpers as the drugs are injected into his system, falling limp almost instantly. Whatever the interrogator has given him works fast, and the room begins to swirl.
“Better, right?”The man pats his cheek, patronizing. “Now, about the data you collected. Mind sharing some names with me?”
Nausea washes over him in waves, and he squints against the lights. The cell is suddenly way too bright, and he moans. A fog settles over him, and he has a hard time remaining focused on his goal.
“What… what?” he mumbles.
The interrogator hums, frowning. “Might’ve given you too much there. It’s hard to determine the correct dose. I’m not used to administering to persons of such short stature.”
Ren isn’t listening, his attention shifting. He’s in so much pain. He just wants to be home with his husband, safe in bed, wrapped in his arms. What he wouldn’t give to see Katsuki’s face right now.
The room rocks, and the interrogator stumbles. At first, Ren thinks it’s the drugs screwing with his vision and playing tricks on him, but then it happens again.
“Explosions…?” the man whispers, brows furrowed in confusion.
Ren barks a laugh. Explosions! He’d recognize the sound anywhere. Katsuki is here!
He smiles at the interrogator, eyes bright. “You’re so fucked.”
d&d oc ladywhump commissioned by @pixels-and-paperweights
content warnings: female whump, mentions of animal death (horses), graphic murder, blood, memory loss
—
Morning breaks over the peaks of the mountains, and even after traveling all through the night, Fayde Rithindren and her companions still haven’t reached their destination. The mountain pass they’ve been tasked to clear is far from most towns, but the feral orcs occupying the passage are still a threat to the merchants, travelers, and hunters in the area. Fayde and several others have been tasked by the Emerald Enclave to deal with the orcs, a job that involves traveling on horseback for days, venturing past the safety of civilization into the mountainous wilderness.
Fayde enjoys missions like these, for the most part. She gets the chance to absorb the world around her, and the straightforwardness of the task grants her the control she so desperately craves. She was the one to suggest they power through the night in order to ensure they battle the orcs in the daylight as opposed to in the dark. The heightened visibility will give them an advantage in the coming fight. She’s proud of herself for her practicality, but some of the others in her group are not as pleased. Her girlfriend Seren has bags underneath her eyes, but she’s too polite to accuse Fayde of robbing her of precious sleep.
Maul, on the other hand, has no such qualms.
“By the Gods, what I wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee right now!” the human man announces loudly to the group. They packed limited provisions to keep their packs light, and coffee didn’t make it onto the list of essentials. They don’t have time right now to stop and brew a pot, anyway. Maul is just trying to entertain everyone with conversation.
“After we slay those goddamn orcs, I’m going to lie down right there in the road and sleep for an entire day,” he declares, twisting his torso around on his horse to look at Fayde, his amber eyes meeting her cerulean ones.
Seren rolls her eyes—brown orbs speckled with flecks of gold, ceaselessly enchanting—at his antics. “If you do that, we’ll have to leave you behind, and you’ll be eaten by wolves.”
Maul laughs boisterously instead of mustering up a false front of insult. Some of the other travellers look back at him inquisitively. Fayde doesn’t know any of them by name, content to stick to her small, tight-knit group of friends instead of familiarizing herself with the entirety of her local Enclave. Maul combs his hand through his short salt-and-pepper beard, a dangerously contemplative expression on his face.
“What now?” Fayde asks, even though she probably doesn’t even want to know. He grins.
“I was just thinking…” he begins, but Fayde isn’t listening. She recognizes the markers along the trail as the ones they were told to look out for. They must be close to the pass.
Fayde shares a look with Seren, and the half-elf woman nods. Fayde tugs on the reins, slowing her horse, and readies her weapon, grasping the staff of the halberd with both hands. She’s fought worse than feral orcs before, but she can’t help but remain prepared at all times. Maul teases her for being anxious, but she likes to think of herself as simply “reasonably cautious.”
The Enclave member at the head of the group lifts his arm, signaling for all of them to stop. The air is quiet except for the heavy panting of the horses in the heat and the whistling of the wind. The leader of the pack proceeds slowly, rounding the corner.
Fayde listens to the sound of hooves on packed dirt as he scouts ahead. She doesn’t expect much to come of it—the orcs aren’t likely to be standing around in the middle off the road, they’re feral after all—but she tightens her grip nonetheless. Seren shoots her a reassuring look. “We’ve faced worse before. This job will be easy,” her expression seems to communicate. Fayde nods and steadies her nerves with a deep breath.
Suddenly, a howl pierces the air, setting her nerves alight. A scream comes from around the corner, cut short too soon.
Fayde absorbs all this in the span of a second, charging forward with the flick of her wrist before she even realizes what she’s doing. Her entire group acts on instinct as well, their horses rushing around the bend, not stopping. They don’t stop, even as Fayde scans the path ahead and sees the slaughtered orcs. Over a dozen bodies, soaked in their own blood. A glowing, shrouded figure stands above one of the fallen, ringed by a pack of hellhounds. Fayde spots the scout and his horse, their corpses charred by the beasts’ flames.
Her mind works fast. The pass has already been cleared by a dangerous acolyte and their hellhounds. Whoever they are, they clearly intend to wipe out her and her companions. Fayde hardly has time for the realization to form before the monsters descend upon them. Armed riders collide with the pack in a thunderclap of violence. At the front, one mare bucks off her rider, sending the armored woman soaring into the air, but she raises her sword mid-flight, carving into a leaping beast as she lands. The mixed sounds of shouts, snarls, and clashing metal pollute the air. Fayde falls into the familiar motions of battle, her blood thumming with energy, her vision hyper-focused. She swings her halberd, and the double-edged axe at the end of her weapon swipes the side of the nearest hellhound, knocking him astray before he can pounce on the back of Maul’s mount. Fayde jumps off her own horse, knowing she can fight better on her feet than horseback, and the stallion breaks off in a sprint toward the woods. She barely spares it a sliver of a thought, stabbing the sharp point of her halberd into the hind leg of a hound that’s snapping at Seren. The fiend rounds on her with a ferocious growl, lunging at her. She sidesteps it, knocking it aside with a grunt.
A strange crackle in the air sends a chill up her spine. She locks eyes with Seren. Her girlfriend’s pupils snap wide open, terrified black spilling into her irises.
“Get down!” she screams over the roar of battle, and Fayde ducks just as one of the hounds releases a cone of flame from its gaping maw. Her auburn hair is singed by the heat, and she gasps in pain as the skin of her back is roasted hot, even through her armor. The shrieks of her ignited comrades and their burned horses ring in her ears, and she covers her head with her hands for protection, eyes shut tight as she’s blinded by the light.
When the inferno subsides, Fayde barely has a moment to rise before one of the creatures rushes at her. It successfully dodges her attack, and its claws manage to break through her armor. She hisses as talons slice her bicep, but the injury doesn’t slow her onslaught, and she strikes down the beast with a fierce cry. Her line of sight is splattered with red, crimson and fury flooding her vision.
Ruthless, she cuts into the hounds, aided by those who’ve not yet fallen. Seren and Maul find her side and stay there, the three of them taking brutal blows and dishing them out in kind. They’re seasoned warriors, but surviving an ambush of hellhounds is no easy feat. As their comrades gurgle and choke on their own blood, their throats torn out by sharp canines, tumbling to join the blackened corpses of their roasted fellows, an unfamiliar panic builds in Fayde’s chest. She’s much less confident right now than she’s comfortable with.
A hound tackles Seren to the ground, the monster snarling above her, snapping at her face, and Fayde throws herself atop the beast, raising her halberd above her head and bringing it down hard enough to stab through the creature’s skull. She rolls off, bringing the impaled, twitching body with her, and Seren crawls out from underneath.
“Fay—!” Seren yells, her voice cut off by Maul’s battle cry. Fayde spins around just as he bodily slams a hound that got too close to ambushing her from behind. His trademark jovial expression has been replaced by a more grave look, and Fayde’s heart drops to her stomach at the sight. Their comrades are dying all around them, and if something doesn’t change right now, Fayde and her friends will be next.
With a growl, she scans her surroundings, slicing at any creature that comes too close, and her eyes fall on the hooded figure standing away from the heart of the fight, their arms raised and illuminated by magic. They’re likely controlling the hounds. Maybe if she takes them out, the hellhounds will be less organized and easier to kill.
Determined, she cuts a path through the carnage. Maul covers her six without prompting. They’ve been fighting together for so long, they know each other’s moves well. As she engages with a monster that’s blocking her way, it bites her shoulder, sharp canines breaking through her armor. With a scream, she guts the hound and pries it off before its teeth can pierce too deep. Panting, she slouches over, one hand braced on her knee. Her nose is plagued by the scent of blood and smoke.
A shrill cry commands her attention, and Fayde straightens herself, spinning around to face the sound. Several feet away, Seren is wounded, blood gushing from her side, her face contorted in agony.
Fayde’s heart stops.
If you asked almost anyone, they’d tell you that Fayde Rithindren is human. “Of course she is,” they’d say, “She looks human. What else could she be?” But despite her best efforts to appear otherwise, Fayde isn’t entirely human. “Aasimar,” they’d say if they witnessed her wings and celestial powers. She’s embarrassed by her heritage, skeptical of godly beings and unwilling to associate herself with them, so she goes to great lengths to keep her identity a secret. Her girlfriend doesn’t even know who she truly is.
Seren has never screamed like that before, though, and it shocks something in Fayde’s system, something primal that responds violently to the massacre around her and the pain in her closest friends’ expressions. She’s dimly aware of the faint glow emanating from her, growing brighter and brighter until—
Her wings. She hasn’t felt them in so long, but they’re as familiar to her as the palm of her hand. They burst forth from her back, breaking apart her armor, black and skeletal and undoubtedly terrifying. Her eyes throb like she has a headache from staring directly into the sun, and she knows they’ve dissolved into pools of black. She’s unleashed her necrotic shroud. The air around her buzzes with her power, and the hellhounds in her vicinity freeze, visibly startled. She takes advantage of their fright and cuts them down, emboldened by her own celestial powers. They snap out of it quickly enough, but she’s undeterred, swinging her halberd indiscriminately. She’s lost all train of thought, her mind silenced in favor of immediate action. One hellhound opens its mouth, orange sparking behind its tongue, but she cuts off its head before it can douse her in flames. She marches ahead, straight toward the hooded figure. The acolyte stares right at her, taking a wary step backward… and then they aim their glowing hands in her direction.
Fayde’s dodge isn’t quick enough: her bitten shoulder is struck by magic. She screams as electricity laces through her wound, sending searing pain all the way down her arm. Gritting her teeth, she gathers herself before her enemy can summon another curse, dealing a fatal blow with a brutal slash of her weapon. The figure crumples with a cry, collapsing in the dirt in a bloody heap of robes.
Not stopping to revel in the glory of victory, Fayde turns and slays the remainder of the hounds, luring the beasts away from where Maul is crouched over Seren, pressing hard on her bloodied side. Distracted by the sight, Fayde takes a gash to the thigh, but she kills the creature before it can even think of finishing her first.
Limping, she makes her way over to where her friends are, surrounded by smoking corpses of people, horses, and hellhounds alike. She locks eyes with Seren, and even in her trance-like state, Fayde notices her girlfriend shiver when their gazes meet.
She lowers herself to the ground, drops her weapon, and reaches for Seren’s wound.
“Don’t,” Seren gasps, “You’re a mess, you need to stop before—!”
Ignoring her warnings, Fayde presses her healing hands on Seren’s injury. Her skin glows, the world around them glows, and everything fades to white until all Fayde can see is her own pulse behind her lids, and then—
Nothing.
—
When Fayde wakes, she wakes slowly. As she rises out of unconsciousness, she notes the stiffness and heaviness of her body. She must’ve been out for a long time. She cracks her eyes open when she can muster the strength, her lids heavy. Her surroundings are blurry and bright, making her wince. A familiar voice says her name, but she can’t quite place the source. Blinking repeatedly to clear her vision, Fayde groans and tries to lift her arm.
She can’t lift her arm.
“What…?” she mumbles, her voice rough and dry. She glances down at her thoroughly bandaged right arm and shoulder, the entire length of the appendage wrapped in gauze. When did that happen?
“Finally!” another voice shouts, one she instantly recognizes. She looks up, squinting in the sunlight, and spots Maul standing at the foot of her bed. He looks a little worse for wear: there are heavy purple bags underneath his tired eyes, his left arm is in a sling, and cuts cover his cheeks.
“Maul?” she asks, trying to sit up in bed but discovering she can’t, pain surging through her at the slightest movement. Grimacing, she continues, “What happened? Where are we?”
“You passed out after healing Seren,” Maul starts, and the name fizzes in Fayde’s mind like something she should know. “We had to get you to down a health potion right then and there to keep you from dying. We rounded up some of the horses that had run off into the woods and headed straight back to town. The healers here have been helping us out, but you’ve been unconscious for the past…” He pauses, counting on his fingers, “Been almost a week now, I think.”
Fayde tries to absorb this new information—and it is new, all of it. None of his explanations sound familiar at all. The fabric of her bed rustles somewhere to her left, and Fayde realizes there’s a half-elf woman sitting beside her. She doesn’t look visibly injured, but she’s staring at Fayde with intensity, her striking brown eyes flecked with gold. Her dark brown skin, round cheeks, and dreadlocks are all so familiar but… there’s something missing. Fayde knows this woman, but, at the same time, she’s acutely aware she’s lost something.
“How are you feeling?” she inquires, voice soft and soothing. “Do you want me to go get the healer?”
“I’m…” Fayde searches through her memories frantically, finding giant empty holes where recent events should be. “You’re… Seren. We’re together.” She manages to remember bits and pieces of their relationship, but the woman is still whittled down almost nothing in her mind.
Seren’s brows reach for her hairline, her mouth falling open in surprise. “You don’t remember me?”
Fayde shakes her head, her head throbbing at the motion. “No, I do, I do… mostly. We haven’t been dating for that long, right?”
Seren grabs her left hand from where its resting limp on the bed and squeezes tight. “Nine months.”
Fayde frowns. “Oh.” That’s not right at all. “I don’t… what day is it?”
“This could pass,” Maul cuts in, striding across the room to place one hand on Seren’s tense shoulder. “There’s a lot going on in her system right now, and she might’ve hit her head. It’ll be alright.”
Seren is trembling. Fayde feels awful. Confusion, anxiety, and guilt fight for dominance as her mind whirls. She grabs Seren’s hand when she moves to pull away, intertwining their fingers.
“I’m hurting you. I’m sorry for hurting you,” she says softly. “I’m not sorry for healing you, though, if that’s what pushed me over the edge. I remember that I care about you, so...” Fayde trails off. Judging by the distraught expression on the woman’s face, her words aren’t helping at all.
Seren sucks in a breath. “You’re Aasimar. You had… wings. I think that’s what did it. You pushed yourself too far, Fayde.”
Fayde winces, glancing between the two of them awkwardly. They both seem to be struggling how to deal with the revelation.
“Things must’ve been pretty bad if I…” she swallows, “I don’t like to show that part of myself.”
Maul scoffs. “No kidding. I’ve known you for years, and you never told me anything.”
She can’t tell if he’s actually bitter or not. She’s too sore, aching, and out of it right now to pick up on subtle social cues. “I’m sorry. I… don’t like who I am, so I never share it.”
“It’s okay,” Seren reassures. “Let’s just focus on getting you better right now.”
“Okay,” Fayde agrees, eager for the conversation to move on. Seren moves away, and this time Fayde lets her go.
“I’m going to get the healer,” she announces, exiting the room before anyone has the chance to respond. Fayde sighs, her heart thumping loud beneath bruised ribs.
“It’ll be alright,” Maul promises, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She hisses in pain, and he pulls back with a chuckle. “Sorry! That’ll heal soon. And the rest…”
She looks up and meets his amber eyes. He gives her a smile. “Well, like I said. It’ll be alright.”
Jelko Erban was accustomed to getting into fights—it was part of her job description, after all. Unofficially, of course. She was an officer of the law and therefore expected to conduct herself as responsibly as possible, but everyone knew her lycanthropy meant she was regularly assigned the more… dangerous assignments. Conflict came with the territory. Supernatural cases ended in violence more often than not, unfortunately, and she was more durable than her fellow officers, so she was frequently placed on the front lines. Normally, her status as the resident tank wasn’t a problem. She charged into the fray, tackling opponents to the ground and even taking bullets to spare her co-workers from suffering fatal wounds. She was stronger than non-lycans, and she healed faster too, so better her than them, she reasoned. She didn’t resent the other cops, the higher-ups, or the full-timers for the sacrifices she was asked to make. As a liaison officer, she was used to being called in for the tough jobs, so she didn’t really mind. Her work with the police made her kind appear less-threatening and more cooperative to non-lycans, who were typically wary of werewolves in general. Besides, she liked helping people. She wouldn’t have gotten involved in the whole arrangement in the first place if she didn’t want to make the world a safer place.
All-in-all, Jelko had a pretty good deal. Steady work, good pay, and only the expected amount of uneasiness from the other cops. She couldn’t complain.
With her skills, advanced abilities, and years of training under her belt, she rarely ran into real problems on the job, but when messes happened… well, things got ugly. She was rather tough, so she only got into trouble on the worst of days.
Today was one of those days.
Jelko was called in on another supernatural case, as per usual. Once again, she was partnered with Detective Jack Tyler, an upright man who she’d worked with on all of her recent cases. The department seemed to think they made a pretty good team—or Detective Tyler did something to warrant the annoyance of his superiors and thus kept on getting stuck with her as punishment. Even if that was the case, he never treated her with any disrespect. He wasn’t warm or friendly toward her, and she could tell he was uncomfortable with having a lycan partner, but he never verbally expressed his complaints, so she never asked for anything more than base-level professionalism from him. She had to deal with rude and even outright malicious partners in the past, so Detective Tyler was frankly an upgrade. She just hoped he wouldn’t request to be assigned a different officer in the future. She didn’t want to have to make the adjustment for the upteenth time and risk being stuck with a prejudiced asshole.
The case started out routine in the beginning. Violent gang activity with suspected supernatural beings involved. Jelko and Detective Tyler, after interrogating the suspect in custody, gathered enough evidence to be granted a warrant to search the property of the suspect’s alleged leader. The drive to the site was terse, Detective Tyler replacing the potential for conversation with smooth radio tunes, the music quiet but still loud enough to keep them both alone in their own heads.
Occasionally, she shot glances at her partner. The detective wasn’t an intimidating looking man by any means. With big ears, a triangular nose, and pale skin, he looked very British. His brows were low, just barely above his dark eyes, giving him a perpetually serious, worried countenance. His mop of thin, brown hair sat atop his head, straight and cut short. He usually wore a black leather jacket. Overall, he looked more professional than anything. Despite his lack of excessive musculature, he seemed relaxed in her presence, alone with her in his cruiser. More at ease than she was used to. Awkward, sure, but not concerned for his safety. When he looked at her out of the corner of his eye while stopped at a red light, she shot him a smile. He nodded out of obligation. Yes, their partnership was significantly more pleasant than what she was used to.
They arrived at the factory by the docks in a shadier part of town, the sun already starting to set. The plan was to search the place and question anyone they came across.
What they didn’t expect was to come across the leader of the group while he was conducting criminal business, but, as was their luck, they did. They knocked on the door, barged in when no one answered, and hurried down the dark hall until they stumbled into some sort of meeting. All of the men and women in the bright lit warehouse room looked so shocked, it was almost comical. The thugs got over their surprise quickly, however, and immediately pulled out their weapons, their grips tight on an assortment of blades and handguns. Jelko recognized several of the faces in the room—previous arrests, ex-cons, and wanted felons. They weren’t likely to come quietly.
The fight that ensued was rough, to say the least.
Immediately, both Jelko and Detective Tyler took cover behind crates of what was likely contraband, diving for shelter just as the gang members started shooting. They were outnumbered for sure, and their adversaries seemed intent on firing first and asking questions later. Detective Tyler pulled out his weapon and shot her a look. When the room quieted down to only the sounds of heavy breathing and frantic re-loading, Jelko jumped out from behind the crate and into the fray.
She charged the person closest to her, catching him in the jaw before he could ready his pistol. With her increased speed and strength, she incapacitated him before the others could react to her presence, sweeping his leg and knocking him to the concrete floor. Without hesitation, she lunged for her next target, swiping the woman’s weapon out of her hands before she could try to use it on her. As she brought her hand down on her shoulder and struck a pressure point, Jelko quickly scanned the room. Only a dozen or so armed thugs, all of them hastily shaking off their stupefaction from the surprise attack. Detective Tyler was firing his gun, shooting warning shots that sent a couple of the gangsters retreating for cover. Behind all the others stood a large, burly man with an enraged expression on his bearded face. She spotted his tail bristling behind him. A lycan, their leader, just as their intel suggested. He was the only real challenge for Jelko here.
Only after she took out a third opponent did the bullets properly come flying in her direction. She now had to operate on the defensive—despite her quick healing, a gun wound would still slow her down, and she couldn’t risk one of them scoring a lucky headshot. Ducking and dodging, she made her way to the next felon, engaging him in hand-to-knife combat, effectively directing the bullets in another direction. Apparently, these goons were smart enough not to risk killing each other in their pursuit of her. The man snarled and slashed his knife at her, but she snatched his wrist and twisted it so painfully he had to drop the blade. Grunting, he swung his other fist at her, but his blow to her stomach did little to stop her. She spun him around and locked him in a choke-hold, using him as a human shield as she forced him into unconsciousness with the pressure against his neck, his hands clawing uselessly at her jacket arm.
After she dropped him, she felt bullets whiz past her head, her elongated ears twitching at the proximity. A loud whistle pierced the air, the noise subdued by the cacophony of gun-fire, but Jelko could still hear with her advanced hearing. The gang leader had apparently concluded that she was too powerful a threat and would likely take out all of his goons if he didn’t stop her himself. He lowered his hand from his mouth, and the remainder of the thugs who were out in the open speedily joined the others in their hiding spots. Detective Tyler was still exchanging fire with the sheltered shooters, but none of the bullets came close to her now as the lycan leader of the gang approached her. He was a big man, but she had fought and beaten bigger lycans before. She readied herself in a fighting stance, briefly considering pulling out her gun but deciding against it. She wouldn’t kill him unless she had to. She was better than that.
With a shout of rage, he charged toward her, and she just barely ducked out of the way. The fight happened as if in slow motion, they were both moving so fast. Claws out, fangs bared. The man was clearly not holding back, which left her at a disadvantage. He wasn’t too proud to yank on her tail or tug her tied-back brown hair, which left her more frustrated and insulted than anything. Hissing, growling, and cursing between heavy pants, they hashed it out. Fighting lycans was completely different from fighting humans. For Jelko, it was a whole new level of challenge. Each blow hurt, dealing real damage, knocking the breath out of her and leaving her winded. It took all of her focus and concentration to maintain the upper hand, but, after a particularly well-aimed punch to the face sent her stumbling backward several steps, her odds ceased to look promising. He kicked her in the chest, knocking her to the floor, which was when she realized she was well and truly fucked. He climbed on top of her, and she slashed at his face. He howled with pain, clamping a palm over the red gashes.
“Bitch,” he hissed. Her ferocious expression matched his.
“Fuck off,” she barked, trying to scratch him again.
The next couple minutes passed in a blur. A series of punches and relentless blows. A cut across her forehead spilled blood into her eyes. She tried her best to shove him off, but his attacks sapped her strength and focus. She knew she was getting in some good hits because of his furious swearing, but, other than that, she was losing bad. He clamped his hand around her throat, warding off her swats with his other arm, and even though her eyes were closed against the rain of her own blood, spots gathered across her line of sight.
She heard Detective Tyler yell something she couldn’t decipher, and then she was out.
—
When Jelko next awoke, it felt as if only a moment had passed. Her body, heavy and bruised, ached more than she was used to, and when she cracked open her eyes, her lashes were sticky with blood. She groaned, and a face appeared in her hazy vision. Detective Tyler. He was crouched down in front of her, his expression one of pinched concern.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
“You alright?” she asked him. She could handle getting banged up, but she didn't know if he could. She cleared her throat. Her neck was sore, purple bruises more than likely discoloring the tan skin of her neck. The fight came back to her as she cataloged her wounds, but she couldn't recall the end. “What happened?”
“I shot ‘em,” Detective Tyler said, his voice tinged with a light British accent. He was rummaging through the white case with a red cross that they kept stashed in all of the patrol cars. “That bastard was gonna kill you, so I shot him in the head. The rest scattered soon after that. I dragged you outta there, and we were driving away when someone shot out my tires.”
Jelko listened attentively. He looked rattled. Neither of them had expected this when they left the precinct earlier that evening.
“They’re following us—or they were, at least. I carried you outta there to the closest safe house. I think this operation is bigger than anyone thought.”
Jelko looked around the room. A bit dusty, clearly unused, with curtained windows and a locked door. Definitely a safe house. She was lying down on a lumpy couch, her head cushioned by his leather jacket, folded into a make-shift pillow.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to meet his eyes. He could’ve left her behind and few people would’ve blamed him, her being a lycan and all. He went through so much trouble to save her.
He waved her off. “Just doing my job, Erban. My arms are right sore from dragging you around, though.”
She chuckled a little at his weak joke, hoping to ease the tension between them. He still wouldn’t look at her directly.
He produced a water bottle and a handful of drugstore brand painkillers. “Here, you’ll want this.”
She nodded and accepted the offer, sitting up with his help. She swallowed all the pills without hesitation, much to Detective Tyler’s apparent surprise.
“How much can you take? I mean, do you need more in order for it to kick in?”
She smiled, appreciative of his careful questions about her lycan physiology. “Maybe a couple more.”
He handed her the bottle, and she finished the pills with the remainder of her water. The cool liquid soothed her throat, and she sighed. Detective Tyler watched her before standing up and heading toward the sink, a towel in his hand.
“I stitched up your head. A sloppy job, but it should be fine until we can get out of here and to a hospital. I called for backup. They should be here soon.”
Jelko nodded along to this new information, reaching up and delicately thumbing her forehead. Sure enough, she could feel the lines of stitches. She winced. She normally would heal quickly enough not to need stitches, but the claws of another lycan left longer-lasting wounds.
He returned to her side with a damp towel. Without asking, he started to wash away the blood splattered across her face and neck. She arched an eyebrow at this, surprised by how readily he offered her aid and came into close proximity, but she didn’t question him. She felt weak and tired, something she wasn’t used to, so his help was welcome.
“I’m sorry for not intervening sooner,” he said quietly. “It seemed like you had a handle on it for a while. You usually do. I know we haven’t worked together long, but… you have a reputation, you know, and I’ve seen what you can do. I figured you would be alright if I focused on picking off the little guys one by one, and I only realized you needed help when it was too late…”
Detective Tyler trailed off, the white towel in his hand pink with her blood. He shrugged. “I guess I thought you could take out another werewolf on your own. Guess I was wrong.”
Jelko listened quietly. This was the most they had spoken throughout their partnership, and it was a heartfelt apology. She almost couldn’t believe her ears.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. She knew he took his job seriously and held himself accountable, but this was pushing it. “You handled yourself exceptionally well. You brought me here, didn’t you? I’m the one who lost the fight.”
The Detective finally met her eyes. He looked skeptical. “That was one big fucker, Officer Erban. I don’t blame you.”
“And I don’t blame you,” she said earnestly, and he nodded slowly, seemingly taking her words to heart. Rising to his feet, he made his way back to the sink.
“Your face is clean. I’ll grab you an ice pack, I’m sure there’s one around here somewhere.”
Jelko laid back down, relaxing into the relative comfort of the soft surface beneath her. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She normally liked to be alone when she was injured, safe at home in her apartment, licking her wounds. Hurt lycans tended to suffer mood swings and other unpleasant side effects. She wouldn’t want Detective Tyler to witness her in such a state, especially since it seemed he was finally starting to like her.
The floorboards creaked as Detective Tyler returned by her side. She cracked open her eyes, and he handed her a bag of ice. She placed them on her ribs. Her bones throbbed, muscles aching. She could tell the painkillers were starting to kick in, but she would need something stronger from the hospital. Detective Tyler gnawed on his bottom lip. If only his colleagues knew he was such a mother hen. The teasing would never end.
“I’ll be alright,” she assured him with a half-hearted grin. “I heal fast. The process will just be a bit slower this time, but still plenty quick.”
He nodded, seemingly absorbing the information. “Okay. I’d turn out the light and let you rest, but I don’t know if you have a concussion.”
“Good thinking,” she praised, even though all she wanted was some sleep. He shot her a knowing look, apparently aware of her thoughts.
“Don’t worry, I called a half-hour ago. They said they’re sending a squad car to come bring us to St. Mary’s. You can rest once we get there.”
“I know, I know,” she sighed, playing up her exhaustion. His eyes crinkled, almost as if he wanted to laugh. He sat down on an unoccupied space of the couch by her feet, sinking into the pillows with a deep exhale. He looked tired himself.
“Long night?” she asked, and he smiled wryly.
“You don’t know half of it.”
“How ‘bout you share the details of your selfless rescue?” she suggested, and he appeared unamused. “To keep me awake.”
He groaned, looking as if he were about to roll his eyes. He was silent for a long moment, but then he began: “Well, it all started when I had to drive halfway across the city to search some rundown warehouse. Little did I know, a bunch of good-for-nothings were there waiting for me...”
Jelko smiled as he retold their night, focusing primarily on the parts where she was unconscious, as they waited for help to arrive. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she was part of a team.
Bee can’t take his eyes off his friend. Cee is strapped down to a metal table, gagged and sporting a black eye. It’s Bee’s fault they’re here. Cee came to rescue him, but Whumper caught them, and now his friend is in mortal danger and it’s all his fault.
“I'm so glad you decided to join us.” Whumper claps their hands together, pleased, and smiles down cordially at Cee. “You know what they say.” They ruffle Cee’s tousled hair, and Cee snarls behind the tape sealed over their mouth. “Two is better than one.”
Whumper turns then, redirecting all of their attention to their original captive. “Don’t you think so, Bee?”
Bee stiffens, tearing his eyes away from Cee and meeting his tormentor’s gaze.
“Let them go,” Bee whispers, tears already gathering in the corners of his wide, frightened eyes. “Please, let them go.”
Whumper’s smile broadens, and they approach their captive. Bee is shirtless, wearing nothing but the bloody shorts he’s worn for the entire duration of his imprisonment thus far, and his hands are bound above his head with coarse rope. He tugs uselessly on the restraints, wishing he could run over to his friend and protect them from whatever horrible plans Whumper surely has in store.
“Oh, Bee,” Whumper says, almost pityingly. “As much as I adore your pleading, we’ve already been over this. Your friend is going to be staying here with us. They came all this way for you, and you want to turn them away?” Whumper shakes their head, “I know I taught you better than that.”
Whumper moves closer, leaving hardly any space between them, and Bee swallows hard, thoroughly intimidated by his captor’s proximity.
“I’m sorry,” Bee says quickly, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m sorry, just please don’t—”
“You’re going to be sorry,” Whumper corrects, tone suddenly harsh, and Bee flinches. His torturer leans forward, their lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You’re going to be sorry you ever dared to wish for someone to take you from me.”
Bee shivers, every muscle tensed. He knows Whumper’s words are as much a promise as a threat.
“Here are the rules,” Whumper begins, signaling the start of what Bee assumes will be a horrible, twisted game. They grab his chin, forcing him to meet their eyes. “Listen carefully so you don’t fuck it up.”
Bee nods frantically, and Whumper, seemingly pleased, slips behind him and squeezes his cheeks, forcibly directing his gaze toward Cee.
“Now, see your little friend over there? Look above them.” They steer his gaze upward to a heavy stone slab suspended in the air, dangling from the ceiling. The rock is bundled in a net of rope, and Bee’s heart stops when he realizes it’s positioned directly above Cee’s legs.
All the breath leaves his body in a horrified exhale. “No.”
He can feel Whumper’s malicious grin. “I’ve rigged it up so you—” Whumper yanks Bee’s head back, their hand tangled in his hair, his neck strained. They guide his eyes to where the rope tied around his wrists connects to a pulley system, “—are the only thing keeping that thing in the air. If you fall to the floor, well…” Whumper lets go of Bee, and, with both hands now free, they smack their hands together in a gruesome representation of what will happen if the rock drops. “It’s a bit like pulling a pin from a grenade, if that helps you wrap your mind around it.”
Bee feels as if he’s going to be sick. He meets Cee’s eyes, and his friend stares back at him, their defiance apparent in the set of their jaw. They might not be afraid, but Bee… he knows a weight that heavy, falling from that high up, will destroy their legs.
Whumper snaps suddenly, looking as if they remembered something they’d almost forgotten. “Oh, and I’m going to whip you. Your back could use some more scars, and I’d like to show our guest what we get up to around here. You don’t mind, do you?”
Bee gapes at his captor wordlessly, stunned.
“I can’t do it,” Bee whimpers, already defeated. “Please don’t make me—it’ll kill them, I can’t—!”
“Of course you can,” Whumper reassures. “I believe in you.” They pinch his cheek a little too hard. “My resilient little Bee.”
“I can’t!” Bee protests. Whumper steps away and heads toward their rack of instruments. “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them!”
Whumper uncoils the single tail whip and slaps it against the cement floor. Bee flinches at the sound and the promise of pain, his breath speeding up as his tormentor circles him like a shark would its prey. Bee catches Cee’s eyes, and his friend gives him a little nod as if to say “it’s alright.”
“I won’t hurt them, Bee,” Whumper says conversationally, standing somewhere behind him where he can’t see. “You will.”
And without further preamble, the whip cracks against the bare skin of his back. Bee bites back a shout, jerking forward and arching his back in an instinctual attempt to escape the bite. He hardly has a second to react before the next blow comes, and the next, and the next. The strikes follow each other in quick succession, relentless. It’s mere minutes before Bee is trembling, his legs quivering violently, his wobbly knees threatening to give. He jolts and struggles, trying to escape the reach of the whip, barely containing his anguished yells behind grit teeth.
“Tired already?” Whumper taunts, pausing for a second. Bee can feel their breath on the back of his neck, and he winces when their nails scrape the welts forming across his shoulder blades. “You must not care for your friend very much.”
Bee grimaces. They have to be strong. For Cee.
Whumper chuckles and steps back, starting up again. They bring the whip down hard, the sound echoing throughout the room, louder than Bee’s suppressed wails and Cee’s muffled curses. He squeezes his eyes shut, his toes curling.
“You’re such a disappointment, you weak little thing.” Pain blossoms across his back and shoulders, and tears slip down his flushed cheeks. Whumper sounds euphoric. “C’mon, darling, scream for me.”
Bee, fully aware of his audience, tries his best to keep his reactions contained, but as the longer it goes on, the more his control starts to slip. Breathing heavily through his nose, he bites through his bottom lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Snot-nosed and gasping, he weeps openly. His back is on fire.
“Beautiful,” Whumper purrs. The whip curls over his shoulder, and Bee yelps. “But I told you to scream, Bee.”
Whumper doubles their efforts, and soon Bee feels the skin of his back split open, hot blood spilling forth. He’s so dizzy with pain that he doesn’t even realize he’s shrieking.
“Stop, stop! Please, please, I-I can’t, it hurts, I can’t!”
Whumper doesn’t let up. Bee wavers on his feet, screaming and begging for mercy, and then—
His legs give out, his willpower depleted. Despite his best efforts, he can’t withstand the torture. He sinks to his knees, his arms nearly yanked from their sockets as he drops to the floor. After the initial force of crumbling to the ground, the line of rope falls with him, no longer taut. Through the haze of tears and agony, Bee remembers that he was supposed to stay upright… but why?
Sprawled out on the floor of their cell, the hero is still reeling from a swift punch to the gut when the door is kicked open and all hell breaks loose. By the time they catch their breath and gather enough strength to lift their head, all of their captors are down for the count. Brows furrowed in confusion, the hero blinks away their blurry vision… only to be greeted by the sight of the villain standing before them in all of their nefarious glory.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the villain drawls, crouching down to their level. The hero scrambles away, their bound hands shielding their bruised face in an instinctual defensive position.
The villain rolls their eyes. “Oh please, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve already been roughened up enough for my tastes.”
The hero frowns, incredulous, and flinches when their adversary gets too close. “You’re not?”
“No, and if you don’t believe me, you can wait for someone else to come and find you like this.”
The hero lowers their arms, their tensed shoulders relaxing minutely. “You’re... rescuing me?”
The villain sniffs. “Hardly. If anything, I’m salvaging my reputation. It would ruin my image if my nemesis were bested by such amateurs. Now, don’t struggle.”
Without saying anything further, the villain scoops them up, one arm hooked under their knees and the other curled around their back. The hero gasps in surprise, the room spinning in a dizzy blur. They might have a concussion.
Near boneless in the villain’s hold, the hero looks up at them as they’re carried out of the cell. “You’re gonna let me go?”
The villain hums. “For a price.”
The hero’s eyes narrow, not liking where this is going. “You’re asking for a ransom?”
“Have to pay the bills somehow, sweetheart.” The villain smirks down at them, and the hero bristles.
Glaring fiercely, they squirm in upset, trying to break free from their hold. The villain tightens their grip, jostling them a bit, and the hero winces in pain as the movement agitates their numerous injuries. Still, they continue to glower at their unwanted savior.
The villain huffs. “Oh, don’t look so cross. The goons who kidnapped you were the ones who published the demands. I’m just claiming them as my own.”
In the hero’s opinion, the villain looks entirely too pleased with their scheme. Who would pay the ransom? The city? But the public needs the money! The hero claws at their enemy’s shirt, their fingers numb from their wrists being tied too tight with electrical cord. “You, you can’t.”
“I can. It’s not like anyone can stop me, least of all you. You’re quite helpless right now, if you haven’t realized,” the villain replies smoothly, cool eyes raking over their injured frame.
The hero pouts—unintentionally, of course. They’re just in so much pain, so weak from the countless beatings, and now innocent people are going to suffer for their ineptitude. They sniffle a bit and wipe their nose with their forearm.
The villain meets their gaze with an unreadable expression, and then, with a heavy sigh, concedes, “I can, but I might not. After all, I could be persuaded to release you, for free, as long as you make it clear to your adoring fans that I was the one who caught you. You play the part of the hapless victim so well, I’m sure they’ll believe you.”
The hero brightens a little.
The villain’s lips curl into a slow smile. “Would you like that, darling?”
The hero gives a weak nod, their eyes so heavy.
The villain’s smile turns into a smirk. “Use your words, dear. Say please.”
The hero glares for a second before remembering how utterly exhausted they are. They swallow their pride, and, in a low voice, whisper, “Please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the villain chuckles, and the hero groans, eyes falling shut as they relax into the villain’s hold, forehead resting on their enemy’s shoulder. “Now, let’s get you to a hospital.”
blakekathryn
snowghoul
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