#bthb entry
Text
Deserving
CW: failed murder attempt, failed escape attempt, begging, manhandling, drowning, creepy/intimate whumper, unhinged whumper, conditioned whumpee, psychological manipulation
Also marks off my bthb:drowning
Inspired by this prompt by @whumppromptoftheday
Whumpee tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to let their breathing get too loud. They quietly approached the drawer in the far corner, eyes darting around their surroundings. Slowly. Very slowly. They opened the drawer and took out the sharpest longest knife they could find.
They turned the wooden grip around in their bandaged hand until it fit. Yes. It definitely seemed sharp enough to be able to easily cut through whumper. This was the day they were going to be free. They-
"What are you doing here so late at night, darling?" The voice made whumpee's blood run cold.
They whipped around as fast as they could and fell to their knees, head bent low.
"Were you trying to make me a midnight snack? How sweet." Whumper moved closer. "Why didn't you ask me for permission beforehand, hmm? I mean, seeing you here soo late at night is bound to arouse suspicion, no?" Their hands gently ruffled whumpee's hair.
"Yes, Master." Whumpee's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't need a 'yes', sweetheart. Although, I do appreciate the 'Master'. Tell me-" Their grip tightened in a moment, pulling whumpee's head up to lock eyes with them. "-why did you come down here?"
"You didn't mean to hurt me, did you? You can't be this foolish, right?" The grip around their hair tightened until whumpee was sure it would rip all of it out.
A whimper escaped their lips as they attempted to shake their head, throat too dry to speak.
"Then tell me-" Whumper crouched down, letting go of their hair to grab the knife out from behind whumpee. "-what is this?"
Whumpee trembled, tears ready to stream down their face. "M-master I-"
"You really think I can be fooled with your lies, pet?" Whumper patted their cheek. "I know you better than you know yourself."
"Plea- please! Mas-"
"Shh." Whumper placed a finger on whumpee's lips. "Let me think." Their eyes scanned their surroundings. "Let's see... Oh! I know!"
As they began to walk towards the sink, whumpee perked up. They knew what was coming next and-
"Master, please!" They fell forward to get a hold of whumper's pajama bottoms. "I'm sorry!" They choked out through their sobs. "I was tired and couldn't think straight! Please please please! I won't do it ag-"
Whumper kicked whumpee in the ribs, hard enough to make them roll across the floor to the fridge in the corner.
As whumpee heard the tap being turned on, they began to cry, curling up on themself. They hated this punishment. So. So much. They would take a beating over it any day.
The sound of the water disappeared and whumpee shifted closer to the wall.
"I'm sorry, Master. I'm really very sorry." They sobbed as whumper approached them.
"Sweetheart-" Whumper grabbed their arm to pull them up. "-I know you're sorry. I know you're very very sorry. But that's not enough." They guided the trembling whumpee to the sink. "I want you to remember this. Forever. So that you can never ever think of trying this again."
Before whumpee had time to hold their breath, they were shoved underwater. They stayed still for as long as they could but as they reached the one minute mark, their desperation overpowered them and they began to thrash against whumper's grip. Anything to convince them to let them out.
Yet whumper only pushed them in deeper. Until their nose hit the bottom. Until their back was painfull arched. Until they could only stand on their toes.
Their chest tightened. Their head felt too light. They-
Theycouldn'tbreathetheycouldn'tbreathetheycouldn't-
Whumper finally pulled their head out of the water, letting them take a huge breath before-
Their feet were lifted off the ground once more. Water entered their nose. They opened their mouth for some relief but it only got worse. Their throat was in a cagecagecagecagecagecage-
Their head was lifted up once more but they got even less time to breath before-
They couldn't breathe. They were going to die. Whumper had finally decided to kill them. They had been bad. They had been bad. Whumper was going to kill them. They couldn't breathe. They shouldn't have- they couldn't breathe. Whumper was going to- they couldn't breathe. They-
Whumper took their head out of the water again and they hadn't even taken a full breath before-
They couldn't take it. Not anymore. They didn't wanna die. They couldn't die. They would do anything to not die. Why do they have to go through this? Whumper's words echoed in their mind. They had been bad... Of course... they had bad thoughts... They had tried to kill Master... Master only wants to make sure they don't repeat their mistakes.. Of course... Of course they... Of course they deserve this-
Whumper pulled their head out the water and threw them down to the floor.
Whumpee was frozen. Their mind still stuck in the water. A kick to their back and they began to cough, desperate to suck in as much air as they could.
"Shh shh whumpee." Whumper chided, their tone soft and sweet. "You're being too loud. You know I don't like loud noises, especially when I'm sleepy."
Whumpee clamped their mouth shut, trying to breathe through their clogged up nose. They couldn't afford to ruin Master's mood again.
Whumper leaned against the sink, yawning. "Much better. Oh, right. It's very late now, darling, isn't it? We should really get some sleep." They crouched down beside the trembling whumpee. "Give me your arm, please. Here, I'll help you up."
Whumpee whimpered, too weak to move.
"Oh! You poor soul! Don't worry, sweetheart-" They put an arm below whumpee's knees and another on their back. "-I'll just carry you, hm? I'll even let you sleep with me, okay?"
As whumper pulled whumpee up into their arms bridal-style, whumpee closed their eyes. It was strange. They felt good. Whumper's pajamas were so soft. So warm after all that cold water. As whumper began to walk, whumpee couldn't help themself...
"Thank you, Master." Their voice was too low. They hoped Master could hear them.
To be honest... they weren't sure why they were thanking whumper. They had hurt them, hadn't they? But now they were carrying them in their arms... so gently... so softly... It felt good... They didn't understand how... why...
"It's alright, whumpee. I'm sure you'll remember this lesson now. Don't worry. If you ever do forget, I'll remind you again. Again and again. As many times as it would take to help you get better." Whumper pressed a soft kiss to their forehead. "Just rest now, hm? No need to worry."
That's right... Master would take care of everything... Pets shouldn't think that much anyway... They deserved what Master gave them... That's all...
#whump drabble#cw failed murder attempt#cw failed escape attempt#cw begging#cw manhandling#cw drowning#cw creepy whumper#cw intimate whumper#cw unhinged whumper#cw conditioned whumpee#cw psychological manipulation#bthb entry#bad things happen bingo
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as a follow up to the bthb …. stitches :))) since they are already talking about the rather questionable medical treatment Bailey received
Pariah Prisoner, Part 5
No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”
Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint
Sorry for everyone whose ask came before this one. I promise I will answer them all; it just won't necessarily be in any kind of sensical order.
CW for: major character injury, injury reveal, blood, medical treatment, implied past torture, stitches, minor shock/dissociation (Zera is not having a good time). Let me know if I missed any tags, or if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
Masterlist
---
Zera honestly couldn’t tell you how the group had made it back to their base. They’d had a head start, given that none of the villains were willing to follow them through their rather extreme means of egress, but still.
Their memories from their landing all the way to the medbay were an adrenaline-soaked mess. Random details stuck out perfectly (Poppet—Bailey?—pulling the knife from their side; the feel of blood soaking through the hasty, sloppy bandages; the ache in their legs from running and the cold prickle of fear along their spine), while anything coherent remained out of their grasp. They only tuned back into their life when Bailey(?) was taken from their arms.
Zera grasped them tighter for a second, unwilling to let anyone hurt their rescuer. They would- would—
“Zera, stand down,” Elijah said gently. “We’re back in Hero HQ. We’re in the medbay. Maeve needs Poppet laying down so she can examine them.”
Zera nodded unsteadily, feeling like a poorly carved wooden doll: all splinters and stiff joints. With Elijah’s help, they got Poppet-Bailey settled on one of the beds.
“Is-” Zera started, looking around. “Are you okay? How’s Luke? Where’s Luke? Did-”
“Breathe,” Elijah said, tone somehow even more gentle. He led them to a chair that they more or less collapsed into. “Luke’s fine, nothing more than scratches that a band-aid can handle. He didn’t want to be here.”
Zera made a face at that.
“I’m fine too,” Elijah continued, a small smile on his face. “Again, just minor things. The only one who got physically hurt was Poppet.”
Zera blinked. Then blinked again. If their brain would start working again, that would be great. “Physically hurt?”
Elijah’s smile turned sad. “I mean you, Zera. You were a million miles away just now; you had me worried.”
Zera looked away from him, over to where Maeve examined Poppet-Bailey with glowing hands and a practiced eye.
The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor snapped Zera’s attention back to Elijah. He’d brought one close enough that he could sit while continuing to talk with them.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I know you, Zera. You’ve got something running through your head. Is it about Poppet?”
“Bailey,” Zera said.
“What?”
Zera shook their head, trying to kick-start their brain’s higher functions. “They said their name is Bailey,” Zera continued.
“They told you their name?” Elijah asked, sounding as incredulous as Zera felt. In their line of work, names and identities were either well known, like with heroes or villains that didn’t care to keep a secret civilian identity, or a carefully guarded secret. None of Slipknot’s associates fell into the former category— Poppet included.
Zera nodded woodenly. Their tone was thick when they continued. “And it isn’t just that they told me. It’s how they said it. It was like… God, it was like it was a relief to say it out loud.”
Both heroes turned to look at the unconscious villain then.
“I think they were telling the truth,” Zera said. “I don’t know what happened to them, but I don’t think they were there by choice. Not really.”
“Not an informed choice, anyway,” Elijah said thoughtfully.
Zera thought of how Bailey had talked about themself, the loathing in their voice when they called themself Slipknot’s toy.
“They got hurt because of us,” they said, voice low and hoarse. “They were rescuing us. And their own teammates stabbed them for it.”
Warmth spread over their knee. They looked down to see Elijah’s hand covering it.
“We can’t change what’s happened, Zera,” he said. It was a phrase he’d told them on many occasions.
“We can only move forward and learn from it,” Zera said, completing the phrase.
“Over here, you two,” Maeve called tiredly.
Zera and Elijah joined her at Bailey’s bedside.
“I fixed the internal damage,” she said, pointing to a still-open wound in Bailey’s side. “The knife nicked some blood vessels and punctured their lung. I healed the pneumothorax and the internal bleeding, but that’s all I can do for now.” She sounded apologetic, as though it were her fault she was still recovering from using her powers to patch the group up after their last disaster.
“Will they pull through?” Elijah asked.
Maeve nodded. “They should. I’m going to start an IV to help replace the blood they lost, and stitch up the last of that wound. That’s not why I called you over, though.”
She gently rolled Bailey onto their uninjured side, exposing their bare back.
Zera’s breath caught at the sight.
Bailey’s back was a patchwork of cuts and bruises layered over a lattice of scar tissue. If Zera didn’t know better, they’d say it looked like…
“Fuck,” they said quietly. “They said. They said the guests ‘got a little rough’, at Slipknot’s last party.”
It looked like Bailey had been whipped.
“These are at least two days old,” Maeve said. “They had time to scab over, then re-open. They were cleaned and bandaged, but nothing more than that for treatment. Some of these could have used butterfly closures at minimum, and preferably stitches. I would say that Poppet treated these themself.”
Elijah and Zera shared a look, his grim, theirs horrified. If they’d needed more proof that Bailey wasn’t an entirely willing participant in Slipknot’s schemes? Well. Here it was.
“I’m too tired to figure out what you’re not saying at the moment,” Maeve said. “Right now, I need steady hands— and someone who’s not coming off an adrenaline high, don’t even think about it Zera— to help me document all this.”
Elijah sighed and nodded, probably thinking about all the paperwork this was going to cause. “Right. I’ll send Iris.”
“I’m staying,” Zera said.
Both senior heroes stared at them. They did their best not to squirm under the scrutiny.
“I won’t get in the way!” they said, probably losing the battle not to sound defensive. “And I won’t offer to do anything, not that you’d even accept. I just… I wanna make sure they’re okay.”
They sounded more pathetic than they’d really like to admit at that admission. That was probably what made the senior heroes let them stay.
Zera did as promised. They didn’t try to help with the procedures or the documentation. They did go ahead and fetch the materials Maeve would need— saline solution, gauze, bandages, suture kit— but then they were a good little hero and sat down, out of the way.
Iris and Maeve managed to photograph what must have been every cut and bruise on Bailey’s body before Maeve started on the stitches. She took out hemostats and a curved needle, maneuvering them with precision in her gloved hands. Zera couldn’t remember the medical name for the stitch at the moment, but they knew the sewing name for it: whip stitch.
Whip stitch. For some reason, it was almost unbearably funny. Whip stitch, for someone who’d been- been—
And then it wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest. The laughter they’d been holding back transmuted into sobs.
Just what kind of hell had their nemesis been put through?
---
Taglist:
@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly @neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump @heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one @elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme @towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps
#whumptober 2022#whumptober#whumptober2022#no. 11#sloppy bandages#self-done first aid#lunar manages to write and publish the whumptober entry on its actual day its a miracle#bthb#stitches bthb#stitches#medical care#medical treatments#implied past torture#blood#major character injury#injury reveal#with bloody outstretched hands#bailey the villain#bailey aka poppet#shock#dissociation#basically zera isn't dealing well with the adrenaline and everything after this experience and is in a bad headspace#zera the hero#zera aka foxfire#maeve the medic#elijah the leader#elijah aka tempest#maeve aka airmid#iris the engineer#iris aka spark
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⚜️. *. ⋆ Fandom: QSMP | Quackity SMP
⚜️. *. ⋆ Pairing: Jaiden Animations & Roier
⚜️. *. ⋆ Character/s: Jaiden Animations, Roier
⚜️. *. ⋆ Summary: Roier is holding her hands like she'll disappear from his grasp and she doesn't understand why.
She's right here.
⚜️. *. ⋆ Word Count: 1,010
⚜️. *. ⋆ Warnings/Tags: major character death, hurt no comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst
⚜️. *. ⋆ Prompts/Squares Filled: "How many fingers am I holding up?" || @whumptober • Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured || @badthingshappenbingo • "Don't cry." || 100 Ways to say "I Love You" Challenge Prompt#39
Whumptober2023 Masterlist || BTHB Masterlist || 100WTSILY Masterlist
AO3
A/N: before clicking the read more, this is a disclaimer that they are the characters/cubitos and not the content creators themselves!! other than that, i hope you enjoyed reading my first ever whumptober entry! <3
"¿Cuántos dedos tengo en la mano?" A voice calls out to Jaiden; a voice she can barely recognize due to her ears ringing, squinting her eyes to try and recognize who is holding her hands tightly. She could feel a wet pooling sensation beside her, wondering what it could be.
"Mírame, Jaiden." Jaiden didn't even know she was off looking to the side, away from the face she could barely recognize, turning back to look at the face. She could barely make out any of the person's features but she recognized the bandanna that is currently wrapped around her hands.
Someone is holding her hands like she'll disappear from their grasp and she doesn't understand why. But she knows who owns that bandanna.
"Roier…?" She whispered, realizing how much it hurt to say something. Her throat burns and she doesn't know why.
Her vision is slowly clearing and she could see Roier's panicked expression; an expression Jaiden hasn't seen on him for a long time. She wonders why he is looking at her like that. His grip on her hands never seemed to waver, but she could feel them shaking.
"Jaiden," he said, his voice sounding calm and collected even though Roier's expression isn't. He lets go of one of her hands and lifts a finger. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Jaiden squints her eyes, her vision still not fully cleared. Still, she answers, "... four?"
Roier's brows furrowed. He repeated the question, "How many fingers am I holding up?"
She must have guessed wrong, then. She tries again. "Three?"
Roier shakes his head, then sighs. "It's one, Jaiden."
"Oh," is what all she says, not knowing how to respond to it. She must be out of it if she got it wrong twice.
Jaiden tries to get herself up, but Roier prevents her from doing so. "No te muevas, Jaiden– don't move," he tells Jaiden and she stops. "Las pociones no funcionarán contigo. Estas demasiado herido."
When Jaiden doesn't respond, Roier remembers she can't check the translation device due to it being broken during the impact. "The, ah, potions won't work on you. I don't want to risk it."
Roier would've already used a totem of undying to help her, but one has already been used on himself; still feeling the after effects of using it.
Jaiden slowly nods, wondering if it's just her or is her vision getting dark. Her head is starting to hurt too, shutting her eyes close to help ease the pain for a brief moment. "What.. happened..?"
Roier releases Jaiden's hands, wrapping an arm around her instead to keep her steady. "The Code attacked us while we were exploring." A pause. "Hice lo mejor que pude para protegerte, pero fallé…"
Jaiden hums and exhales a shaky breath. "Thank you for protecting me, Roier…"
"It wasn't enough," he retorted. "Aún te lastimaste y ahora estás—" He stops himself from continuing his words.
Jaiden didn't need the translation to know what he's talking about. She could feel it in the way the pool around her doesn't stop, even with the bandages wrapped around her waist. Her breaths are getting shorter and she opens her eyes so she can look at Roier one last time, even if it feels heavy.
"Thank you for being the best partner I could've had in taking care of Bobby," she slowly starts out and Roier's eyes widen.
"Cállate, Jaiden–" he says, "We're going to get through this. Don't—" His voice cracks at the end.
"It's okay," Jaiden whispers, lifting her hand to caress Roier's cheek, noticing the blood (her blood) smearing it. "It's okay…" she repeated softly.
Roier's eyes never leave hers as he places his free hand on top of hers, closing his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek.
"Don't cry, Roier." She tells him with a smile while the tear droplets land on her face. "You'll… you're going to get through this…" Jaiden's smile never wavers even as more tears drop on her face. She only looks at him like she always does; safe. "You have Cellbit, Foolish, Forever– you have everyone by your side."
Roier shakes his head. "I won't have you."
"No… no, you won't." She slowly shakes her head. "But it's okay."
"It's not." told Roier, eyes brimming with more tears. "No puedo perderte también–"
Jaiden quietly shushes him as she lifts herself up a bit to press their foreheads together as she closes her eyes. "You're going to be okay."
Roier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he opens them once again to look at Jaiden. This will be the last time he'll see her. He can feel it's going to be the last time he'll see her.
She won't respawn and they both know it.
Which is why Jaiden tries her best to be strong for Roier even if her body hurts a thousand times more every time she moves. Because Roier has always been strong for both her and Bobby, it's time for her to be strong for him.
She stops holding Roier's cheek and wraps both of her arms around him, giving him comfort in her final moments because it's the only thing she can do.
Roier wraps his other arm around her, keeping her close because it's the only thing he can do. They're way too far and there isn't enough time to save Jaiden's life.
It's the end.
"Te quiero mucho, Jaiden…" he whispers to her as the sun sets behind them.
"I love you too, Roier," she whispers back to him as her hold on him loosens, feeling colder and colder by the second.
"Saluda a Bobby de mi parte…"
Jaiden never got to hear his last words, her eyes closed with a contented smile as she slumps over Roier.
She never got to hear Roier cry nor did she feel him shake her body as he tells her to wake up over and over again until he had to be dragged away from her body.
Jaiden's gone and Roier breaks.
#whumptober#whumptober2023#no.1#how many fingers am i holding up?#qsmp#fic#jaiden animations#roier#qjaiden#qroier#major character death tw#badthingshappenbingo#100 ways to say i love you
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Day 1: Re-introduction
Hello! This is my second time doing Whumpmas in July. I probably won't do every day, but with luck might do most. Last year I wrote a longish intro, and I have an intro post on my blog, so this year I'll keep it short (and inspired by the WiJ template).
Name: [Redacted.] Just call me Verkja on here.
Gender & pronouns: Man, he/him.
On whumpblr since: February 2022.
Current project(s): Just one - my (slowly) ongoing longer story. It's novel-format fantasy/adventure whump with a lot of angst. I also have a BTHB card which I update occasionally.
Top 5 whump tropes: Mutual caretaking, older whumpees, social outcast whump, angst, gore. And friendship, but - not exactly a whump trope.
That's about it! Looking forward to seeing everyone's entries to this event.
Oh, and @verkja is a sideblog. My main blog is @oldwoolhat, so if you see likes from there, it's me.
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If you're still taking fluff/dark prompts... How about Dickstroke, and Slade taking a contract (of whatever nature 👀) on Dick?
I am indeed still taking fluff/dark prompts! Thank you so much for this one, I had a ton of fun writing it and it also fit perfectly with an entry of my @badthingshappenbingo card so double thank you :D
(to anyone interested - the "fluff/dark prompt challenge" works that you send me a prompt, it can be any prompt you want, specify if you want it Sladick, Sladejay or Sladickjay, and I'll write both a fluff and a dark version of it!)
So here you have a fluff/dark prompt and a filled BTHB slot ♥ This one is for "Improvised weapon" :) I really hope you like it!
Dick blearily stares at the roof of a car, a bump in the road making his whole body bounce up. He blinks once he’s lying flat again, and tries to think, wonders why he feels both physically and mentally like he’s underwater.
It might be drugs. It feels like he’s been drugged. It doesn’t hurt anywhere specifically but he doesn’t really trust the absence of pain to assess that he’s not wounded, since the drug might be dampening that too. There’s another hitch and he almost rolls off the backseat on which he’s slumped, and a startled, slurred noise comes out of him unprompted. It alerts the driver which briefly turns to him before focusing back on the road.
«Of course you’re up already.» He mumbles under his breath. «You kids and your immunity to sedatives.»
That’s Deathstroke. Deathstroke is driving the car and just spoke to him, and the realization helps Dick piecing together just what the hell happened a few hours prior, however foggily.
He hadn’t been sleeping for a long time, maybe a couple of hours after coming back from patrol, when he got awakened by Tim’s voice yelling from the communicator on his nightstand. And by the time he’d registered the frantic “Dick, Dick do you copy?”, he had spotted the armor-clad figure of Deathstroke on the doorframe of his bedroom.
And for a moment, even if startled, Dick hadn’t gotten especially worried. It wouldn’t have been the first time for something like that to happen. Slade has always been a dramatic son of a bitch, and barging into his house to inform him of his presence in the Blud was nothing new. That feeling had lasted about two seconds since the man had drawn out a gun, and Dick, suddenly very much awake, had tried however he could to defend himself.
Facing Deathstroke the Terminator while in an open space, equipped with his suit and gadgets, is exhausting and ridiculously challenging and Dick would hate every second of it, if he wasn’t basically hooked on that kind of adrenaline rush. Facing Deathstroke the Terminator while in his underwear and a loose t-shirt, in a closed space and with only small furniture to use as improvised weapons, is nearly as pointless as trying to climb on a glass wall barehanded.
The man didn’t budge even when Dick smashed the bedside lamp on his helmet, the crash almost completely covering Tim’s frenzied voice still calling out to him, furiously informing him that Oracle found a hit for Nightwing out on the dark web. To please check in, let them know he’s okay. Dick would have really liked to, especially since he needed backup and needed it asap, but every attempt to reach for the communicator was easily thwarted, same as every ditch effort to throw himself either out the door or out the window. And eventually he’d ended up with his own bedsheet wrapped around his neck, Deathstroke pinning him down and using the fabric to choke air out of him.
Dick tries to remember when he’s been drugged but that detail doesn’t come to mind. It has to have happened when he was already out. At the very least he’s still alive, his family knows he’s in trouble so they’re surely on his tracks already, and… that’s about it for the positives. The negatives are that he’s being taken who knows where, and he has no way to leave clues for who’s out to help him.
«Slade…» He calls in a croak after managing to get his tongue to work with him, and he spots the man’s steely blue eye glancing at him from the rearview mirror. «…what the fuck.»
There’s no answer and Dick grunts in frustration. He grits his teeth and forces his sluggish muscles to go into motion, holding onto the passenger seat to maneuver himself upright. «What the fuck.» He repeats in what sounds more like a hiss, sneaking between the two front seats to get closer. «Where are you taking me.»
«Sit down or I’ll drug you again.» Slade replies neutrally. From there Dick can see the road speed away from out the window, or he would see it if his vision wasn’t still so blurry. Dick can only recognize that it’s daytime, and that they don’t seem to be in the city anymore. «Or I’ll stuff you back in the trunk.»
«Fuck you.» Dick seethes, lurching forward to grab the steering wheel. Crashing the car isn’t the best idea he ever had but in his defense, he doesn’t have much choice at this point.
Slade curses loudly and slams on the brakes, and Dick takes the chance to open the car door and throw himself out. It’s a mountain road, with woods surrounding it and a gentle slope behind them. No wonder there were so many bumps, they were driving up a dirt path that’s not even paved, and clearly not really used. Dick’s brain is still slow with drugs and he doesn’t process that he has to run, dumbfounded at what he sees a moment too long, and the next thing he knows is that he’s being slammed on the front of the car, Slade holding him there by the nape of his neck.
«Are you done…?» Slade asks with the voice he might have used on his unruly kids when they threw fits at bedtime. «There’s nowhere you can get to from here, especially half naked and on foot.»
Dick thinks that he’d rather try his luck than get stuffed into the trunk, but his attempt to take the other off of him doesn’t really lead anywhere, and soon enough he’s back onto the passenger seat with both ankles and wrists cuffed, and his mouth gagged. At least it’s not the trunk. He’s so furious that he spends the next five minutes fuming as he glares at the roof, and when Slade finally pulls over, Dick tries to kick and headbutt him for good measure, not caring about being mildly thrown around for his efforts. Slade bodily drags him into what looks like an isolated cabin and drops him on a dusty couch, on which Dick wiggles upright and starts feeling for something to use to lockpick the cuffs, flexing his wrists into them in the meantime.
«Stop squirming.» Slade says from the background. «I can see you.» He comes back into his field of view and grabs Dick by his hair, fixing him with a glare. «Stop it, boy. I’m going to uncuff you myself, you’ll sprain your wrists if you keep doing that.»
Dick huffs through his nose, just frowning in response since he can’t speak. Slade keeps looking at him, Dick nods, Slade nods back. He takes a key and actually pulls the cuffs off of him, allowing Dick to ungag himself, after which he straightens up and resumes doing whatever he was doing before. Gathering what’s needed to light the fireplace, Dick gauges with a frown.
There’s fire burning soon enough, and just when Dick finally manages to phrase something to say, he gets thrown a blanket.
«I’ll see what I can find for you to wear.» Slade says noncommittally, then takes off his gauntlets and tosses them on a table.
They’re up on a mountain somewhere and the air is already chilly despite it being the middle of the day. Dick saw and felt frost beneath his bare feet before, and there were small patches of snow here and there. «Where… is this?» He asks, and the other replies with a mild shrug, still in the process of taking his armor off. «Where have you brought me?»
«A safehouse of mine.» Slade replies after a few moments, wearing a shirt on his bare chest. «Far enough from anything to be indeed safe.»
And hard to find for anyone, including the world’s greatest detectives, Dick thinks with a frown, but the fact that he isn’t being hurt, and surely he isn’t being killed at the moment, feels kind of confusing. Maybe he’s just being kept prisoner for someone else to come and collect him.
«What’s left of the drug in your system will wear off soon enough.» Slade adds, casting him a glance. «I expect you to behave after that.»
«Slade.» Dick calls after a deep breath, looking the man in the eye. «Why am I here? Why did you take me from my apartment? You know I’m going to try and escape, I might as well start trying right now. I’m not the type to stay put where you leave me. So either you give me a good reason why I should “behave”, or-»
«You heard Drake on your communicator. A hit was put out for Nightwing.» The man cuts him off with a darker tone, crossing arms on his chest.
«…a hit which I assumed you took, given…» Dick pokes an arm out of the blanket to gesture at sort of everything. «…this.»
«Given this,» Slade makes the same gesture. «you can deduce that you’re not only still alive, but all in one piece. I did not take the hit on you. What I took was the time to get you out of that ridiculously unprotected flat to bring you somewhere actually safe.»
«You…» Dick’s eyes go wide and so does his mouth. «You kidnapped me…!»
«Would you have followed me willingly?»
«That’s not a justification! Tim was terrified, they surely came looking for me and found my room in that state, and have no idea where I am, they must think I’ve been abducted or worse, that I was…» He’s been gradually looking down and coiling up as he speaks, and at that point he springs back up again, grabbing a fistful of Slade’s shirt to pull him closer. «And whoever put out that hit for me might retaliate on them, and who gave you the right anyway! I can take care of myself just-»
«Dick. I know.» Slade interrupts, not taking Dick’s hand off of his shirt as he sits on his knee on the cushion next to him. «I know you can. You can take care of yourself just fine, you’re strong and dependable, and every person who’s been around you even just once can tell.» He covers Dick’s clenched fist with his hand at that point, still not pulling it off but mildly hugging it in his palm. «But the fact that you can doesn’t mean you will. You kept fighting and taking hits for days with a gunshot wound in your arm, not giving it a minute to heal, and I know because I’m the one who shot you. You dive headfirst into any kind of danger if it means that the people you care for are safe. I’m not one of the good guys and I’ve always maintained it, but I have a code,» Slade squeezes once more, and Dick lets go of his shirt. The man’s palm travels up to Dick’s cheek, a very light caress tugging black locks behind his ear. «which is more than a lot of other mercenaries and hitmen out there can say about themselves. The amount of money someone proffered for your capture and torture is astronomical, and there’s a number of people who will use whatever means at their disposal to get you where they want you. But if they think someone else already took that hit and disposed of you, they’ll stay put in their lairs. Which is what’s going to happen once the flock of birds and bats goes ballistic over your disappearance.»
Dick blinks slowly, processing both what he’s just heard and the warm, odd presence of a calloused palm now cradling his cheek. It might be because of the remnants of the sedative he was given, but he feels foggy again, not managing to put together anything proper to say.
«Why…?» He ends up blurting out, and frowns again when Slade pulls his hand away, wanting it back and getting angry at himself for it.
«Because no one gets to hurt you but me, little bird.» The man replies with a half smile, withdrawing to stand up. «I’ll go make something to eat. Feel free to join me once you’re stable on your legs, and to be clear, I am not going back on my word. If you make a fuss I have no qualms with drugging you up again, and that’s how it’s gonna be until you calm down.»
That said he walks away, and Dick slowly shakes his head as he watches him go.
***
Dick groans at the umpteenth bump on the road, which makes him bounce on the seat of the car and jostles all his sore muscles. His ears don’t stop ringing, and he just confusedly recalls Tim yelling for him from the communicator, informing him that there was a hit out for Nightwing and Deathstroke had taken it. Dick was having bigger issues at the moment, issues that led to Slade pinning him on Dick’s own bed, using the muzzle of a gun to keep his face pressed into a pillow at the point of cutting his airflow.
“You want to tell Drake something?” He had asked with a darkly amused note while fiddling with the communicator. “Here, let me turn this on for you.”
Dick heard the click, Tim did too and started calling for him in anticipation. But Dick could only yell into the pillow, which he didn’t do to try and not deplete his already scarce supply of oxygen. The following crunch informed him that Slade had to have crushed the device in his fist.
“Who knows, maybe if we wait long enough little Red Robin will join us. What do you say?”
Dick had resumed struggling at that, muscles straining and muted protests dampening the pillowcase, and Slade had snorted in response.
“Relax. You know I don’t fancy the other birds that much.”
A moment later there was a painful prick on his neck, something which felt a lot like a syringe pen, and it had taken a very short time for Dick to go numb.
He’s contused but not badly hurt, he knows that much. He never lost consciousness after getting drugged, just everything had turned foggy and distant, and his body had gotten limp and easy to maneuver. He never got his brains blown up though, which is better than nothing… it probably means that Slade won’t kill him, even if he might have been paid to do it in a certain way, hence the abduction.
At some point Dick gets hauled out of the car and unceremoniously carried across Slade’s shoulder to what he glimpsed being a cabin on some hillside. Everything spins, and by the time he gets a grip on himself, he’s being stripped of the loose t-shirt he was wearing when he got assaulted. Dick grunts, weakly fumbling to try and keep himself covered, but he gets easily held down.
«Easy, boy.» Slade mumbles as if to himself, not minding to rip the shirt in pieces as he gets it off of him. «You’ll have time to squirm soon enough.»
Dick manages to send him a seething, furious glare, hoping that his scalding eyes don’t actually look as teary as they feel. He shouldn’t feel betrayed, he never had any reason to put his trust in Deathstroke of all people, but somehow he had considered himself different in some way. A limit Slade wouldn’t cross. Someone he respected at the very least, and maybe held some degree of fondness for. He clenches his teeth. He’s such a fucking idiot.
Slade doesn’t seem to even notice, busy taking something out of a duffel bag. It’s… clothes? Confusion breaks Dick’s rage, and it only increases when he realizes that the man is unfolding a black and blue suit, which seems to be a replica of the Nightwing attire. No, Dick realizes, this is his suit, he would recognize it anywhere… Slade must have taken it from his flat before. His stupor persists when Slade grabs him by the scruff and starts putting the suit on him, more or less like Dick was an overgrown doll, and he squirms and smacks his hands away as soon as he manages to gather himself.
«I can dress myself.» He hisses, cheeks burning with humiliation.
«Knock yourself out.» The man replies, unfazed. He sits back on the couch and crosses arms on his chest, apparently contenting himself with staring while Dick fumbles with the suit, hardly responding muscles struggling to work with him.
«What the fuck is this, Slade.» He asks after a few minutes of toiling, made even more uncomfortable under the man’s searching stare. Slade isn’t doing much to hide the fact that he’s seizing him up, and Dick feels like he’s being appraised.
«You heard Drake.» The other replies in an almost casual tone. «I took a contract on you. On Nightwing, to be precise. Here, put this on too.»
He’s handing Dick his domino mask and he forces his shaky arm to take it, but hesitates upon wearing it, feeling like he’s walking himself into a lion’s den. «Are you going to kill me?» He wonders out loud, and Slade shakes his head.
«You might have noticed at this point that I don’t want you dead.»
«You’re gonna sell me, then.» Dick tries to force himself up from the slumped position on the couch, to try and at least have a dignified conversation. «I’m here because someone else will collect me.»
«Wrong again.» Slade leans in and Dick reflexively retreats into the back cushion, but he has nowhere to go and is basically powerless to prevent the other from taking back the domino mask, and fitting it on his face. «I might have told you once or twice, little bird.» He adds, making sure the mask is adjusted properly, his touch lingering on Dick’s cheekbones. He shakes his head and gets his chin firmly gripped by the man’s fingers. «No one gets to hurt you but me. What we’ll do is spend a few days together, you and I, during which I will fulfill my contract… we might as well start right now, since we’re here.»
He touches his free hand to the eyepatch he always wears, and something on it glimmers. Dick blinks in confusion, realizing the presence of a small camera mounted there.
«I’ll cut and polish the footage once I’m done.» Slade adds in a half voice, as if thinking out loud. «No one will “collect you”.» He smiles at Dick’s horrified stare, gripping his chin more firmly and twisting his head up, so that his neck gets exposed. «The terms are for Nightwing to be put in his place, by any means necessary, and give him a lesson he will remember for the rest of his vigilante career.»
Dick swallows thickly, the knot around his throat growing tighter. He doesn’t really fight it when Slade pushes him flat down on the couch, just turns his head to a side with a small grunt to avoid breathing directly from the dusty cushion.
«No quips?» Slade asks, a hand idly rubbing fingers through the hair on his nape. There’s a clicking noise, like that of a switchblade, and then a pull; Dick reckons that he’s been given his suit to wear only for it to get cut open, apparently to put on a show for the video. «I expected some more fuss, little bird.»
«What’s the point.» Dick replies through gritted teeth, not managing to avoid tensing up at the feeling of his back getting uncovered again. The mountain air is chilly and his skin ripples in goosebumps, even more when Slade’s palm travels over it, running down his spine. «Just… just get this over with.»
He can’t believe himself. He’s scared because of course he is, but he’s been hurt before and by people who planned to beat the life out of him, he knows what to expect. That’s not the reason why he’s shaking all over, and also not the reason why when he gets flipped again, lying face up on the couch now, he feels tears past the mask and on his temples. He grits his teeth and wipes them on his shoulders, and at that point it registers with him that he’s not in pain, the switchblade never touched his skin.
He truly can’t believe himself, and how utterly double-crossed he feels. Why was he ever considering himself some sort of special for Deathstroke of all people…? Was he considering himself special, in fact? He must have, otherwise he wouldn’t be reacting like his heart had just been gutted out and stepped on. He had been telling himself that for the right amount of money, Slade would have had his head on a silver platter to give to the highest bidder. But he had also hoped it wasn’t true, and that Slade actually cared, if just a little.
«Crying already?» Slade’s still gloved knuckles wipe at his face and Dick jerks his head away. He ends up staring at the empty fireplace, jaw locked as he tries to get a grip of himself. «I haven’t even started, little bird.»
«Apparently I decided to make it easy on you.» He says in a low voice, appreciating the fact that at least it doesn’t sound vulnerable, just bitter. «Fair warning though. I don’t cry while people are torturing me. You better enjoy the show while it lasts.»
Slade hums, and the touch on Dick’s cheek comes back. It’s gentle, why on earth is he being touched so gently. It’s unfair, and Dick feels more tears well up, hoping to be able to swallow them this time.
«I’m not going to torture you.» Slade says after a moment. Dick frowns, still looking at nothing. «I’m not going to hurt you at all, kid.» He adds, making Dick’s face twist into a grimace as he whips his head towards him.
«You just said…!»
«I said,» Slade helps him sit up, smothering locks of black hair behind his head. «That I will give you a lesson that you’ll remember for your whole vigilante career. I do not need to cause you any pain for that to happen.»
The fact that Slade leans in for a kiss adds to Dick’s confusion, enough that he doesn’t process either to pull away or bite, or anything like that. His head gets tilted by a palm cradling his nape and he makes a surprised sound, Slade’s thumb gently pressing above his chin to get him to spread his lips more. And when it stops Dick is out of breath, eyes wide, cheeks burning and his thoughts tailspinning.
«I also plan to make you cry a lot more.» Slade adds with a half smile. «You just make sure you keep your mask on the whole time. I don’t want my esteemed contractor to see your pretty blue eyes.»
Dick is pressed into another kiss before he can blurt out anything in response. He’s not getting tortured. He’s getting raped though, or so it seems…? He isn’t sure anymore of what the hell is even happening, but when a palm cups his crotch from above the suit, he does feel a hot flash going through his waist, and the noise that gets muffled into the kiss startles him.
He doesn’t want this, and he doesn’t want to get filmed while this happens, most of all. But maybe he had been in the right to consider himself some sort of special in Deathstroke’s book, because he’s pretty sure this doesn’t normally happen to people when Slade takes up a contract on them.
#my fanfiction#bad things happen bingo#improvised weapon#sladick#sladick dark/fluff challenge#thank you sproutwings
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An entry for @badthingshappenbingo because for once my writing mojo has actually came back. Also this is the first fic i've written here so woot.
Fandom: Helluva Boss
Characters: Millie, Moxxie, Blitzo
Prompt: Guilty Conscience
Summary: When a mission in the human world goes terribly wrong, Millie's left with nothing but her thoughts as she waits for Moxxie to wake up. Blitzo come to keep her company and tries to get her mind off things.
BTHB Card under the cut to save space
#badthingshappenbingo#helluva boss#prompt: guilty conscience#Millie x Moxxie#I don't really want to tag the characters even though i should?#anyways have fun reading this#fanfic#writing#my writing
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Honestly would love to see some darker and/or hornier timber stories. I feel like there aren't a whole lot of those
Aight folks, you asked for this and I shan't deny you. I ended up writing something too long for tumblr so this one below the cut is just a snippet, check my AO3 for the rest of the story! (and it also fits very well as one of the entries for my BTHB card so thanks a lot for the suggestion)
Watch out as it contains noncon and dark!Bernard as the first anon asked ;)
Robin groans, trying again to pull himself free but still not managing. «Who-» He mumbles with a slurred voice that suggests a concussion. «…Bernard?»
«You… remember me.» He’s so shocked that he stops taking bricks off of the other’s back for a moment. He would have never thought. Suddenly his heart swells and heat floods his face for whatever reason. «I, huh. Are you alright…? I mean. I’m going to help you get out of there, okay? Is there a way I can call Batman?»
Robin makes another sound and wiggles, again not going anywhere, and Bernard starts trying to gauge how he should even help him because he doesn’t see a way beside taking off some more of that wall.
«My… communicator. It’s broken.» Robin mumbles at some point. «I have a spare one. Belt, the pouch on my back. Can’t reach it.»
«Okay.» Bernard nods, moving the other’s cape off to a side to uncover the belt. He starts searching said pouch, nibbling at his lower lip and trying not to think about the fact that he’s getting to… to touch Robin. He’s getting to touch his hips and the firm globes of his ass, and he can feel the tension of muscles under the elastic cover of his suit. «What does it look like?»
«An earbud.» The other’s voice is low, like he’s about to pass out. He doesn’t even seem to realize that Bernard’s touch lingers. «Black.»
«Okay.» He repeats, managing to actually find said earbud after a bit of rummaging. He dares a squeeze at the base of Robin’s buttcheek where it connects to his thigh, and beside a little twitch there’s again no reaction. «How do I use it…?» No answer, just a small sound that doesn’t mean anything. Bernard shakes him by his side. «Robin?»
«Hm. You. You just press it.» He hears after a moment, words blending into one another. «Once. He’ll know.»
«Okay.» Bernard says for the third time, eyeing the communicator. Sure he could press it now and most likely Batman would be there in thirty seconds. He would thank Bernard, sweep up his sidekick and fly away in the night, or something like that. All in all, it would be really cool.
«Did you… mmh, did you do it…?» Robin mumbles.
«Yes.» He lies, placing the communicator near without pressing anything. Sure, that would be cool. But having Robin there, trapped and semi-conscious, isn’t something which is ever going to happen again.
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Trying not to cry + Elliot -brinkofdiscovery
BTHB 2023 - Fill 12 - Trying Not To Cry
Oh I have the best idea for this, don't you worry. ❤️ August belongs to @brinkofdiscovery!!
TWs: panic attacks, being hunted
Pressed against the bricks and a dumpster, Elliot pulled August close. One hand pressed hard against August's mouth, keeping his head against Elliot's shoulder. August shook, his eyes squeezing closed as footsteps approached.
"Shh." Elliot breathed, and August pressed his face into the comforting darkness of the crook of his neck. "Shh."
August tried desperately to focus on anything but what was happening. His hair was hopelessly messed up, the gel long since washed away by sweat. He needed to restyle it. The face of his watch was cracked and his once-shining shoes were scuffed.
Elliot smelled like the forest and something even more dangerous. Elliot's hand was calloused, strong—a steady anchor as August's very body threatened to fall apart. A low, rolling growl boiled in Elliot's chest. It was too low for anyone but August to hear and he wondered why the werewolf was even bothering.
It wasn't like the vampire chasing them would be turned away by something so small.
August's breath hitched as the frenzied vampire approached their hiding spot, and he peeked out from behind Elliot's throat. She stopped at the entry to the alleyway. Her shadow cut a harsh line through the light the streetlamps provided. August felt like he might faint.
Elliot's other arm silently reached over his own body to the man he was so intent on protecting, his hand coming to rest at the center of August's chest. The warmth from Elliot's skin seemed to sink into August's very bones as his eyes began to sting. He became extremely aware of how Elliot curled around him, how Elliot seemed to become bigger and bigger the closer their pursuer came. How his teeth seemed to get longer and stranger than they already were. His electric eyes stayed locked on the empty air beside their dumpster, limbs coiled like an over-wound spring.
That growl never stopped.
The vampire lingered a few moments more, before her shadow finally retreated. Elliot didn't move for another minute, clutching August against himself like he might be ripped away at any moment. Slowly, so slowly that August didn't notice at first, Elliot lifted his hand away from August's mouth.
Sucking in a breath, August felt his tears begin to roll. He stayed with his cheek pressed to Elliot's shoulder as he closed his eyes again. "I..." August started, feeling Elliot finally turn away from the alley.
His chest burned hot with embarrassment. Of all things to be doing in a strange city, crouching in a filthy alleyway behind a dumpster with the waiter that had kept him from being murdered wasn't ever something he would've expected. He shouldn't be here.
"Hey, hey." Elliot said, his voice soft and low against the top of August's head. "I've got you, man. I've got you." August felt Elliot's wiry arms squeeze him tighter, pulling a shuddering breath out of him. "C'mon, let's go find a better place to get our feet under us. We can even treat ourselves, get a two star room for the night instead of a one star."
August let out a watery laugh that dissolved into a shocked sob. "Two--no." He declared. "Absolutely not." He wrapped his arms around Elliot, clutching him close. "We are sleeping somewhere nice."
Elliot laughed, shoulders shaking from it as he leaned his head against August's. "Okay, okay. Yeah. Find us a bougie hotel. I'll keep you safe."
#bthb#bad things happen bingo#whump#emotional whump#trying not to cry#lightning eyes and alibis#august#panic attacks#being hunted#I love august he's having a terrible time
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Whumptober 2022 Masterlist
I did all the Prompts this year (even though I used 2 alt prompts and combined a bunch)!
I'll leave quick links to each entry sorted by fandom (or lack thereof) at the bottom of this post as each one is already labeled on top with the prompt and warnings
But before that, here's the link to all my fics published on Ao3:
Original Work/No Fandom:
1, 3, 6, 11, 24, 16, 17, 23, 26
Bungou to Alchemist:
2, 13, 5, 14, 15
Nobunaga no Shinobi:
4, 9, 21, 31
World Trigger:
7, 8, 25, 10 (alt 6), 28, 29
Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic:
12, 18 (BTHB), 30
Somali and the Forest Spirit:
19
Mahoutsukai no Yakusoku:
20
Tower of God:
22 (Alt 7)
Bungou Stray Dogs:
27
#Whumptober2022#completionist#masterpost#whumptober 2022#whumptober#bungou stray dogs#tower of god#mahoutsukai no yakusoku#somali and the forest spirit#magi the labyrinth of magic#world trigger#nobunaga no shinobi#bungou to alchemist#original work#no fandom
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Does anyone care about a posting schedule? Probably not, but I need to decide so I can focus on other things.
Fancy Boots has 8 parts so far which will be posted on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Part 1: Aug 23rd
Part 2: Aug 25th
Part 3: Aug 30th
Part 4: Sep 1st
Part 5: Sep 6th
Part 6: Sep 8th
Part 7: Sep 13th
Part 8: Sep 15th
Saturday is my Whump of the Month entry for Glass Shards:
Hope: Aug 27th
... as well as regularly scheduled Thorns:
Truth: Aug 27th
Support: Sep 3rd
Trigger: Sep 10th
Dropped: Sep 17th
And I will probably resume regular Glass Shards in September:
Chapter 16: Sep 7th
Chapter 17: Sep 14th
With Chapter 16, my first BTHB will be finished.
And I refuse to plan further ahead without seeing the whumptober prompts 😅
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Wip for the next BTHB entry "SENSORY OVERLOAD"
#mine#tadc pomni#tadc ragatha#tadc kinger#the amazing digital circus#wip#bthb#bad things happen bingo#WIP
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The Heart and the Hunger Masterlist
The bounty hunter didn't mean to find an injured vampire, but sometimes jobs don't go according to plan. And they can't just leave it; that would be reckless, and put the whole town in danger. So they take it home.
Content warnings for lots of dehumanization, including use of "it" as a pronoun.
This series was heavily inspired by @whumping-every-day 's Callum and Ash series, which you can find the masterlist for here. I got to the end of the series, went I WANT MORE, and then apparently the only solution was to write it myself. So, here you go.
Another big source of inspiration for this comes from @ashintheairlikesnow 's Vampire Chris AU, which you can find the masterlist for here. This inspired things like vampire brothels and the idea of people using vampires as drug dispensers for their narcotic-like venom.
Note: the vampire is female, but she currently uses "it" as a pronoun because of heavy conditioning. I am tagging the entries as "lady whump" and "female whumpee" because of this.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Backstory:
Celeste, Part 1
I will punish your friend for your failure (BTHB)
Dragged by the ankle (BTHB)
Day outside/blood loss (Whumptober 2022)
Standing cuffs/stress position (BTHB/Winter Whumperland 2022)
Trying not to cry
Asks:
[x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x]
Scenario asks:
Celeste gets bitten (canon), Tobias gets followed, Celeste's fangs get pulled (canon), What if Tobias had shot both hunters?, Role Swap AU
Other:
Journal entry (canon)
Coagulating (canon)
Celeste is given a coughed-up clot as a gift (significantly lighter than it sounds)
Rose anon tries to heal Celeste (painfully), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14
Someone discusses torturing vampires with Tobias, Part 2
Comfort asks:
A treat for Celeste, Celeste gets a gift basket, a game of checkers
Kim whumps Asshole, aka the vampire's last owner:
[x] [x] [x] [x] [x]
My mutuals steal Celeste to whump and caretake her:
Masterlist is here because I was going over the link limit in this post.
Art:
Celeste the vampire (traditional, black and white)
Fangs on display
Blind Mistrust
Celeste the vampire (digital, color)
Elodie
Crossovers
Masterlist (how do I have so many links??? I went over the link limit again, hence the separate masterlist)
-----------------------
Taglist:
@kim-poce @cupcakes-and-pain @nonbinary-disaster @onlybadendings @neverthelass @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog @ghostfacepepper @someonesnamesblog @rainbowsandwhumperflies @extemporary-whump @thecyrulik @myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @whumpsday @whumppsychology @elrysdoesstuff @towerlesskey @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @haro-whumps @pigeonwhumps @cc1010foxy @bloodinkandashes
#the heart and the hunger#vampire whump#vampire whumpee#bounty hunter#masterlist#tobias the bounty hunter#celeste the vampire#asshole aka emmett harding#vampire pet whump#pet whump#pet whumpee#lady whump#female whumpee#the vampire is female#elodie
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BTHB: Dragged by the Ankle
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@badthingshappenbingo
NCIS: Los Angeles
Dragged by the Ankle
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A/N: This is a sequel/ followup to an entry for BTHB under the prompt 'Hand Gagging', which can be found here.
A/N 2: This came out, muuuuch longer than intended. (~3,000)
A/N 3: After two years, my Bingo Card is complete. =]
—------
Kensi
Tonight, she watches over him.
Twenty four hours after watching him jolt awake in fear, twenty four hours after learning of the monster who tortured her husband, Kensi will watch over him.
At first, she watches Deeks' eyes flutter close, his body finally settling into a gentle rise and fall of his chest. She watches his breathing slow and finally he drifts asleep.
So now she watches and waits.
Waits for the demons in his psyche to unleash the trauma again. She's been privy to more details he's shared with her in the hours since his nightmares and the bits and pieces he's mentioned throughout the day.
Kensi will not go digging for details outside what Deeks has given her, even as her instincts, her protective instincts scream for her to do so.
She doesn't need to know where specifically First Grade Detective Arron Monroe is.
She can't know the specifics.
The anger and hatred that bubbles over every time she's thought of that man, everytime Deeks yawns, reminding her of why he didn't sleep the night prior is indescribable.
So, Kensi will keep watch tonight and hold on to the knowledge that he is sleeping now and safe.
And maybe, just maybe, now that the secret is out and she knows of this trauma, they can move forward and heal.
And get some sleep.
—---------
He wakes up screaming and panting after two hours.
Kensi is sitting cross legged at the edge of the bed, fighting the fatigue creeping up her shoulders when Deeks bolts upright with a scream. Eyes wide, he gasps before his body falls to the left and she catches him in her arms.
"It's okay," Kensi assures with a grunt as Deeks' heavy frame sags against her. He's semi-conscious by her assumptions as he continues to breathe ragged and clumsily reach around him for support.
"Baby," Kensi calls out to him. He doesn't react to the nickname, only continuing to rest his body against her, panting.
She presses her lips against his sweaty forehead. "Deeks, can you hear me?"
No answer.
Kensi reaches out around his shoulders and squeezes his right hand that rests on her thigh. His breath hitches and then begins to slow.
Kensi lets a minute or so pass before asking, "You with me?"
"Y-yes," she hears in a hoarse whisper.
—------
She helplessly watches him suffer from nightmares for two more nights.
The nights repeat on a pattern- him drifting, hoping for a respite from the nightmares before drifting asleep.
Him waking gasping, panting and terrified of the past. Desperate for her to ground him and bring him back to Earth.
And then on the fourth day, the team is handed a case that takes up the time and attention that both of them desperately need. After two days, they return home and Deeks, either by exhaustion or a calmer, distracted mind, sleeps the entire night.
And the next.
She holds her breath night after night for a month, waiting for him to wake screaming.
But he doesn't.
—------
"Do you want to tell him or do you want me to?"
Callen stands next to her, his shoulder pressing gently against hers on the second level of the OPS center. In the early hours of a Saturday March day, six weeks after Deeks' first nightmare, Kensi muses over Callen's question with trepidation.
LAPD's called with a request for Deeks that may break him.
Monroe, ex-cop/current inmate , wants to chat.
She swallows slowly before inhaling. "What do you know about Monroe?"
Callen grumbles, "Everything. I can tell him-"
"No," she pushes herself off of the rail and starts walking down the stairs towards the bullpen. At his desk, Deeks hums softly as he logs into his laptop. He glances up briefly and asks," Callen says why are we here earlier than the crack of dawn?"
He's been lighter, happier in the weeks since the nightmare. Her stomach churns at her foolishly believing this was over.
His blue eyes are back on her, narrowed. "What's wrong?"
Kensi steps in front of his desks and rests her palms on the edge of the table. "An inmate by the name of Donovan Watson kidnapped a young mother yesterday here in Los Angeles. The mother is the daughter of a woman victimized by a police officer in 2007."
He settles back in his chair, elbow on the arm of a chair. His brow furrows as his mind processes the bits of information she's given.
"The victim's mother was Sarah Hal-"
"Sarah…Halloway," Deeks finishes for her in a pained voice. He taps his finger against the table, turns slightly towards his right and chokes out, "Just say it."
"Watson was Monroe’s inmate before being released six months ago at FC Mendota. Monroe claims to know where Watson and his victim is but will only tell you in person."
"He wants to talk to me," Deeks repeats. His face is drained of color as he repeats it in disbelief. She walks around the edge of the table and kneels in front of him, taking his hands. She can hear his breath beginning to increase as his eyes are shut tight.
"What do you need?" Kensi asks. "What can I do?"
He opens his eyes and whispers, "I don't know what to do."
Callen
"Detective, what happened next?"
"They..uhm…called me to meet so we can talk. I had no idea that Monroe would be there. I was jumped, thrown to the ground and then dragged across the floor like a ragdoll. They dragged me by my ankle - I remember feeling like it was going to pop-"
The level of anger Callen feels is indescribable.
The still shot of Deeks, thirteen years younger, battered and broken, sits on the wide screen in the OPS center. Callen rests his back against the table, arms crossed and a scowl on his face that could be described by some as homicidal.
Beside him, Fatima continues to rock back and forth between her feet, head ducked down as she types at her tablet. She's shaken, stunned at another piece of Deeks' turbulent period with the LAPD.
"Where are Kensi and Deeks?" Fatima asks suddenly, her voice cracking slightly. Callen inhales and exhales slowly to calm his anger for the moment to answer but Fatima begins to ramble, "I-I can't even imagine being asked to look a monster in the eye-"
"They went to the boatshed," Callen answers slowly. He begins rubbing his thumb against his pointer finger. "It'll give Deeks space to think and decide. Hopefully, LAPD and local police in Mendota can get something before Deeks would even have to do this."
"Who does this?" Fatima mutters with a shake of the head. "How do you take one of your own and hurt them, beat them, for standing up for what's right?"
Part of the testimony replays in the back of his mind- “Detective Monroe is a well respected member of the LAPD. What evidence besides your testimony do you have, Detective Deeks?”
Callen rests a hand on Fatima’s shoulder and feels the younger agent seeming to melt under his touch. “Monsters, Fatima. Monsters do things like that. Tell me about what we know about Watson and Halloway.”
Fatima nods shortly, gripping her tablet a little tighter. She taps the screen to pull up a photo of Watson, a green eyed curly haired man, likely no older than thirty. “Watson shared a cell with Monroe for over a year. Before going into Mendota, he’s a three strike winner with armed robbery, dealing and for aiding and abetting in an arson. He was released six months or so ago and dropped off the map.”
“So how does that lead us to Halloway?”
Fatima swipes to the right and reveals both Sarah Holloway and her mother Alison Holloway’s driving licenses. “His mother lived in one of the neighborhood’s that Monroe frequented. Turns out he was blackmailing and demanding restitution for protection back in the day. His favorite person to go after was Alison.”
The image of a battered and bruised Deeks sitting alone at a table flashes again in his mind. “I’m guessing- assuming- that this is what Deeks stood up to Monroe for,” Callen murmurs.
“Yes- Sarah’s boyfriend reported her missing yesterday,” Fatima explains. “She put up a hell of a fight when taken and LAPD was able to find blood on the coffee table of her apartment and prints on a wall corner. They matched it to Watson-”
“And the last person to spend any significant amount of time with Watson was Monroe. “
Fatima turns away from the screen and rests her tablet on the table. Callen can see tears forming in her eyes- he knows that Fatima carries the stress and the heartbreak differently than the others. He places a hand on her shoulder and she melts under the empathetic touch. “We will get Monroe to pay for what he did to Deeks, one way or another, Fatima.”
“I can’t imagine what Deeks is going through right now,” she whispers, “How- I….how do you look a monster like that again in the eye?”
Sam
The U.S Navy SEAL code replays in the back of Sam's mind.
Loyal to Country, Team and Teammate
Sam's aware, as he jabs at the sparring bag into the gym, that as a member of NCIS and as a SEAL, he'd initially failed the first line for three years straight. His conscience is hell bent on reminding him of said failure since receiving a call hours earlier of Monroe’s request.
You aren't much better, the voice in the back of his mind screams as he continues to punch out the undeniably homicidal anger towards Monroe.
But I learned-
His conscience laughs a low, hearty laugh- It took you three years to accept 'the temp'. Not much better, huh?
Serve with honor and integrity on and off the battlefield
Sam holds up both hands defensively and begins to circle the hanging spar bag. He only knows the few details Callen had given him over the phone-" Monroe….assaulted Deeks for standing up for what's right."
Sam strikes the bag with his left hand- Monroe doesn't have moral principles. Anyone who assaults-
His conscience interrupts his train of thoughts again- Or exile the man who ends up nearly dying protecting the identity of one's wife.
Take responsibility for your actions and the actions of your teammate
Sam strikes the bag again and then rests his body against the hanging bag.
Monroe will take responsibility for his actions. So will the others.
He'll make sure of it.
—-------
After an hour of sparring and no news from Callen and Fatima, he drives over to the boatshed.
The drive builds his nerves of facing the Investigator after his sparring session. As he enters the boatshed, he can see Kensi sitting on the stair above a despondent Deeks and tries to remind himself that the Sam Hanna of ten years ago and today are different people.
The Sam Hanna of before would be at arm's length from the then-detective. The old Sam Hanna wouldn't feel the insurmountable guilt and protectiveness that he feels today.
Sam pulls a chair from the table as he nears and sits a few feet away from Deeks. He leans forward and props his elbows on his thigh before asking, "How are you holding-"
“Why didn’t you like me when I first started?” The Investigator asks softly in a trance-like voice. His blue eyes are lifeless as they stare off into the distance. "You had said-"
"Deeks, I- '' Sam opens his mouth and shakes his head weakly. "I forgot my creed as a Navy SEAL. I didn't….I didn't have my teamm- my family's back. I didn't-"
"Never thought I would hear that coming from you."
Sam's head bobs slightly as he fights a lump growing in his throat. "I didn't have the honor or integrity that you carried and still carry with you everyday. It took three years too long for me to figure that out and I am sorry for that."
Deeks' eyes flicker over to him. "I forgave you a long time ago, Sam," he replies. "I just can't help but sit here and think of the people who knew what Monroe did and still didn't care. Thank you for caring- thank you for starting fresh after Sidarov."
Sam feels his eyes sting from tears. "You're my brother," he chokes, "You survived and whatever you decide to do, you aren't alone."
Kensi rests her chin on Deeks' shoulder. "LAPD is scouring the city looking for Sarah, Deeks. You don't have to-"
"I'll do it," Deeks replies. He's uncertain, Sam can see, but the willingness to face Monroe demonstrates the strength he should have seen years ago.
So Sam stands and nods at Kensi and Deeks. "Mendota is four hours away. I'll make the call."
—-------
FC Mendota
“MONROE! GET UP!”
First Grade Detective Arron Monroe grins at the voice of one of the guards yelling his name. He's lying on his back, hands tucked behind his head and well aware of the words about to come out of the guard's mouth.
“You heard me?” Carter- a burly, curly haired man in his forties- slams a baton against the bars of the cell with little care of Monroe’s scrawny cellmate or the hundred plus other inmates trying to sleep. Monroe slides his hands out from behind his head and rolls over onto his stomach on the top bunk to face Carter standing next to the Warden.
“I wasn’t expecting any visitors so late in the night,” Monroe jokes. His heart warms at the twin scowls on both men’s faces on the other side of the bars. “What’s the occasion?”
“You know damn well why we’re here,” the Warden snaps. “Get up.”
“Is it in reference to a ‘certain ex- cellmate’ of mine?” Monroe asks. "It’s been hours since you all last came to me asking questions. Did you follow my request?”
“Get off your bed,” the guard snaps. He leans back and snaps his finger to alert the security guard to unlock the cell door. “And let’s go.”
“So I’m assuming my request was met,” Monroe replies. He slides off the bed, careful not to fall down too hard on his sixty year old knees. He sighs dramatically as the guard cuffs his wrist and ankles for the short walk to the visitation wing. The Warden eyes his cellphone with frustration as Monroe’s cuffed and the man can’t help to poke the bear a bit further. “Hot date?”
“Someone’s life is on the line,” Warden snaps. He grabs Monroe’s right arm while Carter grabs another before walking Monroe towards the first set of security doors.
“You get fifteen minutes with your guest and you will stay handcuffed,” The Warden growls under his breath.
“You think I’m going to go after a poorly lowly detective in my old age?” Monroe laughs. He’s greeted with a suspicious silence between the two men before he’s hauled through the second set of doors.
“God help NCIS,” the Warden mutters under his breath and it is especially suspicious to Monroe. Who the hell is NCIS and why are they here?
—----------------
The rookie isn't what he expects.
Monroe is hauled through the doors of visitation room A by the Warden and Carter and walked to one of the corner tables. Deeks isn't cowering in a corner or avoiding eye contact like Monroe's remembered; instead with a shorter hair cut with strands of grey hair and a much bulkier frame, Deeks leans back against a wall near the table with a deep scowl on his face.
A stark difference from the scrawny man he had pressed a pistol against and threatened, "If you scream, Rookie, I'll shoot you and no one will care."
"Where's Sarah Halloway and Watson?" Deeks probes without a greeting.
Monroe peers at the somewhat familiar symbol of an eagle holding a shield on the badge on Deeks' waist. "You aren't…a cop anymore, are you?" The older man concludes with surprise.
“I'm a federal agent. Where’s the girl?” Deeks repeats, unflinching.
"The Rookie's a fed?" Monroe leans forward as far as he can over the table. “Do they know what we did to you? How you crumpled under a little ass kicking? How you betrayed good cops and needed to be taught a lesson?”
The younger man’s jaw flinches under the questions. “Where is the girl?”
Monroe raises his voice, "Bring them in here and we’ll chat! I’ll tell them about my favorite moment- dragging you in like a-"
“WHERE IS SHE?” Deeks yells suddenly. Monroe smirks as the rookie's eyes widen in shock at his own outburst before taking a step back from Monroe. The Warden, standing next to Carter, near the door barely flinch.
"Even exchange," Monroe teases. He settles back in his seat and rests his cuffed hands on the table." Location in exchange for our chat. I heard ol' Warden say NCIS- does NCIS know that you are a traitor? I also noticed you wearing a ring. Congrats to the unlucky bride."
Deeks doesn't spiral as Monroe expects him to- instead, the traitor begins to pace slowly in front of him. "My work with NCIS or anything I've done after you went to jail is irrelevant-"
"It proves you are a traitor-"
Deeks stops in his tracks, turns to Monroe and cracks a little bit further. "You were terrorizing a neighborhood and a young mother! I did what was right and you went after me for it!"
The older man shakes his head, chucking softly at the younger man's weak defense. He snorts, “I’m sure Alison is so thankful for everything you’ve done now that her own child was kidnapped because of you.”
Deeks starts to pace again. “Why did you ask me here?”
This is the moment he’s been waiting years for.
Monroe takes one last glance at the Warden and Carter, both now alert and listening expectedly. “I have been wanting to face you all these years but never had a good reason why. And then Donovan Watson, eager to please and easily manipulated, gets dropped off in my cell and I finally got my reason.”
Deeks stops again, this time stepping closer to Monroe. Monroe keeps a wide grin on his face as he continues, “ I’ve waited nearly thirteen years for this moment to tell you that I will be in your head. And the things that I want to do to you for betraying me….well, two more years goes by quick, Rook.”
Instead of fear, blinding fear that’s he replayed over and over, Monroe watches realization grow across Deeks’ face.
"You just threatened a federal agent,” Deeks states. He motions over to the Warden, who’s suddenly very happy. “You just threatened a federal agent and that plus you abetting in a kidnapping, you aren’t getting out in two years, Monroe.”
Monroe launches himself forward towards Deeks as far as he can while being cuffed. The move leaves him clumsily landing his chest on the top of the table and the impact of his chin causing him to bite his tongue. “You're bluffing.”
“You want to take that risk?” Deeks challenges. “Last time- where is Watson and Sarah Halloway?"
And you seem to forget that I have a lot of friends, Deeks, Monroe thinks sly. He huffs and sits back down on his chair. “Fine. I told Watson to take Halloway back to our old stomping grounds. You remember the building we took you to? It’s part of a neighborhood in Van Nuys called Willow Heights.”
—---------
Deeks
He's floored.
The Investigator hadn't expected Monroe's admission of Halloway's location- the number of tricks and lies Monroe had used to manipulate the citizens had been endless.
"Come on, Rookie. It isn't that hard- they give us money, we offer a little extra protection. If they don’t, make them realize how important we are in any means necessary.”
He steps back from Monroe, blinking furiously in confusion while reaching blindly for his phone. Monroe gawks at him, the most flustered he's ever seen the older man.
"Kensi," Deeks says as he presses his phone to his ear, "Van Nuys. There's a neighborhood called Willow Heights that LAPD needs to search."
"On it," she answers. "I'm outside when you're ready."
He's torn- a part of him wants to march over to the man and demand answers for every atrocity he had witnessed under Monroe’s watch. This part of him wants answers for every person outside of himself that had suffered under someone who had sworn to serve and protect.
But the other part of him reminds him starkly of differences in him of today and the young wide eyed rookie of over a decade ago.
He's stronger, smarter and doing something he loves- protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
He is loved and supported more than he's ever been in his lifetime, not only as a federal officer but as a husband and future father.
Deeks walks to the door frame, stops and turns back to face the monster who’d nearly killed him and haunted him. “We’re done here. Goodbye, Arron,” he says.
And walks out the door.
-------
Thanks for reading. =]
#ncis la#densi#marty deeks#eric christian olsen#kensi blye#sam hanna#g callen#bad things bingo#bad things happen bingo#dragged by the ankle
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BTHB, 1A - Nightmares
BTHB Masterpost
Ok so this fun lil snippet is actually some canon material I've had stewing, and I've re-written it thanks to a prompt from my friend (@painful-pooch)! Which also happened to be on this card so I'm capitalising on that too hehe
I realise I've written multiple nightmare scenarios on here now--
I don't care, I love them, I will keep doing it, I am not sorry
Context: Pete has only just escaped captivity from Johnstone. Liz hasn't worked out what he is yet (I didn't say she was the sharpest tool in the shed, but I love her anyway), and he has been patched up and put in bed to rest.
CONTENT and WARNINGS: Nightmare (outside perspective), allusions to captivity, general angst
wc: ~0.9k
How was work?
Did you think of anywhere else Pete might be…?
Did you see him?
Countless questions streamed through Liz’s mind—it’d been well more than a week since he disappeared, and—and—
She was losing hope… but maybe, just maybe—
The door to Timmy’s terrace clicked open, permitting a sharp breeze to announce the entry of a gangly figure, and another ragged form leaning heavily on his shoulder.
Fresh blood seeped through his shirt.
Liz’s eyes snapped up from where they fixated.
“Timmy! Oh no, Pete!” She exclaimed, leaping up.
Pete dragged tired eyes up, faltering at the voice.
“L-Liz—” he choked out.
His legs trembled, strength ebbing, and his grip on Timmy’s shoulder grew light.
“I—I…” Pete trailed off.
Before he could finish, his eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground; everything faded to grey.
~*~
Timmy hadn’t explained anything—not where he found Pete, not his wounds, nothing. Only the barest minimum to dress them all, carefully hiding the brand that marked his friend hunted.
Liz hadn’t spoken either—stunned into silence by Pete’s broken, terrified voice as he collapsed through the doorway, crumpling to a bloodied heap on the floor, and then by the sheer number of wounds they cleaned and dressed.
The only sound that kept them company was the clinking of metal against ceramic, and wind gusts that steadily grew outside.
There was something both of them were hiding—she knew it; this only proved it.
For now, she was more concerned for Pete, who laid asleep in Timmy’s bed.
Lightning stretched its jagged claws through the sky, piercing the night and lighting up the darkness in a sick imitation of day. Howling wind sent raindrops hurtling sideways into the windows. Thunder boomed; the storm that’d sat on the horizon finally arrived.
Liz had worried for Pete that day—he always seemed so anxious about these storms... she’d hoped he had shelter, wherever he was. At least she got that wish…
Timmy jerked up from where he sat, startled out of whatever thought he was in, the lightning briefly illuminating his normally dark green eyes.
Properly audible now, Pete’s breaths grew louder, hoarser. Beads of sweat glistened on his face, and for the first time in hours, Timmy could feel his emotional consciousness.
He grabbed Pete’s wrist to check his pulse.
He was still deathly pale, and his skin seemed cold and clammy.
Each beat came fast and shallow, and a soft whimper escaped his throat. He flinched into the bed, trembling as fear rose in both their chests.
He was dreaming.
Timmy seemed tense.
Something was wrong.
“Is he okay?” Liz asked, worried.
“I—I don’t know!”
"…No..." Pete mumbled.
“Pete...?” Timmy asked softly hand tentatively hovering above his friend’s shoulder.
"No no no..." Pete’s breaths became ragged, broken by a thrash striking at thin air.
"G-get—get away... get away!" He cried, twisting painfully as if trying to avoid something.
Flailing hands connected hard with Timmy’s face, sending him reeling as the entire room lit with blinding white light.
Thunder crashed, rattling the glass panes so hard Timmy thought they would shatter. The lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Pete’s eyes flew open, and he struggled up with sudden, terror-fueled vigour. He tried to run, but his legs caught in the blankets, sending him crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.
The fall knocked the air out of his lungs—his breath hitched as he cried in agony, twisting again, over and over, but he only tangled himself more.
"Let, let..." he rasped in a broken, pained voice, "let me go let me go! Please!"
Dark, looming figures crouched over him. One spoke, but he couldn't recognise their words.
“Woah—Pete it’s us, you’re ok—” Liz started—
Panic rose—he could barely move, they seemed to creep closer and closer.
He struggled hard, trying to stand, but his legs were tangled tightly together.
He flopped to the ground again. The movement tore at raw wounds, sending another wave burning of agony through his body.
"Let me go! Joh.. Johns... Let me go!" He wept, voice breaking again as he tried to drag himself away.
Another flash illuminated the room, blinding him, swiftly followed by a roll of thunder.
He twisted again, turning over to meet a figure that leant over him, taking his shoulder.
They were so close—he could feel their hair brush against his face.
He cringed back whimpering, terrified blue eyes unseeing.
“P-please, please, I- I can’t—"
“Pete—” Liz started.
Just as the lamp flickered back on—
Slap.
Untrimmed nails raked across Liz’s cheek, leaving thin red lines in their wake. She yelped and jumped back, snapping Pete out of his delirium.
He blinked, and his terror faded; replaced by brief confusion then guilt as he looked up and saw their frightened faces for the first time.
Pete drew his arms in close, and turned his head away, and brought one up to vainly hide the tears that streamed down his face.
“O-o- oh nn… I-I’m sorry—I’m so s-sorry, oh no, no no no, I didn’t mean— didn’t mean—” He cried, sobs wracking his frail body.
Liz turned to Timmy, tears pricking at her eyes, both from the sting, and for her trembling friend.
What happened to him?
If you read and enjoyed this, please consider a reblog ^-^
#bthb#bad things happen bingo#nightmare#nightmares#whump#whump writing#whump prompt#whumpee#caretaker#mer whump#mer whumpee#nonhuman whumpee#nightmare tw#emc's writing#Pete Spencer#Liz Millen#Timmy Paige#original whump
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Oh no. I made myself cry with this one.
Thank you @gingerly-writing for this heartbreaking prompt!
“Look away,” the villain said softly. “There’s no saving them now, but I can make it quick.”
"No. No, I can't." Hero hiccuped on a sob. Something in her chest was breaking. Her body fell to the pebbled ground and she reached a hand towards the little boy in front of her- her boy. That was her boy. She gripped the ground as much as she could, pulling herself to her baby, but her efforts didn't last.
Villain picked her up, holding her close, arms wrapped around her front, her back pressed against his chest. She just wanted to be near her baby boy; he was writhing on the ground- dying. She needed to be there with him. "Hero, I promise you don't want to see this." She thrashed in his hold, screaming at him, crying, but he wouldn't give. Villain's eyes changed as he whispered in the hero's ears, "Close your eyes."
And she did. She had no choice but to close her eyes, all because of Villain's command. Now, if she couldn't be in her little boy's presence in his dying moments, it would be Villain's fault and not her own. That was all Villain could ask for as she continued crying and thrashing in his grasp.
"Now stay here," he whispered again, and the lightness in his voice carried through Hero's veins, pumping towards her mind by her heart's pulses. The command settled around her brain like a fog until it was all she could understand. "Hold still. It'll be okay."
"It'll be okay," she said almost robotically, and her body stilled. Her shaking hands became stone. Even being calmed, Hero had a conflict within herself. Relaxed as she was now, she knew she should be screaming. Her son was going to die. "It's not okay, not right now. It's not okay even if it will be. It's not okay right now, Villain. My baby's- he's-"
"Shhh. It's okay. I can make it quick." Villain whispered one last thing. "Plug your ears as tightly as you can. I'll get you when it's finished."
"It's okay," Hero wanted to nod, but Villain already commanded her limbs to be still. She did plug her ears like he said though. It's okay. And she believed it. "You'll get me when it's finished."
She felt Villain's arms slide away from her. She barely heard as his footsteps became more distanced. Her son's pained screams were still audible, but more muffled than when her ears were open. It didn't matter anyways. Everything was okay. Her mind said everything was okay. Yeah, maybe it was because of Villain's power, but that didn't matter. Her brain told her with full confidence that it was okay. And Villain would get her when he finished.
"It hurts!" Hero heard her son scream. "It hurts so bad! I want my mommy!" A part of Hero's mind felt like it lurched at her boy's last statement, but Villain's command was stronger. She wanted to be pissed at Villain for making her so still, for not letting her see her baby boy, but she couldn't- because it was okay.
Snap. Hero's heart rate increased at the sound. A single tear fell down her face. A whimper rose in her throat. Her eyes were still closed, ears were still plugged. But it wasn't enough. Her ribs were collapsing in on her. Everything hurt. More whimpers and groaned escaped her, but then there were hands on her shoulder, a voice in front of her.
A hand swiped away the stray tear on Hero's face. "Your emotions are too strong for my ability. I need to think of a stronger command." A pause. "I'm so sorry, Hero."
"Wha- why are you apologizing? It's okay." Her voice was breaking away from its numb tone, breaking in spots. Still, the command was still ever present.
Villain began whispering after a single deep breath. Hero could only listen. "Hero, you never had a son. You never even had a husband. All of these years, you've fought alone, and you've done so well at it. Supervillain is a tough opponent, but you found a partner who is willing to help you bring him down. Your partner's name is Villain; that's me."
Another deep breath. "You never knew the young boy in front of you. He was an unfortunate causality that neither of us could prevent. He passed quickly and with little pain. The boy's family has already received the news. Their grievance period might be long, but they'll be okay, just like you and I will be." Villain took a hand off of Hero to wipe at his own tears. It was becoming difficult to refrain from sniffing.
"Although there was much destruction, Supervillain left very injured. We both think if he returns at all, it'll be with a permanent leg injury, which will slow him down. We can truly best him next time."
Villain sighed. "I release your body from my command." He never would have imagined siding with Hero like this, never would have thought he'd commit himself to being her partner. But...he couldn't be on Supervillain's side anymore, not if- not if he did things like this. Children had no place in war. And parents didn't deserve to suffer for it when it did- unfortunately- happen.
Supervillain was a monster, and just like Villain told Hero, he was hurt. Villain would kill him next time.
"Have any authorities been called?" Hero asked.
Villain cleared his throat and stepped back. At a normal volume, he said, "Yeah. Yeah, you can hear the sirens, actually. You go back to my base. I'll give the reports."
"You sure?" Hero gave a sympathetic smile- if you could call such a thing that. She glanced at the boy's body- the body which wasn't her son. She didn't know that boy. "You seem...more affected by this than usual. I thought you were supposed to be the tough shell to crack." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive. I can do the report, Villain, if you need to take some time to yourself."
He shook his head. "I'm alright. You head back, okay? I got this."
Hero nodded in acknowledgment, and without another word, she began walking away.
Villain felt a heavy weight settle on his body. He'd never live happily remembering he erased a mother's son from her own memory. That was unforgivable, even if it was necessary.
This doubles as an entry for my bthb! @badthingshappenbingo
Original work
Dragging Themselves Along the Ground
#prompt fill#hero x villain#hero x villain story#broken hero#good villain#death#death of child#minor whump#mind control#original work#long post#comforting villain#villain#hero#superpowers#whump#whumpee#whumper#whumplr#badthingshappenbingo#dragging themselves along the ground
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hello :) how about 12 for the dialogue prompts with snips & skyguy?
Anon, my sincerest of apologies for filling this so long after your request! I hit a bit of writer's block and lack of writing time, unfortunately. But I finally did it! I had a great time writing this, getting back into the groove.
Thank you for this request, Anon!!
I don't know which prompt list this one is from anymore, but my BTHB card is open!
--- or read on ao3 ---
Anakin’s heart dropped through his boots
“When? Are they critical? I’ll be there in three hours,” he said, flicking switches and yanking his ship into gear. Master Che sighed on her end of the holocall.
“Skywalker, when you get here, there’s something you need to know.”
Anakin hadn’t thought more dread could fill his body, but in that moment, he was drowning in it. He didn’t let himself look away from the controls, pushing he ship to its limit. Master Che seemed to understand that he was still listening.
“Young Ahsoka hasn’t left Obi-Wan’s side since they got here. She nearly bit the fingers off one of my padawan healers. I’m not sure how cognizant she is right now. She won’t eat and she won’t let us put in an IV. There’s nothing I can do when she’s withdrawn consent.”
Anakin closed his eyes, letting a rush of breath out through his nose, lips pressed in a thin line he knew resembled his master’s own fed-up grimace.
“You must not get angry with her, Anakin. Obi-Wan put himself in harm’s way to save her, but we lost him twice on the table and Ahsoka saw. She wouldn’t leave the room. All she believes right now is that her grandmaster is on the brink because he was saving her.”
Anakin opened his eyes and met Master Che’s.
“I’ll be there in two.”
He signed off and pushed his ship faster, praying to the Force equal parts in fear and thankfulness.
They’re alive, that’s all that matters.
---
He made it to the Temple in an hour and a half and parked the ship with the sound of sirens right behind him, but he ran into the Temple without looking back. For now the Temple Guard could deal with them.
Despite both himself and his master hating the Halls, Anakin knew how to get there from any point in the Temple, and he found himself in the entry faced with Master Che within minutes. When he was a child her towering stature was foreboding, but with age and height he’d learned she wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared.
Though she never did let him forget that she could and would stick him with hypos, any day any time. The same threat stood for Obi-Wan, and it seemed it might soon apply to Ahsoka too.
Now though, she had a grit in her eyes that Anakin knew meant trouble if the stubborn patient wasn’t dealt with soon.
“Follow me, Skywalker.”
The Halls were always busy nowadays. The war never slept and neither did healers; Master Che’s shoulders slumped, and her usual brisk pace was half a step slower than normal, which meant it had been a few shifts since she’d taken her own medical advice.
They came into the ICU, an open hall with privacy curtains half-drawn around all the beds. Anakin saw the orange of his padawan’s lek before he saw the state of his master. He felt the waves of grief and guilt from Ahsoka, confusion and pain from Obi-Wan. Anakin winced and Master Che sighed.
“We’ve given him all the painkillers we can for now,” Master Che said, slowing her walk to check around a couple curtains. “He’s been here for about thirty-six hours, and so has your padawan.”
“Thank you, Master Che,” Anakin bowed and sent her a tired smile. “I’ll so what I can for Ahsoka.”
She nodded his way, focus already resettled on another critical patient, this one with no visitors by their side. As Anakin walked away she pulled out a stool from beneath the bed and settled beside them.
Turning toward the curtained area with Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, Anakin walked himself through a breathing exercise Obi-Wan had taught him years ago. Now was not the time to get angry or let his own guilt eat away at him. He needed to focus on Ahsoka so they could focus on Obi-Wan. His old master would never let him hear the end of it if Ahsoka’s health was cast to the wayside for his sake.
Anakin stepped around the curtain but Ahsoka didn’t move an inch. She was sat on the edge of the visitor’s chair, hunched over the side of Obi-Wan’s bed with his right hand tucked between both of her own, her forehead resting on top. Her eyes were closed but Anakin could still see the exhaustion, the tension threaded through her. She wasn’t asleep, but Master Che’s word rang in his mind.
I don’t know how cognizant she is right now. She’s refusing medical care.
Damn their stubborn lineage.
Anakin stepped closer to the bed. He saw her lek twitch a mere second before she whipped around, fangs bared and shoving herself in front of Obi-Wan so Anakin couldn’t see his face.
There was no recognition in her predator’s eyes.
“Ahsoka, it’s Anakin.” Anakin kept his voice slow and calm. “You’re at the Temple now, you and Obi-Wan are safe. Can I come sit by you?”
“I—n-no. No! Stay away from him. He’s not okay, he’s hurt, he’s sick,” Ahsoka said, eyes still flashing, boring into Anakin’s, fever bright.
The bandages on her lek and atop her right montral were stained with old and fresh blood.
“Alright, that’s ok. I’ll sit right here, ok? I won’t come any closer.”
Anakin held up his hands and slowly sank into a meditation pose on the floor. He made a clear show of closing his eyes and entering a light meditation. He waited, nearly holding his breath, for Ahsoka to sit back down. Her anxiety still rolled in waves, vast and deep, over Anakin and through the ICU. Her signature rattled with the jitters one only got from staying awake for far too long; she was pressing against his shields, which he let down slowly, trying to gauge the threat he posed to Obi-Wan. He let her probe, giving her as much time as she needed. She was scared and she was hurt. He’d been in her place too many times to count. He knew what kind of reassurance she needed, and it wouldn’t come from being overbearing.
But that didn’t mean every second of the wait wasn’t excruciating.
About as quickly as she’d jumped at him, her eyes finally saw him, and she slipped from her seat.
Anakin was just as quick.
He scooped her up before her head could smack against the ground, cradling it delicately to his chest, shushing her as she whimpered in his arms.
“Ahsoka, it’s alright now. I’m going to take you to our quarters, how does that sound?”
She could only nod.
Anakin stole a glance at his former master, still out cold, bacta-smeared back rising and falling. It gave him the reassurance he needed, and he turned his back before he could change his mind. He stepped quickly over to the curtain he’d last seen Master Che behind. She was still there, reading quietly to the Jedi laid out on the bed unconscious.
“Master Che, I’ve got her. I’m taking her to our quarters, she’ll rest better there. She’ll only get upset if she stays here. What do I need to do about her injuries?”
---
Anakin laid Ahsoka down on her bed, gently lowering her head and pulling her lek out of the way. He rested his mech hand on her face, hoping the cold metal would do its job.
Her face scrunched, nose wrinkling in a way that made him smile sadly.
“Mmmmph, Master?”
“I’m here, Ahsoka. Don’t try to move too much, ok?”
He went about reapplying bacta and changing her bandages, talking idly of his own mission until he was done. She was nodding off the whole time, but her eyes never stayed shut for more than a few seconds, always jerking back open and jostling her lek against the pillows, making her and Anakin both wince.
“Have you not slept this entire time, Ahsoka?” Anakin pulled the thick blanket up around her shoulders, resting his flesh hand near hers as he settled in the chair he’d pulled in when they’d first arrived.
“Master Obi-Wan needed me, I couldn’t leave him there. He hates the Halls,” Ahsoka said, voice rasping.
Anakin made a small chastising noise in the back of his throat that sent a pang through his stomach. He’d definitely picked that one up from Obi-Wan.
“He already chose to sacrifice for you, there was no use in you forsaking yourself in the face of his sacrifice, now was there, my padawan?”
His gentle tone still pricked her raw emotions and the guilt came rolling back through their bond.
“He, he almost died, Master. He almost died to save me.”
Her words came out a whisper.
“Well, he loves you very much, Ahsoka, as do I. Neither of us want you to do this to yourself.”
“Oh, but he can nearly get himself killed?”
“You know that’s not what I meant, Ahsoka.”
Ahsoka had the sense to looked ashamed. Anakin bent down and kissed her forehead, skin still fever hot.
“Ahsoka, Obi-Wan made his decision. Now you need to let that go, to heal yourself and let me help you, so that when we go see him he can see you’re alright.”
Ahsoka grumbled but nodded her head. Her eyes were drooping.
“That doesn’t go to say that he’s off the hook, though. I’m gonna give him hell as soon as he’s better enough to sit up.”
Ahsoka giggled and Anakin knew he’d won.
“Rest now, Ahsoka. I’ll stay here until you wake, alright?”
“You’ll wake me if anything happens?”
“I promise.”
“Ok,” Ahsoka said, shifting and grabbing Anakin’s hand. He gripped it back just as tightly.
“Goodnight, Ahsoka.”
#my fic#Willow talks#hurt Ahsoka#hurt/comfort#Anakin Skywalker#hurt obi-wan (mentioned)#anon prompt response#the writer's block has lifted!#maybe the hair dye i used last night was the key#breaking news: red hair is the secret to curing you of all your writerly blues
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