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#summerofwhump14
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Super Smash Brothers Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Luigi (Nintendo), Duck Hunt Additional Tags: summer of whump 2022, Shooting, The Western Approach, Canon-Typical Violence, Counting Summary:
Luigi and Duck Hunt get involved in an old Western style showdown.
@summer-of-whump
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SUMMER OF WHUMP - DAY 14 - HAIR GRABBING
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Cw: hair pull; institutionalized abuse; dehumanization; conditioning; low self esteem; manhandling; hair pulling, pet whump
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It had always been the hair.
Long, white curls that were considered a ‘rare’ and ‘desired’ trait, matching eyebrows and eyelashes, barely visible if you weren’t close enough to see them against the light skin, marked by thousands of little freckles.
It had been those traits, distinguishing him from his brothers and cousins, that cost him his family. He was the one who was offered the most, because that made him a ‘prized product’, and so, he was the one loaded on the truck. 
In the institution, the ‘school’ he grew up at, it was routinely cared for, even when he, himself, was left to waste. Everyday, required to ceremoniously comb through the curls, wash it with special products, and always keep it long, nearly at his waist. 
He learned to appreciate it, too. It was one of the things he was always complimented on. One of the things that made him have worth, and one of the things that he hadn’t lost, in his time as a slave. It was beautiful, and vital to him as a… Person? A pet? He wasn’t sure.
Regardless, because of it, he was often picked and chosen among many others for photographs and catalogs. He was put on the promotional material for the company, and occasionally, paraded around by the directors and investors, as a ‘fine example’ of what Pets could be. 
Pretty. Well behaved. Talented.
But that was all he knew. It had been his entire life. 
Later on, he would find even the things he was allowed - music, books, interactions - it was always curated and censored. He was never allowed, for a second, to have ideas that were not beneficial to the institution - and therefore, to his next owner.
It was only through torture he realized it was all bullshit. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t ‘good’. He was just submissive, and trapped. 
His beautiful, lovely hair that was constantly used to drag him around, either through endless corridors, or just because someone was angry. It was tied up and put on display for the many guests of his Masters. It was pulled violently when Grand Master had him on his bed, and he was shoved by it underwater by Young Master, just because. 
He wasn’t prized, or a good pet, or a worthy product. 
He was just a toy, a worthless, useless one.
He was a slave. 
On the first day of his new home, Orfeu had pulled at his hair. It was soft, to get him out of water, to care for his wounds, but the action terrified him. He associated it with drowning.
And after that, he was done with fancy shampoos, with endless combing. He couldn’t bear to touch it, to feel it was there. He took scissors to it once, and hesitated too much, because however painful, it was also part of his identity. Even if it was dirty, greasy and messy, right now.
Later, he finally sat and Orfeu combed through it: now a mess, from weeks of no maintenance. It took him hours, but when he was done, softly washing it, it… It looked like himself again. And he thought he was pretty, which was something he hadn’t for a long time, since his body was punctured by scars.
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Taglist:  @summer-of-whump, @whumpzone, @cupcakes-and-pain, @twistedcaretaker, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @tears-and-lilies, @pinkraindropsfell
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getyourwhumphere · 3 years
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Summer of Whump: Day 14-Hand Gagging
Whumpee looked around nervously. They hated walking home alone at night. They were just being paranoid, right? Nothing would happen to them...right?
Suddenly, they felt a hand over their mouth. They tried to escape the stranger’s grip, but to no avail.
“This will hurt more if you struggle.”
The stranger injected a needle into Whumpee’s neck. Whumpee felt every muscle in their body relax.
Soon, they were completely at the stranger’s mercy.
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cyhyr · 3 years
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Summer of Whump Day 14: Hair Grabbing
Fandom: Naruto
Rating: M
Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka
WC: ~1200
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply; PTSD; discussions of consensual sex; canon-typical violence
Notes: Iruka fights off a PTSD flashback/trauma response triggered by having his hair pulled. Kakashi is NOT the one who pulls Iruka's hair, nor does it occur in a sexual situation. The flashback shows no explicit reference to previous sexual situations.
A/N: I've based Iruka's trauma response largely on my own experience and that's all I'm going to say on the matter.
~
The shared glance lets Kakashi know Iruka’s aware of their pursuers, and with a quick nod and a gesture for Iruka to go ahead, he turns mid-jump and throws two kunai. Iruka bursts his speed and there’s suddenly a lot more distance between them; Kakashi would be impressed, but he’s worked with Iruka often over the last half-year and is familiar with the chūnin’s abilities.
Both kunai hit true; one in a kneecap, the other in another’s arm. Both nin yelped and halted their pursuit. Two others rushed him—one with a katana, the other making seals for a fire jutsu. Kakashi makes his own seals for a water jutsu and washes the second nin out before she can attack. Then, he slips another kunai into his palm and blocks the katana strike.
One of the first two—kneecap guy—recognizes him, and calls for a retreat. “This ain’t worth it, yo!” He leans on the soaked kunoichi and Kakashi lets them go; he’ll get his information from one of the other two.
But the kendoist holds his attention long enough for the other injured nin to retreat as well, and then breaks a smoke bomb for their own retreat. By the time the smoke clears, Kakashi is left standing, confused, wondering why they would bother—
Iruka.
Kakashi flickers in his direction and is flash-stepping between the tree limbs with hardly a touch to land and push himself off again. Iruka has the mission scroll, the one they had been sent to unseal (Iruka), read (Kakashi), make a determination on the information transcribed inside (Kakashi, again), and reseal (Iruka, again) before bringing it back to Konoha. Their pursuers may not have realized that Kakashi doesn’t have it—unless they have a second team waiting ahead just in case the Konoha duo performed exactly as Kakashi ordered.
If Iruka gets hurt, it’s because Kakashi sent him into a trap.
~
Kakashi and Iruka have been running missions together for about six months, yes; and they’re even what one would call friends, though with the added clause of sometimes sleeping together during missions… after missions… before missions…
Friends with benefits. Sex friends. Whatever it is, Iruka is wild and Kakashi has no intention of letting him go without Iruka ending it.
When they started, though, there were a few ground rules they both set down. Kakashi would be the one to bare his own face; Iruka didn’t want to roleplay sensei and student; Kakashi doesn’t like being tied down, but will happily be restrained in other ways (Iruka’s stay like this while positioning his arms above his head is a favorite of theirs).
The one that, honestly, shocked Kakashi to hear, was that Iruka doesn’t want his hair being pulled. Sure, it could hurt; but it could also be pleasant. Kakashi himself enjoys being led along by his hair when he goes down on Iruka so he doesn’t understand what the deal is at first. But Iruka is steadfast about this rule, going so far as to tell him that they couldn’t be friends if Kakashi couldn’t honor this one request. And, well, that settled that. No pulling on Iruka’s hair.
Plus pulling on hair is so much different than playing with hair, and Iruka doesn’t mind having his hair pet, or his scalp scratched, or—so long as Kakashi makes sure to telegraph his movements, and it’s been recently brushed and heavily conditioned—stroking his fingers through it.
This is all to say, that when Kakashi catches up with Iruka and sees him fighting a shinobi half again as large as he is, and when the enemy shinobi makes to grab for Iruka’s throat but Iruka ducks, and when Iruka is just too slow so the shinobi ends up with a fistful of Iruka’s hair—Kakashi’s heart stops for half a second because he sees why Iruka never wanted him to pull on his hair.
The enemy shinobi slams Iruka to the ground once, twice, still holding him at the base of his ponytail. Iruka is limp in the man’s grasp, his eyes glassy and dead. The shinobi pulls a kunai out and tips it underneath Iruka’s throat and Iruka’s chin moves with it, not fighting back—
The guy looks up and over his shoulder as Kakashi flies in, lightning in his palm, and all three of them hit the ground as Kakashi’s hand slips into the shinobi’s neck. Kakashi stands, kicks the dead body aside, and turns back to Iruka.
He’s kneeling where he fell, trembling; hair has slipped out of its tie in uneven chunks, some of it covering part of his face. His hands are clasped on his lap but he’s tense and his eyes are still glazed, like he’s not fully here.
“Iruka?” Kakashi calls, kneeling in front of him and ducking his head so he can better see Iruka’s face.
Iruka nods slightly.
“You’re safe now. Is it okay if I touch you?”
Iruka doesn’t respond for a moment, and then takes in a thin, hissing breath and whispers, “Please.”
Kakashi inches forward, then puts one hand over top of Iruka’s clasped hands and the other on his shoulder.
The trembling worsens, and his breath hitches on a suppressed sob. “I don’t want to be here, Kakashi,” he murmurs, “Not again, not again, not—”
“Where are you, Iruka? How can I help?”
“No, no. Um. That’s,” Iruka gasps; swallows, hard. “That’s my question. Tell me what’s going on, where I am, get me out of my head. Before I get stuck.”
“We’re in the forests seventeen miles east-northeast of Konohagakure. You were brought along on a mission to unseal and seal a scroll containing potentially sensitive information before we brought it back to Konoha. You have, so far, done your job perfectly.”
A wet laugh, a sniffle; Kakashi counts a win.
He continues, “You took on one enemy ninja, who during the fight got a hold of your hair, after which you’ve been exhibiting a trauma response.” He moves his hand from resting atop Iruka’s hands to threading his fingers through Iruka’s. “Can you describe what’s happening on your end?”
“Physically, I. Um. Nausea, headache, chills, m-my body aches everywhere—”
“And mentally?”
Iruka shakes his head quickly. “Please, gods no. No no no no no—” A bird call echoes through the trees around them and Iruka flinches hard and cries, “Gods, stop it—I can’t—leave me alone please—Haven’t you taken enough—”
“It was a bird call, Iruka; listen closely,” Kakashi says, and keeps his voice low. He shifts even closer to Iruka, enough that he can move his hand from Iruka’s shoulder to the back of his neck. With his fingertips, he makes small circles there; at the same time, he strokes his thumb across the back of Iruka’s hand.
Second by second, minute by minute, Iruka relaxes. When he comes back to himself fully, the tension in his spine loosens like a cut string and Iruka falls into Kakashi’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Iruka mutters.
“Gods, don’t be,” Kakashi says. He turns his head and kisses Iruka’s hair, the hand he had on the back of his neck sliding up to pet at brunet locks. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
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silence
prompt: hand gagging
whumpee: shawn spencer
fandom: psych
hi welcome to another psych fic! this is set before shawn takes a shot in the dark but like anytime before that. brief setup of the scene is shawn is exploring someplace (not important where) for a case, by himself. jules is out of town for something (which is only relevant for a sec but i wanna make sure it’s not confusing lol). anyway i hope you like this fic!
Shawn doesn’t stop running when the bullet hits him. In fact, he doesn’t even register the impact, too caught up in getting the hell away from this guy with the gun. 
He skids around a corner, nearly losing his balance, then turns down a hallway. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees his pursuer come around the same corner, then pause for a second and look both ways. Shawn ducks out of sight as the man’s eyes come his way, but he hears more gunshots and approaching footsteps and realizes he hadn’t gotten out of the field of view quickly enough. 
He starts running again, and suddenly realizes that his left arm is wet. Which is weird. He spares a glance at it as his feet fly over the tile, and notices with alarm that it’s red. He thinks it has to be blood, but he doesn’t know from where. He reaches out a hand to touch it and - 
Yeah. That had been a mistake. He barely stops himself from screaming as his hand makes contact with what he is rapidly realizing is a bullet wound in his upper arm. 
He can’t deal with this right now - he’s running for his life and he’s been shot and he might get shot again and maybe even die, and he can’t die right now, but his arm really hurts and it’s making it kind of difficult to think about what he should do. 
Shawn turns another corner and there! - ahead of him, on the right, is a door with a sign on it. He doesn’t pause to read it, just wrenches it open with his good arm and shuts the door behind him, just as he hears the footsteps of the gunman turn the corner after him. 
Shawn stumbles around in the small, dark space, which he can infer is some kind of storage closet. He feels for a lock on the door handle and, disappointingly, finds none. He moves to feel for some kind of implement to defend himself with, instead - a broom, maybe - but his leg hits something on the floor and sends him stumbling forward and his left arm slams into something hard and metallic and he clamps his right hand firmly over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. His blood pounds in his ears from a combination of pain and fear that he’s about to be discovered, and his entire left arm from the elbow to the shoulder feels like it’s on fire or something. He breathes heavily and unevenly into his hand and forces himself to not make any other noise. 
Above the pounding in his ears, Shawn listens. His pursuer’s footsteps approach the closet, and he clamps his hand still harder over his mouth, trying desperately not to breathe at all. The footsteps pass his hiding spot and he feels suddenly, horribly dizzy with a lack of air and he wants to breathe and he wants to scream or maybe cry and he wants out of here and he really wants to not die and to not have a bullet wound in him. God, it hurts. 
The footsteps fade away. Shawn hears a door open and slam and then there’s a muffled curse, as of one who has lost their prey. He moves his hand away from his mouth at long last and breathes, ragged and pained and barely controlled. He’d scream, or maybe at least whimper, but he still can’t be completely sure that the guy is really, truly gone. Maybe he’s trying to trick Shawn, maybe he’s waiting for him to reveal his location and then he’s going to come back and shoot him in the head this time, and that’ll be it. So he can’t do anything more than breathe. He can’t leave this closet, not yet. 
He just has to let someone else know what’s happened. Then they can make sure that the guy really is gone, and then Shawn will be okay. Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.
He texts Lassie with his usable hand. The head detective’s response is quick and quite possibly a little angry.
You got shot?
not on purpose
We’ll be there in ten minutes. Keep pressure on the wound. And don’t try anything stupid. 
Oh. He hadn’t thought of putting pressure on his arm. His dad would be so disappointed...but there’s no time like the present, so Shawn sets down his phone and presses his right hand into his left arm. 
And suddenly really wishes that he had another hand, to muffle the sounds of agony that are absolutely begging to come out of his mouth. Pressing into the wound hurts about a million times more than the wound itself, and he really wants to let go, but he knows he’s supposed to do this and it’s only for a few minutes, but it hurts. He can’t quite stop himself from whimpering in pain, but the door doesn’t come smashing open, so he figures he’s not being too loud. He feels a hot tear run down his cheek and hot blood seeping into his fingertips and he hopes Lassie really had meant ten minutes. 
--
Almost exactly ten minutes later, Shawn becomes aware of voices in the hallway. He can’t quite place them, and for a second, he panics, and then he hears Lassie’s voice, shouting at someone to do something, and if Lassiter’s here then that means he’s safe. 
“I’m in here!” he shouts, and lets go of his arm to grab at the door handle and let himself out. His bloody fingers refuse to get a grip on the metal, though, and they slide off, but it doesn’t matter - a second later, the door’s opening and he has to step out of the way and then he’s face to face with Lassie and if he didn’t know better he’d say he almost looks worried, and then he remembers his arm but finds he doesn’t really have the energy to scream like he’d wanted to do so badly before. 
“It hurts,” he says, instead, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Am I dying?” He doesn’t think so, but you can never be too sure.
“You’re fine,” Lassie is saying, but that’s easy for him to say, he’s not the one with a bullet in him. “Or, you’re not dying, anyway.”
That’s all I needed to hear, Shawn thinks, and then another wave of dizziness hits him and everything starts to spin, and then he’s falling and someone’s grabbing him and they hit his hurt arm and he does scream, now, finally, loud and raw and with the force of all the screams he’d forced down before behind it, and then everything fades into nothingness.
--
He wakes up slowly, uncomfortably, achingly. None of the good stuff, he thinks glumly. Thanks, Dad. He turns to look at his left arm, and is pleased to see that it’s no longer bloody. It’s wrapped in bandages and a sling and he wonders how long that’s going to be on, and how long until he can get out of here, because any amount of time spent in the hospital when he could be out there doing stuff is time wasted.
“You’re here for at least another day,” comes a voice from his right side, as though its owner has read his thoughts, and Shawn jolts in surprise, turning around. 
“Lassie! You scared me.”
Lassiter shrugs. “Sorry,” he says, and there’s hardly any sarcasm at all behind the words. 
Shawn doesn’t know what to focus on first - the fact that he’s apparently stuck here for at least 24 more hours, the fact that Lassie has just spoken to him almost completely nicely, or the fact that Lassie’s even here at all. 
He’s trying to decide what to say when Lassiter speaks again. “O’Hara’s on her way. She said there was some traffic, but that she should be here within the hour. I believe Guster said something about the cafeteria a few minutes ago, and Henry said he'd stop by after dinner. The Chief sends her regards and hopes you’ll be pleased to know that one of our officers apprehended your shooter.”
Now Shawn really doesn’t know what to say. What does Lassie have to go being all nice and…message-delivery-y for? He’s silent for a moment, trying to work out what exactly to say, but in the end figures simple is best. 
“Thanks.”
Lassie doesn’t say anything, but there’s something that you might call the barest hint of a smile on his face, and it’s more than reply enough.
thanks for reading this! i’m still p new to writing psych and i’ve never written lassie before so i am very sorry if anything seems ooc. i will learn! anyway i hope you liked this :) love u all <3
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hale-13 · 3 years
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Violation of Order
By Hale13
For the Summer of Whump Day 14 - Hair Grabbing
Peter settled earlier than anyone else he knew and he could only attribute it to one person. Since then, he and Zara had a hard time being more than a few feet away from each other - he needed her close to protect her from ever going through that again.
Words: 2151, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English
Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Rating: Gen
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Tony Stark
TW: Non-Consensual Touching, Implied Sexual Assault, Panic Attacks
Daemon AU
Read on AO3 or below the line break.
Contrary to what popular scientific and psychological research would imply, Peter settled early.
Zara had always enjoyed shifting, bouncing between fifteen to twenty forms a day to whatever suited her fancy in the moment and taking great pleasure in trying every fantastical creature she and Peter could dream up. Peter was always one of the smallest of his peers so she liked to be big and intimidating compared to those around him.
Well, until his parents died.
After that Zara tended to prefer small and agile creatures, animals that could hide in Peter’s pockets or the hood of his jacket – where they could get skin to skin contact. Snakes that could coil around his arms, birds that could nest in his ratty hair, ferrets that could curl up around his neck and tickle his chin. Peter didn’t mind the extra comfort, he and Zara were always extremely close but they couldn’t stand to be more than a few feet from each other after he came to live with May and Ben.
Skip’s daemon had been a wolf – an odd sight in New York – and had held Zara tight in her jaws to get Peter to comply.
Zara had screamed and cried and shifted and clawed at the other daemon to get away resulting in Skip gripping her tightly in one fist and tossing her into the wall. Peter and Zara had screamed in unison at the unwelcome touch and had been stunned enough for Skip to get what he wanted.
When Zara settled into an opossum later that night they had cried together for their lost childhoods. For growing up too quickly. For knowing that it was probably going to happen again and feeling helpless to stop it. Sen and Lotte, May and Ben’s daemons had cuddled and groomed Zara the next day, trying to offer what comfort they could while May and Ben tried to get through to Peter. It wasn’t until months later that Zara finally spoke up on Peter’s behalf to save them.
Peter’s been through a lot in his life but the only thing that came close to have his soul manhandled was the Bite and Ben’s subsequent death.
At the single Easter Mass May had taken him too in his early years living with his aunt and uncle, the priest had described death as beautiful – the entry into the next life. The dust from the deceased’s daemon a shower of blessings on the ones they loved. The dust from Lotte, a beautiful yellow lab, was the least beautiful thing Peter had ever seen as it mixed with the blood coating the ground and settled into his and Zara’s hair. The sight of it washing off and down the drain later was even worse.
Peter’s main goal as Spider-Man became protecting others from having to experience something similar.
“Peter!” Ned said, pulling Peter out of his wandering and back into the present. His macaw daemon, Veerle, was flaring her scarlet plumage and adjusting her wings to balance better on his best friend’s shoulder and trying to peer into Peter’s hood where Zara had been snoozing through the last of his classes. “Did you hear anything I said?”
“Uh… yeah of course!” Peter cringed at the obvious lie in his voice and glared at Veerle who snickered at him. Ned just rolled his eyes.
“I was saying we should meet up tomorrow afternoon to get a head start on that project from Harrington. I can’t take the stress of procrastinating again,” Ned told him dramatically, elbowing him lightly in the side as they exited the doors to Midtown and started walking in the direction of Ned’s house.
“It’s not due for a month,” Peter pointed out, shivering as Zara shifted in his hood, wrapping her tail around his neck and propping her head up to rest on his shoulder with a yawn.
“That’s what you said last time,” she pointed out and Peter flicked her on the nose with a scoff of betrayal, ignoring his friend’s laughing. “Hey!”
“Whose side are you on here huh?” He asked in mock anger before breaking out in a smile. It had been a while since he and Ned had had the opportunity to hang out as just the four of them – too long in fact. Peter was excited for the weekend that they had planned; a pizza and movie marathon of some classic Sci-if and now, assumingely, some homework. Whatever, they were still going to have a great time. All Peter needed to do was a quick evening patrol and he was done for the weekend.
“Ned,” Zara answered, rubbing her nose dramatically with a paw. Peter rolled his eyes at her as he started scoping for a good alley to change in that was close to Ned’s house, spotting a good one not too far ahead.
“I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours and then I can get started on my part,” Peter promised Ned as he made his way to the alley. “I promise this time.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Ned said with an eye roll, his face a little pinched but still indulgent. “Try not to get stabbed this time.”
“No promises,” Peter muttered as they parted. Not that he would tell Ned if he did get injured anyway; he kept a pretty decent first aid kit with him at all times and he felt pretty confident that he could hide any injury from his friend until it completely healed. The alley he ducked into was empty except for the couple beaten dumpsters that Peter hid behind to change into his suit, offering his open back for Zara to climb into. Patrolling with her wasn’t always the easiest but they had settled into a rhythm for the most part.
Firing a web, Peter took off into Queens, hoping for a relaxing afternoon.
————————————————
It was nearing eleven when Ned sent his obligatory ‘I told you so’ text complete with eye roll emoji that Peter left on read just for the principal of the thing. It had been a busy Friday evening and had only just started to slow down enough for Peter and Zara to take a breather – he was thankful May was working tonight so he wouldn’t get caught inevitably breaking his curfew.
“I think we’re done,” Zara told him with a yawn, her head poked out the top of his book bag and looking over his shoulder as Peter leisurely swung from web to web heading, vaguely, toward home.
He hummed. “One more quick scan,” he compromised and Zara grumbled a little but didn’t protest when he said “Got anything for me K?”
“Sure thing Peter,” Karen’s chirpy voice replied. “An emergency call was just placed two blocks away for a possible mugging in progress.”
“Throw it up on the screen for me,” Peter said, hopping off the roof he was perched on and swinging toward the blinking red dot on his HUD as quickly as he could. Zara sighed from his backpack and kept her head poked out to observe. Muggings weren’t (normally) that big of a deal so she didn’t really hide in the bag as much for those – unless it started to get really hairy.
“That’s all I have! I promise I don’t have anything else!” A man’s voice yelled, the timbre trembling and terrified as Peter swung onto the scene. The victim couldn’t have been much older than Peter and he and his robin daemon were pressed as tightly to the dirty brick wall as they could get, trying to stay away from the mugger brandishing a knife and his corgi daemon – growling and snarling between his legs.
“Lovely evening right gentlemen?” Peter quipped as he dropped to the ground in a crouch a few feet away. “Perfect time to get into a little larceny am I right?”
“This doesn’t involve you Spider-Man,” the mugger said, turning to face Peter instead, his daemon showing her teeth. Zara, head still poked out of his backpack, hissed loudly in return and scuttled up to sit on Peter’s shoulder, anchoring herself with her tail around his neck and digging her sharp little claws into his suit.
“You know,” Peter told him conversationally, standing and trying to telepathically communicate to the victim to make his escape out the other end of the alley. “That’s what they all say but I just can’t seem to mind my own business,” he shrugged as if to say ‘oh well’ and took a step closer. The victim had started edging out of the alley so Peter needed to keep up with the distraction until he was safe. “Now how’s about you put the knife away and I’ll web you to the wall and we all leave here friends?”
The mugger scoffed and turned to look at his victim with a ‘can you believe this guy’ expression on his face before it darkened at the sight of his escaping prey.”Hey!” He yelled, turning fully and reaching out to grab the man – knife raising threateningly. Peter, in an act of desperation, jumped in between them causing the man to grab onto Zara by the scruff of the neck instead.
Peter nearly dropped to the ground under the pain of feeling someone grabbing onto his bare soul and Zara screamed and hissed in the man’s grip, finally biting him on the wrist so he dropped her to the ground, some of her course hair still stuck to his palm and flaking off in pieces. Looking horrified and sick himself, the man took off with his corgi daemon whimpering at his heels leaving Peter alone.
Peter let out a sob, his skin still crawling, and curled up into a tight ball. The last time anyone had touched Zara had been Skip when he had… when he…
“Your heart rate has reached unacceptable levels,” Karen’s clear voice cut through. “Mr. Stark is on his way.”
Peter gasped in response (he couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?) and reached out blindly for where Zara was curled up and trembling a few feet away, scooping her into his chest and pressing his masked face into the fur of her side.
“Peter Mr. Stark is three minutes out but you need to control your breathing,” Karen told him gently. “Please follow the prompts on the screen – in for four, hold seven, out eight.”
Peter couldn’t even breathe in for one second let alone four but he tried to follow Karen’s directions – having Zara back in his arms where he could run his fingers through her hair and try to get rid of the unwanted touch that he could still feel phantom echos of helped some but not enough. By the time Tony landed with Silon in his arms a few minutes later Peter hadn’t really managed to improve his mental state by much.
“Oh Pete,” Tony said sadly, stepping out of the suit and kneeling down in front of Peter. “I’m so sorry kiddo.” Peter just let out a loud sob in response but didn’t protest Tony pulling his mask carefully over his head and running calloused fingers through his hair. Silon, Tony’s large serval daemon, cautiously curled over Peter to begin nuzzling Zara, his purr sounding comforting but sad.
“He touched her,” Peter forced out, nearly gagging as he said it, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks for Tony to rub away with his thumbs. “He grabbed her.”
“I know buddy, I saw,” Tony confirmed, levering Peter up to sit cross-legged with his back to the wall and Zara coiled in his lap. “I know there’s nothing I can say that will help but I’ve got Happy on the way. We’re going back to the Tower and we’re going to watch Star Wars and you’re going to cuddle with her okay? It’ll help.”
Peter nodded erratically, gripping Zara tighter for a moment and then releasing her when she reached out one of her paws to Silon. He let her climb onto his back and grip onto him with all four limbs and tail, craning his neck back to groom her gently. “The last person to touch her was… it was… I didn’t want…”
“I know Petey,” Tony told him as he pulled him in for a firm hug that Peter was quick to reciprocate, clinging onto his mentor just as tightly as Zara was to Silon. “I know buddy, just let it out.”
There were some things that Tony Stark could fix – Peter could trust him to try to fix just about any problem he was presented with – but Peter knew that this would be one of those things that would be cracked inside of him forever. Something that no one besides Peter and Zara could work on and something that would always haunt them. But, sitting there with his mentor in one of the dirty alleys of Queens, Peter thought he could feel it mending.
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morgana-greenleaf · 3 years
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Summer of Whump Day 14: Hair grabbing/hand gagging
@summer-of-whump
Read on AO3 | Masterlist
The Soldier lies in his own filth on the floor of his cell. The door swings open, and a group of guards file in, followed by the Director.
“Disgusting,” the Director says, staring down at him, mouth twisted. He leans down and grabs the Soldier by his long hair, nails scraping on his scalp. The Director jerks him up, the Soldier scrabbling to follow the movement.
The Director turns and leaves, dragging the Soldier with him, the guards surrounding them. They come into an office-like room, and the Director throws the Soldier into the metal chair across from the desk, before the Director settles in his own chair; a plush, comfy office chair.
The Director opens a drawer, and pulls out a manila folder, and sets it in front of the Soldier. The Soldier raises his head, just enough to see the folder. The Director flips it open, and that reveals the photos of three men.
“These men,” the Director says, leaning forwards on the desk, “Have been fighting against HYDRA’s good work. They have been killing dozens of people. We offered them mercy if they turned themselves in, but they refused, and you must take them out.”
The Soldier nods.
“They’ll be out on the streets this evening, and you will take them out via sniper rifle from the top of a building. Do not let them see you.”
“Yes sir,” the Soldier says. He still remembers the punishment from last time he was seen.
The Director stands, and grabs the Soldier by his hair again, dragging him into the prep room. He’s released to stand in the centre of the room, and his chains are unlocked, and pants removed. Two guards takes hoses, washing him down quickly and efficiently, then roughly towel him dry.
They dress him, and strap on holsters to hold his weapons, and then drag him back into his cell. He leans back against the cold stone of the wall, soothing his aching skull. His temple throbs from yesterday’s wipe. He fades in and out of consciousness, until the guards come to take him to the van.
A few strands of hair, damp with blood, stay stuck to the wall of the cell.
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uniasus · 3 years
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Summer of Whump day 14!  I know a missed a few, but 13′s prompt didn’t jive with me and 12′s is still a WIP that’ll probably become a part of Add A Seat To The Table. Mordred POV, so look for that!
This day’s piece is again, Merlin.
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Merlin tensed as he heard Lord Duncan step into the room, but kept scrubbing the floor. As was not uncommon, Arthur had assigned higher ranked serving staff to visiting nobles, but Duncan had a very strict view of staff. They were to be available at all times, night or day, and always visibly doing working.
“Servants should not be idle,” he’d said his first night. “If you’re not actively serving me, there are many chores for you to do.”
And so, after helping him dress that morning Duncan had ordered his floors scrubbed. They’d been scrubbed the day before, and not even Arthur’s chambers were scrubbed daily. Still, Arthur had told Merlin it was his duty to make Duncan happy and it apparently made the lord very happy to see Merlin worked to bone.
The grip in his hair was sudden and painful, jerking Merlin’s head up and back even as his elbows scattered in response to pain. His left hit Duncan’s shin, his right the bucket of water with enough force to overturn it. Dirty water flowed over his hands, soaking his knees and splashing Duncan’s shoes.
Duncan tightened his grip, forcing Merlin’s head back even farther. “You’ll be mopping that up with your own shirt, boy. You should have already finished by now. I can't believe you’re the prince’s actual servant. You’re slow and clumsy.”
With one last tightening grip, Duncan shoved Merlin's head away.
Merlin kept his head down, hiding both his gritted teeth and the tears of pain in the corner of his eye. He heard more than watch the lord grab something from his chest.
"I expect the floor to be washed, dry, and a bottle of wine waiting for me in an hour."
"Yes sir," Merlin said to the floor.
There was a beat, then Duncan let himself out.
With a sigh, Merlin sat back on his knees and glared at the water. Floating on one of the small bubbles of water were several black hairs. Gingerly, Merlin patted his head. No blood, but Duncan certainly hadn't been gentle and he'd ripped out more than just a few strands.
Calling up a spell, Merlin burned the small clump of his hair and dried up the spilled water. He'd have to manually fill up the bucket with water – Sir Duncan would ask – but at least his shirt was saved from use as a rag.
He'd have to ask Gaius to give him a hair cut tonight. Merlin did not want a repeat performance of this tomorrow.
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caspia-writes · 3 years
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Summer of Whump #14 — Hand Gagging
Summary: A boy accidentally reports his parents to the police over a piece of chocolate.
A/N: I could definitely be happier with this piece, but after several attempts to figure out how to fix it, I've decided that I've probably just been looking at it too long. Maybe I'm just not used to this much dialogue?
Content warnings: None
It was always interesting to see how the children at the park responded to Theodor’s presence. The ones he knew personally, the ones who called him Onkel Theodormore than anything else, ran over immediately, all clamoring for a piece of chocolate. Naturally the other young ones, old enough to understand the chants of Bitte ein bisschen Schokolade?, were never far behind. After all, why should they let the others have all the treats? Even the older ones would eventually come over, forming a somewhat more orderly mob as they held their hands out and asked if they might have a piece too—before fleeing back to some other corner of the park to eat it and watch him unblinkingly.
But today there was an exception in the form of a young boy who was still shying away, even as the other children were almost climbing over each other to try and get some chocolate. When he didn’t think Theodor was watching, he stared; when he realized he’d been caught, he looked down at the ground in front of him. Almost guilty, except what could a boy of six or seven have possibly done to break the law?
Probably nothing. But Theodor intended to be sure of it.
It didn’t take long for the boy to notice what was happening, but he didn’t run. His face went pale and Theodor could see him almost beginning to hyperventilate, but he stayed right where he was, watching as Theodor got closer. Even at the point when almost anyone with the slightest fear of him would’ve dashed away, the boy simply stood there, stupefied, gazing at Theodor with eyes so wide they barely seemed to fit in their sockets.
Slowly, taking care not to do anything that might startle the child further, Theodor pulled a square of chocolate and held it out to the boy. Instead of taking it, the boy yelped and cowered. Curious. He’d never seen a child afraid of candy before. And in fact, he didn’t think that was the problem—so he took the boy’s arm, pried his fist open, and pressed the chocolate square into his palm anyway.
After a few seconds, the boy opened his eyes and began examining his present. The boy frowned at the chocolate, trying to look at it from every angle and even sniffing at it. Not having accomplished whatever he had set out to do, he shot a half-second glance up and whispered, “Is it poison?”
So that was what he was trying to figure out. The answer was simple enough. “No.”
And now, having found an excuse to eat a piece himself, Theodor reached back into his pocket and began pulling the foil off another square. That seemed proof enough to the boy, who immediately tore the wrapping away and began devouring his chocolate. Which, hopefully, meant that Theodor had built enough rapport to be able to talk to him.
“What’s your name, boy?”
The boy hesitated, making a point of eating the rest of his chocolate before answering. “Florian Quenstedt.”
“Well, there’s a good, proper Sächsischer name.” It seemed Florian took well to the comment. Or perhaps he was just happy to have had chocolate. Either way, he met Theodor’s eyes again and smiled. “So why, Herrlein Quenstedt, were you afraid of me?”
Florian looked away again and began sucking the melted chocolate off his fingers. “My Vati says he hates you because you’re evil and want to kill him.”
Now that captured Theodor’s attention. Many people didn’t particularly like the Staatspolizei—but hate? And openly admit as much to their children? That was unusual.
“Really? And why do you suppose that is?”
Florian frowned. “He said it’s because he’s—um, that he’s a demo... dema...”
“Perhaps he’s a democrat?”
“Yeah, that!” Florian beamed up at Theodor. “My Vati is a democrat! And he says you really hate democrats, and that’s why you’re evil and want to kill him. But I don’t think you’re evil.”
This time his voice must have carried across the park. All of ten seconds later, a woman—his mother?— dashed over, her face pale and sheening with sweat as she almost fell to the ground trying to grab her son by the collar.
“Florian!” she yelped before meeting Theodor’s eyes. “Good evening and—and please don’t listen to him, Herr Reichsminister. I don’t know where he learned that awful word. Or this awful habit of telling lies!”
“But Mutti, I wasn’t telling—!”
The mother slapped her hand over Florian’s mouth before he could finish. As if there was any more evidence Theodor needed to investigate the entire family. Besides, refusing to let the child talk now, after he’d told all, only confirmed that Florian had been accurate, or close enough to it. Not that Theodor intended to let on.
“Well, this is simply how some children are.” Honest, loyal, and entirely willing to sacrifice their family for the good of the nation. Even if most of them didn’t consciously realize the last part. “You never know what they’re going to say or to whom. But surely this is all a misunderstanding of some sort?”
To that, the mother nodded frantically. Of course she did. Criminals always loved any story that made them sound innocent. And what could be more innocent than a child not understanding a word they were using? With her enthusiasm, she may as well have begun to confess right then.
Nonetheless, if Theodor wanted more information, just to be sure, he would need to find a way to drag this out a little longer.
“Now—Florian, wasn’t it?” The boy glanced back at his mother, then nodded at her lack of objection. “Would you like another piece of chocolate?”
“Yes please!” This time he didn’t bother seeing what his mother thought of it. If he had, he would’ve seen her trying to force a grimace into a smile. Frankly, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
“All right, you can have one more piece.” Florian’s eyes lit up, then dimmed as Theodor held up a finger. “But only if you can tell me what the National Syndicalist Party slogan is first.”
“Alles zum Wohle der Nation!” Florian immediately yelled, even managing a halfway decent salute.
But der Nation? That was an odd error to make. Every child his age should’ve known it was actually der Großsachsen. And this error in particular sounded suspiciously like the sort of bastardization that a child raised around democratic criminals would make, what with all the talk of ‘self-determination’ and ‘freedom of the individual peoples.’ But all the better for Theodor’s case against the family.
As for the boy and his candy, he’d been close, and it wasn’t his fault his parents were traitors. He had the necessary enthusiasm and national spirit to become a good citizen, that had been clear enough. And his salute had been quite good for a boy his age. Once he was liberated from his parents and learned that it was der Großsachseninstead, he’d be well on his way to becoming a model citizen.
“Well...” Theodor still drew the word out, cupping his hand on his chin. Florian’s entire body deflated and he turned his eyes to the ground before Theodor gave his shoulder a pat and presented him with another wrapped square of chocolate. “I suppose it’s close enough for now. But it’s der Großsachsen, not der Nation. Remember that next time, all right?”
“Don’t worry, Herr Reichsminister, I’m sure he will.” The mother forced her grimace into an even wider smile. It was almost becoming grotesque, how desperate she was to appear pleased with this interaction. “Alles zum Wohle der Großsachsen!”
Theodor smothered a laugh as the woman grabbed Florian’s arm and vanished into the crowd. She wasn’t fooling anybody with that. Or at least not Theodor, and he didn’t need anyone else convinced when it came to these matters. Certainly not after the thorough damning her son had provided.
On that note, Theodor thought he rather liked that Florian boy. For all his parents’ efforts to the contrary, he was still well on his way to becoming a good, loyal, Großsächsisch citizen. Just as he should have been.
Children really were little wonders.
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fletcherwilbury · 3 years
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Summer of Whump Day 14: Hair-Grabbing
Warning: This story contains physical abuse, blood, and descriptions of past injuries.
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Summer of Whump #14: Hair Grabbing
Villain grabbed Hero's arm and shoved them into a cell. They locked it swiftly. Then, after taking a moment to regain their composure, faced Hero with their arms crossed.
"You look lovely in a cell, all bruised."
"You look lovely in that onesie."
"It's not a onesie, you half-wit," Villain retorted. "It's a suit to enuciate my muscles."
"It's doing a bad job."
"I will make you hurt."
"Bluffing?"
The two regarded each other carefully before Villain unlocked the cell.
"Letting me out?" Hero asked, leaning against the bars. "Make it quick; I have a date at ten."
"Well, I guess someone's gonna be late," Villain shot their captive a glare as they failed to unlock the cell. They did, in fact, succeed in cutting their pointer finger.
"Aww don't cry. Mummy's here," Hero reached through the bars and grabbed Villain's sweaty hands. They received a very appreciative smack in return.
Finally, after a few minutes of fumbling and listening to Hero talking like a monkey, Villain whisked the cell open and grabbed Hero's hair.
"Owie that hurts."
"Yeah? Well toughen up buttercup cause this is gonna BURN!" Villain picked Hero up and sat them on their shoulders like a father would do to his child. Hero, taking the opportunity to annoy Villain, started smacking their head.
"Yee-haw!"
Villain ran backwards, smacking Hero into the bar and won a satisfying cuss word in response.
Villain stood on the bed- no, the stool with hay on it as an excuse for a matress- and reached around to grab Hero's hair. They pushed a few strands into a hole and then pulled Hero whimpered.
When Villain finally got enough hair to allow Hero to hang, they knotted it and let the leftover hair flow free. After all, it hurts more with less surface area.
And boy did Hero scream. Villain could hear the shrill sound that ricocheted throughout the cell. After listening to the music for a bit, Villain left Hero to deal with their tearing hair.
Alone.
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