#under the skin 2 whump

[thegreatdandilion]

Writing a whump fic because there wasn't enough whump on Under the skin 2 ep 20

The moment Gu Yitian was restrained and the girl confirmed safe, Shen Yi felt the tension in his body unravel, leaving him trembling in its wake. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending a sharp ache radiating through his ribs. He stayed still, forcing himself to focus on seeing Du Cheng securing the handcuffs on Gu Yitian.

“You look like hell,” Du Cheng muttered, noticing Shen Yi’s shuddering form.

Shen Yi gave a faint nod, swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat. “I’ll be fine,” he lied, his voice rasping like sandpaper. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but he locked them in place.

The air felt too thin, his lungs struggling to pull in enough oxygen as a faint ringing built in his ears. He blinked several times to clear his vision, only for the world to blur further.

“Let’s head back,” Du Cheng said, gripping Shen Yi’s arm lightly.

Shen Yi forced himself to straighten. Each step back to the car felt heavier than the last, his legs dragging like they were weighed down with lead. The seatbelt pressed uncomfortably against his chest on the ride back to the station.

Back at the station, Shen Yi made a beeline for the restroom. Once inside, he wiped away the makeup and leaned heavily against the sink, gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. His reflection in the mirror startled him—his skin was ghostly pale, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his forehead.

He splashed cold water on his face, hoping the shock would snap him out of the fog clouding his mind.

Somehow, he made it to his desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t trust his legs to carry him much farther, and his head throbbed relentlessly. He set to work, flipping through his notes with trembling fingers.

“Shen Yi,” Du Cheng’s voice startled him, and he looked up to see his partner’s sharp eyes scanning his face. “ We’ll go over the brief together and I'll take you home to rest. You look like you're about to keel over and die.”

Shen Yi nodded, following Du Cheng into the briefing room. He told himself he could push through just a little longer.

The fluorescent lights felt harsher than ever, piercing through Shen Yi’s skull as he sat across from Du Cheng. The papers in front of him blurred, the words swimming before his eyes. His chest tightened, a deep, crushing pressure spreading like a vice.

He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on Du Cheng’s voice as they discussed the presentation. But his breathing grew faster and shallower, each inhale feeling like he was dragging air through a straw. His hands shook as he reached for a pen, but his fingers refused to grip it properly.

“Shen Yi? I think you should sit down.” Du Cheng asked, his tone shifting to one of concern.

"Huh... sit down?" He realizes that he is standing up and shaking on his legs like a bambi.

Shen Yi doesn't remember standing up. He opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat. A wave of dizziness hit him like a tidal wave, and he grabbed the edge of the table for support. His vision darkened at the edges, the world tilting violently.

“Shen Yi!”

Du Cheng’s shout was the last thing he heard before his legs gave out completely. The sensation of falling was brief but terrifying, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. Du Cheng sees how Shen Yi's eyes roll back, neck and body going completely limp as he runs to catch him. Shen Yi barely registered the impact of the floor against his side, the pain drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

When Shen Yi woke, it was to a cacophony of noise—voices shouting orders, the blare of sirens, the sharp beeping of medical equipment. His chest felt like it was on fire, each breath a monumental effort. The weight of an oxygen mask pressed against his face, but it wasn’t enough.

“Du Cheng…” he gasped, his voice weak and desperate.

“He’s right here,” a medic assured him. “Focus on breathing.”

He tried to turn his head, to see for himself, but the effort made the edges of his vision darken further. His limbs felt like lead, too heavy to move.

The next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed. The beeping of the heart monitor was steady, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he tried to shift. His whole body ached with a deep, bone-deep soreness, and his head throbbed like a drumbeat.

“Finally awake?”

The familiar gruffness of Du Cheng’s voice drew his attention. Shen Yi turned his head slowly to see his partner sitting beside him, arms crossed and an expression that was equal parts anger and worry.

“What… happened?” Shen Yi croaked, his throat dry and scratchy.

“What happened?” Du Cheng snapped, standing abruptly. “You overworked yourself to the point of collapse, that’s what! You scared the hell out of everyone, Shen Yi. Do you ever stop to think about the damage you’re doing to yourself?”

Shen Yi tried to reply, but his chest tightened painfully, cutting off his words.

“Don’t even try to argue,” Du Cheng continued, his voice cracking slightly. “You almost didn’t make it. The doctors said your heart was under too much strain, and you were severely exhausted. What were you thinking?”

Shen Yi’s lips moved, but the effort to speak made his vision blur again. His breathing grew erratic, and the heart monitor’s beeping sped up alarmingly.

“Shen Yi? Sh## Sh##... Damn it, stay with me!” Du Cheng’s voice rose in panic as Shen Yi’s consciousness slipped away once more.

When Shen Yi woke again, the world felt quieter. The oxygen mask was gone, replaced by a nasal cannula. Du Cheng was still by his side, his head resting in his hands as he sat slumped in a chair.

“Du Cheng…” Shen Yi whispered, his voice barely audible.

Du Cheng jolted awake, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer. “If you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself,” he muttered, his tone rough but his eyes glistening.

Shen Yi managed a weak smile, “I understand" and drifted off.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Donkeys & Dragons [PART 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: It turns out that befriending a dragon is not as terrible or difficult as you would have thought. But people, unsurprisingly, will always still be awful.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [EPILOGUE]

The first week of your internment flew by shockingly fast.

Maybe because you were always at War—a perpetual cycle of making some demand or other (that usually centered around a desire for the barest levels of personal space or agency) only to be met persistently with the ancient, all-powerful, dragon equivolent of >:(

The clothes and toilet situation were already a lost cause. You knew this.

But there were so many other little things. And big things too, sure. But you can never fully realize how much you’re truly under someone’s thumb until you want to head off to do something utterly insignificant and cannot.

For example, your first morning in captivity you’d tried to boil a pot of water. It was nothing fancy, just a small kettle kit you kept in your travel bags for making warm drinks and reheating rations into something vaguely edible. You’d collected some bits of wood from the heaps of debris lying all over the place and gone about lighting a fire. You’d only just barely managed to get the little sticks smoking when a horrific screech sounded from overhead.

And then, WHUMP!

The spiked end of a black tail came crashing down, obliterating your little fire and sending bits of wood flying in all directions.

“What the fuck, man!”

Tsunotarou curled around you to hiss at the flattened sparks like some unholy snake.

“It’s just for my tea! My tea!” you howled. “I wasn’t going to burn your stupid house down!”

He’s shifted into his human form again not long after, and he looked down his nose at you like a fussy parent—arms crossed petulantly across his pale chest.

“Fire is dangerous for humans,” he snuffed, absolutely indignant. “If you find yourself requiring flames for anything at all, call for me and I will lend you some of mine.”

“I would have been fine,” you beseeched, looking at the shattered remains of your little campfire with a grumpy pout.

“Lilia says humans often overestimate their own constitutions,” Tsunotarou grouched, expression dour and stony. You were about to ask just who or what on Earth this ‘Lilia’ was supposed to be, when the dragon dipped his head in close to yours and nuzzled along your throat. You could feel the pinpricks of his fangs against the delicate skin over your pulse. “Which is why so many of your kind are massacred for their own foolishness. Or fall victim to plague and famine. Or wind up being burned alive. I would prefer that you not succumb to such a fate.”

You gulped, and that had been the end of that conversation.

Another time you’d tried to scale the banister to reach the bathroom on your own. It had been going pretty well, all things considered. There were plenty of nice footholds and it all had sort of settled at a slope, meaning you weren’t really climbing a wall so much as very slowly crawling up an incline like a determined slug.

You’d nearly made it to the top when you were scooped up by the back of your collar and promptly deposited at the other end of the room.

Of all the languages you half-spoke, Dragon was not one of them. But the snarling and snapping in your face certainly seemed like the rather universal ‘what do you think you’re doing?!’

“I was just trying to go the bathroom!” you argued. “No fires or anything!”

Tsunotarou’s large maw ducked down to growl into your much smaller one. He let out a series of exasperated clicks and chatter, the sharper or which were punctuated by sprays of green sparks from behind his teeth. His nostrils flared and the blast of dry heat that followed sent your head spinning and your hair gusting out behind you.

“I wasn’t going to fall,” you finally said, because you had a feeling that’s what you were being lectured about at the moment.

The rumbling growl that followed sounded like it had traveled all the way from the dark trenches of his bowels, or maybe even the very marrow of his bones. You could feel the ground vibrating under your feet.

“Fine,” you conceded. You weren’t exactly worried he was going to eat you anymore, but there were certainly… other things. Many dumb ways to die. “I won’t do it again.”

He harumphed at you, his head bobbing in what looked a bit like a nod. And then he turned and raked a gigantic claw across your little makeshift ladder of debris, flattening it into nothing with one, fell, swoop. You’d groaned and let yourself collapse listlessly back into the ensuing cloud dust.

There was also the time you’d nearly had a conniption because you were sick and tired of camping out on a frigid, stone, floor every night when you were trapped inside a literal castle.

“There are dozens—hundreds—of rooms in here,” you’d argued. “There’s got to be a bed in at least one of them.”

Tsunotarou had simply rolled over onto his side and arched a wing into the air, as if offering you the warm hollow beneath.

“You’re not comfortable,” you’d hissed, and he’d sulked ridiculously for the rest of the afternoon until you’d managed to finally come to a workable solution.

As in, dragging every goddamn mattress you could find into the cavernous ballroom that he’d long since seemed to claim as his Favorite Spot. You’d turned it into a game—see who could find the most comfy things and make the biggest squish pile. Being nearly a dozen times your size and having twice as many functional limbs that were capable of grabbing things, naturally Tsunotarou had come out as the winner. But now you had nearly endless pillows and blankets to snuggle into at night, so who’d really come out on top?

“I’ve never bothered to build a nest before,” he’d mumbled to himself, post victory. He patted gently at one of the thick duvets he’d swiped, expression almost whimsical. “It’s quite nice.”

“See,” you’d grinned, bouncing up and down on one of the springier mattresses. “I told you this was better.”

And so chuffed were you that you weren’t heading to sleep with a rock as your pillow for the first time all week, that you didn’t even complain when late into the evening he sneakily dragged you out of your plush pile and into his—tail wrapped snuggly around your waist and tucking you tightly against his ribs. I mean, his nest was much nicer than yours. It was only practical.

So, as anyone could see, your week had been far from easy.

But after those first days, once you had finally gotten a hand on all his nonsensical rules and you’d in turn concocted equally as many ways to try and circumvent them just enough to make yourself comfortable, things settled into a kind of domestic tranquility.  

And that was when time started to drag.

You’d read the handful of books in your pack a dozen times over. You’d counted the cracks in the ceiling (one-hundred-and-thirty-two of them). You’d counted the stones on the floor (six-hundred-and-five). You’d sorted those stones into piles by shape, size, color. You lolled back against your cozy pile of blankets and thunked your head miserably against your pillow. Once. Twice. Three times. Four—

“What do you normally do all day?” you complained.

Tsunotarou lazily blinked awake. He lifted his giant, serpentine, head and glanced pointedly around the cavernous room before settling back into his mountain of blankets with a contented huff.

“You just sleep?” you frowned, baffled. “All the time?”

He rumbled unintelligibly at you for a moment before digging his claws into his nest with a long, lithe, stretch. And then those scales began to melt away, and soon enough he was pale, and bare, and rolling his way into your lap with a contented little grumble.

“What would you have me do instead?” he asked, voice thick with the syrupy warmth of sleep. He stretched again, like a big cat, and settled his head more firmly against your thighs. “Raid cities? Burn villages?”

“…Ideally no,” you grumbled, hands falling habitually to start running your fingers through the silky soft hair pooling along your abdomen. “I mean, there have got to be other things dragons do. You live for thousands of years.”

He hummed, neon eyes slipping closed. He pressed his forehead demandingly up into your palm and you rolled your eyes before obligingly sliding your digits lower to scratch at his scalp and around the base of his horns. That seemed to be his favorite.  

“I am not wanted much of anywhere, I’m afraid,” he said finally with a defeated little sigh. It didn’t sound particularly self-deprecating, just… accepting. It made something sad and small curl in your gut. “So what else is there for me to do? Other than while away the hours.”

“There’s got to be something,” you pressed, that eking irritation born from boredom melting into something that was a bit too close to genuine concern for your liking. “Don’t dragons keep hoards? Treasures? That’s a thing, right?”

“Oh.” He blinked himself back into focus, as if only remembering in just that moment. “That is true. Would you like to see mine, then?”

“Aren’t hoards, like, private?” you asked, hesitant. Trying not to bring up the glaring elephant in the room that was ‘Hey. Yeah. So my friends and I totally broke in here in the first place to steal from said hoard. Not that we knew there was a dragon here. But like. I did, in fact, come here as an adventurer and a thief.’

“Naturally,” Tsunotarou hummed. You could feel it vibrate all the way up your hip. His lips quirked into a little, crooked, smile. “I’ll take you there now.”

The Treasure Room was as elaborate and expensive looking as the name implied, and it seemed to be the one area of the castle that had been spared the grey desolation that had seeped through the rest of it. It was enormous—certainly larger than even the grand, cavernous, room in which you’d recently been residing. And it was lined wall to ceiling with every variant of wealth you could imagine—precious metals, ancients tomes, paintings from every great master through history, magical weapons, the finest of spell scrolls. You could probably buy the world at least twice over with its contents.

But the thing that caught your eye amidst the endless sea of gold was not a pretty gemstone or a treasure of old, but a little, black and purple, doll—perched atop a looming pedestal of silks and finery like a crown jewel. It was small and plain with curling black horns made of felt. A chubby little dragon miniature that was as ugly as it was round.

Tsunotarou noticed your inquisitive gaze and walked over to pluck the little, cotton, creature from its throne. He held it delicately in his clawed fingers.

“Ah, yes. This is Drago. Lilia gifted him to me after one of his jaunts through the human world.” He turned the doll over in his palms, brow tugging down a bit as he did. “I hope he hasn’t been too terribly lonely. It has been a while since I’ve come down here to visit.”

The great and powerful dragon of the Castle Within The Lava Lake keeping a toy keepsake amongst his most prized possessions was so strikingly adorable that you couldn’t help but feel your heart melt at the sight.

You brightened and turned on your heel to start making your way back to the ballroom and what remained of your adventuring gear. Tsunotarou made a noise under his breath that was too dignified to be a splutter, but what you assumed was more or less his refined equivolent. And then he was tagging at your heels with a perplexed look on his face.

“Where are you going?”

“To get something!” you chirped, mentally running through the contents of your bag and little sewing kits. Yes, there should be more than plenty to—

“To get what?” Tsunotarou pouted, and you realized belatedly that running off in the middle of him showing off his life’s accumulation of precious artifacts and accomplishments was perhaps a bit rude.

“It’s a surprise,” you said. “Just give me like half an hour to put it together.”

In the end, it really only took you around fifteen minutes of fussing. Drago was hardly a complex little thing, and you’d originally learned to stitch in a panic. Trying to mend holes in pants and leather was a lot harder to accomplish when you were being actively chased by bandits, or a raging Ace. In comparison, sitting merrily on the floor of a collapsed ballroom and shoving stuffing into a little ball of cloth was hardly a challenge.

You held out your creation—equally as ragtag and ridiculous looking as its inspiration.

“There,” you beamed, and pressed it into Tsunotarou’s hands. “Now he has a friend.”

A teeny, flesh-colored, blob. With strips of soft fabric for a cloak and a hastily stitched smile. A miniature bard, perfectly (?) encapsulated in his palm.

The dragon stared down at your offering with wide, green, eyes. He looked positively startled—so caught off guard that he didn’t know what to do with himself, let alone the bewildered expression flitting across his otherwise regal face.

“You said he might be lonely,” you hummed, rocking self-consciously back and forth on your heels.

“Oh,” Tsunotarou mumbled, black-tipped claws flexing around his new gift. He observed it carefully, like an aging academic might study some ancient, arcane, relic. There was still that strange look about him—like he couldn’t quite believe the little trinket in his hand was real. “I did, didn’t I...?”

When he remained silent after that, still staring down at your homemade abomination in awe? Horror? you couldn’t tell, you began fidgeting in earnest.

“It is kind of awful looking,” you rattled off, picking nervously at the hem of your cloak. “You can get rid of it if you want—”

“No,” he barked, and then paused, clearly surprised at the ferocity of what had come out of his mouth. That at least seemed to startle him out of whatever fog had settled over his brain, and he clutched the teeny toy firmly to his chest. He cleared his throat and started again, noticeably gentling himself. “No. I think I’d like to keep this.”

You smiled. “Good! I’m glad you like it! No one deserves to feel lonely—even little, toy, dragons.”

Tsunotarou’s lips curled into an awkwardly lopsided smile—like the muscles there weren’t used to tugging so wide. It lit the entirety of his expression with something so heart wrenchingly warm that you couldn’t help but feel like none of that had really been about the little doll at all.

.

.

You really should have known better.

If someone as illiterate and ill connected as your wandering gang of idiots could stumble upon the location of a ‘secret castle overburdened with ancient treasures,’ surely anyone even marginally more competent would be able to do the same.

You’d been at the tail end of your supply of rations. And while you hadn’t entirely meant to imply that you might just wind-up starving to death, the comment had been more than enough to send your dragon into a tizzy.

“Well, what do you normally eat?” you asked, and Tsunotarou frowned as he considered.

“My guards bring me sustenance when I require it. Ice elementals, goblins, stone giants,” he listed, eyes tracking your expression in hopes that maybe any of that sounded appetizing. Which it certainly did not. His nose scrunched up in thought. “Perhaps I should seek counsel with Lilia. He would know what to do.”

You cleared your throat. “I mean, I know what humans can eat. I could just tell you.”

His face brightened. “Meat, yes?”

You nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Like that of a manticore?” he continued, excited at the prospect. “Those are particularly delicious. And there are quite a few nesting in the crags not far from here.”

His merry smile slowly slipped off his face at whatever pinched look had twisted up yours.

“Vegetation?” he tried. “There are ample bushes at the foot of the volcano. Most do have thorns, but I suppose you could pick around them.”

“…Maybe you should talk to Lilia,” you conceded.

So Tsunotarou had shifted into his scales with a promise to return post-haste and many fussy reminders that you should move as little as possible to avoid wasting any more precious nutrients. The great downbeats of his wings seemed to roll through the entire castle like a shudder, and then you were alone for the first time in nearly a fortnight.  

You lazed around in the echoing quiet, drumming bits of random tempos against your stomach and occasionally humming snatches of obnoxiously raunchy tavern tunes that you’d never really managed to bleach from your brain. How had Tsunotarou done this for decades? It’d barely been ten minutes and you were already bored out of your mind.

There was a flash of shadow near the grand entrance, and you sat up enthusiastically—ready to greet your returning host. But it wasn’t a dragon at the door.

“Who the hell are y—” the words died in your throat, and you spat a muted curse. The Silence Spell settled over your shoulders like a grungy cloak. You could feel its sticky film along the back of your tongue like a fine layer of moss.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of them hissed, and you fought the petulant ‘that’s just what I’d been about to ask you, jack ass!’ that wouldn’t have made it past your lips anyways.

There were six in total—a proper party from the looks of their ensembles. At least two people in full plate armor, a waify looking elf with a thick spell book in his hands, and three others in various getups that weren’t quite cookie cutter enough to tell you anything helpful. You rambled at them irritably, silently, gesturing rather impolitely all the while. You mimed teeth, and claws, and wings, and stomped around like a beast in a play.

‘There is a dragon here,’ you tried to say. Because maybe they were just unlucky adventurers like you and Tweedle Dee and Dum had been—not having any real idea what lay beyond these castle walls. You mimed a giant mouth, like a crocodile. ‘And he will eat you.’

“What the fuck?” Armored Dude gaped.

You pointed irritably at Mister Elf Wizard, who was still very obviously concentrating on keeping you encircled in a mesh of absolute silence.

The itchy sensation clogging your throat eased and you let out a breath, which echoed loudly in your ears. Elf-Guy looked at you with something that was perhaps a shade or two off of sympathy.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“You need to leave,” you replied instead, firm. “There’s a dragon that lives in this castle.”

“Of course there’s a dragon,” Armored Lady scoffed. “Why do you think we’re here?”

You looked at their heavy, expensive, armor. At the giant, shining, magical, weapons hanging across their backs. At the thin wizard who proceeded catch you in a Hold Person spell that was so fast and strong you couldn’t have dispelled it if you tried. And of course you tried. What else could you do? These people weren’t like you and your loveable idiots who managed to occasionally stumble their way into an adventure. These guys were the real deal. Warriors. Heroes. Dragon Slayers.

“God-fucking-damn it.”

But of course you’d been caught in Silence once again, so you were left cursing nothing.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST] CLOSED

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[doumidas-whumps]

some punishments are easier than others (part 2)

This punishment goes a little too far.

part 1 is here, but this can be read alone.

cw: BBU/pet whump, med whump, brief needle mentions

Porter blinked at the popcorn ceiling, lying on his back. Something had woken him up. 

…Woken him up?

A spike of adrenaline— alert in an instant. He rolled off the couch so fast that the corners of his vision turned dark and fuzzy, stumbling to his feet, but it was already too late. His master was standing by the door only a few feet away.

Port stared dumbly. Mr. Oz stared back, all red hot anger. Mr. Oz had expressly forbidden him from sleeping, and yet there he was.

Port opened his mouth, but he couldn’t make anything come out. He couldn’t talk himself out of this, not a chance in hell. He settled for clasping his hands in front of him, squeezing tight.

Mr. Oz took a menacing step towards him. He had already dropped his bag to the floor. “I don’t even know what to say right now.”

Port was still dizzy, and his heartbeat only quickened. He couldn’t think of the right thing to say. “I didn’t mean to, sir.”

“You didn’t mean to? You’re saying you didn’t mean to lie down on the couch with a pillow under your head? It was an accident?”

What could he say to that? Excuses would only make him angrier. He knew he shouldn’t have laid down. Port dropped his head. “I’m really sorry.”

Mr. Oz was in front of him. A hand around his throat, still cool from outside, right above his collar. A bruising grip. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I— I really didn’t mean to, sir.”

Port expected the sharp smack before it came. He let his head jerk to the side. This was a punishment plenty familiar. This was simple. Port was almost relieved, as long as this meant he wouldn’t have to go another sleepless night.

Port didn’t look at his master’s expression. He knew more would come, that the fire would only burn brighter before it went out. 

Movement in the corner of his eye. The fist met his other cheek, and there was hardly a moment before Mr. Oz’s hands fisted in his shirt and threw him to the ground. He winced at the sharp pain in his side as it caught the corner of the coffee table, and landed hard on his elbow. There was no time to recover with a knee digging into his gut, a hand once again at his throat, another blow to his face. It hurt, but he knew well enough by now not to resist.

The pressure of the knee lifted, and he took the moment to breathe.

He was completely caught off guard by a fierce kick to his ribs. He couldn’t stop the sound that escaped him, nor the instinct that told him to curl away. He clutched the leg of the coffee table, trying to bury his head into his arms. A kick to his back, by his spine. Another. Through the panic, he thought, It’s never gone this far before. He wanted to crawl under the table, to hide, but hands were grabbing at him, dragging him away, out in the open. His shirt was riding up, the carpet rubbing and burning his skin.

The hands left him. A kick to his stomach made him cough. He gasped for air, coiling up further, covering his face. This is too much. This is too much. This is—

A kick to his face, catching his cheek, frighteningly close to his eye. His head shook. He pulled his hands closer, trying to protect himself. Through his fingers, the blur of a shoe—

Gone in an instant. Port was too disoriented to wonder where it went, and something wet was trickling down his brow. A hand pushed his shoulder down to the floor and Port flinched, raising his arms like a shield. A grip on his wrist pulled his hand away and he flinched again when he realized how close Mr. Oz was looming over him. His mouth was moving, but Port couldn’t make out was he was saying. His ears were ringing, vision darkening…

There was a grip on his bicep, pulling him up. It hurt. 

Port blinked. Now he was sitting, leaning back. Something was pressing on his forehead and his eyelid felt… sticky. The floor hummed beneath his feet. He looked to his right, scenery flying by outside the window. A car? He looked left and his master was grasping the steering wheel, streetlights casting unsettling moving shadows on his face. 

He blinked again. There was a white light shining directly in his eye and he shut it, recoiling. A firm hand on the back of his neck. A stern, “Stay still. Keep your eyes open for me.” 

He was moving, moving…

Port’s eyes were closed, so he opened them. He was greeted by eggshell ceiling tiles, speckled like pepper. He squinted into the too-bright light. Working his jaw, his mouth felt dry, and tasted wrong. There was an antiseptic smell in his nose and his neck was aching, though there was something soft under it. He noticed the weight of a blanket covering him. He looked down his chest, feeling too weak to lift his head. His arms were out from underneath it. There was some sort of device on his right index finger. In the back of his hand, secured with white tape, was an IV. His gaze traced the curving tube leading from the needle up to the clear swollen bag hanging on the medical stand by the bed.

His hand immediately itched and burned. There was ice moving through his veins, running down his arm, spreading into his entire body. 

Not this again. Please, please, not this again.

Port needed to take it out, stop whatever this was from entering his body. He didn’t care if the handlers would be angry. He reached for it with his other hand… but it stopped short. He turned his throbbing head and caught sight of the bright yellow restraint wrapped around his left wrist, preventing his arm from moving more than a few inches. He realized the hand with the IV was restrained as well, and when he experimentally moved his legs underneath the blanket they, too, seemed to catch.

He could see his own chest rising and falling rapidly. There was still ice pulsing through his veins. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a few calming breaths. He suddenly tuned in to the faint beeping in the background. He focused on it, noticing it start to slow down. Beyond the panic and the pain, his mind felt clear. The drugs hadn’t taken his ability to think, yet. He had time to get out of his. He needed to take in his surroundings. He opened his aching eyes.

He shifted, trying to sit up on his elbows as best he could, and winced at the sudden stab of pain in his ribs like an ice pick. The room looked like it was in the medical wing. He turned left and his own reflection in the window caught his attention. It was dark enough outside that he couldn’t see anything beyond the glass, only the unsettling clarity of his own face in the room’s florescent lighting. 

…A window. 

There were no windows underground.

A jolt of realization. This wasn’t the training facility.

Looking into his own eyes, the past night returned to him. Mr. Oz had caught him sleeping, punished him, and then…? Gaps in his memory. 

He stared at himself. His hair was mussed and out of place. There were dark splotches on his cheek, around his eye. A line of stitches above his furrowed brow. He made a conscious effort to relax his face, feeling the muscles loosen. 

His collar looked strange, and he realized he was wearing an entirely different one. Absent was the familiar feel of leather hugging his neck. It felt like paper. Alarmed by this, Port (slowly, as painlessly as possible) swiveled his head, looking around room like his real collar would present itself.

His eye caught on another bed in the corner. Something about it stood out, and Port actually startled when he realized there was another person in it. They were a lump underneath the covers, little more than the top half of their face and curly head visible. Their eyes were closed, the lump rising and falling steadily. One wrist poked out from underneath the blanket, a similar yellow restraint around their own wrist. 

Port’s gaze moved back to the person’s face and he startled even more violently when he saw their eyes were open and staring back at him. The eyes crinkled and their head moved so Port could see their mouth, smiling like they thought it was funny. 

The delicate fingers of their restrained hand lifted in a small wave. 

Port was still processing this when someone walked through the open doorway into the room. He watched the person close their eyes again, pretending to be asleep. 

Through the door had come a nurse and his master trailing not far behind. Port felt some semblance of relief from his presence, but quickly came the trickle of fear. He knew his master must still be furious at him, especially considering he’d now landed himself in a hospital. 

“Hey, hun,” greeted the nurse. She was wearing blue scrubs and a badge on her chest. “How’re you feeling?” She moved to the end of the bed and grabbed a clipboard, looking it over. 

Port blinked at the blanket. The world was steady. “I f-feel, um…” He searched for the right thing to say. “…alright, ma’am.” His throat was still scratchy.

The nurse asked him more about how he was feeling and some easy questions like, What’s your name? What year is it? Where are we?

Then,“Do you know why you’re here?”

Port resisted the urge to look to his master for guidance. He had a feeling he shouldn’t be telling the truth. “I think I hit my head.”

“Do you remember how?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Mhm…” She hummed, writing something down. Port caught her glance towards Mr. Oz. “Your master tells me you fell down the stairs. Any recollection of that?”

Port pretended to think. “Um, maybe. Now that you say it.” 

She did some other things to test his vision and shined another painful light in his eyes. She unstrapped him so he could stand and test his balance. “Sorry about these restraints,” she said. “I know you’re a well-behaved boy. It’s just a precaution.” Port felt himself flush.

Eventually, she seemed satisfied by his performance. 

“Okay. We can get you fellas outta here soon. Just let me go over your recovery process.”

Port had a concussion, two broken ribs, and a cut on his forehead which they stitched up. He was bruised in other places, but nothing serious. 

“Make sure you get plenty of rest,” she said. “Don’t do anything too strenuous.” She seemed to shoot pointed look at Mr. Oz, who had been quiet the entire time.

“Yeah. He’ll relax,” he said. 

“You can go on and get checked out at the desk. I’ll get Port unhooked and he’ll be right out.” 

Once he left, the nurse made quick work of sliding the IV out of his hand. Port immediately breathed easier.

She looked over her shoulder as if to check nobody was sneaking up behind her. A few people walked down the hall past the doorway, but nobody was entering. 

“Porter,” she said. “Is it true you fell down the stairs?” Her eyes were unsettlingly green, dark bags underneath them. “There are resources for you, y’know. If you’re being hurt.” 

Port’s head felt tight. It was a naïve thing to say.

“I’m alright, really,” he said. “But thank you, ma’am.” Those ‘resources’ were unnecessary, anyway.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she shrugged. “Alright. Let’s get you back to him.”

As they passed the other bed, Port subtly checked to see if the curly-headed person was awake. Indeed, their eyes were open and on him. They winked. Port winked back, just because he could.

——

He hadn’t been looking forward to the ride home, dreading Mr. Oz’s wrath. But surprisingly, his master seemed calm.

Mr. Oz held open the passenger side door for him and told him to watch his head. Once he got in the drivers seat, he turned to Port and patted him twice on the cheek. Even the light contact rattled his head a little. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Mr. Oz said. “I know I went a little too far.”

“It’s okay, sir,” said Port. “I disobeyed you.”

Mr. Oz patted him again. (Ouch.) His eyes moved to Port’s neck and widened a little. “Oh. I almost forgot.” He reached into the backseat and presented Port with his leather collar. The brass plate, reading PORTER, glinted in the orange light shining through the window.

He ripped the waxy paper collar off of Port’s neck and buckled his rightful collar on. He slipped a few fingers under it to check the tightness. Port was grateful for it. “Is that good?”

“Yes, sir.” 

The drive home was silent. It was relatively quick, especially for the city— not a lot of traffic at 3 AM. They must have been there for hours.

Mr. Oz watched him carefully as he stepped out of the car, making sure he wouldn’t topple over. Port was a little dizzy, but he made it inside the house without incident.

“I’ll make you something to eat.” 

That really didn’t sit right with him. “Sir—“ he started, but was cut off.

“Really. You shouldn’t be cooking.”

Port conceded, but it made him uneasy to see Mr. Oz rummaging round the kitchen while he sat uselessly at the kitchen table. It was strange to see him so laid-back after the past few days. 

“I can’t make much,” his master said. “But this should do.” He placed before Port a steaming bowl of peas, carrots, and rice. 

Port only realized how hungry he was after the first spoonful. He shoveled it into his mouth without really tasting, the spices still lingering on his tongue after it was gone. Mr. Oz dismissed him to his room not long after, helping him up the stairs. A sigh of relief escaped him once the door closed behind him, the clack of the bolt on the outside sliding into place.

He lowered to his hands and knees, crawling onto the soft rug. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.

[whump-in-the-closet]

My congrats on the follower milestone. For the whump ask thing, perhaps this dialogue?

“My dear Leader, you think you have all the choices right now but really you only have two. You or them? Choose carefully.l

thanks im continuously surprised by how many people put up with my shenanigans <2

cw: creative license was used for this prompt oops, branding, forced to choose, creepy whumper, prisoner whump, team whump, mentions of past torture, implied flogging, restraints and manhandling

Leader had stopped caring. About anything, really. So when the guards chained his hands above him, he let them.

He was past caring. He stared at the tiles with dead eyes. His heart pulsed slowly, each moment dragged out. It was funny, how quickly, everything could fall apart.

Very human fingers brought him out of his mind, grabbing his chin and forcing his face upwards. 

Leader stared at Supervillain. Once– it felt long ago, but it couldn’t have been that long– he would have jerked away from the touch. Snarled a curse. But now he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. So, he took it.

Some of that sentiment must have betrayed itself in Leader's expression because Supervillain's grip tightened, nails breaking skin. “Tired, hm?" They dropped the young man's chin and ran a hand through the strands, the touch deceptively soft before tightening. Supervillain yanked Leader's head up by his hair, forcing him to look straight ahead. "Pay attention."

Two guards brought in a cauldron of burning coals, an iron ominously sticking out. Leader again felt its phantom pain, his side throbbing under its memory. He winced. He couldn’t help it. That– that had hurt. For days. 

There was a brief flicker of sarcasm.

Been there, done that.

It had been a while since Supervillain had resorted to anything so violently painful.

He could take it. 

He’d taken worse. 

Still, Leader did not look at the iron. Or the coals. He stared straight ahead and tried to remember how breathing worked. 

Supervillain smiled down at him like they knew something he didn't. Once the thought appeared, he couldn’t get rid of it. Something was different. Bile worked its way up his throat.

Something was wrong. 

Leader suppressed a shudder.

Before he could take another breath, the other shoe dropped.

A fourth guard carried a bleeding figure into the room. She dropped her burden unceremoniously onto the cold tiles before the cauldron with the branding iron.

The captive's head hit the floor with a sickening thud. They didn’t move. 

Supervillain glanced from the new arrival to Leader, wondering idly when he would make the connection. 

Leader's eyes widened in horror.

Supervillain's smile lit up the room. "Ah, yes. Took you long enough to put two and two together." They leaned in to whisper in Leader's ear. "I found them...oh so alone. A shame, really."

To Leader, the world was spinning and it wouldn’t stop. His vision blurred. 

Surely the captive, with terrible lacerations down their back, barely conscious, visibly shaking– surely, that wasn’t, of all people, Whumpee. 

God. 

Leader made a strangled noise in his throat– a silent scream– like someone had punched him. 

Supervillain stepped back, more than pleased with themself, and beckoned to their guard. They whispered something and the guard nodded. 

Leader couldn’t rip his gaze away from the shaking form that was left of Whumpee. 

Oh.

Oh god.

Leader hadn’t realized he was crying until the tears blurred his vision. He had failed his team. He had failed at the one job he had.

Leader threw up then. His throat burned. Then again, so did his eyes. “Whumpee?” he whispered, the name barely loud enough to be heard. 

No response. 

“What did you do to them?” This too, was whispered. 

No one answered that, either. 

The guard grabbed Whumpee, hauling them to their feet roughly. They cried out when the guard's hands dug into the lashes on their arms.

Leader stiffened. “Let go of them.” Some of the old command worked its way into his voice. 

Supervillain lit a cigarette and flipped the lid of their lighter closed with a flick of their wrist. They nodded to the guard, ignoring Leader.

Immediately, two more guards grabbed Whumpee, shoving them to their knees and bending their arms to awkward angles behind their back. 

Whumpee flinched, shrinking away from their touch. "Please-- P-please don't---"

And Leader snapped. 

That was Whumpee they were manhandling. One of his team. Someone who had stood by him through thick and thin. Someone who had, once, trusted him.

Leader lunged forward. “Don’t touch them! Don’t–” another lunge, the chains digging into his wrists, “Touch them!” 

Supervillain exhaled a breath of smoke. “What an unusual display from you,'' Their voice was sharp, “Pull yourself together.” 

Leader did not pull himself together. He continued to yank against the restraints, all semblance of aloofness gone. “Supervillain, let them go! I’ll do anything. Please!” 

And he meant it. 

Supervillain crouched down beside Leader to exhale another breath of smoke. This time, in Leader's face. “My dear Leader, you think you have all the choices right now but really you only have two." They lowered their voice. "You or them?"

Leader paled to the color of bone. “You– you can’t be serious."

"You remember the branding iron, don't you?" Supervillain's smile was shark-like, bright in the darkness. “You know what that’s like.” They pressed a cold hand against Leader's abdomen, their nails digging into the sensitive skin.

The brand’s phantom pain spread through his entire rib cage, lacing around his bones and coating them, again, in fire. 

Leader stiffened, blood turning to ice in his veins. Fuck. His mouth went dry as he looked from Whumpee, limp in the guard's grip, to the branding iron, red-white against the coals. Again, the floor dropped out from below him, leaving him spiraling.

It took all of his strength to find his voice. "I'll take it."

Supervillain stood up. They grinned. "You know what? You've managed to fuck up my plans so many times...yes, I think I'd like to watch you fuck up for once."

Leader didn't understand. "W-what?"

Supervillain ruffled his hair, patchy and bloodstained. "You never had a choice, dear."

Leader lunged against the chains. “No!” he shouted. “No! I said I would do it--”

His wrist made a snapping sound even as he threw himself again, and again. His voice gave out, cracking into a sob. "Fuck you--"

The guards chained Whumpee to the wall, tightening them to the point until stones dug into Whumpee's raw back.

Leader cursed every foul name when Supervillain picked up the branding iron.  "Don't-- Don't you dare!"

But when Whumpee screamed his name, begging him to make it stop, please, Leader went feral. He struggled frantically-- uselessly. He had never been more useless. The chains did not relent and the hand that held the brand was steady. Crimson blood traced a silky path down his arm, dripping to the tiles.

Whumpee's pleas fell on deaf ears. 

There was the horrible smell of burning skin. 

And a scream.

Leader would never forget that scream. 

Supervillain pulled the brand away, and Whumpee slumped forward, unconscious. Supervillain undid their restraints and let them collapse to the ground, stepping around them with a flicker of disgust. 

They ordered the guards to undo Leader's chains. “There’s not much damage he can do in here," they said.

And they left Leader alone with the battered captive, their still form twitching under the curling remnants of agony. 

Leader dropped down beside Whumpee, knees hitting the floor with all the force of a guillotine dropping. He worked quickly, taking off his own shirt and ripping it apart– first bandaging the brand and then trying to stem the blood from the flogging. It was a messy job and he did it poorly, with only the expertise of having previously done the same work on himself. 

Whumpee's eyes remained closed. 

Despair crouched inside Leader and it smiled. It smiled like Supervillain. Leader cried then. Hoarse sobs that ripped his vocal chords to shreds. 

Whumpee stirred. They exhaled softly– a small groan escaping their lips. They squeezed their eyes shut like they were still hoping this was some nightmare they could escape. 

Leader's voice was gone. He could say nothing. Provide no comfort. No reassurance. It was with hesitant movements that he moved Whumpee's head onto his lap, shielding them with his body as much as he could.

Please tell me you’re alright. 

Tell me we’ll be alright. 

Whumpee's entire body shook.

Nothing was alright.

[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 1, Part 2: The Slave Quarters

⚠️CW: Institutionalized slavery, degradation, dehumanization, objectification, emotional whump, blood/licking blood, food whump (starvation/poisoning), sadistic whumper, cold calculating whumper, multiple whumper, sensory deprivation, fantasy whump, Bullying.

As always, a HUGE shout out to my tumblr bestie and beta reader @3-2-whump.

Story under the cut

⏮️ Previous

None of the other slaves were up yet, so the mutt moved silently so as not to wake them.  Quickly, he got dressed in the tattered clothes he was allotted. At least they were a slight improvement against the autumn cold over the thin shorts they were given for sleep. He grabbed a candle from a shelf under the non-glassed window headed to the tiny bathroom to finish getting ready for the day. He lit the candle after closing the door and began straightening himself up for the day. He ran a brush through his unkempt hair, taming it only marginally, then washed his face with cold water.

Everything was always so cold, he tried to summon his dream and imagine the warm hands again, but unfortunately the leftover sensations were fading fast. To be honest so was his hope of feeling them again. That day was almost 5 years ago now, and he’d never felt them since. Realistically they probably had decided they didn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame them. He was stunted- not as strong or as tall as other Drar. His body also held on to injuries. Unlike the others with smooth, perfect skin, his body was marred by every mistake he had ever made, a lattice work of layered scars. He couldn’t possibly be good enough for that warmth.

Once the mutt was reasonably presentable, he settled down at the desk to study until his master unlocked the door to the building they were kept in at night.

He was supposed to study whenever he wasn’t actively being used. His master expected him to memorize everything about the poisons he was forced to consume and there was around a hundred of them in all, so it was a constant process.

After about an hour or so, he other slaves started to wake, some earlier than others.

“Reading again?” one of them scoffed, pulling the book out from under Dog. No surprise, it was Zan, someone Dog had never gotten along with. “Why do you get to know how to read but we don’t? What makes you so special?”

Zan was an owned slave that was brought to Master for training. He was the only one that actually wore brass bands, signifying he was owned by a commoner. The rest that were called brass bands actually wore silver like him, they were being trained for brass roles though and thus referred to as such.

The dog grabbed the book back without a word. Corvius would skin him if any damage came to it. It was very rare and very old, containing information on every known poison in not only Tallis, but all of Devros.

“Oh right, I forgot, you aren’t allowed to talk to the rest of us,” Zan sneered. “You’re too good for us humble brass bands. Better than us.”

Better? Hardly. Dog kept his gaze on the floor. He knew looking the other slave in the eyes would cause punishment from the metal around his neck and limbs. It was true. He was forbidden from speaking, or making any noise really, from evening to morning. The rule was depressing enough without it being rubbed in. He longed for the warmth the rest of them had in the evening, laughing and telling stories. Corvius said he didn’t want the slave distracted and that he needed to spend his time off studying. He took a breath, conjuring the comforting scent of his future master once again. ‘It’s all for them,’ he reminded himself. Even as he told himself this, he knew he should give up on the idea, though.

“Why is it you are so special? Huh? Why do you get to learn to read while the rest of work hard all day?” Zan spat.

Dog didn’t respond, he couldn’t, if he made a sound the silver bands of metal around his neck and limbs would make it feel like electricity ripping through his body. He wanted too, though. He deeply wished he could talk and joke with the rest of them. Being a slave was hard, but being alone was so much harder.

Dog would much rather be working with the rest of them than studying what the poisons he was forced to take were doing to his body. The other slaves had friendship and comradery; Dog had nothing. ‘What do you want from me, I don’t even have a name,’ he thought pitifully. His only consolation was the gentle thrumming warmth his bands sent through his body for resisting the impulse to speak. A reward for obeying Corvius’ order of silence. The warmth he always pictured a hug to have. Though he’d never had one, he desperately wanted one, they looked so warm.

Smack! A loud sound echoed off the stone walls. Dog’s head violently whipped to the side with the force of the other Drar’s blow.

Zan laughed loudly, “Not going to do anything about it are you little cur? You never do. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

Dog continued to look at the floor, his face still turned to the side. The other Slave was right, he had no intention of defending himself.

“Pathetic,” Zan spat, “You are an embarrassment.”

Zan’s loudmouth drew attention of other slaves, and Dog could feel eyes on him.

“Zan! Knock it off. He has a hard enough time without you adding to it,” Ruby cut in, scolding her fellow brass band. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready before you’re late anyway?”

“Oh, screw you, as if I need you to tell me what to do,” Zan mumbled in response, walking off.

Ruby gently ruffled Dog’s hair, causing him to involuntarily lean into her soft touch, savoring it. Her voice was gentle, “Please don’t take his words to heart. It's just……” she paused, her voice going soft. “It's just, he’s just afraid of becoming you, we all are to be honest.” He could feel her concerned gaze on him, before she walked off to get ready herself.

The dog kept his usual neutral expression on his face. He didn’t blame them, if he had the choice, he wouldn’t want to be him either. Broken, personality stomped out, body ruined by poison, none of it was wanted.

@whumperofworlds, @skittles-the-whumpee, @whumpsandbumps, @wounds-seen-and-unseen, @generic-whumperz

@emptycalories-splitlip, @pigeonwhumps, @i-eat-worlds

As always, if you would like to be added to my tag list or I forgot to properly flag something, please just let me know!

Master List

Next ⏭️

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Villain's Coffee Shop part 2

Warnings: bleeding out, gravely injured Villain, stab wounds, corrupt Superhero

She was an unpredictable wildcard to him, always had been, even with his limited experience fighting her. She always somehow managed to surprise him, right when he thought he'd figured her out.

Villain weakly bared his teeth in defiance and frustration. "Ah, the knight in shining leather. Come to gloat over your boss's victory, oh mighty lap dog?" He snarked, goading. "Always obediently following Superhero around like a clingy shadow."

But unnervingly, Hero merely laughed, as though he were only a kitten spitting fire at a lion. Audible amusement laced her voice, and it made Villain's skin crawl with anger. He withered under her delighted gaze.

"Is the poor lone wolf going off to lick his wounds like a coward?" Hero cooed mockingly. "Superhero told me you fled halfway through the fight. I couldn't believe it at first, given your nasty reputation for power and violence -- and yet here you are, dragging yourself home all by yourself. I wonder what kind of reward I'll get for bringing you in."

Villain couldn't find it himself to snap back with a witty retort -- he was viscerally aware of how bad his own legs were shaking, threatening to give out at any second. But if he fell, the dagger resting against his throat would slice it wide open. He was certain.

"Go ahead and take me in then," Villain finally managed to grit out. But he couldn't keep the pain from his voice, no matter how hard he tried to cover it with his typical flippant attitude. "I'll be dead anyway by the time you turn me over to Superhero." He hadn't meant to say that much, broadcasting his weakness so openly. His mouth instantly snapped shut, and he glowered at Hero, packing as much hate and venom into his glare as he could.

The corners of Hero's mouth briefly twitched into a confused frown, and she took the hand on his chest away, before her expression turned to concern and alarm. Villain followed her gaze to the hand she'd withdrawn, which was covered in dark red blood -- his blood.

"Geez, Villain! You're bleeding all over the place!" Hero gasped in surprise. "How are you even still standing right now?!"

"Took you that long to notice, huh?" Villain bit out, but it didn't come out as snappy as he'd intended. He swallowed nervously, his throat bobbing against the cold blade skating across his neck. "Can you drop the knife now?! You know now that I'm in no shape to attack you," he barked angrily.

"Why don't you drop the attitude first, sweetheart?" Hero said in return with a cruel smile.

Villain would have clocked her in the face if he had the strength, just to knock that smug look off it. But he was on the brink of collapsing, focusing all his effort into retaining his dignity -- but his body wouldn't listen, and he finally crumpled with a grunt. The blade at his neck disappeared, and he felt warm arms catch him before he hit the ground -- was he really that cold, that Hero felt so warm? Must be all the blood loss.

"Whoa! Uh--okay, this is... not what I was trained to handle." Villain had never heard Hero floundering with her words before. She was always full of sarcasm and snark, but maybe it was a cover all along to hide the uncertainty and insecurities lurking beneath.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@federthenotsogreat @everynameistakencarrots

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Mimi

Y o u ‘ r e a M A C H I N E

Pumping these bangers after bangers!!… You’re gunna need a whole Dewey Decimal system for all these masterpieces!! Your expressiveness and emotions inspire me, it’s contagious.

I’m gunna have to ask for mah Murdertoothpick Danger noodle of a nope rope , Crosshair.

I was absolutely FLOORED at the fics you’ve been spewing out.

So IF you would be ever so kind to indulge me or yourself —I present to you with a “choose your own dealer’s choice”

(Crosshair x F!Medic) or you can insert my OC

(Kave) 🦊 whatever strikes you right.

Any combinations of these:

18. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

38. “You dumbass. Don’t do that. Ever agian. “

20. “I can’t leave you alone for one second without hurting yourself, can I?”

36. “How many fingers am I holding up?…I don’t have six fingers.”

44. “Do as I say not as I do. For real though, You don’t want to do what I do. I don’t want to do what I do.”

2. “I will always be there for you.”

Your choice I give you free range — you can make it hurt so good or bad / or add some whump or fluff / add as much drama as you desire…where ever in the timeline — The floor is yours Queen!❤️❤️❤️

@kavecika What a fantastic request, especially for my 20th request. I loved it. I did end up using your OC, so I hope I did Kave justice.

So I hope you enjoy what I came up with, love oo.

Promise

Warning: Medical injuries (somewhat graphic), burns, medical procedures, angst, hurt, comfort, kiss, fear of medical staff, feelings of being alone, I think that's it. If I miss any, please let me know.

Main Master List   |  Star Wars Fic Roulette

Crosshair sat in the medbay waiting for Kave to show up, after everything, after having his brothers abandon him for a kid, after having them nearly cook him alive, after them walking away, the one thing he could actually count on was Kave. 

She was the only bright spot left in his life. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second without you hurting yourself, can I?” She giggled as she walked in seeing him injured. She knew better than trying to coddle him, or worry about him to an extreme. She’d be able to do that in the privacy of their quarters later on that night. 

He only let out a strained chortle as the pain meds were slowly ebbing away.

“Okay, my beautiful murdertoothpick, I’m gonna have to take this bandages off, and see the extent of the damage, okay?”

He nodded, not able to find the strength to answer her.

“Pain meds wearing off?”

Nod.

“Okay, sweetie… hold on.” Kave reached over and grabbed another pain med, using the hyperspray and injecting it into his arm, “There you, sweetie. You’ll start feeling better soon. Just calming breaths. Okay. Use your sniper breathing for me.”

Nod. He tried his best to calm his breathing imagining he was lining up a target.

“Okay, here we go.” She slowly cut away the gauze, careful not to pull too quickly. Biting back the tears and worries she felt for the pain and injury he sustained. His hair was burned away, his skin bubbled and melted away from the heat. Some of it came off on the gauze she peeled away. She wanted to press a kiss to his lips, to hold him close to take away his pain. However, she needed to remain professional. 

“Alright, I’m going to need you to open your eyes for me, I’m going to pull away the eyepatch and then we’re going to test to see how much damage there is, okay?”

Nod.

She took in a deep breath, and prepared herself for what she’d find under the patch. She let out a sigh of relief that the damage wasn’t too bad. The eye was red, a little inflamed, which was understandable. The pupil was reacting to the light, which was fantastic. His eyes were tearing up as tears slid down his cheek. 

“Okay, How many fingers am I holding up?”

Crosshair took a second, his vision was blurred, and somewhat fogging from the tears forming. He couldn’t stop blinking for a while, “Um … six.”

Kave looked from him to her fingers, “Okay, well first, I don't have six fingers. I’m going to try and wash out your eye again. I know the medics on site already did that, but I’m trying again okay.”

“Yeah.”

After Kave dealt with the injured, she covered and protected it with a cool compress. Once she finished with his eye, she moved on to the more serious injury, she’d need to put bacta on the injury and keep him in the med bay for the next two days. To keep reapplying the treatment. She wasn’t looking forward to the argument that was about to ensue, she dismissed everyone from the room, leaving her and Cross alone. 

“Sweetheart, I’m going to need to keep you here for at least two days.”

“No.”

“Cross…”

“I said NO!”

She let out a sigh, “Baby,” she hated using that term but it was the only one that usually calmed him down enough to listen to her, “you need a sterile environment. This is your health, please, for me.” He was about ready to start arguing again, she held his hand and pressed it against her chest, “Listen to me, please. I’ll set you up in the ICU room, it’ll just be the two of us. No one else. I know you hate the med bay. I know you hate being poked and prodded, but I’ll be the only one taking care of you. I’ll treat you every time, and won’t let anyone else in. I’ll protect you and care for you. So please, for me… listen to me and stay here.”

Cross let out a trembling breath, he hated the med bay, he hated the memories that came from the training he and his brothers underwent when they were children… he hated that his brothers weren’t here anymore to stay with him. He hated that Wrecker wasn’t here to stay by his side when he got scared. He hated that Hunter wasn’t here to fight with him, to make him feel he had a brother. He hated that he couldn’t hear Tech’s hum in understanding as he read some new fact or understood some new principle or formula. He hated that he was alone. 

He squeezed her hand, “You promise?”

“I promise,” she pressed a kiss to his knuckles, “it’ll just be me and you. You know, I will always be there for you."

He nodded, “Okay. I’ll stay here for two days…”

“At least.”

“At least.”

“Thank you, my beautiful murdertoothpick.”

He let out a huff, “You know I hate that nickname.”

“No, you don’t,” she smirked. 

A small smile creeped onto his lips, “No. I don’t.”

Main Master List   |  Star Wars Fic Roulette

Tag list:

@liadamerondjarin @badbatch-simp24@spicymcnuggies@lady-ren @firstofficerwiggles @darkangel4121 @discofern @kavecika @monako-jinn-stories @ladykatakuri @avathebestx @theroguesully @furyhellfire66 @carodealmeida @ciramaris @sprout-fics @twinkofthedink @dindjarin-mandalorian @ulchabhangorm @littlemisspascal @tortor-mcgee @vodika-vibes @clonethirstingisreal

[asianwhumpgalore]

Secrets of the Shadow Sect (皎月流火) | Cdrama | Whump List

Genre: Historical, Romance, Wuxia, Action

Synopsis: The young lady Ling Xuan of the morally ambiguous Spiritual Heaven Sect must disguise herself as a useless fool in order to protect herself from her father. At this very moment, Ying Shi is sent by the Shadow Pavilion to approach Ling Xuan in search of the Wanxin Technique. Through suspicions, testing, and dangers during their journey, they eventually build complete trust in each other. However, just as they have fallen for each other, Ling Xuan discovers the secret of Ying Shi's birth.

Length: 24 eps

Whump meter: ▲▲◭△△ 

✨ Everything I love wrapped in a pretty packag. If you liked Zhang Gong Zhu Zai Shang, you'll love this. Also quite some whump ✨

⚠️Trigger Content: Usual historical cdrama content warnings. ⚠️⚠️Some SPOILERS might be found, proceed with caution⚠️⚠️

Whumpee: Ying Shi/Bai Chen/Tang Yan portrayed by Lin Ze Hui

Ep 1 - Covers scar | Scar reveal, scar touched, scar opened, winces, bleeding, made to taste his own blood.

Ep 2 - Wipes blood off mouth | Cut on the forehead with a shard

Ep 3 - Cut on the forehead with a shard, blood trailing down the side of his face (10/10), grabbed by the chin, head pushed away, scolded, made to kneel and strip to receive punishment, scars on his back, whipped | still being whipped, pale, winces, sweating, several large cuts on his back, bleeding, belittled | Blood staining white clothes.

Ep 4 - Shirt removed to reveal the cuts on his back, made to lie down, wound treated, winces.

Ep 5 - none.

Ep 6 - Fought | Takes drug that binds him to his master.

Ep 7 - Weak, loosening collar of his clothes, blurry vision, leaning against table | Fought, blurry vision, struggling to focus, protected, sword to the chest then to the neck, chin tilted up with blade, weak.

Ep 8 - None.

Ep 9 - Restless, can't sleep | Blade to his neck.

Ep 10 - None.

Ep 11 - Stabbed in the back of his neck with three needles, trembling.

Ep 12 - Struggling to walk, weak, in pain, leaning over table, clutches chest, meditates to ease the pain | Sweating, injury reveal (three needles visible under his skin).

Ep 13 - Fought, kicked in the back, spits blood, falls to the ground, struggling to get up, scratches on his face, kicked in the chest, falls to the ground again, spits blood, cut on the cheek, blood on his face and neck | steps in front of loved one and gets stabbed in his right shoulder, blade removed abruptly, bleeding, clutches wound, falls onto his knees.

Ep 14 - Protected, concerned for loved one | Treated, needles removed from his skin, spits blood, pale, blood dripping from his lips.

Ep 15-19 - None.

Ep 20 - (in past) rescued (off screen), scratches and cuts on his face, talks about his unwillingness to live | (in past) watches his friend die, crying.

Ep 21 - (in past) x mark cut onto his left shoulder, crying.

Ep 22 - Force™ pushed away | Imprisoned by loved one | Gets up abruptly, sudden pain, winces, forced to sit back down, in pain, clutching chest, feeling withdrawals from drug, meditates to ease the pain.

Ep 23 - Fought, jumps off cliff after lover, saves lover by pushing her to safety but falls off cliff.

Ep 24 - Limping | Can't stand too long and has to sit, concern for him.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Will add gifsets once I get around to making some

[victimeyez]

Private Lessons - Sarge (pt. 2)

Caius realizes he has made a dangerous mistake.

Masterlist Prev Next

New chapter every saturday!

See tags for content warnings

Special thanks to @suspicious-whumping-egg, @sunshiline-writes, and @killorbekillian for edits and inputs!

~

Sarge’s mouth was cold pressed against his, and then pulled away. A pause, and then he leaned in and did it again, curious. Whatever it was, it did not feel like a kiss, but Tommy wasn’t sure he was relieved. Sarge’s breath stank and he pressed his lips to Tommy’s face over and over, showering him in weak, awkward kisses. In spite of Sarge’s best imitation, it felt entirely devoid of affection. 

He just wants to know what it feels like. But this isn’t what he wants. 

Each kiss left the slightest touch of moisture, and he could feel it chill on his skin. Miserably, he almost wanted to lean into Sarge, just because his body was warm. This whole underground lair bullshit was cold. His clothes were still soaked, his hair starting to curl around his face as it began to dry. 

He closed his eyes. Pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, pushing where his gums were still numb from the coke Caius fed him at the door. The warmth and weight in his lap disturbed him, but he tried to let in some miniscule sense of comfort from it. Peeling his shame and disgust away from the thread of warmth. Peel it away. Separate. 

He was already pretty sure it wasn’t working by the time Sarge bit down. 

He tested the skin and the muscle between his teeth and chewed, making Tommy seize with pain. It felt like the nerves under his skin there were being caressed with a cheesegrater. Then he stopped, moved up to a fresh part of his neck and bit down slowly. Sarge reached out with greedy hands and tugged Tommy’s uniform shirt down, then clumsily began to unbutton it, revealing more skin to his ministrations. He buried his blunt canines into his chest as deeply as he could and then released, moving onto the next patch of unblemished flesh. He worked his way across every exposed inch of Tommy’s skin, leaving wide, angry bite marks carved like a signature in his wake. The first few glittered slightly in the light as blood lazily began to pool in their wells. 

//

So far, this wasn’t what Caius had expected. Watching the disheveled man sit on his ward’s lap, curling in on Tommy to ravage his collarbones with his teeth, it didn’t match the picture he had imagined when he read the request form. This mock display of intimacy felt unbecoming of him, though the way Tommy keened and shivered underneath him in pain stirred something pleasing in Caius. 

He hadn’t expected the bunker, either. He hoped the military fetish gear came with ebay receipts. The amount of it, though…even the banality of some of the items… it itched in his brain, like there was something he was missing. He just couldn’t place it. 

Joey. It reminded him of Joey, when they were kids. His dad had kept all this junk from Vietnam, they wanted to look through it but he wouldn’t let them touch it. Joey’s dad, who just sat around in his boxers and drank. He’d just take out this old cigar box full of empty shells and count them on the kitchen table, FOX news blaring from the grainy screen of a heavy box TV. Finish off another bottle of malt liquor. Count them again, or maybe just feel them in his hands. Sometimes he would forget how many there were and would accuse Joey of taking them, that’s why he was chasing them with the belt. 

They had gone for the front door when they heard him yelling, and they ran out to the park across the road. His dad came out with his belt in his hands and his pants falling down, screaming at them to come back. They waited across the street, waiting for him to go back inside. That’s why they saw it, when he hesitated by the road. He and Joey saw that he waited just that one extra moment before he stepped out right in front of a truck, and that was it. The life insurance policy took years to get, the company insisted it was suicide, but Joey and his mom got it in the end. Every cent of it went to cleaning out all the shit his dad had hoarded in his house for 30 years. 

Tommy whimpered at a hard bite along his jaw. Caius watched. He thought about the sound it made when Joey’s dad went under the wheels. His mind wandered, taking in the old flags pinned to the walls. A large monochrome banner featuring a black silhouette, a tower in the distance. POW MIA - YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN. An American flag done up in dull green shades to mimic camo. Shadow boxes everywhere there wasn’t a shelf. One held a purple heart, next to another with an iron cross. Badges of honor, monogrammed caps, ribbons, pins, crucifixes, grenades, GI Joe figurines. Slowly, his eyes wander down the room to the wall nearest to him, where a stained american flag proudly bore the addition of the Mason’s golden symbol. 

There was a large square, printed on the wall beneath where the dust hadn’t built up. A smashed frame and shattered pieces of glass were all that remained of the display. 

It finally clicked, and when it clicked, he felt ludicrous for how long it had taken him to put it together.

This wasn’t just Sarge’s fetish - this bunker was a testament to a military family, one that stretched back many generations. Each one bearing more and more weight on Sarge’s shoulders.

A military family.

With this kind of wealth...

Without a shadow of a doubt, they had to be politically connected.

And here he was, generously providing a home delivery scandal.

A feeling Caius hadn’t felt for a while twinged deep in his gut.

Fuck.

He tried to wash his anxiety from his face, applying a fine mask that bore a thin, cool smile. 

//

Tommy moaned in pain as Sarge sank his teeth in, catching the corner of his chew toy’s mouth and spanning onto his cheek. When he released this time he finally leaned back to study the imprinted marks up Tommy’s throat. Angry red crescents mirrored each other in pairs along his collarbone where Sarge had pulled his shirt away. His face was vflushed and pink, eyes wide and wet. His lips were slightly swollen, jagged toothy marks now bisecting his smile at the corner of his lip. Its mirror image was bruising up on the apple of his cheek. 

Say it, He wants to hear it.

“Pleeeaaase, don’t hurt me,” Tommy cried.

Lips parted, pouted, eyes wide, soft moaning whimpers on every exhale. Pain nearly indistinguishable from pleasure. Don’t look like you’re enjoying it too much, it’s a turn off.

He just did it for him, without even thinking. 

The look Sarge gave him was so hungry, he wondered for a moment if he would be eaten alive. He might just lean in and pull away with a mouthful of him this time. 

But instead his face changed to something more…confused. He suddenly looked surprised and frowned, pushing a hand between his legs to feel himself through his pants for a moment. Tommy immediately wanted to retch, but Sarge mercifully stopped after only a second and began a clumsy dismount. 

What the fuck is this guy’s deal.

Tommy was tuning into him, picking up some faint frequency he’d tapped into that told him what these sick fucks wanted. Still, he couldn’t place him, couldn’t understand. He could sense some desire there, but what exactly it was he wanted, Tommy couldn’t tell. It was an unfamiliar bitterness on the back of his tongue. 

Something like iron, rusted to ash. 

He swallowed it down. 

Sarge was towards the back corner, out of his line of sight, struggling with something that made a metal clanking sound. Not exactly promising. Caius was watching Sarge - or at least, Tommy was pretty sure he was, the light reflected in his glasses again. Caius had this look on his face though, where his lips were pressed thin together but quirked at the edges. Struggling not to laugh. Tommy couldn’t quite find his sense of humor at the moment - it must have been washed away, down the stinking drain drilled into the cement floor beneath them. 

Sarge stepped just close enough to be a dark figure in the corner of Tommy’s eye, rummaging through another drawer. He returned to Tommy’s side, letting out a sigh of relief as he shrugged off the heavy wool coat that he had covered his wet uniform with. He had really started to sweat underneath, and a rich smell of body odor accompanied the removal. Tommy scrunched his nose up and turned his face away, forcing his breath out through his nose as if to dispel it. 

When Sarge began to unbuckle him, Tommy ground his teeth. He hated these parts, where he felt like he was complicit in it all if he didn’t fight back. Fighting back didn’t get anywhere though, especially not in a damn bunker. 

Caius flanked him as the last of the bindings came off, both men looming over Tommy in the chair, readied for some resistance. 

He felt small. Tiny in this big chair, four hands immediately catching his arms and dragging him off. The coke Caius had prepared him with had left him feeling wired, but he was also exhausted. It felt like his eyes were looking out at the world from deep holes bored into his skull.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired I can’t fight back. I can barely walk. I can’t possibly fight back.

Tommy repeated it in his head in as many different ways as he could think of, and it helped it feel true. His limbs felt so heavy, he focused on the feeling and disconnected himself. Of course he was too tired to fight. Of course there was nothing he could do. 

A sliver of guilt still poked its way through. If you don’t fight it’s all your fault. 

He imagined pulling that thought like a worm from his ear and grinding it under these stupid fucking boots. 

I’m helpless. I’m helpless. At least I can say I was helpless-

It wasn’t a comforting thought. Yet, it was a balm to his self pity, creating a terrible feeling to soothe another one in some odd way. Caius always said that Tommy struggled with acceptance - well, this felt something akin to it, somehow. 

No big deal. Just a rope. Taut on a… pulley? He looked up and saw the heavy wheel anchored into the metal ceiling by a silver hook. 

The hook looked bright and clean, even in the dim light. New, then, the juncture out of place connecting the dull green ceiling to the dull green pulley. The thick paint on the wheel casing had long since started to chip away, exposing a more aged steel beneath, dark and curdling with rust. He must have some kind of fetish for these fucking antiques - maybe Sarge and Darwin would be the best of friends, if they met. They could compare notes over tea and fuck on their old crusty furniture and die of tetanus. The idea of it brought a gruesome smile to his face. 

You’re fucking twisted, man. You’re losing it.

Caius stood in front of him, his hands on his shoulders holding him in place. Caius, ever so helpful. Heavy hands secured him while Sarge started twisting the rope around his wrists behind his back. Tommy failed to hide his sick grin before Caius saw it and raised an eyebrow. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Caius murmured, and his lips parted on a broad smile. His face suddenly felt far too close. Tommy wanted to step back away from him. No, he wanted to lean in closer, just to slam the thick of his skull into Caius’s neat white teeth. But his rage was impotent, rising as if only out of habit. He couldn’t summon the energy to back up the anger. He felt cold and scared and small, and it drained him.

His arms were bound together from his wrists to his elbows. His shoulders were already beginning to cramp from being pulled back. 

Sarge fussed with the bindings at his wrists for another moment. When the pulley made a clunk Tommy didn’t have to look. He could hear the whir of the rope being pulled through, and suddenly his wrists were being pulled upwards behind him. 

“Caius,” he gasped, leaning forwards in spite of himself. He pressed his face to Caius’s chest without a thought, and arms wrapped around him without hesitation. A hand carded fingers into his hair, stroking it softly. 

“You’re doing so well.”

Tommy shivered in terror as the rope slowly tightened, dragging his bound arms up behind his back. He bent forwards to try to relieve the pressure, but it just pushed him to bury his face in the soft fabric of his handler’s shirt until his nose pressed against his sternum. 

The rope climbed, dragging him with it, until it finally pulled him off of his feet. His stomach dropped as there was suddenly a violent pull from deep in his shoulders, and with a blinding pain, his body suddenly sagged a few inches further down. There was a breathtaking pain radiating from his back and his shoulders, but his arms felt swollen and numb. 

It all only took a moment. The tips of his boots had only just left the floor, and he shuddered as his shoulders gave out. 

In the space of three pounding heartbeats, he was eye to eye with Caius. His captor’s arms had slipped away to let him go, but delicate hands framed his face again just long enough to lean in for a kiss. It lingered for another beat, Caius’s lips parted, Tommy’s still open in a gasp as Caius sighed softly into his mouth. Then, just as quickly, he was gone. 

His head buzzed and began to pound, blood rushing to his face. He couldn’t process all the sensations. He was a good few feet from the floor when it stopped rising. 

His legs kicked out frantically, pointing his feet, desperate for even the tips of his toes to graze the floor. If he could make the slightest contact, he would do anything to relieve the ache even the smallest bit. Sarge laughed in a jarring, harsh outburst, watching as Tommy wiggled like a worm skewered on a hook. 

It hurt to struggle. It hurt not to struggle, too, but it felt too much like giving up. He sobbed and struggled until it all hurt too much, his muscles on fire from the strain.

The paralyzing effect of the pain finally started to kick in, and his impotent resistance slowed to a halt. Tommy’s breathing was shallow, fast, scared. A rabbit in a snare.

-

Sarge watched. He liked to watch. It was so different up close, personal. Even when that man— the handler, when he kissed his rope bunny, it sent a little thrill through him. 

The boy in the ropes was flushed pink and breathless, trembling from the strain. Instinctively, he was leaning as far forwards as he could. They always did in the drawings, too. He found the drawings and then he learned the terms and then he found the videos. They all leaned forwards. The closest someone could get to comfort in this position. 

He looked to Caius without moving his head. The other man seemed to appreciate the view of his captive. Sarge wondered how Caius would do if he was strung up, too. If that self satisfying grin would leave his face. Sometimes Sarge like to watch videos of guys like him being done in. They’d always start off angry, yelling, cursing, threatening. Every time, they’d whimper and cry like lambs when it came down to it. 

Tommy stopped struggling. He was breathing shallowly. His hands were turning purple. Sarge knew that if held long enough, the tissue in his fingers would begin to die. If left too long, his hands would have to be amputated-

The thought aroused him. He would love to watch him slowly die on the rope. But there was so much he still wanted to do, and so little time.

Tommy stopped struggling, and Sarge knew just how to fix that. 

Caius surveyed Tommy like an art student at a sculpture - delighted, curious, imagining his own process to form such an exquisite state of being with his own hands. Still, his better judgment burned the back of his neck. Coming here was a mistake.

-

Honestly, the pain was not the worst part.

Tommy had been dealt more than his fair share of agonies. He never got used to it, per se, but it didn’t pack the same punch as it did the first few times. 

Discomfort, however, rarely relented. 

His hands were going numb. Hands and feet were usually the first to go. His feet were fine, hanging uselessly underneath him, unable to touch the ground. The tension in his shoulders, the pull of muscle and ligaments, it all pushed on the ropes binding his arms together. He tried to lean forwards, relieve the ache somewhat, but his movements were limited at best. 

Breathing in and out gently tugged his shoulders, and every breath stroked his pain with loving hands. Being immobilized was nothing new to him nowadays, but it was shocking how utterly helpless he felt with only one tie. He hung from a strand, a twitching toy dangled between two cats. 

At a lazy pace,  he began to turn like a mobile, unable to control it as the rope twisted above him. It slowly rotated him towards the wall. Sarge stepped out of the corner of his peripheral vision. He refused to turn his head, stilling any movement he didn’t have to make to spare himself the pain. 

It made him uncomfortable to not be able to see them. He did not look. 

It doesn’t matter if you see it coming. Maybe it’s better if you don’t. It doesn’t matter if you can see what they’re going to do because - because - because there's nothing you can do to stop it.

It would not have mattered if Tommy could see Sarge when a hand gripped his ankle, long yellowed fingernails catching in the stiff laces of his boot. His feet were yanked violently back and his stomach jumped as he was pulled back. For just a second there was a slight ease, where he was able to bend forwards, only to feel his full weight slam down on his shoulders. He gasped, granted no respite before he was abruptly shoved, swinging like a pendulum above his audience. Another push and he spun around, slowing after a few rotations to face Sarge.

The look on Sarge’s face was disturbingly out of place. He was absolutely gleeful, breathing hard with excitement. Tommy wasn’t sure if he was still spinning, or if the rest of the world was turning beneath him. 

Sarge’s hands trembled around another bucket he had prepared. From his vantage point slightly above him, Tommy could see it was filled with water. Sarge grunted with effort as he raised the bucket above his head, his arms trembling. Tommy cringed away from it, but couldn’t move away any meaningful amount. As it loomed closer to him though, he was hit with a strong smell, musty. It reminded him of…a moldy basement. No, a farm, maybe the manure they put on the crops? It didn’t have the faint metallic scent the water had. His stomach turned as the sharp smell began to overwhelm his sinuses. Turning his face to the side offered little relief, and he wheezed as the burning musk reached his lungs. 

“TO THE MOOOOOOOOOON!” Sarge howled, and he tipped the bucket forwards, upending it as he slammed it down onto Tommy’s head. 

The momentum forced it up his nose. It was acid in his eyes. He choked and spluttered, huffing and spitting to get it out of his nose and his mouth. Everywhere it touched, it started to burn. Acidic drops oozed down his body and he immediately jolted into a fit, his struggles renewed with fresh urgency. There was already a fire stoked in his head, infecting his sinuses, his throat. Thick drops clumped in his eyelashes, and he blinked hard to push the stinging tears of pain out. He could hear his own desperate panting reflecting back to his ears from the plastic bucket that still hooded him. Rivulets of fire trickled down his body and soaked into his clothes. 

Underneath the searing burn, there was a maddening itch. Fuck, fuck, he could take all the pain in the goddamn world if he could just scratch, he’d do anything. Caius could whip him in the air like a goddamned pinata if it would scratch the itch for even a moment -   It felt like- like-

He’s looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. Twenty years old, back in his first trailer’s bathroom. His skin fucking hurts, it hurts so much but he can’t stop tearing into himself with his fingernails. Intense, painful prickles of irritation, sparking up everywhere at once, underneath the worst sunburn of his life. He struggles to get his shirt off without breaking from clawing at himself. 

His skin was already red and stiff, hot to the touch, even pulling the soft cloth over his shoulders made him hiss in pain. That’s why he’d tried the lidocaine spray, Kevin said it would take care of the soreness. The spray Tommy had bought had menthol in it, even better. 

Two things he learned later: Lidocaine is not supposed to be used on injured skin, and Tommy is allergic to menthol.

He wants to crawl out of his skin, scratching only makes it hurt more but he could NOT stop slapping and itching. It was like some kind of involuntary whack-a-mole response. He lurched over to the tub and ran the water ice cold, shucking his clothes to desperately try to rinse himself in the bathtub.

-

Tommy was cute, fighting it. He was already clearly fatigued with pain, but he began to thrash more desperately than ever as the chemical set upon his flesh. 

Caius admired the scene, sure, but he winced a little when the bucket doused Tommy. He thought it would be more water, but judging by the smell and the way Tommy reacted, it must have been something much worse. 

Sarge coughed and backed away, his hacking turning into a laugh as soon as he started to catch his breath. The smell burned in Caius’s nose, too, and he quickly backed away to escape it, covering his nose with his hands. 

“What is that?!” He demanded from Sarge. 

The anxiety in his gut boiled into a frenzy. I am not in control. I am not in control.

Sarged giggled and clapped his hands like Caius had told a sordid joke. 

“It’s the special sauce!”

“Tell me what it is.”

“Technically, it’s an herbicide.” He pronounced it with a hard C, like he’d only ever read the word. He had to raise his voice to answer Caius as Tommy screamed and struggled in his bonds.

Caius stalked closer, and saw Sarge’s eyes widen — good. 

“Either tell me exactly what this shit is, or you’ll be swimming in it next.”

Sarge looked a little startled, and oddly, a little hurt.

“Agent Orange. Like in Vietnam? That’s like — it’s kind of the theme. For the night.”

Agent fucking orange. Joey’s dad hobbling after them. Weak from the chemo, brandishing his cane, his pocked and rashy face twisted in anger. He found out later he was already dying, mutilated beyond repair from what he referred to as “the OJ”.

Tommy was soaked in it, it was poured into his eyes, and they were both standing so near. An unfamiliar alarm gripped Caius’s throat, an urgent fear rising inside. 

Caius shoved Sarge, catching him slightly to the side and off-guard. He stumbled back and fell, smashing his head against a metal locker before sliding the rest of the way to the floor. Caius followed him, wedging the tip of his shoe in between Sarge’s ribs as he kicked him for good measure. Sarge wheezed and tried to shuffle away on his hands, failing to block his ribs with one shaky hand extended. Caius leaned in, crouching to get in Sarge’s face. 

“You fucking pathetic fr-” Caius was interrupted by the crack of his skull, a blistering pain surprising him. Sarge kicked him in the stomach, and as he shoved him back, he brought the baton down on Caius’s head again. The second hit blinded him, and when his head hit the floor, he plummeted into unconsciousness. 

The sound of plastic hitting the floor startled Sarge, and he turned to see Tommy’s bucket rolling away. Tommy had managed to shake it off his head at the last second, and stared with horror at his handler’s limp body on the floor.

“Well,” Sarge said, standing and dusting his uniform off.

“Looks like we finally get a little alone time, you and I.”

~

taglist: please let me know if you would like to be added or removed.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@thembology @2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio

[dangerpronebuddie]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!!

Tagged by @kitteneddiediaz @loveyouanyway @actuallyitsellie @tizniz @theotherbuckley @diazsdimples @wikiangela all of whom shared BRILLIANT stuff y'all should definitely show some love 🩵💜

I'm hoping to have Severed Artery finished before the episode, but I don't want to give too much away. I'm really enjoying the story, which somehow shifted from a focus on whump to one of fatherhood. I don't hate it. So, while I try to speedrun that fic, have some of part 2 of It's Some Reaction To Love

(under the cut just to be on the safe side 😉)

Buck tugs him down the hallway and takes his keys from his pocket. Eddie takes the chance to kiss Buck wherever he can- his cheek, his jaw, the tendons of his neck. Buck lets out a shuddering breath when Eddie tugs his earlobe with his teeth. He barely has the door open before he hooks an elbow around Eddie's neck, hauling him into a searing kiss as he walks them inside. He easily spins them, pushing Eddie against the door as he licks deep into his mouth. Eddie slips his hands beneath Buck’s shirt again, desperate to see and touch and taste more. Buck is addictive, a drug that produces a high Eddie's never experienced before. He doesn't know what the come down will feel like. He doesn't care. “Off,” he mutters against Buck's lips, curling his fingers in the hem of his shirt. Buck smirks and kisses across his face to his ear. “Someone's impatient,” he says smugly before sucking a mark behind Eddie's ear. “Says the guy who- ah- oh fuck.” Eddie can't even finish his snarky reply because Buck slots a knee between his legs, gripping his ass to guide the uncoordinated rock of his hips. Buck is hard again, the heat of him pressing against Eddie's hip. “I think I broke you,” Buck chuckles. “Not yet,” Eddie manages to say, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him down to meet his lips. Buck breaks away to pull his shirt over his head, exposing gorgeous pale skin. Eddie's hands wander over his arms, his back, his shoulders before reaching his chest. He thumbs a nipple and Buck keens, diving in to feed the noise into Eddie's mouth. Buck fumbles with the buttons of Eddie's shirt, his movements quick and desperate. After his fourth attempt, he simply rips the shirt open.

Absolutely no pressure tagging (and please let me know if you want to be added/ removed):

@13shadesofanni @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @daffi-990

@inell @exhuastedpigeon @spagheddiediaz @hippolotamus @thekristen999

@daniwib @fortheloveofbuddie @wildlife4life @rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

@lunarspark-cos @idealuk @shipperqueen6 @misshiss727 @likeamollusconarock @lin27 @jshadow01 @orangeboxfox92

@smallandalmosthonest @thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22 and anyone else who wants to share!! 🥰🩷

[thegreatdandilion]

Sincerely thought that Shen Yi has finally become a criminal mastermind - Under the skin 2 Ep 20

Sorry for doubting you Baobei.

Shen Yi has officially given me anxiety that I never had!!! I mean look at him!

I was so stressed that Du Cheng was gonna haul his ass out of the team this time. But he was pretty calm about it. So, I'm guessing he informed Du Cheng about what he is going to do.

Such a shame he didn't collapse here.

[isthemedia]

Poolverine-Yoink! (2/2)

Part 2 is now done.

Here's Part 1. And here's the Ao3 link.

@manicpixxiedreambitch

@ineffablestardust

@saspas-corner

@angelbonezs

Since ya'll wanted to be tagged when part 2 was done.

=============================================

‘Not today…not tomorrow…not now,’ Wade’s groggy mind repeated. His joints ached. He could hear a ringing that wasn’t typical tinnitus. He grabbed at the back of his neck, the skin feeling too tight. ‘Really laying it on thick there ain’tcha madam/sir author? Is this whump? I feel like this can be classified as whump.’

(Whump is more hurt than comfort. So no, not really.)

‘Well I’m calling it whump, even if it’s not tagged that.’

(You can go ahead and do that, even though it’s wrong.)

Wade sighed as he curled up a bit tighter. Skin felt like it was prickling if exposed to air. That staticky feeling of just too many eyes watching. He could hear the door of Al’s room creak open. The shuffling of her feet…

“Yer too damn quiet right now,” Al complained. “An’ I know yer still here,” she added, her cane smacking alongside the bed. She stopped when she hit the pile of blankets. “Oh lord this again?”

She didn’t get an answer. No witty reply or snide retort. Heaving a sigh, Al continued on. “I’m headin’ ta bingo, and I’m gonna call Vanessa-she can explain this nonsense ta Logan.” It may have sounded like complaining, but the tone in her voice was clear. It was that ‘don’t worry, help is gonna be on the way deary’ tone. 

And really? Bingo at what…this early in the morning?

‘What time is it even?’

(Early enough.)

‘Lazy establishing setup.’

Wade shifted somewhat, the bed frame of the pull-out creaking as he did. Right, how was Logan going to take this? He should handle this. Maybe? 

Well, Vanessa should be able to handle it, she had no fear with the somewhat feral wolverine he brought home. She did tease him about how he went full ‘White Woman’ and took a wild animal home under the guise of ‘you’re mine now’. He guessed she wasn’t entirely wrong. 

But he also wasn’t expecting Logan to stay as long as he did. He’s read the comics-and sure even though this Logan is from a different universe it almost seemed ingrained in all of them to just-leave some day.  

It wasn’t a bad thing that he stayed. Hell no! If he could he would strap Logan down and make sure he’d never leave. He loved having him around. Al did too. And how could he deprive dearest little miss Mary-Puppins from her other papa? 

The frame of the pull-out creaked again. Oh, speak of the devil. Wade could feel how the pull-out shifted, the weight of the other occupant being removed. But made sense when they’re-what 200-300 plus pounds thanks to a metal skeleton. 

Really no logical way for a shitty pull-out to hold the both of them without collapsing or even warping the frame, yet it still stood.

He wondered if they could use that as sort of a marketing ploy, maybe convince Logan into some centerfold-esque poses just for added effect. Well, effect and future spank-bank material, but he wouldn’t need to know the latter. 

“Come on!” Wade felt the kick given to the pull-out, it jostled the whole thing. Welp, good luck with the Peanut, cause he wasn’t moving. Threaten him with a good time all you want. 

Snikt.

‘And out comes the steak knives. Would stabbing me reset this? Haven’t been stabbed during any of these moods.’

(Pretty sure stabbing would just make you feel worse.)

‘So gonna be a fic with no stabby-stab? And am I even gonna talk? How can you have a Deadpool fanfic where I don’t talk?’

(It’s character introspection.)

‘Sounds like you just don’t wanna come up with quips for me.’

The mattress creaked slightly. Oh, that’s Vanessa. Al really did call her. Such a sweet old blind bat she is. 

Wade could hear them-somewhat over the ringing in his ears that changed to something more akin to the old dial-up sound of the internet. Logan sounded less growly now too.

 Ah Vanessa, the one who can soothe the savage Logan.  

It was weird what his ears would pick up when he was like this. Full conversations happening just outside his makeshift fort of blankets? Nah, that wasn’t important enough. The sound of something being slid across the sheets though? Yeah, could hear that. 

‘And yoink!’ Wade snatched whatever Vanessa slid over to him. Hey! He didn’t have this one! Of course she’d know that. ‘And another for the collection. Ya know I don’t think anyone is gonna get the reference. You’re dating yourself.’

(At least someone is dating me.)

‘Ooof self burn. Ya sure you don’t need the hurt/comfort tag?’

Vanessa just knew what to get-she still remembered. Sure it didn’t work out between them. It stung for a long time. Longer than Wade wanted to admit, but it wasn’t like Vanessa wanted him out of her life. She had to drill it into his head that even if they weren’t romantically involved anymore, didn’t mean she didn’t love him. It was just a different love. 

He sorta got that. He was feeling that too. Feeling it during the Time Ripper thing. During the time in the Void. 

Felt it when he came across Logan. Oh, that was something he still needed to unpack…too bad he was a lazy asshole after a vacation. Eh, it’ll eventually get unpacked-granted, he’ll probably wait until the last minute…like always. 

Vanessa was always going to be special. He would drop everything if she needed him, and vice versa it seemed. But Logan…Logan was something else. He wasn’t sure what he was yet. Sure, he knew what he wanted Logan to be-at least he was pretty sure what he wanted him to be. But that wasn’t gonna fly with Disney and Marvel-or the legion of dudebros who think he and Logan are total and complete masculine heterosexuals. They really need to pick up a comic.

Ah, something else was being pushed towards him. ‘And yoink again!’ Hey, weren't these things discontinued? Sheets were gonna need to be changed after this. At least this time around it would be a more common reason than needing to change them cause they tried to reenact the bed scene from ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’. Maybe they should just buy red sheets. Same logic should apply to them like his suit.

Almost on instinct, Wade felt something shift in the bed. ‘Yoink!’

Only this time, there came a high pitched, noticeable yelp. Oh! Oh sweet baby little angel Mary-Puppins! 

“Shhh shhh. Oh baby girl I’m sorry,” he cooed as he cuddled the shaking pup. He could hear Logan laughing-the asshole! Some other papa he was! Frightening their little baby. His free hand sneaking out of the mess of blankets to flip him off. 

OH! And THAT just made him laugh more? Asshole! When this whole mood thing is done he’s demanding a divorce and child support!

--

Everything was quiet in the apartment. Slowly Wade peaked out from the blankets. Logan was asleep. Al’s door was closed. Mary-Puppins was having little Dogpool dreams.

The apartment was dark, saved for the stray glow of the streetlights filtering in through the busted blinds. 

Carefully, silently Wade slipped out from the mound. Not the worst start to this, though he was tempted to give Logan a smack for making him scare poor, sweet, little Mary-Puppins earlier. The prick-and he laughed the whole time! The super mega prick! 

Wade sighed as he looked over. Logan looked peaceful, or well as peaceful as he could be. Brows were still furrowed, muscles twitching as if ready to go all fight-or-flight. But he wasn’t having a nightmare, so to Wade it meant it was peaceful.

He could save the smacking for another time. He’ll even drop the divorce threat. Cuddles and kisses from Mary were always a plus for him anyway-so it kinda worked out.

Right, he got up for a reason. Treading with light footsteps across the apartment, as to not make a single floorboard creak, he made his way to the bathroom. Hey maybe the merc with the mouth, but he knew how to move quietly . Kinda needed too in that line of work. 

He brushed his teeth, and washed his face. “Ya know, the static feeling from being watched, doesn’t help when there’s like actual readers for this.”

(Semantics, se-mahn-tics. Sides, like you’d let me just keep you as an unmoving lump of blankets for another 3k words.)

“Eh true.”

Wade made his way back, trying to figure out what was the best way to climb back in without waking Logan. He didn’t need to wake him by accident. Even if he wasn’t having a nightmare, it was a bad idea ta just wake up a sleeping wolverine. 

He didn’t wanna get a gut full of adamantium claws again, thank you very much. It wasn’t like Logan meant to do it on purpose. Logan’s mind is always somewhere else when he’s suddenly and rudely woken up like that. So Wade couldn’t blame the guy. Hell, he WOULDN’T blame the guy. 

‘I’ll just blame you.’

(Again no stabbing is happening in this one.)

‘But you are making allusions to it happening before.’

(Oh just go back to your musings and pining.)

‘Fine, I will,’ Wade huffed before looking back over to the sleeping form taking up the other half of the pull-out.

Logan looked better these days-not that he didn’t look good ‘cause goddamn Hugh was still working it even after all this time. It was more of how relaxed he was now. Had a bit of weight put back on him too-‘happy weight’, that was the term right? Or something like that. 

Urban dictionary would help him. Just needed to steer clear of the raunchy side of it. At least this time around.

Wade took it as a sign that Logan was happy here. Maybe if he stayed happy enough he wouldn’t want to leave. He really didn’t want Logan to leave. 

Logan matched his crazy in a way Vanessa did and in ways she didn’t. In ways she just couldn’t. 

Logan didn’t need to change anything about himself. Didn’t need to be a ‘good guy’-he was plenty good enough so shut up Jean. 

Al loved him too. She might not have said it aloud, but Wade can tell she does. 

Sure he was a little feral. Sure he would rather have booze than an actual meal some days. Sure there were times Wade would wake up with a set or two of claws in his chest. But that was fine. Normalcy was for losers anyway. 

What was normal about two slightly fucked up mutants with regenerative powers, a coke addicted blind elderly woman, and the world’s ugliest yet sweetest dog? Who needed normal in a home like this?

Logan didn’t need to be tamed. All Wade wanted was for Logan to just, feel like he belonged. That Logan had his own little Logan-shaped hole carved out here, Junji Ito style but without the horrific implications.

He was certain if Logan did try to leave, he would follow him-funny sitcom stalker style, and drag him back home. Cause even though Logan wouldn’t want to admit it, this shitty little one bedroom apartment was his home now. Al, Mary-Puppins, and him were family now. 

How Logan has his own toothbrush, coffee mug, he got a cupboard just for his booze, and everything. 

There was definitely some codependency between them. Wade was pretty sure of that. That time in the Void-being almost torn apart by the Time Ripper-the fact that he turned around when Wade called him.

But hey, a little codependency never hurt anyone. Besides,  that would just be another thing to add to the ever growing list of things wrong with one Wade W. Wilson.. He’s pretty sure Logan doesn’t mind it either.

The pull-out didn’t even creak as Wade climbed back in. Not a single sound when he settled back under the blankets.

‘That is some lazy writing there.’

(Hey, be thankful I decided to be nice and not wake the sleeping Logan.)

Wade peaked out again, just to make sure Logan was still sound asleep. Fingers itched to just trace down his sleeping face, through the coarse facial hair and sideburns. Though last time he tried that Logan literally bit off two fingers off. Really didn’t wanna go through that again either. 

Hopefully Logan doesn’t get fed up with this whole thing. Just walk out and leave. To be fair it is kind of a golden opportunity for him if he decided too. Wade hoped this wasn’t going to last much longer. 

--

So, Logan did leave. Well not leave-leave. Jerk decided to head out and restock since they managed to empty the bag Vanessa brought. Dammit, he could be a sweet guy. Why does nobody pay attention to that? Honestly. 

Logan said Al was off to the laundromat-they both knew what that was code for. He also warned Wade that he was setting Mary by him so there wasn’t a repeat from yesterday. Alright, all is forgiven now. 

He didn’t pull Mary under the blankets this time, but he did reach out to give her pets. She seemed content with the arrangement as well, licking all along his hand to his wrist. Seemed she forgave or just forgot the scare from before. 

He slipped his hand back under the blankets. He was thinking-dangerous thing he knows-but he was trying to come up with an idea. A plan to convince Logan that there was no reason to leave. He had a few brewing, but was pretty sure he would end up skewered, or beaten down, or torn apart if he tried any of those.

So his new plan? Well it was a bit crazy. Crazy and yet so simple. Simply just tell Logan. It worked before. It worked quite a few times before. 

So his chances were pretty high about it working again. Just a simple ‘you can stay here as long as you like’. Hmm but that made it seem like he could still leave. 

Maybe a ‘hey, surprise I think I love you…so don’t leave.’ Nah that kinda sounded desperate.

‘You got everything you need right here, besides the housing market is shit right now.’ Eh, that made it sound like this thing was an obligation. 

Wade’s thoughts were cut off when he heard the sound of something being slid across the sheets. ‘And yoink,’ he snatched the offering. ‘Awww Peanut went all the way to that corner store that sold the weird flavor chips. He spoils me.’

Another sound. 

Oh…

Wade felt himself smile as he reached out again, and placed his hand over Logan’s. Damn the guy was hot. Well, not just hot like that, but like he was a furnace. Wade’s thumb rubbed small circles over Logan’s knuckles, feeling the lone scars his body had-where those claws would poke out from. He could feel a knot just behind those knuckles. 

Maybe a good ole massage was in order for him. Would be the least Wade could do as a thanks for him. 

“Yer gonna need to let go or I’m gonna need ta stop pettin’ Mary if you need somethin’ else,” Logan’s voice rumbled. Well, Wade couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let the attention Mary was getting from her other papa just stop. He gave Logan’s hand a pat before giving an ‘okay’ gesture, before slipping back under the blankets. “You get so damn spoiled,” he heard Logan say under his breath.

Yeah, maybe just telling him was the best plan. He just needed to find the right words now. 

--

‘Captain’s log, Star date….I dunno the author didn’t give me one.’

(Dates are pointless for fanfics.)

‘It appears the author wishes to deflect from criticism of their laziness in doing a proper establishing setup.’

It’s been four days into this little funk of Wade’s. He was pretty sure he was ready for it to be over. The only issue was that once this was done, then he’d need to figure the next thing. The asking Logan to stay thing.

He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for that yet. That familiar sound broke his train of thoughts again. ‘Aaaaand yoink!’

“Jesus!” 

Oh Laura came by too. Awww he didn’t mean to startle the baby wolverine. Logan and Vanessa were laughing-they could be real assholes sometimes. Loving assholes but still assholes all the same.  

The creaking of the bed frame, the dip in the mattress. Logan was potentially putting himself into yoinking-range. If that happened, well, there would be no way Wade could resist if he did. 

“You miss him talking, don’t you?” Wade could hear the smirk in Laura’s voice. She’s such a cheeky kid. He’ll take blame for that. Bad influence and all.

“Dunno what yer talkin’ about,” Logan grumbled. 

“Suuuure you don’t.” 

Logan huffed and shifted slightly. Oh? Just a bit more Wolvie. He felt the mattress dip a bit more-BINGO! “SHIT! I forgot!” 

Both hands shot out and grabbed an arm. Logan absolutely let his guard down, cause there was no way Wade could have pulled this off if he didn’t.

And if Logan had his guard down, that meant he was truly relaxed here. More than that, he felt safe here. And why wouldn’t he? He had the one and only Deadpool here to keep an eye on him. Well okay, the one and only that mattered. None of those variants to worry about. 

Man, that shocked look on his face was definitely doing things. Wondered if he could see it more. He felt himself smiling. He knew it was that dumb lovestruck smile he’d give Vanessa when they were together-only slightly different. Cause this one wasn’t for her, this smile was for Logan. “Got too close there Peanut.” Dear fuck was that his voice? ‘Hey next time, write something where I’m not nearly silent for four days. It’s murder on the vocal cords.’

“Yeah, figured,” Logan said softly. “Better?”

“Hmm…a bit,” Wade murmured. Fuck it, he’s in for it now. “Gonna talk your ear off, cause I had a lotta thoughts goin’ through my head during all this.” Wade dragged two fingers along Logan’s jaw, carding through the cause hair of his beard. This time without worrying about losing them this time.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Wade leaned down. Not exactly the Spider-man kiss, but it was close enough. He felt Logan’s breath hitch.  ‘Please, stay here? Don’t feel like you need to run away. There’s space just for you.’

“...ready ta come out? Say hi ta Laura and Vanessa?” Logan asked as they pulled apart. Wade almost wanted to say no. He wanted to kiss him again. 

But he’d be lying if said he didn’t want to see them. Four days of next to no social interaction was killer. He was gonna need to call Peter and Dopinder too. Maybe make Logan walk with him to the X-Mansion so he could see Yukio and bother Ellie. Maybe watch an episode or two of the Great British Bake-off with Colossus.  “Yeah, ‘m pretty sure I’m good,” Wade nodded. 

Logan shifted and pulled the blankets back and off of himself as he sat up right. Wade pulled them back just enough to uncover his head. He shifted and shimmied across the mattress till he could comfortably lean against Logan-and he wasn’t pushed off. Score!

“Hey,” Vanessa greeted softly. 

“Hey,” Wade gave her a soft smile. Definitely a different smile than before. He could feel it, and she could definitely see it. 

“Missed ya. Seems like Logan did a good job at taking care of ya.” 

“Hmmm he did,” he laid his head on his shoulder. “Thanks Peanut, I owe ya.” 

“Nah,” Logan shrugged slightly, jostling Wade slightly-almost like he was teasing him. Or maybe Wade was getting his hopes up. “ Deal enough with my shit, the least I can do.” 

Wade hummed, then straightened up some when he felt something shift under the blankets. No way, was Logan…okay yeah-yeah maybe this was gonna work out. “yoink,” Wade said softly as he took Logan’s hand, threading their fingers together. 

Logan had a perfect spot, right next to Wade. 

[chaotic-orphan]

Defiant Leader x Confident Villain: part 2

Read part one here:

This was basically finished in my drafts so enjoy (it was not proof read so caution to those who read here)

I just love some strained arms over the head Whump, best way to keep your Whumpee’s on their toes ahehehehe anyways~

*~*~*~*~*

Leader didn’t wake up to their alarm. That was the first sign that they should be more alert than they were, but they woke up groggy, the world moving too slow, their eyelids far too heavy. They were swaying forward, balanced on their toes. Their eyes shot open as they faltered, their feet slipping. The jangle of chains going taut had them cursing as they tried to get their feet back on the ground, getting the strain off their shoulders for just a second.

Leader got their toes onto the floor just barely, enough to take their weight off their arms and they were able to breathe again properly. Leader looked down at their feet and found their socks and shoes taken off. Not only that but Leader’s jacket was gone too, leaving them in their under shirt and combats.

Leader looked up next, seeing their hands no longer cuffed together but instead locked in heavy duty iron manacles. Leader couldn’t help the scoff at their manacles because of course Villain had fucking manacles to chain them up with.

Leader shook their head sharply, shaking the foggy sleep from their mind and said to themselves: “okay, Leader. Okay.”

Leader pulled down their hands as much as they could, trying to grasp the chain holding them up but the manacles were so thick Leader could barely touch the chains with a finger.

“Motherf— come on!” Leader huffed with an exasperated sigh. Okay. They can break their thumb. It was fine. They still had time. Leader sucked in a steadying breath and yanked down as hard as they could on the manacles. All it did was hurt Leader’s wrist, the manacles wrapped so tight around Leader’s skin that all they successfully did was bruise their wrists more.

“Fucking— FUCK!” Leader yelped, their foot slipping again and leaving them struggling, hanging by their wrists until they managed to get a grip on the cold wooden floor.

“I thought I heard your charming voice,” said Villain behind them and Leader froze in their chains. The halting rattle was the only sound in the room for a moment, followed by Leader’s soft exhale. A hand pressed itself between Leader’s shoulder blades and Leader suppressed the shiver that followed, forcing themselves to stay still. Show no fear.

That’s what Villain wanted, for Leader to react.

“You know,” Villain said, their hand moving around Leader as their boots clacked against the concrete floor. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long that I don’t know what to do with it. With you.”

“I do. You can let me go, it solves both our prob— fuck!” Leader gasped as Villain shoved them and their feet lost grip on the ground. Their wrists caught in the manacles and their body slumped as they tried to get purchase on the ground again.

Villain was laughing as Leader finally got their bearings, coming around to the front of Leader with their smirking grin. A bag of snack peanuts in their hand that they were eating out of.

Dry roasted.

The easy laugh, the peanuts, the familiarity of Villain being so at ease and comfortable — it made their heart lurch in their chest, their hands tightening into fists above them.

“You’re a fucking arsehole, Villain.”

“I know,” Villain smirked, popping a peanut into their mouth. Then they looked at Leader and back to the peanuts. “You want some?”

“No,” Leader said, looking at the wall behind Villain instead.

Villain hummed thoughtfully. “You never used to say no,” they mused. “You’d always take one when I offered.”

“That was a long time ago, Villain. Things are different now. You made them different.”

“Maybe,” Villain shrugged and Leader’s eyes cut to Villain’s.

“No. No maybe,” Leader said, furious, going to take a threatening step forward then remembering their current predicament as the chains rattled.

Villain whistled, looking up at the manacles and the chains then brought their gaze back down to Leader who decided to just lean forward instead, getting their face close to Villain’s.

“You had us! You had a family and you threw it all away, for what?! Because Supervillain stroked your ego?!”

“That’s an old wound, Leader. Has it been eating you this entire time?” Villain asked with their same mocking lilt. Eyes burning into Leader’s, uncaring and wild. They stepped closer to Leader, filling the empty space between them and said: “have you considered that maybe I just wanted to kick you off your high horse?”

“Villain—“

Villain swiped Leader’s legs from under them again, face impassive as they watched Leader grunt and yell under the strain on their body. When Leader was just about to get their feet under them again Villain kicked their thighs and Leader swung back with a sharp cry. Villain halted their momentum, grabbing Leader’s hair and yanking them up. Leader just barely got their feet on the ground when Villain pulled harder on their hair.

“You and Medic and Rogue, all so perfect. All exactly what the Hero commission wanted you to be. All loyal dogs willing to avoid helping the people who needed it most over the missions you were assigned,” Villain hissed, taking pleasure in the shocked pain on Leader’s face. “Why would I stay?”

“Because you were one of us,” Leader said softly. “Because we were family.”

Villain didn’t even miss a beat. Hard eyes staring into Leader’s.

“And how many good people were you willing to sacrifice for the sake of our family?” Villain let go of Leader then and stepped back, allowing Leader to get their footing again.

“I’d sacrifice the world,” Leader replied and Villain’s eyes widened a fraction at the frank honesty. “I don’t care for it. The number one rule of our job was always that you can’t save everyone.”

“Yet you keep trying to save me,” Villain said, a lopsided smile on their face.

“No,” said Leader. “I don’t. I gave up on you when you gave up on us.”

Villain’s smile fell. The lightheartedness in their face fell and their expression turned cold. It broke every fibre of Leader’s being to see their words hurt Villain, but they were supposed to, because then Villain would get angry.

Anger Leader could use. Direct. Take advantage of.

Villain ran a hand through his hair and Leader sucked in a sharp breath as Villain let out a soft laugh. Then they pounced.

A second before Leader had taken their weight on their wrists, gritting their teeth as they swung their legs up and kicked Villain back against the wall: one foot landing on their chest, the other kicking Villain in the face before going up up up. They let out a cry of pain as they swung themselves up all their weight unbearable on their wrists until they found purchase again high above Villain’s head on the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Villain hissed from below and Leader desperately grabbed the chains holding their wrists together and pulled with all their might. To their surprise the chains came loose. Not just the chains. The entire pulley holding them and Leader was without tension as they were dragged back to the floor by their wrists, taking the brunt of it on their shoulder and gasping as the air was stolen from their lungs.

Villain stomped a boot clad foot onto Leader’s chest and leaned down, putting all their weight behind it. A grin on their bloody face and the pulley that Leader hadn’t noticed until now in their hand.

“You some spider monkey now?” Villain laughed, touching the blood slowly trickling from their nose with two fingers and pulling them away to look at it. They laughed again and let out a breathy: “fuck,” followed by another laugh.

Leader swiped at Villain’s other leg but Villain sang in warning: “ah-ah-ah. Leader. You slippery little hostage, hmm? So bold.”

Villain plopped down on Leader’s chest, both knees digging into Leader’s ribs and Leader gasped, letting out a harsh cry of pain. Villain put one knee on either side of Leader’s torso then, leering down at them with a grin.

“I see why you like being on top now. There’s something powerful about it. Very sexy.”

Leader looked away from Villain, so Villain yanked on the opposite end of the rope attached to Leader’s manacles. Leader’s arms shot up over their head and half pulled them up under Villain so they were forced to look at Villain. Villain’s body trapping them, pinning their lower body to the floor while yanking the pulley to stretch their arms above their head, Leader felt like they were going to be ripped apart.

“Say Sorry.”

Leader said nothing. So Villain pulled harder and Leader let out a startled cry.

“Say Sorry, Leader.”

“Mmmm!” Leader cried through gritted teeth. “Fuck you!”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Villain chuckled darkly. Their free hand went to Leader’s chest and Leader swallowed, trying to look anywhere but at the Villain. Villain’s fingers crawled up Leader’s chest, neck, before two lithe, graceful fingers grabbed Leader’s jaw and turned them to look Villain in the eyes. “Tell me, Leader… and be honest, there’s nobody here to judge you, least of all me, but which of us was your favourite, hmm?”

The question stumped Leader. The words flowing through their ears, worming their way into the brain and emptying it with the speed and devastation of a rippling tornado.

“You can’t ask me that,” Leader said, confidence they didn’t feel colouring their voice. “That’s like asking a parent to pick a favourite child.”

“And yet, every parent has a favourite child,” Villain said, eyes probing. “Go on. You can tell me. It was me, wasn’t it? The lost sheep. The rebel.”

Leader just stared at Villain. Villain’s lips pulled into a pout.

“Don’t tell me it was that wet towel Medic, or Rogue,” then Villain snorted, as if the thought of Rogue being Leader’s favourite was unthinkable. “I mean we all love Rogue but let’s be serious—“

Leader jerked in their manacles, forcing their body up to get in Villain’s face, anger wiring every muscle in their body.

“You should know better than anyone to not bad mouth my team behind my back, Villain. Let alone to my face. That’s the only warning you’re getting,” Leader said, their voice a quiet simmering of rage. The look of familiar fear flashing across Villain’s face was enough to satisfy Leader’s anger.

Villain hadn’t forgotten everything so it seems.

They still knew how far to push Leader, and when to concede. Even in chains and deep in enemy territory, Villain still feared Leader to a certain extent. It wouldn’t last forever, and Leader knew they wouldn’t be able to pull this card in front of other Villain’s but for now it was enough.

It meant the Villain Leader remembered was still in there somewhere.

It meant the Villain Leader remembered, their Villain, could still be saved.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued Here

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper FINALE

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

“Are you ready?”

The villain can barely contain their grin. “Go on, show me.”

The hero appears around the doorway with a teasing smile of their own. Bright, free, unabashed delight shines back at the villain. The injuries on their skin are fading into dulled blemishes, the blood long since scrubbed from their hands. The best part of all though, by far, is the incredible outfit they’ve put together for the villain’s entertainment.

“Wow,” the villain sighs with exaggerated dreaminess. The maid outfit was long forgotten in their mind, but now they kind of want to watch the hero to dust something. “Nostalgic. Is this really what you spent crucial minutes packing?”

They’d briefly descended on the villain’s house in a flurry of bags and unshaped plans. The hero, with no possessions to really collect, had clearly decided to pack the really important stuff.

And now they’re hiding out in a small safehouse the supervillain had pointed them to. Not exactly home, but four walls and a roof will have to do the two of them for now.

The supervillain had finally slowed down a safe distance away from the chaos on that fateful day, only managing to give the hero a sad smile before turning to the villain. “You know we can’t take an informant with us,” she’d said in the low tones of someone trying to stay out of earshot. “They’ll say anything to anyone to protect themself. We can’t trust someone like that.”

The villain had known this, deep down. It’d still sucked to make the choice.

But here the hero is, positively beaming and showing off their extraordinary legs in their tiny little maid’s dress, and the villain can’t help but feel like they made the right decision.

“I tried to pack the hoover,” the hero says with a sarcastic grin, “but it didn’t fit in the suitcase.”

The villain tuts and waves them over to the sofa they’re lounging on. It’s small and dingy (“it’s well-loved,” the hero had insisted) but the hero is quite happy taking up half of the villain’s lap as they settle down next to them. On them. It’s a bit of both, really.

The two of them sink into comfortable silence. The hero’s head rests on the villain’s shoulder, their breath warm on the other’s neck. The villain’s finger similarly finds their leg, tracing idle shapes into the skin the maid’s dress is refusing to be modest about. They don’t bother hiding their smirk when the hero shudders under their touch.

“Thank you for surviving,” the hero says eventually. “I know it was hard.”

The force of the laugh that tears from the villain’s throat jolts the hero slightly.

Thank you for surviving. What a low bar. Surviving is the only goal the villain has ever really strived for. Villainy was for survival. Their work was for survival. The hero was… well, they were a rare exception. They were a death sentence. They were a loaded gun that the villain had practically shoved into their own mouth.

Well, they can’t even give the hero that much credit. The villain had aimed a gun at themself anyway. Their hand had trembled at the solid weight of the thing, their heart had jumped at the sensation of the trigger brushing against their finger, but they’d done it. For the hero.

And survived. Thank you for surviving. The villain could echo it back to them and mean every word of it, no matter how mirrored. Thank you for surviving. Thank you for holding out hope for me. Thank you for giving me a reason to survive. Thank you for surviving with me.

But the quiet is comfortable. That’s too many words. The hero is settled back into them, their fingertip tracing over the patterns in the villain’s shirt. They can’t ruin this moment with the verbal equivalent of spilling a glass of wine. The carpet’s greasy, but it’s still white.

So they lean into the hero’s shoulder and simply say, “Thank you for making surviving worth it.”

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[whump-tr0pes]

Lux in Tenebris, Medieval AU - Wolves, Part 2

Part 1

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: wolf attack aftermath, environmental whump, caretaking, blood, wolf bite, nonsexual nudity

~

Ilya’s clothes were soaked through with sweat and blood. A fine mist fell from the sky, soaking them further. They shivered from the pain and the cold. Water dripped from their hair into their eyes. Tears streamed down their face as they leaned heavily on the boy, and he took their weight, making his way through the dark underbrush as if he could see in the dark. Ilya glanced at his yellow, reflective eyes. Perhaps he could see in the dark after all.

After what felt like hours, they finally made it to the strange boy’s home. It was little more than a hovel, dug out from underneath a massive tree stump the size of a house. The boy dragged Ilya to the base of the tree and pushed past a flap of cloth hung between two enormous roots. Inside, it was pitch dark, but dry and warm. The boy guided Ilya in the inky blackness to what felt like a pallet of tree branches covered with thin furs. Ilya sank onto it, breathing hard. They sobbed weakly.

“Thank you,” they croaked.

The boy backed away. There was a rustling, a scrape, and a match flared to life. The wick of a lantern caught and illuminated the small home. Herbs hung from the earthen walls, and strips of cloth and leather stretched between the roots like columns. A small fire pit stood in the corner, beneath a mud chimney leading out. The boy knelt and piled wood over scraps of twine and moss to build a fire. Ilya gasped and reached for their leg. The flesh was already inflamed.

“Wh-what do I call you?” they said weakly.

The boy’s hand froze, flint held tight in his fist. He stared at the small pile of wood. “I do not have a name,” he said.

Ilya blinked. “But—”

“Rest,” the boy said. He struck the flint and steel, sending a cascade of sparks over the tinder. “Just lie still. I’ll help you get dry once I have this lit.”

Ilya fell back to the pallet. Flames already seemed to lick at their leg from the inside, even before the boy lit a fire in the pit. Their chest heaved against helpless sobs as the pain only worsened.

Finally, the fire caught. The boy gently blew the flames higher. It caught the smaller sticks, then the larger ones. He stood and turned to face them.

In the firelight, his eyes were just as strange as when he had rescued them. The pupils were wide, black as night, taking up almost the entire eye. Ilya found themself shrinking away from him. The boy hung his head and went to his knees beside a chest near the door. He drew out a blanket and turned back to them.

“You should get dry,” he said softly. “If you stay in those wet clothes…”

Ilya nodded.

The boy approached with the blanket, holding it over Ilya while they worked their own waterlogged cloak and tunic off. They shivered as the water dried on their skin. The boy covered them with the blanket.

“Your…” The boy’s cheeks flushed. Ilya could see it, even in the dim light cast by the fire and lantern. “Your pants should…”

Ilya nodded. They loosened the rope belt around their waist and eased the pants off their hips. They cried out and fell back as agony shot through the wounds on their leg.

“Please,” they sobbed. “Please, will you… I need h-help.”

The boy’s mouth tightened. He kept his eyes studiously away as he gently slid the pants down Ilya’s thighs. He pulled them off their intact leg and covered the leg with the blanket. Ilya squeezed tears from their eyes as he gently – so, so gently – pulled the pants over the torn flesh of their other leg. They bit back a cry as he retreated with their wet clothes and hung them from hooks near the cloth that served as the door.

He returned with a fresh scrap of leather that he tucked under the leg. Blood oozed and soaked into the leather. Sweat broke out on their brow again, and their hands pulled into fists. The boy chewed his lip as he stared at the gnarled wound.

“I am sorry,” he said weakly. “That this happened to you.”

Ilya opened their eyes. He was looking at them, his brows pulled together.

They wet their lips. They slid their shaking hand over the blanket until it reached the edge of the pallet. They didn’t have the strength to reach out further. “Wh-when it… happened to you,” they whispered. “Did you have anyone? To help you?”

His eyes tightened. He glanced at their hand, then back at their face. “No,” he said softly.

Ilya swallowed. They stared up at the dark, woody ceiling.

“Then I’m sorry, too,” they breathed.

The boy was silent for a long time. Ilya’s fingers twisted in the blanket. They panted as talons of pain pierced their leg.

“I need to go,” the boy said. He stepped back, staring at the floor. “I don’t have the herbs I need to make a poultice. But you’ll be safe here. If you… if you stay.” He raised his gaze to theirs.

They nodded, swallowing. “Th-thank you,” they croaked. “Thank you.”

He gave a stiff nod, then turned on his heel. He disappeared through the doorway and out into the damp night. Ilya tilted their head back against the furs and allowed themself a weak sob.

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[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 2 Part 1: Mistakes and Backtalk

⚠️CW: Slave Whump, Dehumanization, Angst, Defiant Whumpee, Mention of Minor Whump (barely). If I missed anything, let me know, please!

@3-2-whump's official rating: ‘Dasa’s gonna have a real bad time, as if he wasn’t having a bad time already’

✨️A special thanks to my Beta Readers! I couldn't write a coherent sentence, much less a story without them! @3-2-whump, @generic-whumperz, @aloafofbreadwithanxiety. If you like my work, go check theirs out!

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Story under the cut.

Balor gritted his teeth, watching the great, noble Corvius, his father, go out, down the dirt path, to the slave building yet again to check on that idiot slave he called Boy. His concern for those beasts was humiliating. It was as if the man cared more about those damn slaves than him.

Watching his father preen over the slave made him wish the Drar had actually died, it was sickening. ‘And so what if Boy had died? If four days without food killed him, he deserved death. It certainly wasn't his fault Drar burned through food faster than other races,’ he thought with vitriol.

 That aside, don’t even get him started on that creepy runt he called Dog, the one being taught to consume poisons. Balor did not understand his father’s fascination with that one at all. That slave had more one on one time with his dear father than Balor ever had in his 19 years alive. It was disgusting.

Though, he wasn’t that different he supposed, recalling fondly the first time he’d injured that filthy Mongrel. The sight of the slave struggling against the pain to obey Balor’s own orders not to move, the image filled him with a feeling of absolute power. Power was not something he had obtained yet, despite his privileged birth. Thus having such a complete amount of it over The Dog was intoxicating. It was a small taste of what he hunkered for.

Balor huffed back to his room to get dressed and ready for the day. He put on his usual ruffled shirt, white today, and a pair of trousers. In the mirror he swept his short sandy blonde hair to the side of his round face. After wiping his pale, blue tinged skin, a trait inherent to his race, with a wash rag he met his own cold navy-blue eyes in the mirror. He frowned, seeing how his pudge made the fabric of his shirt strain slightly. His silhouette had been a source of great displeasure lately but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. He pulled on his brown, gold trimmed boots, tightening the laces. Shaking off the depression, he headed out to meet up with his father.

Not finding him in the shabby, filthy, slave house off at the side of the building, Balor went out to the fields a little trek off from the main house. He shifted his blue speckled white wings in annoyance. He hated going out this far, it wasn’t worth the massive energy to fly, but walking the path was drudgery. It was far too much work when he could normally just have a slave bring him everything he needed without ever needing to leave the mansion.

The fields were at harvesting. Theirs were mostly made up of fruit orchards. The yellow-skinned lel fruit dotted the nearest trees. Beyond the lel trees there were rows of grapes climbing up ornate walls built to support the vines.

“You miscounted your yield yesterday!” He heard his father, yell at one of the slaves. The voice came from the grape fields.

He was still too far off to hear the slave’s pathetic reply. He sure as hell heard the subsequent slap though.

“Because of you I now need to go all the way to Xonia to clear up this mess!” Corvius exclaimed, slapping the slave again.

Balor watched the older man storm up the hill towards him and the back entrance of the mansion behind him.

“What happened Father?” Balor asked, trying to keep the glee out of his voice. It was satisfying to watch his father get worked up over some dumb slave.

“Zan, the slave we were brought to train for old man Banks has been messing up his count for months,” Corvius answered with a scowl on his face as he began walking them back towards the mansion. “I now have to go all the way to Xonia to get this straightened out with the merchant there. That means you will be in charge here. Can I trust you not to kill any slaves while I’m gone?”

Balor hid an eye roll, “Of course Father, you can count on me.” He was certain these next few days were going be a drag. The thought of that amount of responsibility made him tired just thinking about it.

Corvius paused walking. “I’m trusting you to run things, you best not disappoint me.”

Balor was certain his father had read his thoughts. He could feel the intrusion. The sensation made him more annoyed. It was considered rude for Tallisians to read each other’s or even Valtens’ thoughts. It added an additional layer of insult knowing his father rarely even intruded on the slaves in this manner. “I can assure you, I won’t,” he mumbled, “You don’t have to treat me like a child, I’m 19 now.”

“If you are no longer a child, why is it you perpetually still act like one?” Balor’s father sighed and shook his head. “This is an opportunity to prove yourself, you shouldn’t look so gloom. I’m leaving Zan’s discipline to you, if you do well discipline will be yours permanently.”

This got Balor’s attention, he finally met the old man’s gaze for the first time since they started talking this morning. He studied his pale blue tinged skin and weathered features. Perhaps he was looking for a hint of approval in those stern features, in which he found none of course. His thoughts turned back to fantasizing, maybe, just maybe, these next few days wouldn’t be such a drag after all.

“You’re engaged to the Crown Princess, it’s high time you start learning leadership and responsibility instead of loafing about.”

His father continued to lecture him, but Balor was hardly paying attention anymore. Instead, his mind was fantasizing about how best to make Zan suffer.

‘I could make him count lashes…. Nah, too simple. A stress position on the frame maybe? That had nothing to do with the infraction though….Forced silence, that would be a good start, I just need to decide how, and what I want to follow that up with…’ Balor’s thoughts continued to spin, musing on the possibilities.

He'd prefer his father’s favorite, The Mutt, the one he’s lived in the shadow of his whole life. Oh, how he’d love to take full control of that dog, that useless object of his father’s attention. Zan would have to do however, at least for now.

“Mongrel!” Corvius yelled as soon as they entered the mansion. A slight echo reverberated off the polished stone of the greeting room.

The Mutt seemed to materialize from shadows, the mask of void Corvius preferred firmly plastered on its face. ‘Creepy beast, it barely counts as a living thing,’ Balor thought as the slave knelt, pressing its forehead on the floor.

“Get my bags packed for five days,” Corvius ordered, barely glancing down at it.

“Yes Master,” The Mutt replied and disappeared up the stairs.

Corvius led his son into the parlor and sat him down. “Now before I go I need to give you some instructions. First, you are not allowed to maim, kill or permanently injured Zan in any way. Second, you will be giving The Mongrel its poison doses every day.”

This further interested Balor. He loved slipping the slave some Divinity’s Downfall for the entertainment of his friends. He was owed that much from it.

“Understood Father,” Balor replied, barely containing his excitement.

“You may have friends over and do as you please, but so help me if I come back to a wreck, you will be paying for it. You need to prove to me that you can manage these slaves. Show me that you can be King, consider this practice.”

His father’s tone was serious. The younger Tallisian knew he meant what he said and shuddered to think what ‘paying for it’ would look like.

“Everything will be in perfect order when you return,” Balor tried to sound confident despite the nerves.

It wasn’t long after the two had fallen into silence when The Dog returned with the packed bags for his Master.

“Everything is there?” Corvius asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Master,” The Mongrel bowed.

“Very well, don’t just stand there, take them to the carriage,” the Master snapped. “Oh, and Balor, I’ll be taking Ruby and Boy with me,” he added as the three of them began to walk out the front door.

Outside Balor saw that the two slaves had already been harnessed up and ready. He had been a little surprised when his father said he was taking those two, but saw now saw how similar in size the two were, Boy was growing fast.

Once he saw his father off, Balor was finally free. The first thing he wanted to do was to deal with Zan.

“Mutt, go fetch Zan,” Balor ordered.

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**additionally, this is a chapter set to have extra NSFW scenes. If you want the on extended edition taglist, please let me know.