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pretty-face-breaker · 4 months

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post-torture cuddles? :3

CW. creepy comfort, masochism, unhealthy relationships

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hayko watches the smattering of cast-off bloodstains on the sheets. Glossy, an hour ago, and now dried flat and dull to the cotton. There’s a ringing in his head, hurting with each pulse. He doesn’t respond - the words didn't quite make it through.

Nick kneels behind him and kneads his shoulders, almost gently. It’s the feeling of his nose in his hair that jerks him out of the reverie. He tenses, sucks in a breath, and blinks away the sting in his eyes.

“Are you back with me again?”

“Partially,” Hayko says, throat raw. He can’t stop the whine when Nick cuts his wrists free from the ropes with a few sharp tugs of his folding knife. Realizes, immediately after, that he didn’t hear him pull it out.

A puff of laughter against his neck, then. “Back in your skin?”

He’d be lying if he repeated himself. He was. When the pain was a punishing, pulsing thing. Now, with it gone, he’s untethered again. The light cascading in from the window is too bright, the carpet springy and rough. It’s too much.

“Hey, now.” Nick taps him twice on his cheek, just on the edge of too rough. “I didn’t whip the wits out of you, did I?”

“Hardly.” In different circumstances, he might have laughed. “If you did, wouldn’t be much left of me, at this point.”

Nick’s smile comes sharp against his head, an eyetooth pressing into his scalp. He rubs away the chaffing on Hayko’s wrists, sitting limp on the mattress. It’s a mean thing. They’re bantering. Bantering after he just consented to being beat out of orbit for-

For his-

“Is there something you’d like?”

“Just-” His voice chips and self-loathing fills it. “Just stay for a few minutes. Just-”

Nick hushes him, so gently his eyes sting again. Hayko’s throat tightens as the ministrations move to his hair and Nick smooths out the snarls. A few beats of that and he’s pulling him back against his chest. Hayko lets himself fall and hisses, when his shirt catches on the welts.

“Have I ever left you like this?”

Hayko swallows, a fervid when haven't you? tucked behind his teeth. But he knows what Nick is referring to, and no, technically, he’s never left him after this. Something decidedly not safe or sane but asked for, all the same.

He must drift for a minute because when he opens his eyes again, he’s draped over Nick’s chest on the bed, half-wrapped in a towel. He foggily registers a hand smoothing gel over his skin, the other playing along his ribs.

“You’re running out of time, you know.”

The hands stop. Nick’s heartbeat is steady beneath his ear, unyielding in a way that seems to disagree with that. Hayko stops himself from flinching when he speaks again.

“Don’t worry about me, dear.”

He takes the press of lips to his scalp with little more than an aborted breath before Nick gives his ribs a squeeze. Presses into the welts hard enough to startle a full gasp out of him. He’s afraid he might not stop his probing, might just sink his claws clean through his back and into his lungs-

“Oh. Please-...”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Nick’s voice is gnarled with a grin.

His next breath whistles from his teeth. It fucking hurts. It hurts like nothing. It's so good. “Yes. Yes.”

And then, nothing. His fingers are gone, leaving him panting and arching up. Bastard, he wants to say, as Nick pulls them through his hair, smearing blood through his curls. Within a second, he’s back to rubbing aloe cream on his back.

“Don’t worry about me,” Nick says. “After they run out of time, it’ll just be us. No distractions, hm?”

@doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna @oh-so-skeletal @whumperfully @brittaunfiltered09

#nick and hayko #post-torture #implied/referenced torture #whump #whump writing #whump drabble #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #creepy comfort #aftercare #unhealthy relationships

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balshumetsbaragouin · 2 months

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Valentine's Core Exchange Gift: Hybrid Affinity

I can finally talk about this! I am excited to have been able to take part in the first Valentine's Core Exchange. My giftee for this event is the amazing @nursal1060writes! I hope you enjoy your gift! Only the first chapter will be posted on AO3, this week, but they get the Full Monty in DMs. Thanks @valentines-core-exchange for connecting us!

Link: Hybrid Affinity Rating: Mature Characters: Danny Fenton, Vlad Masters Relationship: Danny & Vlad(Badger Cereal) Warnings: Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Non-Consensual Drug Use Chapter Word Count: 2,577 Story Word Total: 20k

Summary:

A momentary lapse of attention, a weapon's blast grounding him, an agent's boot heading towards his jaw…

Danny has been the 'primary research subject' of the Area 23 facility for the past three weeks. Since he was captured, he's had no contact with the outside world, and no chance of escape. After complaining about a lack of conversational partners, his heated cage finds a second occupant: Vlad Plasmius.

With his last chance at escape captured with him, Danny's hope dwindled until he heard the other halfa promise he had a plan. The only problem: He doesn't trust Vlad.

Have a sneak peek at the story below the cut!

The gun at the back of his head pressed deeper into the base of his skull. “I’m moving.”

“Not fast enough, ghost.” The agent tapped the spot right over his brain stem, “Keep dragging your feet, and I’ll save the government the expense of containing you.” The hiss of the pneumatic doors ahead of them sent tingles over his skin. The air on the other side smelled like the ecto-suppressant they pumped inside, burnt acrid chemicals, and days old sweat.

“I’m floating; you see me floating forward, right?” He stopped just on the other side of the barrier, long enough for the scan, and moved again when the light flashed green above the entrance. The hum of the ghost shield grated his ear drums as it scrapped over his skin. “No need to be so hostile.” The door clicked shut behind him, the agent no longer bothering to threaten him once he reached the inside of The Oven. “Whatever.” Danny floated the rest of the way into the heated metal box and tried to decide which wall he’d sizzle on for the next few hours. He’d favored the one facing the door when he’d first arrived, but the heating element sat closer to the surface. The sadists running this circle of hell designed it that way. Their scientists were probably measuring how long he’d put up with more pain to feel ‘secure’ or something.

He hovered in the middle of the room, eyeing the coolest wall, with an ache building up in his core. He decided to split the difference and sat against one of the walls perpendicular to the door. A low hiss filled the room as he sank down to the floor and leaned back. “You know, you don’t have to BBQ me. I’d be happy to answer questions without being spit-roasted.” The agents on the other side of the monitoring equipment couldn’t hear him. He’d made a show of cursing and insulting them the first… however long, until he was hoarse. They’d only told him they didn’t receive audio after he couldn’t speak. They said, ‘we’re not interested in any lies you ghost vermin want to tell’ and sneered down at him like he’d become a bug that learned to speak. They did monitor his energy levels, though. When he’d attempted an ecto-ray, a whole host of guns popped out of some panels in the ceiling and hosed him down with molten misery. The liquid didn’t start hot, not like the walls, but as soon as it touched him…

He rubbed at the spots along his forearms that got the worst of the spray. The jumpsuit still laid odd over those spots, like the ectoplasm underneath refused to come back all the way. He poked around the area, feeling the way the latex enmeshed with the healed flesh under it. Other areas stuck because he was slicked down with sweat, but here it felt glued down into the muscles. He leaned forward and frowned down at the half-melted state of his boots. The soles of his feet and the back of him always took the worst of it whenever he was back in the cage. Still, it was better than being in the labs. The blazing temperatures and grating silence granted a peace that left him when they wanted to stick tubes down his throat or needles into his skin. “I could even convince myself this is pleasant if I couldn’t smell that burning ectoplasm.”

#Danny Phantom #Danny Phantom Fanfiction #DP #DP Fanfic #Hybrid Affinity #HA #Balshumet's Fanfiction #Valentine's Core Exchange 2024 #VCE #VCE 2024 #Implied/Referenced Torture #Past Torture #Torture #Psychological Torture #Medical Experimentation #Medical Torture #Non-Consensual Drug Use

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adrift-in-thyme · 1 year

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Day 26: Forced to Choose (Wild & Time)

Ao3 link

Cw for blood and injury, implied/referenced torture

Quick disclaimer: this has some Tears of the Kingdom stuff in it, BUT for the most part it's spoiler free. I haven't watched any gameplay videos except for the Nintendo one, or read any reviews, or seen the artbook leak. So, this whole plot is just me having fun with angsty ideas. If any of it is actually in Tears of the Kingdom I'll be amazed. Still, if you want to go into it completely spoiler free, avoid reading this until you've played the game.

——————-

Time is dying.

Wild can see it in the deathly paleness of his skin, the tremor that runs through him with every labored breath, the blood spreading along the middle of his tunic like the sky during a blood moon. He’s slumped forward, eye trained dully on the ground, the grip of the Yiga assassin on his shoulder the only thing keeping him upright. But when Wild chokes out his name, he raises his head to look in his direction.

“You’ve gotta hold on,” Wild manages through the tears and the pain and the terrible crashing guilt because this is his fault, all his fault. “Please, old man.”

The Yiga drag him back even as he fights to reach his brother, his friend, the man he’s come to think of almost as a father. He inhales sharply as the ropes tear into his wrist (his fleshy, soft, human wrist, not the one that can no longer be torn by such things as weak as rope. Not the one attached to an arm whose powers he hasn’t even begun to fully understand yet has still landed them here.)

“What-whatever they want,” Time says, voice quiet and hoarse, strained by blood loss and pain, “don’t gi-give it to them, cub.”

Laughter erupts from behind him, deafening and maniacal, and it sets Wild’s blood to boiling. He glares at the assassin standing behind Time, wishing for all the world he could tear every one of these cursed sadists apart. It hardly has the effect he wants it to, though, what with the tears streaming down his cheeks and the blood and grime smudged over his body and his arms pinned behind him.

He could escape if he wanted. With his new limb, he could drop right through the floor and resurface wherever he so chose. He won’t though, not now, not when leaving that way means abandoning Time. That’s not an option Wild will ever entertain.

And the Yiga know it.

“Your friend isn’t doing too well, is he?” One of the assassins sneers now, leaning over Wild’s shoulder, his breath hot and clammy in his ear. “Looks to me like he’s bleeding out.”

“Oh dear,” another joins in, jeering tone grating upon Wild’s ears. He holds a demon carver in his hand, the same one responsible for the wounds marring Time’s body. “What a horrible situation! Whatever can the chosen hero of the goddess do?”

“If only there was a way to save his life,” the first Yiga murmurs. He reaches over Wild’s shoulder to dangle a potion in his face, tone changing from mocking to threatening. “You know what we want, hero. Give it to us and he lives. Refuse and we’ll make you watch as he dies a slow, agonizing death.”

“Champion,” Time says, stern despite the pain in his voice, “do-don’t.”

Wild squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of Time battered and broken and covered in blood, trying to stop the sound of the cackles and jeers surrounding them. He knows exactly what they want, he’s heard their demands repeated for the last few hours, whispered and murmured and screamed inches from his face. And he’s refused them for just as long, every single one landing in a new strike upon Time’s body.

But he couldn’t give in, he just couldn’t. What they want from him, what they’re asking him to do, could doom Hyrule.

His arm, this wonderful new appendage gifted by the gods when Ganon’s dark magic devoured his natural one, is one half of the key to the Silent Realm where Ganondorf is now locked away. The other half is the Master Sword, lying hidden deep within the Korok Forest where the Yiga cannot go. But the assassins, loyal as ever, want nothing more than to set Ganondorf free. And they will stop at nothing to accomplish their goal. Even if it means forcing their sworn enemy to unlock the Silent Realm for them.

Last time Ganondorf revived he’d nearly wiped out Hyrule and the remnants of people working to rebuild it. This time, Wild doesn’t doubt he’ll finish the job.

“Cub.”

Wild pries open eyes clouded with tears and raises his head to meet Time’s gaze. The man seems to have grown even paler in the last few minutes alone. But his face is set in a look of determined resignation.

“You can’t.”

And he knows he’s right, he does. But to just let Time die, to sit and watch as he’s deprived of his future, to see the light leave his eye and know he’ll never lead the group again, never tell cryptic stories around the fire, never laugh or smile or feel. To know Malon will lose her beloved “fairy boy” long before his time…

Wait.

Wild’s spiraling thoughts come to a screeching halt, eyes widening as it hits him like a stone talus to the face. Fairy boy. Time is a fairy boy. He grew up in the Lost Woods, has even admitted to knowing them like the back of his hand.

He raises his eyes to Time once more, a plan formulating in his head.

It can be too much sometimes. I can’t take the grief of my entire kingdom, only to lose just one friend.

But maybe, just maybe he doesn’t have to.

“So, what’s your answer, hero?” The Yiga hisses. “Will he live or die?”

Time gives him a small smile, and Wild knows with terrible certainty that he has made peace with the fate he believes he will meet.

Wild swallows, and steels himself. It takes every inch of his strength to keep his gaze on Time as he speaks the words, trying desperately to communicate what he cannot say.

“I’ll do it. I’ll open the Silent Realm.”

The laughter swells around him once more, full of victory and mad glee. But all Wild can focus on is the way Time is looking at him.

“The Look of Disappointment” is what Twilight has dubbed it, and Wild sees now why it sends shivers down his spine. Though in this situation, he guesses it’s warranted. For all Time knows he has just doomed his Hyrule to utter destruction. He only hopes he can communicate his true intentions soon.

******

In true Yiga style, the assassins refuse to give Time the potion until Wild has done the deed. So, when they drag their captives to the entrance of the Lost Woods, the old man is limping. He is white as a sheet, now, and swaying dangerously on his feet. More than once he collapses, only to be kicked and prodded back into a standing position. Wild can’t help but wince every time it happens.

“Well?” The assassin says once they’ve reached the spot where the first torches gleam. “Lead on, hero. And–” He presses his demon carver to Time’s neck, “–don’t you dare try to lead us astray. Do it and he dies.”

“That’s just the thing though,” Wild replies, as steadily as he can under the circumstances. “I can’t lead you without a torch. I don’t know these woods well enough.”

In an instant, another Yiga is up in his face, blade pressed against his chin.

“You want us to untie you, don’t you, little hero? Don’t think for a second that we’re gonna fall for that trick.”

Wild stares him down for a long moment, then inclines his head towards Time. “Then he has to lead. He can do it by memory.”

Time meets his eyes, a frown creasing his brow.

“It’s a good thing too,” Wild continues, keeping his gaze stubbornly trained on Time. “It’s too easy to get lost in here.”

Understanding dawns like the sun breaking through the clouds, and Time draws himself up a little straighter, some of that horrible disappointment gone. Wild is glad to be free of its oppressive weight.

“Fine.” The Yiga growls, shoving Time forward with such force he nearly faceplants. “You do it. And be quick.”

Their progress is certainly not quick. Time is hardly standing at this point. He stumbles forward, every step a struggle, every breath one that Wild fears will be his last. It’s not enough just for his plan to work, Time has to survive until it’s through. And with the wounds he’s sustained so far, he can’t help but wonder if he will.

He manages to stay alert enough, however. Wild may not have the same sense of direction as him, but he’s been in these woods enough to have a feeling of the right ways and the wrong. And Time takes them on a path that’s all wrong.

The Korok’s giggles grow closer with each step, and the Yiga grow more visibly nervous. Then, when the mist has become so thick Wild can hardly make out the ground beneath his feet, they begin to disappear.

Playful, tinkling laughter fills his ears as the forest children swoop in, working their magic. The Yiga’s screams of terror are drowned out so fast, it’s as though they were never in the forest in the first place. Where the Koroks whisk them away to, Wild hasn’t a single clue. He doesn’t care, though, especially not when the last assassin is dragged away right as he lunges forward to seek revenge for his companions’ deaths.

“They’re gone,” he says after a moment or two has passed and no other red-costumed maniacs leap from the fog. Relief bubbles up in him, so exhilarating and overwhelming, he nearly chokes on it. “It actually worked.”

“You did well, cub.”

He looks up and Time is smiling down at him, looking proud and alive (if only barely), and Wild feels tears of an entirely different sort spring to his eyes. But then, the moment ends as abruptly as it came. Time collapses, spreading crimson upon the green grass. He’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

#febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday26 #blood and injury #implied/referenced torture #linkeduniverse #lu wild #lu time #totk #totk spoilers #…kinda?#they’re very small #but just to be careful #trin writes

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 5 months

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Screaming Is All He Hears

Summary: Set after Httyd 2. Hiccup has been captured, but Toothless can still hear him.

Warning: Implied/referenced torture

Rating: Mature

Characters: Toothless, Hiccup, Astrid, Valka

Pairing: /

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Whumpee: Hiccup, Toothless

Author's Notes: Based on a sudden idea I had and written on a whim.

Enjoy!

XOXOX

By the time Toothless touches land, Hiccup has already been captured.

The Trappers have come to avenge Drago, taking them completely by surprise. The Dragon Riders know better than to leave Toothless in the water, their leader used to wear a cape made out of Night Fury hide. But the fleet keeps them from saving Hiccup. They have to watch them grab him by the hair just as he surfaces and pull him into the dinghy.

Toothless is unconscious. Otherwise, he would’ve protested. He would’ve blasted the water, overturning the dinghy and giving them the perfect opportunity to swoop down and save their friend, but he’s not awake and so the Dragon Riders are left with no other option than to retreat.

The second they put him down, he wakes up. Astrid barks orders, shouting for the A-team to prepare for a rescue mission. They would need the help getting their chief back.

Toothless can’t believe they would just leave him, angry that they would choose him over Hiccup, no matter how much more sense it made to get the Night Fury out of there first. He approaches Astrid, pushing her towards the cliff, telling her to get on his back so they can go.

“Toothless, we can’t! You can’t fly!” She protests, stepping away from him. He looks down at his tailfin and notices that his prosthetic has been torn to shreds.

She’s right, he can’t fly.

So he roars at her. He knows Hiccup keeps replacements, he even has that automatic tailfin for emergencies. Give it to him, he’ll go blasting in and rescue his human himself.

“Toothless, I don’t have time to argue!” But that is what she says before she walks off, barking more orders.

He turns to watch the fleet before Berk, wondering just how hard it’s going to be to gather a small army. It’s true, they’re tribe has fallen on tough times; Drago destroyed much of their home, their food, their weaponry. But surely, a people of dragons and humans can think of something quick to save their chief?

He hates that all he can do is wait, pacing around, ignoring the aching in his side where he was hit. He shouldn’t have flown so close, should’ve minded their range.

The fleet hasn’t advanced since they got Hiccup, a worrying sign. There’s much they could want from him. Information… leverage. His Rider is a valuable prisoner. Toothless is filled with anxiety. The chaos behind him is nothing like the chaos inside his mind.

Minutes pass. Minutes, minutes, minutes! Then half an hour, maybe more, they’re still organizing! It’s almost as though everything and everyone falls apart without Hiccup around to lead them.

And that’s when he hears it.

Screaming.

It’s not from the people around him, though loud as they are. Astrid and the other Dragon Riders, they aren’t hearing what he hears. Toothless’ head snaps towards the fleet of ships. The sounds are faint, faraway, but the distance doesn’t matter to his annoyingly sensitive ears.

Unfortunately, he can recognize them from anywhere. It’s Hiccup.

Once again, he roars at Astrid, at Eret, at Valka, at anyone willing to listen. At least Valka comes to his side, kneeling, trying to ease him, but she should know better. Even though she can’t hear what he can.

His heart skips a beat in fright. The sounds are bloodcurdling, like he’s screaming his throat raw. Toothless doesn’t want to imagine what’s being done to his human for him to make these sorts of wails.

The Trappers want something from him and they’re willing to go far to make him give it to them.

Another bout. It’s like his chest is torn into, his heart clawed out and grinded into the dirt. It happens over and over again with every scream that reaches his ears.

Horrible things are being done to Hiccup.

Toothless looks behind him, still no progress. He looks towards the ships, inching over the cliff, tiny pebbles crumble off. He wants to go. He needs to go! Hiccup is in trouble and he’s the only one who can save him.

“Toothless, Dear,” Valka’s reassurances fall on deaf ears. Hiccup is the only one he can hear at this point.

He’s screaming.

Crying.

Pleading!

There were Hunters amongst those Trappers,too. Leftover men from Viggo, Krogan and Johann’s forces who had nowhere to go and a long history with- and a lot of hatred for- the Dragon Riders. That’s a lot of bad blood and they have the source of it all.

Hiccup is all alone with them.

There’s no telling what’s happening to him and Toothless can’t save him. This distance between them is excruciating.

More screaming. Bloodcurdling, raw, heart-shattering.

Screaming is all he hears.

#httyd fics #httyd movies #httyd 2 #how to train your dragon 2 #hiccup haddock #hiccup whump #toothless #toothless whump #hicctooth #astrid hofferson #valka #the haddocks #hiccup and the dragon riders #implied/referenced torture #whump #my fanfics #screaming is all he hears

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quietlyimplode · 2 years

Text

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 11 - self done first aid

Warnings: Dreykov being a creepy mf (alluding to touching)/fighting/vomiting/injury/the red room being shit

Word Count: 2.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: I think this is one of my favourite chapters (the last bit at least - 50 points if you know what book it’s appropriated from). Also, a long one today. Dreykov is a awful mf.

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———-

She’s paired against Lena first. The lithe girl she once knew with kind eyes and a love of braiding hair, wears guns on her hips and widow bites on her arms.

In fact, as Natasha looks to the two others, she realises they do too.

She carries no weapons, and it’s clear what’s going to happen here, because for every weapon she sees there’s likely two more in hiding.

Sharp eyes now watch her, as the guard offers rules.

“Disarm at any cost. No death,” he clarifies.

Natasha now notices that there’s two way mirrors in this room, and instinctively knows they’re being watched.

If she tries to communicate with the others, they might be tortured. If she tries anything, they might be tortured.

But that’s not why she complies.

She wants to be defiant, even if it’s just to see what happens.

“Fight,” the command comes.

Lena hits her hard in the face, the impact on her cheek as she just manages to turn before it impacts to her nose.

Get the weapons, she knows, as Black Widow works to disarm Lena.

She grabs for the first gun, but Lena is too quick. She avoids it and elbows Natasha hard in the gut, making her lose her breath. She plays on it, making Lena come in closer.

Natasha realises she is not in this fight. It’s Lena versus the Black Widow and Lena is winning.

It’s like she’s a spectator as she grabs for the guns, switches the safety off and ejects all the bullets.

Using the butt of the gun, she hits Lena; though the other gun distracts her.

The fresh feeling of electrocution pounds through her body, even though the voltage seems lower.

Growling, she attacks Lena full force, anger at her concept of her widow bites being used on her, but her weakened body is no match for a widow at full strength.

Two quick kicks and elbow to her jaw, sends Natasha to her knees and Lena on top of her arm wrapped around her neck, the choke hold complete as she crushes Natasha’s windpipe.

The black widow taps out before she passes out, but Natasha knows if it was her in charge, she’d just pass out.

It would be kinder to herself.

Lena let’s go, pulled off by the guard who hands her a long knife.

“Mark your win,” the guard tells her.

Lena approaches her, holds Natasha’s chin steady and guides the knife down her face.

She feels it cut into the soft skin of her cheek the blood running down into her neck as she stares at the woman, who won’t make eye contact.

“Next,” the guard commands.

Max steps up, her dark eyes staring into Natasha’s as the blood tickles her neck.

“Fight.”

Max doesn’t attack, instead reaches for her gun, making Natasha lunge at her; disarming her and walking straight into her play.

Max drops the gun, and picks the knife, stabbing at Natasha catching her by surprise. It’s not a deep cut, but it does push through her uniform cutting into her skin.

Dancing away, Natasha backs up, feeling short against the other girls height.

She can do this, she can fight.

The thing is she’s deconditioned and not used to the brutality of hits that are raining down on her as she backs up arms up.

Catching one, she throws the larger girl, leveraging her momentum and weight against her. It’s unfortunate that Max trips her as she does it and it turns into grappling on the floor.

She doesn’t have a chance.

Max holds down her arms; arm across her neck as she sits on top of Natasha. Leaning in close, she whispers in Natasha’s ear.

Black spots appear in her vision.

“Traitor,” she hears as she gasps for breath.

The guard stops the fight, as Natasha coughs, her windpipe free of pressure.

Max is handed the knife.

“Mark your win,” the guard tells her.

This time, Max pushes Natasha down, she slices the knife across her thigh, cutting through the uniform and into her skin.

Natasha grimaces as she breathes through her teeth.

“Next,” says the guard.

Jace steps up.

“Fight.”

There’s a pause as Natasha remembers them being sixteen, her brown hair thick and tied back laying next each other, clasping hands and making a blood pact that they won’t kill each other.

She still feels the scar across her palm, even though it’s long healed.

Jace throws a half hearted punch and Natasha feigns a kick to her head, changing it to a back fist at the last minute. The connection is loud as the crack across her cheekbone resonates.

Anger plays across Jace’s face and she starts fighting for real, knife out, stabbing towards Natasha as she dodges and weaves.

Jace throws the knife, narrowly missing Natasha and then follows up with a kick and then back fist that connects hard making her see stars.

She falls back and the guard stops Jace from following up.

She gets handed the knife and Jace pulls Natasha’s hand from her body, slicing across her palm; face set in a hard line.

“Stand,” the guard tells them.

The black widow stands, blood sticky in her clenched palm, down her thigh and on her face.

Pain in all the hits, a fatigued body and the disconnected feeling from herself makes Natasha want to shrink back, go back into whatever cell they’re going to push her into.

The others have to come.

She’s not going to survive the wrath of Dreykov, the guards and the other widows.

It’s only a matter of time.

Alarms blare throughout the house as Tony rushes into the surveillance room. He finds Clint holding up the tablet.

“It’s no longer transmitting,” Jarvis tells them, and Clint nods.

Tony backtracks to where the last transmission was; typing furiously as Steve and Bruce appear at the door.

“It’s no longer transmitting,” he tells them, a map appearing on the screens.

They watch the footage, or at least what they can see of Natasha’s vitals, as they spike, her heart rate doubling, tripling; then nothing.

Clint makes a noise, a groan that stays in his throat.

“I think.. I think they electrocuted her..”

He leaves the thought hanging.

Tony pulls the satellite footage up.

“How long ago?” Steve asks.

“Since it stopped transmitting?”

Tony looks, “fifteen minutes.”

Clint’s already moving.

“Three hours,” he grumbles. “We are three hours away.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left.”

Rushing to the quinjet, they all are silent in their thoughts, even as Tony swears, watching the overall satellite footage.

Steve pilots the plane.

Clint cleans his guns, making sure they’re loaded, and pulls his bow from the armory. The arrows he pulls makes Bruce frown.

“You think it’ll be needed?”

Clint’s face is dark. A look Bruce is sure he hasn’t seen before.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

Tony is in his full Ironman suit.

Bruce sits hands clasped tight, body curling in on itself.

“Update,” Clint orders.

Tony stares at the footage.

“Not change in it out of the facility, there doesn’t seem to be any movement.”

Clint nods.

He sits next to Bruce, adopting his posture of hands clasped, breath slowing even though his anger is hot.

With thirty minutes to go, Tony growls at the screen.

“No, don’t you fucking dare.”

There’s cars streaming out, Clint standing next to him, watching; knowing Natasha is in one of them.

“Can you track them?” he asks.

Tony nods.

There’s drones that appear from his suit and he sends them out, six drones for six cars.

“Will they get there in time?” Clint asks as the drones fly away.

Huffing, Tony nods.

“I hope so,” he says quietly. “I was going to leave them in Georgia but I didn’t want to leave any evidence we were there. Ross is a bastard and any stepping out, he’s threatened…”

Tony stops.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

Clint thinks he knows. Tony holds more knowledge on the world than all of them. They don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell.

Tony tells Steve to cloak the jet as they cross the border into Russia, and he looks for a place to land it.

Koban is small, and Clint is worried that they’re going to meet resistance; and civilians. He doesn’t put it last Dreykov to do anything in self protection.

He’s thankful for the cover of darkness as they get off the plane, he motions for Tony to give them aerial view of everything.

They needn’t have worried though.

The place is deserted.

They take Natasha back to medical. March her back, even though she can’t do anything.

It’s clear they’re in Russia, the Cold War feel permeating through the halls.

Jace is on her right, Max on her left and Lena ahead.

It seems as though they are her handlers.

She wishes she could talk, but they said no talking, she wishes she could fight, but the cuts on her hand, face and thigh, prove she’s no match for the widows, even if she could.

Natasha wants more than anything to be left alone.

The doctors tell her exactly what to do, then they cuff her to the bed. They inject her with god knows what, and she feels herself falling, just as it did when Dreykov injected her the first time.

She’s still conscious but everything is delayed. They draw blood, they attach electrodes to her and monitor vital signs.

If she falls asleep, she can escape the trauma of them acting on a body that’s not hers, but then she wouldn’t know what they’re doing.

It’s a catch 22 where she can’t win.

They dump her in a cell to herself.

Jace stands watch and she’s thankful that it’s her; out of anyone.

There’s a single bang on the door.

It used to mean someone’s coming.

Apparently it still does.

Dreykov enters her room, Jace still stands tall, eyes forward as he enters.

“Lay down Natasha,” he tells her.

She does.

She hates herself.

He sits on the bed next to her and smiles, a snarl underneath.

“Look how well the Nanites are working, you’ve taken a beating so well,” he laughs, “well three beatings. The way Jace hit you, you’d think she hates you.”

He pushes his hand into the cut that’s deep on her thigh. She winces, unable to stop it playing across her face.

“Does it hurt? Does this hurt?” he asks squeezing.

His hand lingers as he pushes her hair away from her face.

“You look so pretty with all your bruises, but they’ll be gone tomorrow; we’ll just have to do it again.”

Dreykov stands.

“Maybe next time, we will have more fun with you, hmm?”

He takes a small washcloth from his pocket and throws it on her.

“You’ve taken this punishment so well, but this is only the beginning,” he announces.

“You think your friends will find us, but they’ll never find us here.”

There’s another smile.

“Patch yourself up,” he nods.

“You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Natasha vomits in the toilet. The cell has a sink, a toilet and a bed.

She does as he says and wipes herself down. Gets rid of the dried blood and scrubs hard at the place she can still feel his hand on her thigh and face.

She’s trying desperately to hold it together but little by little she can feel herself withdrawing, let the black widow take over.

She knows what that means though, remembers how hard it was to claw her way back the last time.

It all hurts so much, not only in her body but in her soul.

It feels like it’s being broken bit by bit and the people that helped her to put it back together won’t be so lucky this time.

She won’t be so lucky.

Even if they find her.

How can she be whole after this?

She’s drifting,

Jace opens the door, and Natasha vomits once more, then stands, half dressed to face her.

“I hate you,” Jace opens.

“You left us and they… they got meaner, more brutal afterwards.”

She takes a step towards Natasha, the glint of a dagger in her hand, Natasha watches warily.

“But I never forgot you, and I wanted the best for you. Even as they tortured us, even as they asked if we were going to defect too.”

There’s a break in her voice.

“We hold onto what we can here. They’ll inject you daily. It’s chemical. It will take over your brain. It means you have to follow everything they say, whatever they say. They say jump, you jump until they say stop. They say strip, you do. They say kill, you have no choice. They say fight, and you hit your friend.”

She opens her hand and Natasha sees the scar on her palm. For it to still be there, for it to be scarred, she knows Jace must have cut into her hand nightly. It’s something she would have done too to stay present in herself.

“I think I loved you,” she says offering the dagger.

Natasha takes it, feeling emotions that she can’t deal with.

“I know I loved you,” she whispers back.

“I’m sorry.”

And she means it.

Jace shakes her head and adjusts her gun.

“Only use it on the widows, you won’t be able to on Dreykov or any of the guards. If they come for you, you can protect yourself.”

It’s an obvious warning. They’re gunning for you. No one is coming to save you.

Natasha nods in thanks.

Jace pulls her in for a quick hug.

Kisses the top of her head.

“Salaam Natalia.”

“Salaam Jace.”

A whisper and a prayer.

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #self done first aid #natasha romanoff fic #injury #red room #implied/referenced torture #non con touching #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #tony stark #clintasha fanfiction #natasha romanoff/clint barton

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highcaliberstupidity · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 11 Pulling Pigtails Rating Mature CW's/Tags Implied/referenced torture, Ghoap if you squint Characters John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price, Phillip Graves Summary

It had been calculated, an inside fucking job. They knew where he'd be, knew where to catch him and how to do it. He remembers rough treatment, punishing fists and knees as he'd spit and snarled and fought until someone took an M4 stock to his skull. There was no telling how long he'd been out, so the chances of the 141 not even knowing he was missing yet, were higher than he liked.

Pain is the first thing he registers when his senses begin to come back online.

It leaves him gasping, lungs expanding in a weak, wheezing inhale as he forces his body to work. He's pretty certain he's got at least a handful of cracked ribs if not more. And it hurts to even shift his body forward in the seat, leaning over himself in an effort to relieve the pressure on his tied-up arms.

It helps a little, but it's not enough.

Slowly he feels his eyes open, wincing at the light, groaning as he takes in the barren concrete cell around him.

It's a basement, a set of steps going up and out, the only entrance or exit.

Not even a window in sight.

Soap only remembers flashes of what happened, of the fucking shadows coming alive in the form of real Shadows, taking him down and ripping out his come before he could do much as blink.

It had been calculated, an inside fucking job.

They knew where he'd be, knew where to catch him and how to do it.

He remembers rough treatment, punishing fists and knees as he'd spit and snarled and fought until someone took an M4 stock to his skull.

There was no telling how long he'd been out, so the chances of the 141 not even knowing he was missing yet, were higher than he liked.

The sound of a door opening, and boots echoing down the stairs had his head snapping up, forcing himself as upright as he could. He'd meet his date head on, and spitting bloody mad.

At least, that was the plan.

Until a familiar blonde head came into view, that easy smile was replaced with something dangerous.

If they wanted to throw him off his game… well congratu-fucking-lations, they did.

"What the fuck." He can't help the hiss of surprise, watching as Graves, a dead fucking man, saunters towards him with a look of deadly glee on his face.

"Well, well, well, nice of you to finally join us, sleeping beauty." He smiles wide, teeth bared in a way that screams 'I want to rip out your throat.' "been a while, Johnny. How's it been? I hope the boys weren't to rough with ya."

And Soap clamps his jaw shut, because Graves wants a reaction, and he's not going to fucking give it to him.

"Mm, not so talkative now, huh?" He steps in closer, sweeping behind him, and it takes every bit of fight he has to hold himself perfectly still, eyes focused on the floor. He's been through RTI training, he can handle this. "Don't worry, my boys will get you to squawk soon enough."

He nearly flinches when Graves hand slaps down on his shoulder, and in his periphery he can see his once charming smile looming, now shark like.

"Now, let's be real here John. I'm a guy who likes to be an optimist. So, I want to think we can work together on this. I just need you and your little friends out of my way." It takes everything, not to look at him. Not to speak. "Now, I don't want to kill anybody, I admire you guys. But, if you make me pull the trigger, I will." And he can't help the sneer that tracks across his face at that, because does he think he's stupid?

Graves will kill every one of them the minute he gets the chance, if only to make sure his steaming pile of shit stays covered.

“Ah come on now, brother. Don’t give me that look.” And Graves, the fucker, has the audacity to pout at him. Soap’s never wanted to spit in a mans face more than he does in that moment.

“You know takin’ me hostage ain’t doin’ shite for ya, right?” His voice comes as a croak when he speaks, but he tips his chin high, still not letting his eyes fully turn to regard the dead man beside him.

Graves’s hums, lips twitching as he straightens again and stands at Soap’s back, just out of sight. It’s grating, he hates it, can feel him, but he can’t see him.

“You make a fair point, but i’m kind of hoping putting the metaphorical gun to your stupid head will be enough to make Price call off the hunt.” Soap snorts, and then laughs, knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. “Oh well now i’m just hurt, laughing, really? What are we, twelve?” And then theres a hand fisting in his mohawk, fingers tangling into the short strands and wrenching his head back with sparks of pain crawling up his scalp.

“So lets cut the shit then, MacTavish.” Icey blue eyes meet flinty blue-grey, and that dangerous glint is back, it’s back and it’s growing into a gleam. “I’m gonna make this real cut and dry so you stupid English cunts,” It comes out in a terrible play of Ghost’s Machester drawl, not nearly as gravely, “Will get the fuck out of my god damn hair.”

His face is barely an inch away, and Soap really wishes he could bring his head up just enough to crack him, take him down a few pegs on his ego and pride.

But his grips good, solid, and the zip-ties are tight.

“If your Captain and his little CIA bitch don’t fuck off, the things i’m going to do to you are going to make them wish I’d taken a gun to your fucking head.” And that strikes the tiniest bolt of fear in his chest, makes his lungs squeeze and his heart jump, his pupils contracting as adrenaline pumps into his system. “Now, i’m gonna set up a little laptop, and your going to tell them to back down, comprehende?” Of course his Spanish is still shit, Soap’s fairly certain that’s not even a fuckin’ word.

“Fine. But make it fast, us English cunts gotta make it back for tea and brekkie after all.” He sneers, hisses when Graves grip tightens, and then releases him.

And then the man is gone, up the stairs, leaving Soap reeling.

Soap’s a smart man, and he’s ready when Graves returns, a small table set up in front of his chair, laptop open and waiting.

He wonders if Price will even answer.

The call goes through, routes, then finally, a face snaps into view, a very furious face.

“Soap.” His words are sharp, but he can hear the question, see it in his hard eyes.

“Captain.” He nods back, flicks a glance toward Graves, whos arms are crossed where he stands behind the laptop. He gestures to it, makes it clear what he wants. “I’ve got a message for ya, from Shadow Company.” Graves would probably kill him for this, and if he didn’t, Soap was sure to wish he was dead, when the man was done with him.

“Out with it then.” Soap couldn’t help but wonder if Ghost and Gaz were there too, if they’d hear this. Would they call him a ballsy idiot? Probably.

A deep breath in.

“Graves is alive, do not st-!” Instead of snapping the laptop shut like expected, Graves rounds it and plants his first square against Soap’s jaw. The chair rocks hard, nearly sends him over. But a firm hand from Graves keeps him upright, groaning as his head falls to the side.

Price has gone deathly silent.

“Well, I tried to play nice Johnny, I really, really fucking did.” A hand fists in his hair, jerks his eyes up to meet Prices stoney, emotionless face.

Soap smiles, teeth bloody, someone has to lighten the mood.

“Just know Graves.” Price’s voice rings strong in the room, and the commander turns with narrowed eyes. “If you hurt him. It won’t be me you have to worry about.” Graves snorts, drops his head in favor of turning fully to the camera now.

“Oh yeah, you expect me to be afraid of one man? You gonna send the big bad Ghost after me?” His lips curl, and then he brandishes a knife, the blade gleaming wickedly. “He’s a single man, think I can take him just fuckin’ fine.” And then he pivots, and sinks the blade into Soap’s thigh, earning a wail.

And he hears something that sounds like snarling on the other side of the line, hears Price shout something, and then.

“When I find you Graves, just fuckin’ know, what ever you do to him, I’ll return ten-fuckin’-fold.” Ghost’s heavy snarl breaks through the room, and Soap could cry, hearing it. Wishes it weren’t minced with signal static and tinny computer speakers.

“Yeah fuckin’ right, good luck finding us you spirit of halloween wannabee.” Graves snorts, and then he’s reaching out, snapping the laptop shut before he turns back to Soap, eyes dark.

“Well. Ready for some fun, Johnny-boy?”

All he can think is that he really hopes Ghost hurries.

#whumptober 2023 #“All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”.#“No one will find you.”#call of duty #writing #whump #angst #implied/referenced torture #Soap's gettin' his arse kicked #rip #simon riley #simon ghost riley #john 'soap' mactavish #captain john price #john price #john soap mactavish #john mactavish

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evilwriter-originals · 7 months

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Kinktober Day 6 - The Colors of Pain

Prompt: Bruises

Rated: explicit

Warnings: implied/referenced slavery, implied/referenced torture, extremely dubious consent

Relationships: Hakur/Wyniin

Word Count: 1,997

Summary: Hakur likes having control, and to him, having control means doling out pain.

Hakur liked bruises. He liked all the colors they came in, liked all the different things they could mean.

There were the black and purple bruises of a newly broken bone, or the blue bruises of freshly rent flesh. Then there were the bruises of touch, the telltale fingerprints of a grip too strong and painful. His grip would often leave those bruises, more of a brown and purple color than anything else. They would eventually turn green, then yellow, and then fade all together.

If they faded at all.

Some bruises, he’d realized through experience, stayed. It was as if the skin was given a permanent memory of that touch or injury. It would hurt no longer, but the signs of cruelty remained.

That’s what Hakur liked the most, even if that color was faded and dull. He liked skin that remembered his tortures.

And Wyniin’s skin was perfect for such things. It was sensitive and pale and new, unmarred by anything, untested by the world.

Untested by him.

It hadn’t been hard to talk her into coming with him to his bedchamber. He’d seen the way Anaria’s former servant girl looked at him, had sensed her desire for him. Hakur hadn’t had sex with anyone in quite some time, and would be more than happy to indulge her… if he got some of what he wanted as well.

And what he wanted was pain. To cause it. He’d had enough pain in his life, and now wanted to inflict it on others, wanted to see them scream and shake and blossom with bruises and blood. The body truly was a colorful thing when in pain. Wyniin needed some color, what with her white, nearly translucent skin, blonde hair, and white wings. She was a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by him.

Hakur tore her dress off with little care to how the fabric ripped. He could just have a new one made for her anyway. He had the money. He had the influence.

“I liked that dress,” Wyniin complained with a luscious pout that was oh so pretty. She was looking at the remnants of it on the floor.

“I can have a replica made for you,” Hakur said, stepping closer. One hand took Wyniin’s hip, fingers delving to bruise, making her gasp in shock and pain. The other went to a round, ample breast. She felt good in his hands; breakable.

But he wouldn’t break her yet. He had use for her still. Though, he could start to form the cracks, could begin the breaking of her, wear her down until she was ground to nothing in his hands.

Wyniin leaned into his grasp, pressing her breasts and soft flesh against him. She was fat, and beautiful for it. Hakur had seen enough forcefully emaciated bodies in his life that he did not find himself very attracted to thinness.

“And will you undress, my lord Ivaran?”

Wyniin did not know his true name yet, or his true heritage or past. To her, just like everyone else, he was Ivaran Morus, a fearsome general—carrying the name of a legend—that was leading his troops in battle against Nessar. To her, he was merely a human man.

“If you promise not to tell anyone what you may see,” Hakur said, holding her tighter. He was an artist ready to paint her flesh.

“I will not speak of it,” Wyniin gasped out. He knew it was a promise. He was good at getting promises from people.

So, Hakur released her and undressed, noted with satisfaction that Wyniin rubbed absently at her hip as she watched him. Yes, that would bruise. He was excited to see what color it would be.

Wyniin gasped as Hakur’s body was revealed to her. She probably had expected a few scars from battle, but not the flesh that was painted rife with them. There were his brands in the shape of a crescent to signify a sickle, the brands of a slave. Then there were the many, many whipping scars. Most were on his back, but some crossed along his front and his legs.

“My… my gods…” she breathed. She stepped forward, very carefully laid a hand on the brand in the middle of his chest. “You… were a slave?”

Hakur took Wyniin’s other hand and directed it to his back. Now he would reveal he was Nessari, as she had promised not to tell. If she did, she would live to regret it, and he’d make sure of that.

Wyniin’s fingers found the indents of where his wings had been, the long canyons of flesh that signified something missing.

She very suddenly drew her hands back from him as if burned.

“Ivaran…” There were tears in her eyes.

“Do not let my appearance deter you,” he said, taking her by the waist. He was more gentle here. There would be time to leave more bruises later. “I want you, Wyniin. Do you not desire the same?”

She was going to say yes. He knew she would. It might be out of some fear of him, but a yes it would be.

“I do.”

Hakur wrapped arms under Wyniin and lifted her right off the floor, wings and all. She cried out in surprise, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck.

“Then come and let us enjoy each other.”

He took her to the bed and threw her down on top of it. He climbed on top of her, pressed his fingers between her thighs, gripping hard and shoving them apart. Her chest was heaving in the most beautiful way, skin ready for painting shining in the torchlight.

“Is there anything that you prefer?” Hakur asked. He was growing erect from looking at her and her reactions to all this.

Wyniin blushed furiously, and the thought of making her bleed entered his mind, but not tonight. Tonight was for discovery and bruising.

“I’ve, um… never actually… coupled… with anyone before,” she admitted awkwardly.

Hakur smirked. “Then I will make this most enjoyable for you.”

And for him. He’d most certainly make this enjoyable for himself. What was the point of sex if not pleasure?

And he took pleasure in pain.

Hakur found his mouth on Wyniin’s hot center. He kissed and licked at her clit hungrily, enjoying the taste of her. Perhaps she would bleed when he entered her, and then they’d both be stained scarlet; a beautiful thing no doubt.

Wyniin yelped as he did this, then let out beautiful, high-pitched moans. Her sounds were lovely. He wondered if she sounded similarly while suffering. He’d find out in due time. Sometimes he had to be patient to get what he wanted.

Hakur came up from between her legs, then settled his hips down between them. Her wetness and warmth against his cock made him hum in satisfaction.

He ran his hands over her, feeling every fold of flesh, every dimple, every beautiful inch. He kissed her breasts, then found one of her nipples in his mouth. He did not deign to kiss her lips. She’d have to earn that.

Wyniin grasped at his shoulder blades as he tongued and sucked on her nipple, her hips rolling against him. Hakur could tell she was trying to be gentle with him, probably due to all his scars.

“I will not break,” he told her. Not the way you will.

Wyniin arched into him as he teased the nipple with his teeth. Her wings stretched and fluttered. Her nails dug into his skin.

Hakur dug his fingers into her hips, repositioned himself on top of her, and pushed into her without asking or giving her fair warning.

Wyniin screamed. It was a sweet, precious sound that hit something in his ears that sent a thrill through him. It was like his brain was releasing the chemicals for orgasm without him actually having one. He moaned in pleasure, slid right into her, feeling her blood begin to trickle around him. Her hymen was no more.

Hakur wasn’t always a cruel partner in bed though. He gave her time to adjust, did not start moving until her eyes, hazy, met his, and her hands stroked his arms.

Wyniin whimpered and moaned as he slowly pulled out of her and pushed back in, and he moaned too, enjoying her heat and tightness.

“Fuck, you feel wonderful,” he said, voice husky. It wasn’t difficult to make his voice sound like that, given his damaged vocal cords. Another scar from his time as a slave, a scar that could not be seen.

“Y-you do too,” she panted, clinging to him so tight he was sure she would leave some bruises on him as well. That was okay. Bruises from fucking were vastly different from bruises from torture or a beating.

“I’ll go slow for now, all right?”

Wyniin bit her lower lip in the most attractive way that almost made him kiss her, and nodded.

He stayed true to his word, working her up to a faster pace. It wasn’t long before she had her wings spread taut and her legs wrapped tightly around him as he fucked her. One of his hands went to a big thigh, trying to leave bruises there as well.

She was loud about all of it, and Hakur adored it. Sounds of pleasure and pain were so similar—his mind enjoyed both greatly.

He grunted and let out raspy moans as he fucked her. At one point she grabbed him by the back of his head and tried to pull him into a kiss, but he wouldn’t allow her to.

She wasn’t climaxing. Hakur could feel himself nearing his own end, but, despite the pleasure, Wyniin was not reaching hers. That was all right. She probably just needed some extra stimulation.

Hakur wanted to leave his hands where they were to imprint the bruises, so he used his magic. It was safe now that he’d revealed himself as Nessari and she would keep his secrets.

It was like a silken hand began stroking Wyniin’s clit, and she squealed and bucked into him. There. Now she would come for him.

“Ivaran…” she panted. “Are you…?”

He didn’t quite know what she was asking. Was she asking if he was close? Or if he was going to finish in her? He felt that he had the right to finish in her. She worked under him. If she became pregnant, so be it.

With a shout, Hakur hit his climax. He worked up his magic, and Wyniin was riding hers with him. Her muscles went taught, her body arching, a scream leaving her lips.

Then it was done, and Hakur was settling himself down on top of her, feeling blood and cum all around his cock. He stayed inside her, enjoying the warmth of her body.

He kissed Wyniin’s sensitive chest as she was left in bliss and gasping for breath. Eventually, she came to, pressed a hand to his face to tell him she’d had enough. He didn’t want to stop, wanted to hear her eventual cries, but paused nonetheless. He’d work her up to it. She’d understand the joyous torture of overstimulation at some point… Just not now.

Hakur examined her, running gentle fingers over the bruises forming on her hips, waist, and thighs. They were blue and brown and beautiful. So beautiful.

“Was that to your liking?” he asked her, touching one particular bruise on her left hip that was darker and more vibrant than the rest.

Wyniin nodded breathlessly. “It was, my lord. It was.”

With a satisfied smile, Hakur rolled off of her to see her blood standing out starkly against his flesh. It just made him smile more: the sweet colors of pain.

#Kinktober 2023 #Kinktober #smut #nsft #original characters #original writing #OCs #writing #fiction #fantasy #Hakur #Wyniin #Hakur/Wyniin #implied/referenced slavery #implied/referenced torture #dubious consent #dubcon

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evilwriter37 · 6 months

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P in the Alphabet Challenge

Title by @/creativepromptsforwriting

Rated: mature

Warnings: implied/referenced rape/noncon, implied/referenced torture, drinking, alcohol

Relationships: none

Word Count: 938

Summary: No one knows Dagur is alive and has escaped Viggo. He wants to keep it that way.

#angst #implied/referenced rape/noncon #implied/referenced torture #drinking #alcohol #character study #dagur the deranged #httyd #httyd rtte #rtte #race to the edge #fanfiction #writing #alphabet challenge

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straight-to-the-pain · 1 year

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Lying to someone’s friends and loved ones about how they died, telling them that they were brave, that they accepted their fate with dignity, with bold, unflinching last words, because they don’t really need to know how their friend cowered and begged and sobbed for their life, on their knees, a gunshot to the back of the head putting a final end to their pain and fear :’)

#whump #tropes and prompts #death #implied/referenced torture #my stuff

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snowdice · 2 years

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Best Laid Plans (Part 8/8: Breaking News) [Sometimes Labels Shift Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Virgil & Logan, Virgil & Patton, Virgil & Roman, Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Virgil, Roman

Appear: Logan, Patton

Mentioned: Remy, Emile, Janus, Remus

Summary:

Virgil (now) Sanders was once a villain vigilante kid down on his luck. After being injured helping the superhero Bluebird, he ended up being adopted by him and his husband. Logan and Patton Sanders helped Virgil in ways he didn’t even know he needed. Since then, he’s put away his persona of Shadow Caster, the strange, hard to label, super who haunted the city for a few years. Instead he’s opted for being a normal teenager and university student.

But while Logan and Patton often forgot in the midst of ice cream and movie nights and arguments about silly little things who he had been, he never had. And when worst comes to worst, Virgil will be willing to reach for a mask once again despite his fathers’ wishes and expectations.

Sometimes even the best laid plans fail.

Thanks to @bilgisticallykosher, @kiapet2, and ASmallForest (on discord) for being betas!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Virgil had not expected Prince to pull off his mask and reveal the face of Roman Sylvia underneath. Honestly, could this night get any weirder?

“But you’re the son of the mayor,” he blurted, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, and?” Roman said. “Bluebird’s a math teacher of all things.”

“Yes, but, you’re the mayor’s kid. Why would you need to go out being a secret hero?”

“Well, why were you out being a secret vigilante at…” Roman paused to think for a few seconds. “Wait, we fought for the first time when you were 14?!” He looked horrified by this fact.

“Yeah…” Virgil said awkwardly.

“I beat up a baby?!”

Virgil scowled at him. “I was not a baby… you did not beat me up!”

“Did so!”

“Did not! I always got away, easy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because I let you,” Roman sniffed. It was the same way he always said he let Virgil win games of Mario Kart.

“Bullshit!” Virgil returned, just like he always did in those moments too.

“I could have used my superstrength on you, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone, so I didn’t.”

“Yeah, so, that was you not being able to control your powers enough to catch me,” Virgil said, folding his arms, “not you purposefully letting me go!”

“Oh, whatever,” Roman replied flippantly. “Why were you even out and about fighting me? You couldn’t even drive. What were you doing robbing banks?”

“You think I don’t realize you were 17 when you started?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah,” Roman said, smugly. “Old enough to drive.”

“You’re the son of the mayor. I was poor. At least I had an excuse!” Virgil exclaimed.

“You’re burning the spam!” Roman exclaimed back.

“Fuck,” Virgil said, whipping back around to remove the frying pan from the stovetop. The slices looked a little crunchy, but that would be fine.

He’d also forgotten to start the water for the ramen, distracted by that whole conversation, so he grabbed a saucepan now and filled it up with enough water to make all of the Ramen at once. It was only after he’d finished with that that he turned back to Roman.

“So…” Virgil said.

“So.”

Virgil crossed his arms and leaned against the counter to study him. “I never pegged you for the superhero type.”

Roman frowned. “Is that an insult, or…?”

Virgil shrugged with a slight teasing smile on his face. “Take it however you want.”

Roman scowled, but then rolled his eyes. “So, what exactly happened then?” Roman asked. “Back then, I mean. How did you end up getting adopted by Bluebird?”

“Uh,” Virgil said. “When I got shot, Logan didn’t want to take me to a hospital since I’d just saved his life. He didn’t want to risk people unmasking me, so he took me home to Patton. Patton fixed me up and then pretty much emotionally adopted me as soon as I woke up because he’s, you know, Patton.”

Roman nodded in understanding.

“I let it slip that I was a foster kid and that my foster father wasn’t a particularly good one. From there they figured out my exact age and why I’d become a vigilante. They had Remy document injuries from my foster father and sent them to the police. Patton pulled some strings,” Virgil gestured towards Roman, since said strings had been his mother, “and the next thing I knew, I was living with them. The rest, you pretty much know. They were good to me; they adopted me, and here we are.”

“Huh,” Roman said.

Virgil turned off the heat once the noodles had finished cooking and started dishing them out into two bowls. He then topped them with the slightly-too-crunchy spam and slid one over to Roman.

“So,” Roman said as he pulled the bowl to himself. “You got to train with Bluebird.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Of course, that’s what you focus on.”

Roman’s nose scrunched up. “And Bluebird is… Mr. Dr. Sanders? That’s wild. I’d never expect it. No wonder no one’s ever figured out his secret identity…”

Roman trailed off, remembering the events of today. There was an awkward silence in which they were clearly both thinking the same thing. No one had ever figured out his secret identity until today. He hadn’t been wearing a mask when they’d found him.

Roman stared into his bowl of noodles. “You know,” he said after a few moments, “it… it actually does kind of fit in a weird way. Your dad being Bluebird.”

“How so?” Virgil asked curiously. Logan Sanders had always been Bluebird to Virgil. He’d never had to put the two identities together; they’d always just been the same person.

“Well, when I look at Bluebird, I don’t really think of Logan Sanders the math and physics nerd, but if I think about what Logan Sanders would be if he ended up a superhero… yeah, that tracks.”

Virgil snorted. “How does that even make any sense, Princey?”

“I don’t know,” said Roman. “Just… yeah, no, your dad would 1000% just roll his eyes at villains monologuing at him and then throw them into a wall so he could get back home to grade a calculus exam. I can’t believe no one’s ever figured it out.”

“Well, a few people have to be fair,” Virgil said with a laugh.

“Dr. Patton?”

“Well, he got a pretty big hint from what I understand, but yeah, he put it together. So did Remy, actually.”

“Remy knows?” Roman asked.

“Pretty much since Patton has,” Virgil confirmed. “Logan told me when he started fostering me, not that he had a choice because he’d already shown me his house as Bluebird. He told Emile after that because, I, uh, needed therapy with someone he trusted. It’s… it was a pretty closely guarded secret.”

They descended into silence again after that, going back to eating their food. They eventually migrated to the couch once finished, waiting on Patton to be done with whatever he was doing to help Logan. Clearly growing bored after a bit, Roman leaned over and flipped on the television. They watched the end of some sitcom rerun before the channel switched over to the early morning news at 4am.

They listened to the main story that most people were going to wake up to today, and which was likely going to be blasted all over the news, all day.

“What the hell did he do?” Virgil breathed.

There had been a blackout across a good 1/8th of the city, centered exactly at the old factory they’d invaded earlier in the night. That wasn’t much of a surprise to Virgil and Roman since they’d both noticed the lack of lights when they’d left the building. What did surprise them was reports of people having memory loss. The police had even ended up finding the factory as it appeared to be the epicenter of whatever had happened. They weren’t sure what had happened yet as it was breaking news and the police hadn’t had time to investigate, but the news clearly thought it must have been some villain attack.

“Does your dad have mental powers?” Roman asked.

“I…” Virgil said. “He did allude to having something once or twice, but I never thought...” Had Logan… erased everyone’s memories? There were no fatalities reported yet. Everyone who’d been in the factory was still unconscious, but people who’d been outside of the factory but within a mile of it pretty much had no recollection of the past 12 hours. Who knew what had happened to the people in the factory. Virgil wondered if Logan even knew.

“Well,” Roman commented, “Bluebird just became even more terrifying.”

They continued to watch the newscast, and Roman ended up scrolling through twitter to see if there was any more news breaking that hadn’t gotten to the mainstream.

It was pretty much all the newscasters talked about besides the weather for the next hour. It was an evolving story. The police had found prisoners in cells in a different part of the facility than Roman and Virgil had been in. They were also unconscious and hadn’t been identified yet. So far, nothing could be recovered from the computers despite their generators not having let the computers be cut from power for too long. They’d seemingly been completely wiped somehow.

Just like everyone's minds.

The news went on a small break before promising to start up again at 5. That’s when Patton finally came out of the bedroom.

Roman and Virgil both looked back at him when they heard the door open. He paused and blinked at their maskless faces.

Virgil just shrugged. “He figured us out,” he explained.

“Hi, Dr. Patton,” Roman said.

“Hello, Roman. I didn’t realize you were a superhero.” Virgil would give him a couple of hours before he did the math on Prince’s first appearance and Roman’s age, but for now he seemed too tired and distracted to notice anything amiss. Or even to really react to Roman being Prince at all.

Patton turned to Virgil. “Lo’s fixed up now,” he said. “He’d like to see you. I’m just getting him some soup.”

Relief crashed over Virgil. He’d felt fairly confident that Logan would be okay once Patton had his hands on him, but still, it was a relief to know he was bandaged up with no unforeseen issues.

“Yeah, I’ll go check in with him,” Virgil said.

“Why don’t you sit down for a second, Dr. Patton,” Roman suggested, hopping to his feet. “I’ll prepare the soup. You’ve been standing and worrying for a while.”

Patton flashed him a half smile that was a bit brittle around the edges. “If I sit down, I might crash.”

“Well, that’s okay too!” Roman said. “You deserve to rest a bit.”

Virgil highly doubted the type of crash Patton meant was the physical kind, and that was only emphasized by the tight-lipped smile he gave Roman in response. He did, however, sit on the couch. Virgil handed Patton the remote while getting to his feet.

“You might want to… change to a non-news station,” he suggested.

“Mmm,” Patton acknowledged.

Virgil then turned to the bedroom door. It was closed but cracked open, and Virgil pushed it the rest of the way open to slip inside before closing it completely behind him.

Logan was no longer in his ripped superhero suit. Patton had at some point helped him change into pajamas and had left him propped up on the bed for eating. He looked rather normal except for a bandage on his neck and a couple of bruises disappearing behind the mask on his face, but Virgil knew very well that he was a lot worse for wear underneath his clothes.

He glanced up when Virgil came in.

“Did Prince leave?” he asked, curiously.

Virgil was confused for a moment before he remembered that he was no longer wearing a mask. “Oh, uh, no,” Virgil said. “Prince turned out to be Roman and tonight was all he needed to figure all of us out, so there’s no point to the masks anymore.”

“Roman as in Rhea’s child, Roman?” Logan asked.

“That’d be the one,” Virgil said with a shrug.

He hummed in acknowledgment, contemplating the information for a long moment. Then, he patted the bed next to him.

Virgil was rounding the bed in an instant to climb up into the empty space next to him. He was careful while settling down near him, moving close but not quite touching him since he wasn’t sure where exactly all of his injuries were. He turned on his side to face him, cheek laying on the same pillow as Logan’s head.

“Hey there,” Logan said softly once Virgil had stopped moving.

“Hi, Dad.”

Logan didn’t move to turn onto his side for obvious reasons, but he did shift a bit so he could reach over and pet the back of Virgil’s head for a couple of seconds before just letting his arm flop down onto the bed, curled half around his son.

“Thank you, I suppose I should say,” Logan said after a few seconds. “Though I am not a fan of your methods of saving me.”

Virgil scowled slightly, not that Logan could see it with the way his face was staring at the ceiling. He hoped his dad senses allowed him to feel Virgil’s discontent with that statement anyway. “You don’t even know my methods.”

Logan glanced over at him briefly, an eyebrow raised. “I was informed there was something about a decoy shadow under a pile of blankets and observed you in costume in a secured facility.”

“And what of it?” Virgil asked.

“You were impatient,” Logan scolded. “You could have gotten yourself hurt.”

“Of course, I was impatient,” Virgil argued. “I wasn’t just going to sit around and do nothing.”

“You should have sat around and thought through a plan.”

“Sometimes plans are fucking stupid,” Virgil shot back. “Like yours. My plan worked.”

“And my plan likely would have worked as well, eventually,” Logan said.

“Well, we know mine worked, and quicker, so what’s the problem?”

Logan huffed. “Just because someone manages not to get hurt doing something reckless like jumping from a two-story building doesn’t mean jumping from a two-story building was a good idea.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well your plan was like jumping from a three-story building.”

“My plan was perfectly well thought out,” Logan insisted, a stubborn tilt to his eyebrows.

“Yeah?” Virgil asked. “And what exactly did you think I was going to do when you made your plan? Because it’s not a good plan when I was always going to do what I did.”

Logan sighed. “Good point,” he conceded, shutting his eyes. He apparently was willing to let the argument die there for the moment at least. He was clearly exhausted. Virgil was sure he’d hear more about it when the man was feeling better though.

There was a long pause in which Virgil pressed his face against Logan’s shoulder. He’d honestly thought that Logan had fallen asleep, with his eyes closed and his breathing leveling out. Yet after a few minutes, Logan spoke again.

“You have a hero’s soul, you know,” he said conversationally.

“What?” Virgil asked, not quite sure what he was talking about, but still saying, “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Logan corrected easily. “It’s admirable, but I fear it’s also liable to drive you towards stupidity.”

“I do not, and it does not,” Virgil argued back.

“The last time you threw yourself into danger for me, it was in front of a bullet.”

Virgil was silent.

“I was very much hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat performance.”

They were silent again, because of course there had been a repeat performance. How could there not have been? When Logan was Bluebird and Logan was Logan. Virgil would have literally thrown himself in front of a bullet again if the circumstances had necessitated it.

Logan sighed, knowing what Virgil was saying with his silence.

“I’m fine,” said Virgil.

“I know.”

“You’re not.”

“I will recover.”

“Will you?”

Silence, and Virgil knew what Logan was saying in his.

There was a knock at the door then. “I come bearing soup,” Roman’s voice declared.

“Come in,” said Logan.

Roman shouldered the door open, a tray of soup in his arms. “Hey, Mr. Dr. Sanders,” he said with a small smile.

“Hello, Roman,” Logan replied. “I suppose I can take my mask off.”

“Here, I’ll do it,” offered Virgil, reaching up to carefully pull the black mask off of Logan’s face. He tried not to wince at the purpling bruises covering it.

Roman came fully into the room, and Patton followed closely behind. Roman settled the tray on Logan’s lap while Patton perched on the edge of the bed. Patton’s hand reached back to touch Virgil’s ankle briefly.

“Thank you,” Logan said as Roman sat down in one of the chairs in the room. It was awkward and quiet while Logan started eating his soup.

“So,” Roman eventually said, breaking the silence, “I never would have guessed Bluebird was a nerd.”

Logan scoffed immediately and rolled his eyes. He pointed his spoon threateningly at Roman. “Enough out of you.”

“No, seriously, great secret identity. You could walk into class still in the Bluebird suit and everyone would wonder why Professor Sanders was cosplaying Bluebird that day.”

“Honestly, I should have been able to guess with you,” Logan grumbled. Roman smiled slightly, and Virgil was glad Roman was here to lighten the mood and make Logan act a bit like normal.

“You know, I have so many questions for you!”

Logan arched an eyebrow, looking tired, but in a different way than he already was tired. “Like what?”

“If you think too hard about a math equation, do you accidently explode your chalkboard?”

Logan stared at him for a moment and then Roman yelped, shooting off of his seat. “Hey!”

Virgil snickered as Logan smirked into his soup.

“Yes,” Patton answered, with a soft smile.

Logan turned to him with a pout. “I haven’t done that since my dissertation.”

“And when you read the Dahlberg paper 3 years ago,” Patton reminded him.

They continued to argue about it then in that soft way that they always argued. That being, it wasn’t really an argument at all. If Virgil closed his eyes, he could pretend it was just a normal night at home with his parents and that Roman was visiting. That was enough for now.

Want to read more? Click below!

Labeled Master Post.

My Masterpost.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #platonic moxiety #platonic analogical #platonic prinxiety #logicality #adriana writes #not pieces fic #labeled universe #sometimes labels shift #best laid plans #past child abuse #past child neglect #implied/referenced torture #blood and injury

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laffy-taffy-creations · 6 months

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Whumptober day 28!!!!

This fic was cross-posted on AO3 here

Copy That, Copycat

Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | "You'll have to go through me first"

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Words: 885

Warnings: kidnapping, manipulation/lying, implied/referenced torture

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey uh… Vee?" Izuku asked.

"Hm?" I said, looking up from my homework.

"I know that you are busy and came to the common room for a sense of relaxation but uhm… We're gonna need one of your special skills…"

"Midoriya."

"...Yeah?"

"Just spit it out."

"Jirou, Mina, and Tokoyami were kidnapped!" He blurted. "The only lead we have is a photo, and I remembered you saying you had a knack for tracking stuff without your quirk so uh… I was wondering if you'd-"

"Why the fuck is that even a question, show me the photo." I looked him dead in the eyes. It shouldn't have been a question if I would at least try to track them.

He slid over a printed picture of them being dragged unconscious off to someplace in whatever building they were currently in.

"It's from an anonymous source, I managed to swipe a copy of it cause when you track successfully its usually quicker…"

I scanned it for every detail in the environment then pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote down the address.

"Woah, that was quicker than I thought…" I heard him whisper.

"It's a more zoomed out shot than most so there's a lot more environment for me to analyze and pinpoint."

"Okay, thank you, I'll, uh-"

I folded and pocketed the paper. "You won't do shit. I'll take care of it, they'll be back by tonight."

He looked at me stunned.

"Just trust me on this one alright?" I said.

He nodded and walked away, letting me return to my homework.

The villains who took them were the LOV, who else, and luckily I had a separate persona for dealing with them.

I finished my homework and made my way to the base.

"Hello Copycat."

"Heyo Shigs! Quick question, I heard about some new hostages in our grasp…"

"Hm? Oh, they're all in the 4th room."

"Nice. Are we perchance trying to get any info out of them? Or…."

"Leverage."

"Ahhh, I see. Well then, you don't mind if I pay them a quick visit, do you~?"

He shook his head. "Go on in. Should I get you a drink in the meantime?"

"Just vodka! Regular amount, please and thank you~," I said, and skipped on into the interrogation room. "Hhhoooo-kay, there you 3 are."

Mina perked up instantly. "Wha- WHO ARE YOU‽" she screamed.

"Chill! Chill, I'm an agent on the inside okay? I work with the villains to benefit the heroes. Now, you three are in kind of a tight spot so we're gonna figure out how to work around this okay?"

Had it not been for the handcuffs looped around a bar I'm certain all 3 of them would be backing as far away from me as possible. I noticed a bloody knife that had been used on them was laying on a nearby countertop. Probably Toga's.

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do, first I'm checking you all for injuries." I approached slowly and checked as quickly as I could, mentally noting every laceration and wound I saw.

"Now for the fun part," I murmured to myself. I got out my lockpick set. "Once you give me your wrists, we're all in agreement that you follow my instructions until we're out, is that clear?"

"I don't think you'll have much time for that, Copycat."

I turned around. Toga. Of course.

"Oh, won't I?" I challenged, picking up her knife and lunging.

While they were all distracted and it seemed I was preoccupied with fighting Toga, I broke the handcuffs from a distance using one of my quirks. Using my birth one, I sent a telepathic message, 'you three need to run NOW, I broke the cuffs, get out of here.'

Toga seemed to notice but that's where she faltered, giving me an opening.

"You're not gonna touch those fucking kids, you understand me?"

She nodded, and somewhat afraid expression crossing her face.

I left and went to find the others, in time to take a hit for one of them from Shigaraki, whose quirk did not work on me. Not when my others were active and negating his.

"You'll have to go through me first, bitch," I said.

"Why are you even helping them‽" he demanded.

"They're my friends. And the real Copycat looks a little something like this." I removed the illusion surrounding my body.

The revelation was disorienting enough for me to kick him back and herd the others out the door.

"Welp, looks like I can't use that disguise anymore around them…" I muttered to myself leading them to a public area so we could take the transit back to campus.

"OV? Is that actually you? Or are you still that Copycat person posing as them?" Jirou asked.

"It's me alright, I was posing as her to get info. I don't have the time to explain, let's just get back to campus please," I told them.

"I'm sending you a list of all my questions and I expect some answers," Mina said playfully.

"Yeah, that's fair…Nobody tell Deku. He'd be all over me."

"You mean because you kicked ass or because of the ability to sneak into the villian's team?" Jirou joked, breaking the tension for me. I laughed, managing to relax on the train ride back.

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samtheacesheep · 7 months

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Work Description:

Melissa Chase breaks Milo Murphy, the villain, her sworn enemy, out of prison. Her view of herself and her world crumbles before her eyes.

#whumptober2023 #no.15 #‘I don’t need you to help me I can handle things myself’#suppressed suffering #‘I’m fine’#mml #fic #implied/referenced torture #minor whump #mml fairytale au #I wrote a thing

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the-great-lightwood-bane · 1 year

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unconquerable soul

Malec | Rated general | tw captivity, implied/referenced torture via sleep deprivation, gore

Day 29: Sleep Deprivation | Defiance

Summary: Captured by Valentine, Alec’s been kept awake for days on end, and the world is growing blurry. He refuses to die like this.

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

Valentine’s base is at the seaside, at the top of a cliff, a concrete structure full of cells and experimentation rooms. Two weeks ago, Alec would have killed for that knowledge.

Now, it’s useless to him, because there’s no way he’s getting out of here.

His mind is blurry, thoughts scattered and trickling around his mind like a cracked egg. The cell he’s in is empty of any visible torture devices; when he first saw it, he was relieved, hoping his captivity wouldn’t be too bad.

How wrong he was.

The cell’s equipped with lights and speakers that go on whenever Alec’s nearing sleep. For the first four days, that was enough; he couldn’t sleep with the blaring lights and sounds. But after that he nearly fell asleep despite it all, body desperately craving rest. He was immediately jerked back to wakefulness by an electric shock running through the cell.

He hasn’t slept in two weeks.

Alec isn’t sure if he knows what sleep is anymore. He doesn’t really know anything at all; the world is a confused mess of noise and light and he can’t think clearly through his blurred vision. He’s sore from the shocks he’s regularly dealt to keep him awake; every joint is a mess of pain, and he can’t ignore it long enough to rest. He doesn’t know why Valentine is doing this, if it’s meant to be some sort of experiment or if it’s just sadism or if it’s something of both. He doesn’t know when it’ll end. He wants it to end.

There’s a window in his cell, a surprisingly big one. He can look out of it and see bits of the building out of the corner of his eye, the grass in front of the building, the cliff beyond it, then the sea. He can see a vague shimmer in the air just beyond the edge of the cliff, likely where the wards around the building end — if he could get beyond that point, past it or below it, then Magnus could track him and find him and he’d be safe. There’re probably rocks at the foot of the cliff, vicious enough to impale himself on if he jumped, but he still wants to leap off that last bit of grass and fall away from all this. Whether he lived or died, at least he’d be able to rest.

Perhaps the only reason he hasn’t done so is because he hasn’t been able to escape his cell. Part of Shadowhunter training is in how to get out of imprisonment, but Valentine’s got the same lessons as Alec in escape, and he’s built a prison specifically to circumvent a Shadowhunter’s training. Alec’s constantly being watched, his door is guarded, the bars on the window don’t bend beneath Alec’s Shadowhunter strength. He’s stuck here until Valentine sees fit to take him out.

As if his thoughts have preempted reality, the door swings open and three guards step through. There’d been six to escort Alec into his cell when he first came here; now, sleep-deprived and exhausted, apparently three is deemed enough.

They take him out of his cell, for the first time in two weeks, and he feels his muscles loosen at the knowledge that there’s no longer electricity to run through his body if he sleeps. The guards force him to walk, so it’s not like he can rest properly, but it’s still better than being in that cell.

He’s brought outside of the building, to the grass lawn he could see from his window. He’s not sure which of the windows he can see from here is his; that’s a sign of his discombobulation if anything is. He should be able to orient himself better than this.

Valentine’s standing in front of him — Alec tries to make himself focus properly, despite his pulsing headache and the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. What does Valentine want?

“I’m surprised you’re still on your feet, little Lightwood,” Valentine says nonchalantly. “Most of the others died before now.”

Alec stays silent, since that doesn’t seem to require a response.

“Unfortunately,” Valentine goes on, “the attempts to find you are putting quite a bit of stress on my wards. I didn’t expect a warlock to be so tenacious.”

Alec blinks. Magnus is still looking for him — and putting enough power into it that the wards are struggling to hide this place. The news might’ve made Alec smile if he wasn’t busy worrying about what Valentine will say next.

“In short, I’m going to have to kill you so he’ll stop,” Valentine concludes with a smile. “Nothing personal, I do assure you. I would’ve liked to keep you and see how long you last without sleep, but as it is—” He shrugs, almost apologetic.

Alec had thought about jumping off the cliff, before, but faced with the reality of his death, there’s a rebellious anger rising in his chest. Anger that he hasn’t managed to do anything with his life, anger that it’s all over now. Alec’s weak, exhausted and half-starved and barely conscious, and he hasn’t got a chance at escaping. The edge of the cliff isn’t far away, but from this angle, Alec can see the rocks beneath it; there’s no chance he could survive that fall. To get around to the other side of the building, he’d have to not only break away from his well-rested guards but run faster than them, and there are more guards stationed around the building. He can’t get away.

Alec’s going to die like this.

He raises his eyes to meet Valentine’s, even as the other man sighs like he’s really disappointed to lose Alec as his science experiment.

Alec doesn’t want to die like this.

Valentine raises his sword.

Alec refuses to die like this.

As the sword swings through the air, Alec lunges forward, so abruptly that the three guards around him can’t hold him in time. He slams into Valentine and sends the two of them toppling backwards, back and back over the green grass until the grass is gone and there’s nothing beneath their feet but empty air.

They fall, spinning through the air. Valentine’s face is a frozen mask of terrified anger, and Alec feels a surge of triumph at the knowledge that his life isn’t wasted, that he’s done something, that he’s ended the life of this madman who’s intent on destroying the world. That, to whatever small extent, he’s helped Magnus.

They’re beneath the wards, he notes distantly, catching a glimpse of the apparently bare hillside above them in the dizzying swirl that is their tumbling fall.

For a moment, he wishes that he could see Magnus one last time.

The rocks are rushing up to meet them. Alec closes his eyes—

—but the impact doesn’t come.

He’s hovering in the air barely a foot above a spike of rock that would’ve impaled him if he hadn’t somehow stopped falling. Valentine’s body is shattered on the rocks beside him, limbs at impossible angles, head cracked open like an egg.

“Alec!”

Alec knows that voice, knows that he’s not supposed to hear it ever again — but then again, he’s supposed to die, and unless this is some odd afterlife, he’s still alive.

And Magnus is standing right there, eyes wide, a portal closing behind him, magic streaming from his fingers and curling around Alec to hold him up.

“Magnus,” Alec says, and then he’s on the same bit of flat ground as Magnus, his feet touching the ground, Magnus’ arms closing around him. This is — he doesn’t know what to do with this, with the realisation that he’s still alive, that he’s been saved. The world is all fuzzy thanks to his lack of sleep. He holds Magnus close.

“Alexander,” Magnus whispers, brushing Alec’s hair from his face. “When I stepped through and saw you falling—” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“Magnus,” Alec says again, savouring the word on his tongue. “You saved me.”

“I love you,” Magnus replies, smiling tremulously.

“I love you too,” Alec tells him, although his eyelids are feeling heavy. He can’t fall asleep yet, though. “Valentine’s base,” he manages. “It’s — above. At the top of the cliff. Warded.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Magnus says soothingly, stroking his fingers through Alec’s hair again. Alec sees him cataloguing Alec’s features, searching for any sign of harm done — sees his eyes catch on the bags that are surely dark under Alec’s eyes, the likely paleness of his face. “Oh, my love. What have they done to you?”

“Wouldn’t let me sleep,” Alec mumbles, clinging to wakefulness by the very tips of his fingers. “Haven’t — haven’t slept since they took me…”

Magnus’ sharp inhale seems like it’s coming from far away. “Alexander.”

They’re no longer crouching at the base of the cliff, but lying on their familiar bed. A portal, Alec’s mind supplies belatedly, though he hadn’t felt it pass over him. He hums, relaxing into the quiet peace of the loft, into Magnus’ warmth.

He falls asleep safe in Magnus’ arms.

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ferdvonvestra · 1 year

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If You Marry Me, Would You Bury Me? Would You Carry Me? (To The End?)

🌸 Read on AO3 🌸

Tags: M/M

Fandom: 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game)

Relationships:Tartaglia | Childe/Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Tartaglia | Childe & Zhongli (Genshin Impact)

Characters:, Tartaglia | Childe (Genshin Impact), Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Baizhu (Genshin Impact), Qiqi (Genshin Impact), Il Dottore (Genshin Impact)

Zhongli/Tartaglia, Alternative Universe- Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, h/c, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, alternative universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, implied/referenced zhongli and baizhu are exes, they're still on good terms though, someone give Tartaglia a hug, Depressed Tartaglia | Childe (Genshin Impact), Mental Health Issues, zhongli and Tartaglia are engaged, Il Dottore is probably ooc, I don't really know anything about him, Apologies, Northland Bank (Genshin Impact), Mentioned Ningguang (Genshin Impact), Possessive Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Title from a My Chemical Romance Song, Song: To The End (My Chemical Romance), Comfort/Angst, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Swearing

Zhongli’s coupe snaked through the parking lot at the Northland Bank. Winding through the various parked cars and valet staff spotted across the asphalt, the anxiety that had been coiling in the pit of his stomach grew tighter. Each car that he passed was distinctly not the eleventh harbinger’s powder-blue convertible.

Zhongli banished the thought. Childe said he was here, so he was here. It didn’t do either of them any good to have Zhongli skulking through the parking lot, and probably drawing attention from the bank’s expansive security detail.

Looping back to the main driveway, he pulled up to the valet station and stepped out of the champagne coupe, quickly exchanging the key for a ticketed placeholder, and walked up the short stairs to the main door.

— — —

“I have some news you won’t like” Ajax mumbled against Zhongli’s cheek, pressing an apologetic kiss to his temple.

Zhongli gave a hum of disapproval, languidly stretching and shifting on the mattress, pulling Ajax tighter against his shoulder.

“I’m going to be gone for the next few days, work stuff. I’d wiggle out of it if I could, but it looks like they actually need me.”

“Where are you going?” Zhongli whispered, half asleep.

“I’m staying local, actually.”

Zhongli’s gaze met Ajax’s, a budding confusion showing in his expression.

“What do you mean?”

“I have an assignment at the Northland branch here in Liyue, but they’re having some higher-ups come in, and it’s going to be nothing but politics and policies for a few days. Between keeping up with my with my actual work and the sheer amount of political jockeying I have to do, Ekaterina said to just plan on passing out on one of the couches in the back every couple days.”

“They torture you” Zhongli huffed, closing his eyes and snuggling even closer into Ajax’s side.

Ajax’s expression iced over, guilt stabbing through his chest. He already hated lying to Zhongli, but the poetic irony of his lover’s declaration almost made it feel worse somehow.

———

“I’m here to see Tartaglia”

“Name?”

“Zhongli”

“I’m sorry, he doesn’t have any public appointments scheduled today, are you sure you’re here to see the harbinger?”

“I don’t have an appointment “ Zhongli replied, “it’s urgent and I couldn’t get ahold of his direct office.”

“I’m sorry, but unfortunately I won’t be able to schedule you for a walk-in meeting today. If you’d like I can set an appointment later this week-“

“I’m his fiancé” Zhongli interrupted “it’s a family emergency. I need to see him.”

“…I, one moment.”

Zhongli fidgeted with his engagement ring as the receptionist dialed an extension and waited for the line to pick up.

“Hello? Yes, I have a visitor for Tartaglia. Yes I- I understand however I have an unusual situation-Sir, what would you like me to do about- one moment.”

The receptionist held out the telephone to Zhongli with an apologetic smile.

The building worry threatened to suffocate him as he took it.

“Childe?”

“Hi sweetheart-“ by Celestia, he sounded tired, “what’s up?”

“You’re okay” Zhongli sighed with relief, Even though he’d tried not to think about it, he knew how dangerous Childe’s career was, and he had been fearing the worst.

“Yeah, I’m okay” he chuckled, “I’m at work, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was just… worried. You haven’t answered my calls in a couple days and I was worried-“

“-shit, I’m so sorry!” Childe interjected, “fuck, I left my phone at my desk and I honestly haven’t been back to check it, by the Archons, I must’ve worried you sick-“

“It’s okay” Zhongli insisted, “You’re okay and that’s all the matters. You are doing alright, my love? You’ve never stayed this long at Northland, I’m concerned.”

“I’m fine, really “ Childe replied “a little more tired than usual, I’ve been going pretty much non-stop the past… what has it been now, four days? I lose track of time in here.”

“Where are you, Childe? I thought you said this was all meetings.”

The dull buzz of the telephone hung in the air.

“I.. I’m here at Northland, truly Zhongli, I know you’re worried but I’m just working away from my office.”

“Your car isn’t here” Zhongli replied.

Childe was faster to cover the second time “Ekaterina must be out, she sometimes takes the car to run work errands or pick up lunch-“

“Can I see you?” Zhongli pleaded “Just for a minute or two, I won’t keep you long, I just- I need to know you’re okay.”

Another pause.

“I… one second-“ Zhongli heard the soft thump of Childe’s palm covering the other end of the call and his muffled voice. He couldn’t make out what Childe was actually saying, just the timbre of his voice. He didn’t recognize the muffled reply Childe got, but his heart sunk at the agitated tone.

Zhongli heard more thumping as Childe adjusted the phone again,

“I’m sorry I worried you, of course it’s okay for you to see me, would you give the phone back to the receptionist? I’ll let her know it’s okay and someone will take you back- I’ll see you in a minute, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too” Zhongli barely registered handing the phone back to the receptionist, or the short conversation she had with Childe before hanging up. It was all he could do just to still his heart and not bolt through every hallway until he found Childe himself.

— — —

“You know, despite your incessant whining, taking a break isn’t going to make this any easier. In fact, it’ll actually most likely delay my research, we’ll probably have to reset at least the last hour’s worth of endurance testing-“

“What the fuck else was I supposed to tell him, Dottore?” Childe snapped back, “thanks to you I’ve been gone nearly a fucking week, and if you would’ve given me, I don’t know, maybe two minutes to check my phone in the past forty-eight hours, we wouldn’t even be fucking dealing with this-“

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better, it’s not improving my research”

“Shove your research up your ass- and clean this shit up,” Childe gestured wildly to the blood-covered blades, blunt weapons, syringes, and various research equipment that was scattered about the room, “you think a phone call is bad? I don’t think even you want to know what’ll happen if he sees all this.”

Dottore stared back at Childe with what could only be described as a malevolent smile as Childe wobbled to his feet and limped out the door.

How in Teyvat was he going to fix this, he thought. Catching his murky reflection in the metallic hallway wall, he could see the maroon and purple gashes and bruises that mottled nearly every inch of exposed skin.

Wincing as he made his way down the hall and into his office, he prayed that he at least beat Zhongli and the receptionist to the room. He needed every available second to try and come up with some rational explanation as to why he looked half-dead.

Panicking, he quickly pulled a spare coat from a nearby closet and shrugged it on, hoping to cover as much of the damage as possible. He tugged at his pant legs to try and cover his bruised, broken ankles, and quickly summoned a small orb of hydro energy to try and scrub as much blood as he could from his face.

He barely had time to lean against his desk and feign relaxation before a very worried Zhongli was ushered through the door.

“Hi Xiangsheng-“ Childe was instantly silenced as Zhongli flung his arms around his neck. It took everything in him to not scream out in pain from the agitation to his various injuries, locking his jaw tightly and burying his face in the crook of Zhongli’s neck to hide the fact that his eyes were watering against his will.

“What’s going on?” Zhongli pulled back, gingerly resting his hand on Childe’s shoulder and absentmindedly toying with the end of his hair.

“It’s work” Childe soothed, willing his jaw to relax and forcing a weak smile “you know how it is.”

Zhongli’s eyes flickered to the top of Childe’s head,

“You’re bleeding-“

Pushing his hair off of his forehead and thumbing over his scalp, Zhongli frowned at the blood picked up by his fingertips.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” Zhongli begged, “You look exhausted, for some reason you’re wearing a coat in the middle of spring in Liyue, you haven’t talked to me in four days, you seem like you’re avoiding something, you’re clearly injured with no obvious cause, please- just, let me in…”

Zhongli cradled Childe’s face in his hand, his troubled expression softening as Childe leaned into his hand,

“I want to be there for you” Zhongli murmured, “even if there’s nothing I can do to help, I’m worried, please.”

Childe sighed as he hung his head forward, his temple leaning against Zhongli’s collarbone,

“Alright… I wasn’t lying when I said I’m stuck in meetings, that was at least the first day. There’s this… researcher- well, he’s really a doctor but that’s not the point-“

“A doctor?” Zhongli asked

“I think, that’s what he calls himself anyway- besides the point, he’s here for research, and… research with, me, specifically.”

“…Elaborate”

“The Tsaritsa, the other harbingers, basically everyone in her majesty’s service know about my… qualities, let’s say, from my time in The Abyss. But, beyond a surface level understanding and examples from my time in battle, nobody really knows the extent of what I can do, not even myself, to be frank, so there’s a doctor, here, on the Tsaritsa’s orders, researching my particular case. It’s happened a few times before, the past few days has been… endurance testing”

“Endurance…?”

Childe sighed, “it’d…. It’d be easier if I just showed you, I don’t want to get into the details, just… promise you wont freak out, okay?”

Slowly, Childe pulled away from Zhongli, rolling his shoulders with a small wince, he carefully shrugged off the hastily-grabbed coat, letting it pool at his feet as he unfastened his uniform top.

“…Ajax”

Childe flinched, avoiding Zhongli’s eyes,

“Really, it looks worse than it is-you and I both know I have above-average stamina, this was just… seeing how far it would go.”

“Ajax, look at me.”

Childe met Zhongli’s gaze with guilt tearing at his core, quickly morphing into genuine fear as he saw the barely restrained rage in Zhongli’s expression.

“What exactly was the goal here? I’ve seen corpses that were in better shape than you right now. Was the plan to just torture you to death? Let enough blades slice into you until you succumbed to blood loss? Beat you unconscious to see how many times you could take it before you didn’t wake up?”

“I have a duty to the Tsaritsa-“

“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come here?”

…Childe didn’t have an honest answer to give him.

Zhongli slung one arm under Childe’s shoulder and tilted to carry most of his weight,

“We’re leaving-“

“I’m still not done with the research-“

“Drop it.”

Childe shuddered at the burning rage laced through Zhongli’s latest statement. He was quite afraid of Dottore, and even more afraid of what the Tsaritsa would do when she found out he disobeyed a direct order, but both paled in comparison to the sheer terror he felt at hearing that in Zhongli’s voice

— — —

“Qiqi, forceps, please”

“Forceps”

Childe hissed in pain as the shrapnel buried in his ribs was wiggled around and out of his flesh. Slowly, every bit of embedded weaponry was meticulously outlined and fished out of his skin. It’d been at least an hour and a half and he still wasn’t done.

That wasn’t even considering all the other categories of injury still to be addressed.

Zhongli’s hand ghosted gently over Childe’s, rubbing small circles into the iron-tight grip his knuckles had on the bed railing.

“Thank you again, Baizhu.” Zhongli said, “truly, I’m beyond words.”

“My pleasure” Baizhu replied “I must say, I’m fascinated that you’ve not only managed to not succumb to your injuries, but also still somehow stay conscious. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be interested in researching-“

“Absolutely not” Zhongli said coldly. Seeing the surprised look from both Childe and Baizhu, he sighed

“I apologize, I mean no disrespect, that simply is not a possibility.”

“It’s no matter” Baizhu said breezily, seemingly ignoring the suppressed whine from his patient as he pulled a particularly tight suture “I’ve already made quite a few discoveries just in this work so far.”

“Lovely” Childe hissed through gritted teeth, earning a sharp frown from Zhongli.

“I should warn you” Baizhu continued, “While I have no problem respecting your privacy, I am required by oath to report this to the Qixing; the amount of damage I’ve assessed is clearly criminal assault.”

“Consider it done” Zhongli replied “I will be discussing this with the Tianquan Ningguang myself.”

“Xiangsheng-“

“This is not up for debate.”

“Can you just-“ Childe groaned as he sat up a few centimeters, earning a firm push to the shoulder from both Baizhu and Zhongli “think about this for a second?”

“It has already been decided.”

“For just a moment” Childe said, “think about the political implications of that; for one minute, honestly.”

“What part of criminal assault are you not understanding-“

“So the Qixing get involved, yeah?” Childe retorted “even if they make a private investigation, word will get out that Liyue is making a direct accusation against the Tsaritsa; at least the leaders in Mondstat will find out, if not the general public of Teyvat.”

Childe sighed, head pressed against the pillow and massaging his temple,

“Think about how anyone in the Schneznayan service is going to react to that. Both countries have sacrificed too much- you have sacrificed too much for an active conflict to start over me fulfilling my duty-“

“-I need to step out for a moment” Baizhu interrupted, “Qiqi, please fetch three rolls of gauze from the store room.”

“Gauze.” Qiqi repeated softly as she walked around the foot of the bed and out the door, her lilac braid trailing lazily behind her. Baizhu’s footsteps echoing across the tile behind her faded into a suffocating silence.

“…My love-”

“Don’t-“ Childe interrupted, “please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Zhongli inched his chair closer to the bedside, watching as Childe screwed his eyes shut, angrily swiping his knuckles across his tear-stained cheeks.

Archons, he was in so much pain.

“My love…” Zhongli carded his hand through Childe’s damp hair, “What you have gone through, is completely beyond your duty to the Tsaritsa. While your loyalty is undeniably admirable, you don’t have to do this-“

“-I owe her my life-“

“I am owed your life as well-“ Zhongli argued.

Childe blinked back in surprise, confusion written across his face.

“I made a promise to share the rest of my life with you,” Zhongli’s free hand coming to Childe’s cheek, “share, Ajax, not sit idly as you risk your life again and again-“

“-you know me” Childe interrupted, his voice tight with unshed tears, “you know who I am, you know what I am… You know how this is going to end, how I’m going to end-“

“Stop” Zhongli interrupted “I will not hear a word of this. You deserve kindness, Ajax. You deserve a chance to live a normal life-“

“Nothing about this is normal” Childe murmured, “nothing about me is normal. My entire life has been one freak string of luck and if you’re looking for normal then I’m sorry but you picked the wrong person-“

Zhongli’s gaze was drawn to Childe’s hands, knotted in the white sheets, he watched as Childe fidgeted with his engagement ring, the ring sliding further and further down his finger as his shaking hands seemingly fought with his own mind about what he was even doing.

“Shh” Zhongli reached and took Childe’s left hand, gently flattening his palm and sliding Childe’s engagement ring back to its rightful place, “Baobei, look at me.”

Childe’s cobalt eyes, glassy and rimmed red with tears, met Zhongli’s steady, tawny gaze.

“I made a promise,” Zhongli said “to you, to myself, to Celestia itself, that you are who I am going to spend this life with. You, Baobei, wholly and utterly you, not the version of yourself that never went through your hardships that lives in your own mind.”

Childe hiccuped, fresh tears tracking down his face as his grip on Zhongli’s hand tightened.

“You are resilient, my love, not damaged, or broken. You have lived through things no one deserves to endure, that others could not endure, and yet you found your way to me.”

Zhongli pressed a soft kiss to Childe’s temple, feeling his beloved tremble slightly beneath his lips as the harbinger fought to breathe between shuddering, tearful breaths.

“I’m not going anywhere” Zhongli murmured against Childe’s skin, “I promise.”

Childe cried out as he threw his arms around Zhongli’s shoulders, burying his face in Zhongli’s neck and sobbing in earnest now. Zhongli held him steady, murmuring quiet nothings in Childe’s hair and wrapping both arms around his waist.

—

Zhongli had made peace with the fact that he could not go back and change the past. Archon that is was, it was a gift he still did not possess. Godhood, he found, was not ultimate power.

The future, however, he had decided, was his to mold as he wished. His ego had calmed with time, shifting from the War God Morax to Rex Lapis, the God of Contracts, before finally becoming Zhongli; the closest he had ever come to one of his mortal subjects. He had little want to transform the very earth and people upon it these days as he had in his youth.

Little, but not none.

As Childe clung, trembling, to his body across the cold metal of the hospital bed, Zhongli made another vow.

The “doctor”, would pay for what he did. The Tsaritsa herself would pay for her orders, and Zhongli would see it through as he lived his chosen life:

with his beloved at his side.

🌸

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I will admit, this one has been sitting in the drafts for a while lol. I wasn't quite sure where I wanted to go with it at first and I wanted to publish it after it was completed, rather than updating in segments. Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and if you're interested in seeing my other work, please check out my author page here on ao3 or any of my other platforms through my carrd! [https://ferdvonvestra.carrd.co]

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