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avvail-whumps · 9 months

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“On a leash” for Leo and Roy? (Spicy? Whumpy? Consensual? Your choice)

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: on a leash also requested by an anon! word count: 1.02K

content warnings: multiple whumpers, intimate whumper, mentioned failed escape, collar and leash, partial nudity (not sexual), manhandling, humiliation, stress positions, mention of bruises, non-con kissing, non-con touching (not sexual)

Burning tears were threatening to spill down his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to keep them back. Leo’s eyes remained trained on his thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, no matter how many noises were coming from the television in front of him.

He’d been kneeling on the carpet for so long, that crippling pins and needles were beginning to torment him, and no matter how many times he dug his nails into his legs, it still didn’t take his mind off of it. He didn’t dare move, not when the other mercenaries were still around, and not when Roy had specifically ordered him not to.

He couldn’t see him from his spot on the ground, but his presence was like fire from behind him. He could feel the occasional shift, switching one leg to the other, as well as the teasing little tug on the leash attached around his neck.

It was humiliating, to be donned in only one of the mercenary’s stupidly oversized shirts, with a collar fixed snugly around his neck and the leash resting comfortably in Roy’s hand. He was twirling it between his fingers as he absentmindedly watched the TV, seemingly unaware of Leo’s discomfort.

The bruises blooming all over his body were the least of his worries, though.

The weight of the collar on his neck made him feel diminished into nothing. Like he was this thing that Roy could drag around and put on display whenever he pleased.

Leo supposed it was his own fault for trying to run away. Another night of Bran’s heckling torments and constant degrading comments had made him act irrationally, but he’d barely even been halfway out of his window before Roy came into his room.

The bruises would linger for a few days, and it was a punishment he could deal with. But this?

Leo bit down on his lip hard.

His legs were throbbing, and it was the only pain he could focus on right now. He tried not to succumb to the tears, but it was growing increasingly difficult with the gradual build up of frustration in his chest.

A light tugging on his neck drew him out of his thoughts. His head craned round to meet Roy’s amused eyes, twirling the leash between his finger to pull it taut.

“Come here, lion.”

Leo let out a shuddering breath, his hands finding the floor. He tried to do as he was told, but the moment he moved his legs, the pain seemed to grow worse. He bit back a shaking whine, his hand bracing against the sofa for support.

There was a sudden harsh tug on the leash, and the collar jarred painfully against his neck. Leo choked on a gasp, forcing him forward roughly between Roy’s legs. His trembling fingers dug into them in a desperate attempt to steady himself, his legs wobbling from underneath him. Roy wrapped the leash around his wrist, forcing his head up further.

The man leaned forwards, tucking a strand of his blond hair behind his ear.

“You should see how pathetic you look right now,” he murmured quietly, the finger sliding down to glide along the collar. It had dug uncomfortably into his neck, leaving a ring of sore, raw skin behind. “This is cute. I think you should wear it more often.”

Leo held his breath, surpressing the wince at the man’s wandering finger along his face. He couldn’t pull away when he had such a tight grasp on the leash, preventing him from moving anywhere with the collar. His knees were aching painfully through each little muscle, pressing his weight into Roy’s legs.

“Please,” he whispered shakily, humiliation crawling through him. “Please, take it off.”

“Take it off?” The mercenary parroted, his tone dripping with a sinister playfullness. “Why would I do that, lion? Clearly, you need to be put on a tighter leash. Or did you forget what happened already?”

Those burning tears began threatening his eyes again, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop them from spilling over. He knew that the mercenary would just torment him further if they did.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the tension in his neck throbbing from the uncomfortable position. “I mean it. I-I promise, I won’t do it again.”

The pressure from the collar didn’t ease, and Leo’s face wrinkled in discomfort. Roy tilted his head, cocking a brow.

“I know you’re sorry,” he hummed, tugging him closer. His knees dug uncomfortably into the floor, the crippling pain in his legs searing from the movement. Roy kept a firm grip on the leash, making it impossible for Leo to jerk backwards when the man’s lips sealed over his harshly. He squeaked, his fingers digging into his legs, but the man didn’t seem bothered.

The secretary’s breath felt like it was being hoarded away from him, the brazen, rough kiss prying his lips apart and making it almost impossible to breathe. The collar dug into his skin, prompting the tears to finally slide down his cheeks. When his chest started burning and the man’s kiss was all he could focus on, Roy finally seemed satisfied enough to pull away.

Leo greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air, feeling the saliva on the corner of his lips, and the shameful burn in his cheeks. His vision had started wilting, and it took a moment just to blink away the lingering spin on the edges of his vision.

Roy’s fingers dug into his jaw, forcing him to meet his pointed gaze.

“Unfortuantly, lion, your apologies mean nothing,” he murmured coldly, loosening his grip on the leash and letting Leo collapse back onto the floor. He curled his legs out from under him, cringing at the stiff pain. “And until then, you can stay there like a good boy.”

Leo stubbornly wiped away his tears, and tried not to grimace when the mercenary gave another unnecessary, playful tug of the leash.

“Though I’m not too sure, lion,” Roy smirked. “Seeing you on a leash is a little too tempting to pass up.”

#bad things happen bingo #on a leash #original work #ask #guns for hire #guns for hire special #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #whump scenario #whumper #whumpee #leo and roy #writing #my writing #avvail whumps #bthb card

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blackrosesandwhump · 1 month

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A Punishment Most Vile

A Month of Whump: Impalement

March of Pain 2024: Miserable

BTHB: Slammed into a Wall

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: The servant boy of an evil magician finds himself in deep trouble and suffers the painful consequences.

CW: torture, magic whump, punishment, impalement

The magician’s workshop smelled of stale magic, pungent and fermented-sweet and unsettling. The orphan boy held his breath as he straightened a stack of ancient books covered in thick blue dust. Given the kind of magic experiments the magician conducted, that dust could be anything. The powdered skin of some strange creature, or maybe the remnants of an experiment gone wrong. The orphan boy didn’t want to find out.

He shouldn’t have to find out, he thought, turning from the books to the puddle of murky, foul-smelling liquid pooled in the back corner. He was eighteen. He should be learning alongside the magician, helping him with his work rather than cleaning up his messes like some dumb servant. Helping him, rather than suffering the punishments brought on by his anger.

You are a servant, though, came the little annoying voice in his head. That’s all you are.

And as usual, he argued back.

No, no, I’m not!

You’ll never amount to anything, will you? You know that.

Just watch! I’ll prove you—

“Are you quite finished?” said the magician from the door. The orphan boy jumped and almost slipped in the murky pool.

“Almost, sir,” he mumbled. “There was a lot of mess to clean up.”

“Is that a criticism?” said the magician.

“No, sir.” The boy turned away, hiding his smirk.

But the magician saw it anyway. His gloved hand shot out and seized the boy’s throat, lifting him just barely off the ground, so that his toes dragged across the grimy stone. The boy choked and spluttered, scrabbling at the powerful hand around his neck.

“I would expect,” said the magician, in a voice dangerously low and cool, “that you would know your place by now. But I see you still need to learn.”

Calmly, as if tossing aside a piece of trash, the magician threw the boy across the room. He slammed into the stone wall and crumpled, whimpering, in a heap.

Just a servant. Nothing but a servant. Nothing but a—

“On your feet! Stand up!”

The boy stood, shaking, knowing what was about to happen. Another punishment. And all because of his stupid mouth and his stupid thoughts.

There was a flash of magic; something hit his chest hard, driving him up the wall with its force. He stuck there, feet dangling off the ground, unable to move. The magician muttered an unintelligible word. The pressure in the boy’s chest magnified to an intense pain, radiating through his pinioned body. He clenched his teeth against it, willing himself not to scream, not to betray his agony and satisfy the magician’s whim.

“You will remain there until you learn what I’ve tried to teach you,” the magician ordered, turning on his heel.

His back was turned.

The boy looked down.

A glowing shaft, oily black despite its underlying green hue, protruded from the left side of his chest. Tendrils of dark magic trailed from its end, smoky and foul.

The boy dropped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut against the shattering pain, against the pulse of his own failure in his impaled heart.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. That would defeat the purpose of this lesson, after all.” With that, the magician left, and the boy hung alone in his punishment, with only his own tormented thoughts for company.

@marchofpain @amonthofwhump @badthingshappenbingo

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letthewhumpbegin · 3 months

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Trapped - Top Gun: Maverick

Fandom: Top Gun Maverick Characters: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell Prompt: this was written for the prompt 'Claustrophobia' from my @badthingshappenbingo card (card at the bottom of this post). Word count: 1180 Warnings: contains descriptions of claustrophobia and panic/anxiety.

A nervous sigh escaped Rooster’s lips as the elevator doors slid closed. It was strange for a fighter pilot, but confined spaces always made him feel on edge. Inside a jet he was fine, but almost anything else triggered a response in him. Usually, a short elevator ride he could just handle, but even then he had to use every ounce of his self control not to freak out. And the elevator he had just stepped into felt far from comfortable.

Rooster did his best to keep his rising anxiety in check, but the shaky sigh had given him away already. Maverick, who stood in the elevator with him as they made their way up for a meeting about their latest mission, glanced over his shoulder at Rooster standing a few feet behind him. "It's only six floors up, we'll be there soon." The captain reassured, averting his gaze back to the display overhead that told them they were already nearing the third floor. "I’m fine," Rooster answered. "Sure you are," Maverick replied sarcastically, "those hands clamped into fists definitely confirm that."

Rooster hadn’t even realized that he had his hands balled tightly into fists. He quickly stretched them out again. "I’m fine," he repeated, even though he knew Maverick had seen through him. Maverick glanced back over his shoulder, a slight smirk on his face. "Naturally."

The word had barely left his mouth, or the elevator came to a grinding stop. The ceiling light flickered before going out completely, and a persistent beeping confirmed this was not a planned stop.

"Oh, shit…" The fear was instant in Rooster’s voice. Where he had been able to control his fear somewhat, it now immediately slipped from his grasp. He was instantly hyperventilating and his heart pounded inside his chest. "This isn’t happening…" Rooster gasped, sliding down against the wall and sinking down to the ground. His hands gripped into his hair, as his gasping, wheezing breaths reverberated around the small elevator.

Maverick quickly pushed the alarm button, before he knelt down in front of Rooster. "Calm down." Maverick tried to soothe. "I can’t." Rooster’s voice sounded higher than usual. "I’m trapped. I can’t get out, I…"

His emotions definitely took the better of Rooster now. A ringing sound grew louder in his ears, and a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him. Rooster didn’t think it was possible, but his heart pounded even faster inside his chest. Cold sweats broke out all over his body, along with an uncontrollable trembling.

Maverick had never seen Rooster like this. Hell, he didn’t even know the kid suffered from claustrophobia. At least, that was what he guessed this was.

"Look at me." Maverick gently reached for Rooster’s wrist. Without even trying he could feel the younger man’s pulse racing. Rooster had his eyes squeezed shut. He refused to open them, because that meant actually seeing he was trapped and had nowhere to go. "We’ll be out of here in a minute." Maverick tried, but his words fell on deaf ears. Rooster whimpered loudly, his fear rising even higher.

Maverick wordlessly squeezed Rooster’s wrist, hoping beyond hope to find a way to get through to him. Instead, Rooster trampled his legs on the floor and pressed his back hard against the elevator wall, almost as if he was attempting to disappear through it.

"Bradley." Maverick’s voice suddenly held the authority of his rank. Rooster stilled, although his panicked breaths still filled the elevator. The use of his real name, instead of his more oftenly used callsign, snapped him out of it for at least a little bit. He looked up at Maverick through his eyelashes in a futile attempt to keep the small elevator space out of his line of sight.

"I know this is hard, and you don’t want to hear anything I have to say," Maverick spoke clearly, "but they’ll have us out of here soon. Try to keep as calm as possible." Rooster’s breath hitched in his throat. "How can I? W–we’re trapped." "Not for long anymore, I promise." Maverick did his utmost best to keep Rooster focused on him. Rooster squeezed his eyes shut once more, clenching a fist around the sleeve of Maverick’s jacket. "I n-need it to be now…" Maverick nodded understandingly. He patted Rooster’s shoulder before he spoke. "I wouldn’t mind that either."

Suddenly, the elevator jolted. The light overhead flickered back on, and with a grinding noise the elevator seemed to move again. Rooster squeaked in fright. He raised his arms over his head, curling in on himself. "We’re moving." Maverick rose to his feet as he looked at the floor indicator. "That’s a good thing."

Another jolt, another grind, and finally the freeing ‘ping’ sound as the elevator doors slid open. It wasn’t the floor they were supposed to be on, but that didn’t matter to Rooster. As soon as he saw daylight, Rooster was up on all fours, crawling out onto the hallway the elevator opened up to.

The moment he was a safe distance away, Rooster collapsed onto the tile floor. He lay breathing hard and still trembling all over. He might be free, but the fear of being trapped wasn’t nearly out of his system yet. Maverick knelt down next to Rooster, resting a comforting hand on the younger man ‘s arm. "Deep breaths, kid. Take all the time you need. We’re alright, we're out." Rooster nodded curtly into the floor, but wasn’t able to shake his fear just yet.

Eventually, Rooster lay on that floor for about fifteen minutes before he deemed himself able to move again. He finally, slowly, moved himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall. Maverick watched his every move. "You good?" Rooster breathed deep in and out. "Yeah."

"What happened back there?" Maverick ventured the question. "I guess I never told you that I’m claustrophobic," Rooster answered. "No…" Maverick had already guessed something along those lines, but having it confirmed still surprised him. "That’s not something many pilots suffer from." "It’s weird, huh?" Rooster ran a hand through his hair, chuckling wryly. "When I’m flying it doesn’t bother me one bit. Maybe because the jets have windows and the fact that you can see the outside world. And, usually, short elevator rides are tense for me, but… I manage." "Until we got stuck," Maverick added, understanding how this all came to be. Rooster nodded with a heavy sigh. "Yeah."

Maverick looked at the state of Rooster, who still seemed not entirely collected again. "Do you need me to call the meeting off?" "No," Rooster replied somewhat wearily, "I’ll be fine."

Maverick held out his hand and pulled Rooster up on his feet. "Thanks," Rooster mumbled. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders a few times to try and rid himself of the last bit of tension. "Okay, I’m good," he finally announced.

Maverick clasped Rooster’s shoulder, smirking. "On the way back we’ll take the stairs." Rooster chuckled, glad for Maverick’s understanding and non-judgemental reaction to all this. "You bet your ass I’m taking the stairs."

#top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #pete mitchell #bradley rooster bradshaw #pete maverick mitchell #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #miles teller #tom cruise #whump #whump writing #whump fanfic #whump fanfiction #bad things happen bingo #bthb card

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thegaynessarchives · 9 months

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MY FIRST BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO CARD IS HERE!!!

Send me requests from here and I will write them! :D God I love these things so much

I will be getting more probably lol

Unrelated/userboxes:

#tma #the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma fandom #whump tma #whump #tma whump #bad things happen bingo #bthb #bthb card #whump bingo #whump prompt #fic prompt

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jinxquickfoot · 2 days

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@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Grief/Mourning

Find the fic on Ao3!

Inspired by @16woodsequ's wonderful The Alternate End

Part I: Nebula

He’s put this off as long as he can.

Tony knows he should have done this much sooner. God knows how much pain Nebula’s been in while he’s been skulking in his hospital room, refusing to talk to anyone except Pepper. They’re probably all too occupied with their own pain to care. They probably think he’s angry over the Accords, the betrayal that still lingers there. He's still angry. He hadn’t realized until he was face-to-face with Steve Rogers in the home he’d decided wasn’t good enough for him anymore.

But that’s not why he’s avoiding everyone. He knows it makes no sense—after a long month in the cosmos, wondering who had lived and who hadn’t, he should just be relieved that they’re still here. Relief isn’t the word he’d use, though. It’s resentment.

He doesn’t care that he wasn’t strong enough to go after Thanos. He doesn’t care that the Mad Titan is dead. He doesn’t even care that the remaining Avengers hadn’t been able to win, not in the way that mattered. Tony had known it was hopeless long before they left the Compound. He knows because he’s been fighting this war longer than any of them. He’d known since he’d flown through the wormhole that this day would come if they didn’t pull out every weapon in their arsenal. Ultron, the Accords, scoping the planet for new talent like P—

Tony swallows back images of a dying planet and Mr Stark I don’t feel so good to focus on the project at hand. Nebula is already nervous enough without Tony’s mind being on a past he can't fix. There was never going to be a ‘fix’, this war always had to be won before it was fought, and no one had listened to him.

“We can wait another day,” Nebula bursts out. She’s been quiet since getting on Tony’s operating table, lying still and rigid as Tony tries to get a hold of himself enough to do this. She pushes herself up, swinging her legs over the side. “There is no urgency.”

Tony catches the flippant comment that comes to his lips. He’d gotten Nebula’s entire depressing backstory during their time slowly starving to death in space. He can’t imagine she associates body part replacement with fun and laughter. He nods at her damaged hand. “You can’t do anything with those fried wires. It has to be done sometime.”

“Some time does not have to be today.”

Tony pushes the rotating slideshow of Titan to the back of his mind, moving into her path as she attempts to leave. “Hey. You saved my life in space. I would have died of infection or, if I somehow survived, gone completely insane up there without our invigorating paper football tournament. Let me repay the favor.”

He forces himself to be patient as Nebula stares at her damaged hand. “You want to make us equal.”

That’s not Tony’s MO, but if it’s what gets this done, he’ll take it. “Yeah, sure. Equals” When she still looks nervous, he adds, “Besides, we don’t have to do the actual replacement today. I’m just mapping to get an extent of the damage before we take anything out or put anything in.”

It’s a straight-out lie as he’d been hoping to get this done all in one session, but Nebula’s shoulders finally relax. “Okay,” she allows. “We can do that. And you’ve done this before?”

Tony exhales, reaching for a holodisplay and moving it around so Nebula can see. He’d hoped to put this off until it was absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want to be reminded. He wants to take Pepper and find a cabin in the middle of nowhere and shut out the world forever. He shouldn’t have to fix things anymore. That’s what he’s been doing, for years, and he’s done it alone.

But Nebula shifts on the table, and Tony reminds himself that she wasn’t part of any of those fights, and it wouldn’t help to win the trust of a friend who comes without baggage. Bracing himself, he brings up the schematics for Vision.

Nebula’s breath catches as she takes in the holographic blueprints. “How much did you replace?”

“Replace?” Tony catches on and hurries to explain. “No, no, he was made like this from the start. He’s not a human we… Jesus, we don’t do that here.” He forces back images of a silver metal arm.

Nebula processes that. “He is all mechanics?”

“Was,” Tony murmurs. “Thanos…” He can’t bring himself to end the sentence. The death of half the universe chokes the Compound like a smog cloud, but the overwhelming nature of it has stayed in the abstract. Even now, weeks later, Tony cannot fathom just how huge a loss god knows how many planets have suffered. He can barely wrap his head around the death of four billion human beings.

But the knowledge that one of their own had been murdered in battle… That he can picture. That he can comprehend. Because one of his first ports of call when he could get out of bed without collapsing was Wakanda to retrieve Vision’s body.

He doesn’t know what to do with it. Vision had been very clear that in the case of his death, his parts were to be dismantled beyond repair. Tony knows he’s the best person left in the world for that job. It doesn’t mean he’s been able to bring himself to do it. He’s still not sure if the idea of keeping the corpse of a team member in the basement indefinitely is worse than the empty coffins they had buried on the Compound grounds.

“My father was a monster,” Nebula murmurs, staring at her toes. “I was never going to please him. And yet I tried to anyway. I would have done anything for him.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Tony scrubs at his eyes, zooming in on the blueprints for Vision’s arm that will become the basis for Nebula’s new one. “Here, you can follow along with everything I’m doing…”

He trails off when he hears a sob come from the operating table.

He freezes. Their entire time in space, he had not once seen Nebula cry. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him cry, either. It hadn’t mattered up there, not in any way that counted. They didn’t know who was gone. All they knew was that they would be gone themselves in barely the space of a few weeks, and then their grief wouldn’t exist.

But they didn’t die. Their grief didn’t pass into oblivion. They returned here, to Earth, and learned exactly what Thanos had taken.

Tony still replays that moment of seeing Steve sprinting toward the spaceship. Of Pepper following close behind. Seeing Rhodey, calling Happy. Realizing that, by some impossible odds, all the original six members of his team had survived the Snap.

Nebula hadn’t had that. Her team had crumbled in front of her. More than her team.

Tony moves over to her bedside to take her undamaged hand. “Thanos wasn’t your family,” he assures her. “You found a much better one. One who actually loved you. I know the feeling.”

"My sister..." Nebula angrily wipes away a tear. "She should not have shown him the Soul Stone to save me. I was not worth that sacrifice."

Tony squeezes her hand. "I doubt she saw it that way."

He sits and lets her cry into his shoulder as long as she needs to. He could have it worse. He could have lost so much more. He could still lose so much more if he stays in this mindset. He can’t change the past but he can stop it from changing him into a shape he doesn’t want to be anymore. Resentment is corrosive. He can’t afford it to spread when the rest of his life will revolve around construction.

Tony mentally puts aside Nebula’s repairs for another day. He has other building to do, anyway.

Part II: Thor

Clint’s gone and even Natasha can’t find him. Bruce is on the other side of the world, helping rebuild where he can, making vague promises about return dates. Tony’s not ready to face Steve. That leaves one.

The Asgardian refugees have taken over the Compound grounds. They’ve provided what they can for them but Tony still feels ill when he can see how few of them are left. Thanos had slaughtered half of those he'd found on the Statesman and then killed another half in the Snap. Asgard was gone, torn to pieces by an apocalypse they were never going to escape. Living on Earth feels the same way. They’d always known it would end here. Or at least, Tony had known.

He wonders if that is why his grief feels a little more tempered than the others’. This wasn’t a sudden loss for him. It’s the result of slowly losing a war, piece by piece, over the span of years. He always knew that they would only get one shot at victory. He’ll never know the future Strange saw where they scraped a win. He just gets this one and he has to do what he can with it.

He doesn’t find Thor with the rest of the Asgardians. A few conversations are enough to guide him to a tent in the far, far back, stationed away from all the others. Already a bad sign. So is the fact that the tent is dark as he approaches. Tony awkwardly paws at the tent cover to announce his presence in lieu of knocking, then calls out for good measure. “Thor. It’s Tony.”

He doesn’t get an invitation to come inside. He doesn’t get a refusal either. Good enough.

Thor doesn’t move from his prone position as Tony unzips the tent and steps inside. There’s no blanket over him or mattress underneath him, with barely the base of the tent to protect him. “You have a room at this Compound, you know. I built one for you. Just in case.”

Thor doesn’t look at him. He just keeps staring at the roof of the tent. “I will be with my people. Least their king could do after my brother sacrificed half of them for me." He spits the name of king out like venom. "After I could have killed Thanos when it mattered."

Tony still hasn't been able to wrap his mind around the image of Loki dying in a heroic attempt to kill Thanos. Whenever he thinks of the trickster god, the memory that tends to come to mind is Loki throwing him from a window or the mass of black clothing at Phil Coulson's funeral. If Bruce hadn't been the one who had told him the story, including Loki handing over the Space Stone to spare Thor's life, Tony wouldn't have been able to believe a word of it.

"I don't have siblings," he says. "And I know things between you and your brother were... complicated. But there were a lot of steps a lot of other people could have taken and didn't. It's not all on you." He's suddenly back on the spaceship again, listening to Strange lecture him about how he wouldn't give up the Time Stone even if Peter's life was on the line. Tony doesn't want to know what choice he would have made if it was up to him. "Guess it's easier to say you'll give everything up to save the world than to actually do it. You gave up more than most already."

Finding the Asgardians a more permanent new home is on Tony’s to-do list, but losing half a population apparently wreaks havoc on a planet’s infrastructure. There’s been so much to do, from getting hospitals up and running, to restarting supply chains for food, to getting entire cities’ electrical grids functioning again. After months of work, the world is somewhat physically functional again. Tony doesn’t know how many decades will pass before the human race emotionally recovers. He knows it will be a long, long time after his lifetime.

“Well. It won’t be tents forever. I can promise you that.”

“Promises,” Thor scoffs. Tony fights the sudden urge to bolt in the other direction. It isn’t right, seeing one of the strongest Avengers and one of the last to lay down in a fight so utterly void of spirit. Then again, none of them are themselves these days. “Wouldn’t make any promises. They just end up broken.”

“A lot of things have ended up broken.” Tony sits cross-legged in the tent, plucking at a stray thread in his jeans. “Luckily, I’m pretty good at fixing things.”

Thor’s next words are a whisper. “There’s no fixing this. It’s gone. It’s all gone, and it’s not coming back, and we’re all just going to have to live with that.”

Tony closes his eyes. He knows that’s true. He knows that they will never, ever get back to where they were. But they can take baby steps in the right direction. He reaches into his pocket. “I know you’ve lost a lot,” he says, the words so unbelievably inadequate that he almost quits then and there. He stays, though. He doesn’t get to quit. That’s not a luxury he’s had since Afghanistan. “More than most of us.”

Thor shifts slightly. “It does not help to compare losses.”

The guilt Tony’s been feeling since he returned to Earth swells, but now is not the time to voice it. “I can’t bring Asgard back,” he says. Even now, with half of Earth’s life lost, he can’t comprehend the magnitude of losing his entire planet. “Or anyone you’ve lost. But I’ve been thinking…” His mind trails to Nebula’s newly equipped arm, which he had put the final touches on that morning. “We have to focus now on what we can get back. Or find replacements for, at least.”

Thor finally looks at him. “Do not suggest that there is any replacement for…” He trails off, anger abating when he sees what Tony is holding. “Is… is that for me?”

“The talking raccoon told me the one you’re using… well, actually, you don’t want to know where it came from.” Tony holds out the mechanical eye he’s spent the past week perfecting. “Besides, I don’t think you’re really pulling off the whole heterochromia look. Thought you looked better in your classic blue.”

Thor gently takes the eye, marveling at it. “Thank you, Stark. And for letting us all stay here.”

“I’m not letting you do anything. I built this place for the Avengers. That includes you. Use this place as you see fit—hm, I could have used some warning there.” Tony barely has time to look away before Thor casually pops his fake eye out, tossing the brown iris aside. Tony waits until the squelching sounds have stopped before he risks looking back.

“How does it look?” Thor asks.

Tony takes in the two symmetrical eyes. To his trained gaze, the mechanical one is ever so slightly glassier. It’ll never live up to the original. But it’s a start. “You look great.”

“I doubt that is true.”

Tony hovers awkwardly, not sure what else to say. “Can I do anything else?” he tries.

Thor is quiet for a long moment before he speaks. “Perhaps…” He suddenly reaches out, grasping for Tony’s hand. Tony lets him take it. “Stay, for a while?”

A part of Tony rebels against the idea. He’s got so many things he’s supposed to be doing, to be building, to be fixing. Then he looks at his friend, sprawled and miserable on the ground, and realizes that fixing doesn’t always have to require tools and a workshop. “Sure. I’ll stay.”

Part III: Steve

Things don’t get better, but they do get easier.

The number of global catastrophes has reduced. Supply isn’t where it used to be, but at least most people have access to food, power and clean water. The daily body count of new Blip-related deaths reduces. Tony had provided whatever resources he could, but even his wealth couldn’t keep up with locating and identifying the bodies. There were those who had died on the roads after drivers had Blipped or had been on suddenly pilot-less planes that had tumbled from the air. There had been those who died in hospitals with drastically reduced numbers of doctors and nurses. And then, worst of all, the orphaned infants and small children who had perished from neglect.

A grateful universe, Thanos had called this. The Mad Titan title has never felt so fitting.

Tony finds Steve by Bucky’s grave.

They’d given each Dusted Avenger a tombstone: a place for the living to mourn the dead. Tony deliberately does not look at Peter’s as he approaches.

Steve must hear him coming but he doesn’t raise his head. He’s bent over a compass, holding it so tightly that Tony fears it might break. He figures that’s as good a place as any to start the conversation. “Careful. You remember you have super-soldier strength, right?”

Steve’s hold doesn’t loosen. “It hasn’t broken yet.”

Tony takes his place by Steve’s side. He wishes the pain of what happened in Siberia would dwarf in the magnitude of the Blip. It hasn’t. It’s just been buried, pushed aside until Tony’s heart has room to feel it again. “Rhodey says you spend all day out here.”

“There’s nowhere else to be. There’s nothing else I can do.”

Tony knows the feeling. “Still. It’s freezing out here.” It’s not, really. It’s just something to say to fill the silence.

Steve pulls the compass close to his chest. “Bucky gave this to me. Two weeks before he died. He was different after Azzano. Like he knew. And he followed me onto that train anyway. ”

Tony casts about for something to say to that. “Weren’t they already… doing stuff to him in Azzano? Winter Soldier stuff? That might be what he had been feeling. Not some kind of death premonition.”

Steve doesn’t react mollified by the words. He doesn’t react at all. “You know he had the offer to go home after Azzano? He could have. He didn’t. Because he chose to follow me. Then, in Wakanda, he was at peace. And I brought a war right to his doorstep.”

“I don’t think the narrative is that simple.”

“If I had—”

“What?” Tony interrupts him, a little harsher than he means to. “If you had made Wanda kill Vision earlier? It wouldn’t have mattered, Steve. We lost the second Thanos got his hands on the Time Stone.” He ghosts a hand over the scar disfiguring his abdomen. Why? he wants to scream at Strange. Why would you do it? I wasn’t worth it.

“Wanda could have killed Vision the second we knew Thanos was coming to Earth. It wouldn’t have mattered,” he continues. “And as for going to Wakanda—that wasn’t just your choice, Steve. All the Avengers with you chose to do that. T’Challa chose to open his borders to you. Everyone in that battle chose to fight. You didn’t pressgang them. In fact, I don’t think pressganging the Dora Milaje is humanly possible. Wakanda was the most prepared place on Earth to tackle an alien invasion of that magnitude and their technology probably prevented the pre-Snap damage from being even worse. Those aliens would have torn apart the Earth for Thanos.”

Steve is quiet as he absorbs all of that. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Yeah. For six years.” One future where they win. Tony’s been ripping himself apart trying to imagine what it would have been, what step they didn’t take. Maybe there were more futures, earlier in the timeline. Roads not traveled that didn’t end with a line of empty graves.

“I know you tried to prevent this,” Steve says softly. “I have been thinking… Ultron, the Accords, if those had played out differently--”

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off. He’s done dwelling on this. He can rage and storm and shout I told you so all he wants. It won’t fix anything. “It’s done. We’re here. We need to make what we can of it.”

Steve is still staring at Bucky’s tombstone in a way that’s becoming increasingly unnerving. “This is the second time I’ve buried an empty casket for him."

Tony swallows, all too aware that he nearly made that a full casket in 2016. If Bucky was still here, Tony would have apologized with an arm, like the one he had built for Nebula. But unlike with Nebula and Thor, there is nothing Tony can physically build here to offer comfort. At least, not anything he’s thought of yet. "I know I ruined things that day in Siberia," he manages. "That I made you choose between the two of us. That wasn't fair. That isn't who you are."

"Tony—"

"No, just let me say this. And fine, maybe, we could have made a few more sacrifice plays along the way and not ended up here." If Gamora had given up Nebula, it Loki havd given up Thor, if Strange had given up him. If Steve had given up Bucky, all those years ago, instead of fighting entire governments for his freedom. "None of us had the strength to do it. The only person who did was Wanda and then that didn't even matter. And maybe if we had... well, maybe we stop being the good guys the moment we start trading lives."

He's not sure how much of his own argument he believes. But, for the first time since he can remember, he has more goals than trying to prove that he's right. “I was relieved,” he finds himself saying. “When I stepped off the Benetar, and found out Pepper and Rhodey and Happy had all lived.” He doesn’t mention Peter. He hasn’t been able to put into words what exactly a teenager from Queens had meant to him. “I still feel relieved. And that feels awful. And it also feels awful that it doesn’t feel more awful.”

“I’m glad,” Steve murmurs. “I’m glad you got to keep them.”

Tony keeps an ear out for any bitterness in those words. He doesn’t hear it. Steve is being honest. Tony swallows past the stubborn lump in his throat. “I was relieved as well… when I saw you. When I got my feet back on land and saw you were there. I was relieved.” More than just relieved. In those first few minutes, none of their fighting had mattered. Tony had been grateful to tumble into the arms of a friend—someone else to hold him upright for a few moments.

Steve nods slowly. “I was too. I didn’t want to hope too much, not after weeks of not knowing, not after we’d lost so many. But I couldn’t kill the hope entirely. And then you were there, alive and…” There’s a small hitch in his voice. “God, Tony, if it had been Bucky and Sam and you, I don’t think I would have…”

Without letting himself think about it too much, Tony reaches out to grip Steve’s shoulder. “We’re still here. Still fighting. That’s something. That has to be something.”

Steve nods again. “We’ll make it something.” It’s the first time he’s sounded like himself in months.

“That we will.”

"Maybe..." Steve shifts his gaze, past Bucky's grave to Sam's. "Maybe fighting looks different now. Like... like what Sam did. At the VA." He straightens at little at the promise of a mission. "Maybe it would help."

"I have no doubt it would. God knows how many people out there need someone to talk to." Tony looks from the grave to Steve. “You know, I had the wild idea I might cook tonight. Want to make sure I don’t set the kitchen on fire?”

For a terrifying moment, he’s sure Steve is going to say no. Then, the man seems to pull some of his shattered pieces back together. “Well, we can’t have a fire, I guess. Been putting out enough of those already.”

It’s not a miracle cure. No one is magically better. But Tony gathers whoever is left and makes something hot and homemade with minimal kitchen damage, and for once the conversation is more than about the work they’ll have to do tomorrow.

He can’t fix the world. But he will fix what he can.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #grief #mourning #mcu #marvel #post-Snap #the Blip #avengers: endgame #whump writing #emotional whump #Tony Stark #Steve Rogers #Nebula #Thor

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the-likesofus · 1 year

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when the night is cold as it is long

9-1-1 on Fox | Buddie | 4k words | bthb claustrophobia | panic attacks, buried alive, hurt/comfort, nightmares, getting together

Eddie develops claustrophobia post “The Well Incident”, as well as frequent nightmares. Then on a call, he and Buck get stuck in a collapse and Eddie panics. Post 3x15 | @badthingshappenbingo

Eddie is shivering when he wakes up and his chest aches as he gasps for every breath. The light from the moon and street lamps outside is filtering through the thin curtains over Eddie’s bedroom window and yet his vision is too hazy to recognize his own hand in front of his face.

For weeks Eddie has been haunted by the squelch of mud and the stench of old sewer pipes. He has learned how to tire himself out to the point of collapse just to grab a few extra hours of sleep and is concerningly functional on a minimal number of hours. Even Eddie can admit that his current sleep schedule (or lack thereof) is unhealthy but it is also all he can manage at the moment. He would love nothing more than to bunker down under his duvet and sleep like the dead for 48 hours but he has obligations, a job, and a son. And even if he could fall asleep, which he rarely can, the terrors that haunt him while he is awake inevitably follow him into his dreams.

Tonight, however, is the third consecutive night of waking up in an absolute fit after only falling asleep only an hour before. He’s been barely functioning on four hours of sleep over the last four days and he is at the end of his tether.

Eddie’s thoughts are shaken by his phone ringing on the bedside table and he lunges for it instantly, answering the call without looking at the caller ID, yet somehow he just knows it’s Buck.

“Eds? You there?” Buck’s voice carries, thin and fragile down the line when Eddie takes too long to greet him after picking up the call.

“Yea-yeah, I’m here.” Eddie can hear the way his own voice shakes as he bites the inside of his cheek and twists his fingers into his sheets. “What’s up?”

There is a rustling on the other end of the line. Buck must be in bed too though why he is calling Eddie at four in the morning when they have a shift at seven is beyond him. Still, he waits, letting Buck collect his thoughts and listening to the steady sound of Buck’s breathing as it soothes the ache in Eddie’s chest. In this moment he wants nothing more than to reach out and bury himself in Buck’s chest, tuck himself under his ribcage and hide from the world. Eddie thanks small mercies that Buck is on the other end of the phone line rather than sitting in front of him, lest he does something stupid like follow through on the urge.

“Ah, did Chris find that maths workbook he left in the living room? I told him to put it in his school bag but I can’t remember if he did and he has that test at the end of the week and he was going to ask Ms. Jefferson about the questions on the worksheet.”

And the urge increases tenfold just as the pit in his stomach had opened up and he had wished for the ground to swallow him when Buck had left his house two days ago after watching Chris while Eddie went to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. He could have sworn that Buck hesitated in the doorway on his way out but Eddie was not feeling brave enough to ask him to stay, Buck probably had plans anyway, it was a Tuesday and he usually went around to Maddie’s. And so Eddie had bit his tongue and watched him leave.

Now he realizes that Buck is still rambling on about Christopher’s homework and pulls his attention back to his phone. “Yeah, yeah he got it. Buck, are you okay?"

“Me? Yeah, of course, sorry I didn't mean to wake you. I just remembered. About the book, you know.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“Of course, no worries.”

There’s silence down the line and for a few passing moments Eddie simply listens to Buck’s breathing and tries to match him, breath for breath.

“Eddie?” Buck asks quietly after Eddie has sunken back under his covers and can feel sleep starting to pull at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, Buck?”

Buck breathes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Buck.”

Eddie falls asleep before the call ends.

Continue on AO3

#buddie #buddie fic #911 fox #bad things happen bingo #meegs writes stuff #claustrophobia fic #eddie diaz #evan ‘buck’ buckley #911 fic #buck x eddie #eddie x buck #bthb card

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whumpshots · 8 months

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For the Bad things happen bingo (If you’re still doing it) could you do “Please don’t leave me” ? I’m a sucker for that kind of whump. You’re writing is spectacular may I add! (One could even say amazing— or even ultimate)

hello there - of course ah'm still doing it and i am so happy for the request! thank ye so much!

and thank ye for these kind words, ahh! <3

Whumpee feels warm hands on their cheeks, finger moving to their throat to check for a pulse. The hands roam over their injured body, making them whimper softly in pain. A few seconds later, they finally hear the voice that has been talking to them the entire time.

"It's me. It's okay. I've got you ... open your eyes, yes, like this."

Whumpee's lids crack open after what feels like an eternity and the shadows in front of them turn into a face they know so well. Caretaker looks down at them with a smile and sighs.

"Just like that. You're doing so well."

But whumpee doesn't feel well. Not at all. They don't even remember what happened. There was a sudden pain, sudden darkness. And now they are cold and hurting. Their eyes slip closed again and the hand on their cheek is back, thumb softly stroking their skin.

"Hey. No sleeping until we are out of here, you understand?"

Caretaker's voice has changed, whumpee realises. They sound ... scared? A soft grunt escapes them as they try to force their eyes open, their lids flutter, but that little strength they had before finally leaves their body. Whumpee feels caretaker's body come closer.

"No ... no, no, no! Whumpee? Please ... Please don't leave me!"

Warm tears land on their face as whumpee fights the comforting darkness embracing them like a long lost child. Caretaker's pleas repeat over and over again, until whumpee finally manages to open one of their eyes.

#whump #whump writing #bad things happen bingo #bthb #bthb card #answered ask #whump ask #please don't leave me #whumpee #caretaker #emotional whump #physical whump #injured whumpee #thanks for the ask #whumpshots

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kcscribbler · 2 months

Link

Fandom: Loki (TV 2021) Relationships: Loki & Mobius M. Mobius Characters: Loki (Marvel), Mobius M. Mobius Additional Tags: Gen or Pre-Slash, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Sickfic, Mobius M. Mobius Needs a Hug Series: Part 11 of The Storyteller Saga, Part 11 of Fluffbruary 2024 Summary:

"You need to find a hobby," Mobius had said, shortly after Loki's retrieval from the End of Time. "It'll be good for you."

Fluff, H/C and a dash of whumpage, all exceedingly self-indulgent. You've been warned.

---

Giftfic for @asoeiki, whose amazing art for this universe can be seen here and here. The talent, my god.

Belated @fluffbruary prompt fills and a @badthingshappenbingo card fill, card under cut.

#loki #loki series #lokius #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #fluffbruary 2024 #bthb #bthb card

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darlingwhump · 2 years

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shock collar :)

My first @badthingshappenbingo prompt fill! This ended up being a lot longer than I intended it to lmao, but enjoy! Thanks for sending in a request~

CW: captivity, implied pet whump, electrocution, manipulation, self-loathing

Whumpee’s “good behavior” had granted them the privilege of going upstairs instead of rotting away in Whumper’s cold, musty basement. They had even been given free range of the house, and Whumper seemed ecstatic that their captive was finally warming up to their new life.

Whumpee gratefully accepted this new privilege. They’ve been on their best behavior this week: not shying away when Whumper tries to cuddle up with them, accepting any punishments with gratitude, and even going out of their way to care for their captor’s needs.

And, oh, life is so much easier when they’re not chained up in the basement. Now, the only thing acting as any kind of restraint is the shock collar around Whumpee’s neck. Whumper has used it countless times in the past as a sort of training tool, as negative reinforcement for whenever they try to talk back or disobey them. They’ve even got Whumpee trained to fear the sight of the remote, as it almost always brings pain and a lingering headache.

But it’s alright, even that has been accounted for in Whumpee’s elaborate plan to finally get out of this hell. Amidst their constant state of paranoia, Whumpee still thinks this plan is almost perfect. It has to work.

Because if it doesn’t…well, Whumpee doesn’t want to think about that.

Whumper didn’t seem to pick up on Whumpee’s scuttling each time they were left alone, and didn’t comment on how they’d been digging through drawers to locate keys and searching around for security systems or anything else that could aid them in an escape attempt. They didn’t appear to see through Whumpee’s risky attempt at manipulation, and even right now, they don’t stir as Whumpee slips the shock collar’s remote from a sleeping Whumper’s nightstand drawer. This way, if they do wake up, at least they won’t be able to turn the collar on.

Hope flutters in Whumpee’s chest as they swiftly tiptoe down the hall, into the living room, and towards the front door. One hand holds the key to the front door (Whumper had made it a point to tell Whumpee that they had removed the inside lock in preparation for their new life upstairs). The other hand shakes violently and feels clammy as it grips the shock collar remote--but not too tightly. Whumpee’s heart hammers as they think about the possibility of accidentally triggering it…but they don’t want to put it in their pocket, because then they could shift and it would go off and everything would be painful.

It’s alright, the shocks will be over soon. Whumpee is getting out.

They squeeze their eyes shut as they reach for the door handle, as if touching it would set off their collar. They knew it wouldn’t--shock collars didn’t work like that, and the remote was right here. And nothing happened, anyways! They’re fine.

Whumpee flings the door open and feels a breeze of crisp night air for the first time in…had it really been a few months now? It feels so nice, but Whumpee snaps themself back to the present. They have to go, now.

Whumpee doesn’t make it one step out onto the front porch before the prongs in their collar crackle to life.

They immediately lose their balance, crying out in pain as their body is wracked with shocks at the highest setting. But they had gotten the remote--how was the collar going off? They dropped it anyways, their fingers instead moving to claw at the painful sensation crawling up their neck and into their head. Get it off get it off get it off!

But their twitching hands can’t seem to grasp the collar, and they can’t get it off even if they tried. Why didn’t they try to take it off first? Stupid echoes through their mind and they can’t focus on anything else through the pain.

They don’t know how long they lay there writhing on the front porch. But at some point, they realize they need to go, they have to try, or else Whumper’s gonna get them and punish them and this is so painful they just want it to stop. Through everything, their adrenaline pushes Whumpee to their elbows and they attempt to crawl towards the front lawn.

They whimper as another wave of shocks rush through their body and hear a chuckle sounding from above them. No, they must be hallucinating, they have to under this much pain, right? Please let this be a hallucination.

Whumpee glances up to see Whumper looking down over their twitching form. Nononono, Whumpee tries to back away, but the shocks only seem to get worse and they cry out in pain. They shake their head, try to will themselves to ignore their convulsing muscles and run, but they can’t move, they can’t think. It’s too much.

“Oh, darling, look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Whumper tuts, and Whumpee learned months ago that they find Whumpee’s pain amusing. In that way, Whumpee has played right into their hand. “Let’s get you back to your room, yeah?”

“N-n-no…” Whumpee whimpers in the first form of defiance they’d shown in weeks, ever since they started cooking up this little plan of theirs. So much for freedom. “...don’ wanna go back.”

“Whumpee.” Their captor’s voice snaps, all prior amusement morphing into stern impatience. “Let’s go. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Whumpee lets out a sob. As if that’s what they’re really worried about right now.

Whumpee should scream. They should be doing everything they can to wake up the neighbors as a last-ditch attempt to escape whatever punishment Whumper has in mind. Maybe the neighbors could help, call the police, send someone to investigate Whumpee and find them. But through the waves of pain and months of conditioning, Whumpee can’t make themselves carry out their plan. They just want their neck to stop searing. Why did they ever think this was a good idea?

“Whumpee, now. You’ve already lost upstairs privileges, do you want to lose more?”

Whumpee shakes their head, the movement made even jerkier due to the shocks continuing to wrack Whumpee’s body. “N-no more, please.”

“Then let’s go. You have five seconds to get up and walk back inside.”

Whumpee whimpers. The shocks are too much--they can’t get up!

“One…” Whumper sighs, “Two…”

What other privileges could they lose? They were already going back to the basement, back to no comfort or freedom to move around as they please. This collar was already bad enough…

“Three…”

Despite everything, Whumpee wills themself to stand. They try to take a step forward, but Whumpee’s legs give out from under them as their muscles convulse and they stumble. But this time, Whumper catches them. They’re led back into the house, and then everything stops. The pain is gone, save for the lingering aftershocks and muscle spasms that Whumpee has gotten used to after months of being shocked into submission.

Whumper pockets the remote, seemingly having turned off the collar. There was an off button this whole time?! Whumpee had been so stupid. They thought they had planned everything, that it had to work. Whumpee even took the remote and they dropped it after the shocks started. So there’s no way that they could've accidentally held the button for that long, and there’s no way Whumper would have been able to activate it without the remote…right?

“Good pet,” Whumper coos and lets Whumpee lean on them. Their voice is filled with disappointment as they add, “I’m really glad I bought that invisible fence. I had hoped that it wouldn't be necessary…but clearly, you still need some more training.”

Whumpee’s breath hitches. Invisible fence? Like the ones that…that shock dogs if they try to run off of their owner’s property? Their face falls as they realize that as long as this collar is on, they won’t be able to leave this house.

Whumper drags Whumpee towards the basement door and tears prick at the corners of their eyes. They failed. They’re never getting out of this place, are they?

#shock collar #escape attempt #whump #whump writing #pet whump #whump drabble #bad things happen bingo #darlingwrites #whumpsday #bthb card #yandere whumper #captivity #ive been wanting to write a yandere/pet whump story and this might have been the catalyst we'll see

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avvail-whumps · 9 months

Text

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: homesickness requested by: @whumpatize-me-captain word count: 1.4K

content warnings: mention of multiple whumpers, defiant whumpee, captivity, homesickness, panic attack, knife threats, gun violence, gun wound, blood, mention of punishments

Leo didn’t know when it started to happen, but a horrible, crippling feeling had started weighing heavily on not only his heart, but his mind as well.

He was curled up on the sofa with a blanket tucked around him, mindlessly staring at the television. He found he did that a lot nowadays, just to shut off from the grisly situation he had found himself trapped in. Luckily, for now, he was by himself. Roy was occupied somewhere upstairs after a particularly violent confrontation between him and the other mercenaries. Mainly Bran, of course.

Joey had offered to take the car so they could cool off and spend the evening away and stay at a hotel for the night, and Roy had been okay with that.

Leo had been okay with it too, since he didn’t want them anywhere near him.

The television flickered in front of his eyes, but it was hard to take anything in. None of the odd shapes and colours were registering in his slow, occupied brain. All he could think about was how quiet it was now.

It reminded him of his own home, after moving out of his childhood house in order to fulfill his life away from his grieving father. It had always been so quiet when it was only him who lived in it. Small, cozy, decorated how he liked it with paintings and little plotted pants to clear the air. He had this tea tree air freshener he would plug in, the memorising aroma greeting him after a hard day at work.

Leo anxiously picked at the blanket. Roy’s house wasn’t like that. It wasn’t cozy. It didn’t smell of tea tree. If he’d been at home, he would have switched off the mind numbing television and filled the room with the notes of his precious violin instead.

It was too quiet.

This wasn’t home. He wanted to go home.

The very thought slammed into him with a dizzying force. It suddenly felt as though his lungs had dried up, and his hand landed on his tight chest with a choked gasp. His thoughts were growing too loud in his own mind, the sickening feeling of homesickness sinking into his cells and ripping out his nerves.

Leo gasped violently for breath, staggering to his feet. All at once, the world seemed to tip and spin, causing him to bump into the coffee table and send his glass sprawling onto the ground. He was sure he heard a distinctive shattering, but his ears had become too fuzzy to tell.

Tears burned at his eyes, stumbling into the kitchen. What was he even doing? Why was he sitting around complacently in the house of the man that had kidnapped him, instead of finding a way home? Even if he went covered in blood, kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail, why wasn’t he doing anything?

Being alone in his home had once brought Leo a sense of vivid loneliness. But now, he would do anything in the world just to be back there. Just to touch his violin and sleep in his own bed. To freshen up his plants with a spray of water.

The secretary choked on a sob, barely able to see what he was doing through the blurriness in his vision. It was getting too hard to breathe, even as he felt his fingers fumbling dramatically in the kitchen drawer. They somehow managed to tighten around the hilt of a knife in his panic, doubling over with the countertop to brace him.

He sucked in a ragged breath, shaking his head viciously. He would do anything to be home right now. Even to see his father; to hug him, to hold him, to hear his voice again. What if that never happened? What if he was truly going to be trapped here forever?

“Hey, lion,” a voice called out by the kitchen door, and Leo squinted through his rapidly blurring vision to see Roy. He swayed on his feet as he shakily raised the knife, pointing it in his direction. The table was separating them, and for that, Leo was glad.

Roy’s expression morphed into that of weary amusement. A sigh escaped his lips as he spoke. “What are you doing?”

Leo scrubbed away the tears sliding down his cheeks, trying to steady his rapidly increasing breaths. Somehow, throughout it all, he managed to do just that enough to speak.

“I want to go home,” he choked.

Roy raised a brow, moving slowly around the table. The secretary jerked into action, circling in the opposite direction, just so the table remained in between them. The thought of a punishment hadn’t even occurred to him. He was too overwhelmed by the thought of his home. His sweet home.

“I’m willing to be nice and forget about this if you put the knife down, lion. You’ll do more damage to yourself than to me.”

Leo felt a fiery spit in his chest. “Screw you!”

His heart sank straight to his boots the moment those words tumbled from his wobbling lips, but he just couldn’t help himself. Roy’s expression seemed to lose all sense of amusement in seconds, his eyes suddenly becoming cold under the light. A quiet sigh left his nose, and he reached under his jacket and into his belt.

“Come on now, lion,” he hummed, stopping where Leo had originally been standing. The secretary was in the doorway now, and he couldn’t keep the knife from shaking uncontrollably in his own hands, breathing through the pained sobs wracking through his bones. “I think you should hold your tongue.”

“I-I want to go home,” he pleaded shakily, blinking away the onslaught of tears that just wouldn’t stop coming. “Please. I need to go home.”

Roy’s lip quirked up into an unamused smile. A hand gun had been residing in his belt, and he had no problem pulling it out and pointing it at Leo in turn.

“You know that isn’t going to happen, lion.”

The gun went off with a jarring bang, and Leo felt a searing pain explode in his forearm. A horrible, gut wrenching cry escaped his lips as the knife clattered to the ground, hand gripping the gushing, bloodied wound. His vision went white with static for a moment, but the sudden rush of adrenaline forced him into action once he realised Roy was much closer than a table length.

Leo’s shaking legs managed to jerk himself out of the doorway, and he twisted into the stairway with heavy, thundering footsteps. His knees could barely even support his own weight as he darted with a terrified sob, threatening to buckle under his feet.

He could hear Roy behind him, the familiar clicking of the gun, and then—

He staggered into the wall when another gunshot soared past his head, herding him up the second flight of stairs without a second thought. Leo knew that if Roy had wanted to hit him, then he would’ve, and he wasn’t willing to risk that chance.

He threw himself into the first door he got his spinning eyes on, and slammed it shut behind him. His bloodied fingertips only just managed to slide the lock into place, before a loud bang vibrated the entire wooden door, making him yelp and slide pathetically to the floor. He pressed his back against the wood and curled his legs close to his chest, letting out a harrowing sob at the state of everything. He could barely feel his arm through the numbing pain, and the disparity shuddering through his spine.

“You’re making this worse for yourself, little lion,” Roy sang from behind the door, where he didn’t seem to be attempting to be making any efforts to force it open. That was scary in of itself. “The longer you stay in there, the more painful your punishment will be.”

Leo screwed his eyes shut, letting out a groan through his clenched teeth.

“Please, just let me go home,” he sobbed, biting back the pathetic whimpers in his throat. “I just want to go home…”

Roy was less than sympathetic.

“Making it worse, lion.”

Leo cursed under his breath, letting the back of his head rest against the door. He didn’t need a clear vision to know he’d managed to lock himself in Roy’s room. The only place that he wasn’t allowed; that completely violated the rules. He knew that with each second he spent with the door locked, the more painful his time in the basement was going to be.

His heart ached at the very thought of being down there, and subsequently splintered at the conflicting thoughts tearing his mind apart.

It smelled of Roy in here.

He was devastated it didn’t smell of tea tree.

#bad things happen bingo #homesickness #original work #ask #guns for hire special #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #whump series #whump community #whump scenario #whumper #whumpee #leo and roy #my writing #writing #avvail whumps #bthb card

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blackrosesandwhump · 4 months

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The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy, Part 12

Part 11

BTHB: Lacerations

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: In the aftermath of his friend's attack, Bram repeats his performance of the dying swan...and something happens that he didn't expect.

CW: death, blood, suicide for convenience, drugging reference

“I-I’m so sorry…”

Kian lay in the cot next to Bram’s, staring at nothing, his hands folded across his chest. A white bandage wrapped up his left forearm, lightly tinged with fresh blood.

“I didn’t mean to, really…” Kian said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t help it…it wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t.” I know that now, anyway, Bram thought. He shifted in his own cot, turning to face the other boy. The motion sent little stabs of pain through the fresh lacerations raked across his torso and arms. “At least it was me and not Ester.”

A couple of tears leaked from Kian’s eyes. “I might’ve killed her. I can’t kill you.” He managed a shaky half-smile.

“True.”

But it hurt. The claw-marks burned. Bram was used to pain, even agony, but usually, he would die and resurrect, and the injuries would be gone. This time, he had to live with the aftermath of Kian’s wild attack.

It wasn’t Kian’s fault, not really. He couldn’t help the effect that the new moon had on him. It was just the type of creature he was: a cambion, a half-human half-demon creature that turned into a monster on the darkest night of every month.

No wonder Griffin wanted to drug him, Bram thought, then immediately hated himself for thinking it.

“All right, you’re both cleared to leave,” the medic announced, breaking through Bram’s thoughts. “Keep those injuries clean and bandaged, and you should both recover just fine.” He made a mark on his pad of paper. “Better get ready for your next performances.”

The next performance. Bram sat up wearily, swung his feet down, and followed Kian out of the medical tent.

The air was slightly warmer today, carrying the faintest hint of spring on a breeze that seemed to rise out of nowhere. Bram took a deep breath. He was alive (for now). And—his pulse sped up at the thought—he might see Violet again in the audience. She might be watching.

That is, if it really was her. His footsteps slowed. What if it wasn’t? What if all this time, she was only a hallucination, a figment of his nightmares?

Even if she is just a hallucination, he answered himself, I still love her.

He looked around and found he’d stopped outside the meal tent. The newest performers were clustered there, the group in which he’d seen the winged boy.

But the winged boy wasn’t there.

***

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy’s performance of the dying swan garnered an even larger crowd the second time.

Bram shuffled back and forth backstage, sweating slightly under his layer of white feathers. He had a feeling, an unshakable feeling, that she would be there. And if she was, nothing else would matter.

The act before him ended--Kian and Ester together this time—and the audience applauded.

Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. His heart took off beating, pounding like it intended to throb itself right out of his chest.

Like last time, the spear pierced him through. He barely noticed the pain as he stepped onto the stage. He played the dying swan as dramatically as ever: the slow, melancholy dance; the blood crimsoning his wings; the tragic collapse as he died.

And as he died, he saw her. She was out there, in the audience, watching him die. Watching him come back to life.

And it looked like…it looked like she was crying—

The shipwreck again—the memory winked out and back—they were standing on a beach together, watching another ship approach the shore—

He came back to life and got shakily to his feet. The noise of the audience overwhelmed him: shouts and cries of acclamation and awe, thunderous applause, the soft pop of a camera close by. He looked around, startled. Someone had taken his photograph. A photograph of the dying swan, covered in his own blood.

Someone took his arm and guided him offstage.

“They shouldn’t make you do that act,” Kian said, still holding onto Bram as he helped him down the wooden steps. “That’s a lot of blood loss, even for you.”

“I guess it is,” Bram murmured, feeling a little dizzy. But it’s worth it. It’s always worth it, to see Violet again—

“Bram.” His handler stood in the way, a peculiar expression etched across his face. “Go clean yourself up, quick as you can, and get back here immediately.”

“Why?” Kian blurted, his eyes flashing yellow for just a moment. “Can’t you see he needs to recover—”

“He doesn’t have time for that,” Bram’s handler said. “Someone wants to buy him.”

@whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumpy-writings @afabulousmrtake @whither-wander-whump @whumpinthepot @silver-ink-iron-words @badthingshappenbingo

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letthewhumpbegin · 1 month

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BTHB voting #23

My goal for this year is to complete my new Bad Things Happen Bingo Card😇. I've never before produced that much fanfics in one year, so we'll see how it goes 😁

You, my dear readers, followers and accidental-passers-by, get to vote who / what fandoms the prompts will get filled for! Over the next weeks I will post a poll per prompt, and you can get voting 😉

The 23rd prompt is: HYPOTHERMIA

For a 'look-and-feel' of my writing, check out my writing masterlist

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bittersweetbonbon · 2 months

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Here is your card for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Happy writing!

Aaaaaaaa, thank you!!

As a reminder, here’s the fandoms I’m taking requests for:

-Toontown (Both Rewritten and Clash)

-SCP Foundation

-Bugsnax

-and, of course, OCs!!

#bad things happen bingo #badthingshappenbingo #fandom tags:#toontown #toontown rewritten #toontown corporate clash #scp #scp foundation #bugsnax #bthb #bthb card

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laffy-taffy-creations · 7 months

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CHAPTER FOUR BABEY!!!!

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Prompt: Degloving

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO READ MY FIC PEOPLE

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jinxquickfoot · 7 months

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@badthingshappenbingo prompt: And I Must Scream

Find the fic on Ao3

It’s been three months since Dreykov’s death.

Three months of chasing ghosts. Three months of releasing Widows. No matter how many Natasha sees rescued, it never grows easier.

Because they don’t see it as rescue. They see it as capture. As failure. Widows do not fail.

More than one Widow has been found dead before they reach her, preferring to die for the Red Room rather than fall into enemy hands.

Three months since Dreykov’s death.

Three months since his daughter’s.

And now, it’s over. There are no more ghosts to chase. Natasha doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Yelena’s file hadn’t been in those they’d recovered. She hopes that means her mladshaya sestra got out, made her own life. That she hadn’t tried to find her. Yelena had been young, after all. Too young. She might not even remember her.

She and Clint hadn’t talked the entire flight back to DC. She had sensed he had wanted to, but knew she didn’t, so he’d kept his mouth shut. She’s still not used to that—having a need met, not to meet an agenda, and not to manipulate her. Just because someone wants to make her feel safe.

Natasha still doesn’t entirely know why Clint didn’t take the shot. It unsettles her. There aren’t many people she can’t read. And she feels as though she should be able to read Clint Barton. On the surface, he’s an open book. Good soldier, gets the job done, quick with just the right kind of sly comment to make the people around him laugh. She also knows that all of that is armor. What she doesn’t know is what he’s shielding.

Clint doesn’t break the silence until they land at the Triskelion. “After we drop off our stuff, I have something to show you.”

Natasha eases herself out of the co-pilot’s seat, gathering her bag. She’s still not allowed to man any of SHIELD’s vehicles, not until she can prove she’s not a flight risk. It’s not a decision she can blame Fury for making—she’s thought about running more than once. What is left of the Red Room is gone. She’s gotten what she’s needed out of SHIELD. She could flee into the night and never look back, become someone completely different, live in a world where not a soul knows what horrors she’s inflicted on the world.

She follows Clint into the Triskelion.

They don’t talk through their post-mission routine either. They stow their equipment, splitting off to their separate locker rooms to shower. Not that it should matter—they’ve been sharing quarters for months now, sometimes the same place for days at a time, and they’ve seen everything. Natasha kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for that first move to be made. And when Clint didn’t make it, she did, only to be promptly told that maybe they could explore that down the line, but not while she was trying to prove that he was some jackass trying to get in her pants.

Her confusion around Clint Barton grew.

She takes longer in the shower than she needs to. It’s a luxury she’s never had before—being able to stand under the hot water for as long as she liked, just because she wanted to.

It keeps Clint waiting, but he doesn’t call her out on it. “Ready to go?”

Clint leads her down to the garage, Natasha hesitating when he indicates for her to get into the readied car. “Where are we going?”

“It’s not a mission,” is all Clint tells her.

The drive is short. Natasha gazes out the window, the passing trees and buildings and people. This is home now. She’s burned her old one to ashes.

They stop at an apartment building, Clint pulling into the car park. “This way.”

She follows him up three flights of stairs, through the unremarkable, totally mundane building, to an unremarkable, totally mundane door. Clint withdraws a set of keys, but he doesn’t unlock the apartment. He holds them out to her.

“What is this, Barton?”

“A gift.”

Carefully, Natasha takes the keys and eases her way inside the apartment.

It’s nothing special. A one-bedroom with minimal furniture in need of a fresh coat of paint, a drooping plant someone has abandoned in the corner. Natasha takes it in, suspicions rising. “I have a room at the Triskelion.”

“You had a glorified cell. You helped us take down Dreykov, Natasha. You completed your part of the deal. So Fury decided you deserved somewhere that locked from the inside.”

Natasha doesn’t put her bag down, even after Clint closes the door behind them. “Fury decided, did he? He wasn’t convinced?”

Clint shrugs that off. “You’ve run missions with us for months. You’ve followed every order. You’ve had every chance to kill me and run, but you haven’t.”

“And what if I run now?”

“Well, you’ll make me look very, very stupid.” He sets his bag down on the couch, looking at her. Seeing her. It’s not a sensation she’s grown used to. “But I believe you’re not going to run, Nat.”

“Belief is for children.” But she eases her bag down, making her way over to examine the bedroom. It’s small, but the bed looks new. Someone’s made it up for her, the smell of fresh sheets lingering in the air.

“Maybe,” Clint allows. “I figured you’d want something more concrete. So.”

She turns around to see him holding out a file. She takes it, flicking through the paperwork.

“You just have to sign,” Clint continues. “And it’s your name on the deed. You can stay here, sell it and get something you like better, whatever you want.”

Natasha snaps the file shut. “So I’ll feel grateful to you. So I’ll stay.”

Clint watches her for a moment. “Because you’re a person and you deserve somewhere to live where you’re not a prisoner.”

Natasha swallows back something sour, threatening to spill over. “Fury’s going to have me watched for the rest of my life. This is just for show.”

“You don’t think he’s got tabs on me too? I didn’t exactly have the smoothest introduction to SHIELD either. But if anyone can escape the eye of Nick Fury, it’s you. And he knows that. He’s willing to loosen the reigns anyway.”

Natasha gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. It’s soft and clean and, if she wants it, hers.

That sour feeling grows. She doesn’t even realize her hands are shaking until Clint sits on the bed next to her, encircling her wrists in calloused hands. “Natasha. Talk to me.”

She knows she shouldn’t. To talk without a goal is to show weakness. But that feeling in her gut won’t abate. It’s not new. She’s just always been able to push it down, ignore it, focus on the mission. She is made of marble. She doesn’t crack.

She’s also so, so tired of holding herself together. “I don’t deserve this.”

“The longer you work for SHIELD, the more freedom you’ll gain, I promise.”

But Natasha shakes her head. “I don’t deserve this.”

Clint goes very still beside her, realizing. “Natasha—”

“You don’t know.” She snaps back to herself, ripping herself out of his hold. “Whatever files you have on me, they don’t even scrape the surface of what I’ve done. You don’t know.”

“I know you didn’t have a choice,” Clint says softly. “The Red Room did those things, Nat. You were just the weapon. You don’t blame the arrow for hitting the target.”

Natasha meets his gaze, radiating the deadly calm she knows makes the most powerful men shake. Clint meets her head-on, not backing down. “The Red Room didn’t make me kill Dreykov’s daughter,” she whispers. “Antonia. That was all me, Barton. That was me. It was me.”

She’s expecting platitudes. Some speech about how killing one little girl had saved hundreds of others. About collateral damage for the greater good was always justified. About how the mission always, always came first.

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead he reaches out, and takes her hand.

The crack that splits open inside of her has been a long time coming. She’s been forcing it back for years, trying to prove that she was untouchable, unbreakable. She is perfect. She is the best. She’s never been allowed to be anything else.

She expects the first guttural scream that rips its way up her throat to send Clint running for the hills. It doesn’t. Instead he moves closer, letting her scream into his chest, over and over and over again.

Natasha doesn’t know how long they sit like that, but finally she slumps, her throat raw, her cheeks wet. A part of her knows she should be embarrassed, that this kind of weakness should never be tolerated, but she’s too exhausted to care. She feels wrung out, empty. She also feels lighter, as though she’s finally laid down a weight she’s been carrying since she can remember.

“Okay,” she hears Clint murmuring in her ear. “You’re okay.”

“Tired,” she whispers.

“That’s okay too. You want to go to bed?”

When Natasha pulls back, she sees his cheeks are wet too. Neither of them mention it. She lays back on the mattress, letting Clint take her shoes off and arrange the sheets around her like she’s a child. He goes to leave, but she reaches out, catching his wrist, asking the forbidden question. “Will you stay?”

She’s rewarded with a small smile, and for the first time, she sees him clearly. This isn’t a trick. This isn’t some elaborate con to get her to switch sides. She fell apart and he didn’t leave. He has cracks in his own marble that will never be fixed.

He climbs into bed next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She’s exhausted. She’s been exhausted for a long time. And here, falling asleep in a bed that she owns, next to a person she trusts, Natasha finally manages to rest.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #and I must scream #marvel #mcu #natasha romanoff #clint barton #clintasha #pre-canon #clint x natasha #hawkeye #black widow

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