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myfictionaldreams · 11 months

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Day 30: Freeuse - Winter Soldier

Summary: He was your patient. You were in charge of making sure all of his needs were met, no matter what they were.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, non-consensual elements, dubious content, freeuse, discussion of injuries, violence, masturbation, fingering, voyeurism, exhibitionism, stalking (kinda), possessive

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He was your priority. Hydra had recruited you with the hopes of creating an experiment to see if anyone could be trained to look after the assassin frozen in a Cyrogentic state. You were trained and kept underground to be the lead carer and doctor for the Winter Soldier. He was yours to look after, physically and mentally. After each mission you sent him on, he’d return and give you the reports. Most importantly, you were always the first face he’d see before and after being on the ice.

The Soldier would answer to you and Alexander Pierce, but even that was touchy sometimes as he would look to you before answering Pierces’ questions as if he was asking for permission to talk.

What’s more, is that you knew who he was outside of his assassin's status. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, born in 1917, was the best friend to the one and only Captain America, Steve Rogers, who was currently alive, having been found in the ice and unbeknown to him, his best friend was also alive with similar super solider serum pumping through his veins. Steve was Bucky’s potential saviour; one day, you hoped to be there when this could become a reality; however, currently, you were watched so closely by everyone in Hydra that you’d not even been able to contemplate a plan as to how to break him out. Until then, he was your priority, keeping him out of harm's way as much as possible.

Alexander Pierce had given you strict instructions to adhere to every single need that may affect or alter the soldier's performance as the ghostly assassin. At first, you just assumed it was to feed him, wash, cut his hair, make sure he was healthy and metal arm was working to its best ability. But the basic human need for the Winter Soldier ran deeper than that, causing your role as his doctor and carer to be blurred and something more developed.

The longer he was out of the ice, the more you would notice his increasing frustrations that couldn’t be erased with a simple afternoon in the gym or sparring with other guards. There were even days when no one could calm him down, his aggression so high that he had to be sedated if you were not available to talk to him.

For example, there was once a day when you were actually off of the unit, in your new flat, having just been granted the allowance to live there when Rumlow came knocking on your door. He only gave you the courtesy of putting on your shoes before gripping your upper arm and dragging you to the office.

When you arrived, the rooms were in disarray. Equipment smashed, blood and unconscious bodies trying to be aided too. It was a mess, and you were more nearly barging down the door to get to him, shouting for the guards to stand down and leave him to you. Yes, he was a highly trained assassin, but with the trust he held in you, there was no way he would intentionally harm you.

The underground room had no windows, which you were thankful for as they would have been destroyed in his rampage. You were only dressed in your joggers and a vest top, trainers already marked with red streaks from the puddles you’d walked through. It felt like your heart would escape your mouth with how erratic it was pounding in your chest as you tried to take in his appearance.

The shirt he had previously been wearing was now ripped to shreds on the floor. The tactical trousers had tears throughout but still seemed to be held together enough that he was indecent, and combat boots that gleamed with smudges where he’d been kicking objects and people. Each of his knuckles were busted in their own way. The flesh hand was cut, and the metal fist was red with other people's blood.

You’d not seen him become this erratic since he’d been out of his cryogenic state for too long, and his memories began to return to him as he questioned his entire existence. Whereas for this example, he’d only been defrosted for several days and shouldn’t have had any cognitive issues.

Stepping closer with your hands raised to show you meant no threat, you asked in a clear, concise voice, “Soldier? Where is the threat?”

His height seemed to tower over yours, more so than usual, as he turned his deathly glare towards you. The hulking muscles of his shoulders heaved with each breath he took as if he was out of breath, which was a rare occasion as he could run for miles and continue to breathe steadily, unaffected by the strenuous exercise. Your question was supposed to help identify what his issue was, hoping he’d find you being there to create a safe space for him, but the angry charge of his massive body had you flinching back in shock.

The warm hand of his wrapped around your throat, using the momentum of his steps to push you back up against the wall. Your hands remained up, even though you were itching to tear at his wrist to relieve some pressure. He wasn’t squeezing hard enough that you were struggling to breathe, but it was still uncomfortable and unnerving.

Your mind was working on overdrive, trying to think of a way to ease the stress he was going through. Your eyes searched over his body, starting with his head and face, but there were only minor scratches and grazes from the fights. Lower your eyes explore his arms and chest until they halted, seeing something that had never been through your consideration.

His tactical pants were tented, showing the outline of his hard-on, raging just as violently as the blue of his eyes. Was this the issue of his anger? The soldier shifted his stance, hand twitching towards his crotch like he was going to move himself to be more comfortable, but stopped as he watched you closely.

Alexander Pierce had once told you that whatever the Soldier wanted or needed, you were to give it to him to ensure that he was performing to his best abilities. You cursed to yourself quietly, unsure if this was even plausible or right to do. Of course, it wasn’t right to do. He was a prisoner in his own body, but you were his doctor, and you had a job to do.

“It’s okay. I know what will help you. I’ll show you how to get rid of the pain; I won’t touch you, I promise”.

From there, you were able to explain anatomy, the ache throbbing through his abdomen and how he could relieve himself. He did. Right there in front of you, his pants by his knees and cock in hand until he came on your shoes.

You didn’t so much as blink or flinch at the action. He didn’t understand that it wasn't appropriate to cum on someone's shoes or to masturbate in a somewhat public scenario. It calmed him down enough that you could push him back onto a chair and fix the injuries that were already mostly healed.

These situations only continued to escalate, which occurred more often than not. However, the Winter Soldier only touched himself when you were around, and you were unsure if it was because you made him feel safe or for other reasons that Rumlow liked to hiss in your ear, saying that the deadly assassin had a crush on his favourite doctor.

You blew it off as gossip and nasty rumours, unprofessional at most.

This only lasted for a few months before you noticed the changes in the Soldier, and it all came to a head one night as he turned up at your apartment after a mission. You hadn’t even told him your address, and he wasn’t due back from the mission for another 24 hours, but there he was, at the end of the bed, having snuck through the window as you were halfway through having some intimate time yourself.

Your fingers were between your legs, eyes closed, and your head tipped back, not covering your moans as you didn’t think you’d need to as you were living by yourself. The assassin watched, confusion causing his brows to furrow, head tilted to the side as his fists clenched.

The look on your face was one he’d never seen before, and he noticed the anatomy was different to his. Of course, he was aware that not everyone had the same genitals as his, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that it could be touched like this.

The only time you were aware of his presence was when the bed dipped, your eyes snapping open and legs closing as you released an almighty scream that caused the Soldier to flinch.

“Mine”, he muttered under his breath, grabbing your ankle and dragging you closer.

“What? Soldier, what are you doing here? When did you- please stop” he paused his attempts to drag you closer as he was half crawling over your body. You were trying to remain calm, but he was acting so possessive, and why was he even here? How did he get in?

“Mine”, he repeated above you again, eyes trained between your legs.

You were at a loss for words, feeling both confused and safe simultaneously, even with someone as dangerous as this. The night was one that definitely crossed the line for professionalism.

The Winter Soldier was so interested in your masturbation and different genitals that he practically begged you to continue, shouting mine and gazing at your intimate area until you continued.

You came, and then the Soldier unbuckled his belt and ejaculated over your stomach, and this was the turning point of the relationship. Your job now seemed to be a half doctor, half a sexual release. Masturbation escalated into hands in underwear until there was no point holding back the restraint, and the two of you were fucking.

It was challenging to wrap your head around, especially when the two of you were in the work environment, but if it was what he wanted and needed that you were more than happy to be face pushed into the wall, trousers and underwear by your ankles and cock shoving so far into your cunt that you saw stars.

The most significant issue was that, even though none of the workers commented on it, they all knew the sex was occurring. Mainly because the Winter Soldier didn’t seem to understand that this was supposed to be something that was for ‘behind closed doors’ and out of view of the guards and other doctors. To him, if he was to push you over the table and whisper “mine”, then this was enough warning that he wanted to fuck, even if you were unfathomably embarrassed that your coworkers had to watch you coming undone to the man they were all looking after.

The worst time had to have been when Alexander Pierce came strolling into the ‘jail’ they kept the Soldier in during his downtime. Multiple guards were surrounding him, and three doctors in lab coats were working tirelessly around the room. You’d been in there for hours. Warm, tired and ready to eat whatever take-out you could encounter on the drive home later that night.

With Pierces’ presence, however, your posture straightened, and you tried to remain as professional as possible. This was a feat easier said than done as The Soldier eyed you from across the room, staring with his unblinking glare. Eventually, he pushed past Pierce, the guards all raising their guns expecting a fight, but there was none to have as the metal fingers of his specially made hand eased into the front of your work trousers, plain underwear and pushed into your cunt.

“What are you doing?! Now is not the time and place- Ah fuck!”. There was nothing other than a hand over your mouth that could have stopped the moan pitching from your lips as his thumb circled your clit. You’d not been at all aroused, but he had learned enough about your body to know the exact way to stimulate your bundle of nerves and curl his fingers inside of you to stroke that beautiful spot that had you whimpering without any restraint.

As he pleasured you in front of all your colleagues, there was nothing you could do but painfully grip on to his metal forearm. He didn’t even smile or mutter a single word as he made you orgasm with a knee-buckling euphoria. It seemed he was just in the mood to hear your whines as he turned around and sat back in front of Pierce, who was looking between the two of you.

“It seems things have changed through here. I’m glad you have been able to … satisfy the Asset by any means necessary”.

You tried not to visibly cringe with the way he had worded it as you tried to straighten your clothes and continue with the work you had been completing before. Nothing further was thankfully said as he was given his next mission, and you were left to continue working for a further three hours with underwear that was utterly soaked due to his wandering fingers.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #winter soldier smut #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky x reader #marvel smut #marvel fic #winter soldier one shot #bucky barnes x reader #mine*#kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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ametrictonofaudacity · 1 year

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Gaps 3

Yandere Platonic Batfam x Mentally Ill/Forgetful Reader

Warning: This is a yandere work, and as such, contains themes of obsession and unhealthy relationships. This particular snippet from Gaps will be an escalation, since this is a series, so trigger warning for kidnapping, non-consensual drugging, obsessive behaviors and manipulation.

There was a half full bottle of psychiatric meds in the glove box of your car. You have absolutely no clue when this got there, buried as it was under your insurance information, registration, and car owners manual, but it was there.

You turn the bottle over in your hands, reading the small label. Prazosin. You were glad to have some extra, in case Bruce hadn’t been able to get your refill this month. He had been good about it, the past couple of months while you waited for your appointment at the DMV, but it was always good to have spares, just in case. And something in your stomach urged you not to rely on the billionaire too much.

You pocket the bottle of pills. Sure, your script had been changed from prazosin to nitrazepam, by Dr. Leslie Thompkins since she was the only person that would treat you without an ID, but you didn’t like how the nitrazepam left you sluggish the next morning. You also didn’t like the thought of just how vulnerable you would be, in such a deep sleep.

Your cell phone rings. You pick up on the first ring, humming.

“(Y/N).” It was Damian. A bit of a surprise, since he didn’t really seek you out, but not an entirely unwelcome one. “You used to have a cat, correct?”

You snort. Of course one of the few times Damian calls you, it was about an animal. You didn’t expect anything less.

“Yeah. I had a Maine Coon kitten for a while before I moved. She was the sweetest little thing too, would always climb onto my shoulders whenever I got home from work.”

“What happened to her?”

“When I moved, I had to give her to my roommate. I visit her whenever I go to Bludhaven.” You explain, beginning your nightly routine. You brush the knots out of your hair, root around for your pajamas, drop two tablets in your hand.

“I see. I’m sorry you had to leave her behind.”

You smile, glancing at the time. The two tablets go down easy, and you double and triple check your locks. In Gotham, it didn’t hurt to be vigilant.

“It’s not a problem. I do have work tomorrow, so I’m gonna turn in, okay?”

“Of course. Get some rest, (Y/N).” He says it like it’s practically a demand, and you laugh when the line goes dead.

You drift off to sleep, eventually, your limbs heavy and numb.

——————

Your woken up by the sound of your bedroom door creaking open. Your heart stops, before thundering in your chest, slamming fast against your ribs.

Your mind races, and you force yourself to breath slow and deep, feigning sleep. The average thief wouldn’t bother to kill a sleeping person, but who knew what would happen if they thought there were witnesses. Carefully, you shift, making sure the movement looked to be the shifting of a sleeping body.

There’s a sound of crackling above you, and you don’t know what that means before the intruder speaks.

“You sure you got the dosage right? They’re moving around a lot for someone who’s sedated.” A modulated voice, indistinguishable thanks to the static. Your stomach drops, and it takes everything you have not to stiffen in terror. No average thief would have a fucking voice modulator. And what did they mean, the dosage? What the fuck did they mean?

Your fingers close around the handle of the small folding knife you kept under your pillow.

“It’s not full sedation. They’ll sleep deeply enough that we can move freely, but too high of a dosage would cause issues.” A low, gravelly voice and you feel your breath hitch. Both voices go quiet.

You hear a soft rattle as a pill bottle is picked up. Your heart hammers in your throat. You can’t remember which bottle of meds was by your bedside.

“Didn’t you get them put on nitrazepam?”

“Yes.”

“Old man, this isn’t nitrazepam. It’s an old script of prazosin.”

Silence. Deafening silence. Your eyes snap open.

You don’t even give yourself time to process the fact that there were two of Gotham’s vigilantes in your room. You don’t give yourself time to panic, or feel betrayed, because if you do, you won’t stop. You’ll be frozen and defenseless and unable to do anything.

You lunge up, throwing the blankets off yourself, and you try to twist away when the goddamn Red Hood lunges to catch you, only for his arm to wrap around your waist, yanking you back. The small fold out knife clatters to the ground, and a hand wraps around your wrist.

“Why don’t we all just cool off, yeah? No more stabbing attempts.” He sounds almost amused, but there’s an edge of danger in his voice that makes you shudder. He releases you, and you stagger away from him.

Batman hovers in the corner of the room, and even though he is the furthest from you, he feels so much closer.

“You got my script changed. Why?” Your voice is trembling, and you grimace. You don’t like the way you sound far too vulnerable.

“The old man is paranoid as hell, that’s why.” Hood grumbles, crossing his arms. He leans back, giving you space, and even though you know you aren’t any safer, you appreciate it.

“Hood. Now is not the time.” Batman growls, and Hood snorts.

“When would be the time old man? We would have avoided all of this if we had just gone with my plan.” Hood points out. You have no idea what he means.

“They weren’t ready.” Batman snaps, and you don’t know what that means. “This isn’t the place for this discussion, Hood.”

He turns to you, and for a moment, hesitates. The moment passes, and he lifts his hands, tugging back his cowl.

You stare. Staring back at you with intense blue eyes is Bruce Wayne.

So many things click in your mind. The inexplicable cancelling of your appointments. The paranoia. The way you had been struggling to work past the constant fear you were being watched. The way your things went missing when you needed them.

“(Y/N), I know you’re confused right now. Just let me explain.” Bruce says gently, and you shake your head, backing up.

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say right now. You.. how long have you been breaking into my apartment? How long have you been using my meds to do it? And why?!”

“(Y/N), you barely manage to function on a day to day basis. I was just insuring your safety.”

“My safety?! Arguably I would be even more vulnerable SEDATED in an apartment in Gotham? Why do you think I check my locks so often? Why I have lists, of every possible thing I could need? I KNOW how to take care of myself, but clearly I made some sort of mistake when met all of you!” You shriek, and there are hot, ugly tears streaming down your face.

You didn’t need this, you didn’t need him, and you certainly did not need him pulling the strings on your life.

“Alright, you clearly can’t handle this old man.” Hood turns to you, arms crossed. “Listen, I get it. Batman’s a controlling, manipulative bastard. But we aren’t having this discussion here.”

You yell when his hand closes around your arm, and raise your hand to slap him away. He tugs you forward, twisting your arm behind your back and holding it there, and you yell.

A sharp pain in your neck, and your vision blurs.

You feel your knees buckle, feel yourself start to sag.

Gloved hands hold you up, and your head spins. Armored arms scoop you up, and you push at the thick Kevlar.

The last thing you see before unconsciousness takes you is white lenses staring down.

#yandere x reader #yandere dc #yandere platonic x reader #yandere platonic batfam

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danieyells · 4 months

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I'm not sure why I feel so attracted to the idea of Jiro sedating the MC and touching them over their clothes but not daring to do much more, and later the MC waking up and thinking it was a kind of dream influenced by him taking care of their pre-op "well he was always handsome"

You're attracted to it because it's hot anon 👀 the vulnerability, the drugging, the lack of fulfillment when all he does is grope over your clothes, the uncertainty--i'm always a slut for dub/non-con and drugging oh lord 👀 tell me more anon

And man i sure hope this isn't total gibberish because i wrote it in parts over the course of the day and only finished like now and it's 4am. . . .

I feel a little disappointed in this one, i'll admit lolol and it's not exactly what you described but maybe you'll like it anyway?

Obvious non/dubcon and (consensual, medical) drugging cws. Additional warnings for that the pc is never named and is only referred to as 'they' for the most part, and I left their gender and genitals ambiguous, which makes for some sloppy writing on my part. . . .

They had been helping at Jabberwock a few days prior and they'd been bitten by an anomaly. It was a minor injury but Haru was worried about the side effects. After Towa nearly sent the poor creature to hell, they'd been sent to Mortkranken for examination, to be certain the beast's venom wouldn't have any lasting effects.

It was Yuri who inspected them the first time. Even after spending time helping the medical house, Yuri still made the inspector feel a little on edge. They worried the only thing that kept them from more than basic examination and preventative care was Professor Nicolas' presence.

"Their venom is slow acting." Yuri scoffed after they described the anomaly they'd been affected by. He walked with them after they were discharged, making his way to another patient in the building as he explained before they went their separate ways. "If you go a week without noticing any changes the medicine worked in full. Come back if you start experiencing any unintended muscle movements!"

With that sharp dismissal, they returned to the Cathedral, worrying over every twitch and itch and crawl under their skin.

And three days later they were once again in Mortkranken after a sudden movement of their leg nearly sent them careening down a staircase.

Kaito and Luca had been kind enough to rush them to the infirmary, where Professor Nicolas subsequently had them quickly transported to Mortkranken as the anomalous effects would be better treated there(much to Kaito's dismay.)

A general student saw them into a wheelchair and rolled them inside the office, helping them onto an examination table to make sure another spasm wouldn't cause them any injury. Even as they were brought inside they began to panic as the spasms increased in frequency and spread from their leg into other parts of their body. They shook and twitched against their own wishes, even as Jiro arrived in the exam room with the necessary materials.

"You're moving too much." Jiro sighed on sight, putting down the needle he'd filled without even saying hello. He moved to fetch a fresh one and a small jar of lavender colored fluid. "I'm going to sedate you. You should be okay to fall asleep, if you feel tired. You shouldn't die."

The human tried to find the honest statement and lack of alarm comforting. If they were dying then surely Yuri and Nicolas would have been contacted? Or perhaps their curse or the ring would have counteracted it?

The summer had seen them abandon their blazer in favor of wearing a short sleeve dress shirt, making access to their arm quite simple. Jiro moved to hold their upper arm when another spasm rocked it. After waiting for the jolts to cease, he gripped their arm tight enough to make them wince, disinfected their skin with precision, and jabbed the needle into their upper arm with a little pinch.

The effect was almost immediate as he pushed down the plunger. The moment the fluid entered them they felt fuzzy, their vision swimming as if with exhaustion. The warmth spread and their muscles relaxed, losing most of their strength. Where a convulsion was about to start they felt a much weaker muscle spasm, registering in their mind as barely a crawl of their skin. Once all of the fluid had entered them, the needle was pulled out and discarded in an anomalous container for sharps; the spot was immediately cleaned and bandaged.

The sedative must have had some additional effect, the inspector reasoned. Where Jiro must have had been pressing fingers against the plaster to stop any bleeding, they imagined a long press of his lips.

But that wouldn't make sense.

Or be sanitary wound care.

(Would he even have a concept of 'kissing wounds makes them better'? It didn't seem like he grew up in such a gentle environment.)

Once he was certain the spasms had been relaxed Jiro put on a new pair of gloves and fetched his original needle. "This should kill any of the remaining venom." He explained as he cleaned another patch of skin. "Aside from the initial pinch you shouldn't notice anything odd. Maybe a little burning.

"If you feel anything besides that. . . ." He looked into their eyes, glassy and hazy. Barely there, their mind and body were so numb. For a moment they were able to focus on him, and he seemed to smile in amusement--although, that would be strange for Jiro, so it must have just been the medicine. "Just lie there and drool, I suppose. I'll take care of it."

Any attempt at response failed, their body feeling so limp that even speaking was a task. It felt like a nightmare of helplessness, the kind they'd had many times since coming to Darkwick--unable to move their body and helpless at the mercy of some person or beast. But even through the needles' sharp penetration(barely noticed in the haze of their sedation) they felt surprisingly safe. Perhaps their sleeping mind heard Jiro's blunt explanations and took them as literal as Jiro meant them to be and felt no fear or discomfort. They were helpless and heavy, but not afraid despite it. Like a dream within a dream.

As Jiro had claimed, they feel nothing but a light burn tingling in their veins. A gentle buzz throughout their being. They could almost feel the anomalous medicine working, seeking out the toxicity in their muscles and killing it. Or perhaps the sensitivity was part of their sedative-induced dream.

"Done." Jiro announced. The needle left them, and they were cleaned and bandaged once again. Jiro kissed--or pressed against, more likely--the bandage until the bleeding stopped. They opened their bleary eyes to watch him as he cleaned up. "You'll need to be monitored for about ten minutes, to make sure there are no side effects." He looked back at them lying on the examination table, a limp doll of a human. Not that, compared to Jiro, they were much stronger than a doll to begin with. "Not that you can go anywhere. In your condition."

Was that a laugh, or a sigh? It was a little huff of a sound, something they might as well have had imagined. A lot of things seemed imagined here. Like that Jiro didn't leave to attend to another patient and leave a general student to look after them until they could move again. Yuri would have likely had them put in a chair and wheeled back home with one of their friends. . .or worse, used their helpless body in some sort of experiment.

Perhaps that thought is what made the Jiro in their mind come closer once everything was in order and examine them closely. Had it been ten minutes? Time really didn't seem to have a meaning right now. They tried moving, and found little change in when they were first injected.

"Did I give you too much?" Jiro asked, slipping strong hands under their arms and repositioning them. They managed a sound best(though still poorly) described as a weak squeak in acknowledgement. "It's a strong sedative. If I didn't give it to you the venom might have started coordinating your spasms until it controlled your body. You'll be able to move again eventually."

Once they'd been placed back onto the table in a good position, the head of the table slightly raised, Jiro watched them.

Then, he moved a hand to lightly rest on their sternum.

"You're not breathing very hard." He observed. His hand traveled over to the left, cupping their chest. His other hand went to their neck, resting over their pulse. The palm over their chest started stroking the area through their shirt, heavy and dragging as if absentminded. They tensed, trying to squirm but too weak to do so.

"Your RPM and heart rate are a little high." Jiro noted aloud, though not on any sort of chart. The hand on their neck traced their throat with a thumb. "And you're starting to warm up. An allergic reaction, maybe. . .? You weren't found to be allergic to any of the anomalous medicine we use during your health checks."

The hand on their chest gave the tissue a squeeze. First a soft massaging, then something rougher. The way he spoke was so clinical, they had to assume the contact was little more than a fever dream, the last of the spasms wracking their body in particularly sensitive places and their sleeping mind filling in the blanks with thoughts of their vulnerable body being toyed with by the handsome, stoic doctor.

Even the tweak to one of their nipples wasn't enough to wake them, only enough to elicit another squeak and make them shudder in lieu of squirming or arching their back. Even when the hand on their throat moved to their jaw and traced their lips, sinking into their unresistant mouth to stroke their tongue, they assumed they were dreaming, misinterpreting what was happening in the waking world. Jiro commented on their temperature, thumb teasing the back of their throat until they just barely gagged. He retracted his hand entirely to mind their pebbling nipples with both.

What started so purely as the medical attention they needed had, in some length of time that they couldn't measure through the fog, became a pair of strong and heavy hands tracing down their side and waist, sliding over to grope at their tummy. The muscles beneath weakly tensed at the ticklish feeling, and he gave a little hum in acknowledgement. "It looks like you're getting your strength back, at least."

When he relocated his hands to their hips, they confirmed this slight recovery with a little squirm. He squeezed down, presumably to keep them still. "Relax. You'll need your strength for when you leave."

Presumably, it was to keep them still, although they felt his hands slip beneath to their rear, kneading their ass and tracing their crack through their clothes. When he spread the cheeks, he once again received a whine and a squirm, which he responded to with a rough squeeze as if in punishment. Nonetheless, he moved down to their thighs, similarly admiring their shape and feel, before slipping his hands between and spreading them without a hint of effort on his part.

"Ji--!" Their slurred attempt at speech was disrupted by their choked gasp when Jiro's groping moved to squeeze their crotch. The sudden jolt of pleasure, after being worked up through what felt like hours of slowly being toyed with, was enough to almost push through the muscle relaxants in the sedative for just a moment, letting them arch into the contact. They were still too weak to grind into his hand, however, and he only pushed back enough to get their hips to drop painfully back onto the table.

"I told you to calm down." His fingers traced the shape of their genitals, stroking as if to learn the shape more than to titillate. Jiro was a doctor. He'd personally given them medical examinations where they were wearing much less. He already knew what was there, though not in such intimacy. He didn't like 'pointless' things. He wouldn't see a point in something like this. So it could only be a dream. He massaged them through the fabric of their uniform and underwear, fingers pressing and stroking where heat seeped through the most. They only hoped he couldn't feel the moisture gathering there as well. "Your temperature is going up again."

Watching Jiro's actions was difficult in their exhausted condition. While there was no way they could conceptualize that Jiro would actually do any of this, some part of them desperately wanted to know what Jiro--if only as a product of their imagination--was feeling as he brought them agonizingly slowly towards orgasm.

They blinked through the mist of tears they realized must have been forming along with the drool running down their still parted lips, until Jiro's face came into focus. He was much too close to their lap, so close his even, unhurried breaths could be felt warming them through their clothes. It only added to the stimulation. Jiro was an adult, even if he sometimes seemed quite juvenile, like when he laughed at stag beetles fighting or Yuri struggling not to sleep in class; it was surely impossible that he didn't know what he was doing.

On the other hand, he'd been in a coma for some time, and he had no real consideration for the privacy of others' bodies. . .the intent look of study combined with a tinge of pink on his cheeks as he breathed over their aroused genitals and felt the way the touch of his scarred hands made them change. . . .

It was as if he was using their body to sate some curiosity, rather than truly molest them. Even the way his other hand gripped their clothing, as if considering simply removing it, seemed too explorative to be malicious or manipulative.

Or perhaps they simply thought that way because their angle didn't afford them the sight of his lap, to see if he was, perhaps, getting as aroused as they were.

But Jiro paused in his ministrations, contact returning shortly to simply resting his hand on that sensitive and throbbing area, before he retracted his hands completely. Again, they whinged, squirming at being left alone as Jiro seemed to disappear from the examination table.

"Interesting." What was of interest wasn't quite clear. It occurred to them that their body's responses to their dream were real, and perhaps the real Jiro was made aware of their arousal. It was impossible to tell his reaction from his voice alone, and they writhed in humiliation at being caught in some sort of medically induced wet dream. "It seems like you'll need a little more time to recover."

They held their breath, but the contact never returned. They felt themself cooking down, but still sensitive, as if Jiro's touch was lingering. Occasionally they heard some noise in the examination room--a turning page or a keyboard or computer mouse or writing implements on paper. Occasionally a noise from a phone, or a distant echo from out in the hall. But for the most part, all they heard was a strangely loud and hazy silence.

At some point, the dream turned to void, as if they'd fallen asleep inside of it.

When they came to, the world had much less of a layer of fog over it. Their body still felt heavy, but not so much so that they couldn't move it. Sounds were a bit sharper, and yet they heard less as if their senses had been heightened in their sleep. Yuri was scolding Jiro, something about dawdling in here with the sleeping patient when there was work to be done.

"They had a reaction to the antivenom." Jiro explained, his voice coming closer. As usual his footfalls were shockingly quiet, and they would have never known he was coming near if he weren't speaking. They squinted into the strong lights, raising an arm to cover their face. "They're awake now, so I'll discharge them."

"Fine. But hurry up! You know what happens when you're late for your medicine, and I won't tolerate your complaints if you're the cause of your own delay!" Yuri stormed out, likely to prepare Jiro's medication, not even acknowledging them despite having had seen them out when they first checked in days prior.

Jiro, meanwhile, presented them with a light snack of crackers and a juice box. "I would recommend eating a meal and getting some rest once you get home. That sedative wasn't made for restful sleep."

They cleared their throat after taking a few sips of juice. "You said I had a reaction. . . ."

"Yes."

"What. . .happened. . .?"

"Increased temperature, heart rate, and respiration." Jiro explained, watching them eat.

"Did you do anything to stop them. . .?" They really wanted to ask if it was truly a product of the antivenom, but feared sounding accusatory over what was likely a dream.

"No. They weren't at a dangerous level. I just kept an eye on them so make sure they didn't get worse."

They nodded, sipping their juice again. "And the sedative can give you strange dreams? You said it isn't made for restful sleep. . . ."

"Your body is forced to sleep without your mind being put into a restful place first. It would be like falling asleep with something on your mind, making you more likely to dream about it. So, yes, that would likely be the case."

They heaved a somewhat disappointed sigh, tilting the last of their snack crackers into their mouth. "That's good, I think. . .I'm glad that's all that happened."

"If you say so."

That response felt off. Jiro took their trash and threw it away, fetching the wheelchair they were rolled in on to help them into it. He put a hand on their back, making them jump as they were gently pushed to the edge of the lowered bed to sit up.

"What do you mean? That's all that happened, isn't it?"

"It already happened." Jiro said dismissively, putting his hands under their arms to lift them up(again?) and sit them into the chair, not trusting their legs just yet. "I don't see a point in worrying what happened between your treatment and now."

The cursed inspector tried to formulate a response that could convince Jiro to share what he meant--even if all he said was that he had read a medical journal, or that he'd adjusted them in bed a few times--but knowing Jiro they couldn't think of a way to get him to talk. They squeezed their thighs together, feeling their genitals throb from the orgasm denial, the unfulfillment of their dream that might have been reality. But they were already back in the Mortkranken lobby, where Luca greeted them with a kind smile, approaching.

"Can you walk?" He asked as Jiro locked the chair. They set one leg on the floor and, though it felt heavy, they could definitely balance enough to get up and stumble over to Luca on wobbly legs before giving a weak nod. "I'm glad to hear it. It looks like you've recovered well. Are they clear to return home, Doctor Kirisaki?"

"Just Jiro is fine." Jiro looked them over once more. It was surely their imagination that his gaze lingered on their crotch--where they squeezed their thighs together tightly, remembering their dizzy dream and just how close his lips were before he pulled away--as opposed to their slightly wobbling legs. "They're a fall risk until they've had a meal and some rest. But they're safe for discharge."

A general Mortkranken student trotted up, offering the scholarship student their discharge paperwork and instructions, then collected the wheelchair for sensitization and storage once the papers were taken. They and Lucas thanked them kindly, and Jiro as well. He simply nodded in response, before they began to make their way out the door.

The cursed human took one final look back at Jiro, who simply tilted his head at them like so many of the cats around campus. Then he winced and turned away, stumbling towards the basement to receive his medication.

About two or three hours later, they received a WickChat message.

Jiro: You implied you experienced an odd dream as an effect of the sedative. This may also have been a yet unseen reaction between the sedative and the antivenom. Jiro: For the sake of proper documentation, would you be able to expound upon the dream at all? It's okay if you can't remember everything. Any details would be valuable to the understanding of anomalous medicine and its effects on humans and individuals afflicted by curses.

Their heart pounded. Telling Jiro what they dreamed of could be valuable information, but could they really bear the humiliation of it? Of explaining that they'd had a nearly wet dream about him, while he was in the room with them? Would Jiro even think anything of it, oblivious as he is to emotional matters?

Jiro: If it helps, a date for you to be sedated again could be arranged. You could be attached to a brain wave monitor, so your memory won't need to be relied upon. Jiro: Perhaps the dream will reoccur. I'll be sure to thoroughly extract something of value, so the experience isn't wasted.

Perhaps it was his use of 'thoroughly extracting value', but the thought crossed their mind that they hadn't been dreaming at all, and that Jiro mayhaps wanted to finish what he started. But it wouldn't make sense from the get go for it to have had been real. . . .

And yet they remembered Jiro's talk of prescribing death to others and dismissing ethics.

There was no point in discussing the ethics of something that had already been done, he said.

Perhaps some of the experience was real. He wouldn't have had been so cryptic about what had happened while they slept if nothing had occurred, would he?

Although, he was often cryptic about things, so perhaps that was merely coincidence and they were getting their hopes up--

Jiro: A prompt response would be appreciated. 'No' is an acceptable response, as well.

They scrambled to type a response, realizing they'd left him on read.

8636: I don't know how well I can recall. . . . 8636: I'm willing to be re-sedated, though! 8636: Before I agree to it, may I ask a potentially non-medical question? Jiro: I can't stop you from asking questions over WickChat. 8636: What happened while I was sedated today? After I was given the antivenom?

There was a pause, but no typing for a while. Then the general Mortkranken WickChat messaged them with appointment information.

8636: Jiro? Jiro: ? 8636: I didn't see a response, so I was just checking in. . . . Jiro: I didn't agree to answer the question.

A fair, if disappointing response.

Jiro: Just know I attempted to administer a holistic remedy to an unanticipated physiological response that arose during your treatment.

The response took a little longer to parse. As realization dawned on them, the next message came in.

Jiro: It didn't work as intended, as I'm not very experienced with such methods or concerns. Perhaps you noticed your continued affliction after discharge, and your discharge instructions. Jiro: Should the same issue arise, I've done more research.

They covered their face in embarrassment. The discharge instruction "administer personal relief as needed" made much more sense now. They desperately hoped the Mortkranken student who handed them their discharge instructions hadn't read it first.

Accepting this explanation, they hastily sent an apology and threw themself down in bed, covering their face. Did they have to go to the appointment!? Jiro had only been trying to help them, albeit in an extremely questionable way. . .and somehow the thought that he had done more research to better serve the need in question. . .it was embarrassing, despite that they were the victim. They were able to excuse it, rationalizing that they were attracted to Jiro anyway and the idea alone felt exciting, but now walking into it as though it were any other medical procedure felt. . .insincere.

Resolving to perhaps cancel the appointment and try and get Jiro to have a talk with them about ethics, they dozed off, trying to ignore the returning heat and throbbing between their legs.

When they next awoke, it was to a small pinch, like the needles they'd recieved that day.

Just as had happened earlier, their strength was robbed from them nearly immediately, and they gasped as they felt a pair of lips on their chest, sucking at the nipple through their pajamas. A familiar large, heavy hand squeezed their other breast, twisting and tugging the nipple there.

"Not to worry." Jiro reassured through the gloom and the haze of sleep and strong sedatives. "Just like earlier, this is all a dream."

Limp in bed, a heavy doll for him to experiment on, what could they do but comply?

#jiro kirisaki #tokyo debunker #nsftish #tokyo debunker fanfic #dubcon cw #i'm a better writer than this i promise kekw #danie yells writing #danie yells answers #danie yells with anons #i think part of my disappointment is that in my head there was more gaslighting because that's part of the appeal of this idea to me #that in the end it'd all happen and jiro'd be like /shrug who knows lol #but in the end it wasn't like that at all. . .unless of course jiro is lying.#WELL i'm still getting my writing legs back after writing in a different style for a while so. take this and hopefully you'll like it #it is 4:30am and i am going to sleep now lol

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grandmother-goblin · 6 months

Text

Apotheosis - Chapter 2

Ao3 - Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Halsin deals with the Flaming Fist that picked a fight with him in Sharess' Caress and gets a confession from Zilvira.

Relationships: Halsin x Female!Tav

Rating: Explicit (18+) for eventual smut.

Word Count: 4.4k

Chapter Tags: Non-consensual drug use (not between the main characters), physical violence, the Drow Twins make an appearance, smoking, drow!Tav.

Notes: A big, huge, thank you to @bhaalbaaby for beta-reading!

The Flaming Fist scrambled backward, falling flat on his backside as Halsin’s paws crashed against the hardwood floor, caging the vile man beneath him. Before he could attempt to throw another punch, Halsin pinned both arms to the floor and snarled.

Halsin hadn’t anticipated getting into a fight, nor had he anticipated releasing the bear, for that matter. But everything happened so quickly. Wildshaping wasn’t a calculated move, but it was effective — it got the man away from Zilvira.

Sprawled on the ground just a few feet away, Zilvira had managed to get herself to her hands and knees. She swayed as she pushed herself into a sitting position and caught his gaze for just a moment. Her wine-red eyes were glassy and filled with an emotion that Halsin seldom saw on her: fear.

Damn it, he should have stepped in sooner. The conversation appeared amicable when he first spotted the blond man chatting with her from across the room. She had been smiling and laughing, and the man seemed genuinely interested in her. Though Halsin had wanted to speak with her, he hadn’t wanted to interrupt. If she had found someone to spend the night with, who was he to get in the way? She was free to do what she liked.

Yet, his reluctance to interfere dissipated the moment Zilvira stumbled out of her chair.

As a monk, she was one of the most agile and athletic people Halsin had ever met. She fought with the swiftness of the wind and moved with the grace of a feline. Even drunk, she had entertained others around the campfire by walking on her hands, smoothly transitioning to her feet, and pirouetting away to fetch more wine.

Even more concerning was the look on the young man’s face. An air of expectation hung heavily around him, and his once charming, boyish smile turned greasy.

Pleased, even.

There wasn’t an ounce of concern in his expression as he wrapped his arm around her like a constrictor about to squeeze the life from a mouse.

The Fist looked like a man who felt like everything was going exactly how he planned.

Yet, Halsin couldn’t accuse the man of anything outright. He couldn’t just charge in and demand the man to release Zilvira. No matter how his instincts screamed at him, he had to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Halsin has just misread the man’s expression, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

Then he smelt it.

A distinctive and faintly recognizable scent that grew stronger as Zilvira and the Fist approached. Halsin was well acquainted with the scent due to his years as a healer, but not one that ever belonged in a brothel. With the myriad of odors permeating the air — tobacco, sweat, ale, and sex — it was difficult to determine the origin. But the pit in Halsin’s stomach told him that he knew exactly where the scent was coming from.

It wafted when the man gesticulated as he spoke and sharpened to an unmistakable point when his hand stuck Halsin’s jaw.

The Fist’s reeked of Ilmater’s Mercy.

Ilmater’s Mercy was a concentrated medicinal powder, often used as an anesthetic and sedative, which was derived from a root colloquially known as the Hands of Ilmater. As one of the most potent natural painkillers available in the Realms, anyone well-versed in medicine and healing would be familiar with it.

Just a pinch of it was enough to ease anxiety and promote sleep. A teaspoon was enough to effectively sedate someone before minor surgery or even ease the pain of childbirth. In higher quantities, it could cause complete disorientation and memory loss. Shar’s Oblivion, criminals and miscreants would call it.

A perfect way to subdue a victim.

To most people, it was completely odorless. Undetectable. Tasteless.

But Halsin? Halsin could smell it just fine.

And from what he could tell, the Fist’s entire palm was coated with powder.

Zilvira wasn’t drunk.

She was drugged.

“Get the fuck off of me!” The Flaming Fist writhed beneath the immense weight of the bear to no avail. Terror shined in his pale blue eyes as he scowled up at him — putting on a tough face despite being indisputably outmatched.

Halsin’s lips curled back, showing off teeth the length of a man’s finger and as deadly as an executioner’s ax. The Flaming Fist had asked for a fight, and Halsin wasn’t about to let him go so easily.

Not until he taught him a lesson

All manner of thoughts raced through Halsin’s mind, each one darker and more sinister than the last. What would have happened to Zilvira if he hadn’t shown up when he did? What had the Flaming Fist planned on doing with her?

Had he planned on killing her?

Worse?

Whatever the answer, it couldn’t have been anything good. Though Halsin tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, the man had quickly proven himself unworthy of such a courtesy. Hells, the man was barely worthy of the air he breathed.

It would have been so easy to crush him. To press his front paws down until he heard the snap of bones. To make the man beg for mercy.

Rage boiled in Halsin’s blood, but he held himself back; it wasn’t his place to be judge, jury, and executioner. This wasn’t the Emerald Grove and Halsin’s status as Archdruid meant nothing in the city. No matter how badly he wanted to, he had no right to take punishment into his own hands.

The bear wanted blood, but the man would have to settle for bruises.

As Fist struggled beneath the weight of Halsin’s paws, the hem of a silken black dress and a pair of leather sandals approached with quick, confident steps entered his periphery.

“Hey!” A dainty foot with shiny, pink painted nails nudged Halsin’s paw like he was merely a house cat. “Let him up. I’ll take care of this.”

His eyes flickered to where another drow woman stood, her hands on her hips and a deep furrow to her brow. Nym, if he remembered correctly. Mamzell Amira had attempted to compensate Zilvira for finding her missing employee by offering her a discount on the services Nym and her brother, Sorn, provided.

Although Halsin had been a bit curious, Zilvira was decidedly less so. However, she considered a conversation with the twins to be payment enough since hadn’t gotten many opportunities to talk with more friendly drow like herself. From what he could tell, she seemed fond of them and they seemed to like her in turn.

Nym frowned at Halsin as if he were a misbehaving dog rather than a cave bear. A quiet tendril of self-consciousness slithered through him. The look on her face reminded him of a Menzoberranyr matriarch; she was not going to ask him twice.

Maybe her interruption was for the best. Zilvira needed his help, and Halsin didn’t need the Flaming Fist’s blood on his hands.

With more force than necessary, Halsin pushed himself off of the man and dismissed his wildshape in a shimmer of golden magic. As his back paws returned to booted feet and he shed his fur, Halsin stepped away from the man but didn’t take his eyes off him for a second.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Halsin said through gritted teeth, his anger simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. “Touch her again, and it will be the last thing you do. Understand?”

Indignation and fury colored the Fist’s face as he scrambled to his feet. “You just threatened and assaulted a member of the Flaming Fist,” he retaliated. “I’m placing you under arrest. Keep your hands off your weapons and keep the bear… away.”

Halsin fought the urge to roll his eyes. The man couldn’t be serious, could he?

While what the Fist said was technically true, only someone exceedingly confident or incredibly stupid would attempt to bait a man who could turn into a bear.

Yet, the man stood before him, holding Halsin’s gaze with his hands balled into fists, unwilling to back down and accept his defeat.

By Silvanus, he was completely serious.

Halsin furrowed his brow and blinked at the man once. “Are you dense?”

“Don’t make this difficult for me. I — ”

Nym stepped between the two of them, her spine straight and her expression fierce. “We all saw you throw the first punch, dumbass,” she said as she jabbed a manicured finger at Fist’s armored chest. “The druid had every right to defend himself.”

The Fist sputtered, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping like a fish on land. “The druid was harassing that poor woman,” he said as he gestured roughly toward Zilvira, who had been helped into a sitting position by Sorn. “He tried to grab her, and I protected her. What the Hells was I supposed to do?”

Gods, he was still trying to convince people of that lie?

Halsin clenched his teeth. “That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

“She doesn’t even know you! She — ”

“Halsin?” Zilvira said, shattering the Fist’s lie before he could even finish telling it. Her words were slurred and sleepy. Her normally bright, inquisitive eyes were dull and unfocused, her head propped up by Sorn’s shoulder.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Halsin, I’m scared.”

Those three words were like a knife to his heart and hurt more than the blossoming bruise on his jaw.

Zilvira had survived being kidnapped by mindflayers, taking on a camp full of goblins, navigating the Underdark, traversing the Shadow-Cursed lands, and fighting everything from Githyanki, cultists, undead, Illithids, and even an avatar of a god. In every circumstance, she wore a brave and stoic face. If there was an ounce of fear within her, she did not let it show.

But in all of those instances, she could fight. She could run. She could see and think clearly.

The Fist took all of that away from her. With just a dash of Shar’s Oblivion, he had taken away her every means to defend herself. And for what?

What did the Fist want with Zilvira?

What would have happened if Halsin had shown up just a few minutes later?

The bear rumbled in his chest, clawing at his ribcage in desperation. Wanting to be released once more so it could finish the job and let the Fist face the full fury of nature’s wrath.

Halsin’s nails bit into his palms as he glared contemptuously down his nose. “I don’t know what you were trying to do with her, but I know protecting her was the last thing on your mind,” he said, his words low and deliberate. “Your palm is coated with Shar’s Oblivion — I could smell it on you — and it seems my friend is suffering the effects. If you value your hide, you’ll get out of my sight.”

Color drained from the man’s face. His expression faltered as he took a single step back. “That’s quite the accusation,” he said, unable to hide a slight tremor in his voice. “What the Hells do you mean you could smell — whatever you said it was? There — ”

Nym made a pinching gesture with two fingers as if threatening to pin the man’s mouth herself. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen to him and leave at once.”

The Fist sputtered. “You’re not kicking me out, are you? Over the flimsy accusation of some creep? Do you think that will hold up when I call the other Fist?”

“I’m kicking you out for assaulting another patron.”

“I was defending an innocent woman,” he tried again, somehow sounding like he was actually buying into his own story as he encroached on Nym. “If anyone should be kicked out, it should be that ogre there, and if you weren’t such a stupid bitch — ”

A sharp slap rang through the room, and the Fist clutched his cheek.

Nym flicked her wrist a few times as if trying to wave away the sting from her hand. “Call the Flaming Fist, and everyone in this room can tell them how you made a colossal ass of yourself.”

The crowd of people that had gathered around them, most of whom were glaring at Halsin just a moment ago, turned their ire toward the Fist. Not one of them looked at the man with an ounce of sympathy.

Halsin may have caused the bigger disturbance by wildshaping, but the Fist had committed a far greater crime.

From what little Halsin knew of the Flaming Fist as a whole, the corruption within their ranks ran deep. Unfortunate as it was, the man was unlikely to face any real consequences for his actions simply due to the uniform he wore.

Public embarrassment might be the only punishment the Fist suffered, but it was better than nothing at all.

The Fist’s jaw ticked, irritation and humiliation evident on his face. “I’ll have you both arrested,” he sneered. “I know where to find you.”

With that, the Fist clipped Halsin’s shoulder and stormed past him. Nym immediately followed behind the man, likely to be certain the coward actually walked out the doors.

Some of the customers trailed behind Nym, likely hoping for a little more drama to spice up their evening, while most of the others went back to their business. Whatever happened to the Fist was no longer Halsin's concern. Not for now, at least.

Zilivra was far, far more important than anything else at that moment.

He knelt down beside Zilvira and Sorn and took her wrist in his hand without really thinking about it, checking her pulse. Slow, but not slow enough to be dangerous. Thank Silvanus.

“She’s a bit of a deadweight,” Sorn commented as he adjusted his hold on her, making it apparent that he wanted Halsin to take her off his hands. “I’ve been trying to keep her awake, but I don’t know — ”

Halsin placed a hand on Sorn’s bare shoulder in reassurance. “Thank you, truly,” he said, carefully gathering Zilvira in his arms. “I’ll take care of her from here. Is there somewhere more private nearby where I can evaluate her condition?”

Sorn nodded and stood. “Take Ffion’s old room. It was just cleaned this afternoon, and it hasn’t been reassigned. I’ll get you the key.”

Cradling Zilvira against his chest, Halsin rose to his feet with ease. He hoped she couldn’t hear the way his heart hammered against his ribs or the shakiness of his breath. The adrenaline in his veins hadn’t subsided, but it was important that he appeared calm and collected—just for her sake.

The last thing someone in need of medical attention needed to see was the healer panicking.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said and took a few steps after Sorn. “Can you talk to me while we walk?”

She blinked at him, bleary-eyed but with a pinched brow. “Talk?”

“I just want to keep you awake a bit longer.” Just long enough so he could monitor her symptoms. Once he knew any sort of danger had passed, he’d let her sleep it off.

Her face scrunched. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she replied, burying her face into his leathers, having nowhere else to hide from him.

Despite what she had said, her ability to string together a sentence of more than two words filled him with a sense of relief. It wasn’t any sort of definitive proof that she would be okay, but it was reassurance.

Fatalities or any long-term effects due to Ilmater’s Mercy were rare but not unheard of. If Halsin caught any problems early enough, his magic could reverse them without much trouble.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear if the last few days were any indication.” He kept his tone light and matter-of-fact. Curiosity still gnawed at him like a hungry rat, eager for answers as to why she didn’t want to talk to him. But it wasn’t the best time to have that particular discussion.

Not after everything that just happened, and certainly not while she wasn’t completely in her right mind.

People sometimes said odd things, or behaved in ways they never would otherwise, while under the influence of Ilmater’s Mercy. Halsin once had a patient who began sobbing uncontrollably because Drizzt Do’Urdon had not come to her wedding, despite how she had never been married and had just turned twelve.

Anything words that came out of Zilvira’s mouth would have to be taken with a grain of salt.

Sorn returned just a moment later. “The Mamzell says you can use the room as long as you need — no charge,” he said, handing Halsin a key decorated with a silky red ribbon. “Follow me.”

Patrons stared at them as Halsin carried Zilvira through the establishment and up two flights of stairs. Sorn made a flirtatious comment about Halsin’s stamina, seemingly in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Halsin was too focused on the task at hand to say anything witty in response.

Sorn led them to a room modeled after a library — if one ignored the paddles, whips, and handcuffs lovingly hung on the wall. But like Sorn had said, the room had been freshly cleaned. The smell of laundry soap, vinegar, and lemon lingered in the air, mixing with the sea air blowing in from the open window. The wooden floors gleamed as Sorn lit the oil lamps on the walls, casting the room in dim orange light.

Carefully, Halsin lowered Zilvira onto a raised bed in the corner of the room, propping her upright with pillows just to make it harder for her to fall asleep.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Sorn asked as he lingered in the doorway once he had lit the last lantern, concern etched into his handsome face.

Halsin nodded. “She’ll be fine. Maybe a little confused come tomorrow, but I don’t suspect there will be any lasting effects.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Sorn excused himself, saying he would send someone to the room with some food and water. Halsin thanked him — not just for the generous offer but for keeping an eye on Zilvira.

With Sorn gone, Halsin sat at the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

It was an extraordinary stroke of luck that he got to Sharess’ Caress when he did — only the gods knew what would have happened if he had only been a few minutes later. Where Zilvira could have been, what that might have done to her…

He pushed the thoughts aside before they started down a dark path again. She was safe now, and that was what really mattered.

Bed sheets rustled beneath him when he shifted to face her, partly kneeling on the bed with one foot still on the floor. “I’m going to use a restoration spell on you,” he said as golden magic shimmered around his fingertips and down to his wrists. “This is going to take a few minutes.”

Without a word or so much as looking him in the eye, Zilvira nodded. It was reassuring, he supposed, that she was still present enough to remember she was angry with him.

Placing one hand on the side of her head and the other on her sternum, he carefully let the healing magic at his fingertips flow into her like a slow, warm, calming summer stream. It only took him a few seconds to confirm, without a shadow of a doubt, what he already knew — she had a hefty dose of Shar’s Oblivion in her system. Not enough to be fatal, thank Silvanus, but enough that she probably couldn’t physically feel much of anything.

Silence fell between them like a thick fog as Halsin worked. The soft even sounds of her breath synced with his own. From the open window, the sounds of the sea and the distant chatter of people barely reached his ears.

After what felt like an eternity, Zilvira finally looked at him. Really looked at him. Not just a cursory glance over his face, but she was staring into his eyes like they held some sort of dark secret.

Moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes the longer she stared. Her lip quivered, and she sucked in a deep breath as two tears rolled down her cheeks. “I wish I could have you.”

The words gripped at his heart just as much as they muddled his mind. “You have me,” he replied carefully, unsure what she meant. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another tear cascaded down her face. “You won’t have me. You don’t want me. Not the way I want you.”

Halsin swallowed, trying to keep his mind on the healing spell before it ran away with her words. As much as he wanted to have this conversation with her, she couldn’t be held accountable for anything she said at the moment.

“Shh.” The magic faded from his fingertips and he withdrew his hands despite the sudden urge he had to touch her. To caress her cheek and press his forehead to hers and assure her that he wanted her too.

Gods, how could she ever think he didn’t want her?

The Shadow-Curse had preoccupied his mind for a long time. That much was true, but he thought he had made his feelings toward her perfectly clear. Between their long conversations, the innuendos and flirtations, how he let her lean her head against his shoulder almost every night when they sat around the campfire, how he made sure never to miss their morning tea, and all of the times he had called her beautiful…. How could she think anything else?

Still, it was a conversation best left for when she had a clear head. “Get some rest,” he said, adjusting the pillow behind her so she could recline comfortably. “We can talk more when you wake up.”

She sniffled and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I already feel stupid enough as it is.”

“Rest, Zilvira,” he replied gently, brushing a lock of hair behind her pointed ear so it didn’t tickle her nose in the way that she always hated.

Just as he moved to stand, her hand flopped onto his forearm, her fingers clenching as if to grab him. “Don’t leave me,” she said, a twinge of fear sneaking into her hushed tone. “Please.”

He took her hand in his and gave her an affectionate squeeze, knowing well that it was unlikely she could feel his touch. “I’ll be right here.”

A sad smile tugged at her red lips as she closed her eyes. “You’re going to make it impossible for me to fall out of love with you.”

The only things Halsin could be glad for in that moment was that she was safe and she couldn’t see the look on his face. Confusion wrinkled his brow, a frown pulled at his lips, as his cheeks heated with the implication of her words.

Zilvira was in love with him?

Every fiber of his being wanted to believe her, but he knew he couldn’t. Not at that moment and not while she was in such a condition.

Even still, his heart soared with the hope that his feelings were reciprocated, that perhaps she cared for him the same way he cared for her. That she wanted him just as badly.

But if that was the case, why had she avoided him? And why did she say it would be hard to fall out of love with him like it was something she was determined to do?

Once he was certain she had fallen asleep — truly asleep rather than a trance — he carefully let go of her hand. She likely wouldn’t respond well to him lingering at her bedside when she woke up. Perhaps a few days ago, Halsin might have stayed right at her side until the drugs wore off. Then again, a few days ago he was confident she would have been happy to see his face when she awoke.

As things were, it was best to give her space. He wouldn’t dare leave her in the room alone, but he didn’t need to crowd her.

Nym stopped by a few minutes later, bringing a pitcher of water and a basket of fresh fruit, bread, and cheese from the kitchen. She also informed him that the Flaming Fist was a bar regular at Sharess’ Caress, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to leave with company for the night, but she didn’t know if the previous company had been given the same treatment as Zilvira had. It was very possible that the Fist had done this exact thing dozens of times, and it was only because Halsin was there that he didn’t get away with yet another victim.

Just the thought that Zilvira wasn’t even the man’s first victim reignited his fury. Gods, perhaps he shouldn’t have held himself back. The Flaming Fist was still out there — and he had said he knew where to find them.

It was most likely an empty threat, but Halsin wasn’t about to let Zilvira out of his sight. And if Zilvira didn’t accept his sentinel, then he would ask one of the others to keep an eye on her.

She could handle herself, but the man had managed to drug her and almost got away with it. Halsin wasn’t about to underestimate him.

Halsin crossed the room, pulled a cushy, burgundy leather chair up to the open window and took a seat. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his smoking pipe and a satchel of tobacco and prepared it as he listened to the soothing sounds of distant waves.

Now that the danger had passed, he needed a moment to breathe.

Smoking always helped him relax. The taste and the smell of his favorite tobacco, the simple exercise of focusing on his breath. It brought back pleasant memories of his father, who had given him his first pipe, much to his mother’s chagrin. Halsin had crafted his current pipe himself, and painstakingly carved little oak leaves into the dark wood over the course of a few nights.

One night, in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Zilvira had asked to try his pipe and ended up having a coughing fit while Wyll and Shadowheart laughed at her. Her red lipstick had stained the wood, and Halsin didn’t bother to wipe it away, letting it fade on its own.

He kicked his feet up on the windowsill and closed his eyes, keeping his ears trained in Zilvira’s direction as he began to meditate.

She was safe. He had gotten to her in time.

And, gods willing, they could figure out everything tomorrow.

---

Beginning

#halsin #halsin x tav #halsin x female tav #halsin smut #halsin fanfic #halsin silverbough #drow tav

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thlayli-ra · 3 months

Text

Stray (part 9)

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre, Samoa Joe, Gunther, Ludwig Kaiser

Pairing - CM Punk/Drew McIntyre, CM Punk/Samoa Joe (past)

AU - Stray AU

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Kidnapping, stripping, non-consensual fondling, bondage, forced alcohol consumption, vomiting

Words - ~3,600 words

Summary - Drew and Joe search for Punk, who spends his first night in captivity

Joe's shoulder was squeezed and he glanced up to find Drew looking mournfully down at him. 'Oh,' he shuffled in his seat, feeling a little embarrassed all of a sudden, 'uh, thanks.'

Drew rubbed his fist back and forth over his heart, his brows furrowed. I'm sorry.

'Look, I didn't mean to... I know that what Punk did for you was...' Another squeeze told Joe that it was ok then the Scotsman sat on the floor next to Joe's legs. Pulling his knees up, he wrapped his large, hairy arms around them and set his chin down, looking like a sad dog waiting for its owner to return. The image was so vivid that Joe nearly patted the Scot's head, but he caught himself in time and the pair sat in silence, the minutes ticking by.

When the waiting became unbearable, Joe turned on the television. It was some kind of late night show - he didn't care which exactly - but it made the room feel less empty for the pair of them. Staring blankly at the screen, they both twitched at any sound from the street outside but it was only a passing car now and again.

Eventually, there was a tug at Joe's trouser leg and Drew tapped an invisible watch on his wrist. His face said it all. 'Yeah, you're right,' Joe admitted. 'He's been too long. Let's go look for him.'

The two men leapt up to their feet and Joe shoved on his jacket, only for Drew to tap him on the shoulder. 'Yeah?' The Scotsman lightly grasped the lapel and pointed to his chest. It was then that Joe noticed the bright blue colour 'Oh, oh yeah, right, you were wearing that,' he shrugged off the jacket he had returned to Punk that morning and handed it over to Drew. 'Stupid thing always looked dumb on me anyway.' He gave a short-lived chuckle as the Scot pulled his arms through the sleeves. 'Suits you though,' he admitted with a sigh.

Quickly locating his own jacket, the pair headed out into the night in search of Punk.

The cage-fighter was locked in a cage.

Surely there was some level of grim irony to that statement that Punk could find a crumb of humour in? If he wasn't so beaten and worn down. And scared.

He lay on his side, struggling to keep conscious as he shivered against the cold. The dog cage was cramped; he couldn't lie flat with his legs stretched nor sit upright without his head colliding with the steel bars. So instead, he lay in the fetal position, knees bunched up to his chest to try and generate some warmth into his shattered body.

He had no idea where they'd brought him. The room was bare and hard and cold. Like some kind of engine room or something, long abandoned. All stone walls and concrete floors. Silence. Not even the pipes above rattled. And there was no noise from the outside world, no honking of traffic or stamping of feet or wail of sirens. Just empty silence. Except for the occasional squeak of a mouse... oh god, he hoped it was a mouse!

He'd woken up in this room. They'd kept him heavily sedated during the whole journey here. Then, as he wobbled back into the real world, his wrists cuffed and his mouth tightly gagged, they'd removed every piece of his clothing, exposing him to the frigid air. Punk could barely keep his eyes straight as that blonde bastard, Ludwig, held him upright, wrenching his hands up by his ear. So that the General may examine him.

He'd been awake enough for that! But too weak to fight back. Even his own neck had struggled to keep his chin up while rough fingers assaulted every crevice of his body. Poking inside his mouth, scraping down his torso, pinching and twisting their way down his hips and thighs and back up again. Kneading, fondling, squeezing him between his legs, while Punk grunted feebly in protest.

Then he felt a thick finger sliding down beneath him and he found enough strength to jerk away, tightening his cheeks to stave off the invasion. His resistance was punished by another horrific chop to his already bloodied chest and he crumpled, a marionette with its strings cut, to the floor.

He lost the battle but won the war. The examination stopped there. But he was under no illusion. Why rush? When they had the cage-fighter imprisoned and at their disposal, a toy to play with at their leisure.

Punk bit down on the cloth gag between his teeth, hoping he could gnaw right through. Use his voice to scream for help. But they had stolen every weapon away from him, including his hands, which were encased in leather mitts and locked tight with duct tape. At least they'd set and strapped his broken fingers - a small mercy - but he felt the loss all the same. He had vowed to free Drew with his fists, but now they were compromised, utterly useless. He couldn't even scratch an itch.

A gust of cold air rushed him and Punk bunched up tighter, feeling the slack waistband of his black briefs slipping down. After they had coaxed the scant underwear onto him earlier, the General had tied on the dog collar. Gently, like draping a delicate gold chain around his lover's dainty neck. Then took a moment to pause and savour the sight of his new pet... before strapping on the muzzle! The same muzzle that Punk had removed from Drew, the same one that had been left on his table as a warning, the same one that had sat in a pool of rancid blood. He could smell it as it was fixed tight around his head, the iron tang that alarmed the reptilian part of his brain.

They'd then rammed him into the dog cage and locked it tight, leaving him alone in the dark, strange room. And Punk had lay there since, exhausted, miserable and in pain, staring at his impotent fists as if his gaze along could shred the leather and break them free.

When it suddenly hit him like a fallen tree! This was where they had kept Drew! This had been his cage and if Punk found it cramped then how the hell had a man of Drew's size survived all those years in here? These were his briefs which was why they fitted so poorly. This was his muzzle, that had silenced his voice for so long he'd forgotten how to even use it.

And these were his mitts. For when the isolation had become too much and he had painstakingly taught himself a new way to communicate, they'd stolen that away from him too. Punk's heart split in two at the discovery. Monsters! he cursed to himself. Fucking monsters!

But, at least, Drew would be safe. Now that they had somebody else to torment. He thought of the Scotsman waiting for him back at Joe's and-

A howl tore through Punk. Joe! Punk had told him he'd be right back, he'd promised he would be right back. The last thing he'd ever said to Joe was a lie.

But then, wasn't it just the latest in a string of lies and empty promises he'd made to the man he was supposed to love?

His bruised eyes began to water. He tried to bat them away but his mitted fist butted against the mesh of his muzzle.

Curling up tighter, he screwed his shut and tried to sleep, finding some tiny glimmer of solace in the fact that with him locked up in this cage, both Drew and Joe finally had a chance to be free.

Joe felt sick. It had been one thing to hear that Punk's place had been trashed but another thing entirely to see if for himself. Literally everything that wasn't fixed down had been targeted. And it hurt! To see the home they had built together lying in ruins- the petrol blue crockery they had picked smashed on the floor, the painting Joe had commissioned for the anniversary of their first date ripped from the wall, the couch they'd cuddled on to watch movies together shredded and gutted.

If Joe was a more poetic man, he'd have seen some kind of metaphor in the wreckage. Instead, he focused on finding Punk.

A whine caught his attention. It had come from Drew who was signing wildly with distress in the sitting area. Joe couldn't decipher what he meant when he swiped his open right hand over his left but from the way he touched his index and middle finger to the area by his eye and down, he guessed he found something.

'What is it?'

Drew answered with the first sign again, accompanied by another fearful whine. Joe rushed over and immediately spotted the large, gruesome stain on the carpet at the foot of the stairs. Blood!

'Oh shit, is that-? Was that there before?'

Drew trembled his head from side-to-side. The feeling of nausea worsened.

'Maybe it's not his,' Joe desperately clutched at straws. 'Maybe, he didn't even come back here.' He turned away from the grotesque sight, trying to stop himself from retching. 'Maybe it's-'

But he stopped. Words trapped in his mouth. Stumbling on heavy legs, light-headed and dizzy, he bent down to snatch up a crumpled bundle of black fabric. He opened it out and his knees almost buckled beneath him. It was Punk's hoodie. The one he had been wearing when he had taken off from Joe's house into the night!

'No,' he choked out. 'Oh no, no.. Phil, please no!'

He fell onto the couch, burying his face in the fabric. He could smell Punk on it, and a thousand memories sprinted through his head. A thousand memories falling into a thousand regrets. He should never have let him leave. He should have grabbed hold of him and stopped him. Fucking choked him out even. Whatever it took to get him to stay.

But now, he was...

A harsh knock interrupted his grief and Joe looked behind him to find Drew rapping his knuckles against the wooden dining table to get his attention. 'What is it?' Drew was pointing at the middle of the table. Another blood stain? What did it mean?

'I... I don't under-'

Drew placed his hand over his mouth, fingers splayed like a mask or cage or-? Then he pointed to the centre of the table again. To the blood.

Joe shook his head helplessly. He couldn't follow and Drew was getting frustrated. The Scot banged his fist against the table and took a pause. Joe gripped Punk's hoodie tight to his chest.

Eventually, Drew straightened up and walked over to Joe, holding his hand to the side of his head. 'My phone? Yes, I have my phone.' Drew started signing, motions that were somehow weirdly familiar, like Joe had seen them before.

Like that very morning!

D. R. E. W.

'Yes! Yes, I understand!' Joe grabbed his phone and pulled up the tab with the BSL alphabet, still open from earlier that day. 'Ok. Go!'

Drew's eyes were shimmering wild and blue as he stroked his thumb over his chest in a circle of eight. 'Punk, yes,' Joe nodded his head, focused. Then Drew touched his thumbs together. Right index finger lying across his left palm. Then it moved to the tip of his left middle finger. Right index and middle finger splayed out on his right palm. And finally right index touching the tip of his left index.

'Punk's... alive?!'

Cat paw! Cat paw! Cat paw!

'How do you know?'

Drew whacked the side of his open hand against his palm then pointed to his chest. The look in his eye said it all. Trust me!

'Then we have to call the cops! They can help us find-'

Frantic head shake!

'But-'

Trust me!

Joe felt lost. 'So what do we do? We don't even know where he is?'

Cat paw...

Wait! Cat paw?

'You do?' Cat paw again. But there was a terror in his eyes, a fear he was failing miserably to hide. 'Oh... I see. You don't need to come. You can just tell me and I can-'

Drew shook his head, a steely determination in the way he set his jaw.

'Ok then,' Joe drew his own courage to steady his frayed nerves. 'Let's go.'

The bed was soft and warm. Sheets fresh, a bright white. He could still smell the detergent on them. Early morning sunlight softly swayed in through the curtains, the melody of birdsong.

Two large arms were snug around him, holding him tight. Firm. They'd never let him go. Never.

Punk sighed sweetly and turned to cuddle closer into Joe's chest.

Only... it wasn't Joe!

Two beautiful blue eyes glistened sleepily at him and Punk's heart began to sing as brilliantly as the birds outside his window. His lips broke into a dreamy smile as the arms heaved him in, a protective shield to keep him safe. He could feel the soft strands of Drew's chest hair tickling his cheek, hear his deep, even breaths. Feel his soft lips on his forehead as he kissed him lovingly.

Bang!

Punk's eyes sprung open and in an instant, he lost everything. The warmth, the safety, the joy!

He was back in the dog cage. Cold and alone.

But the image of Drew holding him lingered like a ghost in the air beside him. A vision he longed to grasp with both hands but was vanishing fast.

They were both looming over him, the General smiling cruelly while Ludwig set to work unlocking the padlock that held his cage door shut. The last remnants of his dream about Drew faded but they were enough to give him the focus he needed. He had to get out of here!

The padlock snapped open. The instant it was removed, Punk struck. Smashing his bare sole against the cage door, it went flying back into Ludwig's already bruised face, sending him sprawling onto his back. Punk wasted no time in shuffling out the cage and went to run but found his path blocked by the imposing figure of the General himself.

Punk stood his ground, glaring venomously at his captor when Ludwig struggled back to his feet and cut off his retreat from behind. Punk was trapped, surrounded on either side by his kidnappers.

'Go on,' the General sneered, enjoying the hate radiating off the cage-fighter.

Punk's hands and wrists were bound... but his feet were not! He rushed forward, lifting up his arms to fool his opponent into thinking he was going to punch then swiped with his foot, smashing it into the side of the General's knee. The larger man began to buckle so Punk kept up the assault, repeatedly targeting the joint until a meat of a fist came straight for him and he was forced to retreat. Rolling under the punch, Punk popped up behind the General and crunched his heel into the back of his knee. The larger man went down with a cry.

Out the corner of his eye, Punk saw Ludwig making a move so he threw his bound arms around the General's neck, wrenching them back until the short chain of his cuffs cut into the larger man's throat. The blonde stopped, snarling like a vicious dog on the end of a taut leash. Punk jerked harder, his arms trembling from the effort when he spied a huge hand reaching up for him. He pulled away, out of its reach.

But forgot about the muzzle!

Thick fingers curled around the bars of mesh and yanked. Punk was wrestled down to the ground like a bull caught by the horns, kicking and bucking until a heavy boot stepped onto his neck. And began to press down.

'Give in,' he was ordered but Punk kept fighting, trying to wriggle free as the boot crushed down harder and he struggled to breath. 'Give in!'

His oxygen was cut off. Then flashes of black light began to take over his vision and he contemplated letting them finish him off, stop short the stupid game they were playing with him.

But then he thought of Drew, his sad blue eyes and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. The way he signed Punk's name with a shy blush across his nose. He thought of the kiss they'd shared the day before, the one that had been so achingly brief and how badly he wanted to try it again. Without feeling so conflicted this time. Savour it and enjoy it.

If he died, he would never get the chance.

That hurt!

So he tapped.

'Good boy.' The boot was lifted from his throat and Punk gasped in a series of painful breaths.

He was hauled off the floor and up, the chain linking his cuffs strung onto a hook suspended from the ceiling. His feet couldn't find the ground below; the hook was calibrated for Drew's height. Glancing down, Punk wasn't surprised to find the tattered remain of a chain sunk into the ground. The other half had been removed from Drew's ankle that very morning. So it was here, he surmised, it was right here that you wrenched yourself free. If Drew could do it, then surely Punk could too... right?

The General was chuckling, barely breaking a sweat from their scuffle. 'I said you would be fun, did I not?' he mocked. 'You're smarter than I expected. But not smart enough.' The larger man stepped in close and began tracing his thick finger over the waves on Punk's chest, just like Drew had done. Only when the Scotsman did it, Punk's skin broke out in sweet shivers of electricity. When the General did it, his gut began to knot and twist.

'I don't approve of these,' his captor said, his finger trailing up the serpent by Punk's armpit. 'The body is a temple. We don't graffiti our temples.' He looked down, stabbing his digit into Punk's heaving diaphragm. 'But this one... I had to look up what 'straight edge' means. Is it right that you don't drink or smoke or take any kind of drug? I like that. You are a man of discipline. I like discipline.'

Punk scrunched up the bridge of his nose. Something about the way he'd said that last sentence disturbed him.

'Is it also right that once you break your sobriety, you are no longer considered 'straight edge'?' He held out his hand and Ludwig passed him a bottle of what looked like vodka. Punk's stomach lurched. The General said no more as he twisted the cap off and threw it aside, while Ludwig removed Punk's muzzle.

Punk tried to thrash his way loose but the back of his head was gripped tight and the neck of the bottle forcibly shoved into his mouth, rammed over the cloth gag and right to the back of his throat. Fire poured out, igniting the walls of his gullet all the way down deep inside of him. He tried to cry out but his voice gurgled on the poison. He panicked, choking, struggling to draw in breath. Drowning. He was fucking drowning!

'Breathe through your nose,' he was ordered, the voice cold and unfeeling as he writhed in agony, bare feet clawing at thin air. Tears began streaming down his cheeks as he spluttered, globs of wet spray misting from around the large, blunt implement lodged between his open lips. Dribbles of alcohol-infused drool slipping down his chin. Stop! Fucking stop! I can't breath! I can't-

'Breathe through your nose!' The order was given again, harsher. Punk obeyed. Breathing in as deep as he could, just like Joe had taught him. Tried not to think of the horrific reaction his body was having to the noxious fluid, the way his stomach was cramping badly and... oh shit!

He threw up. Vomit battering against the tide of alcohol gushing down his throat. He no longer knew what was coming up or going down. He tried to breath. Focus on fucking breathing!

The torture continued. The bottle emptied down his throat. Toxic fumes stinging his nasal passage, acid stripping the lining from his oesophagus. The venom sitting in the pit of his belly like a nest of fire ants.

Finally, the bottle was removed. Punk's guts heaved up everything he'd been force-fed, clear bile cascading down his naked chest and legs and splattering onto the concrete floor below. Chunks caught in the back of his gag, filling his mouth, sitting on his tongue. The stench of vodka and puke overwhelming his senses.

Through his watery vision, Punk saw the General place the soiled bottle neck into his own mouth and tip it back, gulping down the dredges of vodka. Keeping his hard gaze locked onto his captive, the larger man swirled the alcohol around his cheeks like mouth wash.

Then grabbed Punk again. Locked his mouth tight over Punk's gagged lips. And spat the last of the vodka in.

His chin was tilted back, their mouths sealed together. His exhausted body swallowed it down.

And kept it down.

His mouth was eventually released but the grip on his chin remained. 'See? How easy it is to break your discipline? Your spirit will soon follow.' Punk's shoulders jerked feebly as he tried to clear his ruined passageways. 'Now, since you are no longer straight edge, you won't be needing that ugly graffiti anymore, you agree?'

Punk's skin began to crawl.

His torment had only just begun...

To be continued...

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#Thlayli-writes #stray au #cm punk #drew mcintyre #punkintyre #drewpunk #samoa joe #gunther #ludwig kaiser #imperium #wrestling fanfiction #wwe fan fiction #cw noncon #cw vomit

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a-crumb-of-whump · 1 year

Text

Whumpy Words

Send me more and I'll add 'em when I get the chance:)

Abandon

Abducted

Abuse

Ache

Aftermath

Agonising

Agressive

Ashtray

Asphyxiate

Attack

Attempt

Auction

Beaten

Beg

Bloodied

Blubber

Bound

Branded

Broken

Bruised

Burned

Cannibalism

Chilling

Choke

Chronic

Coerce

Cold

Command

Comfort

Conditioned

Contained

Cower

Crawl

Creepy

Crucified

Cruel

Cry

Cult

Cut

Dark

Decapitate

Defiance

Dehumanise

Dehydration

Deprived

Dissociate

Drained

Drown

Drugged

Enable

Entertainment

Escape

Electrocution

Exhaustion

Experiment

Exposed

Fear(less)

Feral

Forced

Forgotten

frostbite

Gag

Good

Gore

Grief

Hallucinations

Harm

Heave

Hot

Human weapon/shield

Humiliation

Hyperthermia

Hyperventilate

Hypothermia

Hysterical

Illness

Impale

Incapable

Infected

Inflict

Intrusive

Jarring

Jeer

Jittery

Kidnapped

Kill

Limp

Looming

Lost

Malicious

Masochistic

Master

Maul

Missing

Mistreat

Mock execution

Muffle

Mutilate

Muzzle

Naive

Nervous

Non-consensual

Numb

Obey

Obedience

Overstimulated

Ownership

Pain

Panic

Pathetic

Pet

Photographed

Power-hungry

Prey

Protest

Punish

Purified

Quiver

Reactive

Recovery

Refusal

Relief

Rescue

Restrained

Rigid

Rules

Sacrifice

Sadistic

Scar

Scream

Sedate

Seize

Selfish

Sensitive

Shiver

Shock

Sob

Starvation

Stockholm syndrome

Stoic

Stress positions

Suffocate

Suspended

Taint

Tased

Taunt

Tears

Tentative

Threats

Torment

Torture

Training

Trauma

Trapped

Trembling

Unrecognisable

Unsafe

Unwilling

Upset

Used

Vanish

Vigilante

Villainised

Violate

Waterboard

Weaken

Weapon

Whip

Whimper

Whine

Writhe

Zap

#whump #whump stuff #whump things #whump tropes #whumpblr #whumblr

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snakebites-and-ink · 8 months

Text

Whumpuary #11: Blood / "Just get it over with" / Memories + #13: Left to die / Barely Conscious / "I'm Fine"

CW: surgery (consensual and non-graphic), referenced past abuse

Whumpee was going to have to have surgery. Caretaker and the doctors had talked with them about it. All the violence they’d received from Whumper had taken its toll on their body, and they needed an operation to make sure it would all heal right if they didn’t want to risk lifelong impacts.

The doctors said the treatment wouldn’t be too extreme. Whumpee was still scared, though. They didn’t know how to really talk about their fear, though, because it wasn’t rational. They knew Caretaker would look out for them and the doctors would only act in Whumpee’s best interest. Still, they were scared of being so helpless. Being stuck in place while the doctor worked. Being cut again. And they were scared that if they were put to sleep, they would wake up in Whumper’s clutches to find that this had all been a dream.

Some of those worries were unavoidable. But some could be worked around. Whumpee didn’t have to be knocked out for this. The doctors said they didn’t have to have general anaesthesia, and could use a less extreme form of sedation coupled with local anaesthesia. They wouldn’t have to be as powerless, because they would still be awake and somewhat aware of what was going on. They wouldn’t be forced into unconsciousness.

They’d expected judgement or condescension when they finally voiced their worries, but Caretaker just looked sympathetic and said that it was understandable with all Whumpee had gone through. And the doctors were very clear that they’d only do what Whumpee consented to. Whumpee didn’t know how to say how much the simple fact that people cared what they wanted meant to them.

When the day of their appointment came, Whumpee had a pit of dread in their stomach, but at least they also felt a little hopeful. If everything went well, this would bring them one step farther in recovering from everything Whumper had done to them.

Whumpee lay down on the bed. “You ready?” Caretaker asked softly.

Whumpee grimaced and clenched their eyes shut. “Just get it over with.”

Caretaker gave them a sad, compassionate look, but signalled the doctors to start. They administered the anaesthesia and started prepping Whumpee.

Whumpee reached out and took Caretaker’s hand, partially for the support, partially to reassure themself that Caretaker was still with them.

It didn’t take long for the sedation to kick in. Whumpee became drowsy and sluggish. Their eyelids lowered partway.

Whumpee’s grip weakened, but Caretaker kept holding on to their hand. “I’ve got you,” they whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”

Whumpee couldn’t move. They could barely feel anything. They focused on the reassuring presence of Caretaker next to them. Everything else seemed far away as the sedation pulled them to a state that wasn’t quite sleep and covered their anxieties with a blanket of artificial calm.

#Not me BSing my way through most of the medical stuff #whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno11 #whumpuaryno13 #“Just get it over with”#barely conscious #surgery #anesthesia #sedation #medical inaccuracies #<- probably. idk sorry #original fic #whump #whump writing #my posts #my writing

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 2 years

Text

TRIGGER ME. (18+ AIZAWA ONE SHOT) [REQUEST FILL]

Pairings: NONE

Synopsis: In which Aizawa decides to take matters into his own hands to try and ease his stress a little more, but what starts as something fun and interesting when he stumbles across a hypnosis video catered to stronger orgasms turns into a BIG problem when he finds himself unable to break away from the hold his new addiction has on him. (Request Fill for @princeasimdiya12)

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+ (MINORS BEGONE), Hypnosis (both consensual and non-consensual), Dubcon, Public Stripping, Public Masturbation, Exhibitionism, Edging, Trigger Word for Hypnosis, Heat-like Symptoms, Hints of Dacryphilia, Degradation, Getting Caught, Aizawa in Heat, Comedy

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Thank you so much to @princeasimdiya12 for sending me my very first request! I really hope you enjoy it! And yes, I do requests so I'll be uploading something for it later in the month. Stay safe, y'all! -Jazz

**********

“Fuck!”

Usually, in the type of activity Aizawa was indulging in tonight, this word would be something he shouted in the sweet privacy and darkness of his bedroom in the late of the night when the dorms were all quiet for the night.

It is that one word that encompasses all the sheer pleasure he feels as he finally, finally, reaches the peak and spurts his cum all over his stomach and hand gripping his fat, veiny cock before the sweet ache of a good orgasm sedates him.

But tonight, as it has been for the past month, that word does nothing but voice his frustration and peaking anger. Aizawa is not at all pleased for tonight and it’s all because of the stupid stress this month has settled onto his broad shoulders that he can’t escape from.

Irked, he takes his hand away from his still-achingly hard dick shiny and slick with coconut oil, the head bubbling with precum. He pauses the video on his laptop, the screen depicting the xVideos website where a very gorgeous woman is living her best life as a rope bunny. She dangles from the ceiling, arms, and legs tied, where a very naked and muscular man is fucking her stupid.

It’s a good video and one of many Aizawa finds himself coming back to. Usually, it hits every single time, but now? It barely does anything to make him burst. He knows that logically it isn’t the porn. It’s him. He’s the problem.

This has been happening for over a month now. And it’s fucking kill him. Whenever he has the time to finally relax and wind down over a long day of teaching, grading papers, and yelling at the little snots he calls his students, he can never relax or wind down at all. No amount of masturbation is working for him anymore, including his favorite genres of porn.

Being able to have this time to himself usually fills Aizawa with joy. Call it ridiculous or weird, but to sit back and allow his mind to go to naughtier places as his hand strokes his cock is a form of self-care to him. He doesn’t fuck with drugs or alcohol. A good orgasm is all the addiction he’ll allow himself. For a moment, he doesn’t have to think about training or if his students will pass the next exam and if they’ll ever move past their insecurities to be the best damn pro heroes they can be. All he has to think about is cumming.

But that hasn’t been the case this month. He hasn’t had a successful orgasm in weeks, and he knows that it’s because of stress. Unfortunately, this has taken its toll on him. He’s been noticing he’s way more hostile at work, snapping at his students more than usual and ready to tear anyone a new one.

Not to mention his appearance–while he’s primarily known for looking like he hasn’t slept in ten years, the dark circles under his eyes have been more prominent lately. Maybe it’s because he’s been staying up all night trying to bust a nut, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep properly without one.

Even his good friend Hizashi Yamada, aka Present Mic, has taken notice of his friend’s appearance and change in personality. A week ago during their lunch break, he sat down with Aizawa to chat with him. “Yo, ‘Zawa!” he greeted him, usually being way louder but softening his voice to not startle Aizawa. He appreciated that because he was sure he would’ve had Hizashi’s head.

“What?” he grumbled, slurping down his ramen and holding the cup with the force of a thousand men. Earlier that morning, he attempted to grip his dick the same way and get a quick cum before he was due for classes.

As you can guess, that didn’t work.

“You been feelin’ alright?” Hizashi asked, concern evident on his face, his thin eyebrows furrowed at Aizawa. The dark-haired pro looked at his blonde friend, noodles in his mouth. “Yeah?” he replied, but it sounded more like a question. “Why?”

Hizashi looked a bit nervous as he crossed his legs over each other, his own lunch forgotten. “Well,” he began with a huff, “you just seem tired. And it just seems like you’ve been…well, a bit of a dick lately.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow at him, prompting for more of an explanation. Hizashi sighed, twiddling the end of his mustache. “I’m only sayin’ this because you’re my good friend and I hate to see you in this predicament.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?” Aizawa asked, annoyed.

“You clearly haven’t been sleeping,” Hizashi explained quickly so as to not piss off his friend more. “Those bags under your eyes get any darker and you’ll have raccoon eyes. And now, some of the students and staff are noticing your behavior. You’re flying off the handles more than usual.”

Aizawa slowly chewed his noodles and swallowed, but a lump in his throat appeared. ‘Fuck,’ he thought, upset that everyone has been noticing too. Shit, did Principal Nezu notice it? What if he got pulled into the office?

“You’re not gonna get pulled into Nezu’s office, man,” Hizashi said. Aizawa blanched, realizing he voiced his own humiliating thoughts aloud. “That lil’ mouse loves you! No one’s gonna whip those kids into shape like you do.” He nudged Aizawa’s arm with his elbow. “That’s why I’m here to put an end to this tragedy! So, have you been cumming lately?”

Aizawa nearly choked on the broth he had in his throat. He had to gulp down tons of water to stop himself from coughing. “What?” he demanded, gawking at Hizashi.

“Have you been cumming lately?” the blonde repeated simply. “Orgasming. Has that been happening for you lately?”

Aizawa was at a loss for words. Was his friend really asking him this? “Why the fuck do you care?” he growled lowly. “My bodily functions are none of your business. And plus…hello? We’re in a school?”

“Oh, come on!” Hizashi scoffed. “There’s no one in here! And we’re friends! We’re supposed to share this kind of stuff with each other, especially if it’s fuckin’ with our daily routine.” He quirked an expectant eyebrow at Aizawa. “So, have you?”

Aizawa flushed underneath his scarf. How did Hizashi know? Was it all over his face like a book cover? Slowly, he nodded. “Mmm-hmm!” Hizashi hummed, pleased. “I knew it! It’s the same with me–whenever I can’t give myself a good nut, I become a total beast.”

He leaned in, planting an elbow on the table as he regarded his poor friend. “Is it stress?” he asked.

Again, Aizawa nodded. “It’s been messing with me,” he sighed, at least glad to have an ear to talk about this to. “All the teaching, the papers, constantly worrying about a villain attack…” He leaned his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m stuck in limbo.”

Hizashi patted his friend’s back comfortingly. “There, there, my friend. I have a solution to this problem!”

Aizawa glanced at him. That quick, huh? “So what do you suggest I do?” he grumbled, already knowing it’ll be a bullshit idea.

But Hizashi looked more than happy with this idea. “You usually go for the video porn, yes?” he asked. Aizawa hesitantly nodded. He never really talked about porn like that with Hizashi. “And I’m sure you watch it often.”

Aizawa nodded again but quickly grew irritated. Where was he going with this? “Then that’s just it!” Hizashi laughed. “You have to think outside the box, my friend! You might be getting tired of the same old shit, and you’re becoming desensitized to it. When you’re stressed it only compounds it, adding to your lackluster orgasms.”

Aizawa blinked at his friend, never thinking of it that way. “Have you ever tried audio porn?” Hizashi asked. “It’s all the rage these days. Sometimes, all you really need is to hear something rather than see it. Personally, I always go for the masturbation audios aka ramble faps. They get me every time. Something about stimuli.”

Hizashi then took out his phone and texted Aizawa something that made his phone buzz. “Try it out for yourself and see if you like it,” he said. “I just sent you a link to my favorite website for audio porn. If this works then you owe me a free ramen dinner.”

Aizawa didn’t agree or disagree with that. He only picked up his phone and stared down at the link leading to the website. “But be warned, my friend,” Hizashi added, his voice dipping into a warning. His eyes grew serious, and Aizawa knew better than to tune his friend out. “Some of this shit can be become addictive real fast, so watch yourself. After all, it is porn. Just don’t go over your head.”

Aizawa now glances at his semi-hard dick. Already, the arousal he felt is leaving him, but that need for release is still settled in his core. “Need a shower,” he grumbles to himself, hoping that will ease the tension and hopefully relax him enough to sleep.

When he gets in the shower, he first sprays himself with cold water to stop the blood from flowing to his cock. Once he’s flacid, he raises the temperature and takes a quick shower with his favorite soap, allowing the water to wash his sins down the drain. Once he’s done, he steps out of the steam, pops on a black hoodie and some sweats without underwear, and settles back down at his computer desk once he’s pack in his living room.

But even the shower wasn’t enough to get rid of the urge to explode. He glances at the time on his laptop: 12:15 PM. He’ll have to be up in at least 5 hours. “Ugh!” he groans, frustrated and quickly reaching the tipping point of desperation. He runs his hands down his tired face.

How is supposed to sleep like this? Trick question. He can’t. There is no way in hell he’ll be able to get a good night’s rest if he can’t watch or listen to some good stimuli.

Listen.

Hizashi’s advice comes flooding back to him and immediately, he goes into his messages on his laptop where, sure enough, the link Hizashi sent him is still there, untouched and unread. He stares at it for a moment, weighing his options. For one, he’s never listened to straight audio porn before. Sure, sounds help, but he’s always been a visual type of guy.

And the second thing that makes him hesitate is Hizashi’s warning: “Some of this shit can become addictive real fast, so watch yourself. Don’t go over your head.”

As fast as the thought comes, it’s gone as Aizawa scoffs to himself. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles incredulously. He’s been watching porn since his teens and he hasn’t become addicted to it. Plus, if audio porn is so addictive, why even send it to him? Hizashi probably said that just to scare him or be dramatic.

So, with that being in mind, he first connects his AirPods to his laptop (which Hizashi also advised for him to do for a better experience) and then clicks on the link. The link takes him to a website by the name of “Ear Sex” where a set of red, sensual lips are settled between two muffs of a headset as a logo. Below are dozens of audio recordings, either as links or videos, with different choices for genres and tags to search by.

Aizawa scrolls for a bit, impressed with what the site has to offer. It seems like a big community with many followers and contributors on it. Curious, he decides to scroll through the random collection of the top audios celebrated from 2022. The audio that earned its spot at number one is a video titled “Hypno Sex” with an audio link attached at the bottom for those who prefer links.

Aizawa clicks on the video and reads the small bio written by the creator “Earwave”: If you decided to click on this audio, thank you, and welcome to my world. Please listen to this at your own discretion with the knowledge that there is a trigger word and know that this audio is only made for the intention of kink. Thank you.

“Kink, huh?” Aizawa mumbles. Despite his better judgment and figuring it’s just for dramatization, he clicks on the video. It shows nothing but a black screen for a moment, only the sound of someone’s very soothing and sensual voice heard in his AirPods.

“Thank you for clicking on this video or audio link,” the voice says, “and welcome to my world. In a moment, you will be transported to a world very different from the one we occupy. It will be one of complete nothingness. Nothing but bliss and submission. A loss of control that you will give to me in exchange for utter and complete pleasure.”

Aizawa sits back in his seat, getting comfortable, and places his hands on his toned stomach. No shame in giving this a try. And if he hates it, he’ll make sure to tell Hizashi exactly how he feels and that he gets no kind of ramen lunch at all.

“First I would like to disclose that this audio does deal with hypnosis and a trigger word,” the voice announces, her voice still soft and soothing. “If this makes you uncomfortable or turns you off in any way, please exit this audio now. If you’re still here, allow me to take you away from the stress and mundane that may currently be in your life right now for the time being.”

Aizawa’s brows furrow at the mention of hypnosis. That’s a kink now? Fuck, is this what the kids are into these days? He can’t see how this would have any effect on him though, especially when it’s just an audio recording.

“Before we start, I’d like you to first relax completely,” the voice gently orders. “Get comfortable, close your eyes, and slowly breathe in and out…”

Aizawa does as the voice tells him, figuring relaxing would put him right to sleep. The voice keeps telling him breathe in and out and he does so, his chest falling and rising evenly. With every breath, he can feel his stress start to melt away. Maybe he should’ve been doing this instead of watching porn to relax himself.

“Good,” the voice coos. “Now open your eyes.”

Aizawa opens them and is suddenly face to face with a swirl of colors: reds, oranges, pinks, blues, yellows. They all swirl and collide like a kaleidoscope on his screen. He is transfixed by it, unable to look away, and he isn’t sure why.

“The next step is to put you under,” the voice explains, still sensual and soft. “I’m going to give you a trigger word now. The very first time you hear the word, you will immediately start stripping every article of clothing off of you. Socks, underwear, all of it off. I want you completely…naked.”

Aizawa sharply inhales, gripping the arms of his chair at the seductive whisper in his ears.

“Then, after you are finally ready for me, I want you to cum all over yourself until you can barely think. Then, and only then, will you finally break the trance you’re in. If you don’t cum, you’re stuck giving all of your control to me. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes,” Aizawa whispers into the darkness of his dorm, not sure why that came out. Is this shit really taking effect this quickly? In a fucking audio porn recording?

“Now let’s begin,” the voice coos. “In three…two…one…mind.”

In that split second, something happens to Aizawa. Something that has never happened to him in his life. As soon as he hears that word, first, he feels warm. Hot even. He feels suffocated under his hoodie and in his sweats, skin flushed and cock suddenly hard now.

Then all the control he had over his body previously is gone. It feels as if something, or someone, is controlling him. Like he is inside of himself looking out as he suddenly strips off his hoodie and tosses it somewhere on the floor. Then off goes his sweats until he is sitting completely naked in his desk chair again, the audio still playing.

“That’s it, honey,” the voice purrs. “Strip for me.”

If Aizawa had any other clothes on his body, he certainly would. But he doesn’t. He is completely nude, sitting in the semi-darkness of his dorm as the moonlight peeks through the curtains. The light coats his toned abs and pecs in silver, illuminating the hard peaks of his nipples and making the precum coating his cockhead glisten. He is panting, wanton mess, waiting for the voice to give him the next order. ‘What’s happening to me?’ he thinks.

“If you’re naked now, go ahead and start,” the voice giggles as if the person behind the screen knows exactly how he feels and what they’re doing to him. “Make yourself cum for me, baby.”

That’s all Aizawa needed to hear. He takes his swollen, hard dick in his hands and immediately starts stroking. He doesn’t go too fast at first–just trying to get a good rhythm going. He is shocked to find himself completely slick and wet with his own precum that must’ve dribbled down his shaft and balls without him noticing. No lube or oil is even needed.

That’s how Aizawa knows this shit is really working because there’s no way he’s able to lube himself up naturally without some help. ‘Holy shit,’ he thinks. A shocked yet pleased chuckle leaves his lips, quickly turning into a moan as he hits that sweet spot located right at the base of his dick.

“Good boy,” the voice croons. “You’re doing so well. I just know you’re close to exploding all over yourself, aren’t you?”

Aizawa lets out a strained grunt that he attempts to muffle by biting his lip. He begins to stroke a little harder and faster as he feels his balls begin to swell. That familiar feeling of release begins to rise, egging him on. He wants desperately to cum. Wants to feel his cream spurting into his hand and his stomach. Strings of moans and curses leave his lips as his hand grips his cock tighter, pumping faster. He doesn’t give a fuck who hears. He just wants to fucking cum.

“Close,” he grunts to no one in particular. “I’m so, so close!”

As if hearing him, the voice urges him to finally release. “Come on now, baby,” it teases. “Don’t disappoint me. Cum all over yourself. Cum for me.”

And sure enough, Aizawa does just that. The feeling tightens in his heavy balls and shoots up into his cock, spurting all over himself. “Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck me!” he whispers fervently, followed by a string of moans and groans of pleasure that would make anyone blush if they heard them. His nut spurts all over his hand and splashes onto his stomach, naked thighs, and (embarrassingly) his laptop screen.

But he isn’t done yet. The satisfaction that comes from a good orgasm and makes him tired doesn’t settle into his bones. The aftermath of a very strong, insane orgasm has him curling his toes and clenching his muscles, feeling those aftershocks that rock him. His hand continues to stroke his dick, tinier spurts of cum still shooting out.

“F-fuck!” Aizawa gasps, seeing stars despite his eyes still being open and staring at the screen. He can’t remember the last time he had an orgasm this strong. It nearly knocks him out of his seat.

“Thank you, baby,” the voice purrs. “You did so well for me. Now that you’ve cum, you should be coming back to your body soon.”

The aftershocks finally fade after what feels like forever and Aizawa finally slumps in his seat, eyes closed and breathing heavy. When he blinks, he is briefly startled to find himself sitting completely nude in his chair in the dark. His cum-covered hand is on his flacid dick and his laptop screen is now completely black.

“What the fuck?” he whispers, confused. How long has he been sitting here? Obviously, he knows he was rubbing one out and whatever he was watching worked, but what exactly was he watching before? Why does his mind feel so fuzzy?

Now in control of his body again, with his free hand not stained in his nut, he moves the mouse on his laptop. Seeing the hypnosis video he was just listening to jogs his foggy memories. ‘So the damn thing worked,’ he thinks to himself, in awe at how quickly it happened. All it took was a trigger word.

Aizawa smirks to himself, finally feeling less stressed and more than relaxed. He sits back in his chair, smiling. Unfortunately, he’ll have to treat Hizashi to some dinner eventually because now he has the perfect remedy to his problem.

**************

The class bell signaling the next period of the day finally rings. Music to Aizawa’s ears.

After an hour of lectures, his class finally begins to pack up for the day to transition to the next class. “Not repeating this, so listen up,” he says, not even having to scream because his voice has a natural bass. “Exams are next Monday, so make sure you come in here prepared ‘cause I’m not giving any retakes. And next Friday you train with me, at 12 PM sharp. Stretch between classes.”

“Thank you, Aizawa-sensei!” Mina Ashido hollers as she exits the class, always the bubbliest one in his class. Some other students do the same while others rush out the door, hurrying either to lunch or to their next class.

Once his classroom is finally empty and the next student shuts the door behind him, Aizawa leans against the wall behind him and exhales in relief. “Finally,” he whispers to himself. Lunchtime. Which means alone time.

Which means he can finally get his second nut of the day before nightfall where he’ll probably have about three or four until bedtime. For the past two weeks, he’s been able to finally relax and rid himself of the stress of his work through the joyous moments of stroking his dick, uninterrupted by the troubles of his daily life. He’s never felt better! He’s less hostile to his students, wakes each morning ready for the day, and has been getting the best sleep he’s had in months.

All because of that Earwave hypnosis audio. He listens to it religiously: day, afternoon, evening, and night. Any time he can score himself a moment of silence and privacy, he races for his earbuds, turns on the audio, and allows himself to submit completely to the creator and their trigger word. It’s crazy how it works every single time! No matter how many times he listens and cums, the orgasms and the effects are stronger than ever. After listening to it the first time, curiosity got the best of him, and did some research on hypnosis being used as erotic or kink play. From what he found, erotic hypnosis can increase arousal, create or enhance sexual pleasure, cause hands-free orgasms, and produce new sensations. ‘That explains the intense orgasms,’ he thought to himself as he read through the articles he found.

He then found himself going to videos where erotic hypnosis was taking place. Most of them involved hypnotizing partners for hands-free orgasms or stimulating them in bondage. Aizawa hadn’t been so fascinated with research since his days in school. He’ll have to find the time to practice having a hands-free orgasm one day, but for now, he has his little piece of heaven which he downloaded into his phone for easier access.

Call him a junkie, but he has inducted nutting to this audio into his daily routine. He listens to it when he wakes up, during his morning and evening showers, on his breaks during work, before he goes off to sleep…okay, yes, he’s a junkie. But he considers masturbation the healthiest drug and form of relaxation out there. Better than alcohol and drugs, definitely. Plus, it increases stamina. So a little too much isn’t really too much, is it?

Aizawa keeps doing these mental gymnastics as he moves to his desk and rummages around in his messenger bag for his earbud case. His dick is already hardening in anticipation for this time alone. He looks in every pocket until he can’t look anymore. Then he pats himself down, wondering if he forgot that he stuffed his earbuds inside his clothes. Nothing.

Then he remembers he left them plugged up to his laptop this morning on his desk. “Fuck me!” he growls, irritated. How did he forget to grab them? How the fuck is he supposed to enjoy his alone time now?

He realizes seconds later that his alone time was never in the cards for him because, still unbeknownst to him, his kids have decided to want to fuck around and find out in the hallway. “Bakugou, what the hell did you do?!” he hears Mina shriek from down the hallway. Knowing Mina is usually the one to be bright and upbeat, Aizawa realizes this is some deep shit.

With a huff and now feeling his hardened dick softening from the interruptions, he makes his way outside and down the hallway where he sees Mina alongside Bakugou, Denki, Sero, and Kirishima. Bakugou is up against the wall, his fists clenched. Aizawa doesn’t need to look closer he knows he used his quirk.

“Damn extra was laughin’ at me!” he angrily growls, glaring at Denki. “He should’ve known better than to try to fuck with me! You should be mad at him!”

“Bakugou, you just put a hole in the wall!” Mina shrieks, looking like she’s about to have a heart attack. “What if we get in trouble? I can’t get kicked out!”

“We?” Sero scoffs. “Shit, who’s ‘we’?” He jabs a finger at Bakugou. “He’s the one who decided to use his quirk out in the halls and break the rules; not me!” Bakugou goes to snap at his friend, but at the sight of Aizawa looming over them, each one of them buttons their lip.

“The hell is going on here?” he grumbles, glaring at each of his students. “Why aren’t you four in class?”

They all advert their eyes, except for Kirishima who stands at attention. “Aizawa-sensei!” he exclaims hurriedly. “I was walking to class and saw Bakugou and Denki fighting. I tried to split them up, but then Bakugou pushed Denki against the wall and tried to use his quirk. Sero pulled Denki out of the way just in time, but…”

He nods over at Bakugou who is standing with his arms crossed, eyes adverted from Aizawa’s. However, Aizawa can see the damage his student is trying to hide: a big ass hole in the wall. “Aw, fuck,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Katsuki, you know the rules: no using quirks for violence OR destroying property.”

“He started talkin’ shit!” Bakugou yells, snarling at Denki. “I had to teach him a lesson!” Aizawa closes his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. So much for the effects of the audio.

“Yeah,” Mina scoffs, “and almost kill Denki AND destroy school property so we all get the boot.” She runs a hand through her unruly, pink curls. “Like are you out of your mind, Katsuki?!”

The two begin to argue, and soon the rest of the friend group jump in to add to the fire. However, all of their yelling seems muffled to Aizawa all of the sudden, like they’re all under water. Then he notices his body seizes and his skin becomes overheated, his clothes suddenly too much for him.

When he notices how swollen and hard his cock becomes in his slacks, almost like it has a mind of its own, he realizes what just happened. Mina said the trigger word. Mind. ‘Oh, shit,’ he thinks in a panic. ‘Oh, shit, no, no, no, no!’

He cannot stop his mind from immediately going blank, his conscious taking the backseat. How is this happening? How is this possible? His fingers begin to itch with anticipation as he goes for his scarf, clutching it in one hand. Mina notices this and blinks at him. “Aizawa-sensei?” she questions. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”

The others look at him too, confused and startled at their professor’s sudden change in attitude. “Are you feeling sick?” Sero asks, quirking a brow at him. “Should we walk you to Recovery Girl’s office?”

“Uh…” Aizawa struggles to come up with a lie as his body temperature reaches new heights, making him feel flush with heat. “N-no, just…just…gotta get this shit off!” He wrenches his scarf off and flings it on the floor, revealing his bobbing Adam’s Apple as he swallows harshly. The kids continue to stare at him, shocked. “All of you get to class now or you’re spending lunch with me,” he growls. “We’re done here for now.”

He abruptly turns away and practically runs down the hallway, hurrying back to his classroom. “What the hell?” Bakugou grumbles from behind him.

“Aizawa-sensei, wait!” Kirishima shouts. “Your scarf!” But Aizawa is too damn horny to even look. He can’t even think straight. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeatedly huffs with each hurried step he takes, his cock painfully hard and his body in need of release.

When he finally makes it to his classroom though, he is highly disappointed and enraged to find Izuku Midoriya standing by his door. He turns when he hears Aizawa’s footsteps, his emerald eyes widening. “Aizawa-sensei, there you are!” He immediately bows apologetically. “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I could talk to you about next Friday’s training session.”

Aizawa is practically bouncing on his heels, the anxiety of stripping in public and whipping his dick out making him hyper. Not to mention how painfully erect he is. He’s never been this hard in his life. His dick is aching, pulsing, desperate to be freed from the clutches of his briefs which he’s sure are soaked in precum by now. “Fuck, Midoriya, can it wait till later?” he sharply inhales. “I-I’m kinda busy right now.”

His hand immediately goes for the doorknob to his classroom door, clutching it with the strength of God. Izuku looks even more sorry. “Oh, are you?” he gasps, pink coating his cheeks out of embarrassment. “Sorry, sir! Uh, maybe I could email you about it or…”

The boy’s voice seems to float into the background as Aizawa’s state gets worse and worse. He knows he couldn’t possibly relieve himself with his student standing outside. No…he’ll have to go somewhere else. But first…

Quickly, he rids himself of his shoes, the urge to strip reaching tenfold. Izuku stares at him in confusion. “Uh, sir? W-Why are you taking off your shoes?”

“‘Cause they fuckin’ hurt,” Aizawa growls, kicking his shoes off. He’ll remember to scoop them back up later. “Listen, just email me, okay? I-I’ve gotta go.” Before Izuku can even take a breath, Aizawa is quickly running around the corner to find the nearest empty room. Maybe a classroom or a breakroom. Shit, he’d take a broom closet at this point.

As he’s zooming down the hall like the cops are after him, he barely notices Hizashi standing against the wall on his phone until he nearly knocks him over. “Whoa, Shouta!” he calls after him. “What’s the fire?”

Aizawa says nothing, too strung out to apologize or even acknowledge him. Finally, when he makes it to a point in the hall where there is no one to be found, he looks from right to left. As if God was answering his prayers, he sees an empty classroom, completely dark and chairs hung on the desks for sweeping. Like a madman, Aizawa hurries to the door and finds the door unlocked. Quickly, he rushes into the room and locks the door from the inside, internally thanking Principal Nezu for his insistence on doors that lock from the inside.

Once he knows he is alone, he can finally relax. Immediately, he starts to strip. Jumpsuit unzips and comes down to his ankles, revealing his muscled body, toned thighs, and stomach sinewy with black hair. Briefs come off, freeing his aching cock dripping in precum that his happy trail leads down to. Even his socks are pulled off until he is completely and utterly nude.

Now that that problem is out of the way, he can focus on the bigger issue that is only getting bigger as we speak. Like muscle memory, his hand immediately moves to his aching cock and grips the base the way he likes. With his shaft being so slick, he has no need for lubrication. He begins fucking his hand immediately, slowly at first, allowing himself time to build up the tempo.

The feeling is euphoric to Aizawa. His head drops back immediately, eyes fluttering closed. “Oh, fuck,” he moans softly. “Fuck me.”

He bends his knees a bit and thrusts into his hand a little bit faster, the urge to explode quickly building. He can feel that familiar knot in his stomach tightening, warmth in his stomach spreading to his toes and fingertips. “Goddamn,” he whispers into the darkness. The only sounds are of his hushed moans and the wet, slick sounds of his hand stroking his dick. At this rate, he’ll cum.

“Yoshimada-sensei!” Aizawa’s heart lurches into his throat at the sound of Kirishima’s voice coming from outside the classroom. His quickened stroking gets slower, but he never stops. “Did Aizawa-sensei go run by here? We have his scarf.”

“Really?” Hizashi is outside too. Aizawa can see his silhouette standing in front of the classroom door. He scuttles back farther away from the door, biting his lip to keep his sounds at bay. “Seesh, he never goes without this. Must’ve been in a hurry.”

“He seemed like he was ill.” Mina enters into view in the classroom window too. “I wanted to talk to him, but he said he was pretty busy.”

“Oh, was he now?” Hizashi hums, sounding suspicious. Aizawa inches farther and farther into the darkness, not wanting to be seen through the window. “Thank you, children!” Hizashi cheerfully says. “I’m sure he’d be very happy to know you have his precious scarf back.”

Aizawa turns to hurry to the back of the classroom to avoid being exposed, but doesn’t count on knocking into a desk. The sound of the desk’s legs scidding across the floor makes fear surge into his stomach. ‘Fuck!’ he thinks. He is sure to get caught now. But the fucked thing about it is that it doesn’t turn him off at all. In fact, his cock gets harder and his balls get fuller at the idea of being found in here–a naked, desperate mess.

He’s a fucking pervert, he realizes.

“The hell was that?” he hears Bakugou grumble, confused. With his eyes set dead on the door, he begins to grow closer to reaching his limit, just as he sees Hizashi get closer to the door, no doubt reaching for the doorknob.

Aizawa begins to sweat all over as he hears the door click. His hand doesn’t stop, and neither does the urge to cum. It’s rising, building, threatening to spill over his hand and expose him. He bites his bottom lip to keep from shouting, even tries to think of anything that will turn him off. ‘God, please, no,’ he thinks, panic settling in his chest. ‘Don’t cum, don’t cum!’

Fortunately for him, the bell ending the current period cuts through the silence. Hizashi’s shadow moves away from the door. “Oh, there’s the bell!” he announces. “You kids should be heading off to your next class. See you later this afternoon!”

Aizawa can’t hear anything else he and the kids say afterwards because he’s too busy cumming his brains out. It ascends on him in a rush that has his ears ringing and his cells on fucking fire. “Fuck!” he groans, biting his lip to keep his volume to a minimum as he finally releases into his hand. He feels his cum spurt onto his hand and lower stomach, all warm and creamy. Whimpers and grunts leave his lips as his toes curl against the tiled classroom floor, lost in the abyss.

When he finally is released from his state, it doesn’t take long for him to realize what happened. Quickly, before someone comes in for class, he takes a few tissues from the teacher’s desk and wipes himself off. Then he’s hurrying back into his clothes (minus his shoes and scarf) and composing himself as he walks to the classroom door.

He peeks his head outside to make sure no one is around before he slowly exits the classroom and shuts the door behind him. He goes to sneak off to his classroom, trying to seem as discreet as possible. So far, so good. The sound of someone clearing his throat stops him short. He turns, finding Hizashi leaning against the wall with Aizawa’s scarf in his crossed arms. “Your kids left you this.”

He tosses Aizawa his scarf who catches it and clutches it to his chest. Hizashi pushes himself off the wall, eyeing Aizawa down. “I was wondering where you were at lunch. Why were you in there?” He nods at the empty classroom, suspicious.

Aizawa feels himself flush as he thinks of a good lie to get his friend off his dick. “Phone call,” he grumbles, and that is all he responds with as he heads back to his room to start the next class, leaving Hizashi with a confused and skeptical look on his face.

One thing he knows for sure: he’ll have to surely wear earmuffs from now on.

**************

To say Aizawa is losing it is an understatement.

He sits on his couch in total silence, the TV cut off and his phone untouched. He sits shirtless, only in his jeans that sag below his narrow hips and V-line. He doesn’t feel bad for walking around like this all day due to it being a Saturday afternoon, but instead of relaxing and taking the load off for the weekend, he is cooped up in his dorm, slowly going insane and living in total isolation.

He’s been living like this for almost three weeks since his incident at UA High. Since then, the hypno audio he’s come to love has taken the back burner and he’s been very, very careful about existing in the outside world. In between classes, whether he’s walking the halls or eating his lunch in the breakroom, he puts in earplugs to block out the sounds of background conversations, afraid of hearing his trigger.

He did this for about a week until he bought himself some earmuffs and explained to his students that he had eardrum surgery. “I’m sensitive to loud noises,” he had lied through his teeth. “So do me a favor and keep it the hell down.” He glanced at Bakugou who sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes. It seemed to work on the kids, but his friends were a whole other story. Hizashi and Nemuri aka Ms. Midnight were all over him, asking him what happened and how long he’d been stuck like this.

‘As long as it takes me to shake this shit,’ Aizawa thinks to himself now, staring up at the ceiling. His laptop sits on his coffee table open, revealing multiple tabs of research to undo hypnosis and un-trigger certain words. He hasn’t found much yet.

He runs his hands down his face, frustrated. He hates living like this: avoiding his friends because of his bad choice. He’s been doing a good job at it too. Sure, he’s an introvert, but he doesn’t mind a good dinner with his closest friends to unwind after a day of teaching and training.

But he’s been avoiding that too, going so far as to head straight to his dorm and order takeout after work is through. He’s been avoiding people altogether, so afraid of hearing that word and humiliating himself in public. This is better than stripping himself naked in front of people and whipping his dick out, he tells himself. He won’t give up though. Not until he’s free of this trap, no matter how earth-shattering the orgasms are. He’ll just have to find another way to cum. Maybe he can buy himself one of those prostrate vibrators or–

The sound of his doorbell buzzing makes him jump. “Helloooo?” Nemuri’s voice like tinkling bells drifts through his door. “Shouta, you up? It’s your friends!”

Aizawa huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. “Oh, fuck,” he laments. He should’ve known they’d visit him, especially today. After all, it’s a special occasion. Sighing, he rises from his couch and makes the short stride to his door to open it, revealing Nemuri and Hizashi dressed to the nines. “What?” he grumbles.

Hizashi, in his black tux with a red rose tucked in his coat pocket, leans against the door. “Hello to you, too, friend,” he greets with a grin. “Where’s your fit at? The Pros’ Gala is in, like, fifteen minutes!”

The Pros’ Gala, specifically in Japan, happens every year to celebrate the accomplishments of pro heroes and to meet others that are up and coming. Not to be confused with the Heroes’ Gala which happens all over the globe to celebrate heroes, both pros and those still in school, in different countries and doesn’t happen until the end of the year. Though specifically thrown in Japan, Pros’ Gala is still one of the most highly publicized events in the nation.

Aizawa remembers getting an invite (as he usually does) a month ago. He also remembers getting a reminder for it two weeks ago and ignoring it. He didn’t plan on attending, especially in his state. There would be nothing worse than to hear his trigger, strip off his suit, and jack off in front of his peers and those cameras. He huffs, rolling his eyes. “I told you I wasn’t going, alright? I’m busy with grading exams and plus, I don’t even have a suit.”

“Good thing we brought back-up.” Hizashi grins cheekily as he presents Aizawa with an Armani suit, still in the plastic, that he hid behind his back. “Aren’t we such good friends?” Nemuri giggles, looking dashing in her burgundy dress and matching heels. Aizawa shakes his head. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“Shouta, what’s going on with you?” Nemuri asks, frowning at him. “You always make an effort to come out for the Gala!” She leans in, lowering her voice an octave. “And not only that: we’ve been noticing you seem…off, lately.”

Aizawa’s heart picks up speed. They noticed. Of course, they noticed. “Off?” he parrots.

Nemuri looks at Hizashi who nods, giving her the go. “You barely socialize with us anymore,” she pouts. “Sure, you’re an introvert, but you come out when you want to. But we haven’t seen you in almost three weeks! Not to mention how you rush off to your dorms whenever school finishes.”

“And then there are the earmuffs,” Hizashi adds. “You told the kids you had eardrum surgery, which we know is BS, now they think you’re going deaf and started blaming Bakugou for his constant screaming.”

Aizawa flushes with embarrassment and shame. He hates lying to his friends, but they’d never understand his situation. They’d ask too many questions and even look at him like a perv. “We’re just worried about you,” Hizashi says, concern in his eyes.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Aizawa reassures him. “I’m just…” He tries to think of a good lie, but nothing comes to mind. He’s exhausted all of his resources for something to stop his peers from worrying.

But at the sight of his friends’ concerned stares and the Armani suit they paid for with their own money for him, he knows he can’t refuse anymore. Dammit. “Alright,” he groans, defeated. “Alright, fine, I’ll go.”

Nemuri shrieks with happiness while Hizashi pumps his fist. “But,” Aizawa adds, cutting into their celebration, “I only go for two hours and if there’s no alcohol, it’s one.”

“Deal!” Nemuri squeals excitedly. She shoves the suit at Aizawa. “Now go get dressed before the car gets here. Ooooh, this is gonna be so much fun!”

But it’s not fun for Aizawa, at all. While he’s in the backseat of the car with Hizashi who sings at the top of his lungs to the radio with Nemuri, he puts his earmuffs on to one, avoid Hizahi’s ear-piercing voice (even without his quirk) and two, avoid being triggered into his hypnotic state. He doesn’t calm down–he grips the leather seat underneath him so hard that he can feel his nails digging into the plush seat. His body wound tighter than a drum, and his muscles seize as if bracing for that word.

He doesn’t get any better when he finally arrives at the Gala with Hizashi and Nemuri. He doesn’t pose for pictures on the red carpet nor stay to converse with his peers, only giving some a nod, but then again, they’re used to his introverted, socially awkward behavior. When inside the Gala building and goes into the ballroom, he is sat at a table with Nemuri, Hizashi, and Emi Fukukado aka Ms. Joke who makes it her mission to flirt and crack bad jokes that he can barely hear after switching his earmuffs with his earplugs.

Half an hour passes, and though nothing happens, he still can’t calm down. He’s full of two glasses of champagne at this point, but nothing is soothing him. He is on edge, his eyes jetting from the jazz band playing next to the main stage to the mouths of the guests moving as they chat and laugh among each other. The main ballroom is packed with pros of all ages and statuses, most he knows. But he can’t bring himself to say hi. He’s just too damn scared.

Someone taps his arm and he turns, finding Hizashi looking concerned. Aizawa takes a plug out of his ear and leans toward him to hear his friend better. “Man, are you okay?” he murmurs. “You look like you’re ready for someone to shoot up the place.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Aizawa hisses as Hizashi chuckles, sipping on his third glass of champagne. “And yeah, I’m good. Just wondering when these paparazzi are gonna take a hint.” He glares at the camera lens he clearly sees peeking out of some potted plants along the wall for decoration. Of course, they’d be here.

“Least they’ll get your good side,” Hizashi jokes, clinking his glass with Aizawa’s.

This manages to make Aizawa crack a smile until the band’s rendition of a popular jazz song fades and the sound of a mic turning on makes him grip the tablecloth. All attention is now on one of the hosts standing on stage. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen!” he cheerfully says. “We’d like to begin tonight by giving you all a generous welcome and a thank you for coming together tonight. Invited to the stage now is someone who isn’t just better with words, but with bringing others together in dire times of need. Please give me a hand in welcoming the symbol of peace, All Might!”

Applause fills the air as Toshinori Yagi aka All Might takes the stage, shaking the hand of the host. He isn’t in his All Might form–he has decided to take his real form for tonight; all skinny and lanky. Though he still has a considerable amount of muscle mass, it’s nothing compared to his buff All Might form. He is dressed in a nice gray suit as he moves to the podium with some cue cards.

The ballroom falls silent, ready to listen in on his speech. “Thank you,” he says into the mic, “and good evening. I decided to not take the stage in my usual form tonight. I wanted to be real in front of you people.” He stands tall and proud of his form, which Aizawa respects most about him. “I stand before you tonight as not the symbol of peace, not the number one pro hero, but as a man who only wishes to protect others.”

He glances down at his card before continuing, eyeing the entire ballroom. “Together, we sit here as people who share the same dreams of protecting others from harm. We share the same heart. The same soul. The same mind.”

Like a drug taking over his system, the trigger is immediate. Aizawa’s body and mind react before he can even process what’s happening. His mind immediately goes blank and a switch is flipped that instantly has him panting, sweating, and hard as a rock. ‘No!’ he thinks, panicking. ‘No, no, no, not here!’

He grips the table with so much force that his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth as he feels his cock push against his pants, aching and desperate for release. Oh, God, it hurts. He can feel his eyes prick with tears at the ache in his pants, wanting, needing to be touched. He begins to feel hot in his suit, his collar too tight and the fabric uncomfortable on his skin. “Oh, fuck,” he whimpers quietly to himself.

Nemuri suddenly turns to glance at him. “Hm?” she hums, her eyes worried. “Shouta, are you alright, honey?”

Aizawa doesn’t notice his hand on his tie until he’s undoing it and tossing it aside. “Y-Yeah,” he softly stutters. “J-Just feelin’ hot.” He goes for his suit jacket next, stripping himself as Nemuri watches, confused at his change in behavior. He tries to focus on Toshinori’s speech, but he can’t. The urge to strip himself and get his hands on his dick is too much.

Now Emi is staring at him too, along with Hizashi. “Hey, what’s the matter, Easerhead? Champagne got your tongue?” Emi snickers at her own joke, but no one else is. They’re too busy staring at Aizawa as he pops a couple buttons to his crisp button-down shirt. ‘No!’ he tells himself. He can’t do this here. He refuses!

Quickly, he rises from his seat. He does it so fast that he nearly knocks over his glass of champagne. The sound of the chair squeaking across the floor causes several people to stare up at him curiously. “Shouta, what’s up?” Hizashi questions, a confused scowl on his face.

Aizawa backs away, leaving his tie and suit jacket at the table. The heat of his body grows, desperate to be free of his clothes. “Excuse me, but I-I’ve gotta get out of here,” he gasps. “I need air!” He turns around and hurries out of the ballroom, heading right towards the hall leading to the bathrooms and emergency exits.

“Wait, Shouta!” Hizashi calls behind him, but Aizawa doesn’t turn around. He can’t. He knows if he stops he’ll strip himself naked and cum in front of everybody. He’ll never be able to live it down. So he ventures out of the ballroom’s double doors into the hallway. He knows from being here dozens of times that the nearest bathroom is right next to the ballroom, meaning he’ll definitely be found and heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouts, rushing down the hallway. Luckily, it’s empty so no one sees him acting crazy as he looks from left to right, up and down the hall. When he turns a right corner, he comes to another ballroom with unlocked double doors.

Slowly, he walks towards them and peeks inside, finding the entire room to be dark and empty. He could cry with happiness. “Thank you,” he whispers to the ceiling, promising to go back to saying grace before he eats for this gift.

Quickly, he rushes inside and shuts the door behind him. When he is sure that he is alone, standing in the pure black of the dark room, he gives into the trigger. “Last time,” he whispers hoarsely as he strips himself completely of his clothes. “Last fuckin’ time.”

The rest of his Armani suit comes flying off of him, the articles of clothing lying discarded on the floor. This includes the dress shoes that he kicks off and socks. He now stands in the warm, dark room, feeling completely and utterly relaxed. He looks down, finding his cock to be unbelievably hard, twitching, and dripping in precum. “Jesus,” he whispers.

He gently brushes the base of his dick and shivers as the warm yet rough pads of his calloused fingertips graze the sensitive skin. He grips his cock and immediately begins to slowly pump up and down. He twitches and throbs in response to the tight grip on his dick, causing him to begin to slowly fuck his hand now wet with his precum. “Fuck,” he softly moans. “Oh, fuck!”

His head falls back and his eyes flutter closed, falling into the bliss of being completely out of control of his situation. His hips begin to move on their own, pumping and thrusting faster into his hand which strokes in time. Wet, slick sounds of his hand stroking his cock fill the air along with the soft moans and grunts that leave his lips. His balls, heavy with cum, begin to swell, signaling that he’s ready to reach the point of no return.

His mind is blank, only filled with the urge to cum. That warm feeling he has come to love fills his core as he pumps his hips faster and faster. Tears pool in his eyes, threatening to fall down his face. “Gonna cum,” he whimpers. “Gonna…gonna…” His eyes squeeze tight and his arm begins to ache from how fast he’s stroking his dick, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to cum.

‘Cum all over yourself, baby,’ he hears the voice of Earwave coo in his head. ‘Cum for me.’

Finally, he does. The pleasure he feels reaches heavenly heights, causing him to curl his toes. “Fuck!” he shouts, throwing his head back to the tiled ceiling as tears of relief drip down his handsome face. He doesn’t try to keep his voice down as he cums all over himself–his hand, his stomach, his thighs. Cum spurts onto the floor at his feet and some onto his toned abs, load after load dripping down his cock. He keeps stroking, his mouth open in a silent O at the pleasure.

He goes and goes until he can’t anymore. Until his balls are empty and he is sure he’s overstimulating himself. The fog of his hypnotized state vaporizes and he finds himself naked and standing in the aftermath in the dark. His body loosens and he heaves a sigh, feeling normal finally. He expects to find himself in his situation so he doesn’t even try to get dressed too quickly.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is to be suddenly washed in a bright light that penetrates the cloak of darkness he once stood in. He also doesn’t expect to see the number of people standing in the room with him, staring at him with wide eyes as if they can’t believe they’re seeing a pro hero with his dick in his hand.

On his left stands a group of waiters in their uniforms setting up for the next course, trays and glasses in hand. On his right stands a camera crew testing their cameras for pictures and footage from the Gala.

And behind him are by far the worst group of people who could’ve seen him like this: Hizashi, Nemuri, and Ms. Joke stand on the threshold of the ballroom, mouths open and eyes wide at the sight of their friend and colleague in some predicament. Two security guards stand behind him too, equally as shocked and disturbed.

“Oh, shit,” he utters.

The silence is tense and thick; you couldn’t cut it with a knife. You’d need a damn chainsaw. Aizawa feels like a zoo animal being gawked at from behind a cage. He is frozen to the spot, not able to process words or movement as he stays stuck to his spot, humiliated and embarrassed.

Hizashi is the first one to speak and cut through the deafening silence. “U-Uh,” he cuts into the silence. He abruptly turns towards the two guards behind him. “Sorry about this, fellas! Looks like Eraserhead isn’t hurt. Just…preoccupied.” He glances at Aizawa who does his best to cover his now-flaccid dick.

Hizashi steps into the room, arms raised. “Don’t worry, folks! He just needed some time alone. Everyone gets socially awkward now and again. I know I do.” He chuckles nervously before waving everyone out of the room. “If everyone could please give us some privacy? I need some time to chat with my friend here.”

The waiters and camera crew waste no time doing so. Each one hurries out the door, one at a time, walking past Aizawa with adverted gazes. Hizashi stands by the door, waving everyone out. “Everything’s cool, everything’s fine, don’t worry, thanks!” he hurriedly says with a wide, false grin on his face. He nods at Nemuri and Emi who stand there, cheeks pink and all nervous smiles. “You ladies, too.”

Nemuri does her best to hide her smile as she turns to leave. “Oh, my,” she giggles, a hand on her mouth. Emi is still staring at Aizawa’s physique as Hizashi shuttles her out the door. “I’m glad to know that foot size thing isn’t a myth,” she purrs, making Nemuri cackle. Aizawa blushes, quickly moving to put on his briefs.

Once the room is empty, Hizashi shuts the door. With a huff, he crosses his arms and saunters up to Aizawa. He is neither mad nor disappointed. If anything, he looks sorry for Aizawa. “Well, my friend, you’ve got some explainin’ to do,” he hums. “And not just to me. You’ve got Nemuri, Ms. Joke, the poor staff you violated by jacking it in front of ‘em, and the security guards we had search for you alongside us in a panic after you left the room.”

Aizawa flushes with embarrassment and guilt. “Hizashi, I–”

“And the poor souls behind that security camera,” Hizashi continues, nodding up at the top right corner of the ceiling. Aizawa’s eyes widen in horror. “Behind the what?” he snaps.

He turns, finding the obvious lens of a camera stuck to the top right corner of the tiled ceiling. There’s no doubt whoever is behind it saw him and his dick. “Fuck!” he shouts, running his hands through his hair. “I’m screwed. I’m gonna lose my license and my job and–”

“Oh, hush!” Hizashi scoffs, patting him on the shoulder. “Principal Nezu adores you; someone has to be hard on those kids and it can’t be me. Plus, you’re Eraserhead! You’d have to do way more to lose your license as a pro hero than simply beating your meat.”

Aizawa cringes at the term, but then again, that’s what the fuck he was doing. He sighs in defeat, standing in his briefs with his very supportive friend. “So I take it I was right then?” Hizashi asks, a hand on his narrow hip.

Aizawa doesn’t speak, his pride enabling him not to admit it. But Hizashi knows better. He chuckles pridefully as he wraps an arm around his friend, winking at him. “How ‘bout that ramen dinner, hm?”

Aizawa has no choice but to do so. After getting dressed and sneaking out one of the exits, they ditch the Gala, call an Uber, and head straight for the nearest ramen place. An hour into dinner, they sit at a private booth in front of two steaming bowls of ramen (one spicy with extra pork, one not) and several empty glasses of beer that Aizawa definitely needed after the night he’s had.

Hizashi eyes him from under the warm glow of the lantern above them. He stripped himself of his suit before coming in to reveal the Plus Ultra tee underneath. “You didn’t heed my warning, did you?” he sighs. “You got caught up in that site, didn’t you?” Aizawa doesn’t respond, slurping down his noodles to avoid admitting to his sins. “Which audio was it?” Hizashi pushes, raising an eyebrow.

Aizawa glances nervously at him from over his bowl. With a sigh, he lowers his chopsticks. “It was a hypnosis audio,” he mumbles. “I got curious, listened to it, and…” He leans back into his seat, his body shivering at the thought of the many good nuts he’s had because of that one audio. “It gave me the strongest orgasm of my life,” he sighs. “Fuck, Hizashi…I’ve never felt that good. My stress was no longer a problem!” He balls a hand under his chin, rubbing at his scruff in thought. “Except there was a trigger word.”

“Oooh, yeaaah,” Hizashi hisses through his teeth. “That’ll do it. I’m not gonna ask about the word, so don’t worry, but what happens to you when you hear it?”

“I always get the undying urge to strip and cum on the spot,” Aizawa confesses. “Doesn’t matter where I am. I’m immediately hypnotized.”

Hizashi makes a noise between a wheeze and a gasp. “Well, that explains a lot!” he shouts. “Shit, Shouta! Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve told you those erotic hypno audios aren’t to be fucked around with. You have to be very careful.”

“I didn’t think about it, alright?” Aizawa grumbles, flushing under the lantern light. “Even when I did the research, I didn’t stop listening to it. I-I couldn’t!” He feels like a perverted loser even explaining this to Hizashi. Giving up everything else important to him in his life for a good orgasm? He’ll never be able to live this down.

“So you only made it worse,” Hizashi huffs. “Well, I hope you learned your lesson, ‘Zawa.”

Aizawa slowly nods as he takes a sip of his fourth beer. “Have I,” he grumbles. “No more audios for me, at least not for a while. And though erotic hypno is nice, that might have to take the back shelf too.” He’d find another way to ease his stress. Maybe a nice trip to a sauna or a sex toy. Plus, he’s sure his body and his cock won’t be desensitized to porn anymore after so much time without it. So maybe there are some silver linings.

Hizashi nods, agreeing with him. “Yeah, that would probably be in your right mind to do so.”

At the same time Aizawa’s eyes widen as he stares daggers at his friend, his body goes rigid, his mind blank, and his cock hard. Hizashi’s eyes widen in astonishment as he watches his friend’s demeanor change right at the flip of a switch. Aizawa grips the table and he begins to kick off his shoes. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls.

Hizashi caws like a bird with laughter as he claps his hands. “Oh, shit!” he cackles. “That actually fucking worked!”

Aizawa stands so fast that the beer glasses clank together. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” he growls, enraged, but he can only think about getting himself out of his clothes and blowing another load into his hand. Promising to murder his friend later, he quickly moves away from the table and practically races to the bathroom, not caring if anyone is in there or not.

Hizashi stays put, giggling at his friend’s pain as their cute waitress comes back with a pitcher of beer. “More beer, fellas?” she chirps, then frowns when she sees Aizawa’s empty seat.

“He’ll take two, please,” Hizashi says with a wink. He snickers as he watches Aizawa disappear into the bathroom, leaving his shoes outside the door. “Believe me; he’ll need ‘em after this.”

THE END.

#aizawa smut #bnha smut #request fill #black writers #my fic shit #one shots #my works #shoutaaa

171 notes · View notes

syncopein3d · 8 months

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Syncope's Writing Masterpost

Hi, I'm Sync, and I write!

My non-writing account for memes and queer and autistic content is @spiderace.

I like angst, loss of consciousness and hurt/comfort, emphasis on comfort. I don't care about the gender of participants, so different ones will occur. I'll tag.

Always feel free to ask me about my characters or stories, anonymously or not. :)

If you like consensual BDSM with male subs there's a fair amount of porn with plot on my AO3.

Broken World

(Cometverse. Villain rescues minor villain, hero whumpers, superhero OCs, agender caretaker and male whumpee; complete)

1. Rescue

2. Bathtub

3. I Trust You

4. Bad Night

5. The Unlikely Truth

Left Alone

(Trifold Balance universe. male vampire whumpee, non-binary caretaker, trapped in a small room, morbid vampire stuff; in progress)

1. Abandoned

2. Discovery

3. Bereft

4. Smallest Consolation

5. Bearing Gifts

6. Regeneration

7. Riddles

8. Faint

9. Silencers 1

10. Silencers 2

11. Silencers 3

12. Drive

13. Cabin

14. His Eyes Have All The Seeming

15. Glass of Water

Trifold Balance, Other

Necessary Intervention (Jack Ford, Hunter, hospitalization and involuntary sedation, convalescence)

The Warm One

(Synchronium universe. Magic living weapon, female whumpee, male whumper and caretaker; complete)

Part 1: Velvet

Part 2: Stay

Part 3: Discipline

Part 4: Silk

Part 5: Would You Say No

Part 6: Spring Campaign

Part 7: Wrath

Part 8: All Things End

Friendly Reviews

I review completed hurt/comfort stories that I enjoyed and do some light analysis of why I enjoyed them so readers can get an idea if they might also want to read one.

Smoke, Salt and Asbestos

Cheap Shot

Shun the Light

Trope posts

Decompensation

Fainting/loss of consciousness

Cold hands on a fever

Nonlethal Takedowns

Belated Explanations

Helpers who have been through it themselves

Very Tired

Moments of Relief

Comfort

Drabbles

Female caretaker and vampire whumpee

Lone survivor (magic, noncon sleep spell, male whumpee, female caretaker)

The Regulator (AO3 link, OC, superheroes, male whumpee and male caretaker)

Oh, It's You (hero x villain reblog)

Vitrified (vampire lady with 'trophies' preservesd in glass)

Warhammer 40,000 Misc

Astartes Husbandry 1

Astartes Husbandry 2

Deathwatch Aftercare

Astartes Hypno-Con And Medical Care

Warhammer 40,000 Kill Team Audax

(Astartes space marine whump, Deathwatch kill team, military whump, harsh training, recovery)

1. Kill Team Audax: Run

#whump #hurt comfort #living weapon whumpee #syncopein3d future reference #superhero oc #whumpblr

18 notes · View notes

foxblood · 15 days

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The Threads of Memory: VI Unmasking

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25

Trigger Warnings: Minor self harm and gore, non consensual sedation/drugging, kidnapping/captivity, mentions of emotional and physical abuse by a parental figure, mentions of plague/epidemic illness

Gale slammed the desk drawer, then kicked the leg. Mystra’s statue teetered towards the precipice, and Tara egged it on, squinting at it as though she could will it the last millimeter over the edge. Gale cursed at his stubbed toe, stomping on it to make it stop hurting and limping to the coat rack. He tore his coat down.

“Mr. Dekarios, slow down,” she huffed as she trotted up beside him.

He yanked his boots on. “There’s no time, Tara,” he massaged his chest, the ache of the orb more present than it had ever been. His stomach growled too, but he ignored it and Tara’s insistence that he wait as he hurried out the door.

Tara dogged his steps despite his protests. “Mr. Dekarios it will kill neither you nor Velim to slow down and take care of yourself. Velim would not want you running yourself ragged on their account.”

“They’re a doctor, Tara, they would have to say that,” he lengthened his stride, “Gods, if I had just walked them home when they had asked.”

Tara sprang from the ground. Gale lurched forward with her weight as she landed on his shoulders and added new runs to his coat. She anchored her claws in the fabric and hunkered down, ears pinned back. “They would mean it,” she insisted.

“Tara, please,” Gale considered brushing her off.

“Gale, please,” she hissed back.

“Come with me if you must, but we cannot waste time,” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a deep breath into his lungs, pushing the orb back.

Tara’s paws kneaded his shoulder. “I’ll make another loop of the Sea Ward. Promise me you’ll eat when you return?”

Gale released the breath in a truncated sigh, it misted in the cold air. “I promise.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios.” He winced as Tara launched off his shoulder, her wings ruffling his hair with a gust of wind as she flushed towards the rooftops.

Gale put his head down and ducked into an alley. It was odd, walking this route in the gray light of day. He almost didn’t recognize the stairwell or the worn wooden sign set out on the street reading Lonzok’s Arcane Consignment. He opened the door, the familiar warmth of magic and burning incense greeting him.

Lonzok looked up from the shelf of books he was stocking, his spectacles shining strangely in the combined gray daylight filtering in through small windows high in the walls and the arcane fire. “Surprise to see you in the daylight, wizard,” he grunted, “in for the usual?”

Gale sighed. “Yes, quickly. No time for browsing today, I’m afraid.”

Lonzok presented the tray to Gale. It rattled with its usual selection of odd trinkets. Gale looked at the offerings, each a pittance in the waxing hunger of the orb. Gauze for a broken leg that needs resetting.

“Do you have anything… more?” Gale struggled to find a word that wouldn’t give him away, “something with a greater charge of magic.”

Lonzok smiled knowingly and tucked the tray beneath the counter. “As a matter of fact, I think I do.”

Gale leaned in. “You do?”

“If it’s concentrated magic you need, I can get you a pint or two of ancient black dragon blood. Fresh from the source, it’s potent stuff if you know how to process it for extraction. Good price, too -- I’m willing to cut you a deal,” Lonzok explained, setting a vial of blood on the desk.

The liquid inside moved thickly, concentrated, and the orb lurched for the draconic weave it contained. Gale picked it up and studied it.

“That’s already purified for ease of use,” Lonzok explained, “fresh from the living beast.”

Gale felt the power of it, the weave primed for extraction. The orb lashed for it, ravenous. Gale considered the things in his tower he hadn’t yet sold -- ancient tomes, his statue of Mystra, the Netherese artifacts he couldn’t bear to be rid of. Dragon blood of this potency may silence the orb for weeks, time enough to search for Velim unimpeded.

“Very well,” Gale conceded to the hunger, “let us deal, then.”

The first thing Velim registered was the size of the crate they were in, dim light filtering in through the slats like they were a bug some child had crammed into a paper box. The second thing were splinters where the wood wore their bare skin ragged. With nothing to see, it didn’t matter that their vision was swimming, but they refused to close their eyes lest the sedative overtake them again. They hissed as they willed their leaden limbs to move, leaving patches of scraped off skin on rough edges of wood. Their right arm throbbed numbly where the alchemist stabbed the metal seed beneath the scales while they pretended to be unconscious.

Gods, they put some faith in that thing, Velim thought gratefully as they tested the flimsy hempen binds on their wrists and feet. Their teeth bit down around a cloth gag jammed in their mouth. Magic buzzing discordantly from a thousand sources outside the thin barrier of wood. The moans of another trapped creature echoed forlornly. A large space -- a storehouse or a warehouse, not the cramped basement they’d been in the last time the sedatives wore off.

They reached for the ropes binding their wrists and their fingertips sizzled, acid dripping down from beneath their claws and onto the fiber. Sulfurous smoke billowed up from the ropes. Their scales protected their wrists from the burn as drops fell to the wooden floor and began eroding it, adding to the stinking smoke choking Velim’s senses. They closed their eyes against the sting of it and found themself bundled on the crate floor when they opened them again, waking with a sharp intake of breath that scoured their scorched throat and sent them into a coughing fit.

Their vision slowly resolved, heartbeat loud in their ears. They ran their hands over the rough floor of the crate until their fingertips found the deep erosions the acid left behind. The second dose of sedative from the seed coursed through their body, threatening to take hold and drag them under. Velim focused on the creaking pain in their shoulders and shifted their weight against the side of the crate until it tipped over and they crashed into the floor.

The other thing in the warehouse moaned again, morose at the sound of the padlock on the heavy door clicking open. Velim’s arms buckled under their own weight as they tried to push themself out of the twisted position they’d fallen into. The other thing cried out like an excited bird, it’s roar trilling strangely in response to approaching footsteps. It clicked and howled in indignation as it was bypassed, drowning out the footsteps approaching their crate.

The storehouse was brick and boxy with ventilation windows set high and small beneath the overhangs of the sloped roof. It sat in a row of other identical storehouses set back from the docks on the Sea Ward, invisible in the bustle of sailors and cargo. The service door was small comparatively, but made of steel and locked with a padlock that whirred with magic Gale felt over the hot seething of the orb in his chest. The guard, a gruff and broad man, grunted with the effort of turning the key. A series of locks tripped inside it loudly clicking in the static silence of sleet pattering to the ground.

The broad man hauled the door open, putting his full weight against it to get it moving. The swing of the door passed over four wards carved into the concrete floor, each glowing in turn as they activated.

“Quite the advanced security system you have there,” Gale commented in an effort to fill space, “the circuit goes all the way around the structure of the building?”

“Dunno,” the man grunted, holding the door open.

Gale peered down the long brick side of the building until the man started muttering impatiently and stepped inside. The sleet on the roof filled the building with a soft beating static, quickly lost in the trilling of the Manticore caged on the far wall. It paced, howling at them through the narrow slots between bars and working a single large claw through like a cat pawing at the crack beneath a door.

“Don’t worry ‘bout her,” the guard nodded his head at the manticore, “she’s secure.”

Gale lowered his voice. “What a treasure trove this place must be, have you worked for Lonzok long?”

The man shook his head. “I get a cut of the dragon, that’s how he’s payin’ me. Hired four of us.” He stopped at a wobbly wooden table and simple chair with a heavy leather coat draped over the back and picked up a prybar leaned against it.

Gale stared at the coat. Even in the dimly lit warehouse, it seemed familiar. The wear on the shoulders, the cuffed sleeves, nagged at his mind. He looked at the coat, and at the broad man. “Does that coat belong to one of the other guards, then?”

“That’s mine,” the broad man glared at him, “it killed the other three.”

“Well, it is a dragon regardless of appearances,” the coat still bothered him, and he stared at the oilcloth hood until his guts felt like they were going to drop into the void, “it’s a bit small for you.”

The broad man stood to his full height. “I’m getting it taken out tomorrow, wizard.”

The orb spasmed in Gale’s chest and he doubled over with a wince. The guard took it as surrender. “Come on, ‘fore the thing wakes up.”

The broad guard approached a crate, askew from the others surrounding it as though something inside had struggled enough to knock it out of place. As he wedged the prybar beneath the top, the crate exploded with a thunderous crack and sent the broad man flying into a wooden barrel that split open, spilling a viscous silvery black substance over him. He reached up to claw at the viscid goo eating away at his face, the liquid rolling up over his skin and pulling away at the flesh.

Gale covered his face against the hail of splinters that rained from the shattered crate. He blinked the dust out of his eyes and grabbed what he finally recognized as Velim’s coat from the chair, holding it up like a shield as the dust settled.

Velim toppled out of the crate on numb legs. The concrete floor leached what remained of the warmth from their skin. The sudden brightness radiating from the dropped lantern drove a blade of nausea into their stomach, and they hissed as they leaned heavily on a nail lodged in a shard of wood. The point pierced their right palm, and they yanked it out as they forced themself to their knees. The room spun and their hand throbbed dully, the sedatives blunting the pain. They gripped the wood shard like an anchor, spine curling over and pressing their forehead to the cold concrete.

Velim braced their right arm against the floor. Their vision resolved and they could see the disruption in their scales where the alchemist had injected the seed beneath them. They drove the nail beneath the raised scales. Blood welled up and obscured the site, but they continued levering the nail up until the scales flaked away and exposed the skin underneath. It stung, the sedatives and cold numbing the pain as they clawed for the little metallic seed and ripped it from beneath the skin with frozen fingertips. They shook it off their claw and it made a hard little splat on the floor in the moment before they finally doubled over and vomited stomach acid onto the concrete.

“Gods, Velim!”

The sound of their name pierced through the nausea and they rose on their knees as footsteps approached them, meeting the voice with a clumsy lash and wordless snarl that connected weakly. The familiar voice yelled as Velim doubled over again and a violet woolen coat dropped to the ground, an acid burn eating away at the fabric of the sleeve. They blinked hard against the onslaught of the sedative, but their muscles went weak against the cold. Heavy fabric settled over their bare back, pushing them further into the concrete.

Warm hands pushed them onto their knees and held them steady, their leaden head lolling back. The hands pulled the coat around their shoulders. Their coat, they knew it by the smell of the beeswax they polished the leather with, deadening the sharpness of the sweat clinging to their body. The hands cradled their face, pushing mats of hair out of their eyes.

“Velim, can you hear me?” Gale asked, his voice low so as not to draw more attention than the thunderwave spell already had. The manticore howled at the commotion, rattling its chains.

Velim grimaced at his question, their teeth jagged in their mouth. Gale thought they might try to bite him, but they just lurched forward into his shoulder. He cradled their head against his heart, their body shaking with the effort of fighting the sedatives.

“That’s alright, just listen to the sound of my voice,” Gale held Velim close, heart slamming against his chest. The orb reached out for them, caressing their face with burning filaments of weave. He could have them. Right now, drain them away to nothing and feed the orb a piece of Tiamat so powerful the orb may devour itself outright.

The thought arrived so quickly and so selfishly that a knife twisting between his ribs may have been less painful. He pulled Velim closer.

“I’ve got you,” Gale focused on remembering the number of steps he’d taken around the building, how many steps to the intersection closest to his mother’s house, “just hold on to me, I can get us out of here safely.”

“Please don’t…” Velim stammered, their voice giving out to ragged breathing.

“I won’t -- I-I’m --” Gale checked his calculations one more time, “you’re safe now. Just hold on, I’m getting us out of here.” He adjusted his grip, hooking his arm around their waist and adjusting their arms over his shoulders. They held onto his neck, the tips of their filed claws grazing his shoulders.

“Complicare viam,” he spoke, the words becoming truth in a gust of cold wind and sensation of vertigo.

Sleet dripped down the back of his shirt and melted on Velim’s hair. He held them until the dizzy sensation of traversing dimensions subsided, then hauled them to their feet. They stumbled, knees buckling beneath the weight of their own body. Gale propped them against the wall of the alley to button their coat and pulled up their hood. He thanked the gods that the black scales on Velim’s legs and feet just looked like boots in the dark.

Velim blinked up at the cloudy sky, letting Gale ease their arms through the sleeves of their coat. He took their weight again, stooping so Velim could rest his arm across his shoulders. They struggled to lift their legs, each step half-dragging through the mud until they found a sort of stumbling rhythm with Gale pushing them forward.

“Almost there,” Gale panted as they turned the corner into a sleepy neighborhood. The gas streetlamps flickered eerily off the sleet melting into the gutters.

Velim’s knees buckled as they lost consciousness, and Gale nearly lost his grip on them. They both knelt in the cold street, ice soaking into their skin. Velim blinked back awake with a low groan. Gale glanced down the street at his mother’s house, just a half block away now. The orb throbbed in his chest, still reaching for the dragon struggling to remain conscious in his arms.

“Not far now,” Gale pushed wet hair out of Velim’s eyes, “I’m going to carry you.”

Velim nodded and mouthed “okay”, letting Gale sweep his arm beneath their knees and stagger back to his feet. He shifted their weight against his chest, each step falling forward harder than the last until he reached the short staircase leading to his mother’s stoop. He braced himself for the final exertion, breath wheezing through his teeth, and surged to the top of the stairs where he let Velim down gently, holding them until they found their feet again. Once he was sure they wouldn’t fall, he reached for the knocker and slammed it against the door until someone answered.

“What?” Charrel’s anger dropped away as she took in the scene on the front step. Her dirty blonde hair fell in her face, long ears slack in surprise as the frustration that had rocketed her out of bed dissipated in a cloud of inert steam. “By the Gods, Mr. Dekarios,” was all she could manage in a small voice.

“Prepare a room and wake my mother, it’s an emergency.” Gale mustered his most authoritative voice, but Charrel was already in motion helping him drag Velim across the threshold and lower them down on a bench in the foyer.

Velim traced the designs carved in the velvet upholstery, watching Charrel and Gale bicker with one another. Gale locked the front door, then warded it, and stormed up the stairs past Charrel yelling for his mother. The commotion faded into footsteps on the floor above them. Their chilled body slowly warmed, the feeling coming back to their toes with a prickling sensation. Their arm and hand throbbed without pain, threatening a rude awakening come morning.

Gale and Charrel rushed back down the stairs, and Velim’s stomach churned as they were hoisted to their feet and carried up into a lit hallway. The patterns in the wallpaper morphed in their vision, birds stretching their feathers and turning to watch Velim pass by. They were carried into a bedroom lit with the low glow of an oil lamp on the desk.

“Get out,” Charrel demanded of Gale.

“Get out? What do you mean ‘get out’?” Gale’s voice didn’t rise above a harsh whisper, but his grip on Velim tightened.

“I mean what I say, Mr. Dekarios, now get out and let your friend some modesty,” she hissed, but her hands were gentle prying Velim away.

Velim noticed the callouses on her fingertips as she eased them onto the bed, and thought dimly that she must play the lute. Gale’s vigor dissipated as he released them, holding their hand. They left a smudge of blood behind on his palm as they finally slipped free of his grasp.

“Gale,” Morena lingered in the door in her housecoat. Beside her, Delores and Dorothea blinked sleepily through curtains of curly brown hair mussed from sleep.

Gale hurried out of the room and closed the door behind him so Del and Dot couldn’t see inside.

Dot blinked up at him, her stormy gray eyes narrowed suspiciously as she pulled her curls back into a messy bun. “Who’s that?”

“Is that who the matchmaker set him up with?” Del asked through a yawn. She wiped the tears out of her cloudy eyes.

“Go back to your rooms,” Morena said through her teeth.

Her daughters looked at her skeptically, but both turned back on Gale in their own time.

“Go back to bed, it’s none of your concern,” Gale snapped.

Del blinked, suddenly full awake. She ran her hand through her hair, but it fell back into place. “What’s none of my concern? Don’t you have your own tower to bring your dates back to, or would you rather spend the night in your childhood bedroom?”

“Delores,” Morena snarled.

Del matched Gale’s confrontational stare. Dot grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her back to her bedroom. She waved to Gale as she slipped back into her own bedroom across the hall and closed the door. Morena walked past Gale, gesturing him towards the living room. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Gale followed, shoulders slumping under the scrutiny of his mother.

Morena sat herself in her rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap. Gale sat on the long sofa across from her, avoiding her stern gaze.

“Gale, would you like to tell me what happened?” She asked, her voice soft and measured.

Gale shrunk, his body responding to a tone of voice he had known before his feet reached the floor from the couch he was sitting on. He gripped the brocade upholstery and blinked back the tears. When the onslaught didn’t stop, he buried his eyes in his hands. His mother waited.

When Gale looked back into his mother’s stone eyes, the words spilled from him in an unstoppable tide. He stared at the blood smear on his hand as he told his mother what he had intended to do when he learned of the dragon. He covered the aching black scars beside his eye when he explained why he thought he needed to take such drastic measures. He sobbed outright when he begged her forgiveness for all the time he’d been gone. He was still crying when Morena picked herself up and sat down beside her son. She rubbed his back and leaned against his shoulder, humming a soft lullaby beside him until he stopped trembling.

The throbbing in Velim’s arm woke them. They rolled over and covered it with their palm, pressing down on the flimsy bandage until the scab slipped beneath it. Daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains. Velim squeezed their eyes shut against the light until the stinging pain in their arm and hand drove them out of bed. They leaned on the wall, picking up their coat from the back of the desk chair on their way to the bathroom, and closed the door behind them.

The water inside the tub was still steaming, the basin full of clean water. Some kind soul whose face they couldn’t recall had left fresh clothes and towels on the table beside the bathtub. They dug for the bag of holding sewn into the lining of their coat and removed their surgery kit and a roll of gauze from the space, dropped it on the table, and peeled away the stained bandages. They dunked their wounded hand and forearm into the clean water basin and scrubbed with soap until both injuries were red and raw, then studied them.

One all the way through puncture and one gash too open to stitch up. They turned their hand over and flexed it where the nail had pierced their palm, matching the two red holes dorsal and palmar. They tested the movement, touching each fingertip to their thumb in turn. It ached when they moved, but not badly enough to matter. When they turned their forearm over, some of the scales were set crooked and tugging on the skin beneath. They opened their surgery kit on the table and picked out a set of forceps and one of the clean towels, then leaned their forearm on the table and plucked off the loose or damaged scales. They blotted at the blood welling up from the base and imagined what the scar would look like once it scaled over again.

They stripped the night dress and clambered into the tub. Their frozen legs ached in the hot water, and they dropped their head below and let the world go quiet and thick for as long as they could stand. When they came back to the surface, their fingers were wrinkled. They combed out their hair and washed the blood and sweat from it, soap clouding the water. When the water cooled, they stepped out and scrubbed their skin until their scales shone with the towel they’d used to blot the blood away from their arm.

They reveled in the feel of clean clothes and properly tightened bandages, the shirt supple from years of wear but missing the tie so it sat wide over their collarbones and left the scars down their chest plainly visible. They held the collar closed as they approached the bedroom door and paused to listen for strangers in the hallway.

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” Tara exclaimed, emerging halfway through a small door above the wardrobe.

Velim startled back into the bed, knocking their already aching legs on the bedpost.

“Oh, my apologies,” Tara sat primly on top of the wardrobe, “I should have announced myself. In any case, no need to listen for danger. Morena sent the girls away this morning, and Gale received his scolding last night. It’s only myself, Mrs. Dekarios, and Charrel. Mrs. Dekarios sent me up to check on you.”

“Where is Gale?” Velim asked, rubbing their aching shin.

“Taking urgent meetings with old trade contacts,” Tara explained, “he’s been out making calls since before dawn, I expect he should return past lunchtime.”

“I see,” Velim fussed with the fresh bandages on their arm.

“Fear not, doctor, I’ve been keeping vigil since I heard. No ruffian is getting through that window without a good deal of scorching,” she flicked her tail at the closed curtains, “Mrs. Dekarios is expecting breakfast downstairs. I would appreciate it if you joined us.”

Tara disappeared back through the porthole and Velim heard her soft landing on the hallway carpet. Velim followed Tara’s flagging tail down the hall until she vanished around the curve of the main staircase and left them alone on the landing. Velim hesitated, tracing the carpet runner down the sun dappled stairway. Much like the stairway in the Hazelight home, glass windows set into the eaves letting the sun in. The stairs Everon had chased them up with a kitchen knife. They were whipped for it when they got the knife from him and chased him back down and into the arms of his waiting mother, Ulana. The chill of her hateful glare waited just around the corner.

Velim ignored the way their stomach clenched and took it one stair at a time until their hand passed into a sunbeam on the railing. Their scales flashed a luminous green beneath the ink that drank away the light. They pulled their hand away as though the gentle warmth burned and crossed their arms tight across their chest as they turned on their heel and walked quickly back to the bedroom.

The door clicked closed. Velim sucked in deep, hungry breaths while their heart slammed against their ribcage. They blinked back tears, and repeated against the tight wall of their throat, “I’m safe. No one is going to hurt me here. This is not Baldur’s Gate.”

The panicked animal at the back of their mind railed against them with worst-case scenarios. They looked for a place to hide, some dark and tight corner of the room, and found the nook between the bed and the far wall. Their head swam, body swamped by the hyperventilation and aching twitch in their fingers threatening to throw open the windows and jump out.

Velim staggered into the corner and curled up, digging their claws into their knees and focusing on the pinpoint pressure on the joints. Panic hammered at their defenses, tremors climbing up their spine. Hot tears ran down their face, tracing odd patterns between the scales on their cheekbones. They sucked in deliberately slow, stuttering breaths through their clenched teeth.

“Oh dear,” Tara mewed from her perch on the wardrobe. She sighed and shook out her wings with a soft rustle, then left again. She landed softly in the hallway.

Velim’s heart was just beginning to slow when Tara returned, gliding off the dresser and trotting up to rub against Velim’s knees. Velim peeled their claws off their legs and scratched behind her ears.

“Doctor, I’ve arranged for breakfast to come to you,” she explained.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Dekarios,” Tara called.

Velim’s hand stilled, their body freezing tight.

Tara pushed her head up into their hand. “You’re okay, Doctor. Morena already knows, and I’m afraid this conversation must occur while Mr. Dekarios is still out making his calls. And besides that, we really must get some food in you.”

Morena set the serving tray down on the desk, the smell of hot coffee mixing with her rose perfume. She pulled out the chair and sat across from Velim, taking her own cup of tea from the tray and sipping it.

“Gale tells me you prefer coffee, Charrel brewed it with cloves and ginger for their warming properties,” Morena said, studying the tea leaves drifting to the bottom of her cup, “she insisted I tell you that.”

Velim pressed their thumb into their injured palm, still stiff and cold despite the hot bath and now clammy with panic. They swallowed the fear in their throat. “That’s kind of her.”

Morena waited. Velim felt her eyes on them, studying their neatly plaited hair and the pattern of scales on their arms. The scrutiny sent their heart hammering again. The frigid hatred of Ulana Hazelight haunted the chair Morena currently occupied, as though she was hanging over Morena’s shoulder with her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight weave of braids and whispering all their horrid actions into her ear.

Tara leaned against their knees, but they made no move to pet her. The shade of Ulana Hazelight froze them in place, but she dissipated as Morena got up from the chair and took a seat on the unmade bed beside Velim. She leaned down and offered Velim a handkerchief.

Velim flinched at the movement, but relaxed when they realized what was being offered. They wiped their eyes and blew their nose, then balled the handkerchief up in their palm. “Thank you.”

“No point in tears now.” Morena said gently, picking herself up off the bed and settling herself on the bench at the foot of the bed, adjusting her skirts and pulling her embroidery project from her pocket. She hummed quietly as she worked the needle through.

Velim’s heart began to calm, and they unwound themself from the corner and raised themself from the ground on legs that felt more appropriate for a newborn fawn. They leaned against the wall until they found their balance, then relocated to the desk chair and picked up the coffee, warming their hands on the mug. The warm drink settled their stomach enough for them to realize how ravenous they were. Morena continued her embroidery.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.” Velim balanced the fork on the empty plate of pancakes.

Tara jumped into their lap with a huff and balanced herself in an indignant loaf on their knees. “Far more trouble had you died, Doctor. Do you have any idea what kind of state Gale was in when you didn’t arrive for dinner?”

“I’m sorry for that, too, then,” Velim sighed.

“Are you done?” Morena asked without looking up.

Velim watched out the crack between the curtains at the empty courtyard below. “Yes.”

“Come sit, please.” Morena moved to one side of the bench and patted the empty seat beside her.

Velim sat, crossing their arms across their chest as though they would stop being a dragon if they just hid enough of the scales from sight. Tara had enough of that, though, and followed them from the desk chair to the bench. She settled in Velim’s lap, pushing under their folded arms until they reluctantly extracted a hand to pet her.

“Thank you for bringing Gale back,” Morena said, her stern face drawn, “last night I saw my son for the first time in more than a year. I am grateful to you, and glad to finally meet you, although I wish the conditions were within your control.”

Velim began tracing back the timeline in their mind. One year previous Gale had done something, crossed Mystra, caused his ailment, and then vanished from public life. They wondered if his case was progressive, or if he’d had to take desperate measures to control the parasite from the beginning.

When Morena noticed that Velim was too lost in thought to respond, she continued with a small smile, “Gale is working to secure your secret and another option for disguise. Until then, we will keep the blinds drawn. You may stay here for as long as you like, but I believe it would be best for both of you to leave the city while the investigation runs its course.”

“He hoped he would return in time for breakfast,” Tara sighed, “I always tell him that bureaucracy takes time. When Mr. Dekarios hurried out the door this morning, he was so hopeful that he would return and prepare breakfast before you woke.”

Velim smiled at that. “He knows he doesn’t owe me for dinner, doesn’t he?”

“Oh please,” Tara scoffed, “he talks about repaying the favor all the time.”

“Has Gale told you much about us?” Morena asked.

Velim began to relax, the tension easing out of their shoulders and leaving a throbbing ache in its place. “Some, mostly stories from his sisters’ childhood. I understand he’s much older than the three of them?”

Morena nodded, working her needle through the eye of the crane in her embroidery hoop. “By ten years for Noelle and fourteen for Dorothea and Delores. He helped raise them after his stepfather died.”

“Stepfather?” Velim echoed.

“Yes, stepfather,” Morena confirmed, “I met Gale’s father when I was still very young. He fled his familial responsibilities in the Silver Marches, but when Gale was barely a year old he had to return,” Morena trailed off, studied the stitches of her embroidery, “ten years later, I received his will as the only surviving inheritor for the family, never having heard from him again.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Velim watched her work the thread back through, pulling a downy gray feather into the bird’s body, “he never mentioned that.”

“He was young when we lost his father, I don’t imagine he remembered much to tell you,” Morena pulled another feather into place, “I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of losses.”

“Yes, haven’t we all?” Velim tried to shake the oppressive memory of their years at the Hazelight home from their mind, a shadow cast over Ortheon Hazelight’s proud expression at their first amputation. Instead, the hurt pinged against the memory of Luz’s body in the mass grave at Ulivin during an outbreak of smallpox five years ago. They settled on the grief of that memory instead.

Morena waited for Velim to elaborate, but they stared down at the tortoiseshell patterns in Tara’s fur and said nothing. She set her embroidery in her lap. “I have a proposition for you, and I would like to put it to you before Gale returns so that when he brings it up to you, you already have your answer.”

Velim nodded at her to continue.

“I’ve staffed his father’s ancestral home in the Silver Marches with a skeleton crew for years to keep the place functional. Willow Valley Manor, it’s been in the Devin family for ten generations, and Gale is the last of the line. It rightfully belongs to him, but I’ve never extended it to him simply because of its remote location. Now, it seems a blessing,” Morena laid a hand on Velim’s shoulder, “I would send you both out there while the ruckus dies down and rumors of Tiamat’s Spawn running rampant among the townsfolk dissipate.”

“Does anyone else know about Willow Valley?” Velim asked, anxiety churning in their chest.

“No, just myself and Gale, as the home is his birthright,” Morena assured them, “if you decide to go, we must make the arrangements quickly before the roads become impassable.”

Velim considered their options, glancing at the curtains and imagining the city beyond boiling with talk of another sacking on their doorstep at the hands of Tiamat’s own black dragon. It wouldn’t be long until a mob with torches and pitchforks made their way to Morena’s door intent on tearing them limb from limb. A desolate swamp sounded like paradise in comparison, but perhaps that was the dragon talking.

Morena gathered her embroidery and stood up to leave. “Take your time and consider my offer,” then a small smile crossed her face, “Delores and Dorothea will not be held off for long, so while you may remain in here until supper, I must insist that you join us for the meal. I would rather introduce you in a controlled environment than allow them to discover you on their own.”

“They sound like a handful,” Velim noted.

Morena rolled her eyes. “They are grown women, but I suppose myself or Gale must have spoiled them. They’re both very fond of their brother, I can’t keep them away from you for long.”

“Then I thank you for the warning,” Velim smiled, and felt a buzz of warmth as Morena returned it on her way out the door, “Tara, would you be joining us at Willow Valley?”

Tara hopped off their lap. “No, Doctor, someone must care for the tower while Mr. Dekarios is away. I’ll keep an eye on your flat, as well, but it would just be the two of you.”

“And the staff,” Velim clarified.

“Yes, and the staff,” Tara echoed, flitting up to the top of the wardrobe, “get some rest, Doctor, I’ll send Gale up once he’s home. Is there anything you’d like me to retrieve from your flat?”

“There’s a book and a journal on my desk, if you can carry those,” Velim requested, thinking of the magical circuits scratched into the paper, “do you know where it is?”

“I absolutely can, and I do,” Tara purred, then was gone through the porthole.

Velim wondered how long Tara had been watching and how much she had known. They had never heard of a familiar keeping secrets from their wizard before, but as they sat in Gale’s childhood bedroom wearing his sister’s old clothes, they figured there was a first time for everything.

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