#Prompt: Display

[whump-in-the-closet]

what are ur fav tropes for stoic whumpees? love da blog

stoic whumpee tropes that are a 100/10:

"I'm fine" and then immediately collapsing in front of their loved ones in a bleeding pile, revealing a hidden injury that has festered for far too long

silent, muffled crying with shaking shoulders and a bloody hand clamped over their mouth because they view crying as weak and beneath them and they're stronger than this, they're stronger, they can take it--

the moment they close their eyes in defeat and it's all over and they fucking know it, and when they open their eyes again all that remains is a glassy-dead stare

adamantly refusing medical treatment even when they need it. Shoving away everyone who comes close to them, a choked sound in their throat, fighting back with everything that's left in them.

when they kneel at Whumper's feet, eyes on the ground, white-lipped and tense. The only betrayal of emotion is their clenched fists and tight breathing. In every other way, they're compliant.

refusing to talk about what they endured at Whumper's hands after they're rescued, but the scars tell the story for them. They don't have to say a word, but their team's pitying gaze follows them wherever they go

normally unaffectionate and distant but exhausted and defeated they rest their head on Caretaker's shoulder or Whumper's lap, just finally admitting--nonverbally-- that they can't take it

reversely, more willing to be tortured than to ask for help-- If I'm breathing, I'm fine

stitching their own wounds back up with an unsteady hand, painful stitch after painful stitch. Deep breath and pull. Working in a dimly lit apartment with bleeding clothes on the floor around them and the bed unmade

sacrificing themself for their team. "Take me! Do what you want to me. Not them." And their team watching as the torture takes its slow toll and Whumpee-- the one they look up-- falls apart.

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

Jason keeps accidentally drawing parallels between his running away to Ethiopia and getting killed.

He leaves a note saying he‘ll be back soon? Three terrified bats AND a supe crashing through the roof of a 7/11.

Casually mentioning he‘ll be going overseas to check up on a lead? Surprise! Nightwing‘s going the same way! What a coincidence!

Jason pushes someone off the roof? “Don’t worry Jaylad, I know it was an accident!!!!”

The next gig takes place at an abandoned warehouse? “Explosives whomst?? No, Jason, of course I didn’t scout the area beforehand. Don’t be absurd. Your bombs?? Oh, those were yours?”

Look, it’s not that Jason doesn’t appreciate a demonstration of how much they care. But he’s getting seriously fed up with the level of overprotectiveness everyone’s displaying.

Although, in retrospect, he could have handled this whole thing better than having an open spat with Bruce and then disappearing on them for two months straight. Oops.

(In his defense, Kori got them cards for a once-in-life-time-space-opera.)

[wholecakes]

zoro who is so caught off guard by sanji’s kinder actions towards him is one of my favorite tropes. sanji crafting him specialized post workout snacks personally adjusted for him but still down to fight and call him names. he’s still the biggest asshole zoro has ever had the displeasure of knowing, and he’s horribly considerate. he’s a little confused but doesn’t reject any of sanji’s specialized treats. it’s not like sanji is fawning and doting over him like he does nami, so zoro feels like he can cross off sanji actually liking him from his list of reasons as to why sanji is acting like this. but it’s still fucking strange..

meanwhile sanji is in his kitchen wondering how zoro hasn’t taken a damn hint yet

[loonybun]

hi thinking of circus whump rn and gonna make it your problem

- one of those classic sword box tricks, but it’s very much real. I think with an immortal whumpee that would be pretty neat.

- sad clown whumpee breaking down mid-performance, sobbing to the audience and letting go of years of anguish… Only to be quickly interrupted with a quick punchline from another clown! The audience, none the wiser, roars with laughter.

- a caged inhuman/supernatural whumpee being awed at as they’re paraded through the tent. get a whole freak show while you’re at it!

- a very poorly trained acrobat whumpee being forced to walk a high tightrope. without a net, obviously.

- a whumper as a ringmaster, showing clear favoritism towards the better performing acts of the night and giving them special privileges like decent food.

- saw this one comment under a song that suggested a faerie circus (as in faeries putting humans in a circus) and it has not and will never leave my brain. the POTENTIAL.

- bleeding out backstage. there’s no medical care in sight. you’d expect a circus to have better health insurance.

- a whumpee or caretaker looking after or finding comfort in the animals in the circus. just trying to provide them with more care than they were given.

- evil clowns! if you like evil clowns, why not use em? clown whumpers clown whumpers clown whumpers…..

if you write anything using these please tag me i will go nuts.

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Medical Conference

hi guys um. i cant stop writing destroyer. i swear ill figure out a system to organize these “bonus” chapters soon i promise i promise

delta is eighteen in this but the chapter delves into abuse he experienced when he was a child so cw for that

(Content: living weapon whumpee, lab whump, medical whump, put on display, dehumanization, conditioning, noncon drugging, needles, non-consensual/nonsexual nudity, noncon touching, physical abuse, emotional whump, angst, child abuse, child death mention, parental whump?)

~

“I forgot, sir,” Delta tried weakly. He knew as soon as he said it that he should’ve just kept quiet.

“No, you didn’t. You’re going to lie about it as well?” Dr.Martino shut down the attempt, focusing his attention back to the device.

Delta laid down unmoving against the steel table as the scanner searched over him. It gave him mild electric shocks each time it passed. Of course, he hadn’t been looking forward to the diagnostic tests. But he hadn’t been trying to get out of it entirely. That wouldn’t have worked. He only wanted more time to psych himself up for it. Too long, apparently. He’d had to be collected for it. It’d been a bad note to start on.

The rest of the exam went on in silence, without anymore mention of his avoidance. As Delta redressed, he thought he might’ve been off the hook for it. Dr.Martino was fumbling though his desk drawers like he’d already left. 

He produced two unopened packs of pencils from inside the desk. Delta deflated a little bit. 

Delta took the pencils and arranged them in two rows along the floor, lined up flush against one another. Gingerly, he kneeled down on top of them.

“Hands behind your back,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair.

Already there. He knew the drill. He lowered his head, silently counting. No longer than twenty minutes, usually. No fewer than ten.

When he looked up again, Martino was leaning back against the table, flipping through a folder.

“The ISCEM conference is coming up in a month,” he said offhandedly, as if this would mean something to him.

“Okay?” Delta answered, more in confusion than anything else. He hadn’t meant for it to be disrespectful. 

Nevertheless, Dr.Martino’s shoe pressed down against his calf, driving the pencils further into his skin. 

“Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself. The pressure disappeared. The pain stayed where it was.

“You were probably too young to remember the last one, weren’t you?” Dr.Martino sighed.

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t really think about it. He was pretty distracted by the numbness traveling down his legs.

“Well, put it on your calendar. Don’t want you forgetting again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He didn’t have a calendar.

~

“Mention the steady-state thing we discussed. I have files on it, I - is it too late to make a copy? I will. And if you could just please pass along a message for me, I would be ever so grateful,” Simon went on, fumbling through his own briefcase, trying to give what he could. Dr.Martino took the reports from him, flipping them around to see the equations he’d scribbled onto the back.

“You’re not coming? Sir?” Delta added the “sir” on as an afterthought, conscious of the doctor’s presence. Simon himself rarely demanded such formalities.

“Don’t interrupt,” Dr.Martino snapped, more tense than usual. But Simon obliged him, stepping a little closer.

“Not my scene.” Simon patted his head. It was soft, but Delta reflexively flinched away from any hands that drew too near to his face. 

Something on the desk beeped. The transit had rafted up. 

Delta held his wrists up easily as Martino presented the cuffs. They were psychic tech, meant to restrict his powers more than the collar already did. Presumably some kind of safety measure. He felt his world going flat as they clicked into place, all his spatial awareness reduced to a single field of view. The effect was extremely disorienting. He nearly fell over getting off of the table.

~

He’d mostly evened out by the time they’d gotten to the hotel. He sat idly against the chair he’d been placed in, watching the doctor unpack. Everything in the room was the same shade of beige. 

It seemed like they should’ve been able to go. Martino abruptly produce a vial from the bag. Delta recognized it as a sedative. He inserted the syringe into it, drawing it back up.

“I’ll behave, sir,” Delta offered. He eyed the needle warily; he’d usually have been given something in the way of warning.

Martino shook his head. He took a firm grip of Delta’s arm.

“Believe me, this is for your own good.”

Delta tensed his arm up, holding still as the needle entered him. Something cold shot into his veins. It took a long time for the chamber to empty. 

~

It hit him before they even reached the elevator. He clung to Martino’s arm, needing something to brace himself against, however briefly. Martino assured him he wouldn’t have to stand for long. They moved backstage at the panel. Delta nearly collapsed into the fold-up chair.

The cuffs were briefly removed as he was given the medical gown to wear. His hands moved slower than he would’ve liked, but he was able to put it on. It tied along the front, leaving much of his chest exposed.

Dr.Martino took a minute to make sure it was fitted correctly. He cursed, noticing for the first time the visible boot print against the side of Delta’s ribs. 

“Great. They’re going to think I beat you.”

You do beat me, Delta thought. Not as much as he used to. Not as much as Paris. But Martino still hit him. 

The doctor felt over the bruise with his hand, reigniting the pain. Delta winced. It was recent — still tender. The sedative helped a bit. All his thoughts were coming to him in a haze.

There was nothing that could be done to cover it, so apparently they were just going to ignore it. The cuffs came back on around his wrists. He led Delta out onto the platform regardless, sitting him up against the stool. It was had a back to it, luckily. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay upright without it. He’d been trained enough not to slouch or to look so outwardly high, but it was definitely a struggle to maintain neutrality. He kept his head down. It was the safest, the easiest to maintain for a long period. People gradually filed in. Though he was used to being put on display, the sterility and lack of decorum in this new space made the whole thing feel all the more jarring. It all felt far away, though.

His eyes closed without meaning to. When he tuned back in, Dr.Martino was droning on. He recognized some of the words. He would’ve recognized more if he wasn’t drugged. It was a talk about internal power generation. Conduits. There was a hand on his shoulder. Delta stood up from the chair. The gown was pulled down a bit from his shoulders.

Martino pressed the multimeter to his collarbones, watching the number climb until it broke. He pulled it away before it could burn up completely. He pressed a thin disk up against Delta’s chest, where it held there. It was some kind of controller. A thin arc of electricity emerged from it without any conscious intention on his part. More appeared, each of them branching away from his body like a plasma ball. The effect was immediate; that familiar fear crept into the eyes of the audience. 

It cut all at once. The disk was removed. Delta sat back down on the chair, pulling the gown back up over himself. 

The lights darkened. Behind him, a clip show began to play. He didn’t need to look back. He’d seen it plenty of times. Different explosions, annihilations, destructions. All his own work. He could recount each of them to the second. It played for a long time.

For some reason, they clapped when it was over.

~

“Sorry — do you mind if I look at it?” 

Delta opened his eyes again, sensing the it in question. He tensed up. 

He hated being touched. The moderator stripped the gown back again. He felt the electric pulse still going about Delta’s clavicle. His hands traveled around the collar. 

“I’m biomedical by trade,” the man explained, tapping at the gold, “This is custom, yes? When was it made?”

“The model’s about five years old. It gets updated about once a year.”

“Incredible. I see some scarring, though.”

Delta shivered as the fingers traced the burn scars by his neck, a bit on his trapezius. They were in the shape of a Lichtenberg figure.

“That seems non-optimal?”

“Those actually predate the collar. They’re a natural result of it overextending itself during an exercise. The restrictor works as a stopgap to prevent that kind of burnout.”

Though he’d expected it, it still jarred Delta just how easily Martino slipped back into calling him it.

Another scientist approached. She slid up to Martino, shaking his hand eagerly.

“Oh, darling.” He embraced her. She grinned, readjusting her jacket as they pulled away.

“Danny, it’s been ages. How are the girls?” Her nails clicked together.

Danny. The girls. Martino actually had a family. Not that he ever saw them. He had daughters. They’d been kids, the one and only time Delta had ever met them. They had to be in their twenties by now. 

“Brats, the lot of them. They’re smart, though. Smarter than I was at their age.”

“Well, that’s not saying much.”

Delta was not surprised when her hands traveled onto him. He barely flinched this time. But he hadn’t expected her to speak to him.

“Oh, and look at you. You’re all grown up now, huh?” 

She gripped his chin in between her fingers, studying his face. The touch wasn’t harsh, nor was it gentle.

“You probably don’t remember me.”

That was correct. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he could find no memories to attach to it.

“He’s a bit distant at the moment. You’ll have to forgive him,” Martino answered for him.

She released her grip, turning her attention back to the doctor. Even in his current state, it didn’t take him long to put it together. She’d been one of the teachers at the Institute. He wondered how many of them were wandering around out there now. Most of them. Dr.Martino had been the only one to retain some semblance of his position. All the other administrators had been cast away just the same as the students.

He had forgotten nearly every one of their names.

~

Martino packed up the last of the day’s display materials, arranging all of it back into the suitcase. It’d been a success, as far as these things go. He’d revealed all he could without breaching the terms of his contract. All the real science was under a strict NDA. It was nice to catch up with some colleagues, though. It was healthy to be off of a spaceship every once in a while.

He tugged Delta’s sleeve, pulling him up from the plastic chair. He took a minute to undo the cuffs; he’d thought they were an excessive measure to begin with and they had prevented any real show of power. Delta rubbed idly at the marks they had left there.

They made their way back up to the hotel room. The drug had not yet worn off; Delta still stumbled a bit when he walked. He’d redressed himself in a thick hoodie, trying to keep out the chill from the overactive AC or perhaps just trying to hide. 

The door opened. Martino dropped his suitcase onto the bed. Presumably out of habit, Delta lowered himself to the floor, kneeling there. Waiting for instructions, as if he could have followed them. Martino scoffed. 

“You can sit on the bed. I booked a double room for a reason.”

He watched the whole minute it took for his words to sink in. The way it took even longer for Delta to actually rise, blearily climbing up onto the mattress. His hands gripped searchingly across the blanket, pulling up the edges like he needed something to hold onto.

Martino ignored him. He moved to the far side of the room and opened the door to the balcony. The city skyline was clearly visible just down the road. The lights from it shone brighter than the stars from space. Martino produced one of the foreign cigarettes from its packet. The ember burned in the dark night. It was all quiet.

“What was I like when I was little?”

He turned to look at Delta. The kid was drugged out of his mind. He might’ve given him too much.

Dr.Martino took a long drag. He rarely smoked, so used to the endless sterility that he would not so much as dirty the air. But tonight was a rare night.

“What were you like?” He ashed the cigarette, turning back to look at the night skyline. “I don’t remember.”

Delta looked down, disappointed. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Martino sighed, losing the battle.

“…You were quiet. Same as you are now. You mostly kept to yourself.”

He gave no visible reaction.

“You didn’t get along so well with the other kids,” Martino admitted, some disdain entering his voice. 

Delta looked up. His expression was totally blank.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked.

It was manipulative, and self-pitying in a way that did not flatter him. Martino put the cigarette out. He stepped back into the room.

Delta shrank back a bit. The doctor looked him over. His eyes had dimmed some, no doubt due to the sedative. His hands were unbloodied. Just looking at him, no one would have know what he’d done. Martino remembered the sound of bones snapping and the bodies out in the yard. He remembered the expression Delta had worn the first time he’d killed — as blank and unfeeling as the one he wore now. He did hate him, he supposed. He’d never been his favorite. All his favorites had been buried a long time ago.

He didn’t say that. He remembered his lines — and he cursed himself for ever diverging from them, even for a second. He would correct it now.

“There is no you.”

Delta opened his mouth as if to object, then thought better of it. Good.

“No more talking tonight,” Martino said.

Delta nodded, laying down onto the mattress. He fell asleep with all the lights on.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @pigeonwhumps

[whump-or-whatever]

Non-verbal Anxiety/Stress Indicators

For all those whumpees who try to hide how they're feeling from others or might not even realize themselves what they're feeling.

Wringing hands

Tapping/shaking foot or leg

Rubbing hand along leg or arm

Fidgeting with sleeve/zipper/loose string/etc.

Body-focused repetitive behaviours (twirling hair, biting nails, picking at skin, etc.)

Pacing/rocking/inability to sit still

Tapping fingers

Touching/rubbing face

Holding on to a comforting item

Darting eyes

Positioning oneself with back to wall/facing door

Looking around for potential exists/sources of danger

Staring unseeingly into the distance

Trying to make oneself seem smaller (slouching, crossed arms, curling up, leaning on something, etc.)

Angling body away from others

Avoiding eye contact

Tense facial features (clenched jaw, furrowed brow, pursed lips etc.)

Stiff body and posture

Cold hands/chills

Clammy hands/sweating

Numbness in extremities/chest pain

Being unresponsive/unable to speak

Quick shallow breathing/difficulty getting a full breath

Paler than usual complexion

Feel free to add any others y'all can think of!

[whumpsandwhimpers]

It's almost Christmas time!! So have a CHRISTMAS THEMED WHUMP IDEA!!

Whumpee Christmas tree!!!

Wrap them up and tie them up in Christmas lights and tinsel!

Stick a bunch of ornaments into their clothes and lips or maybe even pierce them onto their skin!

Obviously Christmas trees can't talk, so gag them somehow. But it better be Christmas themed! Maybe stick an apple in their mouth, or an ornament and tie it in place with a cloth! Or maybe tie gift wrapper around their mouths, or a pretty ribbon in a bow!

Basically a stress position since Whumpee should stand perfectly still the entire time

Have them watch everyone around them opening presents while at their feet, let them watch everyone play games and eat Christmas dinner, while depriving them of any sort of relief whatsoever!

Let people take pictures with Whumpee Christmas Tree! Let the guests talk about what a pretty tree they are!

Whumpee is just a decoration, after all. And decorations don't eat or speak or rest. They need to make sure Whumper's party is perfect.

[mionkings]

The Deep Lands 🏕

Amity Park is strange; even without the ghosts' destruction, the ectoplasm is enough to change and make things strange. The residents just as eccentric and weird. But they can be friendly when they want!

However, the national parks near or in Amity Park are terrifying.

People disappear mysteriously to never be seen again without explanation or are found eventually either dead or alive in the most unexpected places ands strange circumstances.

Those that do come back, become different. There is no true explanation.

Amity Parkers or Ghosts take notice that there is just something— ancient and primal deep in the mountains, where stone and trees older than humanity bleed with energy of even the most deepest parts of the Infinite Realms. It is enough to ward ghosts to indulge in their obsessions away from nature and into Amity Park, something familiar.

Has the land changed with them? Or has it always been there, untouched until now?

For when Phantom flies by the large vaste land, he takes caution. Entering in with the respect one would have towards a home, or rather a haunt.

It calls to him.

[cum-a-calla]

roman on a busy train/elevator/something and doing things to you whilst everybody else is stood around, maybe you don’t even know him

Of course, he sits next to you.

It’s a long bus ride, considering. There’s probably another.. what? 20 minutes til your stop? And it’s surprisingly light; only a handful of bodies. This is when you like it best, stepping onto the bus and having your pick of empty seats, of empty rows. Just worrying about looking out the window with some headphones, nobody needing to sit next to you. In a pleasant turn of events, the entire back of the bus is bare - you choose a window seat back there, surrounded by emptiness; at least, you were.

He’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He looks vaguely familiar, but that’s a dime a dozen in New York. There are important people everywhere, recognizable faces. The single relief of not watching the news much is not recognizing any of them, not giving a shit. He has little more than a small briefcase, eyes flickering to you as he boards, the hint of a smirk on his lips. You look away and out the window, trying to shrink from his attentions. He’s kind of handsome, actually. Sharp features, deep-set, sleepy eyes. Long, gorgeous nose. He isn’t the worst seat-mate in the world, just… didn’t need to be one at all.

He settles himself without much incident, barely speaking a word or a sparing a glance before pulling his phone out and ignoring you.

Not so bad.

It takes a while, and truly, it’s by mistake - by happenstance, you glance over and catch the screen of his phone. It’s angled at your thighs, your legs in your skirt. His camera app. In one hand he surreptitiously takes a picture. His other hand is down on his own thigh, petting the head of his erect cock in his slacks, tight in that trapped fabric. The gasp that leaves your throat can’t be that loud, especially with the way you snap your attention back to the window, eyes wide, holding your breath, now. You freeze up - there are creeps on the bus, you get it. It happens. It’s not the first, last, or worse thing you’ve seen in New York in public or on public transport. But this is… this is a lot. Of course, you could yell, you could confront him and stand up and cause a scene. You know the driver would kick his ass off. You know you could. You can. Every second that ticks by is wasted, but… for some reason, you don’t. Your cheeks flush and your fingers tremble as you smooth your skirt self-consciously over your thighs, wondering if it’s making things worse.

When he tucks his phone away, you glance again out of habit, his movements drawing your eye. All you can discern is a smug little smirk on his lips as he tucks it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His cheekbones slice an attractive curve down into his jawline, a barely-there dusting of five-o’clock shadow.

It must be minutes - right? Seconds? Time warps in your panic, and it takes effort to release the tension in your muscles.

That’s when it happens. His pinky, stroking against the side of your thigh. He’s not even subtle about it; he pets his pinky finger there and then it’s more, his fingers crawling, slowly but surely. Hand on your thigh, and then edging between them, his gaze held calm, facing forward, your cheeks burning as you stare out the window.

Emboldened by your silence, the man’s fingers slide over the tender inside of your thigh, undeterred by the way you press them together just a little tighter.

You turn sharply to look at him, steeling yourself, and you even get as far as opening your mouth before he matches your gaze. He furrows his brow, dark eyes glittering as he fixes his face into the perfect mask of confusion, polite concern. He waits, fingers tickling deeper between them. He lifts those eyebrows, expectant. Bored. Annoyed by your silence, the way you need to remember how to breathe.

“You need something…?” he asks, voice clipped. Irritated. Impatient.

Impossibly, you shake your head, turning back toward the window, and his fingers continue to crawl to push and seek until he’s stroking up under that skirt, against your underwear. A thin, damp scrap of fabric separates your flesh from his fingertips as he rubs. It’s barely a moment after he reaches that soft, plush place that he’s pushing underneath the elastic, reaching your sensitive, shamefully wet cunt. He pokes between the lips, rubs around, finding his way idly like it’s a scenic journey he’s taking, no real goal but to feel, test, push against the bouncy, plaint flesh there.

As he makes his home in the slippery confines of your cunt, pushing one and then two fingers slowly inside, he takes your hand. You don’t need to turn and watch to know where it’s going - he pushes it against the line of his twitching, impossibly hard cock, guiding the way you rub him through his slacks. Slow. Controlled. You can feel the curve of his head, fat, the tender ridge there near the tip. He slides his fingers in, out, before settling into a rhythm that makes you gasp. He curls them, fully cupping your cunt and snickering to himself in a low, derisive way as you spread your thighs a little - just enough to allow him proper access, focusing so hard on staring out the window. His middle and ring finger nudge and grind and thrust against that sweet spot inside of you, like there aren’t other people, like you know him. Like you want it. The way he grinds his palm against you puts a solid pressure against your clit. He moves your hand a little faster against his own dick, sighing as he reaches to undo his zipper.

And then… his cock. Fat, thick, leaking. He wraps your fingers around it and guides your rhythm just the way he likes, all that rippling, firm muscle, the slickness at the tip of his cock helping wet it. He makes a soft noise in his throat and disguises it as a groan.

Despite yourself, you rock your hips - just a little. Just a little, because - oh, fuck - are you really this turned on? Really this fucking desperate for some entitled stranger to finger-fuck you on the bus, wrist flicking as he fucks his fingers into you just a little harder? His cock makes an obscenely wet noise as he drips over your knuckles, and suddenly he’s not guiding you at all - it’s you, all you, rolling your hips subtly and stroking his cock, thumbing the slit as he leans his head back in your peripheral vision, shuddering. He hums, almost a whine in his throat, and your cheeks are so fucking red they burn.

“That’s real fuckin’ cute,” he whispers. So low, so quiet you think you may have imagined it, except he laughs again - a breath. A stab. And oh - that can’t be you, tightening up on his fingers and squeezing your thighs together, closing your eyes and leaning your head back as he manipulates your poor cunt into squeezing around his knuckles, and all that pillowy, plush, molten heat around him has him fucking into your harder, faster. Milking you clean of it, your shivery little gasps. In your grip, his cock engorges and he yanks his fingers out of your cunt to reach swiftly behind your head, tangling his wet fingers into your hair as he guides you. “Down you go - just fucking do it.”

He shoves you down over his cock, and can’t you just resist, can’t you just push off of him, slap him, scream? Can’t you? He rolls his hips up and a deep, rolling grunt issues up from his chest, subdued, his cock pulsing over your tongue. He shoots into the back of your throat as he forces you there, choking, drooling over his balls, over the open fly of his expensive slacks. He keeps his fingers in your hair with a grip that stings, that makes you whine softly as you try to swallow around him. After a few last, emptying twitches, he allows you to pop off, catching your breath and wiping your wet eyelashes, your mouth.

The bus comes to a stop moments after, and he rises up from his seat, all put away and smirking. He makes sure to catch your eye, lifting his eyebrows as he brings his fingers to his nose, winking. “Thanks for the ride,” he mumbles.

[shivunin]

"I know that wicked shape to your smile." - Where Is Your Rider // for Maria :3

Thank you, Mary! <3

Here is some post-Arishok recovery and some very messy feelings:

(Fenris/Hawke | 1,257 Words | CW: Injury/recovery)

To Languish in Repose

“See, your face wasn’t quite as I remembered, but I know that wicked shape to your smile.” —The Oh Hellos, “Where is your Rider”

When Hawke woke near dawn, Fenris was not overly concerned.

The first few times Hawke had woken from her magically-assisted slumber, there’d mostly been the basic necessities to contend with: discerning if she could stand, helping her get clean, fetching her clothing or water or food. 

Every other time, Fenris had stood silently on the periphery, pouring a glass of water and handing it off to Merrill to administer or opening the cabinet for Varric to retrieve a nightgown for their friend. He’d found little to say, even if most of the others had joked or told stories until Maria—until Hawke fell asleep again. The woman herself had said only a handful of words since her near-death at the Arishok’s hands. It was to be expected; Fenris was certain that she had, for a moment, actually been dead. 

And just before she had, she’d said—

Nevermind. It mattered little what she’d said. 

Fenris was not concerned when she woke that morning, nearly three full days since she’d taken her wound. He need not worry what to say to her when she was unlikely to speak, after all. It wouldn’t be a concern that the only other person in the room was Aveline, still half in her guardsman armor and snoring loudly on the settee they’d dragged over to the fireplace. 

When she stirred, he did not move from the wall, but watched and waited. Perhaps Hawke would ask for water or another pillow and then fall asleep again. She’d done as much a dozen times since he’d carried her here through the burning city. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve—any idea of the time,” she said instead, words disjointed where she stopped to catch her breath. 

Fenris, hand already half-reaching for the pitcher on her desk, looked at her. 

“It is nearly morning,” he said, and cast a glance in Aveline’s direction. The other woman did not stir. 

“Oh,” Hawke said. She shifted on the bed, buoyed by a small fortune of pillows, and grimaced. 

“Need something?” he asked. 

“Meredith is awfully—” she began at the same time and sighed. 

“No,” she took a slow breath, grimacing again. 

Fenris had half a thought to retrieve Anders from wherever he’d tucked himself away downstairs. If she was in pain—but she went on again before he could make the decision.

“She’s awfully late,” Hawke finished. 

Fenris frowned at her for a moment, trying to puzzle the words into something that made sense.

“What do you mean?” he said finally, at a loss. His hand had found the handle of the pitcher and he grasped it now, more for something to hold onto than for any actual assistance it might provide. 

“I thought she’d—” Hawke drew in a slow breath, “have me locked in the Circle by now. If I didn’t—die, that is. I thought I…thought I would be...”

For a moment, he could see the outcome of such a thing so clearly that the idea of it filled his bones with ice. He had not even considered—if Meredith had come for Hawke after she’d been wounded, they would have been hard-pressed to fight off the Templars. All of them had been forced to battle their way through the city in the wake of the attack. They had not been at their best. The Templars, comparatively untouched, would have easily cut their way through the lot of them and Hawke—

“No,” Fenris said. “No. She did not come.”

“Well, I did suppose—not,” she said. 

Someone—Merrill, he thought—had braided her hair into a crown. It had more or less stayed in place for the last few days, but a few curls had crept loose overnight. They clung to her forehead with sweat now—it occurred to him that this conversation must be a strain after days of recovery. She should not be speaking like this; not now.

“I would be elsewhere—if she had,” she closed her eyes for a moment. 

The room filled with the sound of her breathing, labored as it was, and Fenris turned away to pour the cup of water she hadn’t asked for. 

“Wouldn’t want you fools,” she sighed, “to get hurt on—my account.”

Fenris snorted. 

“I like you too much,” she went on, “to see you knocked about for me—when I can’t even hit back.”

When you were dying, you said—Fenris thought, and watched the water swirl wildly in the cup before slowly coming to a dizzy halt.

“Drink this,” he said when the water had drawn away from the mouth of the cup, and crossed to her bed to hold it out to her. Hawke didn’t take it. She stared at it instead, as if she didn’t recognize what it was. Her hand half-lifted from the sheets but fell again almost at once. 

“Would that I could,” she said, and the pained half-laugh she managed was cut off by another grimace. 

The next few moments were taken up by Fenris attempting to help her drink without looking too long at her—sallow and exhausted and still breathing too hard. When she drew away, her mouth brushed against the second knuckle of his forefinger and his chest gave a sick lurch. He could not do this, could not be here, but what choice had he? It was nothing; it was nothing.

I did love you, she’d said three days ago, thoughtful—as if she was remembering something she’d forgotten from an earlier conversation. Said it and then stopped breathing, half-smiling at the ceiling as if trying to remember the name of an acquaintance she’d forgotten. I did love you, she’d said, and Fenris was certain she’d died for a moment with the words still clinging to her lips. 

He doubted she would ever remember saying so, but he—how could he forget it? He could more easily wrench his own heart through his chest. It felt as if he already had. 

Fenris waited until she was done and he’d drawn away again to speak again.

“She will not take you now,” he said, and cleared the gravel from his throat. “You’ve been named Champion of Kirkwall. Or—you will be.”

“I—what?” 

Hawke didn’t go on. Fenris turned to look at her, somewhat alarmed, and found that her mouth had fallen open in shock. 

“Yes,” he said. “The letter arrived while you slept.”

“Oh!” she said, and went on. “Ohoho—oh, that must really gall her. That must—”

She paused for a moment, closing her eyes tightly, and went on when her breathing had steadied again. 

“Champion,” she said. “Of Kirkwall.”

“So the letter said,” Fenris told her. 

“Oh,” she said, and the laugh she was repressing curled the corners of her mouth. “Just wait until—Carver hears. Oh, he’s—going to be so annoyed.” 

Fenris might have said something then, but Maria smiled and he entirely forgot whatever he’d been thinking. She smiled like she had before her mother had been taken, before the months of blankness had taken her in turn, smiled like he hadn’t seen since before they’d—

“I think,” she said after a moment, that same pained laugh hiding between her words, “I am going to sleep more. But oh—what a relief!” 

Fenris had little to say to that. He nodded instead and tucked himself against the wall again in his silent vigil. She fell asleep almost at once, wrinkles of pain smoothing out again, but the curve of her smile stayed with him long after the sun rose.

[whump-since-2010]

Butterfly Whumpee - Caretaker

Caretaker never had anybody

Caretaker spent his life alone

Caretaker only knew how to take and give insults

Caretaker only ever knew how to fight back in a relationship

How to be just as bad if not worse than those he loved

How to return blows, hit back

Until he met Whumpee

She spoke like a musical instrument

She treated him like someone who didn't deserved to be stepped on

He appreciated that

Until he learned

She was only doing it because she was taught to be stepped on in his place

To endure pain but smile anyway

Caretaker and whumpee are birds of a feather.

Flaws were brought to the front and punished while any semblance of positivity of virtue was covered and buried

They try to sacrifice themselves for each other because neither think they are worth saving

Caretaker and Whumpee only have each other to live for.

Because when your life crumbles around you and you need to hold onto something

Barbed wire is still a wire

[serickswrites]

Sunrise

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, self sacrifice, blood, wounds, threat of death, mcd, public display, betrayal

"Team Leader," Teammate One said softly. Team Leader had been slumped over in their chains for hours. The bloody, ragged wounds on Team Leader's back had clotted, but Team Leader hadn't stirred. "Team Leader," Teammate One repeated.

Team Leader groaned as they shifted. "Yes, Teammate One," Team Leader replied quietly as they blinked their eyes open. They didn't sit up, the wounds on their back far too painful for that.

"How are you feeling?" Teammate Two asked. They asked the question the entire team of ten had been wondering for the last couple of hours.

Whumper had conquered the region so swiftly and thoroughly. Had attacked and was merciless. And now ruled with an iron fist of cruelty. The team could not abide the atrocities committed by Whumper and their minions. Could not abide the oppression. And so they rose up in opposition.

Whumper had caught all eleven of them several days ago. They had been trying to take down Whumper for months and when they finally had their opening, the team took it. Whumper, however, was far more prepared than they had thought. The information they had been fed about Whumper had been a lie, and worst of all, Whumper knew too much about them. Teammate Three had been feeding Whumper information about the team, and their plan, for months.

All so Whumper could catch Team Leader and make an example of them. "You're the leader of the resistance," Whumper said as they paced in front of the kneeling Team Leader. The whole team had been restrained and forced to kneel, but Team Leader had been dragged to the front. "I'm going to make an example of you for your team."

"No matter what you do to me, Whumper, they will know what you are," Team Leader said as they thrust their chin out.

Whumper backhanded Team Leader. Team Leader listed sideways, but didn't fall over completely. "We will see how true that is. What's more, I am going to ensure your end is painful. Bloody. You will be dead by sunrise, Team Leader. I'm going to place your corpse on display so that all the world will know what happens if you defy me. Then, then your pathetic little resistance will end. And I will rule forever."

"As long as someone longs for freedom, the resistance will never end. You will be stopped, Whumper. I might not live to see it, but someone will. And when you are stopped, there will be hell to pay."

"Don't do this, Team Leader," Teammate Four hissed behind Team Leader. They cried out as a guard punched the back of their head.

Whumper stared down their nose at Team Leader. "Tell you what, if you bend knee publicly. If you renounce the resistance and support my rule, I won't torture you to death. I won't hurt a single member of your team. I'll free them all. You'll remain with me, of course, to ensure the public knows how much you and I are a team, and to keep your team from trying to continue this pitiful rebellion. Join me, Team Leader, and this all ends."

Team Leader spat on Whumper's face. "I will resist you with everything I have. I will resist you until my dying breath."

Whumper wiped the spit from their cheek. "So be it, Team Leader. Just remember, I gave you a chance."

That had been hours ago. The sun had been high when the team was dragged to Whumper's dungeon. What little light trickled in from the barred windows at the top of the walls was gone. It was dark and Whumper had been torturing Team Leader for hours. They had left to "refresh" themself before resuming the torture.

"I've.....I've definitely felt better," Team Leader said as they took a shaky breath. "It's not the worst I've experienced."

"Don't do this, Team Leader. Don't let them keep hurting you," Teammate One said as their eyes filled with tears.

"I'm doing this for you," Team Leader said wearily. The long hours of torture and blood loss were taking a toll.

"Team Leader, Whumper is going to kill you. They're going to kill you and display your body. Just agree to their terms. Please, Team Leader," Teammate Two begged.

Team Leader shook their head and hissed with pain, eyes screwing shut tightly. They took a steadying breath and opened their eyes. "I'm doing this for you. I'm doing this for all of you. I'm doing this for those who are still out there who long for freedom. I won't let Whumper win."

"But Whumper has won!" Teammate Four said incredulously. "They beat us. All of us."

"No, they haven't, Teammate Four. That's why they need me to bend knee. They can't quell the rebellion without it. They're going to use scare tactics. But they haven't won at all."

"Team Leader, you are being tortured. To death. Let Whumper hurt us for a bit. We're strong enough." Teammate One needed to convince Team Leader to take a break. They couldn't stand watching Team Leader be tortured. They were sure the rest of the team couldn't stand it either.

"I won't let whumper hurt you. Any of you. Just....just be sure to not give up hope. The night is always darkest before the dawn."

"Team Leader," Teammate Two said as tears streamed down their cheeks, "you'll be dead by dawn."

Team Leader's eyes flashed brightly. "That may be, but the cause won't be. I'm willing to lay my life down if it means whumper can be stopped."

The team would have spent more time trying to convince Team Leader to surrender, but Whumper returned. "Changed your mind? All of this can stop if you just say yes."

"Go to hell," Team Leader replied.

"That won't happen for a long while yet, Team Leader. You'll be there soon though. Unless you say yes."

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than serve you." Team Leader glared at Whumper. Though their face was pale and sweaty, their anger was strong. Their rage was a fire burning beneath the exhaustion and it would not go out.

"So be it, Team Leader. So be it." Whumper said as they nodded to their minions. "I did try to warn you."

Team Leader cried out with pain as they were dragged and pinned on their back, their wounds grating against the ground. "This is going to be fun breaking your spirit. I wonder how long it will be before your body gives out after I break your spirit."

"Hurt me!" Teammate Four begged. "Hurt me, please, Whumper!"

Whumper gave a wicked smile. "What do you think, Team Leader? Should I give you a longer break and test my blades out on Teammate Four?"

"Your issue is with me, Whumper," Team Leader growled. "Take it up with me. Not my team."

"Your wish is my command," Whumper said as they selected a particularly vicious looking blade.

Teammate One lost track of time as they watched Whumper torture Team Leader. Lost track of everything. Listening to Team Leader's hisses of pain, their cries and screams, was all that Teammate One was aware of. They couldn't stand it. But the more and more the team begged Whumper to hurt them instead of Team Leader, the more and more Whumper hurt Team Leader.

It was only as light crested through the windows at the top of the dungeon that Team Leader realized how much time had passed. Sunrise. They had made it to sunrise. And still, Whumper did not relent.

***

It was still early as the team was hauled into the town's square. The air was still chill and crisp though the sun had risen enough to chase away all the shadows of the night before. They were shackled to one another, some shivering in the chill air. Others shivered with something else. All of them were bruised and tearful. They had failed. Whumper had won. They had all failed.

They were led up to a stage. "Leave them down there," Whumper said as they marched up the steps. "Chain them to the base so all can see them still."

Teammate One offered no resistance as their arm was chained to the base. They didn't care. They had failed. Whumper had won. They bowed their head in shame as the town square began to fill with people. The entire team averted their gaze. None of them wanted to see the next part.

Teammate One couldn't hear anything over the ringing in their ears as the cart that had been behind all of them was pulled forward. Couldn't see anything over the blood staining the wood. Couldn't feel anything as their body went numb. And they couldn't breathe as they watched two minions drag Team Leader up the steps to the stage.

Team Leader's body hung limply between the minions, their chin lolling to their chest. Their still bound wrists were in front, jostling with each step. The slowly forming crowd gawked at the display as the leader of the resistance was dragged up onto the stage.

"Put them there," Whumper ordered dryly.

Team Leader was dragged away from view, though Teammate One's imagination supplied what they knew was happening. They knew that the minions dragged Team Leader to the pole in the center of the stage. They heard them drop Team Leader's body. They could almost see Team Leader lay in the heap, their blood staining the wood panels of the stage. They could hear the chains being attached to the pole and Team Leader hoisted up. They could see the horror on the faces in the crowd. And they heard the gasps as Team Leader was completely revealed.

Team Leader had bled out not long before the sun had completely risen, though Teammate One wasn't certain if it was the blood loss or the final wound that killed Team Leader. Their body was littered with with cuts and wounds, knife hilts jutting out from their sides and thighs. If it weren't for the knife buried in Team Leader's chest, Teammate One would have Team Leader was asleep, their features lax and eyes closed. But they knew better.

"Take note," Whumper said as they ripped the knife from Team Leader's chest, "my citizens, of what will happen if you fight me. Take note," Whumper stabbed Team Leader in the stomach and pulled the knife out again, "my citizens, of what is in store if you do not accept my rule. The rebellion is dead. It has died with Team Leader here." Whumper pinched Team Leader's cheek and shook Team Leader's head for emphasis. "Resistance is futile. Bow down and you may yet live and have a good life."

The team, though I hadn't stopped sobbing since Whumper had stabbed Team Leader one last time, sobbed harder as they watched everyone they had worked to save bend knee. Everyone that Team Leader had faith in. Everyone that was now swearing allegiance to Whumper. The rebellion was, indeed, dead.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[shredsandpatches]

currently in a very bad mood because some asshole wrote "don't polute [sic] the minds of children :)" on the Banned Books Week whiteboard in the lobby

[phoenixcatch7]

Bunch of dc story ideas because I keep forgetting to write them down and they're not fully fleshed out anyway:

Captain marvel gets 'deaged', either through klarion or something he ran into doing duty around the Rock, and flees to the first safe place he can think of - the watchtower. Unfortunately, Billy assumed the curse would simply revert him to his mortal form, or close enough... But the champion of magic form turns out to have been a disguise in more ways than one, because this new body most certainly isn't human.

Similarly, cap gets deaged to Billy's age, but he's still... The champion of magic form. Now Billy batson has full access to his full set of powers and skills, but in his mortal shape. This is going to really help his secret identity :'). Especially because the villains KEEP ATTACKING PEOPLE PLEASE KNOCK IT OFF.

Meta!Batman. His rare power transformed him into a monster on the scale of killer Croc or man bat, and also enabled him to turn into a human. A completely normal. Baseline human. It's infuriating that a normal person has to worry about meta blockers or inhibitor cuffs, especially after his (slightly fudged to keep the traffickers out) statistical announcement of 'no metas in Gotham' got presumed to be a demand, because he had to call in the league to help with a fighting ring and now he's hiding in a dark room while superman tries to coax him out. Man bat already stole the niche, it's just embarrassing.

Possessed doll au! When an 8yo Bruce falls into a cave under his house, he had nightmares about tea parties and flapping wings and wooden limbs for years. Nearly a decade later, he returned to find a sprawling system of tunnels and cracks, through one of which lies an abandoned, life sized marionette tea party, with empty porcelain tea cups and old, outdated gowns. The torch lights upon the doll at the head of the table, a tall, imposing man with chipped paint, dressed all in black, his joints rusted and head lolling. Bats screech from the darkness as he approaches, and when he touches its hand the world goes black. It's terrifying to wake up in a body of wood, hearing it creak and twist, hearing it scream as he cries. He wakes up back in his own body, sprawled on the floor, and runs. He's back down in a few months, this time bound and determined to figure it out. It turns out whatever it is, it has no malice. Indeed it makes for a wonderful, powerful body once he's cleaned it up, able to move and bend in ways no human could. He can hollow it out carefully and fill it with whatever items he might need. A body that doesn't need to breathe or eat, one that can take a beating, night after night. It takes him a long time to wonder why the dolls have precisely as many people as the manor eventually does. In the meantime the people of Gotham are 90% sure their protectors aren't human. And the jl is terrified of the cave. (cryptid, cave is haunted au?)

Venom!dp x dc twin au. Danyal and Damian were the league famous demon twins, the dual gems in its crown, until Danyal is killed. Raas, furious and refusing to lose his other grandchild, starts pushing Damian harder and harder while his brother is taken to the pit as a last resort. To the adults' knowledge, it didn't work. Danny's body dissolved in the acidic waters. To Damian's knowledge, his brother returned as a desperate, animalistic thing one night, seeping through the cracks of his room. Refusing to let his brother go again, Damian demands they be reunited as one, and Danny fuses with his very skin. Once his mind returns, Danny returns the sentiment, both deeply terrified of being pulled apart again. They communicate through reflections and whispers, sharing control of the body by transforming between human and ghost, sharing powers and instincts equally. When they're sent to Wayne manor, they're restless and defensive. They have each other, no one else can discover Danny, no one else can separate them again. Their father must never find out.

Thanagerian!Danny. He's a couple generations removed on his mother's side, so he doesn't even realise until his ghost form appears with two gorgeous wings. It really adds to the psychopomp symbolism, at least? He has a lot of questions when he meets the justice league. No wonder vlad never successfully managed to clone him!

Shapeshifter captain marvel. Please. He's apprenticing under tawky ^^

[coffehbeans]

Capture this, you're in the middle of a city evacuation. Something catasthropic has hit the Earth, people are running left and right, edifices are toppling down all around you. You run desperately, but a building starts falling towards your direction. You see there's no way to outrun it, so you cover your head in fear, waiting for the impact until -

Something holds the building up, making it groan loudly. You open your eyes and look above you, and what you see leaves you speechless: a giant is holding the construction, tons of concrete halting under their strength, all so that you and the other humans can escape. The giant yells with a loud voice, "Run, quickly!", as people take the opportunity and flee, not sparing a glance towards their massive savior.

Meanwhile you're just laying there mesmerized like -

[rockingrobin69]

competitive arse

They’re not supposed to participate, only to observe, and perhaps step in to referee if there’s trouble: and yet, again and again Potter makes his way down to the pitch, to give ‘helpful’ tips or just ruffle everyone’s hair a little and say what a good job they’re all doing.

And grin, and nod, and yell ‘go team red’ when blue and yellow are playing, and flaunt his huge arms and thick thighs and that absolutely ridiculous arse Draco doesn’t see in his dreams. Often. And stretch, with the old Gryffindor Seeker top that leaves a fair bit of his belly on display, dark and hairy and driving Draco out of his mind. What? nothing. He’s fine, absolutely fine. He’s agreed to do this.

Under wand-point, yes, but—Merlin’s balls, what is Potter doing now? On all fours on the grass and letting one of the kids ride him like a pony. One of the—it’s Scorpius. It’s Scorpius. Holding on to Potter’s hair like reins and laughing. Draco… hmm? No, he can’t, ah. Think. Anymore.

He’s going to kill Ginny. He’s going to kill her, and Astoria, and then Potter for good measure, and then he’s going to lick that glisten of sweat all the way down his neck and—argh! Not good not good not good. They’re in public and Draco’s bloody son is playing pre-broom Quidditch. Meant to be playing, too busy making heart-eyes at Draco’s forever-crush. Forever-nemesis, he means. Oh, fuck, Potter took his shirt off? When. No, why. No, when, and also, what, and also, oh, no, oh, fuck, he’s coming closer.

What to do? What to do. How to, ah, survive this now, and also what to fucking—

“Malfoy,” two steps down and a thick grin like he’s so pleased about something. He didn’t shave this morning, face full of stubble, and Draco dreams of rash and tickles.

Says: “Potter.” And then, once he’d cleared his throat of this awful, er, thing, “You make the rest of us look bad.”

“Hmm?” Potter is distracted with something on Draco’s lips. What on earth has he got? Jam from breakfast (and Ginny and Astoria holding him at wand-point), mud from the tackle-hug Scorpius gave him, grass in his hair, what, what?

“What,” Draco says without fully intending to. Shaking his head, “I mean. You’re so—all the other parents are just sitting there watching.”

He laughs. The sound is so distracting, Draco almost manages a smile. “Yeah, ‘Mione’s already told me I’m showing off. Can’t help it, though. They didn’t tell me you’re coming today.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, because Potter is flexing his arms and Draco would quite like to choke in between them, and then, “What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Potter says. Is that winking? Is he winking or having a fit. Draco’s face feels awfully warm and he’s pretty sure he’s losing whatever competition they’re currently on.

Breathes in, out, looks to the sky (blue-blue and unhelpful. Where is lightning when you need to be struck). “Well,” he says when nothing more catastrophic happens, “I suppose I could come every week-end, if, ah. If this is the kind of show I can expect to get.”

When Potter’s grin turns luminescent: “I meant the kids! The way they played was so, ah, they’re so enthusiastic and it’s great to see, ah, stop it, stop, you absolute goon.”

“Yes, you’re only here for the kids,” with a hand in his disastrous hair, disastrously handsome, coming—ah—coming closer, for some incomprehensible reason.

“Stop it,” Draco says, when he truly means—something? Potter’s so close. His chest is bare. It's, ah, stunning. “What, what do you want.”

“Usually we go to the café across the road, after,” Potter smiles from under his thick lashes. Draco, who's milked every last detail regarding the Quidditch Junior League from Astoria for the past three months, knows this to be a definite lie. “Just some of the parents and the kids. You’ll have to come too. Scorp and Albus are just starting to get along, it's be such a shame, to tear them apart.”

It’s a weak excuse and Draco’s weaker. “Of course,” he coughs. “If that’s something you usually do. Who am I to break such a sacred, ah, tradition.”

They both know they’re full of it. On the ground, the actual coach has grown a peculiar set of tentacles, and is carried away by one of the parents who happens to work at St. Mungo’s. The kids are all cheering, and Scorp looks up to the stands and smiles. It’s… a bright sunny day, and Draco was threatened with a bad haircut if he backs out, and besides, he wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.

(For flufftober day 27. Find the soft AO3 collection here).