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anilovie · 5 months

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could I please have some anakin fluff when the reader is on her period and every inch of her body are sore and the period pain is so painful? despite how he intense he could get during sex and all, I wanna see the gentle and loving side of anakin from you hihi, thank youu

hii thanks for the request!! i wrote a little something that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, but if you want some more general thoughts on this just let me know!!

CW: whump + fluff, mentions of menstruation/blood/pain but nothing too graphic, f-implied reader

WC: 1.3k

You would try your best today — that’s all you could promise yourself when you woke up to the dreaded stomach pains, sore muscles, and the dark red spot blooming on your bedsheets; all signs pointing to a very unfortunate time of month.

It was a shitty way to start the morning, ripping your bedsheets off and throwing them in the wash and trying not to beat yourself up for making a mess, waddling around your room due to the sticky mess between your thighs. You hadn’t anticipated starting today— you were a few days early, which was just perfect, because of course you’d be on the heaviest day of your period when you had so much to do.

No matter how bad you wanted to stay in bed all day, you had to get your clothes on and join the rest of the hustle and bustle in the temple halls. The war didn’t stop for your period, after all.

Considering you were in a shit mood, you tried to avoid everyone and stuck to working alone. Anakin was also busy, which you were glad for. He didn’t need to see you like this.

But he, without fail, always made it a point to free up time in his busy days to see you. Somehow. Even if it meant swiping you from your own work to walk with him to the caf for a quick coffee run.

And of course. Of course of course of course. Right before he dropped you back off to let you go back to work, he leaned in real close and said:

“You okay? Do you need anything from me?”

His eyes subtly shifted downward, and then back up, and you full-heartedly wished the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.

“I’m good, Anakin, thanks,” you rushed. He was never embarrassed to talk about it, but for some reason you were.

How could he even tell??

“Okay,” he knew not to push, even though you were clearly lying. “Just come find me if you need anything, alright? I’ll see you tonight.”

He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead and pulled back with a small smile.

Just as soon as he turned to leave, a cleaning bot turned a corner too fast, one of its long metal arms flailing out too fast for you to anticipate. It slammed you in the lower stomach, right where it hurt the most.

“Shit—“ you gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around your middle, keeling over in pain. The droid was long gone by now, not having the capacity to understand what it did and scurrying back to duty.

Anakin swore a little too loud, turning right back around. He’d caught what happened out of the corner of his eye, forgetting about potential onlookers as he held you up with his arms, urging you back into an empty room and sitting you down in the nearest chair.

“Where’d it get you? Right there?” He was kneeling before you, brows creased in worry, subconsciously rubbing your arms up and down as his gaze pierced into the death grip you had around your middle.

Your eyes welled with pained tears, lip quivering as you struggled to keep your cool. “I’m okay,” you squeaked. “It was an accident.” But God, did it feel like your insides were being shredded up right now.

The cramps you’d been dulling with regular doses of painkillers came back full-force, twisting and pinching and radiating all through your lower abdomen, back, thighs— god, it hurt everywhere, and you really didn’t need this today.

That thought had a pathetic little whimper escape from your throat, and you would have been able to see Anakin’s heart break if you weren’t still hunched over, trying to diffuse any of the pain at all. Anakin’s hand roamed from your arm to your back, rubbing between your shoulder blades, giving you a minute.

“I’ll have to find that droid later,” he sighed under his breath, sinister. “But first, we should get you into bed. I don’t want you working any more today.”

The fact that you actually nodded in agreement was a very bad sign. Anakin wished he’d grabbed that stupid droid as soon as it passed you and broke its damn neck. Some sensors were clearly missing, anyways.

He wished he could carry you, but it was the middle of the day and too many people were walking around the temple. “Can you walk?” He asked tenderly, ducking his head to try and catch your eyes.

“Yeah,” you grit between your teeth, wincing as you straightened up and pushed yourself to your feet with a great big breath. It ached, the worst you’d ever felt, and you couldn’t walk without leaning forward, pressing a hand to your tummy as if it would help at all. Anakin took your other hand and led you out of the room, through the halls, and to your room.

His com started beeping as soon as he closed the door, answering it with an exasperated, “Not right now, Ahsoka. I’m busy.”

You’d have scolded him for snapping at his Padawan, but you were too focused on beelining to your bed, needing to sit again.

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. Your sheets were still in the dryer from this morning. “I forgot to make my bed,” you explained to Anakin once he caught up from the other room.

“Let me draw you a bath. I can make it in the meantime,” there was no room for argument as he slipped past you to the bathroom. “Come. Sit,” he held out a hand, almost stern, and once you took it, he nudged you to sit on the lip of the bath as he leaned in to twist the knobs.

He was mother-henning.

One of his hands remained on your knee as he fiddled with the knobs until he got the right temperature, testing it with his own hand before deeming it acceptable.

“Hands up,” he demanded, turning to you after shaking the water droplets from his fingers.

“Anakin, I can undress myself…” you cringed. Really, you didn’t want him to see how bloated and gross you probably looked. It’s how you felt at least. Even if you logically knew it wouldn’t even phase him, you’d rather take care of this business yourself.

“Alright,” he surprised you, giving in with little argument. “Can I just see, though? I want to make sure it didn’t bruise you.”

“I don’t think it did,” you said softly. “Just hurt really bad cause, yaknow… but you can see after.”

“Okay,” he stood, kissing you on the head on the way up. He grabbed a towel from the hanger behind the door and folded it on the sink for you to grab easily. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Aren’t you busy, though? You don’t have to stay with me.”

“I’m not busy,” he lied, and you gave him a pointed look. “None of it’s very important, at least.”

You were too tired to argue, plus you did really want him to stay with you. So you just nodded and whispered, “thank you,” as he closed the door.

With him gone, you finally allowed your face to twist into the pained grimace you’d been holding back, not wanting him to see how bad it truly hurt— was still hurting. Whatever that droid did, it must have knocked something loose, because it never usually hurt this bad.

With some deep, measured breaths, and lots of quiet swearing, you got undressed and cleaned up a little before getting into the bath, sighing in relief as your sore muscles relaxed in the hot water. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, chest warming at the muffled sounds of Anakin walking around your room, making your bed and talking to someone on his com: something along the lines of, “Leave me alone, I’ll do it tomorrow. Yes, I’ve already given the report, have some faith in me, why don’t you? No, it wasn’t last minute— by the way, there’s a CC-4 walking around missing some sensors—“

You didn’t stay in the bath for long, not wanting to keep Anakin waiting. Plus, it was making you sleepy and you wanted to get into bed so you could sleep away your woes.

Cringing with every movement, you lifted yourself from the bath and rushed to get everything cleaned and covered before you made a mess on the floor. You pulled your robe on from its hangar and exited the bathroom in considerably much less pain, pleased to see Anakin finishing tucking the sheets into the mattress, having laid out some snacks and a big glass of water on your desk. As you grew closer, you also found a little napkin with some pain pills on it.

“You should take those,” he instructed over his shoulder, and you smiled softly, picking them up and swallowing them with water.

“Thanks for all this, Ani,” you said, crawling onto the newly made bed. “Are you really gonna stay?”

“Of course,” he pulled the blanket right up over you before you could even reach for it. “Obi-Wan’s covering for me. I’m all yours tonight.”

“You should buy him a cupcake or something, it’s very nice of him to do that,” you muttered, already reaching for his belt and tugging on it loosely . “Can you get in bed with me?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, unclasping his belt and laying it carefully on your desk. He kicked his boots off and slid in right beside you, and you instantly sighed, melting into his warm chest, arms circling around you like it was second nature. He let you shift around until you were comfortable, leg slotted between his, draped half-on and half-off his chest, head tucked right below his chin.

Another achey cramp washed over you, urging you to take his flesh hand and direct it over your lower abdomen, right where it hurt the most; which was also where you got hit.

“You said you’d show me,” he reminded gently.

Your response was muffled by the material of his robes. “It’s not bruised. I’ll show you later.”

You couldn’t see, but he smiled at your slightly slurred voice, your smaller hands gripping his large one to keep it over your tummy. He loved knowing that just his touch could give you so much relief. “So sleepy,” he teased, lips skimming over your forehead.

He breathed you in deeply for a long moment, rubbing your tummy in gentle motions. It ached at first, but soon the motions and the warmth of his hand eased away the pains, massaging you with just the right pressure to make it feel much, much better. You sighed in relief.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” he whispered, though you were already half asleep.

“‘Ts okay. It’s unavoidable.”

“I’m still sorry. I wish you didn’t have to be in so much pain all the time. I wish I could take it away from you.”

You almost laughed at what you could say in response to that, but he was being serious, so you were too. “You’re making me feel better now, Ani.”

He sighed, squeezing your waist with his metal arm. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you kissed his collarbone.

He huffed a gentle laugh, and you relaxed further into him, putty in his arms. Anakin just had a way of making you feel so warm and so safe, your brain just goes quiet whenever you’re around him.

He slowed his hand on your belly, easing the pressure just a bit so you could tumble into unconsciousness. Somewhere between watching you sleep, roaming his hands over each of your aching muscles, front to back, and fiddling with the ends of your hair, he followed you into unconsciousness.

#requests #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin #anakin x reader fluff #anakin fluff #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x reader fic #anakin skywalker x reader fluff #anakin x reader fic #fluffy anakin

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viperwhispered · 27 days

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A little drabble inspired by this ask by @lex752. Basically, similar to the goddess Kali, reader is going on some sort of a rampage, something possessing them (or however you want to interpret it). Cue Jamil having no other choice but to take on the role of Shiva and get trampled. 🙃 Established relationship, violence, blood and injuries, whump & angst. Gore / injuries mostly implied. (I’m not an angst writer and I don't like gore, I say, and then this thought comes and demands to be written out.)

There you were. His qalbi, his heart, wreaking havoc.

Hurting people.

Jamil knew achingly well that you would want to be stopped, that it would hurt you to learn of what you'd done.

Had this been anyone else but you, he could have turned away, kept himself safe. Sought out other options.

“Qalbi,” Jamil called out, stepping closer.

His heart was constricted so tight in his chest, his mind working overdrive to think of something, anything.

Yet Jamil was painfully aware that there was no force he possessed that could stop you right now. Snake Whisper had not found any purchase with you in this state, and the rest of his magic had not fared much better.

Yet it was not the mindlessness of the overblots. You were still there, Jamil could see it plainly despite the violence your usual self was so incapable of.

So, out of bad options, Jamil had to choose the least bad one.

“Hayati.” My life. “Listen to me.”

All those sweet words and pet names, meant for softness and warmth and not this scene of carnage. Meant for when your hands soothed and caressed, not when they destroyed and ripped.

Or maybe they were needed now more than ever before.

“Ya ruhi.” My soulmate.

Jamil stumbled when you struck him.

How warm his blood was, spilling on his skin.

Jamil could only hope that the hurt on his body would not hurt you too much, later.

And that he was not making the biggest mistake of his life right now.

Jamil fell at your feet - all a part of his plan, he told himself, even as his legs gave up under him from your onslaught.

He gasped a breath, his body tense, anticipating the next strike.

Another breath.

Another.

And a hitched breath from you when you fell to your knees beside him.

Was it blood, or tears, that Jamil felt dripping down on him? The way your touch lingered on him, sticky with the scent of iron…

“There you are,” Jamil mumbled through his cut lips, having trouble focusing on your face.

It was alright. He’d done it.

He had time to be upset later.

He faintly heard your sobs, the sound of rushing blood in his ears drowning out everything else.

A little worried this may have ended up ooc but the concept would not leave me alone so here we are. I promise to make up for any potential emotional damage with some fluff in the future. Taglist in the replies because tumblr just does not want to co-operate with me in these matters. If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know! (And if you're someone who should've been tagged but didn't get the notif, let me know that as well.)

#twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #ner writes #the joys of a) trying to make sure I was using accurate arabic terms and b) deciding on which particular forms I should go for #here's hoping I managed to be consistent as I hoped tho

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 15 days

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Whump in Buck/Tommy on AO3

Right now, we have...

1,748 works tagged with Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard

of which 1,351 are left if you exclude the Buck/Eddie tag

86 of those are tagged Hurt/Comfort

33 of the Hurt/Comfort ones are tagged Hurt Evan "Buck" Buckley

there's a total of 647 works with the tag Evan "Buck" Buckley Whump on AO3, but it's only used 8 times in Buck/Tommy

34 works on AO3 use Hurt Tommy Kinard, 33 of those are in the Buck/Tommy tag (the missing one actually belongs to the few Buck/Eddie/Tommy fics)

22 works in the Hurt/Comfort tag belong to the tag Tommy Kinard Takes Care of Evan "Buck" Buckley

64 works have Emotional Hurt/Comfort in the Buck/Tommy section

Right now, Hurt/Comfort takes up less than 7 % of the Buck/Tommy fics, which is not that bad, I think – it's just a fluff couple that has the potential to reduce Buck's emotional hurt. But it also has the potential for great physical hurt, because this is 9-1-1, the show with many ridiculous injuries 😂 And I'd love some more whump for them.

(Also, I feel this needs to be added, the 1,351 works that use Buck/Tommy are NOT in fact 1,351 works that FOCUS on that relationship, some are break-ups or hints of poly etc. So the real numbers are lower)

More on the topic

#stats #Buck/Tommy #9-1-1 #fanfiction #AO3 #Hurt/Comfort #Whump #BuckTommy

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whumpshaped · 7 months

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Whumpee going into a toy shop and being turned into a doll by the sinister proprietor!

-- @oliversrarebooks

tw doll whump, magic whump, kidnapping, captivity, multiple whumpees, noncon drugging, dehumanisation, lady whump

“Your dolls are beautiful,” Whumpee said in complete awe, trying to take in the entirety of the shop at once. “They’re so… realistic. They’re gorgeous.”

The shopkeeper smiled and stood up from their chair, placing their current sewing project on the desk before circling around to stand beside Whumpee. “Thank you. I can give you a little tour, if you like. Or you can just point at any doll and ask whatever you wish to know about them.”

Whumpee’s face lit up. “Oh, I have so many questions. Are you sure it’s okay? I’m pretty sure I don’t have the funds to buy such fine art…”

“It’s a slow day,” they said pleasantly. “Every day is slow when you sell dolls, honestly. Especially ones like these. People are either scared to approach them, or don’t even want to come in if they can’t purchase anything. I rarely get to ramble.”

“It’s a crime, really. There must be so much to say about them.” Whumpee walked over to one close to their own size, staring into its brutally realistic eyes. It felt like they had life behind them. “How did you come up with the idea?”

“I’ve always liked dolls. It was only natural that eventually, I would figure out a way to make them. And here I am.”

“How long does it take to make a doll like this?”

“Oh, months, dearest.”

Whumpee nodded, not surprised in the least. The doll was a real work of art — all of them were. “And you make them all on your own?”

“For the most part, yes. But the dolls themselves do the heavy-lifting. They have so much personality… All I have to do is accentuate it.”

Whumpee looked at the tag that had been adorably tied to the doll’s hairband, reading the name and the price off of it. They could never even dream of purchasing something like this. “Belladonna…”

“I just call her Bella,” the shopkeeper said with the sort of fondness in their voice that made Whumpee feel like the doll had been created a long time ago, sitting in the store without any potential buyers for a while now. “I made her five years ago, I believe. One of my first dolls.”

“Five years… It looks– well, new. I would’ve never guessed.”

“Yes, dear Bella holds up very well under my care.” They stepped up to the doll and ran their fingers through its long, silky hair affectionately, fixing some frizz in the process. “Patiently awaiting her knight in shining armour. Isn’t that right, sweet?”

The doll was so realistic, Whumpee half-expected it to respond; it didn’t, of course. That might’ve put Whumpee off doll-shopping too. “I’m sure the knight is on their way,” they said warmly.

“Good afternoon!” Whumpee said with a wide grin as they walked into the shop, breathing in the scent of flowers and beeswax.

“Good afternoon.” Whumper had the usual serene smile on their face, and a half-finished garment in their hands.

“Has there been a purchase?” they asked, looking around. “It feels so empty for some reason. Someone’s missing.”

“Oleander, but she’s merely in the backroom.”

Over the past few weeks, Whumpee had gotten used to all the dolls being named after flowers and plants; poisonous ones at that. When asked, Whumper simply said they liked the ring of them, and well, they were their dolls, after all. They could name them whatever they wanted.

“How come?” They walked up to the desk and started poking around in the bowl of decorative candy, picking out their favourite flavour and popping it into their mouth. “Did something happen?”

“Her hair wasn’t doing very well in this humid weather. She needed a more controlled environment.”

Whumpee nodded, eyes glued to the fabric in Whumper’s lap. “That’s a very pretty purple. Very… royal, I guess. Noble.”

The shopkeeper glanced up at them, noting the candy in their mouth with a soft smile. “Yes, we could say that. It feels expensive, too.” They chuckled. “And it was. But only the best for my dolls.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Be my guest.”

Whumpee walked around the desk and gently ran the back of their hand over the fabric, humming in agreement. “It does feel very luxurious. Is it for a new doll?”

“It is, actually. I have been working on the doll themself for a few weeks now, and I think they’ll turn out to be quite spectacular. I wanted a dress to match that.”

“Do you have a name in mind, yet?”

“Lantana, I think. Tana. Or maybe Hydrangea,” they mused. “Angie.”

“Tough choice.” Whumpee wandered out into the open area again, checking on the dolls one by one. They had almost become friends in this short time. “I think I like Lantana better, personally. It sounds softer.”

“Oh, I could never,” Whumpee said quietly, voice filled with adoration and want. The dress had turned out absolutely breathtaking, and Whumper wanted them to try it on? The offer was beyond tempting, but what if they ruined it? What if they tore it by accident? It was made for a doll, there was no way they would fit into it.

Though they had become quite frail recently. They were pretty sure they’d become sick with something, but the doctors could never tell them anything. Whumper was the only person willing to take them seriously, always offering healing herbal teas and candies from their own personal stash. A kindness Whumpee didn’t feel like they deserved.

Whumper gave them a reassuring smile. “I would love to see it on you. Please.”

Whumpee had no idea why they nodded so easily. Why they just went along with whatever Whumper wanted by this point. Why their wants always seemed to align so perfectly. “O-okay.”

“It’s going to be alright.”

The dress was dazzling: hours and hours of work, all by hand, frill and lace and flowers adorning every inch of it — and they were about to try it on.

They were playing with the piece of candy in their mouth, nervously pushing it from one side to the other with their tongue. It didn’t help with the fuzzy feeling in their head, but at least it seemed to soothe their worries, just like the teas and the scented candles around the shop.

Whumper gently helped them get dressed in the backroom, and despite all of Whumpee’s worries about the size, the dress fit them perfectly. It was as if it had been made specifically for them.

“Wow,” they breathed, barely believing the mirror in front of them. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Whumper whispered, their expression full of fondness and warmth.

“Like a doll,” Whumpee added with a small smile. The flowery scent was so strong in this room, it almost made them want to close their eyes and drift off. “Though… I think I should take it off. I feel a little dizzy. I can’t imagine what it’d do to the dress if I were to fall.”

“Of course.” Whumper carefully helped them out of it, skilled fingers quickly untying the bows that held it all in place. “You can sit down behind the desk outside.”

Whumper turned the key in the lock, opening their shop for the day. They hung their coat and turned the lights on, illuminating the faces of all their precious dolls, sitting and standing in all different positions, just as they’d left them the day before.

“Beautiful weather today,” they said casually. “People will be out walking, for sure. Hopefully, some of them decide to visit.”

They checked on the dolls one by one, gently fixing their dresses and brushing their hair. They were humming as they worked, filling the air with magic soft as silk, wrapping around their beloveds’ minds like a comforting blanket. It was impossible to escape; the sedative scent of the candles, the taste of candy infused with traces of poisonous plants, the alluring tune of their song.

All of them had been caught as soon as they entered the shop and expressed interest. It was only a matter of time before their inevitable demise.

Once the soul left their bodies, it was easy to trap the delicate thing and tuck it away into a little jar, just until Whumper was ready to put it right back in its place. Making sure the fragile human body was prepared to withstand an eternity in the condition they’d received it in was a finicky process, but one Whumper found greatly satisfying.

They walked into the backroom to check the state of their newest acquisition, noting with a pleased smile that the body was finally ready. They took the glass bottle with Whumpee’s matching soul in it, uncorking it and raising it to their doll’s lips to allow it slip back inside.

Whumpee’s glassy eyes were suddenly filled with life, confusion and fear taking the place of the blank, corpse-like stare. Only for a moment, though. Only until Whumper ran their fingers through their hair, gently shushing them.

“The dress really does look gorgeous on you,” they cooed. “I can’t wait to put you on display, so everyone else can admire you too.”

The soft chime of the bell above the door signalled the new customer’s arrival, and Whumper greeted them with a smile. They seemed entirely mesmerised by the doll collection, asking all manner of questions after Whumper assured them it was fine to do so.

The stranger spent a few moments looking at the tag that had been adorably tied to one of the dolls’ hairbands, reading the name out loud. “Lantana…”

“I just call them Tana,” they said fondly. “They’re the latest addition to the family.”

#asks #oliversrarebooks #whump #whump drabble #doll whump #magic whump #kidnapping #captivity #multiple whumpees #noncon drugging #dehumanisation #lady whump

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hold-on-a-little-longer-whump · 4 months

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For the “tropes to rave about” list: When two characters have been whumped and one insists on downplaying their injuries to take care of the other one :D

Oh where to begin???

This trope is so versatile, and the results really depend on the relationship dynamic between characters. The dozens upon dozens of sub-tropes? Are they mutually competent, student and mentor (i.e., parent and adopted child), siblings, lovers, best buddies, strangers, rivals, or (gasp) enemies???

Whatever the case may be, there's a lot of potential here.

Give me suppressed winces and forced smiles. Give me hoarse whispers of "promise you're okay?" and "are you sure?" Give me voluntary starvation and/or dehydration so their companion has the strength to heal. Give me an exhausted caretaker carrying their companion across unknown distances because "it's fine, I'm fine, just keep talking to me," even though each movement is agony. Bloodstained clothes turned sticky and stiff, hidden from view. Powering through the pain because oh God that's too much blood and their companion shouldn't sound like that. Broken bones going unset and grinding painfully with every movement. Give me stiff movements and piss-poor acting, but their companion is so unwell that they just can't see it.

Let's not leave out the lonely parts for our poor caretaker, though. Those moments when their companion is asleep and they try to treat their own injuries as silently as possible - but careful, careful, they need to ration their medical supplies because their companion needs it more than they do. Those moments when they say they're going to find some food or water, knowing there's none, and they just use it as an excuse to let the mask drop - just for a little while. The hours (or days) of silence, broken only by their companion's shuddering breaths. The melancholy of believing rescue is out of reach. The resignation of deciding to rescue themselves and their friend.

Then give me a companion that, once they're starting to improve, sees right through their caretaker's façade. That healthy glow now looks like a feverish flush on the face that's been hovering over them. The caretaker's movements are too sluggish to stop their companion's too-fast hands from grabbing that traitorous, bloodstained article of clothing. Now there's questions, too many of them, and their caretaker can only manage to give mumbled answers to two of them. Righteous anger. The guilt of rifling through their things, only to see that all of the medical supplies had been used on themselves. Hurried movements and oh-damn-that-still-hurts; but their caretaker just doesn't have the strength to stop them from pushing them to lie down and now the roles are reversed until help can arrive or they save themselves.

That, or the caretaker manages to keep up the strong and steady act until rescue finally comes. It's almost eerie, really, how their mind and body are in sync with one another until they're absolutely certain that their companion is in safe hands. Then the exhaustion and pain come crashing down on them all at once. Maybe they stumble. Maybe they collapse. Maybe several sets of hands catch them. Or maybe they go unnoticed until someone turns around and oh - oh that's why they stopped talking.

-Bonus-

Caretaker: You're gonna need a, b, and c. And maybe a crash cart.

Rescue Medic, confused: But... your friend's condition doesn't call for any of that stuff.

Caretaker, actively bleeding out with a completely straight face: It's not for them.

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findafight · 9 months

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The longer they release ST media without acknowledging Steve’s parents, the more convinced I become that they don’t actually exist.

Like, they died in that month after the season 1 Upside Down stuff, somewhere out of state and they didn’t want to buried in Hawkins and Steve just…didn’t get around to telling anyone. And now he can’t bring it up without being awkward, so he just…doesn’t.

Or he’s a lab kid. Or a distant, disappointingly normal relative of the Addams family trying to go mainstream. Or he’s some preternatural being a la Nanno from “Girl from nowhere”. Or he’s living out the consequences of some time travel bullshit in which he became his own father. He’s a changeling that accidentally killed his human parents and can’t show his face in the world of fairy or else he’ll never bear the end of it. They’re serving life sentences under their real names (“Harrington” was the cover story).

The greatest trick Steve Harrington ever pulled was convincing the world he was of woman born.

Ahhh I love love love seeing different theories and explanations exploring why we haven't ever seen or really heard of Steve's parents (except for that one old yearbook page from idk where that has a John Harrington on it) it's all so fun the the potential for whump is so much higher when there's no actual basis for anything.

Steve, who spawned out of the earth with the goals of looking cute and being a dad and maybe kicking monster ass: yes. Of course I have parents. Haha they're just ...away? Right now? And didn't go to school in this town :)

Everyone: seems about right. why would this boy lie about adults we have never seen nor met?

But I know it's because the Duffers just don't think about Steve enough to care 😭

#steve Harrington #stranger things #findaanswers #anonasaurus #steve harrington's parents

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aceofwhump · 3 months

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Man life has been so hectic lately between moving and starting my new job that I've barely had any time to come on here! Makes me sad.

So how's everyone been doing? What's the latest in the whump community? What have I been missing? Any new fun polls or discussions I've missed? What's the popular whump show right now? What am I missing?

Me? I've been rewatching Wings again cause it's the perfect wind down show and now I'm thinking about all the whump potential. For those of you who don't know this show, it's a sitcom from the 90s about two brothers who run a small airline and all the hijinks they go through. It's so fun. The Hackett brothers give me a lot of feels. Their mom abandoned them when they were young and their father went crazy so Joe basically raised his younger brother Brian. They had a huge falling out and didn't see each other for 6 years and the show starts with them meeting again due to their father's death. Brian has huge abandonment issues and constantly feels insecure about himself and worried that Joe will leave him behind. Joe feels responsible for everything and everyone and works himself to exhaustion all the time. I have so many whump ideas I'm not gonna lie. There's an episode where Brian gets knocked out while piloting the plane. I'd expand on that and actually show some worried Joe about his little brother. There's also an episode where they have to ditch the plane in water. Well what if either Brian or Joe got hurt in the crash? Or even a closer look at the times when Brian is depressed would be interesting. There's several episodes where he's depressed. He goes to therapy in one episode and ends up massively overeating in another. Would love to do something with that.

Anyway that's what I've been thinking about lol. What about you guys?

#mod post #whump community

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honeycollectswhump · 8 months

Note

Can we get any insight into Ashtray's conditioning/training, or maybe Mistress trying many different types of cigarettes to compare the taste (and how they burn him differently)? He's my new favorite little guy :)

congrats, you unlocked some lore! i hope you enjoy the little hints about who ashtray used to be :)

A Step Towards Ashtray

[masterlist]

CW: isolation, captivity, emotional distress, cigarette burn, implied pet whump

Behind the heavy, metal door there is a young man, though legally that description would be wrong. Behind the door, there is a future companion object, handpicked to satisfy his potential buyers in any way possible. But then again, right now he is barely at the start of his journey to becoming a perfect companion object, so Eskil Thorn just calls him a trainee, his trainee.

It had been quite the odyssey over the past two weeks or so, watching the trainee scream and claw at the door, sobbing a certain name. Of course, that did nothing to help him. Eskil knows the recipe to the perfect start is letting the trainees simmer in isolation for a bit before introducing them to their future purpose. Now that the screaming has finally stopped, maybe from exhaustion or his voice giving out, it’s a sign for Eskil to start the process.

Stepping inside, he takes in the sight before him. The trainee is curled on the floor –like a feral dog– staring at him with red-rimmed but beautifully big blue eyes. Bits of ripped-out hair lay around him and Eskil makes a mental note to nip that behaviour in the bud. His golden-blond hair is one of the trainee's assets, which will eventually put him in a high price range and Eskil can’t let him ruin that.

“Are you ready for your lesson?”

The trainee nods frantically.

“Please, sir, anything! I– I can’t– please!” he rasps, inching forward to Eskil.

If he were any other designation, Eskil would love the begging. It’s always a sweet surprise when the trainees exhibit these behaviours early on. Unfortunately however, that won’t be a necessary skill for him, though it is undeniably a promising start.

With shaking hands, the trainee grasps onto Eskil’s pants, his eyes shining with tears. “Don’t leave me alone, sir, please!”

Perfect.

“Sure, I’ll stay with you for a while. But you have to do something for me first.”

See, where the other handlers try to force it, Eskil lets his trainees take their first steps on their own. And to get them motivated, isolation works wonders.

The trainee is basically vibrating with desperation. It’s not his first lesson. He doesn’t beg to be let out anymore, not since they shocked his signature out of him, and he’s given up on insisting on “his name”. Instead, it is a sort of resigned despair that makes him perfectly malleable.

“Wh-what do you want me to do?”

With a smile, Eskil pulls out a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. Something warm prickles in his chest as he looks at the lighter, a gift from his wife, decorated with small doodles. Slowly, he lights the cigarette and takes a single drag, watching smoke fill the room.

He sits down, his legs crossed, and lets himself be warily watched by the trainee. They stay like that in silence, Eskil sitting patiently, the trainee kneeling on all fours before him like a dog, seemingly undecided between wanting to lean away in suspicion and throwing himself in Eskil’s lap.

Then, he holds out the burning cigarette, inching it closer to the trainee, who just blinks uncomprehendingly. Maybe his future purpose is still beyond his understanding, Eskil supposes.

“Come on, give me your arm, will you.”

The trainee flinches and gawks at him with those big blue eyes, his lip twitching as he suppresses a cough.

“Why?” he whispers, his eyes fixating on the cigarette. Still, he doesn’t move away from Eskil’s vicinity.

“Oh,” Eskil chuckles, “I think you know exactly what for. Now, don’t you want to be a good boy? It’ll be worth it, it’ll all be worth it in the end, I promise.”

Eskil just watches the trainee’s shocked expression morph between conflicting emotions. The promised touch is like a drug in his starved and isolated state. Until eventually, the trainee nods, defeated. He holds out his arm as if he could choose.

Deliberately, Eskil moves the cigarette bud closer and closer to his shoulder. The trainee only tenses up, flinching away from the heat, but makes no move to flee.

The cigarette makes contact with his skin and he lets out a strangled yelp, eyes flitting to Eskil’s face, as if trying to figure out if this noise would be enough to make Eskil leave.

Ash spreads over the trainee’s pale skin. There is barely a mark beneath it yet, but it will come in time—his first burn blister of hopefully many.

Satisfied, Eskil flicks the extinguished cigarette to the side and opens his arms. After a breath of hesitation Eskil pretends not to notice, the trainee flings himself into his embrace, his chest hitching with silent sobs.

He claws into Eskil’s shirt with a feral need that goes beyond the two weeks of isolation, beyond the acclimation period after the walk-in. Maybe he sees something in him, some sort of figure he lost and whose comfort he secretly grieved. It is all out in the open now, the trainee’s soul ripped fresh open for the world to see. A brief burst of vulnerability, soon to be replaced by perfect obedience.

Suddenly, hesitantly, the trainee raises his head from Eskil’s shoulder, catching his gaze with immense sorrow.

“Sir? What… what will happen to my little brother? N-now that he’s all alone and he’s never been alone, I’ve always been there for him and he’s–”

Eskil shushes him softly, laying one hand on the back of the trainee’s head.

“There’s no my for you anymore, never forget that. But I’m sure he’ll manage.”

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

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firapolemos05 · 6 months

Text

No devil hides beneath my bed

Part 1, Part 2

AO3 CW: nsfw (minors dni), whumper pov, past noncon, promise of future noncon, pet whump, captivity, dehumanization, sexual slavery, put on display, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, multiple whumpers, cages, restraints, ring gag, forced arousal, object insertion, overstimulation, auction, noncon touching

Tonight Scarlet hosts the Lanista Society for a special dinner event. The Champion is the coveted prize, and Ivan is honored to have been the cause of it.

Champion taglist: @emmettnet , @ostensiblyfunctional

Ivan is left marveling once again at his superior's immaculate taste.

High Martinet Matar sure knew how to throw a party.

Her guests had been greeted with the finest. A banquet of gourmet Crescentine dishes and exotic delicacies. Fresh fruits and cheeses, tender meats and fish, spiced breads and decadent sweets, aged wines from the mountain vineyards. The finest money and magic could offer.

Their venue is just as grand, perhaps more so due to its creativity. A conjured demiplane Scarlet produced specially for this affair. Ivan finds it rather ingenious.

The woman was no stranger to hosting guests at her manor; he himself had been there only last week. But she limits those meetings to no more than a few people at a time. Fewer bodies are easier to keep track of. With large parties like this, comes the ever present risk of unsavory infiltrators. The Lanista Society held members with many enemies. The uninvited in disguise or potential rivals waiting for the right moment to snoop around. Larger groups made it inconvenient to keep tabs on everyone.

The demiplane removed that risk.

No need to worry about the unwanted loose in your home if you're not bringing them to your home to begin with.

And as a bonus, the spell's design was limited only by the imagination. And a wizard of Scarlet's caliber knew fine decor.

All which was fully on display for tonight's event. It was a special occasion after all.

On one end of the chamber, seated on a raised platform, was an ornate bronze cage. Round and domed at the top like one of those old-fashioned bird cages that didn't allow room for the bird to spread its wings. However this cage was far larger, for its occupant was no bird.

Scarlet found the perfect display for the Society's beloved Champion. An advantageous maneuver given he was the subject of business this evening. If Ivan had thought he looked enticing their first meeting a week ago, Scarlet had expertly ensured that the people present now would be incapable of keeping their eyes off him.

In fact, there was already a crowd forming around the cage.

Knees spread and wrists secured above him, the Champion was giving everyone a show with his trembling body. Years of fighting had toned his muscles, and the shimmering red velvet bands only accentuated them. Scarlet must have gotten the outfit custom tailored, for it turned the tiefling's form into a canvas painted with red. Velvet strips hugging his thighs and shoulders. Flowers of beaded lace climbing from hip to collar to the small of his back. Dangling garnets mimicked the appearance of dripping blood.

Absolutely exquisite.

Scarlet had elected to keep his lower region covered, draping that same black cloth around his waist that he'd worn last time. Ivan could see the sense; what was already being shown was enough of a free sample.

The guests were permitted to touch, at least to the extent they were allowed without having to pay. And the Champion’s body was a buffet getting more attention than the actual food. Fingers traced the soft velvet, then slipped in between to caress exposed skin.

“He has the best reactions if you stroke his tail,” Ivan had informed them, and they were quick to take advantage.

The touches worked well to elicit forced pleasure, though perhaps not as much as some other things.

Scarlet couldn't allow her pet to spend the whole party glaring or growling at guests, so Ivan suggested a means to keep him occupied. Just a couple simple toys, one placed inside him and the other encircling the base of his tail where he was most sensitive. Both hidden from the guests eyes with a specially crafted belt that doubled to prevent the tiefling from making a mess of himself.

From how much he was trembling, struggling to close his legs, face flushed as he moaned around the ring gag strapped around his head, the toys were doing their job. And the guests were very much appreciating the sight. Ivan could see a number of people with their hands under their pants.

He couldn't blame them. They stood before a desperate succubus, beckoning them all with pleading huffs of breath and squirming hips. Ivan himself was imagining how pretty that face would look around his cock.

He would have to wait his turn.

Ting! Ting! Ting!

The rhythmic taps of a wine glass drew the attention of the masses to the head of the table where Scarlet stands.

“Now now, everyone. I know my pet has been an exciting treat for you all, but I do hope you help yourselves to the dessert table.”

There were more than a few bouts of embarrassed laughter. Ivan included, as he too nearly forgot to go fill up his dish.

“I'm pleased to see he has garnered such interest,” she continues. “Just a quick reminder that the bidding period ends in thirty minutes. The current highest offer stands at 2,500 platinum.”

Well, not too bad a price tag for the Champion’s first official patron (Ivan's previous night with him didn't count). And if this went to a formal auction at the end of the party, if there was still an active bidding war, that amount would likely grow.

But already, he'd be returning home tomorrow with a decent payment. In a deal that spoke wonders of her generosity, Scarlet had agreed to save a percentage of the funds for him. None of this would've happened had he not raised the suggestion to her.

Lucrative business indeed. Ivan could recognize many big names at this party. Politicians, industry tycoons, nobility, all those with plentiful riches and power. He wonders if he could convince some of them to assist him in forming a similar operation in Mężnydzik. Or perhaps a connected branch.

Those were thoughts for the future. Right now, he was enjoying the view.

The first moment the cage is clear of onlookers, Ivan walks over and reaches through the bronze bars to lift up the Champion’s head to face him. With how long he'd had his mouth held open, his chin was streaked with drool, but thankfully Ivan had the foresight to wear gloves.

“Just like I said, little devil,” he purrs, gazing into eyes that struggle to focus through the mind clouding sensations. The tiefling whines in protest as Ivan lets his other hand trail up his thigh. “I knew you'd be quite popular.”

There's a moment of clarity to the Champion’s stare. A moment he's able to fight through the tears and the unwanted stimulation and-

Oh. Well isn't that a nasty look.

Reference for the outfit here.

#whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #nsfwhump #pet whump #tw noncon #tw dehumanization #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #Narcos #Ivan Mitreski #Scarlet Matar #my ocs #Xitanae tag #my work #my writing #original #whump stuff

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witch-and-her-witcher · 3 months

Text

nessian | E | marriage of convenience, first hybern war AU, angst, whump, emotional slow burn

War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

Thank you @popjunkie42-blog and @wilde-knight for your beta reading and handholding. <3

For my darling @asnowfern!

Ao3 | Chapter 21/30

~*~

Flying is one of the singularly worst experiences — second only to winnowing.

The lack of control. The utter reliance on another being for safety. The stomach-churning heights.

It’s a physical representation of the last several years of her life.

Nesta hates it, loathes it, resents it as the main mode of travel in Illyria and for dredging up the similarities in her mind.

Regrettable as it is, at least clinging to Cassian for dear life as he takes off into the vast blue sky doesn’t set Nesta apart from the other females in the camp. Doesn’t set her apart anymore as the fragile, incompetent human.

There are only two more females joining their contingent to the neutral ground for their meeting, one is Devlon’s wife, and the other is another high-ranking male’s wife. They’re much older, experienced, and look at her like a liability — which is almost worse than animosity. One of them had muttered something about the smell of her fear being bad luck before a flight.

The only leg up Nesta seems to have is her lack of wings while being carried in flight. The Illyrian females have to take extra care to keep their wings tightly tucked against their backs while in the air or risk catching a draft that sends them or their partner careening in a potentially lethal free fall.

Not that she should be thinking about lethal free falls right now.

At least the fear thrumming through her is a reprieve from the storm clouds of thought her head has been stuck in.

The last few weeks have been … difficult. Not that she has expressed this particular source of dark, roiling thoughts, but they’ve plagued her all the same.

The downward spiraling thoughts began with Tita Noonya and Ined’s lessons leading up to this retribution ceremony.

Nesta had forgotten how long ago it truly has been since she’d needed to remember etiquette, let alone fae etiquette. All of her mother’s hard worn lessons, her red knuckles from her grandmother’s cane …

Replaced, somewhere along the lines. Repressed?

Gone, nonetheless.

Nesta had stared at the Illyrians like a dumb ass, struggling to unfreeze her mind, unlock her body against a mild panic.

Even sweet, heart-faced Tita Ined had grown frustrated with Nesta’s fumbling. As if, once she couldn’t remember how to set tea for a fae lord, the alterations for Illyrians became impossible to absorb. Not only the alterations to customs, but even simple phrases Nesta should have had a grasp on by now.

Emerie had tried to be helpful, tried to step up in her defense, but when she snapped at the titas “Some words just aren’t possible for her human tongue, find a different one” it somehow hurt worse.

Nesta, the human they’re all burdened to coddle.

It had been all she could do to battle her mother’s voice, even her grandmother’s. Nesta was exhausted by the end of every lesson, feeling like a failure and hearing the words on repeat ringing off of her skull throbbing with a headache as she skulked off to the barn to tend to chores.

A failure of a Lady, a failure of an Illyrian’s wife.

It sent her deep into that place she thought she had healed from. Stupid, for Nesta to think that just ignoring a problem and focusing on the new path she wants to take would somehow magically fix everything.

She’d eventually muddled through it and learned what she needed to, but it was painful for all involved.

Thank the Cauldron for Cassian at the dinner table, in her bed.

She refused to talk to him about what was troubling her under the surface, although from the sidelong looks he gave her, he could likely feel some of it down the bond. But he didn’t push, would just chat with her until somehow, impossibly, sleep found her wrapped in his essence every night.

Cassian, brushing off her moodiness, making sure she remains fed, rested, cared for despite his own massively busy schedule.

Burdenburde—

No.

There’s too much riding on today to let her self-sabotaging ways get the best of her though.

This is the only taste of vindication she’ll get, as well as an opportunity to do well and make up for the public humiliations she’s delivered to Cassian.

Nesta will do well.

She isn’t giving herself an option.

She will not be the deadweight of a mortal hanging around Cassian’s neck. She will be the human woman that put two War Lord’s sons on their asses — as temporarily as it had been, she’d still bought herself that time for Jun to arrive on her own merit. The woman who charged into battle against Hybern and came back out.

Maybe not whole, but she came back.

The gaping maw, icy and dark, inside her beckons, but Nesta grounds herself in the moment. Not today, not today, she will master herself.

Tomorrow, when they’re back in Windhaven, she can collapse inward.

She buries her face further into Cassian’s neck, clenching her teeth hard enough to crack. She lets the bond’s singing brightness close up that chasm in her soul, her heart.

“Relax,” Cassian laughs, big arms encircled around her like a bear. The caressing notes of his laughter lift away on the wind, not able to reach through to Nesta’s core and ease any of her anxiety.

There’s a faint, crimson shield shimmering around Nesta as a wind block. A luxury many passengers aren’t afforded in Illyrian arms, but with seven siphons, Cassian has the energy to burn to not only maintain the shield for the extended time period, but also to shape it to keep from losing the currents he needs to stay aloft. Nesta had insisted the thick scarf Elain had wrapped her up in before departure was enough, he didn’t need to go through the trouble — it felt like an inconvenience fueled by her fragility as a human.

But Cassian had admitted to needing the outlet. Devlon had ordered it, even, that Cassian find a way to burn off some of his powers during the flight.

No one wanted the young captain arriving to the retribution ceremony with too much pent-up energy.

That thought had Nesta’s toes curling up in her boots, at the might her mate carried within those seven stones he wore, and so she endured the indignity of the shield.

“Easy for you to say, bat,” Nesta grates out. She’s keeping her eyes firmly closed, but she can practically feel the humor in his hazel eyes, more brown than gold or green at times like these when he’s giving her shit.

“Lady Archeron, unafraid to face down wyverns or fae — but squeamish over heights?”

“Laugh it up. One day you’ll face something worth pissing your pants over and I’ll never let you live it down.”

“Have you met your mate? He’s pretty fucking courageous, so that’s highly unlikely.”

“There’s little difference between courage and stupidity, you know.”

“Ouch,” he returns, laughing off her callousness again.

Gods, this male gives and gives.

For a countless time, it hits Nesta that she doesn’t deserve Cassian’s devotion. She can’t even tell him that she loves him, can’t even fully broach the subject in her own private thoughts.

One day.

One day, thanks to his endless patience with her, she’ll be able to work up the nerve.

#CYLMWIHM #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta #cassian #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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secretwhumplair · 4 months

Text

Anxiety

1,430 words | Mirai and the serpent king (sequel to Appraisal)

Content | Slavery, fear, nudity, implied future noncon

Notes | Is there like. A whump equivalent to slowburn. Guys, get on with it.

Mirai gets to be anxious a little longer.

Taglist | @yet-another-heathen @echo-goes-aaa @whumpinator

Mirai was led away by a servant—another snake, of course, a woman as far as he could tell, patterned in soft reddish hues—along corridors and up ramps into the smallest room he had yet seen in the palace, although it was still big enough to comfortably house what appeared to be a large table, two wardrobes, and along the wall opposite them a cushioned bench. It was also most enclosed, only two doors on opposite sides of it and one narrow window above the bench.

»Sit.« The servant’s accent was heavy, and she smiled at him as she said it, almost enabling him to believe she wasn’t being curt out of annoyance. She pointed at the bench, and he gingerly sat down.

»Wait here. His Majesty come to you. I bring you food.«

Mirai nodded timidly, and the servant left, abandoning him to his thoughts. He was calming down, slowly. He was still terrified of the uncertainty he was now left in, but at least he was no longer right in front of the serpent king and the sharp teeth he had seen there.

He would come, of course, and do whatever he pleased with Mirai, but for the moment, all he could do was be grateful for the opportunity to sit, far more comfortably than he was used to, and remember how to breathe. The horror of his new position was trying to crawl into his bones, but he clung on to the present moment. Bench. Cushions. Quiet. Warmth. Rest. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

He nonetheless jumped when the door opened again, but it was just the same servant, carrying a silver tablet she put down next to him. A bowl of fruit, a jug of water, both made from precious glass.

The servant gave him another smile. »Eat, drink, as you wish.« She whisked out of the opposite door without seeing him fold his hands in thanks.

He was too hungry to feel anything other than grateful. Most of the fruit were exotic to anywhere he’d been before, but his previous masters had, of course, been rich, so he knew quite a few of them, at least by sight. There even was a small knife to help peel and slice those that needed it, demostrating how helpless he was among the snakes, safe to keep even with a blade.

He started with one of several lychees, then took a drink of the cool water. He could feel some of his anxiety dissipating as he continued eating. A bit of fruit was hardly a full meal, but it certainly soothed the hollow ache in his belly, and he was so grateful. At some point, the servant reappeared to exit the room throught the entrance he had been taken in through, and he took the opportunity to express his silent thanks once more, which she answered with a smile.

Finally there was nothing but peels and seeds left, and he licked sweet juice off his hands, suddenly worried how his new master would react to them being dirtied like this. He used the last sip of water to wash them as best as he managed.

Safely alone in this room, with his belly half-full and the cushions so soft, his soul still exhausted from the agonies of the past days, it was hard not to fall asleep. But he couldn’t risk his master’s first real impression of him to be taken as lazy, ungratefully so even; the king would come for him, the servant had said so, and that was all the information he had to go on.

Unfortunately, staying awake left him to think.

Being examined by a potential buyer was always a horrifying experience. Never was Mirai more conscious of every flaw—especially the big one—than when a stranger decided whether or not to make his current owners happy; and then the alternative to disappointing his owners was facing a completely unknown future. (Well, unknown except for the pain and disregard. These were reliably reoccuring.)

But being examined in this fashion by a creature like this, with fangs and claws and all the power of a king—a creature, too, whose culture he knew nothing about, making it even harder to predict what might happen to him—was worse.

He had been terrified the serpent king might be angry to have overpaid for him, yet the anger, if it was there, had not been taken out on him—at least not yet. He would have to pay for the difference somehow, he was sure of it; why else would he ask him about his price in the first place? It hadn’t even occured to Mirai to lie—his mind was hazy with fear, and even if he had thought of it, he doubted he would have found the nerve.

He had been made to speak. He was used to that being a part of the sales exam, but every time, it seemed to fill his stomach with stones. He had been trained very well to stay silent, to spare his masters the loathsome sound of his voice, and speaking felt like an act against better knowledge, an unwise decision in the face of one who could sway his whole fate.

The serpent king hadn’t reacted with the disgust or anger he had come to expect, though. He’d barely reacted at all. Maybe he was assured in the trader’s promise that Mirai knew how to keep quiet.

He wondered whether he would feel the king’s teeth and claws sometime soon.

He wondered whether he would be suffocated amid the coils of a body far stronger than his.

He had to pull himself together; he couldn’t go indulging his worst imaginations, not when reality was already so bleak, or he would lose his mind. It was hard, and he couldn’t simply swallow his fear as much as he wished to, but he had been given food, and an opportunity to rest, even if he couldn’t sleep. Maybe this new master wouldn’t be worse than everything he’d known. Maybe he would persevere.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Mirai started again when the door opened, only to reveal the servant once more.

His relief was quickly smothered by a cold wave of terror when this time, she held the door for the serpent king.

His new master. Mirai didn’t know what was expected of him, so he slid down onto his knees; it seemed the safest bet.

The serpent king’s eyes immediately locked onto him. »Stand.« There was a smile on his face, but it was too small for Mirai to have any faith in it being a harbinger of good mood, let alone of his being pleased.

So Mirai stood, keeping his eyes cast down, only glimpsing up through his lashes to see the servant open the left wardrobe to reveal an arrangement of racks, and help the king take off his jewellery, each priceless golden piece put into its designated place with practiced speed.

»Undress,« the serpent king said to Mirai while she was at work, with the same soft voice he had already used during the exam; Mirai did not know what to make of it, whether it was a matter of accent or hiding who knew what cruelties or, dare he hope, being used in genuine kindness.

He nodded, folding his hands to show his deference. He knew all to well no one wanted to hear his voice.

The serpent king, however, stilled at the gesture, and Mirai felt his heart freeze with fear. Had he done wrong? What punishment could a creature like this imagine?

»Come, speak.« The serpent king’s voice was still soft, but maybe Mirai simply was yet to learn his inflections.

»Yes, Master.« The best he could do was obey, regardless. Even if the order was speak. And of course, he had known he’d have to undress. He took off his tunic once more, holding it uncertainly for a moment.

»Just leave it anywhere,« the serpent king said, but behind his back, the servant pointed at the bench and smiled when he neatly put it there.

The king took off his crown himself, of which Mirai took note. Do not touch the crown. Thus being completely bared, the wardrobes doors closed and inconspicuous once more, he turned to the servant with a little nod. »You may leave.«

»Your Majesty.« The servant bowed and vanished, leaving Mirai alone with his new master.

»Come with me.« Obediently, he followed the serpent king through the opposite door from where he had entered. What else could he do?

#whump #slavery whump #whump writing #my writing #mirai and the serpent king #mirai

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 1 month

Text

Yeah, I did another Buck/Tommy-Tevan-whatever ship name-fic!

Buck is finally taking his flight lessons, and of course they go wrong.

Tags: Character Study, Fluff, Whump, Hurt Tommy Kinard, Hurt/Comfort, Angst.

Read below the cut (4,691 words) or on AO3! And this is the song which gave this fic its name.

- Face the fear, grow stronger by the scars -

"Are you sure that's all right?"

Did he sound nervous? Buck let a broad grin appear on his face, if only to prevent this potential impression – he could certainly feel his stomach prickle, and it wasn’t because of Tommy. Tommy, who was sitting next to him looking very relaxed (and handsome), hands in his lap instead on the cyclic.

"Relax, Evan, and focus on what I've explained to you," the pilot returned.

Buck clung to the controls, almost squinting to watch the sky and the lights in the helicopter at the same time, pondering, geez, what was I thinking? He couldn't admit to Tommy that he was scared shitless, nor that he had never actually wanted to take flying lessons. He’d always thought it was a clever and somewhat frivolous metaphor because Tommy had more experience with men. Buck had thought that was some kind of gay code for yes, I want to try that.

Apparently not. Maybe Tommy was playing a prank on him, but even if the guy had a wry sense of humor, Buck didn’t believe he would do something like that. Tommy… he had changed. Or maybe he’d just evolved, had peeled out of his shell to finally show what was underneath. And Buck quite liked that.

That's why he didn't think he needed to pull this off to please Tommy (although he very much wanted to), but to be honest. He'd asked for flying lessons and got them, and it wasn't like him to look for excuses now – even if this was way more literal than he'd thought.

"Pulling up the collective increases the pitch angle of all rotor blades by the same amount," Buck repeated Tommy’s lesson.

"The pitch angle and…?"

"Uh… the… the angle of attack!"

Tommy's satisfied smile made fine lines appear next to his eyes, which caused Buck's stomach to tingle even more – only this time he knew the reason.

"You were paying attention after all, Evan," Tommy said, chuckling. "All right, well done. That's enough for the first time, I think. Watch out, I'll take over."

Tommy had used his connections and actually managed to get one of the training helicopters; these had dual controls allowing the flight instructor to intervene if need be. However, in less than an hour, real student pilots were waiting for the machine, and Buck was already looking forward to feeling solid ground under his feet again.

"All right."

Buck kept his hands on his cyclic, watched the altitude display and waited for Tommy to take over. The pilot’s hands were already on his own controls, and it was only when he nodded to Buck that the latter dared to let go of his. If he had his way, he would never get behind the controls of a helicopter again. That meant he would have to tell Tommy the truth at some point and that he would lose a little bit of coolness in Christopher's eyes, but the thrill just wasn’t worth it. Maybe Buck had also changed – or evolved –a bit. He cared for his life, and Tommy was one of the reasons.

"Fine day for a flight," said Tommy, casting a glance out of the canopy as he flew an extremely elegant loop.

And Buck had to admit that the view was fantastic. They had left the city’s concrete jungle behind, headed east, gliding across the Californian desert. The sparse vegetation beneath the helicopter was a patchwork of green, yellow and brown spots, occasionally adorned by incredibly colorful flowers, and it all looked much more exciting from up here. The same was true for Tommy, though... the telltale extra heartbeat that consistently filled Buck's chest when he looked at the man told him he didn't care where Tommy was. Just as long as he could be next to him. It sure was exciting, dating a pilot, but it didn’t quite explain Tommy’s overwhelming, mesmerizing charisma. There was way more to him than being a great guy with a fascinating job, much underneath, and Buck wanted to get to know these parts.

"Have you ever kissed up in the air, Evan?" Tommy asked abruptly, his smile way too confident.

"Well," Buck countered without flinching, "I'm a member of the High Mile Club, you know."

Tommy let out a good-natured laugh, filling the helicopter’s small cockpit with mirth. It ended abruptly when a warning light suddenly came on, its frantic red flashes announcing something that Buck believed bode no good.

"What's going on?"

Tommy stared ahead, his knuckles white from clutching the cyclic.

"Engine problem," he admitted, when shortly afterwards a signal tone was heard and more controls began to flash.

"Engine," Buck echoed, already feeling a hint of damp palms. "That's... uh, not good, right?"

"Don't panic," Tommy replied with a curt sideways glance that was apparently intended to be reassuring, yet wasn't at all. "If the helicopter's engine fails, autorotation kicks in. Remember? ’T was pretty much one of the first things you asked me."

"With the help of autorotation, we descend in a controlled manner," said Buck, who actually remembered, "and can make an emergency landing."

"Exactly. It's bound to be a bit bumpy, but…"

His words died away in a dull rumble shaking the cockpit.

"That's normal, right?"

By now Buck didn't care if he sounded nervous, the situation was clearly a cause for tension, and Tommy's petrified expression didn't make things any better.

"Autorotation makes for a rough descent," Tommy said, but the steep crease on his forehead was hardly promising. "It's just that…"

Whatever it was, it was immediately forgotten when a huge jolt went through the helicopter. Tommy tore at the cyclic and flipped a few switches, Buck felt them go into a tailspin. His left hand uselessly gripped the canopy, as if he wanted to hold either himself or the whole contraption together.

"Fuck," Tommy cursed, and that's when Buck knew they were really in deep shit.

Tommy grabbed his headset, apparently about to make a distress call – sensible, Buck thought, with a touch of relief – but at that moment the helicopter plummeted several miles. Buck was prepared for it to get bumpy, as Tommy had put it, yet there was no way to prepare for this. Buck's stomach plunged into infinity, and this morning’s sandwich was about to make its way back. The last thing he saw were Tommy's wide eyes, which held no fear, only regret.

———

Later, Buck had no memory of the impact, although it would haunt him in his dreams. Now, however, the high sun stung him hard, it seemed as if it wanted to break through his closed eyelids. He blinked, his vision blurred for a moment, and looked up into a bright blue sky. Such a beautiful day, he thought dazedly, until he wondered why on earth he was lying on the ground. Millions of sharp grains of sand seemed to drill into his back, but there was more, and then reality hit him. The helicopter. They had crashed.

Tommy.

As a first responder, Buck had learned to stay calm. It was just comparatively difficult when it was you, even more so when it was someone you clearly liked. And as much as Buck loved the adrenaline rush, this required a cool head. So he turned his neck very carefully, getting a first overview without moving. Strangely enough, he found himself lying outside the helicopter, he must have been thrown out on impact. So much for seatbelts. The grains of sand, of which there were undoubtedly plenty, turned out to be much less sharp than the splinters from the canopy, piercing his back.

Slowly, Buck sent impulses to his body, bracing for broken bones – he hardly hurt at all, but the human system provided amazing abilities, and he knew pain might come later and be all the more intense. He moved his fingers carefully, felt whether he could move his toes and worked his way from limb to limb. His overall impression was that, apart from a few cuts and no doubt some bruises, he had been incredibly lucky. Fortune favors fools, he thought, and it had probably been extremely stupid to tempt fate with flight lessons. The wreckage of the helicopter, lying overturned on its top and fuming, was witness to that.

The sight shot an extra dose of adrenaline through Buck's veins, and he suddenly felt wide awake. The angle was unfavorable, so he could barely see into the cockpit, but Tommy was certainly not lying out here. If he was still in there... Smoke means fire, Buck thought incoherently, and with a jerk, he ordered his body to straighten up.

Something dripped from his hair down onto his hand, almost hesitantly, and he felt a little dizzy, although he had expected blood. But that didn't matter. His headphones were gone, and as he slowly rose to his feet, he noticed he was missing a shoe –the fucking expensive Nike’s, sure –and his jeans had a few holes that weren't a fashion statement. Buck plucked a slightly larger piece of shard from his lower leg, limping to the wreckage. He prepared himself to simply find an emergency situation, he was familiar with it, he had experienced it hundreds, heck, a thousand times.

But Buck found that nothing could prepare him for this, and that cold fear was eating into his guts. Somewhere in this half-crushed mess of metal was actually Tommy. Frantically, Buck looked at the rest of the helicopter. Was it really on fire? Would the thing explode? Focus, he thought. He couldn't make out the source of the smoke, and as there was no open fire yet, there was need to hurry but not panic. At least that's what he told himself like a mantra in his head.

His bruised knees cracked as he crouched down next to what was left of the cockpit. There was Tommy, and his heartbeat quickened, but a deep breath forced it to calm. Tommy's belts were still intact and had obviously held, because he was hanging in them like a grotesque bat; after all, the helicopter had turned completely on its own axis. A dangerously jagged piece of glass distorted the view, and after Buck had frantically, albeit unsuccessfully, looked around for stones or the like, he smashed his elbow into the glass

without further ado. Then he took off his remaining shoe to remove enough broken pieces to finally get to Tommy.

Tommy's eyes were closed, the left side of his face barely recognizable beneath blood. Buck didn't notice that his hands were shaking as he carefully reached inside, uttering a much too quiet, too insecure "Tommy?" while searching for his carotid artery.

Time stood still, a vacuum of non-time enveloped Buck. His hands were functional, but not his mind, imagining things. Bad things. Buck had perhaps only survived because he had been tossed out of the helicopter as it crashed. And it was a miracle that he only had suffered a few scratches. Tommy, however, hung in his safety belts motionless, his face a peculiar mixture of paleness and blood. Some victims of an accident appeared completely peaceful but were already dead, some did not even reveal their previous agony. Others seemed lucky, happy to have survived a disaster yet died shortly afterwards from a brain haemorrhage.

It was all so wrong, so unfair; one heartbeat long, Buck felt the fearful knot in his stomach turn to rage. He was hot and cold at the same time, completely unrelated to the merciless sun. Worry, he knew, was a monster devouring the mind. But the sensation that rose up inside him, enveloping him from his toes to the tips of his hair, turning his guts inside out, making his nerves tingle... it was more than ordinary worry. His feelings were familiar, to a certain extend. He had already experienced this kind of fear, this vault of anxiety, with his friends, his family of the 118.

But this was different, and it was so strange. It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? Tommy and he barely knew each other, two dates and a surprise kiss hardly justified that claim. There was nothing between them yet, nothing worthy of a name, right? Everything was still new, unknown, and yet... Damn, I still don't know how you like your coffee, he thought. I know what your lips taste like, but not your skin. What's your favorite movie, Tommy? Does your hair curl up in the morning? Buck knew nothing of the sort, and probably not much at all, but he knew one thing: he wanted to find these things out.

Buck's eyes widened in surprise when his fingers finally found the artery. Tommy’s pulse was faint, not quite steady; a trapped, restless bird under his equally uneasy grip. It didn’t matter, he was alive, a beating heart can heal, one of his grandmother's many sayings.

"I’ll manage," Buck said, mostly to convince himself, "we'll get out of this."

They would. Even if he didn’t exactly know where they were, other than somewhere in the Californian desert, less than an hour from the city, not the best conditions for an… Emergency call. Realization hit Buck like a bolt of lightning. It didn't matter that he didn't know where they had crashed, his phone could be tracked via GPS. The helicopter had surely been detected by air traffic control, the crash presumably also been registered. They were in the middle of nowhere, no roads to be seen, but the situation was far from hopeless.

Buck quickly changed his mind when he couldn't find his phone in the pockets of his pants, no matter how much he fumbled. First the shoe, then the phone; Buck clearly remembered how his mother had scolded him as a child when he had lost something. Not my fault, he thought, it was never really my fault. Nevermind, there were still options, weren't there? The helicopter's communication system, or Tommy's phone… Tommy. Buck almost slapped himself in the face to call himself to his senses. First things first. Saving lives was much more than his job, and right now, right here, he desperately wanted to save a life. He shook his head to ease the slight fog in his brain and took stock of the situation.

No tools, not even a simple pocket knife. Buck looked at the belts Tommy was attached to, and he had the absurd thought that he was prepared to bite through it, every single damn thread, if he had to. But of course he didn't have to. His gaze fell on the shards he had smashed himself, and a small, wry smile flickered across his face.

Despite all his care and caution, the shard he had chosen cut into his hand while he was working on the belts. Buck hardly noticed; he was concentrating on cutting the fabric, while at the same time checking again and again whether it would cause Tommy to slip. But that didn't happen, the angle at which the helicopter had touched the ground ensured that the pilot was reasonably safe even after removing the straps. Well, as safe as you could be when you were forced to sit upside down, anyway, and Buck knew it was time to change that.

"I'll have you in a minute," he said, as confidently as he allowed himself to be.

Carefully observing the still unconscious Tommy, Buck patted him down, looking for obvious injuries, open wounds, fractures, and any hints on internal bleedings. Only when he was reasonably sure that Tommy would survive the change of position – and actually he wasn't, but he had no choice – did Buck set about carefully pulling the man from his seat.

———

Grains of sand stuck to Buck's skin, cutting into it almost as much as the numerous shards, and the craziest infection scenarios popped into his mind when he had finally managed to free Tommy from the wreckage. He repeatedly checked his pulse and breathing, mumbled a few words, which again were only meant to calm himself down, and turned to the helicopter.

Amidst the endless, yellow stretch of sand with its occasional dabs of sturdy plants, the jumble of steel and shattered glass looked almost grotesque. A too-big insect that had fallen on its back and would never get up again. The flight school would probably not be happy. Buck stroked his forehead thoughtfully, felt the edges of a laceration and painfully came back to reality. He cast a hesitant glance at Tommy, but then tore himself away and cautiously approached the wreck. The smoke could probably be seen for miles, which was good, but as far as Buck could tell, there was no active fire. A smoldering fire, which bought him time. Those usually sizzled for a long time, and there was nothing he could do about it anyway. As long as they didn't directly breathe in the fumes, they were fine.

Well, fine. For the first time, Buck considered the possibility he might have suffered a concussion, but Tommy was clearly worse off, and that was for him to deal with. He dropped into the sand next to Tommy to examine him more closely. Strangely enough, he appeared... well, almost undamaged. Apart from the blood on his face and his obvious unconsciousness, of course. Very carefully, Buck cupped Tommy's chin, turned the bloody side to get a better view, and found a nasty but mostly harmless laceration near his ear. If they were found in time, and if someone with excellent suturing skills was called in, it would probably only leave a very inconspicuous scar.

Hen’s good at suturing, Buck thought wistfully, but this kind of memories needed to be pushed away. Yes, perhaps he felt something like… homesickness for the 118 because he was in a situation where he could normally rely on an excellent team. But he was neither helpless nor clueless.

"I got this," he assured the unconscious man in the desert sand. "They’ll soon find us, maybe even the 118, wouldn’t that be fun?"

Well, not exactly fun, but a relief nonetheless. Buck remembered Tommy's candor, in his kitchen, when he had admitted that he envied the team's closeness and familiarity. That was true, absolutely; Buck was convinced that Bobby would personally rush the firetruck across the desert if he had a chance to help him. And it was weird to realize that there was someone who felt like he had only a few years ago. Someone who believed that he didn't belong. Someone like Tommy, who was strong on the outside, didn't dare show a weakness, pretended to be something just to keep up appearances. But he had changed. He had opened, just like Buck had to. Because he had realized that this kind of honesty, as corny as it sounded, opened hearts.

It had certainly opened Buck’s.

The hairs on his arms stood up as he realized. That is, he didn't quite realize it yet, but there was something inside him that clearly told him he was on the trail of something big. He looked at Tommy, thinking, oh. They didn't have anything fixed yet, he hadn't even dared to think of Tommy as his possible boyfriend. But what was rising up inside him went beyond any usual concern for a good friend.

A lot of this was new. The feeling was irritating, almost painful, and at the same time it enveloped him like a cosy blanket. Buck knew passion, crushes and deep connection, and all of it felt different. And yet… Now was not the time, and Buck sensed that this feeling inside him was precious. A treasure that was better guarded before it was shown to anyone.

He turned back to Tommy, and now he noticed that his right hand was swollen. Buck carefully touched Tommy’s wrist and immediately felt that it was broken. The pilot had gripped the cyclic so tightly that the force had shattered his wrist at impact. But even that didn't explain why he was unconscious. Of course, it could just have been the impact itself; the forces acting on the human body at such speed were enormous.

Buck had a very clear idea of what injuries were possible, most of which did not have to be visible on the outside. This knowledge was both a blessing and a curse, but right now, it was a hindrance. Because this was Tommy, and the fact that Tommy was injured made Buck's stomach drop to infinity. So much could go wrong. So many ways to miss an opportunity that Buck desperately wanted. So many chances to feel warmth instead of this clamminess when he put his fingers on those cheeks.

He kept his fingers on Tommy's cheeks for a while longer, because what could he actually do? Apart from sheer will and the oppressive knowledge in his head, he had nothing to help Tommy, and that tugged at his nerves. So much so that he felt it physically. Or was that... Electrified, Buck leaned over Tommy, staring at him as if he could see through him, could see his innermost being and understand what was going on.

What was actually going on was simple and yet extremely longed for: Tommy opened his eyes.

———

"'Sup?" he slurred, and relief seemed to pour out of Buck's every pore, so much so that he began to tremble without really realizing it.

The pilot’s gaze was not completely focused, but clearer than one might expect. Buck was so close to him that he could make out tiny speckles in Tommy's eyes, and he placed that information deep in his brain before pulling back a little.

"We crashed," Buck explained, "and it wasn't my fault. I mean, uh, that's probably important for insurance or something."

"Are you saying it was my fault?" Tommy asked, blinking.

"What? No, no way, right before the crash you said something about the engine... wait, y..you're kidding? Now?"

"Now is as good as any time, Evan," Tommy said softly, and Buck's heart went into a big but very pleasant stumble. "Are you okay?"

"Me?"

Buck's exhale was half a laugh, and it must have been contagious, because the corners of Tommy's mouth went up, though he inhaled sharply a moment later.

"Easy," Buck admonished him sternly, "I don't know what's going on yet."

He repeated his palpation, tapping and stroking Tommy's skin, repeatedly asking if this or that hurt. Aside from bruises, cuts, and the broken hand Tommy was regarding with pursed lips, he seemed fine, at least until Buck got to his abdomen.

"Oh," Tommy muttered, as if surprised himself that this felt anything but good.

"Here, left side?" Buck inquired, yet Tommy's pained face told him enough.

Pressure-sensitive abdomen, stiff muscles… Buck's lips were dry, the sun added to it, but he gulped hard.

"Do you feel dazed, confused? Anything else? Blurred vision?"

"I see exactly what I need to see," Tommy said, perhaps a touch too dreamy for Buck's taste, even if it was flattering.

"Wrong time, I guess," Buck said, but he couldn't suppress a small, if shaky grin. "You might have injured your spleen."

"Happens," Tommy replied, seemingly unimpressed, but Buck saw through that facade by now. Then again... was it really that Tommy didn't want to show any weakness even now, or was he so confident that Buck had things under control?

"When will they be here?" Tommy asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Emergency services. Do you have a concussion, Evan? You've got blood on your face."

"I have blood on my face?"

It wasn't funny at all, but a dry, harsh laugh escaped him. Then he remembered.

"I've lost my phone. Maybe the helicopter's coms are still working?"

Buck cast a doubtful glance at the wreck, but Tommy slowly shook his head.

"Shortly before the crash, I tried to send mayday, but the radio had failed just like the engine. It's a miracle we're still alive, Evan."

"A miracle," Buck echoed, filled with strange satisfaction. He had defied death once before, he wasn't going to let this stop him after all.

"But," Tommy continued, his still unsteady gaze searching Buck's, "air traffic control had us on their radar, they noticed the crash. We’ll be found even if the GPS has failed, and that is very unlikely."

"As unlikely as a crash despite autorotation."

"Fair."

"I just wish there was something I could do," Buck said, his voice displaying his restlessness – he always felt this way when he wasn’t able to act.

He took another look at the wreckage of the helicopter, and this time something caught his eye. Tommy had been wearing a hoodie with the flight school logo when they'd met at the helipad – it seemed like days ago now, but probably two or three hours at most. However, he had taken it off before the flight, stowing it somewhere behind the seat. Technically, the garment was still behind the seat, except everything was upside down now, and the hoodie had fallen towards the ceiling. Buck quickly grabbed it, pulled it out and finally placed it on Tommy's chest and stomach.

"There you go. Keeping warm is important in case of internal injuries."

"We're in the desert, Evan."

"Right, but we don't want you to go into hypovolemic shock, better safe than sorry, Tommy."

"Don’t worry." Surprised, Buck realized that Tommy had grabbed his hand. "You're doing a great job. I'm not exaggerating, and I'm not flattering you, Evan Buckley, but I'm glad I'm here with you, in this mess."

"Really?"

Buck felt his face brighten, and he hid neither relief nor pride behind a mask of equanimity.

"Really. I mean... what kind of story is that? Just imagine that. We crashed, and my boyfriend saved me, and we both survived."

"Your… your boyfriend," Buck returned, stunned.

"Evan. Don't tell me you don't want this. I'm badly hurt, remember. Don’t hurt me even more."

Buck was thinking a lot of very confusing thoughts at that moment, but he heard the faint undertone of uncertainty, he saw the hint of vulnerability in Tommy’s face.

"I mean," Tommy added, "it's a bonding thing, isn't it? Two dates and a crash are enough for me to know what I want, Evan."

His gaze became searching, and Buck understood, and he could only hope that despite everything, he now radiated that confidence that Tommy obviously craved as much as he did. Tommy wanted him. Him, in fact, not the ideal image of a guy, not an exciting fireman, not a sex-addicted braggart. Himself, under all the layers, with all his experiences and the ones he was yet to have.

"I like it," he said quietly. "And I'll find out how you like your coffee, just wait and see."

Tommy's laugh came a little raspy, which was quite unsettling. Still, it was a laugh, and Buck liked the sound and what it did to the little wrinkles next to Tommy's eyes.

"You don't have to make an effort for that. It's quite simple, I like my coffee…"

His voice trailed off as his gaze became distant.

"Tommy?" Buck inquired anxiously, mentally going over the numerous complications that could happen.

"I... say, do you see that?"

"See what?"

Buck turned his head and looked out into the endless expanse, nothing but brownish yellow and green speckles, and he thought he had no idea what to do if Tommy's condition worsened now. But way back there, there was something else, a different color, and it reminded him of...

"A... a fire engine, I think," he stammered.

A fire engine racing through the middle of the desert, far away from any road or trail. And Buck couldn't help but think of Bobby and the crew, he almost knew it was them.

"You see? It's all gonna be fine, I told you," said Tommy.

"Did you? Hm. Wait. You were just about to tell me how you like your coffee."

"Yes, but I think you should find out for yourself, Evan."

I will, Buck thought, and he smiled.

#911 #9-1-1 #911 fanfic #911 fandom #Buck/Tommy #Tommy/Buck #Tevan #writing #my fics #evan buckley #tommy kinard #tommy kinard whump #kinley #firepilot #dailykinley

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shywhumpauthor · 11 months

Text

Two Weeks of Whump—Day One

Poker // Shock Collar // Ashes

TWOW Masterlist

Cw: capture, torture, restraints, mentioned gagging/blindfolding, noncon partial/mostly nudity, noncon touching, collar, injuries, abuse, manhandling, dehumanization, degrading, some themes of noncon (not mentioned, potentially implied, up to interpretation)

“My god,” the sidekick chided, their chin jutting forwards as they looked down at the villain, a cruel grin twisted across their lips. “You really are nothing without your scary little mask and your weapons, huh?”

Below them, Villain cringed back, curling in on themself like that would do anything to deter Sidekick’s attention. They were alone in the room, in an Agency’s holding cell, bare except for a table bolted to the concrete floor against the far wall and the two metal folding chairs, one on either side. Just behind that table was a thick industrial door, closed and secured tightly with only a small window allowing sight inside. There were no cameras, no glass. Only a panel of fluorescent lights fixed to the center of the ceiling, starkly illuminating the splattered speckles of blood across the floor.

Their recoil only prompted another sharp laugh. Sidekick crouched down in a smooth motion, their fist lashing out to grab a handful of the villain’s hair, dragging them up from the floor. With their hands bound tightly behind their back, thick wire cables slitting against their wrists and their ankles bound in a similar manner, they couldn’t do anything more than flinch back.

“Shit, if only the city knew how goddamn pathetic you were beneath that suit,” Sidekick shook their head, amusement flickering behind their cold eyes as they looked Villain over. Their uniform had been stripped from them, ripped away from their struggling limbs until they were all but naked, only left with their underwear. They were completely exposed, every bruise and scrape and scar from dozens of past fights with the heroes on clear display. An angry bruise bloomed across their abdomen from where Sidekick’s fist had landed numerous blows, even after they had been subdued and restrained on the field.

“I mean, you’re nothing! Seriously,” Sidekick’s other hand raised to grab Villain by the jaw, tugging their head to the side so Sidekick could examine their array of injuries. “Where’s all that confidence, all that fight you had?”

Sidekick’s thumb dug hard against a bruise along Villain’s cheekbone, the defeating blow Villain had suffered during the battle, which had stunned them long enough for Sidekick to take the advantage. Villain hissed, a breath of air sucked through their teeth as pain pulsed from the injury. Sidekick smirked.

“Fuck, I can’t wait until Hero gets back. They said that they wanted to be the one to finally beat you, but you snooze you lose.” Sidekick’s hand dragged down to Villain’s chin, the pad of their thumb pulling at their split bottom lip. “I don’t think they’ll mind too much though, once they see you like this.”

Villain tried to tug their face away from the sidekick once more, but Sidekick gave their hair a sharp wrench, nails digging into their jaw.

“They’re off on a big mission right now, you know? They said your pathetic little attempts weren’t worth their time today. So they sent me. And boy aren’t you glad they did.” Sidekick’s hand was moving again, dragging down below their chin, sliding to rest over their neck. They could feel Villain’s pulse beating against their fingertips, quickening as Sidekick let their thumb press lightly against Villain’s throat.

“Ssh- st’p,” Villain croaked out, a hot tear trickling down from the corner of their eye. Their protest only seemed to further encourage Hero’s apprentice.

“Oh Villain,” they clicked their tongue, giving the other a wolffish grin before they shoved the criminal back to the ground, swinging their leg to straddle Villain’s hips. Their hand remained against Villain’s neck, pinning them against the concrete. “Poor, stupid Villain.” Villain let out a small gasp as Sidekick’s grip tightened, hindering their breath.

“Haven’t you realized? You’re powerless. There is nothing you can do. No one to help you.”

Sidekick brought their other hand to Villain’s face, roughly patting their cheek.

“Poor, stupid, sad, dumb little Villain,” they laughed, resting their hand in place as Villain wheezed a breath, trying to twist their head to the side. “It’s almost disappointing. I was hoping for more from the big bad Villain.”

“But, that doesn’t mean we still can’t have fun. How nice would it be if we put together a little surprise for Hero? Think of how thrilled they would be if the came back and you were completely and hopelessly broken. Not that you’re that far from there now,” Sidekick frowned, letting their hand skip from Villain’s cheek to their chest, flicking their collarbone before moving to press flat against their sternum, pushing down against the bare skin and forcing the air from Villain’s lungs. Their hand felt awful against bare skin, cold as ice and rough nails biting flesh. With the hand against their neck, the exhale was turned into a cough, one that wouldn’t allow them to draw the breath back in.

“I know just the thing,” Sidekick suddenly smiled, letting go of Villain and standing up, legs still firmly planted to either side of the criminal’s waist. “Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone,” they cackled, raising their foot and stomping down hard on Villain’s abdomen as they stepped over them.

The criminal heaved, breaking down as coughs scraped against the inside of their raw throat. They gasped, barely managing to roll onto their side as Sidekick all but skipped across the room, slipping out the door.

It took Villain a minute to collect themself, letting their temple rest against the cold floor. It felt nice against their flushed face, soothing a fraction of the headache that built behind their skull.

They couldn’t even start to process all of the emotions bubbling inside their chest. Terror spiked adrenaline through their veins, limbs twitching against their restraints. Anticipation like ice crept up their fingertips, slowly turning their hands numb—though that might have also been from the cords cutting off their circulation. Pain and anger hammered behind their eyes, tears slipping and falling down their nose to the ground. Resentment bubbled in their stomach, along with a faint prickle of rejection. Hero had been their only hope, when they had been gagged, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of an Agency van. Unlike their twisted, sadistic sidekick, Hero was good. Moral. With them, Villain would be facing prison, which seemed almost wishful compared to being trapped here, alone with sidekick. Hero wouldn’t have let this happen.

Villain flinched as the door slammed open, steel bouncing off the tiled wall as Sidekick strutted back in, kicking it closed behind them. The criminal raised their gaze, eyes red with tears, swollen with bruises and exhaustion, sniffling as they blinked to try and make out Sidekick’s form.

“We’ve only ever used these on the big supervillains, the ones with powers and whatever,” Sidekick began, stepping closer. They held something in their hand, a ring of sorts. The closer they got, the cleared Villain could make it out, until Sidekick pushed the criminal over with their foot, knocking them onto their back once more. “It’s really cool, actually. It gives them a nice little shock anytime they’re out of control, and it restricts their powers.”

Sidekick dropped down once again, their knee digging against Villain’s stomach as they settled on top of the other. They dangled the collar close to Villain’s face, letting them take in every small detail. The leather band was thick and dark, heavy with smooth sides. The silver buckle was bulky and undone, the two loose ends held in Sidekick’s fist to keep its curve. Attached to the back was a matching silver box, reflective in the light. It was fixed firmly to the leather with screws that went through the band and clips that hooked over either side. Along the inside from where the box protruded there were two dulled prongs, sticking out maybe three quarters of an inch.

“I can adjust the intensity right from the remote, duration, all that fun stuff,” Sidekick rambled, sitting back their weight as they dug a hand into their pants pocket, pulling out the aforementioned remote and waving it in Villain’s face. “It also has an automatic function, so try not to scream too much, m’kay? Loud noises tend to set it off.”

Sidekick dropped the remote to the side, not far out of reach.

“Now come on, lift up your head. If you behave, I’ll go easy on you,” they hummed, not giving Villain a chance to follow the order on their own will before they grabbed a fistful of the criminal’s hair, tugging them to an awkward half-raised position, trapped against Sidekick’s body. “Maybeee.”

Upon realizing the impracticality of the position, Sidekick dropped them once more, rolling to the side and shoving the criminal over to their stomach. There was nothing but cruel force behind their touch as they wound their fist into Villain’s hair, dragging them to their knees. Their breath caught in a sharp hiss, pain sparking along their scalp, and Sidekick just grinned.

“Better get used to this now, mutt,” Sidekick jerked them back, grip rough and forceful as they wrapped the collar around Villain’s throat, the prongs digging deep into their windpipe, making them gag on their own breath. “You’re gonna be spending a lot of time on your knees from now on.”

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@promptsforyourwhumpfic

Should I make a tag list for this challenge? I don’t think the other ones are going to be as long as this, but I think this makes for a strong start.

I actually kinda like this, a lot. I wouldn’t be opposed to a continuation if anyone’s interested

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