#the ducks' whump

[roennq]

Moments: 5/x Matt meets Claire (or to be more precise: Claire saves Matt) ↪ "So, they took this kid just to get to you?" "Yeah, I've been making their lives… difficult lately."

[bunnieswithknives]

CAN WE SEE THE HOSTAGE ROWAN DOODLES

Oh to be at the mercy of someone so far removed from reality that they can't see how much they're hurting you, and wouldn't care if you told them.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Pinned Moth(man) (Indruck)

The first winner of our Whumpcember fills was: sensory overload.

Note: since this is whumpcember, this fic contains Indrid being tortured. It's not graphic, but I wanted to warn for it.

Torpor did not always pose a risk to Indrid. 

On Sylvain, the area where his kind lived was warm enough that there was never a risk of it in the first place. In the royal city, there were enough spells and enchanted garments to keep the colder days at bay. 

Once he was on earth, everything changed. He enchanted his clothing the best he could, stayed far from cold places come the winter and, once technology improved, crammed as many space heaters into his home as possible. 

But sometimes the weather got the better of him, especially if he’d been distracted by an urgent future or was in the middle of trying to prevent some kind of disaster. Then he’d huddle in blankets or by fires, trying to bring himself back up to a temperature where he could move around. Sometimes he lost the battle and would fall into torpor for days, weeks and, on two occasions, a month (he did feel very bad for startling the nice farmhand who found him buried in the hay in his barn where he'd tried and failed to find warmth).

He’s learned to be careful, has not had an incident since 1998. 

Until tonight. 

He’d been out in the Monongahela, working on a sketch of Duck’s favorite view. They’ve been dating for nine months, and it’s their first Candlenights as a couple, and Indrid is determined to give the human the perfect gift. When he had the idea for the sketch, he peeked at the future and saw it would work beautifully. 

He was so invested in getting the image just right that he missed the first warning signs; the dulling of his hearing, the sense that if his antenna were out they’d be limp, no longer interested in sensing the world. When he notices them, he packs up his things and makes for the trail back to Eastwoods as quickly as he can. It was already slow going with the snow, and with the torpor getting worse each step seems to take forever. 

A snowball hits him and he chirps, annoyed. 

“Whoever is doing that, now is not the time-”

Another hit, this time taking his glasses off. He trills in alarm, scrambling for them, and realizes there are several sets of footsteps running at him from the surrounding trees. Torpor slows his future sight, but he doesn’t need that to know these are not his friends. 

He tries to take off but his wings are sluggish, and he’s tackled to the ground, clawing and hissing as best he can but it’s no use, he’s outnumbered and going numb on top of it all. Something collides with his head, and as he blacks out, he has the horrible feeling it was a shovel. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid, like many cryptids, has recurring nightmares about Area 51. The idea of being caught by humans who see you only as an experiment, or worse, a specimen, miles away from any of your kind or any friendly humans, with no future ahead of you but to be poked and prodded to death. 

This isn’t Area 51, and he is positive these are not government agents, but other than that, he seems to be in a similar predicament. 

“This is so sick, man, it’s the real deal” a hand pokes his inner wing and he bites back a hiss. They might be waiting until he’s awake to start whatever this is meant to be, and the longer he feigns sleep the longer he has to come up with a plan. It’s warm in the trailer, but not warm enough to bring him back to full energy with any useful speed. 

“How come it’s not moving?” A new voice.

“Because genius here hit on the head with a fucking crowbar.” A third voice. 

(Ah, not a shovel, then. Hard to tell when you’re losing feeling in your head).

“I didn’t see you with a better idea.” Voice four snaps. 

Indrid lets his head droop, hazards a peek through one eye and sees four sets of feet. That’s all of them. Not the worst odds in terms of getting free, but not the best. 

“Lemme get this on and then we’ll wake it up.” Third voice again, the leader by his tone.

“Do we need to tie its arms? It left a nasty-ass scratch.”

“I’ve got it under control, trust me.” Third voice comes closer. Then a hand pinches his left antenna, “hey, mothman, wake up.”

Indrid does not give him the satisfaction of so much as stirring. 

“I said wake the fuck up” The man punctuates his words by clapping the antenna between his hands.

It hurts, but his numbness is acting in his favor, and so he keeps still and quiet. He needs to work out an escape before making any drastic moves. 

“Fuck it. Eddy, hand me that.” 

His future sight alerts him of what that is a second before it hits him; an electric kettle’s worth of boiling water. 

He can’t help it, he yelps in pain; going from torpor to high heat is uncomfortable at the best of times, and now he feels scalded and soggy on top of that. 

“There we go.” The leader, in his red sweatshirt, looks Indrid over with a self-satisfied grin, “see, mothman is an insect, so he gets slow when cold. We just needed to warm him up. Carl, start the camera.”

Indrid uses the moment they all look toward the device to look around; he’s in some sort of RV, far larger and nicer than his beloved Winnebago. He’s standing in the middle of a square frame made of iron, his wings trapped open and clamped to some of the frame, and his legs tied to all edges of it by chains. The clamps extend past his less sensitive outer wings; if he can’t get free before the torpor fully wears off, that alone will be excruciating. 

“Sup, guys!” Red sweatshirt addresses the camera, “y’all aren’t gonna believe this, but we fucking did it, we fucking caught the mothman!” He pauses, then whacks Eddie on the head, “you three were supposed to say that with me. Now we gotta fucking reset.”

Recorded, but not live. Thank goodness for that. Once he gets free, he can just delete it and smash the camera. 

The introduction doesn’t take long, just long enough that his system is becoming oversensitive from the sudden change from cold to hot. His wings are beginning to hurt. 

“So, we’re gonna start by taking some readings. Y’know, be scientific and shit. Plus a blood sample.”

Indrid moves all four arms behind his back. 

“Come on you big bug” the one the leader calls Shane tries to grab his lower left arm. Indrid hisses and snaps at him. 

A cattle prod connects with his side and he screeches, flailing his arms out to try and bat the weapon away. In the process, his wings flap on instinct, tugging against the clamps, and he yelps, overwhelmed by the pain. 

“Let’s get one thing straight” the leader jabs the prod into his left wing and Indrid swipes at him, missing by only an inch, “we’re gonna show our followers exclusive footage of mothman. That can be us running our experiments, or it can be us showing the audience how much damage a huge fucking bug can take.”

Indrid tries another gambit; there’s four of them, it might work on one. 

“You do not need to do this.”

“Holy shit man, it can talk.”

“Yes, rather eloquently when I am not being electrocuted. I would be glad to do an interview for you and your followers. Surely that is more interesting than footage of me twisting about.”

The instant they agree, he is flapping out of the door. 

“Pfft” the leader snorts, “our followers don’t wanna watch some shit like that. They’ll just think you’re a guy we put in a costume.”

“I am” he winces as his limbs regain their full feeling and then immediately register the chains scraping at the chitin of his legs, “I am demonstrably not a man in a costume.”

“Our subscribers wanna see cool shit. Like what color mothman’s blood is.”

“The fuck is it with you and blood, Shane?” Eddie looks disappointed, like his was interested in Indrid’s offer.

“You telling me you don’t wanna see what an aliens blood looks like?”

A horrible understanding curls in Indrid’s chest, “Were any of you by chance the kind of children to pull wings off flies?”

“Nah” the leader shrugs, “we did get 60 million views for the video where we put a hamster in a microwave, though.”

“Well, fuck me I guess.” Indrid murmurs, then hisses when he gets shocked for what is clearly just the amusement of his captors. 

He does alright for the first fifteen minutes, even when they successfully cut his chest enough to see him bleed. Then he’s bleeding and his wings are aching and every sensation is heightened tenfold thanks to having been in torpor not an hour ago, and all he wants is to cry. But he will not. 

Then one of the wretches starts trying to see how hard you have to drag a pocket knife on his chitin to carve it, and another is trying to see if it’s fireproof and catches a chest feather instead, and then the fire is whacked out by far too hard hits as the four men laugh at his increasingly pained chirps. 

He gives up on tracking what’s happening after that. It hurts, yes, but more than that there is so much sensation, so much input into his system, that he wants to weep from overstimulation alone before he even gets to the injuries. 

He tries to look at the futures, for escape, for rescue, but it’s so hard to see through it all, and who is he kidding, who would rescue him, he’s trapped who knows where, no one will notice until he’s too late, if they do they won’t find him in time, he is going to die here, his system is going to shut down in a last hope to escape the oversaturation of torment.

Knockknock

All four men freeze, shushing each other. 

“Hello? I know y’all are in, there I can see the lights are on and you got your generator runnin’.”

He knows that voice, has half a mind to call out, but if they know Duck is his ally, they might try to hurt him. 

Another knock, then, “You ain’t in trouble, I just gotta ask you a question about the site.”

The leader moves to the door, pulling a curtain across the hallway to hide the room from view. 

“Hi, sorry, we had the T.V up high. What’s up with the site?”

“Well, for starters, this area of the campground is closed for the winter.”

“Oh shit, sorry, we didn’t know.”

“Huh. That so.” Duck clicks his tongue, “funny thing is, we always close the road up here. Ah well, guess the storm must’ve knocked the gate loose.”

“Must have. We’ll move to another campsite.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, I got one other question. You mind tellin me why these are all over the front step of your trailer?”

“What, crow feathers? No idea.”

A chuckle, “These ain’t crow feathers, not unless the crow is eight feet tall and got one hell of a wingspan.”

“I don’t-”

“You got ten fuckin seconds to show me where he is. You let him go, I’ll let you go. You feel me?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The punch is a supremely satisfying sound, as is the ripping down of the curtain as Duck strides into the room.

“You three gonna cooperate?”

“Fuck you man, you’re outnumbered”

Duck whips Beacon from his waist, brandishing the sword and driving the three men into the corner. 

“There’s a gun in the desk you fucking assholes!” Comes the shout from the other room. 

“I also got one right here. And it’s bigger than yours.” Mama drawls from the front door, then calls, “All yours, Stern!”

Duck is in front of him now, taking in his injuries. His face is doing something Indrid doesn’t recognize, darkening and contorting into a frankly frightening expression. The his poor, battered mind catches up with him and he understands that for the first time, he is seeing Duck Newton furious. 

“Oughta take their goddam toes off for this.” He whips Beacon across the chains, breaking them.

“Yeees, yeeees you should, let their blood-”

“Can it” He replaces the sword to his waist, then starts gingerly removing the clamps, “it’s okay sugar, I got you, I’m here, I’m gonna get you home”

He chirrs weakly, too overstimulated to speak. 

“Shh, shhh, I got you. I got you.” Duck repeats as he eases the second clip free. 

Indrid collapses on the floor, Ducks knees hitting it a moment later as warm, familiar hands try to gather him into the rangers arms. 

“Fucking knew the feds were covering it up!”

“I have not idea what you mean” Joseph’s voice, calm and collected, “I’m here because of the two kidnappings you four perpetrated on federal land.”

“Two?” Aubrey now, and Indrid could cry with relief that a healer is nearby.

“Nabbed one of the Hornets last week. Got away, which y’all better thank your lucky fuckin stars for. Hollis don’t fuck around when it comes to protectin their crew.” Mama’s bootfalls enter the room and her voice softens, “jesus, Indrid, what’d they do to you?”

“What didn’t they fuckin do?” Duck growls, “fuck, shoulda gone lookin for you sooner, sugar, I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Don’t” Indrid manages to croak out the words as he rests his forehead against Ducks own.

“They’re on their way into town now.” Stern comes in, adjusting his winter jacket as he regards the ‘research station’ with disdain, “Animals. Do you need help getting to the car?”

Indrid nods, and between Mama, Duck, and Joseph, they get him to his feet and out the door. Aubrey is waiting by the van, Ned already in the front seat, and opens the side door so they can help Indrid in. 

“Can’t believe the snow tires worked on this thing.” Duck mutters. 

“That and a little boost from our lovely Lady Flame can do wonders.” Ned peers from the driver's seat to the open section of the car when Indrid is huddled, “Don’t worry, my friend, I’ll take it nice and gently down the hill. And should any more of them be lurking in the trees, simply say the word and I shall merrily run them off the road.”

Indrid tries to smile in thanks (possibly succeeds, he isn’t sure). As the van starts down the road into town, Aubrey sets a hand over his chest. It begins to glow, but only gets as far as closing the cut before he hisses and shakes his head. 

“It, it is too painful when I am like this. When I am healed by Her magic it is an intense sensation. Usually a good one but I am so over-sensitive it is too much to bear.” He rests a hand on her knee, “thank you for trying.”

“Guess we’re gonna do this the old-fashioned way.” Per his request, Duck isn’t holding him, but it’s evident he wants to. 

“Indeed. Though we have passed the Lodge.”

“Ned’s takin’ you to my place. Easier for me to look after you there.”

“I suppose it is.” It feels like an imposition for Duck to take him in when he’s in this state.

“Besides, you left the pink and yellow pajamas there. Know those are your favorite.”

He manages to purr once, leaning himself against the ranger. He’s so tired, he wants to sleep,  but his system is still too engaged in a fight or flight response to let him. 

Ned lets them off at Ducks apartment, and once inside Duck ushers him to the bedroom, Pinecone yowling at them the whole way. 

“I know, my elegant ball of fluff, you are upset I am not scooping you up for attention.” 

The mass of grey and brown fur sits primly in the hall in reply and pretends to ignore him. 

“How much touchin’ do you think you can handle?” Duck rolls up his sleeves.

“A little. I, I can patch myself up, I am used to it. To doing it alone, I mean.”

“Just cause you’re used to it don’t mean you gotta do it this time.” Duck stands before him, looking up earnestly, “tell me how to help, sugar.”

“Some aloe and bandages, please. And something to drink.”

“Roger that.” Duck rises on his tiptoes, kissing his cheek before heading to the kitchen. 

Indrid sits on the bed, taking stock of the injuries. His wings are bruised from the clamps. There’s a nasty gouge in the chitin of his upper right arm, and the burnt patch on his chest. 

Duck returns with the aloe vera and massive mug of instant cocoa, sets both on the bedside table. As Indrid begins soothing the burnt patch, he asks, “Is it like when someone gets frostbite and then someone dunks ‘em in a hot bath trying to help?”

“More or less, yes. I do not think they knew it would have that effect on me, but even if they did, I doubt they would have cared.” He carefully holds out the scraped arm, “would you wrap that for me? It cannot really become infected the way a wound on skin can, but I would being safe to being sorry.”

Duck gingerly sets to work patching him up, and when he’s done Indrid catches his hand and kisses each knuckle. 

“Thank you for coming for me.”

“Wouldn’t have done anythin’ else. You know that, right?”

Indrid nods. He is finally starting to believe it. 

“I got worried when you didn’t call, went up to your place and followed your bootprints. Soon as I found your sketchbook and glasses on the ground, knew I had to get Mama and the others to help me rescue you. Oh, here” he hands Indrid the spectacles and snow-ruined notebook, “case you want ‘em.”

“Would it trouble you if I turned human? It will help me feel better, but the injuries will be more noticeable.”

“You do whatever you gotta do.” Duck sits beside him as he slides on the glasses. The bruises marks on his wrists and shoulders are by far the worst to look at. It’s when he glances down at his notebook that the tears finally come. 

“They, they ruined the gift I had for you!”

“What? Oh hey, hey darlin don’t cry” Duck gathers him into his arms and for the first time all night Indrid doesn’t have to flinch away, “I’m sure it fuckin ruled, but that don’t matter to me even on millionth as much as the fact you’re okay.” The human kisses his forehead and Indrid chirrs, trying to cuddle closer. 

“Howsabout this? You get all cozy and bundled up under the covers, I’ll make sure any of the first aid stuff you need is in reach, and then we huddle up and watch cowboy romcoms until you’re able to fall asleep.

Indrid purrs, nodding but unwilling to release his hero just yet. Duck chuckles and keeps his arms gently around him and he’s ready to let go.

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2023 - day 18 tortured for information

A Town Called Malice - 1x07

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

Whumptober Day 1 - Search Party

We researched West Virginian gun laws and hunting seasons for this one. Based on our estimates of the approximate time of year that Arc 1 of Amnesty takes place in, Pigeon and Pete would have been toting around guns around a month away from any time that it would be legal to use them.

We spent some time trying to pinpoint exact districts for this, and then realized that this is only one day out of thirty-one and it probably isn't as relevant as we were picturing, so we stopped doing that. If someone else here lives in West Virginia and cares about that, our excuse is that we do not live in West Virginia, or in America, and we also do not presently have a hunting permit or game permit of any kind. We also cannot legally use a gun right now. We can skin and flesh a pelt if needed, though. Call us up for for amateur taxidermy and butchering services and we'll see what we can do.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Tell me the whump story! whump whump whump whu whu whu whump Some reader scrolled up to a Whumper's stand and it said to the Whumper running the stand HEY Whump whump whump Got any Comfort? The whumper said no we just sell suffering, but it's sadistic and torturous and it's full of pain, can I get you a snippet? the reader said, I'll pass then it scrolled away, scroll scroll then it scrolled away, scroll scroll scroll then it scrolled away, scroll scroll til the very next day whump whump whump WHUMP whump whump whump…

[whumporpass]

Louie Duck from Ducktales the 2017 Reboot ?

[sparklingspidey]

So is someone gonna write the Mark Beaks uses Huey to get to Fenton and therefore steal the gizmoduck suit. Perfect opportunity for whump, hurt comfort, and found family.

[tired-of-being-nice]

denial

whumptober steams on! today we're back with dawn and zenith!

cws: imprisonment, depersonalization (character not allowed to use their name), emotional whump, referenced injury, ...evangelism??

"Good morning."

"Hey, Dawn." Zenith doesn't move from their spot in the corner as they say it, and their eyes are closed. 

The girl has given up on correcting them on her name, so she simply sighs. "Have you decided to stop this stubbornness and let us help you?"

"Nope," Zenith says. The girl thinks for a moment that it looks like the shadows in the room have clustered especially thickly around their corner. She dismisses it as silliness.

"Well, then. If you have nothing else to say to me, I guess I'll—"

"No, don't," Zeni says, so sudden and intense the girl is shaken. They even turn to face her, opening a few of their eyes, though they keep their arms wrapped tight around them. "Don't go, Dawn. Please." Their face is grayish, and the girl thinks she sees bruises in places. She wonders with a shudder where they're from.

The girl slowly sits down across from them. "I remember a time not too long ago when you would yell at me to, and I quote, 'get the... heck out.' What a change."

Zeni almost smiles at that, and the girl can see their face a bit better. "There's the Dawn I know. Aborted swears and all. Someday I'll startle you into giving a fuck, I  swear."

The girl has to press back a laugh at that. Zeni notices, visibly, and leans forward, a faint glimmer of hope in their eyes. "Ha! There we go. Knew it. Don't worry, sunshine, once we get out of here we can be back to bickering and teasing just like old times."

"Don't– don't say that," the girl says, quietly.

"Why? Is someone listening?" Zenith reaches towards the girl, concern written all over their face. "Shit, they didn't bug you, did they?"

"No," the girl says quickly, before she can wonder if it's true. "But– I just meant– Zenith, you're in denial."

The brief light that appears in Zenith's eyes when she calls them by name is gone in a heartbeat. "No. No, I'm not."

"They're not coming for us," the girl says, so quietly it's almost inaudible now. "You have to just– accept that. Please. It's easier this way."

"No," Zeni says. "No, actually, fuck that. You're the one in denial, not me. Our friends are coming to get us, and if you don't believe that then I– I can't help you."

It would be a more impressive speech if it wasn't visible that Zeni was struggling to sit up without leaning on the walls. 

"No one is coming to get us," the girl says. "If you don't believe that, I can't help you."

Zeni sinks back against the wall and closes their eyes again. "Don't twist my words, sunshine. Just– say what you came here for and leave."

The girl reaches out and hesitantly, as if she thinks it might burn her, presses one of her hands over one of Zeni's. "Please. Stay with me."

Zenith doesn't respond. After a moment the girl lets go, and leaves.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Caretaker offer a sick Whumpee some clear soup but in a cup so it's easier for them to consume -- no need for multiple utensils, easily spilled bowls, etc. -- only for Whumpee for completely flip out because it's the wrong container and their poor delirious brain can't cope!

[authoratlas]

Not me over here getting whumperflies from Ducktales (2017) Season 2 Episode 17 where Donald is captured by the moon people.

[stainedvenom]

This one is a little different. Warning for character death.

[splinter-cat]

In a world where the supernatural has been known to humans for decades, the law is harshly enforced against those who use their powers to commit crimes. After being convicted of aggravated assault, a werewolf is given a choice: go to a supernatural prison—a fate considered by many to be worse than death—or work off his sentence by helping the police solve murders. Unfortunately for him, the cops aren’t inclined to go easy on their new helper.

Beasts in Blue Chapter 23 - Freedom

Rating: E

Pairings: Werewolf/Detective

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-con, lots of whump

[redwinterroses]

It's not like it's hard to get Tango taking about Decked Out, but buy him a couple of potions in the museum speakeasy and he gets downright confessional.

Grian leans across the stat poker table, his wings rustling eagerly. "Truth or dare, Tango," he says. "Is Decked Out... alive?"

“Aren’t I supposed to pick truth or dare before you ask the question?” Tango tosses back another potion and gives the group a half-smirk.

“We all know you’re going to pick truth because you’re too particled to get up.” Etho’s face is obscured, but they can hear the laugh in his voice and see his fox ears twitch with amusement. “So spill.”

Tango shrugs. "Well," he says, "It's not exactly not NOT alive, if you know what I mean."

Grian glances at Doc on his right and Etho on his left. They shrug at him.

"Yeah, no," he says, looking back at Tango. "I don't think we know what that means."

"Is it like that Grumbot robot that Mumbo and Grian built?" Doc asks, scratching thoughtfully at his chin, his blunt black claws scritching loudly against the stubble of his beard. Grian tries to catch a peek at his stat tokens and gives a sheepish grin when Doc notices and quickly angles them away.

"Hey, now," Doc starts to say, but Tango interrupts.

"Nah, no -- I mean, Grumbot was pretty... Simple. No offense."

"None taken." Grian pulls a token from his stack. "Number of villagers traded with," he offers. "And I'll up the ante to three diamond blocks, gentlemen."

Tango lays down his own token, and taps a finger on it in an aimless rhythm. “The dungeon is… aware,” he says. “Not alive, I guess, but it knows things. It recognizes people.”

“I’ve noticed,” Etho says dryly. “That place hates me.”

They all laugh, but Tango shakes his head. “Does it hate you?” he asks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Or does it want to impress you?”

“Oh, I’m impressed enough.” Etho drops his stat token on the table with a soft click. “So it can stop glitching and trying to kill me now.”

“Aww, you’re just playing hard to get.”

Doc lays his tokens down on the table and stands. “I will sit out this round, I think,” he says. “I have done almost nothing with villagers this season. Will anyone have more to drink?”

“I’m not playing hard to get!” Etho protested, ears lying flat. “If anything, I’m playing easy to get – I just walk right in there!”

“You heard it first here, folks,” Tango says. “Etho’s easy.”

He ducks, but not in time to dodge the rolled-up napkin Etho chucks at his face. It lands in his hair and goes up in a miniature whump of flame.

Grian snickers, waving away smoke.

“So if the dungeon’s not alive, but it’s not quite not alive,” he says. “How does one maybe go about… making friends with it?”

“That,” Doc says, thunking a fresh bottle of Cub’s custom-mixed potion onto the table. “Is cheating, you pesky bird. No flirting with the possibly-not-not-alive dungeon.”

“You’re telling me you’re above flirting for a few extra keys and crowns, Doc?” Tango asks with teasing skepticism.

Doc sniffs, flipping the cork from his bottle with his thumb. “I don’t need flirting,” he says dismissively. “I have skills. Game strategies, man.”

“He’s already planning how to get the dungeon’s attention.” Etho flips his token over, exposing the total. “Aren’t’cha, Doc.”

Doc tips back his drink and shrugged. “Eh… that is for me to know, and you to worry about.” He winks.

“Tango, what’s your total there?” Grian fiddles with his token.

“Well, I know it’s higher than old three-digit Minecraft master over here.” Tango holds up his token and pinches it between his fingers. “Under three hundred, Etho? What’ve you been doing all season?”

“Not hiding out in a hole for thirteen months,” Etho grumbles good-naturedly, pushing his diamonds into the center of the table.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I have been doing and look at that stat.” Tango displays the count. “Seven k, baby – read ‘em and weep.”

Grian makes an exaggerated sad face that immediately morphs into a triumphant grin. “Rookie numbers, fellas,” he crows. “Try over twelve thousand.”

Tango groans and rolls his diamonds toward Grian with a grimace. “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely not telling you how to flimflam my dungeon, you shyster.”

“Tango, I’m hurt.” Grian, entirely unbothered and very un-hurt looking, scoops the pile of diamonds into his pouch. “My stats are all ethically earned.”

“And that’s how your dungeon runs will be too.” Tango stashes his tokens and stands. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Mostly.”

“Back to your cave, Tango?” Etho doesn’t stand, but his bushy white tail wags a little in barely-contained excitement. “So, Decked Out will be open again… soon?”

“You bet your foxy good looks,” Tango says. “Or… maybe don’t. Not with those stats.”

This time he does duck the thrown napkin.

He exits through the museum, the laughter of his friends fading behind him as he steps out into the cool afternoon air. For a moment, he stretches, shaking out his elytra and clearing his head a bit of the potion particles.

Is Decked Out alive?

Tango grins, sharp teeth glinting. Of course the dungeon’s alive, who’s he kidding? And she’s hungry, too, he can feel it even from here. His friends should just be grateful he’s only ever built friendly monsters that want to devour them.

“On my way,” he mutters to himself. Or the dungeon. “And Etho’ll be coming over soon too.”

He feels the dungeon’s excitement.

“Oh…you’ve gotta be kidding me.” Tango launches himself in the air and spirals over the shopping district, angling toward Decked Out and laughing so loudly the sound bounces off the buildings below.

His dungeon totally has a crush on Etho.

[inksoakedparchment]

SNOWBALL FIGHT

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

genre: fluff drabble

trope: couple goals

word cunt: 304

tw: none

a/n: bucky is so damn adorable

The snow-covered park was quiet, except for the crunch of boots and the occasional whoosh of snow sliding off tree branches. Bucky Barnes stood with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, watching as you bent to scoop up another handful of snow.

“This isn’t going to end well for you,” he warned, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, really?” you challenged, shaping the snow into a perfect ball. “I think you’re just scared.”

“Of you?” He raised an eyebrow. “Not likely.”

Without another word, you launched the snowball straight at him. It hit his shoulder with a satisfying thud, a small puff of snow flying into the air. Bucky looked down at the evidence, then back at you, his smirk morphing into something more mischievous.

“Alright,” he said, brushing off the snow. “You asked for it.”

Before you could react, he moved with that super-soldier speed, ducking behind a tree and returning fire with a snowball of his own. It hit you squarely in the side, and you let out a dramatic gasp.

“Traitor!” you yelled, scrambling to gather more snow.

What followed was chaos. Snowballs flew through the air in rapid succession, some hitting their marks, others scattering harmlessly in the snow. You tried to take cover behind a bench, but Bucky was relentless, his aim unfairly precise.

Eventually, you launched yourself at him, tackling him into a snowdrift. Both of you landed with a soft whump, laughter bubbling from your chest as you sat up to see Bucky’s face dusted with snow.

“You’re ruthless,” he said, shaking his head.

“And you’re too smug,” you shot back, grinning.

Bucky grabbed a handful of snow and smeared it gently over your nose, his blue eyes crinkling with rare, genuine joy. “I love you.”

“I love you too” you smile and kiss him gently.

taglist: @sunkissedscribbles @kandis-mom @idkkkkkkk123lgb @nottslvttt

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

A mark and a promise

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 8

Prompt: Gift

Rated: T

Tags: Fantasy AU; Fae!Eddie; Knight!Steve; Eddie Munson whump; Flirting; Sexual tension; Just a bit of mindfuckery

“Boy. Pretty boy. C’mere.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and makes a show of turning the other way. This has been going on for the better part of the night and it's getting annoying. For a few, blissful moments, silence settles over the great hall, the only sound the crackle of the torches. 

“For all that you couldn’t take your eyes off me earlier, you sure like to play coy now, sweet thing. All I ask is some company, is that-” 

Steve whirls. 

“Alright, enough,” he snaps, stomping towards the small cage. “I am a knight. My father is lord of this castle. I'm not a boy, and I'm most certainly not your sweet thing.” 

The boy in the cage regards him through dark lashes. “But you do not deny that you're pretty? Interesting.” 

Steve sputters. Despite the icy winds howling through the castle, his face feels hot all of a sudden. 

“Shut up,” he snaps. “I know what you're trying to do. You fae are all the same, clouding our minds with your sweet talk and magic. Father warned me you'd do this, I won't-” 

“Yes, yes, he's a formidable man, your father,” says the boy. He attempts to sit up straight, but stops with a wince. The cage is small, and the heavy manacles on his wrists hinder the movement. Iron, Steve knows. The only thing that will keep the fae’s magic in check. Some say its touch burns like fire for them. “What does he intend to do with me, can you at least tell me that?” 

Steve huffs. As if his father would let him in on his plans. “No idea. Send you to the royal court, probably. Gift you to the king.” 

The fae boy ducks his head to let his dark hair obscur his face. “So that more humans can gawk at me while I slowly waste away in this iron coffin? Lovely.” 

Steve doesn’t quite know what to reply, so they lapse into silence. It isn't exactly fair, he guesses. Sure, their races have been enemies for generations, but this boy doesn't look like a high fae lord or warlock. He's rather … scraggly, in fact. A thin, pale figure, dressed in a nondescript gray, pointed ears poking out from tangled hair. The only noteworthy thing about him are his eyes. Deep and dark like a winter night. The reflections of the torchlight gleam in them like stars. 

Steve thinks of how small and forlorn he looked earlier, when the hall was teeming with his father's knights. The real ones, those he takes out on his forays - not the useless son he tasks with guarding a lone prisoner in a cold and empty hall. How the fae boy sat there, head bowed and shoulders hunched, while they all taunted and laughed at him. The ground of the cage is still covered in puddles of stale beer from where they emptied their goblets over his head.

“You could always just let me go.” 

Steve flinches back to the present to find that he has grit his teeth and curled his hands into fists. The boy's eyes are still trained on him. He scoffs. 

“Nice try. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You think he gave me the keys?” 

Those unsettling eyes follow his gaze to the padlock on the cage. The boy's lips curl into a smile. When he speaks again, something about his voice is different. Steve can't exactly pinpoint what it is - just knows that it feels like it's seeping into his very bones. Heady, warm and tingly like the first hit of spiced wine on a frosty day. 

“Oh, but you do. You know what it feels like, after all. Being the target of their jokes. Being sneered at and looked down upon, treated like a vile and dirty thing. Like you're not worthy of sharing this world with them when it should be yours by right. You've been putting up with their vanity and their cruelty for so long, and you're dying to pay them back. To put them in their place and show them you won't be treated like-” 

“I said shut up!” 

The dagger is in his hand before Steve knows it, but instead of the boy's throat, it lodges itself in the padlock. Steve watches how it falls open, and the boy's smile goes large. 

“Very good,” he coos, lifting his shackled hands. “Now free me of these.” 

Steve is crawling inside the cage and prying at the manacles before he even thinks to disobey. 

“I'm not doing this because you told me to,” he lies. “It’s only because-” 

He never gets to finish the sentence. 

The shackles fall open, and a wave of sheer, unbridled power sweeps over him, ripping the breath right off his lips. Steve recoils, scrambling backwards out of the cage. 

The man who follows after him is so beautiful Steve is overcome by the irrational thought that he must shield his eyes or go blind, but he can't move. 

“You've made me a great gift, pretty child,” the man smiles. His long, dark curls fall around them as he bends down to cup Steve's face in soft, cold hands. His robes billow like liquid midnight, dark and black. “I'll make you one in return.” 

If his voice felt like spiced wine in his veins, his kiss is like sweet mead weighing down his limbs. Steve is powerless to resist. 

“My mark,” the man says, pecking his lips once more before pulling away. “And my promise. You've spared my life, and I shall spare yours when we meet again. Until then, I bid you farewell, my little lordling.” 

An icy gale sweeps through the hall, making the torches flicker, then die. The hall plunges into darkness.

When Steve’s eyes adjust to it, he's alone in front of the empty cage. His lips still burn with the memory of the man's kiss.

Part 2

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