#wrestling whump

[likeit-or-whumpit]

Jeff Hardy prepares to fight.

#Jeff Hardy #The Hardy Boyz #wwe gif #wwe edit #wrestling gif #wrestling #prowrestling #wwe whump #wrestling whump #wrestling blog

[winged-time-criminal]

The juxtaposition of Eddie and Mox's post-match hug, and Max and Adam's villain/heel backstabbing reveal is making my head spin

#and its vibrating my braincells at a frenzied pace #aew worlds end #aew #worlds end 2023 #wrestling storytelling #moxeddie #eddie kingston #king of sass #jon moxley #my sweet cincy baby #mjf #maxwell jacob friedman #smug scarf bastard #adam cole bay bay #wrestling whump

[deepdisireslonging]

Surrender

Pairing: Ricky Starks x Reader

Warnings/Promises: Angst, canon-level violence

Word Count: 850

Note: Doing a bit of a character study for a larger work thats about to come out. In the words of the Dread Pirate Roberts: "To the Pain" ->

The roar of the crowd echoed in your head like a pack of wolves baying for blood. Just feet from you, caged in by ring ropes and across a desert of canvas, the love of your life battled for you.

Already you could see the bruises forming on his skin. The bright welt across his chest from the slaps. The dark gelatinous forms around his ribs from punches and kicks. But what worried you the most was how Joe’s elbows were hungry to catch Ricky’s throat. If he did that, it would end the match.

Every so often, Joe glanced your way. The match progressed, and Ricky’s offense moved slower and slower. And Joe’s face slid with ease into a smug grin as the end glared inevitable.

“I need to ask you something.” You twisted the traitorous cloth around your fingers. Small enough to hide from Ricky on your way down to the match. Large enough to weigh like a boulder of guilt in your pocket. You swallowed as Britt waited for you to continue. “What do you do? When Adam is going to far; when you both know he won’t return to you in one piece?”

She tasted several answers on her tongue before answering. “You be there for him. Stand there. Watch the pain, feel it burn in your lungs. And you give it back to him as a strength that will motivate him either to the finish or the end. But my experiences… they’re not like what you’re going to have to endure. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“That’s alright. Thank you.”

The ring shook as Ricky bounced off the ropes, hurtling towards his target. His eyes gleamed with focus and determination. Despite what advice Britt had given you, the cheers and praise you wanted to give him died on your lips. Mostly you could manage a smile when he looked your way. One that he would return. And then shift back to the matter at hand.

Still, your lungs quaked.

If he won: he was number one contender. If he tapped out: Joe was number one contender. And you would work for him instead. No pinfall. No count-outs. No disqualifications. Submission only.

You knew him. His match with Danielson was before you joined the roster as Ricky’s valet. And before the feelings developed. You hated how you longed for his touch after matches now. Wanting to feel and know that he was okay like you had never needed before. Ricky wouldn’t tap. He had passed out instead of tapping to Danielson’s brutal victory. The recovery period had, apparently, been more brutal than what the cameras revealed.

Would you be able to survive them with him?

Would the potential championship be worth it?

Then, your nightmare came to fruition.

Joe’s grip caught Ricky’s wrist. With a quick tug, your love was in his arms. Joe turned so you could see his face contort, so you could see him gasp for air. And behind him, like a grinning gargoyle ready to spill a waterfall of brimstone on your dreams, Joe watched you. He waited. Listened. Patiently paused his malice to see what you would do.

“Here.” Joe drifted out of the shadows and handed you a small square of white. “He’s going to need it.”

The fabric seemed to burn your hands. But Joe refused to take it back.

“We both know him. You better than most. He won’t tap. To keep you near he’d rather hold hot coals than let me borrow you.” He stepped near, trapping you against the wall. “I won’t need you long. I promise. Once the title’s mine, you can go back to him. But he’s in my way of getting my title back. If he wants to have a bit of a rematch after I hold gold, he’s welcome to it. Until then,” he nodded at the cloth, “think about it. And what’s best for him.”

Biting your bottom lip, you dragged the surrender out of your pocket.

Ricky’s eyes, already drooping shut from wont of oxygen, widened. He did his best to shake his head. Holding out his hand, he rasped, “reach for me.”

Your hand slid between the ropes. Though your fingertips would never be able to touch, maybe your closer proximity could help him find a way out?

The grip tightened around his throat, and Joe fell to one side. His leg pinned down Ricky’s flailing limbs.

You watched the glow fade from his eyes. His gaze, glazed and empty, never moved from where he knew you to be. But his lips were already taking on a purple hue.

Joe nodded at the square in your hands.

Against your will, it dragged your hand up to the bottom rope, draping the white fabric where everyone could see it.

“No! Y/N, I’ll-” Ricky coughed, forcing a smidgen of oxygen into his lungs. “I’ll be alright. Don’t.”

Without sound, you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Y/N!”

Before you could think about it, your knees bit into the apron and you caught the attention of the referee. Eyes brimming with tears, you tossed in the towel, ending the match.

#ricky starks imagine #ricky starks x reader #ricky starks angst #reader insert #valet!reader #samoa joe #aew x reader #aew fanfiction #wrestling whump

[kayfabeintights]

Hi all, I am thinking of moving all this content accross to my main blog (and removing this one):

I will be changing the name of my main soon, to something more wrestling related also.

Just a heads up 🙂

- Elle 💕

#wwe #wrestling blog #wwegif #wwe whump #wwe edit #wrestling whump

[peachy-panic]

This Could Be The Moment

This is it. The chapter I’ve been fist-fighting for weeks. This was one of those moments that was in my brain since the original conception of Do No Harm, so naturally there’s a lot of internal pressure to get it right. I hope I’ve done it some justice for y’all.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, ongoing sleep deprivation, nightmares, PTSD, the most fucked up of headspaces, whumpee fearing caretaker, noncon kissing, nudity, two survivors of trauma navigating some messy, messy waters

Jaime wakes in a cold sweat.

His first instinct is, as always, to look toward the bedroom door. Where moments ago there was a vivid silhouette against a backlit hallway, lurching toward his bed, there is now only a closed door. The house beyond it is still and silent, and Jaime is alone. As always, the only looming monster in the vicinity is his own imagination.

He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. It’s routine by now, but even after so much repetition, the physical toll never seems to lessen. The bed sheets beneath him are soaked through, his hair matted to his forehead in clumps. Jaime sits up, peeling the soiled nightshirt from his body and tossing it into the laundry basket. 

He rolls out of bed, knowing there is no point in trying to steal a few more hours. Some nights, he gets lucky enough that the exhaustion wins out over the lingering anxiety and knocks him out. But most nights, his only solace is a hot shower while he waits for the sheets to dry. It doesn’t do much to quash the crawling sensation under his skin, but it’s a few less minutes spent tossing on a mattress and watching the slow approach of daylight through the curtain.

Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, he drags himself silently to the bathroom. He cranks the faucet to the hottest setting and forces his body under the flames.

As the water runs through his hair and scorches lines down his back, Jaime finds himself swaying. Crumbling. He doesn’t cry easily these days, but he feels the burn of frustration building behind his eyes. How long can he sustain this? How long can he wait out what feels like the inevitable?

It feels so much like those first few terrifying weeks at the training facility, where sleep was a commodity earned through acts of submission. The deprivation was torture then, and it’s torture now. This house is nothing like the cold, cement walls of that prison, and Sebastian is nothing like Handler Smith, but the fear is the same. He can’t seem to separate the feelings in his head.

At least in the facility, and even with the Keepers from his past, Jaime had learned what to expect. And he never had to wait long to find out for sure.

In the daylight, things with Sebastian have begun to crawl, slowly, toward a better place. The two of them have found routine in the small things: morning runs around the neighborhood, cooking sessions in the evenings, movie binging on the weekends. It is, objectively, the best living situation Jaime has had in years, and beyond what he could hope to have again. He recognizes this as fact. But Jaime can’t control his subconscious mind. He can’t help what comes at night.

The nightmares about Sebastian—about Sebastian touching him, hurting him—haven’t stopped. They haven’t even slowed down. If anything they’ve increased, and a vicious cycle has ramped into a hurricane: the more nightmares he has, the less sleep he gets, and the more difficult it becomes to discern reality from fiction. The nightmares get worse. The sleep becomes more sparse.

Even after a good day, Sebastian (or the shadowed version of him that exists in Jaime’s worst fears) finds him in sleep. The warm eyes that Jaime has come to recognize in the light get replaced by a cold leer, the gentle touches turned rough and demanding. The ghosts of those memories follow him into the daytime, whispering in his ear that everything Jaime so desperately wants to believe is a lie.

It’s the anticipation that suffocates him. The not knowing, but the suspecting. The when, not the if. Even when Sebastian has done everything he can to make Jaime feel safe, the guess work that goes into trying to brace for the moment when the rug gets ripped out from under him bleeds him dry of all his energy. No one has ever signed his contract with pure intentions. All kindness comes at a price.

Every day, Jaime stares at the black and white “rules” posted on the refrigerator door, listing out a dozen iterations of promises not to hurt him. Every day he watches Sebastian from the corner of his eye—when they’re in the kitchen, on the couch, in the car—and wonders if this will be the moment it happens. The moment he finally reaches out, lets his skin make contact, lets his hand linger the way it always begins in his nightmares. Jaime knows, sure as anything, that he won’t fight him when it happens. Even if his position as a Companion allowed him the space for resistance, Sebastian has been so good to him. And Jaime has done more for less deserving men.

This is the thought that plants the seed of an idea—one Jaime has never entertained. He has never been the one to initiate sex, and he wonders: if it’s going to happen anyway, would it be better under the illusion that the choice is his? He doesn’t know how he would go about it, if he ever gathered the courage to try. The thought floods him with nausea that he can’t seem to shake, but so does the waiting. Sometimes he just wonders if it would be easier to get the first time over with.

Then, at least, he will know.

He takes as much time in the shower as he can allow himself, but eventually the thought of wasting water forces him to shut off the faucet too early. He shivers in the sudden absence of the spray, but he doesn’t think it has much to do with the temperature. In a daze, he wraps himself up in one of the soft towels that Sebastian bought specifically for him. He makes his way back toward his room, but a light from the end of the hallway freezes him in place.

Sebastian is awake.

He doesn’t know what compels him to walk toward the living room, but he feels his legs moving beneath him, operating several steps ahead of his mind. He sees Sebastian before Sebastian sees him. He is on the couch, hunkered over the computer that rests on his crossed legs, and Jaime’s heart begins to race, because there it is again: that small voice in the darkest corner of his mind whispering, This could be the moment. Something has to give.

He tries to fight against it, to swallow it down, because he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to do this. He could turn and pad back to the relative safety of the bedroom that Sebastian has never once entered without Jaime’s explicit permission and sweat it out until daybreak like always. But then Sebastian looks up, noticing him for the first time, and the voice in Jaime’s head gets louder and louder.

This could be the moment.

“Oh. Hey there.” Sebastian smiles at him.

Something has to give.

Jaime’s fingers tighten briefly around the towel at his waist, and before he can process his next move, the idea crystallizes into a plan.

****

Sebastian scrubs the heels of his palms over his eyes, but it only seems to dry them out further. He’s been staring at his computer screen for the better part of the last two hours, and that’s on top of the work day behind him. Not that he’s complaining. The work he’s doing now is entirely voluntary, and he doesn’t regret taking it on for a second.

Aria had helped set him up. It involved a secure VPN, some protective softwares that, ironically, look like they might infect his laptop with a virus at any given moment, and a long vetting process; though Sebastian suspects it might have been a little more rigorous if their need wasn’t so urgent.

There are less than fifty doctors and registered nurses in the database who take on Companion cases across the US, and now Sebastian is one of them. It’s a fairly new system, and thankfully a growing one, slow as it might be. Mostly, the cases are a matter of remote visits: giving medical advice, diagnosing where they can, and—at the discretion of each provider—writing prescriptions. Always in the name of the unmarked person helping them. By design, it’s nearly impossible for a Companion to seek assistance or gain any amount of freedom without depending on someone on the outside.

He was surprised to find out that there were others like him; people who have purchased a contract with the intention of helping someone for as long as they can. There are others—fewer, rarer—who are like Ezra. People who have somehow broken free of the system altogether and exist under the radar. The details of those cases are always lock-and-key. Sebastian doesn’t ask, and no one seems eager to tell. Probably safer for everyone that way.

Sebastian’s patients tonight have been fairly simple ones. He was able to provide antibiotics to a young woman with an ongoing infection, sleeping pills to a man with debilitating sleep anxiety, and advice to someone else on managing their chronic pain. For the first time since graduating with his medical degree, Sebastian feels useful.

And still, it never feels like enough.

When he pulls his hands away from his face, he nearly launches out of his skin. Jaime is standing in the mouth of the hallway, hair dripping and wrapped in a towel. Sebastian hadn’t even heard the shower running through the music in his headphones.

He settles himself with a hand over his heart and smiles up at him. “Oh. Hey there.” He starts to take his earbuds out, but he is interrupted by the world abruptly shifting on its axis.

It takes a few seconds after the towel hits the floor to process what happened. What is actively happening. And then he still doesn’t understand.

Because what. The fuck.

Jaime is standing—naked—in his living room, still as a statue, with a towel pooled at his feet. Sebastian is fairly certain Jaime isn’t even aware of the silent tears tracking down his cheeks.

Calling upon every conceivable ounce of composure he can muster, he removes his headphones the rest of the way and sits forward, setting his open laptop on the coffee table. He unfolds his legs and stands, each movement pronounced and broadcast.

“Hey.” His own voice sounds far away, and far more calm than he feels. He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on Jaime’s, refusing to dip away for even a second. “Let’s just… Why don’t we just talk? Okay? Let’s… here.” Acting on the instinct to cover him up, Sebastian reaches for the zipper on his hoodie.

Across the room, Jaime’s breath hitches. His eyes pinch shut for just a second, fists clenching at his sides.

“Hey. No, no, it’s okay. I’m—” Sebastian pulls the zipper down as quickly as he can, only jamming it twice on the cloth. As soon as it’s free, he extends his arm, not daring to take a step closer, and shakes it in his direction. “It’s for you.”

But Jaime doesn’t move to take it. His pale chest heaves with breaths that are coming too fast and too short, and the glassy look in his eyes tells him that Jaime might not be all the way with him. He needs to tread lightly.

Sebastian takes a cautious step forward. “Jaime?” His eyes snap to him, wide and wet. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” When he’s within arm’s reach, Sebastian holds his sweatshirt out again, and Jaime’s gaze falls to it for a moment, before flashing back to him. He still doesn’t take it.

Sebastian is about to reiterate his assurance that Jaime is okay, that he is safe and that he is not in trouble, but before he can speak—

Jaime—

He—

Jaime’s mouth is on his.

Their lips only touch for half a second before Sebastian jerks back, but the brief contact sends a shockwave of horror through his body. It’s so much happening at once: the heat of naked skin through his clothes, wet hair dripping onto his chest, the tremble in the arms draped around his neck, but Sebastian can’t afford to panic right now. They can’t both be falling apart at once.

With all the deliberate gentleness he can manage, he reaches up and wraps his hands around Jaime’s wrists, pulling his arms from around him. They stand painfully still for several long seconds, Jaime’s arms suspended between them. The whites of his eyes jump as he searches Sebastian’s expression, utter terror written all over his own. Slowly, Sebastian lowers his grip, releasing Jaime’s hands at his sides.

“No,” the word stutters out of him. “Jaime, I… No.” He needs to find the words to elaborate, to tell him he’s not in trouble and that Sebastian’s rejection isn’t meant as a chastisement, but before he can formulate them, Jaime sinks to his knees, and a fresh pit opens in Sebastian’s chest.

“Please,” Jaime says—the first he has spoken since coming into the living room. Fresh tears leak from his eyes. “Whatever you want to do, I… it’s fine. We can do it. I… I want to.”

Unable to tolerate towering over him right now, Sebastian sinks down to one knee, then the other. Carefully, he takes the sweatshirt in his hand and drapes it over Jaime’s shoulders. “Jaime,” he says finally, “you’re crying.”

In a desperate, childlike gesture, Jaime swipes at the tears running down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t have to be sorry. But it’s very clear to me that you don’t want this.”

“I can,” Jaime insists, fixing his wide, brown eyes on him. “I can learn to want it. With you. Please, just tell me what you want.”

“I…” Sebastian’s mind is speeding past him in circles, unable to land on a singular thought except the resounding question of How the fuck did we get here?  Because genuinely, Sebastian had thought things were getting better. He thought things were, if not ideal, at least okay. But this… This is the furthest thing from okay.

“Did I…?” Sebastian clears his throat and starts again. “Can you tell me—did I do something? To make you think that I wanted this?”

He remembers the stilted half-conversations they had once upon a time. In the clinic, when Jaime was brought in for testing after each contract. Sebastian knows what happened to him with past Keepers. His tests may have come back negative, but Jaime had confirmed in the only way he could that he had been sexually abused. He had hoped that Jaime knew he never had to fear that from him. He realizes now how selfish that assumption was.

Jaime’s gaze breaks away momentarily. “No, but I…”

“What?” he prompts gently. “If I did something, I want to know. I’m not going to be upset with you. I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The inquisition seems to press him further into himself. He curls over, retracting into a ball before he can reach out. The notches on his spine protrude through the shirt in a trembling arch. His fingers are twisted through his hair, pulling so tightly at his roots that Sebastian has to restrain himself from tugging his hands away. Then the noise. At first it sounds like he’s choking; a desperate, clunky gasp for air where there is none. And then the sobs erupt, almost completely silent but heavy enough that his entire body convulses with the force.

And Sebastian is absolutely fucked. His heart is thumping against his ribcage like it wants to escape, his fingertips have gone numb, and the spot where their lips had briefly touched buzzes with the intensity of a fresh wound. But he can’t fall apart right now. After a moment of hesitation, Sebastian places a palm over one shoulder blade, and when he is not shaken off, he begins to rub a slow, steady circle.

“Jaime,” he tries as soon as he is sure his voice will withstand it. “I don’t know what’s happening right now. I don’t… I don’t know what to say to you to make you feel okay, but you are safe. I can promise you that. I am not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you while I am here.”

It goes on for as long as it takes Jaime’s body to exhaust itself to silence. Over the next several minutes, the sobs whither to raspy pulls for breath, and then eventually soft sniffling. Sebastian doesn’t remove his hand. When he has gone nearly silent, Sebastian makes a decision.

“Can you sit up?” he asks softly. “Please? Can you just… look at me for a minute?”

Jaime obeys the request a little too quickly. When their eyes meet, Sebastian takes a deep breath, willing his own tears to stay where they are.

“I want to talk about this,” he says. “We absolutely should talk about this. But before we do anything else… Do you maybe want to put some clothes on? We can just… we can take a minute.” God knows he could use one himself. “If you want to keep talking after that, I’ll put some coffee on and we’ll stay up and talk, for as long as you want. If you would rather go to sleep, that’s okay too. I’ll still be here for you in the morning. It’s your call. Sound okay?”

Jaime hesitates, then nods.

“Okay.” Sebastian picks up the towel between their knees and extends it to him, already turning away. Once Jaime takes it, Sebastian shuffles around awkwardly on his knees until his back is to him. “I’ll wait out here. I won’t look. Just… take your time.”

Sebastian listens to the brief silence of his hesitation, then the quiet rustle of cloth and clicking of joints behind him. He counts the soft pad of footsteps retreating down the bedroom hallway and waits for the door to latch shut before he breaks. He pulls his knees out from under him and puts his head between them, taking slow, even breaths.

Slowly, his heartbeat recedes to a sustainable pace, but his mind buzzes with the prospect of the conversation ahead of him, and his lips still burn from a kiss that never should have happened.

***

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#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #whump #whumplr #whump writing #bbu #like bbu adjacent? #this is the very chapter that inspired my now famous writing advice list #you know the one #i think i've finally wrestled it into submission tho #maybe #anyway hope you enjoy

[how-much-for-a-whump]

Güzel Köylü 6. Bölüm

#güzel köylü #berk cankat #turkish #turkish series #whump #male whump #arm wrestling #dizzy #passing out #unconcious #waking up

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — unwanted rescue #34

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: intimate whumper, conditioned whumpee, whumpee referred to as “kid” but they’re an adult, implied dub-con (not explicit), manhandling, handcuffs, stockholm syndrome

“Steven.”

The detective heard the rage dripping off that voice, but he didn’t bother to take his eyes off the board, even when he noticed the thumping footsteps approaching him from behind. His narrowed eyes were intently flickering over various pinned photos and pieces of important, information filled paper.

Summers’ hand dug into his shoulder, whirling him round with a force that almost had him staggering over his feet. A nasty scowl spread over his face, jerking himself out of her grip.

“Jesus, keep your hands to yourself, why don’t you?” He scoffed.

“We don’t have a warrant for Roy Gatlin’s arrest,” she seethed, her voice dripping with venom. “Why is there a SWAT team being assembled, huh? You don’t have the authority to do this.”

Sharpe folded his arms over his chest, his demeanour much calmer compared to his counterpart. A cheeky smirk even tugged at his lips, but it was gone in a second.

“It ain’t under my authority,” he shrugged. “I got support from the Captain.”

“The—?” Summers cut herself off. She turned, taking a few steps away from him, and inhaled three deep, measured breaths. She fixed her hair, before slowly turning back to him, her anger reigned in. “You’re gonna cost the Captain his job.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Steven, Leo Whitlock’s case has been closed. He’s gone.”

Steven’s expression hardened inexplicably. A wave of something pungent stirred in his chest at those words. He still had this fiery determination in his gut; he didn’t care what anybody else told him, or the hopelessness of it all. He was going to find Leo.

“I know the kid’s out there,” he sneered, jabbing a finger at the board, where the pictures of potential suspects were strung up. Even though Summers was still working on following leads on each suspect, Sharpe had his reasons as to why he believed it was Roy Gatlin. His gut feeling always punched through. “And I know he had something to do with it.”

“So your answer is to swarm his house with an unauthorised SWAT team? Without a warrant, Steven. Jesus. This is insane.”

The detective reached into his pocket, pulling out another much needed cigerette and lighter. Summers glared at him, waving her hand.

“Don’t you dare. Go smoke outside. You’re giving me enough of a headache as is.”

“I’m positive, Summers,” he murmured, still intent on lighting the end of the stick. Her eyes softened slightly at the quietness in his voice. Her mouth closed, clenching slightly. “I just have a—”

“Gut feeling,” she groaned, rubbing the crease in her brow. “You and your gut feelings. Dammit—”

Her hands dropped in frustration, and she deflated with a defeated sigh. How could she refuse the notorious Detective Steven Sharpe’s gut feeling? There was a reason he was one of the best detectives around. He took a short drag, blowing the smoke to the side.

“I’m still arresting that bastard,” he murmured.

“We don’t have hard enough evidence on him to hold up in a court,” she countered, softer this time, as if desperately clinging onto the hope he might drop it. “Hence, the fact that you don’t have a warrant for his arrest. We can only hold him at the station for forty-eight hours.”

“That’s enough,” he shrugged, confidence spilling into his grin. “Because once we’ve found the kid, his testimony will be hard enough evidence to convict him.”

Summers grimaced. “And what happens if Leo isn’t there? If you storm the house illegally and it’s all for nothing?”

Sharpe pinched the cigerette between his fingers, patting his stomach. “Like I said. Gut feeling.”

There was a tense, almost awkward silence in the air. Summers’ eyes flickered over to the board in their office, lingering on the faces of the suspects. It quickly snapped towards the one of Leo, and a look of remorse flashed in her eyes.

“I’m not keeping this kid waiting for another year,” Sharpe huffed under his breath, and Summers turned to find a look of hardened regret shared in his eyes. “We let him down by waiting so long to do something. Legally or not.”

“Even if he’s there,” she sighed, her arms folded over her chest. “The Captain could still lose his job.”

The detective’s smile lingered for a moment, nodding his head. “That’s a risk he’s willing to take.”

Sharpe watched her expression morph through a multitude of different phases, before she finally scoffed, and waved her hand in dismissal. She shook her jacket off, reaching for a warmer one instead.

“Then fuck it,” she decided, tilting her head in his direction. “You coming or what? Commissioner is going to notice a missing SWAT team soon.”

The detective smirked, nudging her side playfully as he crossed the threshold of his office. He loaded his pistol and clicked it carefully onto the side of his belt, covered by his long coat. Summers did the same, closing the office door behind her.

“I knew there was something I liked about you,” he teased, ignoring her dark glare.

“Watch your mouth.”

They swiftly left the building, bickering quietly amongst themselves about who would be driving. The SWAT team was ready to go at exactly thirty seven minutes past four in the afternoon, loaded up into the police vans, and both the detectives followed closely behind as they made for the secluded house outside the city.

. . .

The shrill ringing of Roy’s phone on his desk suddenly erupted into the room, the obnoxious noise drawing them both from their entanglement in the sheets. Leo’s hips stuttered to a surprised stop, his lips peeling away from Roy’s own as his gaze slid over to the lit up screen. The mercenary did the same, and his lip curved into a somewhat annoyed smile. 

“Sorry, lion,” he hummed, the hands on his waist shifting to the bed so he could sit up. The secretary suddenly looked equally annoyed, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “I’m gonna have to get that.” 

“Do you have to?” He murmured softly, his fingers tangling in his hair to play with it. The ringing was still going, but Leo didn’t budge from his lap. “They can wait.” 

Roy chuckled lightly under his breath, leaning forward to kiss him teasingly, but not enough to satisfy him. “Get up.” 

Leo frowned, but did as he was told. He clambered off his lap and tucked himself under the blanket with a miffed little frown, while Roy languidly slipped some pants on as he stood up, plucking the phone off the desk. His eyes lingered on the screen, and a scoff rose in his throat. 

“Joey,” he sighed, answering it with a roll of his eyes, before promptly leaving the room. Leo watched him go intently, his voice fading as the door was closed behind him. He let out a small huff, shifting onto his side so he could slip his arm under the pillow. Roy’s voice was too muffled to make out what he was saying, but that was a good thing. Leo wouldn’t dare eavesdrop, otherwise the mercenary would be angry with him. A good minute must have passed before the man came barging in. 

The door hit the wall a little too hard, enough to jolt Leo from his peaceful quietness, a shock of alarm passing through him. The mercenary tossed his phone on the bed, and even though it was subtle, Leo knew something was wrong. 

“Roy?” He croaked, alarmed. “What’s going on?” 

He answered smoothly. “Cops are coming.” 

The statement made his heart sink straight down to the pits of his stomach. He sprang up, holding the blanket close to him. 

“What?”

The man dipped down, pulling out his laptop, and switching it on. As he picked up his phone once more and began calling someone, he jerked open his closet and pulled out a plain shirt. He swiftly tossed it towards Leo, who got the message quickly enough. He scrambled to get off the bed, throwing the shirt over him with shaky haste. 

“Roy, what do you mean?” He blurted, his wide eyes pinned onto him. The mercenary tapped away at his laptop rapidly, the screen blaring to life with numerous different coded tabs, things that Leo couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Lion, wait downstairs for me,” he ordered softly. Leo ground his teeth together, torn between grabbing the man and not letting go, or following his order. After a tough internal battle, he went with the latter. His bare feet padded down the stairs with buckling knees, his eyes frightfully dancing to the windows as he passed them, as if expecting a swarm of flashing police cars to be waiting for them. He bit down anxiously on his thumb as he lingered by the bottom of the stairs, unable to stop himself from pacing. 

The idea of the police brought him this horrible, crushing weight of despair on his chest. His mind stirred with the memories of Michael, the fact that he was the one who had got him killed. The thought of what might happen brought horrible, anxiety filled tears to his eyes. When he heard Roy coming down the stairs, he could feel them slipping down his cheeks. 

“What’s going on?” He softly whispered, his voice shaking as he scurried behind him, unwilling to leave his side. “Are they really coming? Roy, please, just…” 

The man began to descend down the steps to the basement, but Leo’s feet were securely glued in place. He nervously fiddled with the hem of the long, much too large shirt, where even the distinct scent of Roy clinging onto it didn’t seem to ease him right now. The man worked swiftly in clearing out anything he needed. Tools that didn’t seem so supicious were placed in their rightful places, and anything that was disappeared. The chair was slotted under the table, and Roy shut the door with a bang on the way out. 

Although he moved with such speed and urgency, he didn’t appear to have a slither of panic on his face. Even when he cupped Leo’s cheeks in his, and pressed a long, comforting kiss to his lips. He pulled away, keeping his warm hands where they were. His thumbs occasionally brushed away any fresh tears, making sure he had Leo’s eyes trapped within his own. 

“Listen to me very carefully,” he whispered quietly, and when Leo opened his mouth to speak, the man shushed him. It quickly closed. “There’s some things that I need you to say for me.” 

Leo hiccuped, his fingers grasping onto his wrists desperately. “Roy, please, I—” 

“I know it’s going to be scary, but they’re going to bother you with questions, lion,” he interrupted, keeping a firm grip on him so he couldn’t squirm away. “Questions that you have to answer very carefully.” 

Leo choked on a sob. It felt like the whole world was spinning, like everything he’d worked so hard for was about to come crashing down on top of him with no mercy. He burned the very image of the mercenary’s face into his mind, feeling as though he was going to throw up.  

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleaded, frantically shaking his head. “I love you. Please don’t go.” 

“I won’t. Not forever,” the mercenary smiled. “As long as you say exactly this.” 

Everything that Roy told him, Leo’s mind clung to like it was holy. He wrapped up each and every letter with desperate care, storing it in the front of his mind where it was always waiting. He desperately nodded his head, promising with the utmost sincerity that he would. Because what use was he if he couldn’t do what Roy wanted?

His stomach churned with nauseating pain when he was ushered upstairs and told to lock the bathroom door behind him. Leo wanted nothing more than rip it open and seek out the mercenary, hold him tight and stay as close to his side as he could, but when he heard the thunderous bangs and the terrifying hollering, he couldn’t find the courage to.

It felt like they were vibrating through the very walls, and a cold shock of terror stabbed through his heart. Leo pressed himself tight against the tiled corner of the bathroom, as far away from the door as he could manage, legs curled up to his chest. He tried to pinch his eyes shut and ignore all the booming voices, but it was growing too loud, too suffocating in his own ears.

A sudden pounding erupted on the other side of the door.

Leo yelped, slapping his hands over his mouth. He could see it practically shaking from the impact, the locks splintering with each measured, powerful push.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” he whispered frantically under his breath, fingers fisting in his hair. Each smack matched the heavy beat of his heart. He knew the exact moment the door was smashed open, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out. The shouting was coming from all over the house; upstairs, downstairs, in the kitchen, above him. Heavy footsteps spilled into the bathroom, and he barely caught a glimpse of the black suited men surging on him.

He could only just make out a few clear voices, saying things like “we found him” or “use force if necessary”, and Leo’s heart dropped to his stomach when he felt a hand clamp on his arm. He was hurled from the corner of the bathroom effortlessly, unable to get his feet under him before a uniformed member was dragging him out of the room.

“No!” Leo screamed, seething through his teeth as he jerked and twisted away from the invading hands on his body. “Let go of me! Get—”

The blood rushed through his head, working himself into dizzying hysterics, no matter how many people he could just barely make out telling him calm down. The evening sun hit his face, but he hadn’t stopped thrashing like an animal for even a second.

The secretary managed to find Roy through the crowd. His arms had been twisted forcefully behind his back, making him grimace, locked with silver cuffs. Two men were flanking him, donned in their black helmets with their eyes covered by a deep visor, and they roughly shoved him forward towards a flashing car.

Leo’s chest felt like it was being ripped in two. He desperately tried clawing his way out of the grip on his arm, tears sliding down his cheeks as they caught him around the waist instead, tugging him in the opposite direction. It was almost painful, the idea of being separated. There was nothing he could do to stop it, no matter how much he screamed and thrashed against them.

There was a grunt, and then a muffled voice caught his ear. “Get the detective.”

Leo watched helplessly as Roy was forced into the police car, a rough hand on the back of his head shoving him in. He just barely caught his eyes as he went, making a horrible feeling punch through his gut. The panic of being torn away from him was too overwhelming, even when a new pair of arms found their way around him.

This time, they followed him to the ground, no longer held up by other hands.

“Hey, hey, kid,” a deep voice murmured, the least stern he’d encountered. “Look at me. Look here.”

Leo shook with pained sobs, but he managed to do as he was told. He found himself staring at the face of a middle aged man, dark hair and beard covering his features. His hands were firm on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as he spoke.

“There you go,” he nodded. “You’re safe now, kid. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He frantically shook his head. That wasn’t true. He was safer with Roy, and he was being taken away, trying to separate them both. The very thought made it hard to even breathe, his chest constricting painfully. A hand rubbed at his back, easing the wheezy coughs choking in his throat.

“It’s alright,” Sharpe hummed, his eyes catching Summers. She looked relieved, her eyes glossy and a hand on her chest, tightly gripping the fabric there. The detective himself kept the shivering kid close, motioning towards her. “Get him some sweatpants from the boot of the car. And some water, quickly.”

Summers nodded.

Leo’s head fell against the detectives shoulder, screwing his eyes shut. A hand patted at the back of his head, but it wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t Roy.

tag list – @unorganisedalienrubbish @d-cs @rabidrabidme @sordayciega @burningkittypoet @whumpawink @mannerofwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @welcome-to-the-whumpfest @whatwasmyprevioususername @crilex29 @firefly017 @dutifullykrispyland @wibbly-wobbly-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @anonintrovert @justawhumpjunkie @whumptastic-world @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @whumpterful-beeeeee @anonymous1235 @sonder35 @unforgiven235 @whumpasaurus101 @mj-or-say10 @professional-idiocy @seaweed-is-cool @theelvishcowgirl @atomicsandwichprince @sunshiline-writes @peasandpotatos @pirefyrelight @enigmawritesstuff

#guns for hire #whump series #whump writing #whumpblr #whump scenario #whump fic #whump community #whump #whumper #whumpee #leo and roy #rescue #caretaker #my writing #writing #don't worry they were just wrestling at the beginning #place your bets on if this is going to end well #:)

[monarchthefirst]

Grappling/military training whump:

Whumpee gets caught in a triangle choke. Desperately tapping. Nose starts bleeding. Face goes red, then a dull blue.

Spotter: He’s tapping! You brainfucked little shit! He’s tapping!!!

Whumper (jealous training partner/rival): yeah tell me something I don’t know!

#military whump #wrestling #dystopic #sci fi

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Takes place post-Speak Out. Past child abuse is part of this, and religion. Check the tags.

-

It's been so long since the cops came to Nat's house in the middle of the night, but Jake still tenses when he hears an unexpected knock at the door.

Still, this is his house, and so he pushes himself to his feet - his arm is out of the sling, now, but he still keeps it close and slightly bent. His fingertips still tingle, sometimes, and his grip isn't what it used to be.

He gets to the door just as the person on the other side must realize there was a doorbell, because it chimes through the house, some ridiculous 1940s song Jake hasn't ever reprogrammed from the last owner of the house. "Yeah hold on, I got you-"

He swings open the door.

He stares at the man standing there and tries to close the door again.

"Jakob!" A palm smacks into the wood, a thump that Jake nearly flinches at. He stares into the eyes of a man who is as tall and broad as he is, if not so muscular. A man whose face is hardened with time and the rage that never stops simmering inside him. They look so much alike, though, everyone always said it.

You're his spitting image, aren't you? Your Mama's eyes but you got your Daddy's everything else! Oh, bless your heart, you've gotten so big, just like your dad at your age...

"Jakob," His father says, voice rough. His nose is a spiderweb of burst capillaries from the alcohol he's had in his system nonstop for as long as Jake ever knew him, except at work. "It's Dad."

Jake hasn't seen his father since he was fourteen years old, with a black eye and a bus ticket and a backpack all he had to get home with. Hasn't heard his voice since the same night. But it's never mattered.

Some part of him is still five years old, lying to the doctor that he fell down the stairs. Eight years old, lying to the teacher that he broke his leg jumping off a trampoline.

Lying to the social worker who came to the house, lying to the pediatrician that the scratches weren't from fingernails, lying to the pastor that fell off a bunk bed, lying lying lying in the place they told him was the house of God.

It's not a sin to protect your family, Jakob. His dad's hand rough on his shoulder. It's not a sin to keep them in line, neither. Honor your mother and father, Jakob.

Jake swallows. "I know who you are. Fuck off." He tries to close the door again, but his father doesn't move.

"No." His dad pulls the ball cap off his head. They have the same hair color, too, always did.

He hates staring into the face of a man he hates, who hurt him and his mother, every time he looks in the mirror.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Jakob Stanton. I have spent years trying to hunt you down-"

"Really?" He can't help the half-hysterical laughter that bubbles up from within. "Since fucking when? You never paid a dime, you never wrote me a damn letter, you never even asked to speak to me when you called Mom! When exactly did you try to find me?"

From behind him, there's a scrape of footfalls, and he glances back to see Chris, hovering in the kitchen doorway with a sandwich in one hand. His lavender hair falls over his forehead scar. "Jake? Who, who-... Who is it-"

Chris gets a good look at the man in the doorway, and his own voice falters, too. His grip on the sandwich goes suddenly white.

"Go back in the kitchen, Chris." Jake keeps his voice calm and even through sheer willpower. "Please."

"That's that kid from the Olympics," Jake's dad says, exhaling, leaning around Jake to look. "That's him all right. So it is true."

Chris swallows, hard. His green eyes are so, so wide. "J, Jake, Jake, do do do, do you n-need-"

"What's true?" He has to keep his eyes on his father. "Chris, I said go back in the kitchen. What's true, Dad? What?"

"You really did give my last name to one of those WRU prostitutes-"

"Shut up." Jake shoves, his father stumbling backwards onto the porch. Jake follows him and slams the door shut behind him without another word to Chris or anyone else. "He's my little brother now. I don't want to hear your shit. How did you find out where I live?"

"Jeremy's your little brother," His dad says, craning to try and see through the glass cutouts in the door. "Not some... messed up pet."

"Dad. How did you find out?"

"Oh, I got an email at work."

His heart drops somewhere near his knees. "From who?"

"Can't say."

"Dad, this could put all these people in danger, who told you I live here?!"

"I didn't believe it until he sent a photo, whoever it is. You and some man on a date." His dad's nose wrinkles. "Jakob, what has California done to you?"

"Nothing!" His blood is roaring in his ears. His heart beats too hard, and he feels faint. His shoulder starts to ache, pulsing and throbbing where Jameson had jammed the knife in to the hilt. "They have gay people in the South, too, Dad!"

"Well, those Yankees keep moving down-"

"No. No, I'm not doing this. When I was a kid you said you never wanted to see me again. Dad, why the everliving goddamn bullshit fuck are you here?"

"That's not very Christian language, Jakob."

"Well, I'm not very Christian, so that fits!" He's shouting, voice rising, and he shudders as he feels a slap in the face of how much he sounds, shouting, just like his father used to. "Get off my fucking property! You can't-... You can't put all these people at risk, Dad. You can't."

"Does that other one live here?" His father steps back, now, looking at the dirty windows, the siding that needs a good power washing. "From the TV? The one that looks like Vincent Shield? Is that true? Are you living in sin with him? My own son?"

Jake feels intuition prickle like the breath of a wolf on the back of his neck. Dread rushes alongside adrenaline through his veins. "... Who sent the email, Dad? That told you where I live?"

His dad shrugs, hands in his jeans pockets. "Some guy. I didn't know his name at first. Your mom know about all this, Jakob?"

Jake swallows. "She signed the adoption papers for Chris. She has lunch every month with my-" He can't make himself say partners, suddenly. Anger and shame - anger at his father and shame at himself for not screaming I love them both and you can't take that from me to the high fucking heavens, to God Himself. You can't have love like this in the world and call it wicked. Kauri and I in bed is holier than the bullshit you let happen to me and my mother. Anger and shame twine and burn so hot he worries his skin will blister and crack. "Dad. The email... Who sent the email?"

"I won't lie to you, son. I was offered some money to come out here. Paid for my plane tickets, actually. Nice guy."

Jake's vision has narrowed to a pinprick with his hateful father's face in the center. "By who? Who's a nice guy?"

He knows before the words leave his father's mouth.

Jake's dad shrugs. "Owen Grant."

#jake the shelter guy #abusive parent tw #referenced child abuse #religious abuse #religious trauma #religion tw #brief homophobia #whump #box boy universe #box boy #bbu #shitty parents #emotional manipulation #owen grant is a nice guy #jakob wrestled with god #jake stanton does too

[siriusleee]

#whump #like blood on iron #sometimes the words flow so freely and sometime it's like wrestling with a bear. #it might be easier if i could get out of this damn house #but everyone including the dogs are currently asleep and i can't wake anyone up

[likeit-or-whumpit]

CM Punk does not take kindly to Jeff Hardy knocking into him on the ramp.

#Jeff Hardy #CM Punk #wwe #wwe gif #wwe edit #wrestling gif #wrestling edit #wrestling #prowrestling #wrestling blog #wwe whump #wrestling whump

[tache-noire]

Mmmm

Imagine your wrestling OTP patching each other up after bad matches :)

Ice packs and hot showers. Deep tissue massages and stretches. Holding hands during acupuncture and dry needling. Cupping and taping. Just being fucking sore and exhausted, but curling up together and falling asleep soooooo deeply they barely remember who they are when they wake up.

#wrestling #wrestlblr #imagine #imagine your otp #hurt and comfort #whump

[deepdisireslonging]

Broken Negotiations

Bullet Club Gold kidnapped the Reader as a bargaining chip to worm Jay White into a championship match with Ricky. He’s supposed to have back-up. Family and friends that the Reader called in for such an occasion. But things go terribly wrong.

Pairing: Ricky Starks x Moxley!Reader

Warnings/Promises: canon-level hostage situation and violence, ANGST, choking, unhappy ending, whump in general

Word Count: 1040

Note: Yes, writing the reader as Jon Moxley’s cousin is my favorite trope. There’s just so many opportunities for angsty family situations that way. I’m not about to change now. Also, Ricky is really pretty when he's in distress. And I was in an angsty mood earlier this week. Happy, or unhappy reading!

The thin padding of foam under the ring’s canvas did nothing to protect your knees. You grunted when Juice Robinson dropped you, pressing a heavy hand onto your shoulder. On either side of you, Jay White and the rest of the Bullet Club Gold chuckled at your distress. You wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t budge. They could make all the demands they wanted, but you wouldn't let them use you to achieve their goals.

Still, tears burned behind your eyes at the scene in front of you.

Ricky’s chest was heaving. The dark bags under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in weeks, much less the six nights since you’d been kidnapped. The championship dangled worthlessly in his hand. Like he’d drop it in a second.

You couldn’t let him do that.

As for the figures standing with him, they didn’t reassure you as much as you’d hoped. Your cousin, Mox, looked ready to hurl himself across the ring to bludgeon his way through your kidnappers. But Claudio’s hand on his shoulder kept him nervously in place. Yuta stood on Ricky’s other side. Cold. Calculating. Watching the ramp and the audience behind them for any tricks. But the way they stood apart from Ricky… The back-up was there for you. If things went south, you would be the only one looking out for him.

“You ready to… negotiate, Starks?” Jay laid a hand on the top of your head. Before his fingers could dig into your hair, you pushed it away. Juice’s grip tightened on your shoulder. “Here she is. Undamaged. Mostly, give or take a bruise or two. As promised.” Jay angled his head as a challenge. “You gonna hold up yours?”

Ricky looked down at the championship in his hand. Then he looked at you. Exhausted.

You shook your head. Not like this.

You yelped as Jay jerked you to your feet, hugging you close. His tight grip around your rib cage didn’t waver as you struggled for more room to breathe. “You don’t have to hand it over. Just agree to the match. Just you and me. Everybody else stays backstage. Your pretty one here,” he dug his nose into the space under your ear, “she can be on commentary though. Where we both can see her.” He passed you back to Juice, who held a hand over your mouth to keep you from interfering.

Still, you shook your head. Glaring at Jay, then at Mox, you did your best to signal to everyone you could that, under no circumstances, was Ricky to agree to any of these terms. Which would change the second that Jay needed them to whether that was now, or during the match.

You bit down on Juice’s finger, making him shout. “If you wanted a match so badly, why didn’t you ask Tony for a contract signing?” With a grunt, you continued to struggle to get out of the arms around your waist. “I know why. It’s because you don’t deserve one. There are better wrestlers with better winning streaks than you right now, and you’re not at the front of the line. So you’re trying to cut. It won’t work. I won’t let it-“

As Juice’s arm wrapped around your throat, you squeaked. Angling his body back, your feet left the canvas. He muttered “now I gottcha.” His mocking laugh buzzed in your brain as your oxygen depleted, and your struggling lessened.

“Alright!” Ricky tossed down the championship. Jay’s eyes greedily watched it crumple in the space between them. “She’s right, you don’t deserve one. But you can have a match. Right now. I don’t care.”

“No-“ Your vision began to spot.

“Let her go. And call a ref. For every bruise you’ve given her, I’m gonna break two bones in your body.”

The horror had only just begun.

While Ricky threatened Jay with every pain known to man, Claudio inched into his space. Juice released you just enough for your vision to clear in time to see the following struggle. Ricky’s mic dropped to the canvas with a bouncing thump. He flailed. His eyes bulged, then shut against the panic as the grip around his throat tightened. His nails clawed into Claudio’s forearms and shoulders where he could reach. Yuta watched on, glancing between Ricky beginning to fade and you. Finally, when Ricky stopped moving, Claudio released him. You cried out as his body landed in a heap.

“Alright.” Mox stepped forward, over the championship, into Jay’s space. “You gonna uphold your end?”

Jay grinned. Slowly, he looked at Juice.

You shoved him away when released. “What? Jon, what is this? Ow!” You were unable to dislodge his grip on your arm as he dragged you out and under the ropes. “No. Stop.” You glanced at the ring. Claudio and Yuta had left, working their way around to meet up with Mox. Inside, the Bullet Club Gold circled around Ricky as he started to stir. “Wait. We can’t leave him!”

“You shouldn’t be here to see this. Now come on. I’ve got you.” He nodded for Claudio to grab your other arm.

“You promised! You promised you wouldn’t do this. I asked for your help, to have his back like you’ve had mine. You promised!” You managed to break loose from Mox’s grip at that. In a terrifying mirror of your earlier position, Claudio wrapped his arms around your waist and began to carry you out of the arena. “NO! Please. Ricky!”

In the ring, the Gunn brothers had Ricky on his knees with his arms outstretched. He glanced up, his head lolling side to side as his brain tried to figure out which direction your voice was coming from. Looking for you, he didn’t see the danger. He didn’t see Jay with the championship in hand. He crumpled again as the metal plate on the belt crashed against his forehead. They backed off as a referee entered the ring.

Your vision began to spot again. Screaming for Ricky, so close after Juice had toyed with choking you out… it was too much.

The last thing you saw was Ricky on his feet, knees wobbling, fists up but punch drunk. The bell rang. And your world went dark.

#aew fanfiction #ricky starks fanfiction #wrestling whump #aew angst #ricky starks angst #ricky starks x reader #cousin!Mox

[set-phasers-to-whump]

mirrors

prompt: survivor's guilt

whumpee: john reese

fandom: person of interest

hi welcome to bingo no. 3 and another poi fic! it's a little coda to 2x04 triggerman (basic summary if you haven't seen it is the number is a mob enforcer and dies at the end). it's not whumpy in the same way that most of my other stuff is, more angst and introspection based, but i hope you like it!

He is Riley. Or Riley is him. There is not much difference between killing for the CIA and killing for the Mob. Blood on your hands. Your body turned into a weapon by people who wouldn’t so much as blink if you died. 

John wishes that Riley could have lived past the point of no return. He wonders if he’d like New Mexico. Wonders for the thousandth time why he is still alive. 

Go. I’ll be right there. 

He thinks about Finch and Annie. About the mirrors that reflect the two of them - two good people - and the mirrors that play their images back onto John and Riley. 

Finch brought John into something more than himself, something good, something better than what John deserved. And Riley brought Annie, too, into something more than herself, but something she deserved no part of. 

Riley had said that Annie was the best thing that ever happened to him. John thinks that the same can be said for him and Finch. 

Except. Finch stays, Annie goes. John lives, Riley dies. Everyone with a part to play. Good people next to bloodied people. Bloodied people trying to become good people, atoning for sins that can never be fully washed away. 

We have the ability to change, evolve. 

Even killers?

And what it comes down to is this: Riley is dead because John didn’t save him, because Riley had told him to go, because it is better to save a good person than a killer, because John will never be someone like Finch. And John is alive, because, because, because…

John gets another chance. Riley doesn’t. 

There’s blood on the street either way.

thanks for reading!! fun fact i actually wrote this fic last month but then never posted it. also fun fact this is the shortest fic i've ever written! hope you enjoyed <3

#bad things happen bingo #survivor's guilt #person of interest #john reese #angst #emotional whump #my writing #i say things #survivor's guilt is a hard beast to wrestle with i hope it's done okay #also obligatory sorry if it's ooc apology. still only on s2 and john is a complex ass man

[peachy-panic]

What Happened Upstairs (Pt. 2)

Fifty-Eight Days. Followup to this teaser from yesterday. 

WARNINGS: NONCON DRUGGING, talk of drug use in general, captivity, blood, violence, dual whumpees, sickness, vague allusions to noncon

It was bright upstairs. That was the first thing—and, lucidly, one of the last—he remembered about that day. More light than Grayson had seen in weeks blinded him as he stumbled up the last concrete steps. 

His hands had been bound tightly behind him before they even reached the staircase, and the only thing that stopped him from busting his lip on the landing was the rough hand jerking him up by the arm.

His heartbeat was a whip crack inside his chest. A passage he read once in a history book floated to the surface; about the days of guillotines and gallows erected in the streets, and prisoners marched to their deaths. He thought the dread they must have carried with each step, the heavy inevitability of what was coming in their final moments. Worse, perhaps, than the execution itself.

He wondered if Elijah was this afraid every time. He wondered if he still felt like he would shake into pieces every time he ascended those stairs. Grayson didn’t understand how he’d made it so long.

It was the great unspoken thing that plagued the rotten air inside the basement; the horrors Elijah was subjected to when he went above ground, the evidence he carried back with him in broken skin and hollow eyes. The things they never talked about. The things that Grayson would undoubtedly face tonight.

He wouldn’t put it to words, but some part of him, dark enough to make him recoil from his own twisted psyche, felt a strange sense of… no, not relief. Definitely not relief. But a sort of balance that you could only feel when the scales were leveled. Grayson’s guilt had amassed into a cancerous growth that pushed against him with every breath. One time would be nothing compared to what Elijah has taken. But maybe this could help him breathe again. Just a little.

He was led into a large room with four wing-backed chairs. The space reeked of the kind of excessive wealth that would allow someone the luxury of a second, third, and fourth den; one they could exclusively dress with eighteenth-century furniture, draped in maroons and velvets and golds. Above the fireplace was a gilded frame almost the length of Grayson’s body, and in it, a painting of a tiger with its jaw open and nose skyward, teeth dripping with the blood of its prey.

Someone kicked the back of his knee. The rug broke his fall—a mass of black fibers that he recognized as a bear-hide rug, complete with the shape of a head and a paw at each corner. The likelihood of its authenticity unnerved him, as if he could suddenly feel the muscle and sinew shifting beneath his knees.

At ease in one of the chairs, Myles had an ankle crossed over his knee, looking down at him. “I’ll admit,” he said, “I’m surprised.”

Grayson didn’t say anything at first, but when the silence stretched on, he caved. “He’s sick,” he whispered.

“So I’ve been told,” Voss said. “But you misunderstood. What surprises me is not that you’ve made the offer, but that it’s taken you so long.”

Grayson flinched, keeping his eyes anywhere but on his.

“I had been under the impression, in the beginning, that the two of you were protective of each other. Perhaps I took for granted that you felt the same as he does.”

It was a mind game. He knew it was. But he’d known exactly where to aim, and it landed like a dagger. Grayson was too stunned to formulate a response, but he was spared from having to do so when an armed guard Grayson had never seen before stepped into the room from behind him. He didn’t spare a glance at the half-naked and filthy prisoner on his knees, speaking directly to his boss in his native tongue.

Whatever he said drew a small, slow smile across Myles’s lips. “Perfect timing. Bring him in.”

Grayson’s first panicked thought was Elijah. He frantically twisted around, ready to beg and barter to uphold his protection. Instead, a tall man dressed almost as sharply as Myles himself was escorted in. This one took visible interest in Grayson’s presence. He tracked him with his eyes the whole way to the chair opposite Myles, which he sat in with a familiarity that suggested this was not his first time on the compound. That thought did not put Grayson at ease.

Myles regarded his visitor with a catlike grin, but did not rise to greet him. “Alexander,” he said.

“Voss.” The man nodded. “I wasn’t expecting our meeting until the end of the month.”

“Nor was I.”

There was a long, uneasy silence. The man—Alexander—seemed to be waiting for some elaboration that never came. Finally, he asked, “Why the unexpected call?”

Grayson watched the interaction from his spot on the floor as if he weren’t in the room at all, wishing he could slip silently into the fibers of the rug and disappear.

Myles’s smile turned, if possible, even more chilly. He turned briefly to his man stationed at the doorway and gave a wordless nod. The man procured a small, transparent bag from his pocket and tossed it to Myles, who caught it easily in one hand.

“I called you here to address a rumor I heard,” Myles said, dangling the package between pinched fingers. Alexander flicked his eyes between the substance and the man holding it.

“A… a rumor?”

“Normally,” Myles went on, “I wouldn’t lend it my time or energy. Especially when the subject is someone I have long trusted in my business affairs.”

The fear was evident in Alexander’s expression now; in the subtle shift in posture and the bead of sweat along his hairline. Grayson’s own sense of dread grew in tandem. Whatever was about to happen here, however Grayson was involved, was not going to be good.

“But here is the problem, Alexander—and perhaps part of the responsibility lies with me for allowing you to think you have reached a place in my life wherein my trust in you is infallible.” Myles peeled open the seal on the bag and shook it gently, the fine powder inside leveling out. “But you are not the only ear I have to the ground. In fact, you are never far from another. And someone else, someone who has yet to steer me wrong, has informed me of your tampering with my supply.”

To Alexander’s credit, or perhaps his detriment, he was bold enough to deny it. “You know I’ve never messed with the product.”

“No,” Myles agreed easily. “You haven’t. Until now.”

Grayson flinched when the dime bag landed on the coffee table. All eyes in the room zeroed in on it.

“This is from your last delivery,” Myles said. “If your product is still clean, you’ll have no problem proving it to me.”

Alexander stood, knocking the heavy chair back a few inches. “I’m not a fucking junkie,” he spat. “I supply. I don’t use.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

There was a long, tense silence. The realization sank over Grayson at the same time that it seemed to occur to Alexander. Their eyes met, and Grayson was sure he would be able to see the wild pulse beat against his throat.

To his credit, Alexander hesitated.

“Come on, one shot won’t kill him,” Myles goaded. “Unless it does. And then I guess we have our answer, don’t we?”

“Please.” Grayson didn’t realize he’d begged out loud until both sets of eyes snapped to him. He cowered back. “Please. Please, I don’t… don’t kill me.”

“I think he’s talking to you, Alex. I wonder if your conscience is as lax with someone’s life as it is with lying. You can fess up now and save the kid the trouble.”

Still, Alexander made no move toward him. Myles sighed, scooting to the edge of his seat. “Maybe I wasn’t clear,” he said. “It’s him, or it’s you. And I will not wait.”

There was only half a beat of silence before Alexander grabbed the bag from the table and stepped toward Grayson. Panic projected into his throat. He suddenly had no breath left in his lungs to plead, but he tried.

“Please,” he said. “Wait. What is it? What is that?” His wrists knocked uselessly together behind him, burning against the rope as he came closer.

In a childlike lurch of desperation, Grayson folded his body in half, burying his face against his knees, trying to hide as much of himself from their reach as he could. A rough hand in his hair yanked him up again. Even without the aid of the rope around his wrists, his weakened muscles were no match for even one of the men in the room.

He looked up at Alexander’s face in time to see him lick his thumb and dip it into the bag. The hand in his hair moved to his face, squeezing his cheeks hard enough to force his lips apart. Before he could process, let alone protest, he stuck the thumb into Grayson’s mouth and swiped it harshly across his gums.  

The moment he was released, panic took the wheel again. Despite the dryness in his mouth, Grayson spat over and over, jerking his head to the side in an attempt to wipe the substance onto his shoulder before it—whatever it was—could bleed into his system.

“Nice try, but I don’t think so.” Myles was closer to him now, crouched beside him. A rolled cylinder of cloth lay on the surface of the coffee table. “We’re going to do this my way.”

Being this close to him was like liquid paralysis in his veins. Grayson watched helplessly as Myles unrolled the cloth, revealing a line of tools: a spoon, a syringe, a rubber band. Slowly, his breathing grew more and more erratic until he was nearly hyperventilating.

Myles leaned in closer, so that only Grayson could hear him. “Fight me on this, and I will drag him up here by his hair, sick or not.”

Grayson’s throat pinched around a sob as the first tears warmed his face. He cried in earnest as a blade cut through the rope at his wrists, then looked away, refusing to watch as Myles expertly wrapped the rubber band around his bicep, pulling tight. Each breath became a conscious decision. In, then out. Repeat. Repeat. His fingers began to tingle with the first prickles of numbness. He curled them into a loose fist then released it, watching the blood bloat his hand to a sickly reddish-purple. His pulse was even more pronounced by the band, which seemed to be tightening and tightening and—

Two fingers slapped his inner elbow, making him flinch. Instinct made him try to close his arm on itself, but his resistance was anticipated, and a strong hand pinned his wrist before he could react.

“Good veins,” Myles noted. Grayson followed his gaze to the pronounced line of blue bulging in his inner arm, then quickly looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. The back of a fingernail trailed a line down his cheek. Grayson shivered.

“Not fond of needles, are you?”

He refused him the verbal response he was fishing for until the fingernail reached the edge of his jaw, digging in to turn his face toward his. Voss tilted his chin, an unspoken demand. Finally, Grayson conceded with a shake of his head.

“No,” Myles echoed softly, mirroring the gesture. “But you’ll be very still for me now. The pinch will only last a moment.”

Grayson ducked his head, something between an answering nod and an attempt to escape his captor’s gaze. He took a deep breath in. Let it out. The next inhale hitched in his throat as he felt the pinch of the needle passing through his skin.

“Push.”

The demand was so unexpected that it took him a moment to realize it was directed at him, then another few seconds for its meaning to sink in. Grayson met Myles’s eyes in a silent plea, but, of course, he was unmoved. He jabbed the needle down another fraction of an inch—a warning. “Last chance,” he said. Grayson knew he meant it.

His eyes fell to where Myles’s hand held the syringe steady against his arm, tapping the plunger with the tip of his finger.

It didn’t matter. He told himself over and over that it didn’t matter. It was going into him one way or another. The person pulling the trigger didn’t make a difference.

Detaching himself from every survival instinct in his body, Grayson pushed the plastic plunger down, forcing the unknown substance into his arm.

Things got hazy fast after that.

It would become its own torture, later on; the blurred line between reality and delusion. How the memories of what followed as the drugs infected his bloodstream would live in faded snapshots, and Grayson was left to piece together a string of events that he would never be able to confirm as real or not real.

Did the man really make that noise—high pitched and strangled like a slaughtered animal—when his throat was slit? Or had it come from Grayson himself?

Did he really look into Grayson’s eyes as the life left his own?

Had there really been so much blood? More than what seemed possible to store inside a human body?

Did it really stain the creases of his fingernails when he was forced to scrub the floor after, or was his mind playing tricks on him, seeing red, red, red in everything he looked at.

Had he been moved to another room? Or was his mind only filling in the blanks of what he imagined the rest of the compound to look like? The bathroom? A bedroom?

Had he really felt fingers tangle into his hair? Felt the stuffy heat of too-close skin? Or was it his worst fear stirred to life in vivid hallucination?

He didn’t know for sure. Maybe he never would.

Maybe that was for the best.

The next time he saw the world through clear eyes, he was back in the basement. His cheek was pressed to the hard ground, and his first thought was, there’s an earthquake. The world trembled around him, jarring the panic straight into his bones. But when he tried to sit up, pressing his hands against the floor, he realized: the shaking wasn’t coming from the earth. It was coming from him.

He blinked hard and the pounding in his head surged forward, ramming into him like a train. Elijah was awake beside him, sitting up straight for the first time in days. The crown of sweat-matted hair indicated that, maybe, finally, the fever had broken.

Elijah was looking right at him. “Hi.”

Half-memories from the day before—or had it been longer?—vibrated to life beneath his skin. Though he gave no indication of it, Grayson was suddenly struck by the fear that Elijah knew what he’d done. He cleared his throat, wincing against the unexpected ache. He started to reach for his throat but forced his hand back down.

“Was I asleep for long?”

Elijah tilted his head, studying him. “I don’t know. I only woke up a few minutes ago. I think… I think I’m better. Sorry if I… just. Sorry for making you take care of me. Again.”

He didn’t know. Elijah didn’t know.

“You know you don’t have to apologize for that,” Grayson whispered.

Grayson sat up the rest of the way, bracing his back against the wall beside his friend. A  thumb-sized smear of blood on his inner arm caught his eye. He pressed a hand over it.

It was the not knowing that would haunt him in the months, the years, that followed. The knowledge that everyone who knew the truth was now dead, and he would never know for sure what happened after the drugs muddied his memories. But at least that meant Elijah never had to know either.

***

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#fifty-eight days: grayson & elijah #captivity whump #whump #whump writing #dual whumpees #listen i was feeling insecure about this chapter #i wrestled with it for a long time #but i eventually just had to throw my hands up and post it #so here you go #i hope you like it

[hunterscabin]

Everything Goes Wrong

Summary: Dean is there to comfort his little sister after she suffers a fatal injury while hunting.

Pairings: Dean x Sister!Reader; Sam x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Angst; hurt/comfort; whump; death

Word Count: 1.3k 

Author’s Note: Requested from anonymous many moons ago. 

Dean. He was running toward you, screaming your name. You couldn’t comprehend his urgency; the leviathan were dead, the fight was over.

It all happened so quickly. You walked into a battle already underway. A small group of hunters also trailing the levis were first to arrive at the hideout, complicating an already dicey hunt. At the sight of their chaotic fighting, it became immediately clear that none of them had the tact or skill of a Winchester. Your brothers took action, causing two of the chompers to flee. Dean tossed one of the rookie hunters a sack of crude borax bombs and instructed them to capture the runaways. Sam crossed the warehouse, distracting one of the remaining leviathan. Dean took advantage of his brother’s diversion, driving the righteous, blood soaked bone he brandished deep into her skull.

On the other side of the abandoned stockroom, you were taking a beating from the last leviathan. He had been momentarily stunned by the bottle of borax you smashed over him, but his resiliency was remarkable. Almost immediately regaining his composure, he flung you into a pile of scrap metal. You scrambled to your feet, unsheathing your knife in the process. He made quick work of disarming you before effortlessly pinning you against a steel support beam. You winced, preparing for the worst, when suddenly, he retreated. Your eyes opened to find Sam impaling him with the bone several yards away.

High off the action, your entire body pulsed with energy. Or was it throbbing? Normally, the adrenaline of a hunt didn’t make you this… this… what was this feeling? You heard Dean shout your name again. Why did he sound so strange? A warmth spread across your stomach, and you looked down to find a mess of red. Blood? Your blood. Soaking your clothes and pooling at your feet. Bewilderment washed over you as your fingers wrapped around the handle of your blade. 

Just as Dean reached your side, your legs buckled. He braced your fall and carefully lowered you to the ground.

"Sammy!" Your eldest brother’s voice was gruff and full of urgency.

Consumed with killing the leviathan, Sam had been unaware of the commotion behind him. When he turned to see you bleeding in Dean’s arms, Sam shot up and sprinted toward you. He landed hard on his knees in front of Dean.

"Just the knife?" Sam’s eyes darted rapidly up and down your trembling form, trying to assess the damage.

Not wanting to speak the words, Dean nodded, his expression telling Sam the severity of your injuries.

“The car’s too far.” Dean thought aloud.

Sam wrestled with his next move. He didn’t want to leave you. He knew your chances of surviving were slim. He heard it in Dean’s tone. He saw it on your bloodstained clothes. Still, if there was even the slightest chance of saving you, he had to try.

“I’ll see if I can catch up with the other hunters.”

Both men knew it wouldn’t be enough, but it was the best Sam had to offer. Dean nodded reluctantly.

As your brothers’ muffled voices became more clear, so did your reality. The once dull pressure was now a searing pain. Your body screamed and your face contorted.

"Y/N, look at me.” Your eyes, wide with fear and confusion, found Sam’s. "You're gonna be okay. I’m going to get help.” 

Sam leaned forward and pressed a long kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back, Y/N/N. I promise.”

Through a large, broken window, Dean watched Sam tear across the field and into the nearby woods. When he glanced back at you in his arms, your eyes were closed.

"Y/N, you gotta stay awake." Dean gently shook you until your gaze met his. "That's my girl."

"So tired, De." Your groggy voice begged for sleep.

"I know you are, kiddo, but I need you to keep your eyes on me.”

"Too hard,” you murmured, “Can’t do it."

"Yes you can, sweetheart." Dean was no longer able to mask his concern. "How can I help, Y/N/N? Tell me what to do."

Your brother’s desperation lifted the fog numbing your senses, and you clearly understood what you hadn’t before; you were dying. Anyone else would panic at this realization, beg their God for more time, cling to the last bit of life and fight. Not you. You woke every morning knowing this was a possibility. Saving people, hunting things; it was a dangerous road.

You weren’t bitter; no matter how menacing, your days were full of purpose, and that wasn’t something most people could say. You weren’t afraid; years of close calls had prepared you for this moment. You were, however, insurmountably saddened by the fact that Dean had to watch you die. You knew he would bear the weight of your absence completely despondent and guilt ridden. There was so much you wanted to say to ease his inevitable grief, but talking had grown increasingly difficult as words and breath eluded you. The most you could do was take the hand of solace Dean extended. You silently prayed that would be enough. 

"Tell me a story."

Dean smiled. Between your sleepy eyes and the way you were curled in his arms, it felt like you were little again.

“Have I ever told you about the day mom and dad brought you home from the hospital?”

You shook your head “No.”

“Sammy was not happy.” Dean gave a weak laugh remembering how ornery his brother had been. 

“He locked himself in his room. I tried to tell him that having a little sibling wasn’t all bad, but he wouldn’t listen. Dad had to take his door off the hinges to get him out.”

“He loves’me now.” you noted dreamily.

“He sure does.” Dean agreed, furrowing at your slurred speech. Another sign that your body was succumbing to its injuries. 

“That phase lasted less than an hour,” he continued. 

“Wha’happn’d?”

“He held you.” Dean’s voice was thick with nostalgia. “Mom convinced him. He sat in Dad’s chair, and she laid you in his lap. He wasn’t sure at first, but then you smiled.” 

Despite your pain, a contented grin eased across your face. 

“Just like that.” 

“D’d you hold me?”

Dean nodded. “You were so small, but I swear your eyes were as big and Y/E/C as they are now. I stared at you for hours. I never wanted to let you go.” I still don’t want to let you go. 

Dean paused to clear the sadness from his throat, but he was losing the battle against his emotions. He could see your eyes growing dim and feel your skin getting cold. You didn’t have much longer. 

“I love you so much, Y/N/N.” Dean’s words were short and breathless. 

“I love you too.” 

Dean pulled you closer and placed a warm hand on the side of your face. 

“De?” A small, crimson spot appeared at the corner of your mouth. “C’n I close m’eyes, now?"

At once, Dean felt everything and nothing. He knew the instant your eyes closed, he’d never see them again. He cursed himself for bringing you on such a risky hunt. He cursed himself for not keeping a better eye on you during the fight. He cursed Sam for still being gone. Not because he thought his younger brother would bring anything or anyone to save you, but because he knew how broken he’d be, returning to find his little sister asleep forever. He wanted to shake you, to scream, to do everything in his power to ensure your heavy lids didn’t fall, but he refrained. He knew this would be the last comfort he could ever give you. Dean surrendered to his heartache and let you slip from this world.

"Yeah, baby girl. You can rest now. I’ve got you.”

Masterlist

#dean winchester x sister!reader #dean x sister!reader #sam winchester x sister!reader #sam x sister!reader #winchester sister #winchester sister!reader #supernatural angst #supernatural hurt/comfort #supernatural whump