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starlightiing · 10 days

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heartbeats between us - gen pierresteban ( pg10 && eo31 )

“Pierre, something is wrong.” Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention. “What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. Or: Esteban has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

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“Pierre, something is wrong.”

Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention.

“What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair.

“I don’t know, something feels bad. Wrong.” Esteban replies, unhelpfully, if Pierre is honest.

“You look like shit, why don’t you start with what feels bad exactly?” Pierre urges him, scooting his chair back so he can stand to his feet. He doesn’t understand why Esteban isn’t telling his physio about this instead - he would be much better suited to handle this situation than Pierre.

“I feel weak and tired. My chest is fluttering and my throat is tight.” Esteban says,and when he swallows, Pierre can pick up on the difficulty in the action. His eyebrows furrow deeper as he reaches up and presses the back of his hand to Esteban’s forehead. His skin is surprisingly cool, but Pierre can feel the clamminess of sweat building at his hairline.

“Where is your physio? You look sick, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“No, Pierre, this is -” Esteban stops himself, and Pierre immediately makes eye contact with him, taking note of the fear and surprise evident in Esteban’s expression. The rest of the sentence never comes - instead, Esteban presses a hand to the base of his throat and lets out a strangled sort of gasping noise.

Pierre’s blood runs cold in his veins. Esteban is having trouble breathing.

“Hey! Somebody call the doctor in here!” he yells, carefully placing a hand to Esteban’s shoulder and guiding him down into the chair Pierre had been sitting in only moments ago. “Now!”

Pierre pats lightly at Esteban’s face, quickly grabbing his attention. His eyes are still alert which is good, but the wheeze that comes with his breaths is worrying Pierre more than he would like to admit. He can’t see what would be obstructing Esteban’s breaths, but the wheezing is sharp and prominent and it’s only getting worse. “Hey, keep breathing. Nice and easy, okay?”

Esteban nods, his lips slightly parted as he tries to pull air in through his mouth. It sounds horrible, and Pierre winces in sympathy. He presses a hand to Esteban’s chest and rubs softly, as if it might help him breathe somehow.

It doesn’t.

“Pierre…I can’t…” “You can,” Pierre immediately replies, keeping his hand on Esteban’s chest to steady him. “You can. Keep going. Keep breathing.”

Esteban’s heartbeat feels quick but weak, just a gentle flutter against Pierre’s hand. His eyes widen slightly as the severity of the situation registers in his mind.

“Hey! Where is that doctor?” he yells out again, craning his neck to see if anyone is even around to hear him. A head pops in - Pierre immediately recognizes him as Francis, and his eyes widen when he takes in Esteban’s state.

“He’s on the way. Is Esteban okay?” Francis asks, and Pierre can tell he’s being as gentle as possible. Pierre looks towards Esteban’s frightened eyes, then back to Francis and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know what’s wrong but he can’t breathe. His heart’s racing but it’s weak. We need the doctor now.”

Francis nods, concern blossoming over his expression. “I’ll tell him to haul ass back here. Hang in there, okay?”

Francis is gone before Pierre can reply, which only brings a small measure of comfort. As soon as his attention is back on Esteban, though, it dissipates in an instant. He’s gasping for air, one hand reaching at his throat as if something is in there blocking his airway. Pierre notices then the swelling in Esteban’s throat - subtle but distinguishable, and his heart drops to his feet. This is an allergic reaction to something, but he cannot for the life of him ever remember Esteban being allergic to anything. He never had issues when they were kids, nor during the time they’ve spent together at Alpine.

He takes a deep breath and snaps his fingers in front of Esteban’s dulling eyes. “Look at me. Eyes on me, Esteban.” Pierre demands, and the panic that flutters in his chest when Esteban looks up and looks through him, tired and frightened, is almost overwhelming. “Do you have an epi-pen?”

Esteban looks confused for a second, just a fleeting moment, before shaking his head. “No. Never…had one.” He gasps out, his hand coming to rest right under Pierre’s on his chest. “Pi-Pierre, I can’t breathe.”

“The doctor is coming.” Pierre says matter-of-factly, hoping to keep the concern and uncertainty out of his voice. Being calm for Esteban is crucial right now; and perhaps even for himself, too. “I know it is hard, but keep breathing. Keep trying.”

Pierre watches Esteban’s face carefully, eyes trained on his expression to try and get a read on how he’s feeling. His eyes are dull and lifeless, something that is setting Pierre’s heart racing fast enough to be noticeable, now. Esteban is breathing but he’s barely breathing, and his heartbeat has only gotten quicker and weaker in the last few moments. “He will be here in a moment, it’s okay, Esteban.”

All Esteban does in response is blink at Pierre tiredly, slowly, like it’s far too much of an effort for his body to handle. Then, to Pierre’s horror, Esteban’s eyes flutter shut and they do not open back up again. His weight lolls forward, right into Pierre’s expectant arms, who catches him and gently lays him down on the floor so he doesn’t hit his head.

“Esteban!”

Pierre immediately checks his breathing, ear hovering right above Esteban’s lips and listening intently for any sound - even the wheezing, hell, he would take the wheezing at this point. He listens, and listens, and listens, but not a single sound escapes Esteban’s lips. “Fuck. Fuck.”

A trembling hand reaches forward to Esteban’s neck, fingers pressing into the carotid artery in desperate search of a pulse. Pierre can feel something - something soft and weak - but he cannot differentiate if it’s the throbbing of his own pulse in his fingertips, or blood pumping through Esteban’s veins. He leans forward and rests his head against Esteban’s heart, listening even closer to his chest than he had for Esteban’s breathing a moment ago. He can hear it, just a fleeting heartbeat, so delicate and quick and uneven. He can hear it, and it brings him at least some modicum of relief.

That is, of course, until he hears it flutter, stumble, and then go completely silent inside of Esteban’s chest.

“Fuck! Help! Someone get that goddamn doctor in here now!” Pierre cries out, his voice urgent and desperate, “He’s not breathing! For fuck’s sake!”

The idea of CPR hammers itself into Pierre’s frantic brain. CPR would be Esteban’s only chance until the doctor got here, even if it’s success rate is - well, he won’t think about that right now. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s Esteban’s only hope, and Pierre, god help him, will do what he can. He isn’t officially certified, but he doesn’t care. Something is better than nothing. Something might keep Esteban here with him.

Pierre swallows thickly and threads his hands together, positioning them over Esteban’s heart. He remembers he needs to compress at 100 beats per minute, and hard. Hard enough that he could potentially break Esteban’s ribs. The idea is terrifying, but he can’t dwell on it. Focus. Focus. Deep breath.

And he begins.

“One, two, three,” he counts under his breath, pushing with all his might against Esteban’s chest. “Four, five, six…”

Somewhere around twenty compressions, Pierre hears footsteps rush into the room. He doesn’t look up, forcing himself to ignore them and focus only on Esteban. He is Esteban’s heartbeat right now, and that comes before anything else. Push. Push. Push.

Even for as fit as he is, Pierre can feel the strain in his arms and the way his breaths come just a tiny bit faster and more shallow. It’s hard work, but he doesn’t care - he keeps pressing down on Esteban’s chest until he reaches 30, and then gathers himself to give rescue breaths. “Pierre, let me help.” A voice says from above them, and Pierre snaps his head up to see Francis is back in the room. “Doc is on his way, I swear it. Until he gets here, I’ll give Esteban breaths and keep an eye out for his pulse, you just focus on compressions until you need to switch with me.”

He can’t seem to argue with that, offering a curt nod. He’s grateful for the help, and for the speed at which Francis delivers it. He watches Francis tilt Esteban’s head back, pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth as hard as he can. Esteban’s chest barely rises, fuck, Pierre had forgotten about the swelling in his throat - but it’s something, it’s going to have to be enough.

“Go. I’ve got him.” Francis says, pressing his fingers to Esteban’s wrist. Pierre doesn’t need any more than that, he jumps right back into action and begins his next cycle of thirty chest compressions.

“Come on, Esteban.” He pants out, counting the compressions in his head as he pushes against Esteban’s ribs with all his might. About ten compressions in, he hears the sickening sound of bones snapping and he has to fight back the bile that rises to the back of his throat. The sound isn’t even the worst part, it’s the giveaway of bones he feels beneath his hands as he continues to pump Esteban’s heart through them. He can physically feel the ribs creaking and groaning beneath his hands, and as one after another snaps, he can feel a soft pop followed by diminished resistance to his compressions and, god, if he had the ability to stop and process it right now he would absolutely be sick.

“Keep going,” he hears Francis urge him to his left. “It’s okay, just keep going.”

Keep going. Pierre can do that. His arms are aching and he’s out of breath, but he’s alive and he’s healthy and he has the means to work as hard as humanly possible to bring Esteban back. And how jarring it is, to see Esteban so helpless and weak - two things Pierre would never use to describe him in any other scenario. No, Esteban is strong willed and stubborn; he doesn’t give up, doesn’t back down, never has - not even when they were just kids.

Pierre looks up at Esteban’s face as he continues the compressions, and something churns in his gut. He sees that lanky, goofy kid he used to know years and years ago. The kid that made him laugh until his stomach hurt, but also ran him down hard on the karting track without showing a single ounce of mercy. He sees the boy that let Pierre into his kart for the first time, with a proud smile and warm words of encouragement falling from his lips. He sees an old friend, lost to time and various other personal complications that seem so goddamn small and frivolous now in the face of all there is to lose.

Pierre looks at Esteban’s face and sees someone he still viciously cares about, no matter how hard he’s tried to deny it. He sees someone his heart simply cannot give up, will not give up, despite the trials and tribulations they’ve put each other through in the years since their friendship ended.

He sees someone who, the world be damned, he wants back as his friend. Someone he would never let die, no matter the circumstance. Someone who deep, deep down in the far reaches of his soul he knows he loves and will always love.

And he compresses and compresses with every bit of strength left in his body, because Esteban will not die here, not like this, not now. It’s not his time.

“Pierre?”

He hears his name but wholly ignores it, not wanting to hear a word out of Francis’ mouth unless it’s to say he’s got a heartbeat. The likelihood of that is slim, so Pierre keeps going even as a third rib snaps beneath his palms.

“Pierre? Pierre, listen to me.” Francis insists, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, firm enough as if he’s trying to stop the compressions.

Pierre shrugs him off violently, “No! I have to focus!”

“Pierre, the doctor is here. You need to move so he can help Esteban.”

“No!” Pierre cries out, raw and guttural, from the bottom of his stomach. He sounds every bit desperate and devastated, still attempting to administer compressions as Francis tries to pull him off of Esteban. “Stop! I have to help him! He’s not breathing! He’s not - his heart-”

“I know, I know, Pierre,” Francis soothes, using his strength to lift Pierre up from Esteban’s body. Pierre thrashes, nearly loosening himself from Francis’ grip, but it’s just not enough. He doesn’t have the power left in his own body to free himself. “But the doctor has to do his job. He’s the best chance of saving Esteban right now.”

“But I…I didn’t even…” Pierre pauses to try and catch his breath, his eyes snapping over to Esteban.

The team doctor is knelt over him, and Pierre watches as he administers something into Esteban’s body. God, he hopes it will help, he needs it to help. But why isn’t he continuing the compressions? “What are you doing? His heart stopped, he needs compressions, or… or something!”

“Pierre, you have to let the doctor work. If you keep yelling he’s going to make you leave.” Francis calmly explains, tightening his grip around Pierre’s body. “You did it, okay? Those compressions saved his life. There was already a pulse when the doctor checked him over. You did it.”

“No,” Pierre feels so breathless, so useless, so hopeless. That can’t possibly be true. “No, his heart was not beating.”

“But it is now. Because of you. Because you jumped into action so quickly and put all of your effort into those compressions.”

Pierre takes a minute to let that information sink into his brain. His adrenaline is still high, his body and mind working overtime as Francis’ words process. Esteban’s heart is beating again, because of him. The strained arms and the cracked ribs and the effort - it was all worth it. He lets out a breath and deflates in Francis’ arms, becoming something akin to a ragdoll.

“My god. Is he breathing?” Pierre asks, never tearing his gaze away from Esteban or the doctor at his side.

“They just got him breathing.” Francis confirms, gently rubbing Pierre’s arm with one of his hands. “He’s back, Pierre. He’s here.”

Pierre’s body sags even further with relief, and he lets out a humorless chuckle as he surrenders all of his weight into Francis, “That fucking bastard. Thank God.”

It takes Esteban precisely two days and twelve hours to wake up after all is said and done. Not that Pierre is counting - he’s definitely not counting. He has not been sitting hopelessly by Esteban’s room for hours upon hours a day, waiting for this moment or anything. Two days and twelve long, painful hours before the nurses come out to let him know Esteban is awake, alert, and agreeable to company.

It feels like so much longer, and Pierre almost doesn’t believe his ears when he hears it. Two days of filtering through worried text messages from other drivers in the paddock (namely Lance and Charles, though Fernando has sent his fair share of texts and so has Max), and awkward interactions with Esteban’s parents who had flown in immediately upon hearing the news. They are nice people, really, it’s just been so long since he’s had any positive interactions with them that when Laurent came in for a hug, Pierre hadn’t been fairly certain how to react, and Sabrina’s kisses to his cheeks still burn warm even hours after the fact.

It’s all a bit overwhelming, and Pierre of course let them go visit their son first and foremost. But if he’s honest, he’s chomping at the bit to go in and make sure Esteban is okay with his own eyes after everything that’s happened.

And yet, now that it is finally his turn, his palms are sweating and he finds himself at a loss of what to say or do when he’s finally face to face with Esteban.

“He’s eager to see you.” Sabrina tells him softly, her touch on his shoulder warm and comforting, similar to his own mother’s. “Don’t worry.”

Pierre nods at her words, swallowing a lump in the back of his throat as he reaches out and opens the door to Esteban’s room. Almost immediately, Esteban’s eyes are fastened directly on him, and his breath catches in his lungs. He closes the door behind him, and takes a few steps towards the bed as he tries to ignore the echo of his heart pounding in his ears.

“You’re awake.” “I am.” Esteban agrees, smiling up at Pierre tiredly. “I have heard you are the one to thank for that?”

Pierre clears his throat, looking down at the blankets on Esteban’s bed and nodding softly. “You don’t have to thank me, though.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” He says anyway, and it stirs up something warm and comforting in Pierre’s belly. “You saved my life. That more than deserves thanks.”

“I think you would have done the same for me.” Pierre says carefully, not wanting to put words in Esteban’s mouth. “I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

Esteban nods, leaning his head back into his pillows and sucking in a deep breath. Pierre watches his chest rise with the action, and it's relieving to see him breathing so easily. Above the bed, the monitor tracking Esteban’s heartbeat is beeping very softly and gently to indicate the rate and rhythm of his heart, and it’s all so unbelievably comforting to Pierre to see for himself that Esteban truly is okay.

“Sorry you had to do it. I had no idea what was wrong and you were the closest person.” Esteban explains, and Pierre can detect something like guilt in his tone.

“Don’t apologize for that. I’m glad you reached out for help at all. I know you are sometimes too stubborn for your own good.” Pierre says, meeting Esteban’s gaze with a knowing smirk.

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad I reached out to the right person. When did you learn CPR anyway?”

Pierre chuckles at that, shaking his head as he settles himself down in the chair next to Esteban’s bed. “I’m not certified. I just got really fucking lucky.”

“No, I got really fucking lucky.” Esteban jokes, though his chuckle sounds more half-hearted than anything. Pierre knows it’s just because he’s tired and probably still a bit disoriented. He can’t imagine how he might feel if he woke up only to hear his heart had stopped and his childhood ex-friend was the one to restart it.

“You should probably get more rest. More people are going to want to come visit you soon now that you’ve woken up.” Pierre reaches out on instinct, grabbing Esteban’s blanket and pulling it up over his arms. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“No. Just for you to stay a little longer.” Esteban replies, looking over at Pierre with something indistinguishable written into his features.

Pierre feels his heart freeze momentarily in his chest, not expecting Esteban to want him to stay. And hell, he’s been here for nearly two days - what would a few more hours hurt? Especially if it would help Esteban to relax.

“Yeah, I can stay a little while. Just make sure you get some rest.”

Esteban smiles at him, and Pierre’s stomach does flips. Rude of it, honestly, to react that way without his express permission. After a moment, Pierre smiles back, watching as Esteban’s eyes flutter shut.

“Thank you, Pierre.”

Pierre clears his throat and leans forward a bit in his chair, reaching out to tousle Esteban’s hair affectionately. “You’re welcome. Just never do that to me again, okay?”

Esteban grins, letting out a soft, amused breath through his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

He falls asleep only moments later, and Pierre listens to each and every breath that enters and leaves his lungs as he sleeps.

It’s all the proof Pierre needs to know that Esteban is truly going to be okay.

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pigeonwhumps · 2 months

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Hire a pet for your holiday!

CWs: BBU, pet whump, dehumanisation

Apparently I never posted this.

Would you like an stress-free holiday this year? Then hire a pet from Rent-A-Pet! Specially trained to deal with any situation you might come across, from dirty holiday cottages to unhelpful in-laws, you can count on us to keep your holiday enjoyable and stress-free!

#BBU #box boy universe #whump #whump art #whump graphics

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3-2-whump · 29 days

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Relapse: Crumbling Promises

Please heed the TW/CWs on this chapter. Also, thanks @generic-whumperz and @whumped-by-glitter for your input into the ending of this chapter, your feedback has been applied

TW/CW: dubcon (lots of dubcon), allusions to previous dubcon, prostitution, slave whump, degrading language, degraded whumpee (in that whumpee has to haggle their own value -idk what that’s called, but it’s pretty degrading), intimate whumper, possessive whumper, asphyxiation, emotional whump, unhealthy relationship dynamics, possessive relationship dynamics, whumper x whumpee (although pretty unbalanced)

The frenetic stimulation of his cock and the wild fragility in Khaled’s eyes continued to haunt the mob boss long after their reunion of the flesh in the parking lot a month ago. He thought about it from when he couldn’t sleep at night to the first waking moments of consciousness in the morning. He thought about it in the shower, at the gym, during meetings, and in the middle of intercourse at the brothels. It was just as Khaled had said; those girls (and occasional boys) in the whorehouses could only satisfy him for so long, and he believed he had finally run his course after his fourth threesome in a month. Now here he sat, in his desk chair, trying to compose an email he’d rather not send, with his mind far away from the zoom conference he was supposed to be a part of.

He looked over his shoulder at Khaled, who had broken away from his usual positon right behind his chair to water the potted fig tree by the window. Nothing in his composure betrayed his lapse in decorum on that fateful night, though he was moving a lot slower than usual, and his eye-bags seemed darker than his foundation could cover up. Tom studied him closely, noting Khaled had been like this for months now. Was he still sneaking out at night to see that damn cholo? He’d been meaning to do something about his slave’s newfound promiscuity, but something more important always came up, and ever since their near-death experiences, Thomas had been trying to turn over a new leaf and give Khaled a longer leash, metaphorically speaking. Although, if the boy kept dragging his feet, he might tie him onto a literal leash, too.

Some static-y goodbyes and well-wishings sounded from his monitor, signaling the end of the conference call. Tom cleared his throat and jumped in with his own farewells. “Yes, you too, happy holidays, buon natale –yeah, yeah, I’ll see you next year, Matteo. You too, Gio, happy new year! Okay, okay, bye!” He exited out of the call, minimized the screen, and swiveled his desk chair to face the young man by the windowsill. “Khaled, come here,” he called.

As soon as Khaled was within reaching distance, the boss grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his lap, trapping him between the hard edge of the desk at his back and his own body in the front.

“What are you doing?” Khaled neither squirmed or struggled in his grasp, instead opting to stare at him quizzically. “Let me off, I don’t want this-”

“Like you didn’t want it in the parking lot on the night of your birthday last month?” He grinned in triumph as his slave’s face blushed bright red from the tops of his ears down to the black band of his collar. “You do,” Tom whispered, voice low and sultry. “You want this, and you need this, Khaled.” He ran his hands from the young man’s waist up his sides, slightly untucking his shirt in the process. “I’ve seen you work yourself to the bone trying to be my executive assistant. Isn’t it exhausting, working so hard?” Khaled sat as still as a statue as his fingers raked over the front of his body. “Isn’t it tiresome, doing what free people do?” He snaked his hands down Khaled’s sides to dip under his shirt hem, feeling a familiar rush of heat below as he touched the warm skin underneath. “Don’t you just want to relax?”

The way Khaled’s body responded under his hands as he laid him over the desk was nothing like any of the whores the brothels could give him. Here, splayed back-first onto the hardwood, was his own personal fuck hole, who pleasured him exactly how he wanted. “But, this isn’t- I don’t want this,” his slave protested, lightly pushing back, “and this isn’t even what I’m being paid to do anyway-”

“Well, if it’s pay you’re after, I can pay you for this,” he snickered. “It’s called prostitution, Khaled, and if that’s how you want to earn your money, I certainly won’t get in your way.”

“But I don’t want this!”

“Not even for $100?”

Khaled’s mouth snapped shut. Thomas laughed.

“$500.” Thomas stopped laughing.

Khaled stuck his lower lip out and shot him the most pathetic pout he could give. “Am I, your own personal fuck slave, not even worth what you pay your high-class call girls?”

He scoffed incredulously. So, that’s how it’s gonna be? Alright then! “$200,” he countered, “you’re out of practice, and a little too assertive for my tastes lately.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, Khaled wrapped his legs around Thomas’ lower back and pulled him in closer by the front of his shirt. “$450,” he whispered, his soft, sweet lips mere inches from his own. “I’m not as out of practice as you may think, and I can be as meek as a lamb when I need to be.”

The mob boss did not expect this to turn him on as much as it did, and yet the ignition of arousal in his core and the hardening member in his slacks spoke for themselves. He emitted something akin to a purr or a growl. “$250,” he murmured sultrily, “take it or leave it, boy.”

“$300, and I’ll do that thing with your balls that you like.”

“You’ve got a deal!” He leaned in to kiss Khaled’s lips, pinning him further onto the desk as he unfastened the belt and pants around Khaled’s waist and peeled them off. He smiled into the kiss as Khaled yielded to him, opening his mouth so the older man could penetrate his mouth with his tongue and claim every inch inside him. He reluctantly broke off from the kiss to undo his own belt and pants. Once he had gotten himself out, he noted with satisfaction that Khaled’s knees were already hitched up to his shoulders, displaying that perfect set of three and that lovely little hole, all for Thomas J Costa. “And a merry fucking Christmas to me!” he murmured, completely satisfied. He opened the top drawer of his desk, where hiding among the paperclips and stapler refills was an innocuous little bottle of lubricant, with just enough fluid to get them through this session. “I never thought you’d be such a whore,” he teased. “Where is your self-respect?”

“Just hurry up, please,” Khaled whined, cheeks flaming red in –arousal? Shame? Not like Thomas could tell, or care.

“Oh no, whore, I’m gonna make you work for your $300 and ensure you earn every cent!”

He emptied what was left of the lube onto his hardened shaft and threw the bottle away. He gave himself a few quick pumps to spread the slippery substance from base to tip, then aligned himself between Khaled’s spread legs, pushing in without any sort of prelude or preparation. The boy groaned at the sudden intrusion. His nails bit into the wood of the desk as Thomas bottomed out inside of his tight little hole. “Oh my god, how do you still feel like you’re a virgin down there?” he grunted. He began to thrust his hips, slowly at first, then building up a nice rhythm as the lithe body underneath him slowly relaxed and opened for him. “There, that’s it,” he murmured as he leaned over Khaled. “You know how this works…” He nuzzled into the crook of Khaled’s neck, murmuring against the curve of the boy’s neck and shoulder. “Your body knows exactly what to do...” God, even the smell of Khaled’s skin was enough to stoke his arousal into a full inferno. The boss kissed hungrily against Khaled’s neck, breathing in the boy’s scent like it was air and he’d been holding his breath. The whimpers he got out of the boy as he began to use his teeth were some of the best noises he’d ever heard him make. Why on earth would he, Thomas Costa, want to give this up? Why did he ever think he could go one more day in his life without being inside this amazing little being? He sucked what he hoped would be a nice, dark hickey right over the strip of black ink across Khaled’s throat. A collar is not complete without its gemstones, right? he thought. He tongued the tattooed line thoughtfully. He licked at it as if he was trying to wipe it away with his tongue, even though he knew he couldn’t. Those permanent black bands were just another part of Khaled’s near-infinite sex appeal.

“You’re mine forever,” he whispered, lips brushing against that graceful neck with every word. “Doesn’t matter if you’re free one day, because you will always be mine.” And honestly, why would he ever have thought of freeing Khaled, when the boy made him feel this good?

“Please…” Khaled whined beneath him.

He pushed up from the crook of Khaled’s neck, placing the palms of his hands on the desk as he propped himself up. “Please what, my little slut?” he teased. “Please go faster?” Khaled screamed and moaned as Thomas picked up an enthusiastic pace inside of him. He pressed the boy between the hard desk and the weight of his heavier body as he pistoned in and out of his ass with only his own pleasure on his mind.

“What is it you want?” Khaled stared up at him, his dark brown eyes shimmering like pools of liquid ink. “Please what?” he panted huskily. “Please choke me?”

Dark brown eyes widened and his lips formed the beginnings of the word ‘no’ before Thomas wrapped both hands around Khaled’s slender neck. Instinctively, Khaled released his grip on the desk to futilely scratch and tug at his hands as he increased the pressure on his neck. Thomas released one of his hands just to slap him across the face. “Hands on the table,” he growled. A squeaky wheeze left Khaled’s lips as he still tried to pull the remaining hand away from his throat. Thomas slapped him again as he held the boy’s neck in a crushing grip. “Now!”

Khaled dropped his hands to his sides. His tears flowed over his reddening cheeks. His pulse quickened under Tom’s fingers as his trembling lips formed breathy words. “Please… please… no more… I’ve been… good... please…” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers clawed at the desk, carving long furrows into its surface as he struggled to dutifully keep his hands on it. “Mas…ter… please…” he begged.

I have your literal life in my hands, he thought, smiling down with a sadistic awe. No escorts of any economic bracket would ever let the man take it this far. Nothing could ever come close to this feeling of absolute power and control, and only his slave could make him feel this powerful. Only you, Khaled, only you, he repeated in his head as he fucked his way to climax. As Thomas emptied his balls inside Khaled’s hole, he knew he would never feel this way with anybody else. What was this feeling exactly? he wondered, finally letting go of the boy’s bruised neck. He stayed sheathed inside of Khaled’s warm, tight hole, listening to nothing but Khaled’s desperate breaths for air over the sound of his own heavy breathing. It isn’t possessiveness, it isn’t just lust. He pulled his softening length out of the boy’s fluttering hole, watching his own seed seep out with fascination and pride. So, what was that feeling, where you know nobody else can make you feel this way, and you wouldn’t want anybody else to, anyway?

Khaled turned over, leaning over the desk by bracing himself on his hands as he coughed and sputtered. Once the hacking and coughing sounds had subsided, and Khaled was nothing more than a trembling body barely keeping itself propped up against the desk, Thomas gently turned him around to face him. “You good?” he asked.

Khaled nodded. He had crushed the boy’s throat, making it difficult for him to respond in any verbal capacity. His reddened eyes blinked up at him, shining anxiously under their tear-dampened eyelashes. “Alright, down you go,” he replied softly. He pushed Khaled down to his knees, putting him face-to-face with the cock that had just been inside him. “Clean me off, and don’t forget my balls,” he ordered, murmuring a quiet “you know what I like,” at the end. He brushed a hand through Khaled’s disheveled hair, thinking about what to call that feeling he held for his dear slave. He tipped his head back and groaned as Khaled’s skilled little tongue set to work.

If it isn’t possessiveness, and it isn’t lust, his thoughts began, before he lost himself in the sensation of Khaled’s mouth.

Is it…love?

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled screamed in the parking lot that night.

Love. That was a sensitive subject for Thomas. What was love, even? Between his long-absent stepfather, his sperm donor of a biological father, his neglectful mother who pissed away her inheritance into casinos, and his hard-ass grandfather who demanded nothing but perfection as he pitted brother against brother, the man was painfully aware of the lack of love in his and his brother’s childhoods. The closest thing they had to a loving adult in their formative years was Val, the nanny, but she left them too, once they were old enough.

It was no wonder his honest attempts at dating had failed so spectacularly. It culminated in self-sabotaging his wedding with Lenore on the day of, making sure that she could never break his heart like everyone else by leaving him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was not.

The pleasurable oral sensations had stopped down there, and Khaled now stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Satisfied?” he croaked. His voice was wrecked. He looked angelic.

“Yes.” Always. Forever.

Whoever said ‘if you love them, let them go’ obviously didn’t understand the pain of watching those loved ones abandon you one by one. Yet here, at Thomas’ feet, was someone who made him feel like the luckiest, most powerful man alive, who outshone everyone else as he pleasured him like no one else could, and who –if he reneged on their deal– would never leave him.

I love you, Khaled, he said in his mind, even if he wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

#whump writing #tw dubcon #graphically described #prostitution whump #slave whump #degrading language #tw asphyxiation #intimate whumper #possessive whumper #emotional whump #whumper x whumpee #but pretty unbalanced #unhealthy relationships #possessive relationship

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dual-cetacean · 6 months

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"The Shatterverse is saved, the prism shards are back where they belong, and Green Hill Zone is restored. However, Nine cannot let go. Afraid the Roses and Shadow won’t be fast enough to save Sonic, they chase after them — accidentally flying into the gateway, too. Now locked out of their universe, and more importantly, the Grim, what is a lonely number 9 supposed to do?"

*Edit*

Chapter log

Season 1

Situation 1: So much (for) Prism dust (↑) Situation 2: I’m your best friend, I’m your family. Situation 3: Tea and Toast. Situation 4: Lonely Heart's Club. Situation 5: Stranger in a Strange Land. Situation 6: I hope, pray, wish—you bite your tongue Situation 7: Capital T, but Trouble looks for me Situation 8: Star-Crossed Brothers. (unavailable)

Heyo! I know that this series ended months ago, but this cartoon has me in a head grip. This has been cooking since February, and I'm finally ready to post it after two full months of working on it. I enjoyed season 3 and the rest of the series but was unsatisfied with the ending. So, for everyone like me who wants more out of the story, I hope you enjoy this, especially for the ones whose favourite character is Nine, like me. Plenty of other characters will also appear in it, but for now, it Nine centric.

I am incredibly proud of the cover art I made and put a lot of effort into it. Making all those renders for the characters was a serious undertaking, but it looks great, and I had a lot of fun figuring out how to paint foam and water.

I also made a playlist for this fic so if you're looking for fitting music, here it is! (Current and future chapter titles are also inspired by these songs)

The cover ver without the other characters in the water is under keep reading

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whumpninja · 2 months

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The Angel of Death, Part 3: Blood and Circuses

CONTENT WARNING: Buckle your friggin’ seatbelts, this one gets real nasty!

Featuring: cage match, forced to fight, vampire whump, mentions of (non-permanent) death, graphic descriptions of violence, muzzle, drugged whumpee, heavy gore, blood (seriously it’s a LOT of blood), violent onscreen death, extremely vague one-sentence throwing up, collar, dehumanization, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK THIS CHAPTER IS A DOOZY

It was out of sheer decency that Keola waited until Mr. Moody closed his office door before she laid into him. Her mother wouldn’t have been pleased to hear her yelling a man down the hallway of his own building, and that was the only reason she waited until they were in his office to shout “What were you even thinking?”

“I-“ Mr. Moody started, but Keola trampled him back down and kept right on going.

“You let me believe I would be doing medical work on a leopard or something, not a freaking vampire! I’m not qualified for that type of work, I could lose my job because of what you just did! And on top of that, you want said vampire to fight in your arena with a fracture in his leg? Are you insane? Completely lōlō?”

“What language is that?”

“Not the point!” Keola barked. “Mr. Moody, you tricked me. And I don’t know whether I should take it as an insult to my intelligence or my ethics. Did you think I would just be so overcome with emotion upon seeing an injured creature that I’d ignore the deceit it took to get me there? I don’t kiss boo-boos and make them all better. I do real, actual medical procedures that took hard work and training. And what I am not trained to treat? People. People like the one you’ve got chained up back there, and don’t you dare try to use the excuse of legal classification or that kind of nonsense! I am not licensed to treat your pet vampire!”

“He’s not a pet.” Mr. Moody’s voice had gotten oddly serious. He pulled up his sleeve and showed Keola a scar on his arm- a long, deep gash, healed into a dark rift in his skin. “He’s not a pet, Doctor. He’s a wild animal. I’ve seen vampires before. I have some other ones here for Saturday, and they’re pretty much like us except for the fangs. I’m not saying they’re people, but they’re not the way Angel is. Angel’s dangerous, take it from me. And that’s a good thing, I need him dangerous. But a doctor is used to treating patients that are calm and rational. A vet knows how to treat patients that aren’t. I don’t have another choice. Not with him.”

Keola blew out her breath. “I could lose my license, my clinic. You’re asking me to risk my job for these fight shows of yours.”

“If that happens, I’ll take care of it. I promise. I’m in good with the police force, they bring me the vamps to set on Angel. I can get them to look the other way. I just- I need you, Doc.” Mr. Moody ran his hands through his thinning hair. “If I lose him-“

Keola almost said no. She almost tore the contract in two and stormed out. She didn’t care if this man lost his brutal business. She didn’t care if he was ruined because she wouldn’t help him.

But she thought of Angel.

As terrifying as he was, he was hurt. He was scared, somewhere beneath the anger. He didn’t know what was happening. She couldn’t leave him to a man who would keep exploiting him with no regard for his well-being, who would make him fight with a break in his leg.

Keola blew out her breath and sat down heavily in the chair by the wall. “If I lose my clinic-“

“You won’t. I promise, Doc. If there are any consequences, they’ll fall on me.”

Keola took her hair out of its bun and redid it, twisting it around her hand. “What about Saturday? If you make him fight-“

Mr. Moody chuckled. “I don’t exactly make him fight, Doctor. He lives for it. Craves it. Born killer, my Angel. If I don’t let him get his exercise, he’ll attack anything that gets close enough.”

“Why?” Keola couldn’t help asking. “I’m not well-read on my vampires, but I don’t think most of them are that…feral.”

“Most of ‘em don’t have six-inch teeth either. Angel’s special. You should see him in the cage.” Mr. Moody snapped his fingers. “You should. Come on Saturday, Doc.”

“What?”

“Not in any official capacity, not yet. Just come as a guest. No charge- I’ll put you right at the front. You can get a feel for what kind of injuries you might be dealing with, and see how Angel fights. See how much he loves it.”

“Mr. Moody-“

“No, no, I insist. Here. VIP ticket.” Mr. Moody banged open a desk drawer and rummaged around, resurfacing with a red slip of paper in his hand which he pressed into hers. “And hey, if it don’t work out it don’t work out. No hard feelings. But just give it a shot, yeah?”

Four hours after she’d been picked up and taken there, Doctor Keola Ioannidis found herself standing outside a fight club with a ticket to Saturday’s show in her hand.

What did I just get myself into?

——————————————————————————

She wasn’t going to go. It was after dark, which meant she wouldn’t risk the sun. And her ticket was free- she’d checked the Colosseum Club website, and the little slip she’d been given would have run her over three hundred dollars if she’d paid for it herself. And taking the contract with the club meant sorely needed extra income to keep her little clinic afloat.

But she wasn’t going to go. She couldn’t. I can’t, Keola told herself over and over all Saturday afternoon. It’s against my code of ethics. Not to mention my own morals. I can’t sit happily in an audience and watch people beat each other black and blue.

She kept telling herself that she wouldn’t go all the way up until she was standing at the door.

The website had said that the main event would be at 9:30 p.m., and Keola had waited until nearly then on purpose. She was only going to observe Angel as a potential patient. That was all. She didn’t need to see…the rest of it.

There was a bouncer at the door, a big man in a too-tight shirt. He looked her up and down disbelievingly. Keola tried to seem like the sort of person that frequented mildly illegal fight clubs, but she knew it would be a lost cause. She shoved the little red slip at the man instead.

His eyebrows went up. “VIP seating? You?”

“Me,” Keola answered. “And I got that from Mr. Moody himself, so if you wouldn’t mind letting me in, I don’t want to miss the main event.”

A smile spread across the man’s face, and he held the door open for her. “Nobody does, missy. Trust me.”

Cryptic, Keola thought.

The little club that had been empty before was now full to bursting with people. And not your average barhoppers, either, Keola noticed- many of the patrons drinking at the bar were rather obviously wealthy. Yet they’d stooped to come to this dingy little club. How popular are these fights?

She didn’t really know what to expect as she made her way to the side door and down the concrete corridor that led to the underground arena. It had been relatively quiet before, but now it echoed with the shouts of what sounded like a very large crowd. As she neared the end, she heard Mr. Moody's voice, bellowing through a microphone.

"And it's victory for Nosferata, death for Overbite! What a show! What an ending! That's gonna be hard to clean up! Mr. Edwards, not to worry, we'll get your vamp regenerated and back on his feet in plenty of time for the next match. As for Nosferata, Ms. Winslow, you should be proud of her, that was one of the most brutal matches we've had in awhile!"

Keola entered the underground stadium and immediately reeled against the wall, gasping. Not from the noise- though that was certainly overwhelming, with the roaring crowd and Mr. Moody's foghorn voice. Not from the sight, though the sea of people in the bleachers was an impressive view.

It was the smell that hit her hard, made her press her head against the concrete wall and dig her nails in for all she was worth.

The smell of blood.

Not human. No, it wasn't the sweet tang of human blood. It was the sharp, acidic smell of vampire blood, and it was everywhere. Her eyes felt hot at the overwhelming smell, and she squeezed them shut, clinging to the wall.

How many vampires have died here?

"Are you all right, miss?" asked a voice. Keola snapped her eyes open and hoped they were green instead of red.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, smiling at the concerned employee. "Just a little dizzy, should've eaten something before I- Ronnie?"

Blue Goon was in black tonight, but she still recognized him. He squinted at her, and then his face cleared. "Oh! Hi, Doc- the boss told us he gave you a ticket, but we didn't see you at the opening so we thought you'd skipped. He'll be glad you're here! You haven't missed Angel, that's the last show of the night. Should be about a ten-minute wait." He held out his hand. "If you'll show me your ticket, I'll get you to your seat."

"Thanks," Keola said, handing over the red slip.

"Best seat in the house." Ronnie grinned. "The boss must like you."

Keola let herself be led through the bleachers to a box right in front of the ring, just above where she'd heard Mr. Moody's voice coming from. "I'll tell the boss you're here," Ronnie offered. "Can I grab you anything from the bar?"

"I'll take a Bloody Mary," Keola answered almost without thinking. "Dirty."

Ronnie winked at her. "Staying on theme, I see."

As Ronnie disappeared, Keola slumped into her chair and stared at the arena below her. It looked smaller now, surrounded by tall cage fencing. The floor had been covered with a thin layer of what could have been either sawdust or sand.

Whatever it was, it was doing a terrible job soaking up the blood. All of it was vampire blood, she could tell by the dark color- red so deep it was almost purple. The arena was splattered with it- the floor, the fencing, even a few spectators in the front had stains of blood on their shirts. The spectators were all human, and not a single one looked bothered by the violent sport they had come to watch. Many- mainly those in the front rows like Keola- seemed to have dressed up, in suits and pearls and silk gowns.

The Colosseum Club, indeed.

Ronnie appeared at her elbow with her drink just as the lights went down. "Enjoy the show," he whispered, and gave her another wink as he slipped out of the box. Keola took a sip of her drink and braced herself for what was coming.

A series of floodlights around the arena went up, and a spotlight shone down on Mr. Moody. He'd dressed up for the occasion in a gray suit, and he was beaming. "Hasn't tonight been incredible, folks?" he shouted, and the crowd roared back at him. "What a show! What a bloodbath! But we know you've all been waiting for our last match of the night, so I won't keep you waiting much longer!"

Keola heard metal creaking and leaned down to see a pair of burly men come out of a metal gate, dragging a vampire between them. She hadn't seen the earlier parts of the show, but from the sound of it, the vampires involved had been fighters.

This one clearly wasn't. He was dressed in street clothes, his face bruised. And he looked terrified. There was some sort of muzzle strapped over the lower half of his face.

"This is gonna be a good one, folks!" Mr. Moody announced. "Officer, what was this one's crime?"

One of the guards leaned into the microphone. "Tried to attack a woman outside her own restaurant," he said, his lip curling. The crowd booed, and Mr. Moody shook his head.

"Just because it's a restaurant doesn't mean your kind get to eat there, leech," he said. The other guard took off the muzzle, and Mr. Moody shoved the microphone into the vampire's face. "What's your name, bloodsucker?"

"M-Marcus," the vampire stammered. "But I-I wasn't trying to attack her, I just-"

Mr. Moody snatched the microphone back. "Didn't ask for a sworn testimony, vamp, I ain't a judge and these good folks sure ain't a jury." The guards opened a door in the cage and pushed Marcus through, slamming it behind him.

"But there'll still be an executioner." Mr. Moody grinned and held up his arms as the crowd cheered wildly. "Hey- Marcus, was it? If I were you, I'd start running."

Marcus threw a frightened glance around the arena and started to run, making for the other side of the stadium. A spotlight stayed on him. Mr. Moody let him have a few seconds before he turned back to the crowd. "And here it is, folks! The final match of the night! Marcus versus...the Angel of Death!"

A metal gate at the other end of the arena groaned as it opened. Behind it was darkness, and Keola squinted to see through it. As far as she could tell, nothing was behind the door.

And then Angel charged into the arena.

Keola gasped, gripping the edge of her seat. Whatever ferocity she'd seen from Angel in the basement was nothing compared to this. The vampire was snarling, practically foaming at the mouth. He looked like a rabid dog. His fangs were on full display now, the wires holding his jaw half-closed gleaming in the spotlights. His eyes were pools of glowing red, the pupils shrunk to nothing. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, his short hair dripping with it. He stumbled to the side, reeling like a drunken man, and dropped to all fours. Keola could see the way his chest heaved for every breath.

Drugged, she realized. Heavily.

Most of the crowd were on their feet now, screaming in excitement. Angel shook his head, twisting away from the side he was closest to. The noise must have been overwhelming to the senses of a full vampire- Keola was only a half-vampire and it was hard for her to handle.

And then Angel's head shot up, his eyes finding Marcus.

Marcus had started running for the opposite side of the arena, but as Angel took off after him Keola knew he didn't stand a chance. Angel stayed on all fours, clawing trenches into the floor with every bound. He was fast, too- far faster than Marcus, who didn't even reach the other end of the cage before Angel was on him.

Angel grabbed the smaller vampire around the waist, dragging him down. The pair rolled in the sand, Angel growling ferociously and Marcus crying out in terror. The whimpers of fear turned to screams of pain as Angel dug his claws into the meat of Marcus's shoulder.

As horrified as she was, Keola couldn't look away. Mr. Moody was bellowing commentary or something, but she couldn't focus on the words enough to know what they were. She heard the audience's shouts as if they were in another language.

And then- "Oh, we've got a live one!"- yelled Mr. Moody, as Marcus desperately kicked backward and slammed his foot right into the cast on Angel's leg. The leg buckled. Angel went down with a roar of pain, and Marcus stumbled away, bleeding from the claw marks in his shoulder and chest.

The vampire staggered to the edge of the cage, grabbing at the bars with bloody hands. "Please!" he begged, frantic, desperate. “Please, don’t let- no!"

Angel didn't let him get another word out. Marcus screamed in terror and pain as Angel grabbed him, claws digging in deep, and tore him off the bars, flinging him out into the sand. And then he was on top of the smaller vampire, tearing and slashing and trying with his bound fangs to bite. And Marcus was screaming and gasping and gurgling on blood. And there was the sound of bones being crushed, and flesh being ripped into, and the smell of blood was so much stronger now, overwhelming everything-

Keola leaned down, out of view of the arena, and was sick on the concrete floor.

I can't be part of this. It was too horrible. She couldn't come back to this place again and again, knowing what happened in that arena. She'd thought it would only be death. She'd never imagined the brutality of it- when she risked another glance into the cage, there was nothing left of poor Marcus but shreds of meat and bone and a pool of thick, dark blood.

And when he regenerates, they'll do it again. Vampires could not die unless it was through sunlight, silver, or a stake. No matter how thoroughly Angel destroyed his prey, they would come back to die once more. It was sickening. Keola had never been killed, had never had to regenerate- but she had heard it was painful. Excruciating.

The crowd was still cheering, and Mr. Moody shouted something about it being a great night and a good show. Keola managed to make herself look at Angel. Her brow furrowed.

The feral vampire still crouched over the remains of his prey. His chin dripped with gore, and as Keola watched he bent his head and rubbed his face in the sand, almost lying fully in the puddle of blood. He was gasping, pulling in desperate gulps of air as he tried to cover himself in his victim's blood. The wires at his jaw strained to keep his mouth closed.

For a few moments Keola had hated him, this monster of a vampire who she'd just seen murder one of their own with no remorse. But as she watched the guards grab him, bind his arms behind him, force him up and back through the gate as he thrashed and snarled in their hold, she realized something.

Mr. Moody had said that Angel was feral, a wild thing, so full of rage that he didn't have to be prompted to fight. But what Keola had seen just now hadn't been anger.

It had been hunger.

Angel, with his jaw wired shut, surrounded by blood, had been trying desperately to eat. He wasn't fighting because he was angry, but because he was starving. Vampire blood did nothing to sate a vampire's hunger- it had to be human or animal, something living. But Angel, drugged out of his mind and starved to the point of madness, only knew that there was blood.

Keola left the last two-thirds of her drink by her seat. She didn't want it anymore.

Ronnie met her at the end of the bleachers. "Hey, Doc!" he said, beaming. "What'd you think of the show? Oh, and Mr. Moody wants to see you ring-side."

Keola nodded dully, still too overwhelmed to speak. I'll tell him that I can't be part of this, she decided. He can find a new vet. I'm not going to sit by and let- all of this happen over and over again.

Ronnie escorted her through a locked door under the bleachers, to the space underneath where her box had been. This area was walled off, a tunnel of chain-link fencing and concrete. She realized that this was where the gate in the arena led- the corridor behind them must go all the way back to the cellar she had been in before.

Mr. Moody was just by the iron gate, several of his guards with him. Angel lay at his feet, his arms bound tightly behind his back, that chain leash and a solid metal collar around his neck, the other end securely fastened to a bolt in the wall. As Keola watched, Mr. Moody took a cup from a man she recognized as Red Goon and dipped his fingers into it. Smiling, he held out a hand dripping with blood. Human blood.

Angel lunged, the chain bringing him up just short of Mr. Moody's hand. He crashed to the floor, pushing himself up and trying again. Mr. Moody laughed. "All right, all right, here you go." He dropped to one knee on the concrete and held out his hand again, slipping his fingers in between the wires to let Angel lick the blood off them. "You did so well tonight," he murmured. "Sure gave 'em what they wanted, didn't we? Good boy, Angel."

Ronnie cleared his throat, and Mr. Moody glanced up. "Doc! I was hoping you'd make it! What a show, huh? A real thriller tonight." He beamed at her. "So? Do we have a deal?"

Keola had meant to say no. She'd been prepared to tell him that she couldn't do it, find someone else, it was too much.

But she couldn't look away from Angel, nearly choking himself on the chain leash for a few drops of blood off a human's fingers. He was angry, and dangerous, and savage- and he was starving and hurting and alone. And she couldn't leave him.

"Yes, Mr. Moody," she heard herself say, and saw herself extend her hand to him. "We have a deal."

When they shook on it, her hand came away sticky with blood.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds @softvampirewhump @scoundrelwithboba @rainbowsandwhumperflies @octopus-reactivated

@whumperfultime @pigeonwhumps @handsinmotion @starfields08000 @fleur-a-whump

@worstcasescenariolullaby

Masterlist

#whump #vampire whump #vampire whumpee #forced to fight #graphic descriptions of violence #drugged whumpee #gore #blood #keola #angel #mr moody #angel of death #whump writing #my writing #jack be whumpy

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abhainnwhump · 6 months

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Whumper collects the eyes of their Whumpees and keeps them all in a room. As a form of punishment, they lock whatever Whumpee they currently have into the room and force them into staring at the dozens of dead glassy eyes staring back.

#is this too graphic #it's one of those images that popped in my head once and I was like “hey”#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump prompt #noncon body modification #whump tropes #creepy whumper #eye whump #eye gore #body horror whump #fantasy whump #magic whump

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aziraphales-library · 8 months

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Do you have any recommendations for self sacrificing Aziraphale fics? Kind of on the line of protective Aziraphale with a little more Aziraphale whump.

We have loads of tags for fics like these!! #sacrifice, #protective aziraphale, #bamf aziraphale, #aziraphale whump, #hurt aziraphale. Here are more to add to the extensive collections. Mind the tags on these...

I'll Shed My Blood To Keep You From Harm by ShesAKillerQueen98 (M)

Crowley and Aziraphale are two young men living on the streets in 1700s England and when Crowley is caught trying to steal from a nobleman, Aziraphale takes the blame and the punishment, public flogging. Crowley is forced to watch while his best friend, his guardian angel, is beaten and humiliated. Angsty at first, fluff comes at the end.

To the World by cal_amity (M)

The split hit Aziraphale hard. It hit Crowley harder.

I've Been Loving You by acup_oftea (NR)

The laws of physics suggested that the Bentley shouldn’t have been able to drive more than seventy-or-so miles per hour in London. The laws of physics, however, did not account for the Bentley’s strong preference for protecting certain ethereal beings who had a tendency to overthink absolutely everything save for their own personal safety. Crowley made it to the bookshop in under five minutes, his mind racing and his heart hammering as he took in the fact that he was actually coming back. He couldn’t face this, couldn’t be in this place without sinking into its familiarity, without closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of the shop, without covertly staring and staring at its owner. But he was up and slamming the car door shut without stopping, trying to calm the dull panic in his head. OR It's been seven months, & Crowley has taken to drinking himself into oblivion & solitude. But when he gets a panicked call from Muriel telling him to get to the bookshop right away, he is forced to confront certain misunderstandings he may have had as the threat of danger lurks- & he'll do anything to keep his angel safe OR The author is TIRED of reading s2 fix-its where Aziraphale is the bad guy

Fragile Strength by TakeItEezy (M)

An angel of Heaven must be completely free of sin. What happens if one breaks the rules and gives in to temptation?

On Memories and Minds by the_literal_k (T)

“Tell me… Exactly how many times now have we dragged each other back from the abyss?” “Oh I've long since lost count, angel.” Crowley would protect Aziraphale until his last. They both knew that. But it made them predictable, and being predictable was dangerous. And Aziraphale couldn't have Crowley risking his life. Not even for him; not again. Especially not if it meant going to Heaven again in his stead. They've been protecting each other since Before the Beginning; it's become core to who they are. There is something to be said for shades of gray and maybe, just maybe, the Metatron didn’t think through what it meant to separate them.

Drops of Sorrow by EdosianOrchids901 (M)

Ten years after the failed Apocalypse, Crowley is captured by Heaven. Gabriel plans to use him as bait to lure Aziraphale into a fight. Can Crowley survive captivity, and will Aziraphale be able to rescue him without walking into the trap?

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #protective aziraphale #bamf aziraphale #hurt aziraphale #aziraphale whump #hurt crowley #major archive warning #graphic depictions of violence #mod d

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meraki24601 · 1 year

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Blindfolded

It's hard to keep track of time in a cell.

Whumpee learned early on that feeding times were… inconsistent. That was when food actually came. When they did eat, it was usually just enough to remind them how hungry they were.

Eventually, Whumpee learned to estimate time based on how much they had healed and which person was in charge of torturing them. 7 different people would rotate in. Whumpee figured their ability to heal had slowed dramatically since they were first kidnapped from their and Caretaker's bed, but combined, the methods held up in Whumpee's mind, keeping them sane.

7 months and 2 days was their best guess.

Caretaker was on a mission when Whumpee had been taken. How long did it take them to realize Whumpee was missing? Did anyone actually know? Caretaker could have been hurt or killed on their mission. The government might have assumed Whumpee ran after losing Caretaker. Was anyone even looking for them? They missed Caretaker's kisses. One on the forehead, one on the nose, then one loving kiss on their lips.

7 months and 19 days in, they started attacking Whumpee's senses. A blindfold they couldn't remove. They filled Whumpee's cell with different scents, including Caretaker's favorite perfume. They drugged Whumpee so they couldn't feel anything from the neck down. Still, Whumpee refused to break. They would die before they gave the enemy what they wanted.

The sensory deprivation became part of the rotation, helping Whumpee count the minutes.

It happened during a blind week.

Whumpee estimated maybe one more blind day before they would be shoved in the bright room and drugged so they couldn't move. It was Whumpee's least favorite Whumper's turn before they were taken away. Whumpee never knew what to expect from them. Knives, hallucinogens, fists, maybe they'll bring in a group of people again and let them choose what to do with them. The first time they had done that was the closest Whumpee had come to breaking.

The door opened and Whumpee heard them. Five sets of footsteps entered their cell. They could hear each one pause in the doorway, presumably to look at Whumpee, before entering with slow, quiet steps. Whumpee just loved being right about these things. They wished they still had voice enough to scream their burning hate to Whumper. It would have to be enough to fight against the hands trying to grab them.

Fighting with their hands tied behind their back is not easy. It doesn't help they hadn't been given water in the past 2ish days. Maybe if they stopped fighting Whumper would end the streak. Of course, they wouldn’t give up like that, but it was a nice thought. A thought they couldn’t hold on to for long. Trying to dodge some of the grabbing hands, Whumpee lost their balance and their head slammed into the wall.

Blind, disoriented, and in pain, Whumpee collapsed. They continued to struggle, though weakly, and couldn’t help but flinch as Caretaker’s scent filled their nose. Whumper had tried this before. They even played a recording of Caretaker’s voice to calm Whumpee down and convince them they had been rescued. If they were playing the recording now, it wouldn’t really matter as the ringing in their ears drowned all other noise out. Whumpee couldn’t help a small laugh at the irony.

Hands held them down. Surprisingly gentle fingers fiddled with their blindfold enough to trigger the shock collar. The hands holding Whumpee down released them quickly in response to the intense electrocution. The moment it ended the hands were back. Gentle and dangerous, they adjusted Whumpee’s body so they were a little more comfortable on the cold floor. They even freed Whumpee’s hands from the ropes tying them behind their back.

This was worse. This was so much worse. Whumpee didn’t know when or where the pain was going to come from. The ringing in their ears was slowly going away, but they hadn’t heard if they had been asked any questions. After triggering the shock collar, Whumpee barely had the strength left to shiver.

The hands noticed. All hands but two disappeared. One at a time always lasted so much longer than when they all got their fill at once. They lifted Whumpee’s helpless body into their arms. The smell of Caretaker flooded over Whumpee and they relaxed slightly despite themselves. The person holding them kissed them. One on the forehead, one on the nose, then one loving kiss on their lips.

“Caretaker.”

The darkness thickened and Whumpee drifted. It was them. They were safe.

Finally.

Part 2

#whump #whump fic #whump scenario #whumpee #caretaker #rescue #whump writing #whump ideas #whump tropes #whumper #whump drabble #not graphic torture #sensory deprivation

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allykatsart · 1 month

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Infirmary

I wish I could add just one more image for a trigger warning, but I hit 10 images and that's the max. So a community warning/tags will have to do! This comic wraps up this arc and bridges to the next! I hope it makes sense why I put Peccantum's deal after this lmao.

There will be consequences for this, don't worry, Peccantum doesn't get off scott free. And Vox isn't bad at what he does, Peccantum just caught him a little off guard!

Who is Peccantum?

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atlas-likes-writing · 4 months

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June of Doom Day Two - Double-crossed/Forced to Watch

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Characters: Veritas Ratio, Aventurine, Sunday

Ship: Golden Ratio (Aventurine/Dr. Ratio)

Summary: An AU where Sunday knows about the three Cornerstones during the confrontation between himself, Aventurine, and Dr. Ratio. Chaos, whump, and angst ensue.

Word count: 3,364

Tags: Whump, angst, graphic depictions of violence, torture, mind control, mind manipulation, illusions of pain but it isn't technically real, manipulation.

Author's Note: I don't know how I vomited up over 3000 words for this, but here I am. I hope you enjoy! As always, please comment and reblog as it helps me out a bunch (and gives me a much needed serotonin boost). This is not beta-read so please let me know if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes/goofy pacing.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day One | Day Three

Two men stand side by side in front of huge oak double-doors, both in elaborate clothing; one in green, black, and white, and the other in blue, white, and gold. They are presumed to hate each other. They do not. Far from it, actually. They have found a special kind of companionship during their short period of knowing each other. Who would’ve thought a Stoneheart of the Interastral Peace Corporation and a professor of the Intelligentsia Guild could get along? Especially with temperaments as different as theirs. Aventurine: a “crazed gambler” as the other likes to put it. A man of extraordinary levels of luck and the tendency to value petty bets over his own life. Veritas Ratio: a “stuffy doctor” as the other likes to playfully tease, much to his dismay. A professor of profound intelligence, continually disappointed by the divine entity that refuses to cast THEIR gaze in his direction standing next to the man cursed to withstand the favour of another. Both are pitied. Both are revered. Both are about to stab the head of the Oak Family in the back.

“Sunday is just beyond this door. Are you ready?” the doctor asks, his head turned towards the shorter man beside him.

Aventurine’s eyes remain trained on the door in front of him. “Yep. You?”

“Tell me your plan.”

“I’ll play it by ear.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“It was a rhetorical question, Doctor.”

“Mine was nothing of the sort, Gambler. Are you telling me you do not have a plan for facing Sunday?”

“Three chips will do.”

After that short bicker, Aventurine winks at the man and steps forward to push open the door. It takes everything in Ratio to not sigh and roll his eyes. Doing so would only encourage the man in front of him further, so he instead schools his expression to one of his usual neutrality and calmly strolls into the room behind his companion. Inside sits Sunday, who raises from his seat on the opposite side of the huge circular table and welcomes the two men with a gesture of his hand.

“It seems my puzzles are too effortless for you, IPC ambassador,” he begins.

“I see you put a lot of effort into welcoming me, Mr. Sunday. However, this is no way to greet a guest,” Aventurine replies coolly, crossing his arms.

Sunday smiles, teeth glinting in the light above him. “Well, this isn’t an invitation, but a summoning. Before we speak, I need to test your character. You understand, yes?” He gestures to Ratio, whose expression remains unmoving. “I imagine this knowledgeable doctor friend of yours has been of great help, hm?”

Aventurine’s faux smile matches the man in front of him. “Certainly. You ought to know this better than I do – he has already faithfully fulfilled his duties, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. The doctor has assured me of your noble character. He considers you, like himself, a virtuous person who can be trusted by The Family.” Ratio is getting a little sick of being talked about as if he wasn’t in the room. He doesn’t let that show on his face, of course, but he can’t help but feel a little irked.

“You don’t look too well,” the ambassador suddenly states bluntly. “Am I making you anxious? If not, then it means I’m on your side.”

“You’re a wise man, Aventurine.” The Halovian places his hands behind his back – the image of grace. “My only concern is that you’ve used your wisdom at the wrong time to meet the wrong person and put yourself in a situation where you shouldn’t be.” His sister’s death. “If I wasn’t mistaken, you have just made a serious accusation against The Family.”

“You are not mistaken. Depravity is creeping in around you, Mr. Sunday.” This is certainly not how Ratio would go about this. This is creeping into increasingly dangerous territory. “There’s no need to be evasive. Let’s talk about your sister, shall we? Many suspect her death to be the work of outsiders, but I know you are of a different opinion.”

Ratio can’t tell for sure at this distance, but he could have sworn that Sunday’s posture tenses.

“Now, your noble status has become a shackle, preventing you from apprehending the murderer and avenging your sister’s death. You’re feeling anxious because you’re out on a limb. But don’t worry. I am on your side.”

Despite the tightness of his shoulders, Sunday’s voice betrays no such tenseness. “I’m immensely honoured by your concern for me, Mr. Aventurine – since you’re so selfless and generous, I believe you wouldn’t ask for anything in return, would you?”

“Naturally, you wouldn’t incur any loss from this. I simply want to reclaim what is mine: my liberty, and my personal items under the Family’s custody – the bag of gift money, and-”

“The Cornerstone and the box that it inhabits.”

“That’s right.”

“A treasured asset of the Strategic Investment Department, a sacred stone that seals the Emanator of Preservation, granting significant power to each of the Ten Stoneheart's, yes?”

“You would be correct.” Where is this going? This is like an elaborate chess game, two players taking the other’s pieces for their own gain. For all his intelligence, Ratio can’t figure out who has the most pawns at their disposal. He knows he is one of them, but his move has already been made.

“For an object so precious, it probably comes at an even higher price than other forms of recompense.”

Aventurine frowns – a performed frown – but a frown nonetheless. “I’m sure you’re aware of the high level of risk I’ll be undertaking to bring the truth to light-”

“Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday starts, raising a hand to silence him. “When you’re out and about, do you always make adjustments to your appearance? Your tie should be on the centre line, your shirt must not protrude from your vest, your trouser creases should be perfectly straight, and always aligned with the tips of your shoes.”

The blonde nods. “Of course.”

“I don’t, because it is not appropriate to do so in the company of others – you should make sure you are presentable and in order before leaving the house. Unlike you, I’m not the kind that takes risks. The Cornerstone must remain in the custody of The Family.”

Looks like the first piece has been taken. Aventurine sighs. “...No room for negotiation?” At this, Ratio moves from where he stands next to the IPC ambassador to the bookshelf closer to Sunday. Ratio must admit that he is a pawn to both players. He doesn’t like it, but it’s a necessary evil. This room is a giant chess board, and he just took his turn.

Sunday shakes his head. “Please don’t let me turn you down twice.”

“...Fine. The gift money is fine. I suppose you wouldn’t mind that, yes? After all, a businessman can’t function without a bargaining chip.” To that, Sunday lets himself raise an eyebrow.

“You compromised quicker than I thought you would,” he notes. “Unfortunately for you, it is a gambler that needs a bargaining chip, not a businessman. I have no qualms in giving you your gift money, but before that, I need you to tell me-”

Suddenly, Aventurine gasps and takes a step back. His eyes glaze over, and he looks at the Halovian in confusion. It’s a look that appears real. Sunday’s halo glows a myriad of psychedelic pinks and blues and yellows and greens. Ratio must turn away to prevent his distaste from becoming apparent. Sunday is using the power of the Harmony.

“What exactly is in the box that you have decidedly forsaken?”

Sunday raises his arms reverently and looks to the ceiling. “Oh Triple-Faced Soul, please sear his tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that he will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“...What is this?” Aventurine shoots a glance towards Ratio, but sees his head turned.

“Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore THEM to shed THEIR light, and I’ll ask you questions on THEIR behalf. You have two minutes to prove your innocence and gain my trust.”

“...And if I refuse to answer?”

“You can certainly try – at your own risk, of course.” Sunday grins. “We’ll see if the Harmony rejects you.” At Aventurine’s decided silence, the sky-haired man begins his interrogation. Ratio turns his head back to the two men. Despite his disgust, he cannot help but be a curious man, so he watches.

“Question: Do you own a Cornerstone?” he asks.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, almost as if it escaped Aventurine’s mouth before he had the chance to think about it. Not good.

“What a simple answer,” Sunday states, nodding in faux approval. “You, too, understand that nonsense leads only to your expense. Let us continue.”

“Did you hand over the Cornerstone to The Family when you entered Penacony?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Cornerstone you handed over to The Family belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“Is your Cornerstone in this room right now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an Avgin from Sigonia?”

What has that got to do with the current circumstances?

Aventurine falters slightly at the question, clearly taken off guard. “Yes. Why do you know that?”

Sunday ignores his question. “Do the Avgins have any ability to read, tamper with, or manipulate one’s own or another’s mind?”

“What?” he barks out a laugh at the apparently ludicrous question. The action makes Sunday’s halo brighten and Aventurine winces before answering properly. “No. Does it matter?”

“Do you love your family more than yourself?” Sunday asks, tilting his head to the side. These questions are getting weirdly personal. Ratio crosses his arms.

“Yes.” An immediate answer.

“All of the Avgins were killed in a massacre. Am I correct?”

“No.”

“Are you your clan’s sole survivor?”

Aventurine hesitates. “...Probably.”

“Do you hate and wish to destroy this world with your own hands?”

A second hesitation. “No.”

“Alright. Final question: Can you swear at this very moment, the Aventurine Cornerstone is safe and sound in this box?”

A third. “Obviously.”

Sunday nods. “Very well. I have no further questions.”

Ratio gives out a silent sigh of relief. Sunday moves around the table and strolls towards Aventurine, his halo is so bright that even Ratio can feel it. The atmosphere of the room is suffocating in the will of the Harmony. The high-inducing rainbow of colours escaping from behind the head of Sunday is becoming overbearing for the doctor, let alone for Aventurine. He can’t help but feel pity for the Sigonian.

Sunday halts a few steps away from the Stoneheart. He taps his finger against his chin as if pondering something. “You know, if there could only be one thing I detest in this vast Universe: it would be dishonesty, Mr. Aventurine.”

Wait, what? That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Ratio can’t stop himself from shooting a glance towards Sunday from where he stands behind him.

“I- I beg your pardon?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You have been lying through your teeth ever since you stepped onto this planet.”

“Well- yeah. I haven’t exactly tried to hide that. Isn’t that what your mind-fuckery is all about? To get me to tell the truth? Or are you just trying to show off?” he asks, subtly glancing at Ratio. “Or does your ‘power of the Harmony’ not work?”

“I can assure you, the Harmony influences all. However, I will admit that I have hidden something from you, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday replies, his wings pitching downwards a little.

“Well, isn’t that a surprise,” the gambler retorts, evidently filling his words with as much sarcasm as he can muster. His knees buckle slightly, clearly struggling under the weight of the Emanator’s gaze. Ratio can’t look away.

“While my powers of persuasion have every capability of forcing the truth out of your lips, I decided to do a little experiment to see if you’re capable of honesty of your own volition,” the angelic man says. “You apparently are not. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Aventurine stays silent.

“I’m saying that I know that you’re lying to me.”

Throughout this entire negotiation, this is the first time Veritas has felt fearful. The room becomes even more suffocating, if that’s even possible. He forces his own face to remain neutral. He plays the role of traitor in this grand play, after all. He must see it through for his companion’s sake.

From where he stands, he can see Sunday’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. He’s enjoying this.

“I know about the Topaz Cornerstone. I know about the Aventurine Cornerstone. And, as similar as it is to your own, I know about Jade Cornerstone.”

Oh. Shit.

“How you managed to sway not one- but two individuals from a group as discordant as the Ten Stoneheart's to go along with your terrible plan is beyond me.” Sunday barks a loud laugh. “Truly, you are too much of a risk-taker, Mr. Aventurine. Now-” the man lifts an arm out in front of him, as if reaching for Aventurine from a distance. Ratio can’t stop himself from taking a step forward. He can’t let the man he cares for break in front of him.

“Kneel.”

His knees hit the floor, the full force of the Harmony crashing down on him. The scolding feeling of something forcing itself into his brain causes him to squeeze his eyes shut. He opens his mouth to scream, but it’s as if his throat has closed. Useless and silent.

“What on earth are you doing?” The other man looks on, frozen.

“You are not the only liar in this room, Aventurine.” He turns. “Come here.”

He leans forward from where he kneels and falls onto his hands and knees. He crawls over to the Halovian, stopping only when his head almost hits Sunday’s thigh. He falls back onto his calves, looking up at him in pure disgust.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His face is forced into neutrality against his will. “Let’s play a game, Aventurine. Tell me what your plan is and what Ratio has to do with it, and I’ll let him live.”

From where he kneels, Ratio turns his head to gaze at Aventurine, unable to look at him in any way except for indifference. He’s fucking terrified, but he can’t make that obvious no matter how much he wants to.

“Can’t you just force the truth out of me? Why not do that instead?” he asks, looking at his companion on the floor with an expression Ratio wishes he could mirror – fear.

“That’s boring,” Sunday replies simply. His calm demeanour is steadfast but with a smile that is growing wider with every passing second. “I find this maintains much more efficiency.”

Aventurine scoffs, still attempting to keep his act. “What does killing an Intelligentsia Guild member do for you that maintains efficiency? You’re mad.”

“It maintains efficiency because you care about him, Mr. Aventurine. I see all in the Dreamscape. I see the looks shared between the two of you. The companionship you fostered in the short time of knowing each other. You may think you’re able to disguise your relationship with insults and petty arguments, but you cannot. It is frightfully obvious. Besides, you’re more likely to answer truthfully if the life of someone you care about is at stake.”

“This is pathetic! He has done nothing to you.” It’s obvious that Aventurine is grasping at straws here.

“You’re right. He has done nothing to me. He has lied and told falsehoods but only because you told him to. I have no reason to do this,” Sunday shrugs, his grin becoming a little too wide.

There is an oppressive silence that follows. One that draws the line between predator and prey; master and slave; the controller and the controlled.

“I’m doing this because I hate you, Mr. Aventurine. And you love him.”

With that, an excruciating pain sets Ratio’s nerves alight. It rips through his mind and tears into his heart and lungs and stomach and extremities. His back hits the floor and he spasms where he lies, agony devouring his senses.

Veritas Ratio screams.

He is not a man that screams. Not usually. At pain he normally gives a small grunt and gives a debilitating glare to whomever or whatever caused him harm. Anything more would infer a weakness he doesn’t have. Not here. Here, his voice is guttural and raw and pitched and agonising. It echoes around the room and rises above the Choir of the Harmony that deafens everything else. His eyes snap shut so tightly that he sees stars dotting around in the darkness of the underside of his eyelids.

“Open your eyes,” several cacophonous voices demand.

He does, his eyelids shooting open through a compulsion that makes him sick. The psychedelic neon colours of the Harmony streak across his vision and blind him. He continues to convulse on the floor. The pain causes him to double over as stinging tears rip themselves from his eyes and smudge the red under his eyes.

“Look at him.”

His head snaps up and his eyes meet Aventurine’s. He’s frozen in place and looking at him in pure horror. Undoubtedly, he has been compelled to stay where he is, made obvious by how much his legs shake and his fingers twitch in futile attempts to reach Ratio. The doctor’s breaths come out in short wheezes, his chest rising and falling in quick succession as panic sets in his bones. While he is not a man to scream, he is also not a man to panic – it is a brief episode of intense anxiety that the brain concocts and transforms into a physical response. Ratio is a man of knowledge and has ways of stopping panic in its tracks before it takes root. In this case, however, knowledge is stripped of him and thrown out of the window. In a small corner of his mind, Ratio knows that this onset of fear and panic is caused by the effects of the Harmony. It is superficial. It is not real.

But Aeons above – it fucking feels real.

It carries on for what feels like hours. For all Ratio knows it could have been. If he was more cognizant, he would wonder what Sunday’s goal in this endeavour is. Is it to drive Aventurine into telling the truth? To prove a point? The answer to that is between Sunday and his Aeon.

He’s sure he blacks out every now and again, the pain writhing across his spine easily becoming too much for his body. He faintly hears the calm voice of the Halovian above him standing resolute as he speaks to Aventurine. He can’t make out coherent words, but by what he can tell from the Stoneheart’s expressions it’s nothing good. He should have been sent to the waking world by now, right? That’s what everyone in The Family says happens. If you want to leave the Dreamscape, you can. You can wake up in your designated Dreampool whenever you want without hindrance. Or is Sunday stopping that as well? He doesn’t know if that’s even possible.

It’s only when he is once again on the edge of falling out of consciousness that the power of the Harmony lifts from his trembling and fragile body. It isn’t slow like he expected it to be – but rapid. It is immediate and the loss of such a suffocating presence is almost as painful as it was before. He quickly feels arms wrap around him from where he lies limp on the floor, the familiar fluff of the collar of Aventurine’s coat warming his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Veritas,” he whispers in his ear. “I should never have let this happen to you.”

Faintly, the doctor hears the wooden door of Sunday’s office click shut. It’s then when he realises, he has been picked up and brought out of his room. Through pained eyes, he gazes at Aventurine. He then lifts a heavy arm to cup the man’s cheek, before slipping into unconsciousness for the final time.

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storeecbrcod · 6 months

Text

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

#tw mcd #tw medical procedures #tw violence #tw graphic #idk what this is #enjoy #I hope #there’s so much symbolism/metaphor in here it’s crazy #it probably doesn’t make sense #call of duty #cod mw ghost #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #ghoap #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #angst #whump

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adrift-in-thyme · 1 year

Text

Whumptober Day 3: "Make it stop"

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & the Chain

- Summary: When Wild is captured by the Yiga Clan, Master Kohga decides to get his revenge

CW for graphic depictions of violence, torture, blood and injury, vomiting, and a character briefly wishing for death

----------------------

“Get up!”

Wild pries open his eyes just as a boot connects with his side. He jerks away with a hiss of pain.

Of all the horrible ways to wake up…

The face of a Yiga assassin comes into view as his vision clears and he groans.

Even better.

“I said, get up!”

Another kick that takes Wild’s breath away.

“Yeah that’s not the best way to get me off the floor,” he remarks, dragging himself into a seated position.

That earns him a sharp smack across the face. Wincing, he watches as the assassin bends down, unlocking his chains. They fall to the floor with a clatter. But Wild hardly has time to breathe a sigh of relief, or rub his wrists, or even to plan a quick escape. Almost immediately, the Yiga yanks his hands behind his back, then ties them tightly with a thick rope.

The coarse material rubs at his already raw wrists. It only adds to the cacophony of aches that have begun to arise now that he’s conscious. Wild blows out an annoyed sigh. As if he could forget how sorely he had lost his last fight.

Rough hands haul him to his feet and he stumbles. His surroundings go fuzzy and dim and for a moment he is certain he’s going to faint. But then it passes. And not a moment too soon. The Yiga shoves him forward and wrenches open the cell door.

The same one they’d thrown Barta into, Wild realizes dazedly. The thought doesn’t make him feel any more comfortable.

“Walk,” comes the sharp order, accompanied by another, hearty push. Stumbling on achingly numb legs, Wild starts forward.

He falls more than walks down the stairs. Between the Yiga’s forceful movements and the haze he has yet to pull himself out of, he can hardly keep himself upright. Even the journey across the main room is difficult.

Especially once he realizes where they’re headed.

“Master Kohga will be so pleased to see you,” his captor hisses, no doubt noticing the sudden increased tension in Wild’s shoulders.

“Didn’t I kill him?” Wild asks, with a forced chuckle. Maybe if he feigns nonchalance it will mask the thundering of his heart. He sends a furtive glance around the space, looking for anything that could possibly allow for a quick escape. But there is nothing.

…and no one. Save for the few assassins who leer at him from beneath their masks.

He swallows, hard. “I think I remember dropping his own weapon onto his head.”

That garners him a swift kick to the shins. He trips, only saved from face planting by the Yiga’s tight grip.

“You are a fool to think our master is so easily defeated. You on the other hand…”

The hallway narrows, then widens into a familiar room. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

“…you will meet your end today.”

Wild lifts his head as he walks through the doorway, heart situated painfully in his throat. Master Kohga sits before him, looking very much alive.

“You,” he snarls as soon as he lays eyes on the champion. “You cocky, undying little punk! You thought you had seen the end of the Great Master Kohga, didn’t you?”

Wild shrugs, a slight smirk on his lips. “I did drop a boulder on your head.”

The Yiga restraining him kicks his legs out from under him. He hits the ground with an “oof.”

“That-that is inconsequential!” Kohga replies, huffily. “I am more powerful than death! But for the pain you caused my beloved, loyal followers” – He rises now, stomping his foot along with every word– “You. Are. Going. To. Die!”

His captor’s grip tightens and he yanks on Wild’s hands. Wild falls back, head bumping against the assassin's hip.

“Shall I take him outside, Master Kohga?” A sadistic sort of excitement colors his voice. It makes Wild’s blood run cold.

Kohga nods. “Yes, take him. I do not wish to ruin my furniture with his blood.”

Again, Wild is hauled upward, though this time a vicious sickle finds its way into his back. It bites into his flesh and he fights not to let out a hiss of pain.

“Move,” the Yiga snaps and Wild stumbles out into the sun.

Kohga sits cross-legged over the crater Wild had been so certain he had plummeted into, hovering serenely just above it.

“Come forward, hero,” he sneers as Wild is shoved toward the gaping hole. “You will be pleased to find that I have perfected my art more than ever!”

With a snap of his fingers, a massive boulder appears above his head. Dozens of tiny spikes protrude from its smooth surface. Wild’s blood runs cold. Abandoning his more measured, methodical tugs of before, he begins yanking ferociously at his bonds.

But then, the Yiga drives his sickle into the back of his leg and all thoughts of an escape vanish. He chokes on a cry. His vision bleeds white. It’s all he can do not to pass out.

One, swift movement and the weapon is out of him, tearing through his flesh as easily as fingers through tissue paper. This time he screams.

He hardly registers it when the Yiga backs away, barely realizes that a large, stone door is sliding over the opening behind him, blocking any exit.

But Kohga’s shrill laughter pierces his ears like knives and he drags his head up to look at him.

“If I were you I would run,” he says, voice nearly brimming with excitement. “Because the time for vengeance has come!”

He begins to swing the boulder over his head. With each trip around it gains momentum, growing closer and closer to the moment when it will break free and careen straight at Wild.

Come on, get up. You’ve got to move.

Gritting his teeth, Wild forces himself to his feet. Pain shoots through his leg anew, like a thousand tiny shards of glass have entered his wound. A scream breaks through his parched lips. His lungs burn, breath coming too fast, heart beating erratically. Stars explode before his eyes.

And still the boulder spins. The motion makes him dizzy.

On trembling limbs he stumbles forward, bile rising in his throat. But each step is sheer agony and he’s slow.

…much too slow.

When the boulder flies free, he can’t evade it. It collides with his body and he goes flying. Pain erupts within him. It steals his breath, propels forth a shout of shock and agony, makes his extremities go numb. He can hear his bones cracking even over the rushing in his ears. His vision goes blindingly white, then spotty, then dangerously dark.

He hits the ground, crying out at the agony of the impact. And the boulder comes down with him, crushing his prone body.

Somewhere, Kohga is laughing. The boulder disappears, retreating back to its owner to prepare for another round. Wild knows he should get up, knows he should at least attempt to run. But all he can do is lie there, trying to breathe. Trying to stay awake.

Blood gurgles in his throat and he pitches sideways, gagging on it. Against the blurred sand, the liquid looks far darker than usual. Almost black.

Like the blood of the Shadow, he thinks dazedly.

He doesn’t get much farther than that thought. Because once more the boulder shoots forward. This time it rolls into him more than flies, shoving him against the far wall and pinning him there.

He doesn’t have the strength to scream, even as the spikes tear out chunks of his flesh and his shattered bones protest this newest assault. He yearns for oblivion that refuses to come.

“So, hero, how do you like it?”

It hits him again, smashing him against the cool stone. He gags on blood once more. It drips into his eyes, runs in rivulets down his face, pools in the gashes that run along his body.

“Painful, isn’t it? Well, that is what you did to me!”

Wild teeters on the edge. Of death or unconsciousness, though, he isn’t sure. Death, he hopes.

(Though at the same time, he doesn’t, because that means he has lost the battle again, failed everyone again, but sweet Hylia he just wants this to stop. Please make this stop.)

And it’s clear now that there will be no other escape.

Your brothers aren’t coming for you. Even if they are, they’ll be too late.

It’s already too late.

“But the mighty Master Kogha prevails over pain and death! You, however, are weak! Weak, weak, weak!”

The boulder retracts and Wild watches it dimly. One more hit is all it will take. He is certain.

So much for coming back to life.

He can see bone, he realizes, shining gorily from his left arm. It is at a strange angle too.

Must be broken.

It certainly isn’t the only thing. But somehow, that hardly seems important at the moment.

His eyes slip closed. Everything hurts. The only other time he felt like this was when he collapsed on Blatchery Plain.

I’m sorry, Zelda, for putting you through this again.

I’m sorry…

“Champion!”

A shout rings out across the space, protectively furious and wonderfully familiar. There’s a scream and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. But the blow he expects doesn’t fall on him.

Instead, gentle hands lift his head, cradling it. He blinks open swollen eyes to see the blurred face of Twilight hovering just above him. Legend and Sky appear over his shoulder, seconds later.

“Twi.”

Clumsily, he tries to reach out with his less injured arm, eager to touch him, to prove that he is real. But his body refuses to follow his commands. He doesn’t have to worry, though. The rancher’s hand easily finds its way into his.

“I’ve got you, Wild,” he says, and there is pure fire in his tone. “You’re safe now.”

A head of familiar pink hair leans over him. Gentle, trembling hands nudge his chin upward.

“Here, you’ve gotta drink this.”

Potion is poured down his throat, lukewarm and burning. But the magic of it begins its work immediately, zipping purposefully toward the worst of his wounds.

Wild swallows it with an effort. Then, he drags his eyes back up to meet Twilight’s. “Kohga?”

It is hardly a whisper, yet they hear it anyway.

“Dead.” He thinks it’s Sky who answers, though his voice doesn’t quite have its usual tone. It is a brittle thing. Dangerous. “For good this time.”

Wild tries to grin, but finds he isn’t quite up to it. “Good,” he mumbles instead. “Tired of his dumb belly.”

Twilight’s lips quirk the slightest bit. Gently, he brushes aside Wild’s bangs, wet with blood and sweat.

“Well, he’s never gonna touch you again.”

“Now, rest up,” Legend says, shakily. “We’ve got this handled. You focus on not dying.”

Any other time Wild would laugh and tease the vet about his blatant caring. But all he can focus on is the pleasantly numb feeling that has begun to spread throughout his body, and how warm Twilight’s embrace is as he scoops him carefully off of the ground. His eyes slip closed of their own accord. Before he even realizes what is happening, the darkness swallows him and he is gone.

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