wij day 3 | prompt: restraints | just a little scene set in my Pet Safety series | @whumpmasinjuly-archive
Bradley tells adventure stories.
No content warnings, just, family Woodward is a mess, and Rosa is traumatized. Set in the BBU.
"Ooooh no, now, the evil dragons are reeeeeeally angry that Captain Raccoon and Rosa broke into the space fortress and that they got away with the princess, and then…"
Rosa smiled softly as Bradley didn't stop babbling. He gestured at his stuffed animals, mimicked dramatic explosions, let the lego starship they'd built together fly at the glowing stars over his bed with sputtering noises that no starship should possibly make. The boy looked like his Dad, from the soft mop of straight black hair to the light brown skin and the wild intelligence sparkling in his eyes. But while Cory used his sharp wits to terrorize everyone around him (and to earn a fortune), Bradley's imagination was caught up in creativity and adventure stories. She wished he'd stay like that forever. She was sure he wouldn't.
"Rosa!" He pulled at her hand. "Rosa, nooooo, I said you need to hide! The evil dragon has seen you! Phooooooooooooooosh, she's breathing fire!"
"Oh no! They hit me!" Rosa dove back into the game. She grabbed her pink cape, the same one Bradley and Captain Raccoon wore, she'd sewn them herself back in the Laundry Room, and shook it dramatically. "My cape is on fire!"
Bradley giggled in delight. "You're losing your superpowers! Oh no! You can't fly! Madam Dragon will catch you!" He lowered his voice into a dangerous hiss, to impersonate the attacking Dragon. "Rooooooss-sss-sssa, you can't essssscape!"
Her blood froze in her veins.
She couldn't move.
The plush dragon crashed into her face.
"You lossssst, har har har!"
Rosa's legs gave in. Her knees landed on legos and the requisites for an intergalactic battle. It felt like cold, flat white tiles.
"Please," she breathed.
"You sssssssought you could get away wissssss the Princesssss?" It wasn't Bradley's childish voice. It wasn't Madam Dragon's fictional voice. It was Cory's voice, Renee's voices, the voices of the handlers, and it was real, and it was true, and it was consuming her, and the Princess suddenly had a name that was lodged in deep in Rosa's heart.
"You're our prissssssoner now, and foreveeeer."
A wooden clank echoed from behind her, like the handle of a skipping rope dropping on a wooden floor, which was odd, because there was no wood in the facilities, there were tiles and metal and cold cruel hands.
"You need to fight, Rosa", the voice of a kid whispered into her ear, while the toy rope was sloppily wound around her wrists. "Come on, you need to fight, or they catch the princess!"
She knew how it ended.
The restraints were too tight. The fight was over, before it had started.
The princess was lost.
Rosa was the dragons' forever.
Her eyes were too dry to cry.
"Rosa?" Bradley whispered.
"Rosa?" Cory pushed open the door. Sucked in a sharp breath. Started to laugh. "Oh Bradley, my boy," he mumbled. "You really are your mother's child after all. Come on, kid. Let me show you, how to tie knots that really hold."
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Whumpee just wants to sleep, get through whatever the hell is knocking them off their feet, try to feel even a little better, and they're trapped in their own head as they overheat and wake up in a panic, covered in sweat, feeling worse than before and trying to separate reality from the lingering tendrils of the horrid concoctions their feverish mind came up with
Content Warnings: depictions of war, some blood, concussion, stranded
@whumpmasinjuly
253 years into the war…
The world was still swimming at Pedras cracked his eyes open. He met gray clouds against a light orange sky, the first rays of sunrise already peeking through. It would’ve looked pretty, normally, but Pedras new something had gone wrong.
He groaned as he shifted to sit up. Every muscle was sore and being on the ground for what must have been all night did nothing to help him. There was a fine layer of dust all over his clothes and skin, and rubble covered the ground going up the incline on his left. His head was pounding, and his hand came away with dried blood when he touched the side.
“Uh, shit,” he muttered under his breath. He was injured, possibly concussed, and he wasn’t sure where his platoon had moved to. Everything was starting to come back now. His platoon got orders to move out of the city. They were under attack, Diçian forces were threatening to overtake the city and gunfire was raining down around them. Diçian ships fired their cannons, killing everything that moved on the ground. He was running, trying to keep up and get to the dropship.
Then everything went black.
Oh no.
They left me behind…
Pedras struggled to get to his feet on the uneven ground. Chucks of rock and torn metal threatened to cut through his pants as he shifted. He was nearly out of breath by the time he reached the top of the hill, and almost collapsed again when he looked out at the city.
“Oh god…”
Everything was gone. Only yesterday this place was a metropolis with towering buildings and highways. Now those skyscrapers were razed to the ground, left in piles of smoldering rubble stretching across for miles. It was eerily quiet, not even the cries of birds could be heard in the empty sky. The place was devoid of life.
Well, not all life.
Pedras panted for breath as he searched for his communicator, praying it wasn’t damaged in the fight. He found it in his pack and activated the screen. It was cracked and glitched for a few seconds, but turned on.
“Please work, please, please…” He switched it to his platoon’s channel, “Uh, this-this is Sergeant Pedras Roctanae calling any Rebel forces in the area. Anyone out there? Please respond.”
It glitched again and he slapped the side. “C’mon! Please, if anyone can here me, this is Sergeant Pedras Roctanae. I got left behind during the fight and I’m ten miles, maybe, east outside of Vadmayis, or… what’s left of it…”
No one would be able to recognize the city in this state. How was anyone supposed to be able to find him in this place? It was a wasteland now, with no reason for either side to come back. Pedras was likely the only one here still alive, and unless he managed to get an SOS transmitting, he wouldn’t last long out here.
The communicator glitched again and Pedras shook it. “No, no, no, no! Stay on! C’mon, stupid thing!”
He slapped the side again and the screen image was steady. If it was about to go out, he had to work fast, send out a loop message so anyone who hear it would know where he was going. The city ruins were probably his best chance. Maybe he could find food and medical supplies to last a few days. Maybe try and find some tools to fix the communicator.
“Okay, uh,” his fingers flinched as the edges of the screen started glitching again, “Here, current location… SOS… plotting course… repeat message, and transmitting…”
The screen glitched against before finally going dark. Pedras yelled in frustration and fought the urge to smash it on the ground. Em, I hope that went through. He had to get moving, try and find some shelter before the heat of the day came. If anyone managed to trace his signal, good or bad, he had to be ready.
Pedras looked out over the desolate field in its growing decay. Roughly ten miles just to get to the edge of city central, which would take a few hours at best with his injuries. He checked his pack, a water canteen, a few protein bars, two rounds for his blaster, just enough to get him there if he rationed everything carefully. Maybe he’d find more in the rubble on the way down. He inhaled sharply and threw his pack over his shoulder.
I’m not gonna die out here. He exhaled slowly as he took the first step down the hill. I’m not.
There’s some telltale signs that Natasha isn’t coping.
Warnings for anxiety - based loosely on this prompt.
.
The house is quiet.
Clint puts his bag down on the table, and looks around for any telltale sign that Natasha is here. She said she would be.
The house is clean.
They’d both left on the same day. Her mission was shorter, a retrieval of information that should have only taken a day or so. His, however was protection detail. A full week he’d had to stay alongside a Marine, set for a deposition against the government.
She’s obviously been here. This is not how they left their house. There were clothes everywhere, dust in the corners and things not in their place. They’d laughed about it as they’d both left and he’d locked the door behind her.
Now.
Now it looks like someone had been through and cleaned everything within an inch of it’s life.
The house is cold.
If she was here, he’s sure it would be warm.
He calls her phone and it rings on the kitchen table, he hangs up and picks it up, concern curling in his stomach.
There’s no movement.
He climbs up the stairs towards the bedroom, hoping she’s in there. He doesn’t say anything in case she’s asleep.
Surely.
That’s it.
If she’s asleep, it accounts for the cold, quiet house.
He opens the door slowly, the is bed made.
He scans the room and sees her.
She’s watching him; blanket over her lap, sitting on the floor against the wall.
“Hey.” He approaches her slowly.
“Hey,” she gives him a smile. It’s genuine and he smiles with her.
“Why are on the floor?” he asks quietly.
“I..” she starts to say one thing, but changes her mind, “headache,” she decides on.
He knows that’s not the extent of it. She would probably have just taken painkillers and gone to bed if that was the case. This looks more like she hasn’t slept in a couple of days and the brain worms have got her in a holding pattern.
He holds his hand for her to stand up, but she shakes her head.
“Feels better down here.” She tells him.
He sinks down next to her and she rests her head on his shoulder.
“Do you want something for it?” He asks, grasping her hand and bringing it to his lips.
There’s a beat.
“It’s not my head.” She admits.
He stays quiet, hoping she’ll elaborate. He traces patterns on her palm. He holds two fingers on her pulse and feels it beating fast. Looking at her, she looks calm, rested. Inside though, tells a different story.
“What is it?” He prompts. She takes a breath and blows it out, perhaps unsure what to say or even how to describe it.
“I…” she stops again. He keeps his fingers on her pulse point.
“It’s becoming hard.” She begins. She sits upright, ramrod straight bad, ”being around people.”
He nods. He gets it.
A lifetime of being around people, of others controlling her every movement, of the anxiety of having to observe and know the intentions of every single person around her.
It’s a wonder that she’s as social as she is. He gets her introversion, craves it for her at times as he’s often watched her push through at the expense of herself.
Her pulse jumps at the confession and he starts drawing circles on the back of her hand again.
“You didn’t tell me it was getting bad again.” He says softly.
“It’s… it’s just, I need time to decompress afterwards and it seems to be getting longer to come back down.” Her breath hitches as she admits it quietly, to herself more than he.
Clint knows what that’s like.
“I don’t know how to make it better.” She tells him, eyes wide staring up at him.
Her breath seems to catch and she coughs. She’s missed a breath and panics on the loss.
“Lay down,” he tells her, seeing the beginnings of a panic attack. If he can get her head below her heart, maybe he can stop it.
Natasha follows the instruction, dropping her body and curling into a ball. There’s enough space behind her that Clint is able to hold her and fit his body around her, holding her loosely.
“It’s going to be ok.” He whispers in her ear. And repeats it so she hears.
It makes sense to him, the clean house, the neglect of warmth and probably food, not wanting the comfort of bed. She’s put herself at odds.
“It’s going to be ok.” She says back to him, reassuring herself.
“Clint?” She asks.
He hums, changing his position to make her hands grab his wrists, making sure she can feel his slow pulse.
“Please don’t go.” She asks holding on hard.
He kisses her neck and whispers assurances.
“It’s going to be ok.”
.
Morning comes and Clint wakes up on the floor alone.
His back creaks as he stands and stretches; it’s been a tricky night, staving off panic attacks.
He hears Natasha in the kitchen. The coffee maker hisses and the sound of the morning TV is playing quietly. He smiles, the house is loud.
He walks into the kitchen and hugs her hard.
The heater is on and as she hugs him back; he realises the house is warm.
They proceed to make breakfast together. It’s not better, the anxieties are still there but she’s talking and he’s taking it as a win. They talked about booking an appointment with the therapist and she’d agreed. She hasn’t shut him out, and on the contrary almost seems lighter for having made the decision.
He cracks eggs and fries them as she butters toast. They dump the dishes in the sink and eat together in front of the TV.
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CW: nightmares, trauma memories, two characters loving and supporting each other, burn wound
Caretaker’s eyes cracked open to a soft, murmuring sound. The room was dark, and stars shone from beyond the window. A clock chimed somewhere in the house, striking out three long tolls.
Caretaker sat up in bed, straining their ears. Had they imagined the sound?
But no, there it was again. A low, shuddering whimper in the dark, echoing through the wall from the room beside Caretaker’s. Whumpee’s room.
Caretaker rose from the bed cautiously, the silken sheets slithering from their legs. They padded out of the room and into the hall, toward Whumpee’s room. The wooden floorboards creaked softly underfoot.
They cracked open the door and slipped inside, creeping over to Whumpee's bedside. Whumpee was curled up in the fetal position. Their hands glowed molten purple, violet energy pulsing from their hands in waves. Caretaker drew a sharp breath. They had seen that happen only once before, and that was when Mentor died. Whatever Whumpee was dreaming about, it was horrible enough to activate their powers. It scared Caretaker.
Whumpee’s eyes moved rapidly beneath the lids, and their breathing was shallow and hitching. Tears trickled from the corners of their eyes.
Whumpee was crying in their sleep.
“No, please…” they murmured. Their voice was wet with tears. “Don’t… don’t hurt me. Please, please, please―” Their voice broke and they started sobbing again.
Caretaker reached out to lay a hand on their shoulder, intending to shake it and wake them. Searing pain crackled through their flesh and Caretaker jumped back with a cry. Whumpee’s skin was searing hot.
Caretaker cradled their hand, hot tears of pain welling in their eyes. Their palm was splashed with a red, angry burn. Blisters were already forming, and they could feel panic rising in their chest. Stay calm. Stay calm, Caretaker. Whumpee needs you.
Caretaker knelt down beside Whumpee. “Whumpee. Oh God, Whumpee, please wake up,” Caretaker said. “Please, just wake up.”
Their only response was sobs.
The panic started to well up again, a freezing tide in Caretaker’s chest. As inexperienced as they were, they'd have to use their power.
They placed their palm on Whumpee’s burning forehead, ignoring the pain, and said, “Wake up.” This time, the words echoed, and white light pulsed from Caretaker’s hand.
Whumpee jolted upwards with a gasp, eyes flaring brilliant white. Violet sparks shot from their hands, and Caretaker jolted away to avoid getting burned.
Whumpee looked around themselves, breathing hard. Frantically, they felt their chest with shaking fingers. Their eyes were dilated, wild.
“It’s okay. You’re safe, Whumpee.”
Whumpee lowered their hand and looked down at Caretaker in confusion. “What…?”
“I… I heard you crying and I wanted to check on you. What’s… what’s going on?”
Whumpee didn’t answer. Their eyes drifted to the burn on Caretaker’s palm. “I… oh God, are you okay?”
Caretaker followed their gaze and quickly pulled their sleeve over it. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“No. No, you’re not. Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.”
Whumpee slid out of bed and Caretaker allowed Whumpee to lead them across the hall.
Whumpee cleaned and bandaged Caretaker’s hand with surprising steadiness, considering what they had just gone through. The heat had gone as they had calmed down, and their touch was gentle.
Caretaker flexed their newly bandaged hand. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do, considering…” They gestured at themselves.
They still think they have something to apologize for. Caretaker’s brows drew together and they touched Whumpee’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s not your fault. You were asleep, and you were scared. I don’t blame you at all.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.”
Silence stretched between the pair of them. Caretaker wondered if they should ask what Whumpee was dreaming about. Whumpee had never talked about what had happened back in Whumper’s dungeon, and Caretaker hadn’t expected them to. The trauma was still fresh, and wounds to the mind didn’t heal quickly.
“I was back in that place,” Whumpee said, not looking at Caretaker.
Caretaker knew they meant the dungeon. “What… what happened to you there, Whumpee?”
“Everything.” They paused. “But this time was one of the worst.” Whumpee took a deep breath, steeling themselves. “They suspended me between chains and burned me from the inside out. They didn’t even have to lay a hand on me. They tortured me for hours… I couldn’t do anything but hang there.” They felt their chest again, as they had done when Caretaker first woke them up. They raised their eyes to meet Caretaker’s. “In the end, I begged for death.”
Caretaker wasn’t usually an angry sort, but something rose up inside them at those words. Their hands curled into fists and a very clear image formed in their brain of Whumper getting hit by a train. “I am going to crush them into a pulp,” they growled.
“If we can find them,” Whumpee said quietly. “They’ve been off the grid since they killed Mentor.” Though their voice was quite steady, the way their shoulders tensed didn’t entirely escape Caretaker.
“We will,” Caretaker said. Their mouth was a hard line. “If I have to move heaven and hell to find them, we will. They will pay for what they did to you. Does that make you feel any better?”
Whumpee’s mouth quirked into a smile. “It does, actually.”
Caretaker smiled. “Good.” An unspoken connection passed between them, a nameless warmth that Caretaker couldn’t describe. Caretaker felt their cheeks heating. They cleared their throat. “Well, we should probably get you back to bed.”
“Yeah.” Whumpee rubbed the back of their neck. Were they blushing too, or did Caretaker imagine it? “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Caretaker walked Whumpee back to their bed and did them the courtesy of arranging their tossed bedsheets for them. They said goodnight and rose to leave, when they heard a voice from behind them.
“Stay with me.”
Caretaker turned around. Whumpee was definitely blushing, and there was a softness to their eyes. “Please. I―I don’t want to be alone again.”
Caretaker exhaled. “Of course.” They padded over to Whumpee’s bed and crawled in. They could feel Whumpee’s breaths beside them, feel the faint heat of their skin. There was an intimacy to the moment that was simultaneously frightening and lovely.
“Good night,” Whumpee murmured.
“Good night.”
Caretaker didn’t fall asleep for a while still, but soon they felt Whumpee’s breathing grow slow and deep. Caretaker found Whumpee clutching at them in their sleep unconsciously.
CW: Implied whump of a minor (OC is 17), drugged whumpee, isolation, captivity, pet whump
Baldur lay in a tangle of limbs in the center of the bed, drifting in and out of a doze he couldn't escape. His thoughts drifted like fog, dissipating entirely when he cracked open his eyes to watch the light as it moved shadows along Sir's balcony, coalescing again when he closed them and let himself be lost in the warmer, soothing darkness.
Get up, his thoughts whisper. Walk out the door. Show the security guards at the stairs you're here. Let them see you. Maybe someone will help you.
No one will help him, the stronger thoughts know. This is what he is. They'd only look, with cold disgust, the way Miss Nancy looks at him. Then they'd push him back into the hallway, close the door, and call his Sir to tell him what Baldur has done.
He couldn't stand up if he wanted to, anyway. The most he can do is tap, fingertips dancing over silk sheets and soft mattress, making no sound at all. He watches his fingers for a while, tapping in rhythms, allowing himself the worst of rebellions-
A low, tuneless hum, a soothing sound underneath the roiling slow-moving turmoil in his mind.
Sir would punish him for this, but... he's alone here, right now. He's so quiet Miss Nancy won't catch him, and it feels good to tap and to hum. It feels so good.
Tears build in his eyes, leak out over his nose and down the corner to soak into the sheets below him.
It feels so good, to tap just a little bit.
Just a little.
Just while he's all by himself.
He's alone today - and tomorrow - and the day after that. His Sir has gone and left him here, he's on some kind of trip to see the survivors of a mudslide during a wet and rainy year.
Sir had patted him on the head as he slipped on his favorite suitjacket, practiced rolling up his sleeves for the cameras, parted his hair just so. Baldur had watched, dazedly, while he gave his camera-smile to the mirror at this angle and that one, until he was satisfied with its image of sincerity.
You'll stay nice and quiet while I'm gone, darlin'. Miss Nancy'll keep you fed, and I'll see you when I get back. Won't some time to yourself be nice?
Yes, Sir, Baldur said, because he was supposed to.
But... it isn't nice, being alone.
It's horrible.
Miss Nancy comes in to leave a dish with some food on it, returns to take whatever he hasn't eaten a little bit later, and otherwise... it's just Baldur, alone on the bed, in a room where nothing happens but the sun shifting with an awful deliberation along the floor.
He misses his Sir, if only because Sir would talk to him, and Miss Nancy only stares with her cold eyes and calls him names she doesn't dare say when Sir is right there to hear it. She leaves Baldur crying and guilty for what he's done, and he doesn't know what he's done, only that it's his fault he's here.. He signed up for this, anyway.
There's nothing to be done, now, Miss Nancy snaps at him, holding out the glass of water for him to drink. You made your bed, didn't you? So lie in it.
He wants his Sir to come home.
The pills Miss Nancy feeds him are different than his usual ones. They leave him shivering with a false cold and nearly motionless. He has to crawl to the bathroom, even just standing is too exhausting to even think about. He doesn't have to fight the energy inside of him to stay still, but somehow this feels even worse.
His limbs feel like someone has tied blocks of concrete to them to weigh him down.
His eyes slip closed against his will. His hum is silent. His fingers stop moving. Sleep comes for him with an iron grip. It's dreamless and suffocating and feels like drowning, not rest.
He takes in a deep breath before he's once again dragged under.
