#inspection whump | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nahoney22 · 4 days

Note

Hey bestie! I love your work and as I've gotten to know you better, you've been an amazing friend ❤️

I was wondering if you could do some hurt/comfort/whump with f!reader x Tech! Maybe they have crash landed or been captured together or something. Perhaps they don't necessarily get along with each other but this situation forces them to work together and they discover that maybe the other isn't so bad. ❤️ Thanks!

Crash Landed 🌊

🫧 Pairing: Tech X Female Reader

word count: 5.9k

Prompts: none

Summary: After you and Tech crash land in a remote Jungle, the two of you need to put your heads together and work as a team. Which is sometimes easier said than done.

warnings: Hurt, Angst and Comfort Whump Trope, Mentions of Injury to Reader and Tech, reader has a fear of blood, Kinda Enemies to Lovers, Reconciliation, Talks about Feelings, Huddling for Warmth, Heated First Kiss, Female Reader. Not proofread.

authors note: I love this idea! I hope I did it justice. And by the word count, clearly I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being and amazing friend @arctrooper69 🩶

You awaken, dazed and confused, your head heavy as your eyes adjust to the dim, smoke-filled surroundings. What's that smell? Is that... smoke? What happened?

Your body aches with every movement as you manage to sit up with a hefty groan, feeling the weight of gravity pull at your limbs. Rubbing your eyes with your hands to focus, you realise that everything is on its side, the walls of the shuttle caved in, sparks flying from broken control panels. What a mess. But, you're sure you were not alone before this happened.

“Tech?” you call out, your voice croaky before you start coughing, as if your lungs had filled up with smoke.

No reply. “Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” you mutter to yourself as panic sets in, the memories flooding back. The mission, the Imperial's, crashing. Yes, that’s it. You crash-landed. But where? And where was Tech?

Luckily, your thoughts are answered as a torch shines in the distance, followed by loud clattering as if objects were being moved. You squint through the smoke, trying to ignore the acrid scent of burning metal. “Ah, there you are,” Tech says as he comes into view, his armor scratched, and his goggles a little skewed on his head.

“What happened?” you ask as he approaches you, another spluttering cough escaping your lips.

“If you take a look around, it will become apparent that we have crashed,” he replies. Ah yes, still a pain in the neck even after both of you nearly died.

You and Tech had rarely seen eye to eye. Since you joined the squad months ago, he always seemed to be on top of you, trying to prove you wrong or point out mistakes. It was tiresome. And now, unfortunately, you were stuck with him.

Rolling your eyes, you were in no mood for his tone and began to stand. However, as soon as you did, your leg gave way, your knees slamming to the floor. A cry of pain escaped you, making Tech look up from his cracked datapad, his eyes widening with slight concern. “Are you injured?”

“Obviously,” you grumbled in reply, stretching out your legs to assess the damage, but you didn’t see anything at first. It wasn’t until Tech crouched down in front of you that he spotted it.

“You have a laceration on your calf,” he said, his voice calm but concerned, inspecting the wound closely, and you did a double-take at his words.

“W-What? Is it bad?” You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but if there’s one thing you hated, it was blood.

Tech didn’t reply straight away, his eyes inspecting the wound closely, but your nerves began to eat away at you. “Tech, is it bleeding?” You asked quickly, your chest heaving as the fear started to creep in.

“Yes,” he confirmed, not making eye contact with you before he stood again, “I shall look for a medkit among this rubble. Stay here.” Well, it’s not like you had anywhere to go anytime soon anyway.

You wanted to call out to him, you wanted him to stay with you, but that would be inviting him to babysit you. Just because you were scared didn’t mean you wanted Tech to take care of you, which he probably would not do anyway.

Luckily, he wasn’t gone long and returned with a battered medkit. Some vials were smashed inside, and some tools were of no use, but you were glad that the bandages were untarnished. You had to look away as he started to dress your leg, cutting away the loose fabric to your pants before he skillfully wrapped it up. “That should do for now. Can you stand? We need to get out of here as it wouldn't surprise me if this shuttle imploded at any minute.”

Comfort was not his strong suit, clearly.

“I’ll try,” you began to haul yourself up your feet, but again, you were too weak. “No, no, no, I can’t.” As you were about to fall once again, Tech tucked himself under your arm, a hand steady on your waist as he kept you up.

“I will have to carry you.”

“No!” You squeaked. No way in hell were you going to let him carry you around. No way you wanted to appear more of a burden than you already are.

He raised an eyebrow, unmoved by your objection. “This is not open to debate. You can not put weight on your leg.”

With a frustrated sigh, you relented. “Alright, fine.”

With a wince of pain shooting up your leg, Tech manages to slip his arm around your neck, hoisting you over his shoulder with little effort. Each step he makes sends a jolt of unbearable pain through your leg, but you grit your teeth, holding back any sign of distress, more focused on figuring out how the two of you will get out of this mess.

You escape the shuttle, and the scorching sun immediately washes over you, its heat oppressive and suffocating. The air is humid and sticky. Great.

"So, where are we?" you ask awkwardly, still draped over his shoulder as he trudges onward.

"Uncertain," he replies, which does nothing to ease your nerves.

After a few minutes of walking, he finally sets you down on some dry grass. The sun beats down, forcing you to shield your eyes with your hand as you survey your surroundings. From the looks of it, you’re stranded in a jungle, with a vast expanse of open water stretching out before you. You could be literally anywhere.

“I suggest we find shelter, food, and a water source promptly. Since you are in no state to do anything, this task falls upon me,” he says, not once meeting your gaze as he speaks.

"Are you trying to blame me for hurting my leg? If I'm not mistaken, Tech, you were the one who pushed us into that shuttle," you retort, anger bubbling over.

"I am not blaming you, although if it was not for your mistake on the mission I would not have had to intervene." He trails off, not seeming to care at the dirty looks being sent his way. "I am merely stating facts." He says simply, tucking his datapad into his pouch before glancing down at you.

Deciding to keep your mouth shut for now, you refrain from arguing, knowing it won’t solve anything. Instead, you let Tech take the lead because, as much as you hate to admit it, he's right. You are in no state to do anything at the moment.

Tech leaves you alone for a while, giving you one of his blasters as a precaution before returning around half an hour later, announcing he found a suitable place to set up camp. You simply nod before glancing over at the crashed shuttle. “Is there anything we can salvage from that at least?” you ask aloud, drawing Tech’s attention back to you before casting a glance over at the debris.

“Perhaps. But we will have to be quick-." Before he can finish his thoughts, a sudden explosion rips through the air as the shuttle suddenly erupts into a burst of flames, sending debris flying in all directions. You both watch in shock as the flames engulf the wreckage, leaving nothing salvageable. Never mind.

Once Tech had led you to a secluded spot under the protective canopy of towering trees. With careful movements, you managed to shift your weight onto your knees, the pain radiating from your leg causing you to bite back a wings of pain.

“You are doing it wrong.” As you went ahead and started to make a fire, Tech’s unsolicited advice on fire-building techniques went in one ear and out the other. Survival instincts was one of your specialties after all and so you ignored him as as you gathered dry twigs and leaves, arranging them meticulously into a makeshift pyre.

As Tech continued his lecture on the ‘correct way’ to build a fire, you struck the flint, the spark igniting a blaze that danced and crackled life. A triumphant smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as Tech fell silent, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows on the thick backdrop of the jungle.

“As you have accomplished the fire, all we need now is some edible food and water," Tech remarked and you hummed in slight agreement.

Carefully, you leaned back and against a sturdy boulder for support as you turned your attention to Tech, whose fingers deftly navigated his datapad. "Do you think you’ll be able to contact the others?" you inquired softly, wanting to hear good news right now.

Tech's brow furrowed in concentration as he tinkered with the device, the soft glow of the cracked screen illuminating his features in the darkness. "If I can get my device to work properly and salvage the shuttle… then possibly. But…" His voice trailed off, uncertainty lingering in the air.

"You have doubts?" you pressed, concerned lacing your words as you watched him shift uneasily in his spot.

“Yes,” he says as he stands, tucking his datapad away again, “I have my doubts.”

You both fall into silence, something quite rare from Tech as he was always chattering away about something. But for now, he was quiet. Deep in thought. A part of you wished you knew what he was thinking, wondering what was happening in that marvelous mind of his and if he had thought about what would happen if you two were never found which was a reoccurring thought in yours.

“I will be back soon,” he speaks up, breaking the silence after a few minutes.

“Where are you going?” You ask, a little too quickly. But truthfully, you didn’t want to be on your own right now. Yet you didn’t want him to know that.

He watches you almost tentatively before saying, “I need to gather provisions. I will not be long.”

You didn’t protest as you watched him walk away, disappearing through the trees as nightfall approached. Sighing softly to yourself, you sat lost in thought, the flickering flames casting shifting shadows across your face as you think back to all the things you should have done on that mission. Perhaps if you didn’t let your pride get the better of you, you wouldn’t have to sit wondering when Tech will return and if either of you will make it out of here.

You don’t even remember falling asleep last night but you do remember waking up to the chill that had kept you shivering throughout the night despite sleeping by the crackling fire.

As you awaken to the gentle warmth of the morning sun filtering through the dense foliage above, a stark contrast to last night, with a heavy sigh, you sit up. You groan as your body feels more fatigued and worn out than before. Nausea washes over you as you groggily inspect your leg, the sight of the dried and bloodied bandage from the previous day making your stomach churn. Obviously, you'll need to tend to it again.

“Will you need my assistance or are you capable of tending to your own wound today?” Tech's voice cuts through the quiet morning air, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever. It's always hard to discern whether he's being genuinely helpful or simply blunt.

Deciding to handle this task yourself this time, you nod, expressing your intention to manage it alone. And even though you wanted to do it alone, Tech approaches nonetheless, the battered med kit in hand.

With Tech standing by, you cautiously remove the old bandage, your stomach turning at the sight of the open wound. Despite the lack of fresh blood, the dried remnants are enough to make you feel queasy. "You do not like blood," Tech observes, his statement pulling your attention away from the gruesome sight.

"Hm, how could you tell?" you mutter sarcastically, attempting to deflect from the discomfort.

“I have always known,” Tech responds cryptically, his expression giving nothing away as he crouches down beside you.

Curiosity piqued, you inquired further, wondering how he could have possibly known your hatred for blood. After all, you couldn't recall ever mentioning it to him before. “I… have observed your behaviour before and just so happened to pick up on it. I also recall you mentioning it to Hunter when you first joined.”

Hm, that’s… surprising.

You say nothing of it and instead allow him to take care of you. As Tech takes over, gently raising your leg and propping it over his knee, you can't help but notice the care he takes.

Despite his typically relaxed demeanor, there's a hint of concern in his actions as he tells you that you ‘may want to avert your gaze’ as he begins to peel the old bandage away.

Happily, you turn your attention to the leaves above, trying to ignore the stinging sensation spreading through your leg and the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Though, the warm breeze brushes against your exposed skin, offering a slight comfort amidst the discomfort.

“H-How does it look?” you ask, your voice strained, the anxiety evident in your tone as you feel Tech's careful movements.

“It appears that you have an infection. And I do not have the right resources to treat it.” Your heart sinks at his words, a sense of dread settling in the pit of your stomach as you try to suppress the rising panic.

“Great.”

“I will assume that is sarcasm,” he hums before passing you his canteen, “I found a water source last night. This has been purified and suitable to drink. I suggest you do that.”

Taking the canteen from his grasp, your mouth suddenly feels dry at the thought of water. You take a sip and can’t help but grimace at the taste, the bitterness lingering on your tongue. “Are you sure it’s been purified?”

“Yes, I did not say it will taste nice.”

You roll your eyes and take another remorseful sip before passing it back to him, your mind inadvertently drifting to the state of your leg. It looked worse than you anticipated.

“Shit.” You curse under your breath as you blink away the tears, the frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. Of course, your leg would get infected. Why would a crash-landing be a stroll in the park?

“I agree with your sentiments.” Tech's voice is steady as he carefully applies a new bandage, his movements precise and calculated. “I suggest you rest.”

“No,” you shake your head adamantly, meeting his gaze with determination, “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. I have to do something.”

He blinks at you, frowning behind his goggles. “You are in no state to do anything. You are injured and so-.”

“So I’m a hindrance?” You challenge, the frustration evident in your tone as you refuse to back down.

“In a way, yes.” He says directly, the weight of his words hanging in the air as he stands up straight after carefully placing your leg down. “Any further injury could lead to loss of limb. Or worse. We cannot risk getting that leg infected even more. Do you not think you have caused enough grievance?”

Anger bubbles at his words, yet, a part of you knew he was right. You were both in this mess because of you but sitting on the forest floor doing nothing felt like a last resort. “Can you at least just help me stand up?” you grumble, your voice tinged with frustration. “Please?”

He hesitates, seemingly torn between his concern for your well-being and his reluctance to encourage any further strain on your injured leg. However, the dejected look on your face softens his resolve, knowing that he wouldn’t hear the end of it until he complies. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, offering you the support you need to rise to your feet.

Carefully, you put slight pressure on your leg, testing its strength. Surprisingly, it isn’t as painful as it was yesterday, giving you a glimmer of hope that you might be able to move around by limping or hopping for now—especially when Tech isn’t looking.

“Thanks,” you say stiffly, folding your arms over your chest, a mix of gratitude and stubbornness in your demeanor as you watch him pick something out of his pouch and hand it over to you. “What’s this?”

He presents you with a strange-looking leaf, its unfamiliar shape and texture raising your curiosity. “It is food. Edible. It is all I could find last night but will fill us with enough nutrients for now.”

The rest of the day didn’t unfold as smoothly as you both had hoped. While Tech ventured back to the shuttle in a bid to secure a signal to reach the others, you took it upon yourself to be productive. Somehow.

With the terrain familiar to you from extensive research in your past, thoughts of herbal remedies for injuries like the one on your leg flooded your mind. So, after crafting a makeshift walking stick from a discarded branch sturdy enough to support your weight, you set off from camp, determined to gather the necessary ingredients.

Luck seemed to be on your side as you found the correct herbs and plants without much difficulty. However, your return to camp was met with an annoyed-looking Tech, his frustration evident as he started an argument for your sudden departure and for not telling him where you were since comms were dead too; coupled with his ongoing concerns about your leg.

Insisting that you were fine, you proceeded to apply the herbal remedy to your wound, wrapping it back up and allowing nature to take its course. Though Tech couldn’t help but offer snide remarks whenever you winced at the slightest movement, your remedy proved effective in easing the discomfort for a while.

Meanwhile, Tech’s attempts to establish a signal to the others had proved fruitless, only adding to his growing frustration. He was normally very composed under pressure, but his visible agitation was somewhat unsettling, leaving you feeling both concerned and also quite upset to see him this way.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the camp, the atmosphere between you two remained tense. While you rested against the boulder again, Tech sat with his head in his hands, visibly weighed down by the day's events.

An uncharacteristic urge to ease his burden prompted you to speak up. “Why don’t you sleep? Try again tomorrow,” you suggest, breaking the silence and drawing his gaze across the flickering flames of the fire pit.

“One of us needs to stay awake and take watch,” he insists, decided on his decision straight away.

You frown, realising that you slept through most of the previous night, which meant… “Tech, did you not sleep last night?” you ask, your concern evident in your tone.

“No.” He mutters, “Like I said, one of us needs to stay awake.”

Squinting at him, a hint of annoyance creeps into your voice. “That’s not healthy, especially when we’re stuck like this. You need to sleep or something.”

“I am used to not getting sleep on the Marauder so I do not see why this is any different,” he counters, his stance firm.

Though grateful for his commitment to keeping watch, you can’t help but feel exasperated by his stubbornness. Rolling your eyes, you wrap your arms around yourself as a chill sets in. “To be fair,” you begin, “I kept waking up last night. It was way too cold.”

“Yes, I noticed,” he responds, his tone softened slightly by the acknowledgement.

“Oh,” you say softly before closing your eyes, allowing the weariness of the day to wash over you. However, you’re abruptly jolted from the verge of sleep by the sound of movement nearby. With a start, you almost jump out of your skin as Tech stands in front of you.

“Stars Tech!” You gasp, his sudden proximity shocking you. “What?”

“I want you to go to sleep.”

You blink at him.

“Okay…?”

“So,” you watch him shift, his movements awkward, “I will let you sleep beside me.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend his meaning before you pull a strange face, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion and slight amusement. “Are you asking me to cuddle you?” The thought surprises you, but oddly enough, it doesn’t sound too bad right about now.

“I would not put it so conveniently,” he says, his tone betraying a hint of discomfort, “I am merely stating that I could use my body warmth to help you sleep.”

You’re taken aback by his offer, but exhaustion soon overwhelms any reservations you may have had. “Oh… well, if you’re okay with that?”

“I would not have offered otherwise.” Tech’s smile is small but genuine, and you can’t help but softly smile back as you both sit beside one another, gazing into the flames of the fire pit. Soon, you find your eyes trailing down to his bare hands, frowning as you notice they look quite sweaty; an odd sight considering the cool evening air.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you gaze up at his face, finding him engrossed in fixing his datapad. But something seems off—his complexion appears clammy, and there’s a flush to his cheeks.

Instinctively, you reach out and place the back of your hand to his forehead, gasping at the unexpected heat radiating from his skin. “Tech!” You squeak, startling him. “You have a fever? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He doesn’t even look at you, giving off a look like a character who had been bitten by something in those horrible horror holomovies and pretends to hide the bite. “Tech,” you say his name again, more sternly. “Are you hurt?”

He sighs, dropping his device into his lap before he lifts his arm to you, showing a bandage of his own that is stained in dry blood. “As I was maneuvering through the shuttle, I just so happened to trip and catch my arm on some jagged metal. It is nothing to fret about.”

“Oh, come off it, you’re burning up.” Tech notices the slight worry in your tone, watching you lean to your other side as you produce the herbal paste you used on yourself earlier. “Let me put this on.”

“Rest and water will do me fine-.”

“That’s funny, seeing as you just told me you’d rather me sleep than yourself.” You say with a roll of your eyes, taking a firm yet gentle hold of his arm before you start to peel the bandage away, holding down your nausea just for him.

Tech watches you with a concerned gaze. “I must insist…” he trails off as his eyes move to the sticky paste, clearly uncertain about your own remedy.

“Don’t you trust me?” You ask, and time seems to freeze as you both lock eyes, speaking silently to one another. His gaze is strong and, albeit, quite hypnotising behind his yellow-tinted goggles. But, you seem to snap out of your gaze as he replies:

“I do.”

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat as you drop your gaze to his arm, “let me help you.”

You’re gentle with your movements, applying the remedy over his arm with precision. You could feel his stare on your face, and so you slowly looked back up at him, his face so near you could almost feel the warmth of his breath dancing on your skin. “See? That should help with the pain,” you find yourself whispering.

For once, the two of you didn’t seem to be at each other's necks, both of you seeming to try and read each other’s thoughts. Tech was not the best at reading feelings, and as you gaze into his eyes, you find yourself not being able to read his too.

Eventually, you look away. An unusual heat started to crawl up your neck, and you didn’t think it was from the flame from the fire or his ‘body warmth’ as he put it. Lack of sleep and lack of food and water. That had to be it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep, Tech?” You ask again as the drowsiness from before seeps back, and Tech turns his head away from you, inspecting his arm quietly before picking up his datapad once more.

“I am sure.”

The next day unfolded much like the one before it.

Tech grumbled about your mobility, his attempts to fix up the shuttle yielding no results, and the air between you both grew heavy with unspoken tension.

Yet, as nightfall descended once again, you found yourself nestled beside Tech, his warmth offering a rare respite, allowing you to drift into a peaceful sleep. And miraculously, your homemade remedy seemed to work wonders on both of you. You could now move with a bit more ease, and the infections on your injuries had cleared up.

But as you stared into the dancing flames that night, a wave of sorrow washed over you.

“You were right, you know?” you whispered into the night, the warmth of the fire casting flickering shadows on your face.

“About what?” Tech responded, his eyes fixed on his datapad, the soft glow illuminating his features.

Tears welled up at the corners of your eyes, and you struggled to keep them at bay, feeling utterly helpless. “That it was my fault… with the mission. If I had just let you do the data transfer instead of insisting I could do it then…” Your voice faltered, choked by a sob that escaped your lips, startling Tech. “Then we would’ve made it out in time! A-and the others… Tech, we don’t even know if they’re alive!”

Tech stared at you wide-eyed, your sudden outburst of emotion catching him off guard. Yet, amidst your tears streaming down your face and your hands clasped over your head, he uttered your name softly, “Mistakes happen.”

“But they don’t with you, Tech!” you cried, turning to face him. “You’re always so good, so perfect at everything you do, and I… I just wanted to prove myself to you! I always feel like I am not good enough for you, and that’s why you don’t like me.”

For a moment, the crackling of the fire was the only sound between you, the flames casting a warm glow on both of your faces. Tech's expression softened as he regarded you with understanding.

“Not liking you, is not something that ever crossed my mind,” he finally said, his voice low. “You were determined, and that is a trait that is to be commended. It is true, I often find it easier to rely on myself but I am programmed that way. But you, you gave it your all, and that is commendable. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

You sniffle, feeling the weight of your emotions pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The tears keep escaping your eyes, trailing down your cheeks as you struggle to contain your emotions. "But… because of me, you’re stuck here?"

Tech’s gaze softens, his eyes reflecting understanding. His voice carries a comforting warmth as he responds, “I am aware. But think how you would be if I were not here.”

Your mind whirls with the possibilities of what could have been, but you still feel terrible. "But we may not see the others again… we may not ever leave here." Your voice trembles with the weight of uncertainty, your heart heavy with guilt.

Tech’s gaze shifts away, his brows furrowing in contemplation as he adjusts his goggles. "We have to adapt to survive, we always have. And regarding the others, the probability of their survival is 89%. It is likely they are out there looking for us. And if I get the shuttle repaired enough to get a connection, I can send a signal and hope they pick up our coordinates.” His voice carries a note of determination.

You cling to his words like a lifeline, a glimmer of hope flickering in the depths of your despair. How could you have been so stupid? But, his words held promise but you can’t help but ask: "Promise me you’re not lying to me?"

“I have not once ever lied to you and I would not start now.” His response is steady, his words a soothing balm to your battered soul.

As your tears slowly subside, a tentative smile graces your lips. "Thanks Tech,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. “I bet I look a mess right now. I’m a pretty ugly cryer.”

Tech’s gaze softens, a hint of warmth in his eyes as he searches for the right words. "No, you look…” He trails off, his gaze lingering on your tear-streaked face. He reaches out, his touch feather-light as he gently brushes away a stray tear that glistens on your lashes.

“What?” you prompt, your breath catching in your throat at his unfamiliar touch as you meet his gaze.

“Like you,” he finishes, a little awkward but his words were imbued with sincerity as he offers you a small smile.

Emotion wells up inside you, a tidal wave of gratitude and affection crashing over you. Without a second thought, you lean forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. He freezes for a moment, taken aback by the sudden intimacy, before tentatively returning the hug, his arms encircling you in a protective cocoon.

As you’re wrapped in each other's embrace, you find solace; a fleeting moment of peace.

As sleep beckons, you can’t help but nestle closer to him, finding comfort in his presence as you drift off into the realm of dreams, his steady heartbeat a lullaby.

In the days that followed, a significant improvement became evident. Tech’s progress on the shuttle repair was slow, hampered by the absence of his proper tools. Despite the challenges, both of your injuries had begun to heal, and the atmosphere in camp had lightened considerably.

Although the water still tasted like dirt, you were no longer dehydrated. Discovering some rare fruits that proved not to be poisonous added to the uplifting spirit.

At night, neither of you seemed to mind huddling for warmth. You would lay against him, listening to the plans and stories he had, especially if you begged him to tell you. Although they were very matter-of-fact and not overly entertaining, you found the tales of the squad before you joined enjoyable. You both no longer bickered, clearing the air of past arguments, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. Although it was not like either of you had any other options.

But that’s not the only thing that had changed. You found yourself getting nervous around Tech. A good kind of nervous. When he was working on the shuttle, you couldn’t help but sit back and admire him at work. He was attractive, sure, but you found him more than that. He listened intently to you, offering advice and tips without seeming to mansplain to you.

So that night by the fire again, sitting by his side, you weren’t so surprised about the next set of events.

“What are you going to do when we leave this place?” You ask, your body twisting to face him as you rest your elbow against the boulder, hand on the side of your head as you lean yourself up to look at him.

He smiles, noticing how you said ‘when’ and not ‘if’, highlighting your trust in him. “I will most likely do what I usually do, get ready for the next mission set for us.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t want to celebrate?”

“Celebrate what, exactly?”

“Well,” you start with a soft laugh, “us finally putting our differences aside and not killing each other for one.” You suggest, earning a fond chuckle from the clone before continuing. “And surviving.”

He thinks for a moment, looking into the flames and then at you. “I suppose those are adequate reasons to celebrate, yes. Will the others be joining?”

“Sure,” you say with a smile but there’s a small swirl in your stomach as you say, “unless… you don’t want them to join us?”

Tech blinks, and for a second, it was like he was short-circuiting as he thinks about your proposal. Was it flirtation in your tone or had he imagined it? “I do not mind either way,” he explains, his chest slightly puffing out. “It would be nice to perhaps talk like this in a more formal setting elsewhere. Just us.”

You silently suck in a deep breath, a shy glint in your eyes. “I think I’d like that, yeah.” Your tone lowered, and you can’t help but notice that Tech had turned his body more to face you. Then, his eyes flickered to your lips as you inadvertently licked them, chapped but tinged with the sweetness of the fruit before.

You hold his gaze, slightly tilting your head as you take a gamble and look to his lips, then to his eyes. It was an invitation, and you hoped that Tech got the hint.

And he did.

Slowly, he sets his datapad to one side, finally letting it go as he focuses all of his attention on you. There’s a charge in the air, and you see him lean closer... and closer…

Your breath hitches, eyes slowly falling shut as he closes the distance, his nose brushing against yours before his lips meet your own in a soft, shy kiss. Leaning more into it, your hand finds refuge on his leg whilst one of his hands comes up and cups your cheek.

You sigh into him, heart racing as you feel him grow bolder. His lips, warm and inviting, meld with yours, igniting a spark that you both had been unknowingly kindling. His touch sends shivers down your spine as the kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more intense. The jungle, the planet, the whole star system around you seems to fade away.

Tech utters your name against your lips, your soft moan of a response allowing his tongue into your mouth, exploring, igniting a fiery passion within you.

Gently, he lays you down by the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows across his face. He pulls away for a moment, pulling his goggles off his face as he peers down at you, his eyes a dance of different emotions. “You are enchanting.”

But with a hunger that can no longer be contained, he crashes his lips back to yours, now allowing you to let your tongue meet his in a fervent dance; fingers tangling in his untamed hair meanwhile his hands roam over your body.

The next day brought a breakthrough. Tech managed to gain contact.

Overwhelmed by joy, you ran into Tech’s arms, jumping and letting him spin you around with a chuckle as you knew both of you would soon be saved! And better yet, the others were alive and safe too.

“I can’t believe you did it! You really did it.” You grin at him as he pulls back from the hug but does not let you down, instead cradles you in his arms.

“You seem surprised.”

“Oh Tech,” you say adoringly, leaning forward and giving his lips a soft kiss, smiling as he hums against your lips.

“I will never get tired of you kissing me,” he utters, truly in awe of how this sudden turn of events had happened. It was quick, but neither of you seemed to mind.

Last night was magic. All the bad memories had faded from your mind, solely just focusing on Tech and yourself. When all hope had seemed lost, your mistake led you to one of the best choices you ever could make. And maybe, that promised date would become something more.

Masterlist is pinned😊

Tags: @thiswitchloves9904 @lulalovez @the-bad-batch-baroness @photogirl894 @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad @yunggoblin @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix x @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup p @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter r @erellenora @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lamiliani

#bad batch tech x reader #tech x reader #the bad batch tech #tbb tech x reader #nahoney22 writes #bad batch tech #tbb tech #tech bad batch #the bad batch #tbb

211 notes · View notes

imagine-darksiders · 6 months

Text

Not your time - A Darksiders oneshot.

Hey everyone!

A commission from the lovely and generous @humboltsquid, who requested a female Reader who barely survives an assassination attempt that's carried out in front of the Horsemen.

CW: Blood, guns, assassination attempt, mild descriptions of bullet wounds, aftermath, protective Horsemen, whump, angst, fluff, Death centric.

----------

A sudden flash of dazzling light bursts in front of your face, and try as you might to keep your eyes open, you just know that come Monday, there’ll be an unseemly photograph of you squinting out of the front page of a local newspaper.

“Perfect!” the photographer grins without casting so much as a glance down at the screen of her camera.

Blinking rapidly to disperse the shadow floating in front of your eyes, you take another look out at the crowd gathered on the square below the steps of Haven City Hall.

Most, if not all of their attention is rigidly devoted to you as multiple pens sit poised over tattered notebooks, though there are some people who throw envious glares at the photographer as she retreats back into their ranks.

You have to admit, you find yourself wondering where she managed to scrouge up a working camera.

It’s hardly been a few months since Humanity pulled itself out of the rubble of an unrecognisable Earth.

Word of the Apocalypse, its aftermath and the reasons behind it spread like wildfire – words that originated from your mouth, at the behest of the Four Horsemen, all of whom agreed that you’d make a fine ambassador for your species.

Death made it apparent that he and his siblings thought very highly of you after your involvement in clearing War’s name and surviving trials no human ever had before.

You’re starting to wish they thought a little less of you now, though. This is the seventh ‘press conference’ you’ve been subjected to in the past month. That’s without all the one-to-one interviews you’d been forced into with world leaders, heads of national security, historians, religious leaders, scientist… The list goes on.

Today is just more of the same; a whole lot of reporters clamouring to quote you for their articles in cobbled-together newspapers that have finally begun to crop up around the globe.

At a glance, it would almost appear that you're standing on the steps alone. But upon further inspection, it isn't difficult to spot four, hulking figures eyeing the proceedings from the shadows.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Death, Fury, Strife and War. Your guardians. And quite possibly the best friends you've ever had, no matter their quirks and social ineptness.

They've grown tired of the constant questions from your fellow humans, even Strife, and no doubt the only reason they're here at all today is to watch your back, despite how often you try to tell them that they don't have to worry about you.

You might as well be throwing words at a brick wall and expecting it to break.

In the corner of your eye, there’s another flash, and a split second where your heart starts to sink at the prospect of yet another photograph circling the papers. However, in less than a blink, something smacks into your abdomen with a dull, wet ‘thwack,’ forcing you to stumble onto your backfoot.

Startled, you drop your mouth open and look out at the crowd, dimly wondering why one of them had thrown something at you…

A rock, perhaps?

Strange…

You nearly jump out of your skin when there’s an explosion of motion all around you.

From one moment to the next, War hauls his immense bulk in front of you, dousing you in his shadow as he rips Chaoseater from its scabbard and swings the terrible sword out in front of him, shoulders bristling with a rage you can’t yet place.

At almost the exact same time, Strife appears as if from nowhere to your right, roaring like a wild beast and, to your horror, whipping Mercy and Redemption out of their holsters and pointing them out at the anxious crowd.

A woman screams, loud and shrill enough to hurt your ears, sending blood coursing through them until you’re left grimacing at the sound, only dimly aware of the tiny burn blossoming to life in your abdomen, just beneath your left breast.

No sooner have the brothers locked their legs rigidly into place than someone fills the space behind you– Fury, if the warm body pressing a little too firmly into your back is any indication.

“Strife! The rooftops!” she shouts urgently, and you can’t help but grimace again as her voice thrums through your head like a claxon.

Bewildered. you twist yourself sideways, meeting the stare of the last Horseman, Death. He was the furthest away when the rock hit you, though now he seems to warp through the air towards you with the grace and swiftness of a shadow moving across the square, and all the ferocity of a bull charging down its quarry.

Your mouth hangs open, lips twitching as the burn in your chest grows as if an insect has lodged its stinger inside your skin, and you’re about to ask what in the world they think they’re doing when you pull in a breath.

All at once, your chest hitches painfully, and you hurry to throw a hand over your mouth to catch the hacking cough that takes you by surprise. You pull a face at the sensation of thick saliva spattering against your palm.

It had been a sunny day not moments ago, but as Death approaches from your left, the temperature around you plummets by a staggering degree, as if you’ve been cast into the eye of a polar storm. Growing increasingly alarmed by the second, you pull in a smaller breath, one that rattles and wheezes in its way in, but doesn’t quite manage to fill your lungs as you move your hand away to call Death’s name.

The last thing you expect to see when you briefly glance down is the splatter of rich, glistening blood freckling the previously unblemished skin of your palm.

It’s only then that the thought occurs to you; it may not have been a rock at all…

“Death?” you whimper shakily, lowering your trembling hand and touching your fingertips gingerly to the spot on your torso that’s beginning to feel even worse, as though instead of an insect, a lit cigarette has been jammed against your skin with no signs of cooling.

You’d flinch away from the sensation were you not being tightly boxed in on every side by four, bridling forces of nature.

The eldest of them, Death, is upon you in an instant, dragging the shadows of buildings along in his wake as if, for just a moment, the darkness itself is beholden to none but him.

There’s a fire raging in the Horseman’s wide and simmering eyes that contradicts the icy hands that reach out to catch you by your shoulders when you take a faltering step towards him, only to crumple as the numbness in your legs makes itself apparent.

A familiar chill pours down your spine. One you’re all-too familiar with.

They promised you had nothing to be afraid of, not while you have Four of them in your corner.

But you can’t help it.

Right now, as War bellows a thunderous battle-cry out at some unknown recipient, and the breaths start to leave you in great clouds of billowing, white air, you’re scared.

---

‘No, no, no, NO! NO!’

Death’s ever-churning mind howls with outrage and disbelief, even if his lips remain tightly sealed beneath his bone-mask as he holds you upright by your shoulders, suspending you an inch above the ground in his haste to scan you for injury.

He’s mutely aware that the crowd of humans have already begun to scatter, though whether they’ve been driven away by the Horsemen’s sudden act of aggression or the culprit who has just made a foolish attempt on your life, Death can’t be bothered to guess.

He knows… As soon as he caught the flash from a broken window that overlooks the city hall, he knew. And he knows, for the rest of his wretched existence, that he’ll be trying to atone for standing too far away to reach you in time. For growing complacent.

They've all grown complacent, though he’ll shoulder the blame for his siblings because they – however unwittingly – follow by his example.

He thought this would be safe.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt, this was just another question-and-answer session you’ve done dozens of times before. Curious humans seeking gaps in their knowledge from you.

Who in their right mind would dare, would even have the nerve to try and hurt the human who has been so obviously afforded protection by the Four? Not even Samael, arguably their strongest adversary, would think twice before attempting to antagonise the Horsemen.

He can feel your warm breaths hitting the exposed skin of his sternum as he clings to you, rolling his eyes down until he spies the patch of crimson blooming outwards underneath your quivering hand.

The acrid stench of blood – your blood – is quick to slip between the cracks of his mask and into his unwilling nostrils.

Death’s muscles bunch at the intrusion and he clamps his gnashing teeth down on the primal growl that tries to escape through them.

He’s aware that at any moment, his siblings are going to catch the same scent on the wind, and it’ll be all he can do to stop them from levelling the entire city, just to ensure that your would-be killer doesn’t get away. Hell, it’s all he can currently do to keep his own Reaper Form from tearing itself loose and raking up the souls of any human in the vicinity.

As unhappy as his siblings already are though, they’re about to raise merry Hell when he makes his next announcement.

“She’s been shot,” he spits, pulling the metaphorical trigger on three, loaded guns.

As if from nowhere, a maelstrom whips up around Strife, who only just manages to lurch sideways far enough to spare you and his siblings from being crushed as he erupts into the titanic, armoured beast; Anarchy, shaking out his mane and tipping his horned head back to screech up at the sky.

Steeling himself against your sudden whimpers of alarm, Death barks, “Seventh story window to the North. Go!”

And without needing any further spurring on, Anarchy launches himself into a gallop across the street, leaping up to latch his monstrous claws into the wall of the building and hauling himself straight up the side of it, hand over hand.

War and Fury don’t look as though they’ll be far behind their brother, but Death’s voice is enough to still them before they too can unleash their true forms and give chase.

“Fury.”

Snarling, his sister whips around towards him, her expression faltering when she sees how carefully he slides his arms beneath your knees and hoists you off your feet, cradling you against his unforgiving chest.

“Rampage is the fastest of our horses,” he continues, “Find Azrael, meet us at Y/n’s home.”

She looks as though she’s about to argue, far more interested in joining Strife to enact some well-deserved vengeance in your honour, but another glance at you reminds her that this isn’t the time for personal vendettas.

Fiery hair bobs as she gives a resolute nod, then turns on her heel and raises a fist in the air. “Rampage! To me!”

Death’s attention flits back to you, secure in the knowledge that at least two of his siblings have been distracted from going on the warpath.

Speaking of…

“Brother… Is she...?” War’s voice has dipped and bowed with rage, lending him the cadence of a beast.

Before he can say another word, Death speaks, his magics flaring about him like coiling snakes, though is tone is deceptively calm. “War, I need you to guard us as we ride.”

Without another word, the Horsemen summon their steeds, and Death is forced to relinquish you to War for a second whilst he hauls himself into Despair’s saddle, immediately reaching to take you again when his brother gently lifts you towards him. You scream as he does, trying to curl in on yourself until you’re deposited in the saddle between Death’s sturdy thighs.

Then, in a moment so rare, not even his siblings can remember the last time they saw it, Death slips his hand underneath yours, trying not to let his stomach squeeze at the feeling of your fingers latching onto his. He meets your eyes, loathing the wide, terrible pain that’s been placed inside them.

Pain has no place in your life, not so long as they’re here to protect you from it.

“Not yet,” he breathes, damn-near begs, spurring Despair into a thunderous gallop with Ruin snorting wildly at his heels.

----------

It’s the agony that wakes you in the end, a raging hellfire that ignites in your chest as you startle to consciousness, never recalling how you’d come to be unconscious in the first place.

As if the unexpected pain weren’t bad enough, your heartbeat thuds strongly in your ears, which are ringing with the shouts of several, booming voices, all far too close and spilling over one another in a furious rush, leaving you feeling as though you’ve been placed inside an amphitheatre.

“- the Hell wasn’t someone watching the buildings!?” Fury’s voice, easily distinguishable from her brothers’ and absolutely drenched in her namesake.

Gritting your teeth, you screw your face up when Strife almost roars back, “Keep lookin’ at me when you say that, and I might start thinkin’ you’re blaming me for this!”

“Perhaps I am! You’re the firearms expert, as you so often like to remind us!”

“Why the Hell should that mean-!?” He cuts himself off midsentence, granting you a second of relief before he promptly redirects his attention to one of his other siblings. “WAR! If you don’t stop pacing, you’re going out the goddamn window!”

Ah, you wince, so that wasn’t your heart beating in your ears.

War’s thundering footfalls come to an abrupt halt somewhere to your right, and he promptly responds to his brother’s threat with a rumbling growl, the kind that emanates straight from his chest and spills across the room like a roll of thunder.

They’re fighting about something…. Which isn’t unusual. But lately, they’ve been getting better at not doing it around you.

God your chest hurts. What the Hell happened?

“Mmgh, ugh…” You feel like you need a crowbar to pry your eyelids apart, but at least the pitiful sound you made is enough to stop their incessant bickering.

A new problem arises though, when they instantly start to exclaim anew.

“She’s awake!” Strife gushes.

“I can see that for myself,” Fury sighs, though not without a hint of relieved laughter.

War’s relief is quieter, but no less palpable.

Through the gaps in your eyelids, you spot a flash of red surging towards you as you try to heave yourself upright, but not a moment later, a strong, uncompromising gauntlet engulfs your shoulder, pushing you down to lay flat on your back.

“Stay there,” War’s baritone thrums, as gentle as you’ve ever heard it, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Tears of pain are already trailing down your cheeks, but you suppose he means you’ll make it worse. Blinking to clear your vision, you peer up at the three, titanic figures looming over your head.

Strife’s eyes are the first you meet, glowing like raw gold from beneath his silver helm. They pinch at the corners, a telltale sign that he’s smiling under there. “H-hey, gorgeous,” he swallows thickly as if he’s about to choke, “Glad to see you’re awake again… Scared the Hell out of us back there, you know.”

You know it must have been bad if he’s admitting to fear.

“How’re you feeling.”

Before you can open your mouth to tell him that it feels as if your chest is being split in two, Fury scoffs, turning to shoot Strife a scathing look.

“She was shot, you fool. How do you think she’s feeling?”

“Sh-shot?” you croak, once more attempting to sit up, but with War’s gauntlet pinning you in place, you only succeed in squirming weakly on the-… Are you on your bed?

Your breath starts picking up, throat bone-dry as more tears spill down your cheeks. “I was shot?”

To her credit, Fury swiftly clamps her jaw shut, biting her lip and looking at least a little ashamed for blurting that out. War emits a troubled hum whilst Strife hurries to reassure you.

“Hey, hey,” he hushes, reaching out to drop his enormous hand over the top of yours, “It’s over. It’s over now. Azrael fixed you up. You’re okay.” There’s conviction in his words, but you don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or you.

You roll your neck down slightly to look him over, and it’s only now that you see the blood smeared across his chest plate.

With a sharp gasp, your heart rate skyrockets.

War follows your wide-eyed stare and grumbles, “I told you to wash that off…”

Glancing down at himself, Strife quickly snaps his head up to offer you a shake of his head. “No, no, don’t worry about that. It’s not your blood.”

Despite his efforts, this does little to reassure you.

“It’s yours!?” you bleat.

“Nah, ain’t mine either. S’from the guy who shot you.”

Your abdomen squeezes in protest as you strain out, “Strife! You killed someone!?”

For a moment, he falls silent. All of them do, flicking pointed glances between one another as a creeping chill begins to seep inside the room, reaching your skin even under the blankets that have been tucked around your neck.

“I gave the order.”

All eyes dart to the open door of your bedroom. You can’t help the aborted breath you draw in when you see Death filling the wooden frame.

His bulging shoulders heave up and down slowly, and that dark, brooding stare is adhered to your face, causing you to squirm uncomfortably as if you mean to escape it.

“Finally decided to stop beating yourself up, have you?” Fury mutters under her breath, earning a glare from Death so frosty, you could swear you see her shiver.

“But… but I don’t understand?” you wheeze, furrowing your brow wearily and shifting to try and ease the ache in your lungs, “What do you mean you gave the order?”

“Some fool human made an attempt on your life,” War supplies, “Strife did what we all wished we could do.”

Once again, you try to sit up, and once again the weight of War’s gauntlet stops you.

Grunting, you argue, “But, you can’t… kill someone just because-!”

“-Because what?” Death snaps, stalking towards the bed an effectively silencing you in a heartbeat, “Because an overconfident zealot thought you deserved to die simply because you spoke a truth that didn’t align with his doctrines?”

He may be the shortest of the Horsemen, but that doesn’t mean that Death isn’t several feet taller than you, able to loom over your bed like a storm cloud.

“Were we to stand idly by whilst one of our own was threatened?”

You glance up at the others, taken aback by the ferocious, steadfast frowns on War and Fury’s expressions, and the familiar glint of steel in Strife’s eyes. Not one of them are contending Death’s bold declaration.

That you’re one of theirs.

It’s a hell of a claim to come from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Ancient Nephilim of legend, laying claim to a human?

You wet your lips, but a response doesn’t come.

Death, however, seems only too ready to fill the space of your silence.

In a single, fluid motion, he lowers himself onto one knee beside your bed, and that action in itself is as poignant as his words.

Death never kneels.

The other three don’t look half as surprised as you’re sure you must, not even when their eldest, their leader, reaches out, hesitates, then rests the tips of his cold fingers gently under your jawline, directly over your pulse.

Wide-eyed, you can only stare into the sockets of his mask, breathing shallowly, missing the way his shoulders slump at the sensation of a strong, steady throb beneath his fingertips.

“You’re under our protection,” he states matter-of-factly, backed up by a concurring grunt from War on the other side of the bed, “And when the Horsemen have your back, nobody touches you. Is that understood?”

You press your lips together, both horrified and equally humbled that you could have earned the devotion of such powerful, ethereal beings.

Holding your gaze, Death firmly repeats, “Nobody.”

You still have questions. No end of them. But right now, frightened, hurt, and vulnerable, you’re wrenching heart seeks safety in one of the few places you know can offer it.

It hurts to raise your left arm, but you bite down hard on your tongue and slip your hand around what you can of Death’s solid neck.

The first sob escapes you when he leans towards you, pretending to be guided by your pitiable strength until you can wrap more of your arm around the back of his shoulders and push your damp face into the column of his throat, shivering slightly from the chill on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper against him, feeling his muscles turn lax underneath your touch.

In response, the Horseman nudges his mask closer to your ear and in a whisper that’s meant for you alone, he utters, “You’re not the one with anything to be sorry for…”

Unseen by you, the ancient Nephilim’s eyes glare holes through each of his siblings, daring one of them to comment on his moment of rare, uncharacteristic indulgence.

Per the norm, Strife is the one who struggles to keep his mouth shut.

“Aw, how come Death gets a hug?” Strife whinges petulantly, “He doesn’t even like ‘em.”

“And you believed him when he told you that?” Fury snickers.

On the bed, your grip just tightens around your guardian’s neck as his protective hand lays gingerly against your back, cold fingertips drinking up the warmth of your human body with a reverence known only to Death.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #reader #whump #angst #protective Horsemen #fluff #commission

186 notes · View notes

sprout-fics · 22 days

Text

Mayday Mayday Chapter Three: Bravo in the Green

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Six of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Themes Wordcount: 3.6k Tags: Slow Burn, Whump, Blood and Injury, Active Combat Scenarios, Teammates to ??? to Lovers, Angst, Banter, Flirting, Heavy sexual tension, Mutual pining, The mask comes off Warnings: Descriptions of blood and injury

Wanderers of the desert, you push onwards.

Your team is not pursued, and for that you count a needed mercy against the litany of misfortunes that has beleaguered your team within the past hours. A column of acrid smoke burns up into the stars behind you, the wreckage of the exploded chopper smoldering. With it lay the fallen forms of your would-be pursuers, their comrades limping back into the hills from which they came. Your team hikes further away from the site of the crash, collecting broken forms of your injured brothers between them. You strain under the weight of exhaustion, of your gear, of the shoulder of the injured man beside you as he stumbles up towards the shelter you all seek.

The village is absent of life- and seems to have been for some time. The wind howls between the small collection of buildings, what looks like was once a farm or homestead. Now it is abandoned, the doors creaking as they swing wide in the breeze, desert weeds growing wild against the fences. You can see evidence of lives that once were, interrupted by some great cataclysm. Dishware sits on the rugs, tattered laundry hangs from lines, evidence of some sudden departure you do not know the mystery to.

The team takes shelter in a house up the hill. The marine sergeant takes one of his corporals up to the roof to set up a sniper position. With them goes the comms specialist, and you hear the radio gargling with static from below as you help the wounded inside the dark shadows of the house.

The remainder are left to you. The injured are taken to the side room, and you quickly take in the survivors. Most seemed to have survived the journey well, and the few that didn’t you quickly work on setting to rights with the scarce medical supplies you have left. Their fellows, the ones that carried them half a click east, rest beside them, catching their breath and drinking from the precious water supply with measured sips.

Through some miracle, you don’t lose any more men.

The adrenaline crash kicks in right as you stand to inspect your work on the co-pilot, who you’ve managed to stabilize after he started flagging during the journey. He’s still unconscious, but occasionally you see his head move as he slowly tears himself away from the grave. You sway on your feet a moment, feeling the low ache of fatigue pull at you and settle in your bones. The poison of exhaustion slowly begins to leech into your veins as you wobble a bit towards somewhere a little more private, needing the darkness to cover you as you collect yourself away from your comrades.

You miss the words said to you by the soldier at the door, but they sound grateful, comforting. His hand on your shoulder is that of a friend.

It’s in the shadow of the house’s exterior that you finally collapse, lay your head against the exterior and breathe a deep sigh of relief. Your feet ache from the distance traveled, with you helping support one of the men on one shoulder, and the weight of your weapon in the other. You rub at your neck, trying vainly to relieve some of the ache there, groaning before scrubbing at your face, feeling the scent of blood cling to your fingers along with the grainy sand of the desert.

You’ll probably get a medal for this, you think idly. You try to bring yourself to care past the ache of your spine and dryness of your throat. Of course you’ll have to answer to the base commander about the exploded chopper when you get back- not to mention Price, though you know he’ll have fewer objections, given the circumstances. He’s always been a man of ingenuity and drive, and you know when you give him the mission report he’ll find a way to overlook one exploded helicopter compared to the lives you saved.

The thought of sitting through the paperwork regarding your impromptu escape plan has a weary sigh dragging from your chest. You’re so tired you think you could sleep for days. Now that you’re no longer pursued, and safe at shelter, the possibility of getting home and getting this shitstorm over with has never looked so promising. If you think about a hot shower a little too hard, you can feel your lip wobble a bit.

Just a few more hours, you whisper silently to yourself. Then debrief, which may take hours but at least will be back in the green zone, then a shower, a meal, and then hopefully twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. The thought alone has you smile for the first time all night, and you cling to it as a lifeline against the temptation of crashing too hard down into exhaustion.

Footsteps approaching, and before they get close you already know them by the stride.

“Any news?” You ask as Ghost approaches and leans on the opposing corner of the house, the edge of him a dark shape in your periphery.

“Bird is waiting for clearance, but we’ll be clear by 0600.” Ghost offers flatly. You nod at that, taking in the good news with a quiet sigh of relief, until a gloved hand enters your vision.

“I don’t smoke.” You tell him as Ghost offers the cig towards you, and Ghost shrugs.

“You should.”

“Those things will kill you, you know.”

“So will helicopter crashes.” He drawls, and you huff a small sound of amusement despite yourself.

That’s true at least, and without much else to say you take the cigarette and lean towards the light Ghost offers you, eyes darting up to watch the orange shadows that dance over the white of his skull mask. It’s been a while since you dropped the habit you picked up in training, but a few puffs in you feel your shoulders drooping with ease as the buzz begins to settle over your brain.

“Not going to have one?” You ask as Ghost doesn’t move to light himself one in turn. You know he smokes, you’ve seen it. In the same way you catch glimpses of his chin and the slant of his mouth when he lifts bourbon to his tongue, you know the shape of his face under the mask, the scar that snakes towards his eyebrow and across his upper lip.

“Not tonight.” He tells you simply, but doesn’t make to move from where he stands.

Guarding, you think. Quiet, profound in the stillness.

When you look up at the sky, you can finally see the stars.

You think about the way the flicker of the lighter caught the browns of his eyes.

The billow of smoke curls away from you as you silently puff the cigarette, Ghost as a silent omnipresent shadow beside you.

“Tobacco isn’t good for concussions anyways.” You offer after a long few minutes of silence, and you think you hear Ghost make a mildly displeased sound. Yet when he doesn’t speak, you go on: “I saw you miss your shot.”

With the truck barreling towards you both, bullets pinging off the metal as the team desperately tried to stop it. You thought Ghost would take care of it- only for his own aim to bury itself deep in the soft, sloping sand.

Ghost never misses his shots. Especially at close range like that. You know him better than that.

Ghost stays quiet. He doesn’t offer excuses to you, and you know he’s not the type. More than that, he knows you won’t believe them.

“I’ll get it checked when we’re back at base.”

You frown at that, finally standing and flicking the remainder of the cig into the dirt, crushing it under your boot.

“Why?” You ask, brow drawing with disapproval. “I can check it out right now.”

Ghost watches you, shifting imperceptibly as if he expects you to close in on his space.

“Told you I’m fine.” He tells you again, voice a little lower in warning.

“Fine enough to miss shots.” You retort, and you can tell even in the dark with his mask on that Ghost frowns at you.

“Watch your tone, sergeant.” Ghost warns, voice low and eyes narrowing, and though instinctively you bite your tongue, you don’t step away from him.

It takes you a moment to realize why he’s being so stubborn. At first you think he sees your insistence as another usurpation of his command, a chance to deem him as unfit to lead and take over as CO. You could, in theory. When it comes to the well-being of the team, you outrank even Ghost. You learned your lesson from earlier though, and you thought Ghost would trust you to not try again.

Then, you blink.

The mask.

“Ghost.” You try again, softer now. “Just let me take a look. Won’t take but a minute. The others can’t see us here.”

Ghost is rigid with defensiveness, a novel expression of hesitation in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is tight.

“I’ll check into medical after debrief.”

That bullshit and you know it. You can count the number of times you’ve seen Ghost in medical- and only ever for injuries he can’t tend to by himself. Short of a broken bone or bullet wound, Ghost would rather set his wounds by himself in the solitude of his room.

Like you, in the worst of ways you suppose.

You take a step forward into his space, and relish the brief flicker of surprise in Ghost’s eyes.

“You’re going to trust some base medic more than me?” You ask bluntly, resisting the urge to prod a finger against his vest. “Let some random soldier see your face when I’m right here?”

Ghost doesn’t move, his dark eyes boring down into yours as you glare.

“You said something a while back.” You go on as the voice of the past rings hollow in your ears. “Something about putting myself in danger trying to do everything by myself, right?”

In the hallway. Blood soaking your shirt. Your stitches torn as Ghost loomed dark and furious above you, cradling you as you begged him to look away from the things you couldn’t handle on your own.

How are you any different?

You want to accuse him of a double standard just to hear his defense, feel it engraved inside you how he’s different, better than you are- capable of taking care of himself where you aren’t. You want him to say it if only to feed the dark festering thing inside you filled with unjust comparisons, looking towards him as a north star you’ll never reach.

But this night has never been about hypocrisy. It’s been about trust.

Ghost stares at you, eyes unreadable in the dim light. He doesn’t speak. You don’t move.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grunts at last, and reaches up to unbuckle his helmet and NVGs, a murmur of frustration running through the line of his shoulders. “Be quick about it.”

You do just that as the helmet drops into the dirt beside him, reaching upwards and realizing you can hardly touch the top of his head.

“Sit.” You motion to a crate beside him, and you don’t need light to see the way Ghost sours at the order but complies, begrudging in a way that veils his discomfort.

“I won’t take long.” You try, unclipping your flashlight and holding it up towards his face just as he pulls the mask away and-

Oh.

You feel your breath stutter in your chest.

Ghost...Ghost is beautiful.

You’d dreamt of this moment. You’d dared to dream for months about what Ghost looks like without his mask. You’d let your eyes linger on the slope of his mouth when he smoked, or the way his tongue ran across his lips to savor the taste of bourbon. You’d imagined the taste of him, had dared to wonder what it would be like to feel his lips on yours. In the quiet solitude you’ve been haunted by the glowing amber of his gaze, dark like embers, burning with secrets yet unknown to you.

You’d wondered about the scars you couldn’t see, thought perhaps they’d look familiar to your own that dwell inside you.

Now, illuminated by the fluorescent light of your flashlight, you see him bare for the first time.

He has a strong jaw, and along it there’s the barest graze of stubble that you itch to scrape your fingers through. Your eyes trace the deep, jagged scar that snakes from under the collar of his shirt upwards, grazing the corner of his mouth before veering towards his eye. It looks deliberate, cruel, placed there by someone who rejoiced in their ability to inflict horrific memories upon his flesh. It joins a myriad of others, flicks of a knife and a burn mark just above his brow- and you know that these are not the scars of a man who earned them. They were given to him without his consent, his skin torn asunder by those who took his freedom away.

You feel something inside you tug in familiarity.

His lashes are blonde. As is his hair- buzzed short, a dusky dark color that looks almost like honey. Blood wets a spot at the top of his head, dyeing the color a rusty sort of red as it dries. A drip of it curls down towards his temple, and your eyes follow it back towards his eyes- focused on you with a stare that’s no different from when the mask is on. Driven, dangerous, and in them you somehow see yourself.

You stay there a moment, wound forgotten as you drink your fill of him, trying to engrave inside you all the details you can, wondering if this will be the first and last time you see more of him than you dared to dream.

“Looking respectfully, sergeant?”

You nearly startle at Ghost’s voice tearing you from your thoughts, face warming at being caught ogling him so blatantly. You avert your eyes, clearing the grit in your throat with a little cough, but when you glance quickly back at him you see Ghost is smiling.

It’s a wry sort of expression, the corner of his mouth tugging smugly as he watches you try not to squirm under his stare, and at the reminder of your poor attempts of flirting earlier on the helo. It has no right to be as disarming as it is, catching a glimpse of self-satisfaction flickering in his gaze as you remember to close your agape mouth.

“Very respectfully.” You manage at last, trying to sound professional but more winded than anything. The smile has dropped from his face- there and gone in only a moment, but the syrupy, melting warmth of the expression wells low in your stomach and threatens to further weaken your already unstable knees.

Cheeky bastard.

You avoid his eyes as you look at the contusion on his head, distractedly hovering your fingers over his sweaty hair if only to feel how soft you think it is.

“How bad is it?” Ghost grunts, impatient.

“...You’ll do.” You tell him blandly, scarcely swallowing down the words you want to say. Then, with a hint of retribution: “Still think you’d look better in green.”

The unamused look Ghost shoots you, if anything, seems only to encourage you. You feel your mouth twitch with something close to a grin.

“Stay still for a moment.” You tell him, taking out a bandage and gently blotting at the dried blood on his scalp as he hisses at the touch. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He tells you, reaching up to hold the flashlight as you work. Briefly, his fingers skim across yours as you release the hold on it, and it takes a heavy yield of focus to not let your ministrations cease as your chest flutters.

True to your word, you try to work quickly, cleaning off the blood and as gently as you can trying to apply a smear of antibiotic ointment from your precious, limited supply. At last you secure a bandage to the contusion, and lean back to admire your handiwork.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but you should get checked out on base just in case.” You declare softly, and Ghost nods only once before he’s reaching for his mask again, stealing away the vision of him before you have a chance to look one last time.

“and-” Ghost pauses as you speak, knuckles still grasping the bottom of his mask as he regrettably finishes pulling it over his face once more. “I promise not to tell anyone you’re a blonde.”

Ghost doesn’t move. Hardly even breathes, and after several long minutes of silence you begin to wonder if you’ve pushed him too far.

“Can’t have Gaz and Soap thinking I’m getting special treatment, after all.” You force yourself to laugh, busying yourself with tucking away the medical supplies. Ghosts eyes burn into your back. He’s quiet even as you zip up the med kit again.

“Is that what you call this then, Fix?”

You freeze, shoulders stiff, fingers clasped onto the zipper and thanking heaven you’re faced away from him so he doesn’t see the agape, nearly scandalized expression on your face.

“I-I’m just doing my job.” You stammer after a moment, and regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth. “...Sir.”

You’re almost thankful when Ghost hums as if he doesn’t quite believe you.

You turn to him, hoping the darkness conceals the utter bewilderment and wild hope in your expression. You feel unsteady on your feet, lost in this constant push and pull you’re both caught in, dancing just out of reach and never sure about the others intent. You blame it on the exhaustion when you sway a little on your feet, not expecting Ghost’s gloved hand to shoot out and balance you by your elbow.

Your eyes land on it, travel the path of his arm up to the dark swirl of his irises behind the mask and feel your breath catch and hold in your chest.

Ghost doesn’t speak, doesn’t let go, and in return you find yourself entirely absent of the words you wish you could say.

You want him closer, closer than this. You want to feel the frame of him bracket you against the wall, that same hand traveling up to grab your face as he kisses you. You want him to take the mask off so you can see his mouth again, the pink of his lips that haunts you in your waking daydreams. You want him to say something, anything, that might confirm this isn’t just a dream, that you aren’t creating illusions within your lovesick mind.

You want him so much it aches to not have him.

“Ghost.” You whisper at last, barely audible in case the others somehow hear. Ghost stares at you, dark eyes unblinking, unreadable, until he seems to come to a quiet conclusion within himself.

“Steady on your feet, Fix.” He murmurs carefully, and when his thumb strokes just once on the inside of your elbow, you shudder.

He lets go then, almost reluctantly, and draws away. The absence of him leaves you even dizzier than before, forcing yourself to stand strong as he quietly paces away.

“Get some rest, soldier.” He offers, shouldering his weapon once more and making for the rooftop. “You deserve it.”

You wait until he’s gone to sit heavily on the crate beside you, the one that still has a bit of his warmth from where he perched. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, skin too warm under your loadout and mind reeling.

The softness of his voice, the wry smile, the lilt of his voice when he teased you, the mere touch of him has you leaning back and blinking dumbly at the sky, trying and failing to think through it all.

You deserve it.

It’s the closest thing you’ll get to praise in all this, but it matters little compared to the image of Ghost with that wickedly handsome grin that you know will haunt you for weeks to come.

Heaven help me.

You think all the sinners and the saints can’t help the way you’ve damned yourself for him.

Eventually you force yourself to stand and make your way back to the team sheltered inside the house. You go through practiced motions of ensuring the injured are set, before finally slumping against one of the corners, where one of the marines makes room for you. He passes you a canteen, which you take gratefully, and when you hand it back there’s a smile that wasn’t there at the start of the mission- something that speaks of trust. Respect.

Above you, in the quiet, you hear Ghost’s voice rumble to the other marine sergeant. On watch, as he always is, keeping you in his six just as you keep him in yours.

You drift off to the vision of his smile, and awaken at dawn to return home alongside him in the chopper, his leg pressed against yours warmly. On the tarmac Ghost lingers as you rush with the others to the infirmary, and you feel his eyes look after you as he fades into the distance.

The phantom press of his stare chases you in the hours to come as exhaustion threatens to sweep your legs out from under you, wishing he was there once more to keep you steady, to hold you. You try to remember his face as best you can, the scar on his jaw, the blonde flutter of his lashes. You try and fail to keep the thing inside you dim, refusing to let the dalliance of hope from alighting it into a blaze that threatens to consume you.

When you finally do sleep in your own bed, you find yourself wishing you weren’t alone, and hoping someday you won’t have to be.

Tag List:

Please reply to or reblog this post with 'taglist' to be tagged in future updates. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, please DM me.

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfieriiii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @rentaldarling @mockerycrow @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @tinykaka @dumb-djarin @homicidal-slvt @selinn777 @nachtcirce @jujubashow @mutuallimbenclosure @kkinky @trash-boi-4-life @scatter-mind001 @alittlefansthings @allaboutirem0 @keiva1000 @makariaspresence @achelois-is-here @nightingale-ghost-writer @altered-delta @thetimidsarcasticcat @nestaarcheronss @bitchykittenconnoisseur @ghxstyops @whotfislynn @gazs-blue-hat @obi-wansorrow @liltofu99 @thatswhyilovetheghost @devilsfoodcake22 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @hlo-kty @children-of-epiales @definitelyanonymous @queenquazar @alicesfracturedmirror @stillinracooncity @paigetaylor628 @jinxxangel13 @enfppixie @itsnotmyfaultimdifferent @dustycrusty09 @cminoko @caitiecatastrophe @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @squidalapobre @idypia @astroponyo

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #Simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x ofc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #fic: snowblind #It's done!!#Finally!!#Now onto these two FINALLY banging each other and having feelings about it 😭

84 notes · View notes

whump-in-the-closet · 9 months

Note

Hi! I know you’ve written stuff like this before and I absolutely adore it so I have to request some more sidekick whump? Either hero’s or villain’s sidekick, doesn’t matter!

Have a nice day!!

Sure! Went with hero’s sidekick here because of ✨vibes✨

Villain stood over the blindfolded Sidekick, tied to the chair with hands twisted behind them. Their chest rose and fell unevenly, breath freezing in the air.

They were terrified.

Good.

Villain crouched down to eye level with Hero’s Sidekick. “Rise and shine.”

Sidekick jerked back in the chair, straining against the restraints. “Fuck you—” their voice was raw, spent from screaming for help that would not come.

“Ah ah ah, language,” said Villain. “I would have thought Hero taught you better.”

An unintelligible snarl.

Villain leaned close, yanking off the blindfold. They smiled without showing any teeth. “Now for the first order of business.” With a quick, rough gesture, they pulled off Sidekick’s mask.

“Hey!” Sidekick blinked frantically, trying to adjust their eyes to the cold light. Their breathing was shallow. Panicked. “Hero—” they started to say, then broke off abruptly.

Underneath the mask was a cloud of dark hair and tired eyes. No trademark scar. No dye or piercings. Unsettlingly average. Ordinary.

Villain rocked back on their heels. “Hero what? You think he’ll come and save you still? Or were you going to say, Hero’s gonna kill me?” They laughed. “I’m far ahead of him in that.”

Sidekick looked down. Away. Anywhere that wasn’t Villain.

Villain stood and started inspecting the tools laid out on the table. “You do understand this is business, right?” They lifted up a long, curving knife. “It’s nothing personal.”

Wiping the knife off on the hem of their shirt, they spun back on Sidekick. “For purely business matters, you’ll have to give me your name.”

Sidekick’s lips tightened. No. But their eyes were on the flashing steel.

They shrank back into the chair as Villain circled behind them. “Fine. Be difficult,” they whispered, uncomfortably close to Sidekick’s face.

Villain slammed Sidekick’s head into the table.

Stars. Brilliant-white-pain stars.

Villain’s grip relented long enough for Sidekick to register the pain. And then slammed their head into the wood a second time.

Crack.

“Your name?” said Villain.

“You…you should know. Your mom gave it to me—” Sidekick’s biting response twisted into a cry when Villain yanked their head back until their neck threatened to snap.

When Villain drove Sidekick’s head into the wood this time, Sidekick’s vision went black.

Blood stained the tabletop.

Villain shoved the tip of their blade towards Sidekick’s face.

Hovering there.

Sidekick saw double. Everything was ringing.

“Alright then, smartass, what’s Hero’s name? Tell me, and you’ll go home without any scars,” whispered Villain. “Well, minimal scars.”

Sidekick drew back, shuddering. Their eyes burned with unshed tears. “I—” Their voice cracked. “I can’t.”

Villain shrugged and traced the tip of Sidekick’s ear with the blade. At the touch of the cold steel, Sidekick bit back a sob. They did not beg, but they wanted too. Desperately.

“Your loss, really,” said Villain. “I can do this all day.”

The steel cut down, and something sticky and wet dripped down Sidekick’s ear and the side of their throat.

“Can you?”

228 notes · View notes

whump-and-other-misfortunes · 4 months

Text

Whumpuary 2024 Day 1

1. (Jan 01-02) Captivity / Snow / Secret Revealed

cw physical whump/injury, whumper turned caretaker, captive whumpee

Villain glowered at the struggling captive at their feet. “Well, isn’t this something. When Supervillain said they had a present for me, I was shocked enough as it was. Imagine my surprise when I found out they had managed to capture the pesky little snitch who’s been mucking up all my plans. Selling my information to Superhero and almost getting me caught at that jewel heist last week.”

A weak noise of protest came from their enemy, likely muffled behind a gag. There was a cloth bag over their head, concealing their identity, and their hands were bound behind their back. It was an exhilarating sight to finally have them kneeling at Villain’s feet, completely at their mercy.

“What was that?” Villain taunted when they attempted to talk around the gag. “You’ll have to speak up, sweetheart. I’m busy thinking of all the fun I'm going to have with you.”

They kicked the hero sharply in the side, knocking them onto the ground. With their hands tied behind their back, they had no way of catching themself and their head smacked into the concrete, followed by a choked noise of pain. The hero curled in on themself when Villain’s foot connected with their stomach. It felt so unbelievably good to finally let out their anger on this nuisance who had been giving them so much trouble.

Villain knelt beside them, grabbing onto the hood that concealed their enemy’s identity. “Now,” they drawled, “let’s see who’s under here. I want to see the fear in your eyes and watch you cry while I teach you a lesson.”

They pulled the hood off and felt their blood run cold. A familiar pair of eyes blinked up at them, teary and full of betrayal. “Hero?” they asked in disbelief.

Hero whined, flinching away when Villain hurried to remove the gag. There was a nasty bruise forming on one cheekbone and dried blood under their nose—clearly Supervillain had already had a turn with them before dropping them off at Villain’s lair.

“Oh my god, Hero, I’m so sorry,” they apologized, hands shaking as they helped the other sit up. Thank God Villain hadn’t gotten any farther. “What’s going on?”

Hero sniffed, looking up at Villain with a mix of hurt and anger. “You were about to beat the fuck out of me, that’s what’s going on.”

“No—no, I…” Villain focused on untying Hero’s hands—if they ended up punching Villain once they were free, well, Villain knew they deserved it. “Supervillain told me they had caught the person who’d been selling me out to Superhero. I—I had no idea who they were bringing me.”

“Supervillain is a filthy liar and an opportunist, don’t you know that by now?” Hero said, rubbing their wrists once Villain finally undid the rope. They hissed in pain, glaring at the angry red marks on their skin.

Villain pushed their hair back gently, inspecting for damage where Hero’s head had hit the ground. Luckily, it didn’t look too bad—they'd probably just be sore for a bit. “So you’re not the one who’s been selling my info?”

“You think I would?” Hero asked earnestly, meeting the other’s gaze. “Of course it wasn’t me. It was Supervillain, you idiot.”

Suddenly, the pieces all fell into place. Fuck, it was all so obvious—Villain really was an idiot, weren’t they? “They were trying to frame you—shift the blame off themself and get me to take you out at the same time.”

“Two birds,” Hero agreed.

“I’m going to kill them,” Villain growled, eyes darkening with rage. “I’m going to torture them slowly until they’re begging for my forgiveness and then I'm going to kill them.”

Hero smirked and punched their arm halfheartedly. “I told you no killing, remember?”

“Ugh, you’re no fun.” Villain sighed melodramatically. “…Is a little torture okay, though?”

Hero rolled their eyes. “A tiny bit, I suppose. But can you take me home first? I’m so tired.”

Villain frowned, cradling Hero’s face in their hands. “Yeah, of course,” they said, more quietly. “I'll take you home, and get you cleaned up and tucked into bed. I’m sorry about all this.”

“Thank you.” They let Villain pull them into an embrace without protest. “Just make sure to give Supervillain my regards.”

“Anything for you, Hero.”

#whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno1 #captivity #secret revealed #hero x villain #whump #whump writing #physical whump #injury whump #whumper turned caretaker #accidental whump #captive whumpee #hero whumpee #villain whumper #villain caretaker #snippet

124 notes · View notes

whumpbump · 2 months

Text

Quarantined

Cw: lab whump, sick whump, injections

Whumpee didn’t remember anything before the lab. They knew that must have had some kind of life because they were sure they didn’t grow up there. When they tried to think of what life was before, they drew a blank. Their mother’s face was just blurry enough that they couldn’t quite put it together. Their dad, was he even there?

Waking from their dream and shaking off the melancholy, they prepared for the day. They waited for their gruel to be pushed through the small window and awaited next directions.

“7.6.G it is time for daily assessments.” The tinny loudspeaker crackled to life.

‘7.6.G, that’s my name here, but, what was it before this?’ Whumpee wondered as they sat back in their facility-issued safety chair, bolted to the floor.

Someone in a white hazmat suit entered the room with a mirrored lens on covering their face so Whumpee couldn’t identify anyone.

“How are you feeling today, 7.6.G?” The suit asked.

“Fine.” Whumpee knew not to speak further lest they be punished. Do not speak unless spoken to, and make it short.

The suit hummed with efficiency as they took Whumpee’s blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels.

“Today is a special day! We are moving forward with testing on the project you’re involved in! This is good news!”

Whumpee smiled back at their reflection in the suit’s lens. The smile didn’t look genuine, Whumpee hoped it would fool the suit anyway. Whumpee had no idea whether it was good news or not in their case.

The suit left and after a while, Whumpee received a similar signal to sit in their chair for treatment.

‘Treatment? I don’t know if that sounds good to me..’

But ever so obedient, Whumpee sat and waited for this treatment. Two suits came in this time. Definitely not the one from the morning, they seemed very serious and carried a special cooler case with them.

“Identify yourself.” The taller suit barked at Whumpee.

“Uh, 7.6.G?”

The one holding the cooler case set it on the table next to Whumpee. Opening the case showed the interior was entirely covered in a packing foam to keep a small vial of clear liquid safe.

The tall one kept Whumpee’s attention as they asked them about how they were feeling and if they had generally good health, Whumpee wasn’t sure what this had to do with anything, and they didn’t really remember anyhow.

“We will go ahead with experiment XY70. You may begin.”

The second suit cleaned Whumpee’s arm with an alcohol pad and inserted a needle into Whumpee’s deltoid muscle. As the contents were pushed in, Whumpee yelped.

“Ow! It stings!”

“Sit STILL!”

Whumpee immediately quieted. They had misbehaved.

The tall one loomed over Whumpee.

“You had better hope you didn’t just ruin this experiment. You are the test subject. The throw away. I could easily find another and get rid of you just as easily. Do you understand? Do you understand that you’re expendable? Do you realize that I have chosen you out of hundreds of others and I have housed and fed you out of my own pocket? I just injected you with 1 million dollars worth of science. And you are still expendable to me. So stop talking. We will be back in an hour to check your vitals.”

The suits left and the tall one slammed the door to Whumpee’s room.

‘Well, I guess they’re in charge.’

As Whumpee’s heart rate slowed from their panic of being in trouble, Whumpee felt their eyelids starting to droop. Whumpee stood up to walk over to their bed and the room began to spin. Stumbling, Whumpee made it to their bed and practically fell into the spongy mattress.

Shivering, Whumpee pulled the thin blanket on top of them and curled into themselves to keep warm. The loudspeaker crackled to life. “Take your seat for the 1 hour inspection.”

Whumpee cracked open their eyes. That couldn’t have been an hour. Did they.. fall asleep? They wanted to get up. They had to. But they just couldn’t will themselves to do it. They felt exhausted. Any slight movement sent waves of pain that shocked them to their core.

The door opened and the two suits re-emerged from wherever the door led to.

“Why are you still in bed?” The tall one started, “The loudspeaker gave you an ORDER.”

“I- *cough* -I-I’m sorry, I- *cough* -I can’t get up.”

The tall one paused as the shorter one pulled the blanket back gently.

“Elaborate.” The tall one commanded as the shorter one listened to Whumpee’s heart and lungs.

“I can’t brea-breathe very w-well and I - *cough* I’m so c-cold,” Whumpee’s teeth chattered. “Any- *wheeze* -anytime I try to move, it f-feels like I’ve be-been hit by a train.”

The tall one recorded this in a notebook and their body language seemed positive.

“Well,” the tall one snapped their book shut, “it looks like you’re worth something to me after all. Congratulations. We will be monitoring you as the illness progresses.”

#whumpee #whumpblr #whump blog #whump ideas #whump #whump inspiration #whump tropes #whumper #lab whump #cw medical #medical examination #medical whump #tw injections #cw injection #sick whump

59 notes · View notes

whumpsoda · 4 months

Note

AWWWHTHE TWO WHUMPEES ARE SO CUTE

I raise to the anon that raised to the other anon to potentially make the more aware whumpee be threatened by their whumper to be turned into the more thralled whumpee cause they’re easier to deal with. or maybe they have a trigger word that causes them to melt into that state? then the next play date it’s even cuter cause they’re both barely functioning

plus the vampires notice that a, whumpee’s get into way less trouble after a play date and they seem calmer and less lonely. b, the whumper’s are getting closer as a result of the play dates.

WOHEO Masterlist

This sort of fits with what you said but also this is kind of just what your ask inspired :D

But I’m gonna admit I really like this piece (it’s so late who knows how I’ll feel abt it in the morning) and I’m so happy to write Nevan again :3

Taglist- @softvampirewhump

cw- vampire whumper, human whumpee, hypnosis/brainwashing, humiliation, pet whump, servant whumpee multiple whumpers??

———————————————————————

Nevan stood, posture rigid and trained, just as his master liked it. He kept still and unmoving, the only exception remaining being the subtle rise and fall of his chest, but even that was predominantly covered by his newest, delicately cream colored dress. His hands stayed locked upon his abdomen, fingers neatly intertwined, and his expression remained relaxed and blank.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He didn’t need to think about it. He didn’t need to think. Master would call for him when he was needed.

He waited and waited. He didn’t mind. If he had no use, Nevan stood still and pretty like Master wanted.

His eyelids soon fluttered open, triggered by his master’s ringing bell that instantly worked to pull him from a deep and submersive trance. His vision settled, shifting out of a muddled blur, so he could quickly gloss over the dimly lit kitchen.

The ring of the bell, no matter how faint and far away, to Nevan was almost as loud as an airhorn beside his ear. It took easy hold of his cobweb filled, mushy brain.

Each step to follow the beautiful noise was planned and graceful, like a perfectly programmed robot. Various voices full of joy and laughter graced his ears as Nevan neared, still drowned out by the captivating bell. For a smidge of a second his glossy eyes took in the group of joyous vampires, before turning to Darius.

Nevan stopped by the vampire’s side dutifully, positioned perfectly. “You called for me, sir?” He questioned, head tipped as his glassy eyes stuck to the floor.

Darius grinned pridefully to his friends, raising his glass to the thrall. “Refills for everyone, pet!” He demanded, slurring just a smidge at the end, and a few of the guests cheered in delight. Nevan shivered with glee from the mere sound of his master’s alluring voice.

“Of course, master.” Nevan swiftly stepped to the glistening silver platter that sat amidst the group, elegantly lifting a glimmering bottle of precious champagne.

Conversation continued to whirl around him as Nevan made his way to each seat, filtering through one ear and out the other. Only a couple of them poked or prodded at Nevan, either inspecting him or jokingly attempting to break his intense focus.

Liquid streamed from the opening of the bottle as he tilted it, the beverage bubbling and droplets splashing to the sides of each cup.

The vampires easily ignored him, but a good boy like Nevan didn’t mind. He was but a servant, fulfilling his duty to ensure Master and his friends fully enjoyed themselves.

The last of the refills was Adrastus, and Nevan’s heart pulsed with excitement all on its own as he neared them. Just their presence was enough to cloud his mind in a sip of extra pleasure, considering how powerful they were.

Nevan set the bottle of alcohol back to the platter with a tap, before sliding his hands to the ceramic teapot next to it. He tenderly gripped it, turning to the vampire, who greeted him with a heart melting smile.

“Hello, dear.” They held out their cup to him, their voice sending a chill of bliss trailing down his spine.

Nevan could feel their eyes on him as he watchfully poured their fill, fighting back the urge to allow his drooping eyes to fall to a close. “Thank you, sweet.”

“My, my pleasure…sir.” Nevan replied, subconsciously leaning toward their enticing aura. Adrastus continued grinning, leaning intently toward the thrall as well.

“So polite.” They stroked an icy hand affectionately down his face, then clutched his chin, effectively pursing his lips and tugging him closer. His breath hitched as Adrastus looked him over, shifting his head slightly each way to get a good look. They grinned wide with satisfaction, their pale cheeks pillowing and squinting their mesmerizing eyes.

Looping a finger through the tight cream collar strapped around his neck, they yanked him further, Adrastus’ face level with Nevan’s neck. He whimpered involuntarily, head swimming as their breath gently warmed his exposed chest. Nevan drowsily inched his head to the side, happy to expose more skin.

Please, please, please!

Adrastus slipped their finger out with a sharp laugh, causing Nevan to hazily flinch back. “How eager you are!” All eyes turned to them, and a flicker of dazed embarrassment tainted Nevan’s cheeks as the vampire chuckled. “Unfortunately I’m not your master, darling. Return to him and maybe he’ll be kind enough to fulfill that wish!” They giddily shooed him off.

His head began to clear just a bit as he stepped back, their spell loosening and his original orders resurfacing. Nevan set the pot back to its respective spot, and realizing he’d completed his master’s orders he strode to make a soft exit and return to his station.

The gazes of several vampires followed as he went to make his exit. He nearly passed right by Darius, before a forceful hand gripped right above his elbow. Any movement quickly ceased, halting him to a stop, and Nevan’s glossy stare never wavered as his master spoke.

“Seems you’ve taken a liking to Nevan.” Darius sneered, but at Adrastus. “I can see why, though. I think I’ve finally perfected him.”

“Well of course I have, Darius. You’ve seemed to have molded him exceptionally well, even better than the last I saw you two!” They exclaimed, before reaching down to the floor by their side. “But of course there’s no contest between him and my precious little puppy.” Adrastus cooed, shuffling their own thrall’s shaggy curls.

Malak purred, leaning into the touch of his loving master, all the while practically hidden away in a swaddle of plush blankets.

“Well you are a conditioning professional, aren’t you?” Darius joked.

Unmoving and ready, Nevan wondered when his master would supply him his next order.

Adrastus chuckled, giving Malak one more itch to the scalp. “Exactly! But, really, I’m certainly glad you’ve brought him to your liking. You always have been so particular with your thralls.”

Darius sighed, leaning back in his seat. “I know, I know, I can’t seem to help it. I really did want to allow him to retain more of his lucidity and intelligence, but he just wasn’t good enough.”

Nevan’s face fell with shame. He’d been bad. Even if now he couldn’t remember it, he’d disappointed his master, and for that he could never be forgiven.

“With a couple more conditioning sessions, he turned out perfectly, though.” Darius boasted, smugly.

The vampire tugged lightly on his thrall’s arm, prompting Nevan to turn and face him. “Perfectly obedient, perfectly thoughtless. A bit of a husk, if you will.” Darius bragged, meeting his thrall’s gaze with his own enchanting, magnetizing, beautiful eyes.

“A pretty thing, too!” One of the unfamiliar guests chimed in, to Darius’ delight. Even with a devoid expression, Nevan was silently beaming at the compliment.

Adrastus huffed a chuckle. “You always have liked them pretty, haven’t you?”

“Well what’s the point in getting an ugly servant? They’d ruin the look of the whole house!” Darius declared, taking a brisk swig of his drink. “One of his jobs is practically just looking nice. Like a little statue when I don’t need him.”

The other vampires nodded in acceptance. “Nevan has many jobs, though.” Darius wickedly grinned, turning to his thrall. He looked to Nevan, waiting enthusiastically for the thrall to fulfill his unfortunately not verbalized wishes.

Buffering for a moment, the human made no moves, until he noticed his master lick his glittering fangs. Nevan trembled with mind melting pleasure, his upper body obediently dropping toward his master. Head cotton filled and buzzing, he craned his neck as far as he could manage, sticking his flesh eagerly in his master’s face.

Master had already fed from him that night! He only took extra when Nevan was extraordinarily good! He beamed heavenly with a dreamy eyed smile.

Darius boisterously laughed, spittle flying from his open mouth, cutting right through Nevan’s bewitched spell. Other vampires giggled as well, and in a daze Nevan’s face twisted with a hint of confusion.

“Like you said Adrastus, eager. He’s often a bit of an idiot, though.” Darius snickered, smiling to his guests. “Down, Nevan.”

The thrall dropped instantly to the hardwood flooring, knees bumping with a stinging thud. Darius looked down to him expectantly, and Nevan stared back with puzzlement until he noticed the vampire’s legs. Darius wiggled his limbs, lifting them above the floor and resting them in the air.

Nevan slowly came to realize his mistake, thankful his master wasn’t more brutal with his insults as he usually was. He eagerly crawled toward the front of his master’s chair, stationing himself under Darius’ stretched legs.

Darius plopped them to his arched back, ankles rolling across his spine. The vampire’s pants tickled Nevan’s skin, goosebumps raising in delighted hordes.

Vampire laughs and claps enveloped the room, and Nevan could sense Darius relishing in the attention. “You did not! You really use him as a foot rest?” Adrastus exclaimed, poorly hiding their enjoyment of the scene.

Darius answered smugly. “Don’t be so dramatic! He likes it, don’t you, bud?” He folded over, reaching down to stroke Nevan’s silky locks.

Nevan mindlessly leaned into the gentle touch, savoring the gift of contact Darius so rarely gifted him.

“Good boy.” Darius praised, resting back comfortably in his seat, his hand slipping away.

Another vampire quickly jumped in, grabbing the full attention of the group, leaving Nevan to devotedly hold his form.

He didn’t know how long he was there. Palms and knee caps burrowing into the hard floor, straining his joints and muscles. Fuzzed sound dancing around his ears, not quite making their way into his clogged mind. But it was okay.

Master would call him when he was needed.

#asks :)#whump #whumpblr #pet whump #whump writing #mind control whump #my writing #brainwashing #vampire #vampire whump #vampire whumper #servant whumpee #hypnotized whumpee #hypnosis whump #Nevan oc #Darius oc #Adrastus oc #Malak oc #we only have each other

61 notes · View notes

steddie-fanfic-recs · 6 months

Text

The Pretty Ugly

by writersagainstwritersblock

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington/Other(s) Character: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Argyle (Stranger Things), Chrissy Cunningham, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Dustin Henderson, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Mike Wheeler, Jim "Chief" Hopper, Joyce Byers Additional Tags: Hurt Steve Harrington, Protective Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Whump, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Needs Love, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs Therapy, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, (rape/non-con elements are mostly off screen), Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington Has PTSD, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Rockstar!Eddie Munson, Prostitute!Steve Harrington, Minor Character Death, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Eventual Happy Ending Words: 182,356 Chapters: 44/44

Summary

Rockstar Eddie Munson needs a fake boyfriend after a scandal; enter high end escort Steve Harrington. Unfortunately Eddie's heart didn't get the memo on the 'fake' part of the deal, while the more time he spends with Steve the deeper he falls, the closer he gets to something that looks a whole lot darker than a college student just trying to pay off his student loans. “For you, your highness.” Eddie bent at the waist as he offered the cheap stuffed animal. Steve’s eyes went wide, but he accepted the little stuffed animal, holding it up for inspection. Some of the stitches were visible and his eyes were lopsided, but it didn’t change the way Eddie’s heart stuttered as Steve very gently touched its nose against his own, holding it like it were an actual small creature and not cotton and thread. “What’s his name?” “Bernard,” Steve said with such confidence that Eddie couldn’t help laughing. “What?” Steve said, looking mildly affronted. Eddie grinned. “No, it’s a great name, Bernard the Bat. Berry for short even.” Steve crossed his arms, but with the stuffed animal it looked more like he was hugging it to his chest. “Slushies?” Eddie said before he could do anything stupid.

#steddie #steddie fic rec #multi-chaptered #100-200k #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #au modern #rockstar eddie #sex worker steve #au no upside down

72 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months

Text

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind.

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance.

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong.

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it.

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance. “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself.

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed.

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue.

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?”

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

#whump #new whump #the heretic's confession #captivity #captivity whump #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #fantasy whump #some weird fantasy race stuff happening here #just go with it #religious whump #religion whump #fantasy writing #bohli is a bad bad man #grigori is just a tired blorbo

91 notes · View notes