#captured whumpee

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Breeding the Winter Soldier"

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 7893

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: a/b/o, Omega Bucky, Alpha Steve, Hydra wins, dark AU, forced mating, breeding program, coerced sex, restraints, heats/ruts, forced to fuck, past Bucky x Brock, HTP adjacent, mind control, anal sex, hurt/comfort (mostly comfort)

A.N.: this was written all the way back in 2017!

Breeding the Winter Soldier

“Looks like they gave Cap his assignment,” Rollins chuckles from where he’s sitting, boots propped up on the observation room’s control panel. “Doesn’t seem too happy about being told he’s gotta breed ‘im.”

Brock scoffs lightly, unable to help himself from lighting up out of frustration as he stares through the one-way glass window at their prisoner. Smoking isn’t allowed inside the facility, but that’s never stopped Brock. “This is bullshit,” he complains around the cigarette between his lips, tossing the spent match to the floor as he gets a good first lungful of nicotine. Beyond the window, Captain fucking America—or what used to be Captain America— is pacing, pacing, pacing, distressed at the news. Brock seethes quietly. “Project Genesis is mine. He was supposed to be mine.”

And now Steven Grant Rogers is the one they want instead. The superior choice, apparently, for siring little super-soldiers. Brock had broken whatever he’d been holding when he’d first heard the order come down—a coffee mug, he thinks it was. The order strictly reassigned him as handler only to the asset, the one to supervise the project. Supervise. Brock cringes at the restriction of the word. He’s been the asset’s commanding officer for going on five years now. Unofficially, he’s been his alpha for two. He’s the one who knows the asset, understands him. He’s the only one who knows how to make him work right, how to get through to him. He’s the one who cares about him, who satisfies him through his heats. And now Hydra is forcing him to give that all away?

His mate is going to be so confused.

Rollins tells him to chill. “I’m sure they’ll still let you fuck around with him once he’s pupped a few litters.”

“That’s not the fucking point!” Brock roars, angry but not at Rollins. Jack seems to know this, as he doesn’t move at all from his lazy posture in the chair. “He’s my omega. I’m perfectly capable of breeding him, if that’s what they want.”

Rollins shrugs. “You ain’t got that super soldier sperm.”

“Captain. Hail Hydra.”

Steve looks up from where he’s been eating his breakfast and frowns at the sight of Rumlow. It’s strange and upsetting to see people that he knew from before. People who he’d thought were the good guys. Brock looks the same as he did a year ago. Same haircut, same face, same tactical gear that he used to wear when he was on Shield’s Strike team, when he was Steve’s friend. Only now there is no Shield, and there are no friends. Now they all belong to Hydra whether they want to or not.

“Hail Hydra,” Steve mumbles into the cold milk of his cereal.

“Gotta come with me, Cap,” Rumlow tells him. “Today’s the day.”

Steve looks up at him, eyes angry and tired. “I’m not doing it,” he says. He’s fucking not doing it. They can’t make him.

“I’m not in the mood for this today.” Rumlow calls in the four guards that he’s brought with him and has them stand there with their stun batons as a warning for Steve. Before, they never would’ve been enough to keep him subdued. But that was before. Steve knows it’ll be no use trying to fight them off. He lets his spoon drop into the cereal bowl.

They take him down to the wing where they keep Bucky, to a room with a bed, a minifridge and an exam chair. It’s a heat suite, where they intend to force him to do this, Steve supposes. Bucky’s not there. There’s a tech waiting for them and when Steve lays eyes on the prepped syringes he tenses, tries to turn around. He winds up with a stun baton jammed to his neck and the next thing he knows he’s restrained in the chair. The tech is bringing a needle over and Steve pulls with all his might against the mag restraints. They don’t budge. “Relax,” Rumlow says. He’s standing beside Steve. “It’s just something to help you.”

“Help me how?” Steve asks, afraid. He’s already drugged up six ways to Sunday. Drugs to keep him weak, drugs to keep him dazed, drugs to keep him calm. If he didn’t heal so rapidly his inner arms would look like pincushions by now. The injections erase who he is, erase any possibility of a fight, let alone an escape. He doesn’t want any more injections.

“Something to kickstart your rut,” Brock says. He points to the other needles, one by one. “An aphrodisiac. A benzo to lower your inhibitions. Hormones to increase the chances of conceiving.”

Steve sneers. “I’m not doing it. I’m not hurting him.”

“You sure as hell better not,” Brock tells him, and there’s something about the way that he says it that has Steve paying closer attention. Steve takes notice of how tense Rumlow seems, upset almost. He smells the sour tint of possessiveness rolling off of him. “He’s mine,” Brock says. It’s obvious he’s not talking about his role as Bucky’s handler.

Steve squints for a moment. “…No,” he says, eyes widening. Rumlow smirks when he sees that Steve is finally figuring it out. “You’ve had him.”

“Wow. Took you long enough Cap. Thought you would’ve at least smelled him on me, all the times I fucked him before passing you in the hall.”

Steve grits his teeth, fury building in him in a way that he didn’t think was possible, not with all of the mood stabilizers Hydra’s got him on. “You fucking raped him?!” The tech comes over and jabs Steve while he’s distracted, not that he can move much in the restraints anyway. The needle stings going in, but the anger coursing through him is worse than the cold flush of medicine through his veins.

Brock looks at Steve with contempt. “I’m his handler. He hasn’t been raped since I started caring for him.”

Steve pants in his seat, feeling his temperature start to climb as the drugs work into his system. “Is that what you call it?” he sneers. “You think you’re taking care of him?”

“I know you’re not happy about this,” Brock tells him. “But let me tell you something: neither am I.”

“What are you talking about?”

Brock tells the tech to get out of the room. He orders the AI system that they stole from Stark Industries to stop monitoring them. Once they’re all alone he tells Steve, “He’s mine, Rogers.” Steve growls at him and that makes Rumlow roll his eyes. He drags a stool over to sit right in front of where Steve is restrained. “What you’re participating in? It’s called Project Genesis.”

“Yeah, trying to make baby supersoldiers, I get it,” Steve snaps. “I’m not doing it.”

“It’s the only fucking reason you’re alive right now,” Brock tells him. “And it’s the only reason he’s not gathering dust in some cryo vault.”

Steve can’t suppress his frown. “What?”

Brock sighs. “You’ve both been decommissioned. Hydra is a major world power now. One or two enhanced assets aren’t worth our time anymore. An army of supersoldiers, however, is. That’s what he’s still useful for.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yeah? How do you think I feel?” Brock snaps. “I was the one who was supposed to breed him. Was working on it just fine till they brought you in. I’m sure you think he’ll be happy to see you but let me tell you, he won’t.” Brock can smell the change coming over the other alpha, can smell his body ramping up for a rut. Beneath the scent of sex hormones is the sour tinge of chemicals. It makes Brock want to curl his nose and bare his teeth in a challenge, or maybe turn away to escape the smell altogether. “He doesn’t know you Cap, and you’re just going to scare him if you come at him acting like he should be glad to see you.”

Steve glares at him. “He does remember me. He knew me on the helicarrier.” Bucky had known him. He had.

But Brock shakes his head. “No. He only has bits and pieces Rogers. He’s my omega. I bonded to him years ago.”

Steve growls and pulls at his restraints again. “No!”

“Calm the fuck down!” Brock leans in closer. He looks mad. Smells mad too. “This isn’t about you or me. It’s not up to us. Do you think I’d let you touch him if it was?”

“He’s not yours,” Steve grits out. “And I’m not going to touch him.”

Brock huffs. “You wait till those drugs kick in, you’ll be singing a different tune.” He looks at Steve seriously. “And just so you know, he’s already in heat.”

Steve’s eyes widen at that. “What?”

“Yeah. He’s hot and aching and he knows what his mission is. He’s not going to fight it,” Brock says. “But he’s expecting me. He’s expecting someone that he knows to help him feel better. And he’s going to be confused when I bring him in here and tell him that he has to let another alpha fuck him. A stranger. So I need for you to calm down. I don’t want him scared. You and I are going to talk to him together and you’re going to be gentle with him.”

Steve can feel arousal building in himself, and it’s strange to feel that while he’s sitting there next to Rumlow, being told all of this. The chemically-induced rut is coming on fast. “Shit,” he curses, head falling back to the chair behind him. He can feel himself firming up beneath the thin cotton of his sleep pants and he hates that he can’t hide it from Rumlow. “I can’t do this. Please don’t make me do this.”

“Get it together Cap,” Rumlow snaps, unhappy.

“Fuck you!” Steve spits.

Brock sighs. “I was hoping you’d shut up but I can see that’s not going to happen. He crosses the room only to return with a gag in his hands. He forces Steve’s jaw open and presses the ball gag in, saying nothing about the fight Steve puts up. Once it’s secured and Steve is heaving angry breaths at him, Brock says, “I’m going to get him now. If you care about him at all you won’t make this worse for him than it has to be.” He gets up and leaves through the room’s only door and Steve is forced to wait long minutes, panting and sweating at the oncoming rush of a forced rut.

The asset is relieved when its handler comes to retrieve it. It entered its heat hours ago and has had to wait, alone and aching, in the little room. “Come on James,” the handler says when the asset stands from its little cot, and the asset remembers that this is supposed to be its name. He’s never heard it before—not from anyone besides his handler. It's probably invented, but he likes that he uses it. Even if it’s made up, it’s something special between just the two of them.

Now they’ll go to the other room, the one where they always go when he is to be bred. James looks forward to it because he knows it’ll make him feel better. Brock (that’s his handler’s name. He’s allowed to use it when they’re alone) will give him everything he needs, will knot him and hopefully fill him with pups. That’s their mission. So far they’ve been unsuccessful but the asset thinks it’s because his heats used to be so unpredictable. Now he’s been out of cryo long enough that he’s cycling regularly again, his body ready for a pregnancy.

The asset has never thought about reproducing. An assassin doesn’t think of such things, a weapon certainly doesn’t. But James does. James doesn’t mind his new mission. He hasn’t told his handler, but he secretly prefers serving Hydra this way over what he used to do. This way he doesn’t have to go into the cold. And they don’t wipe him. And there’s someone who cares for him—his alpha. Deep down, he secretly likes the idea of having a baby, something that’s his that isn’t garbage or government-issued. Something that’s all his. He doesn’t tell his handler about this either.

They enter the other room and there is someone else there. It’s a man, an alpha. He’s restrained and in rut, that much is clear right away. The asset is nearly knocked back by the abrupt smell of him. Brock notices and laughs, reaching to grab him by the arm and pull him closer. “Easy babe.”

The asset scans his eyes over the man on the chair. He’s big. Tall and muscled, with blond hair and handsome features. He’s clearly upset. He struggles against his bonds as they approach, making useless sounds through the gag in his mouth. The asset looks questioningly at Brock. “Who is he?” He’s not really supposed to ask questions unprompted, but over time he’s learned that it’s okay with his handler, with Brock.

“His name is Captain Rogers,” Brock says. “Former SHIELD operative. He’s an enhanced like you are.”

The asset nods. He was unaware that there were others like himself. There used to be a program, but it had failed. He can remember helping, being tasked with training a group of men and women to make them stronger, better. But they’d gone wild and had been eliminated. The mission had failed.

“We have new orders,” Brock tells him, and this is when he takes his hand, squeezes it reassuringly. James purrs at the contact, moves to begin removing his clothes as is expected of him. But Brock stops him. “Wait, babe.”

The man in the chair growls at the pet name and James whines. He doesn’t want the other alpha to be there. He wants to be naked, in a bed, under his mate. “I’m hot,” he points out. “I need to get undressed.”

“You can,” Brock tells him. He pets the side of James’ face. “But I’m not going to be here with you.”

The asset frowns in confusion. “What?” He doesn’t understand. This is the breeding room. James is in heat. It’s their mission—they’ll be punished if they don’t complete it. The asset tilts his head, baring his neck, trying to show his alpha how ready he is. “Alpha please,” he whines. He’d hit the floor and present if not for the other alpha in the room. “I’m in heat. I need it.”

Brock shushes him, gentles a hand down his side. It feels good but it’s not nearly enough. “I know baby, I know. You’ll get a knot, just not mine.” The asset is confused again, but only for a second. His eyes dart over to where the other alpha is bound. Brock sees this and he nods, “Yeah baby, you’re going to mate with him.”

“What?” A low noise of distress leaves James’ throat, unbidden. He’s not supposed to make noises like that. But Brock never punishes him for such mistakes, not when it’s just the two of them. “No. You’re supposed to do it. You’re my mate,” he says, feeling scared. He’s not supposed to argue with directions. “Alpha?” he says, trying to press his nose into Brock’s neck, trying to ignore the other man in the room. “The mission,” he urges. “Breed me. Put pups in me.”

But Brock just kisses his temple and sets him back firmly. “Sorry babe,” he says. “It’s orders.”

Steve tries to speak through the gag but of course it’s no use.

He is forced to sit there and watch as Rumlow comes into the room with Bucky, holding his hand, for Christ’s sake. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind at all. He makes a pleased sound whenever Brock touches him, and when he calls him pet names. Steve feels his guts lurch at the obvious show of affection between them. He feels jealously flare up in his core like a rabid animal, wanting to kill the other alpha for touching Bucky, for trying to claim the omega that should be his.

That, he knows, is his rut talking. It’s gotten worse in the past ten minutes since Brock left him here, tied to the exam chair and gagged. Steve’s skin itches and his pulse throbs. Between his legs, he’s hard. And now that Bucky has come into the room, now that Steve can smell him, it’s so much worse. Bucky smells like damp, cloying earth. He smells like dark, cramped spaces and tangled up bodies. He smells like something Steve wants to bury his face in and not come up for air from. Steve takes one look at him and feels the urge to chase him, catch him, pin him down come unbidden. All he can do is wiggle ineffectively in his bonds.

In front of him, Brock is telling Bucky that he has to mate with Steve. Steve’s heart clenches when Bucky looks over to him, tense and afraid. His eyes do not hold recognition. Steve listens as Bucky pleads and whines to Brock, calling him his alpha, begging him to breed him instead. And Brock fucking comforts him, pets him and gives him a kiss and tells him it’s okay. Bucky looks like he never wants to leave Brock’s side. Steve clenches his eyes shut at the sight.

“Rogers.”

Steve’s eyes open. Brock is standing right in front of him. Bucky is still hanging back, looking unsure. “You see?” Brock says, and he’s not bragging or gloating or anything. He’s just trying to get Steve to listen. “He’s used to being with me, Cap. He doesn’t know you. Now are you gonna behave if I take that gag out? Not going to upset him?”

Steve glares at Rumlow, but after a moment manages a terse nod. The gag gets removed, and Steve takes a moment to swallow the spit in his mouth, lick his lips and crack his jaw. “Thanks,” he grunts, not feeling at all thankful.

Rumlow nods, chucks the gag away. “I’m not going to let you up from that chair yet,” he tells Steve. “That I’ll do remotely, once I’m out of the room.”

Steve sneers. “What? You afraid to be alone with me?”

Brock raises his eyebrows. “First of all, I’m not alone.” He nods back to Bucky. “I’ve got him. Don’t let his role in our breeding program fool you; he’s still perfectly capable of ending a man with his bare hands. If I give him the order to, that is. Secondly, I’m not going to let you out of that chair while I’m in the room because you’re in rut. A rut that we chemically engineered to match his heat. You’re geared up to attack any alpha that comes near him.”

Steve scoffs. “I’ve got better control than you, animal.”

Brock looks back at Bucky and calls him over, but he calls him James, and that rankles Steve more than anything else yet. “Come here James,” Rumlow says. He holds out his arm and Bucky comes over obediently. “This is Steve. He’s not a big fan of mine, I’m sure you can tell.”

“Bucky,” Steve says urgently. “Bucky I’m not going to hurt you. Okay? Don’t worry.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bucky murmurs to Brock.

Brock glares at Steve. “I told you Cap. He doesn’t know any of that.” Brock pulls Bucky closer, encourages him to go up and touch Steve where he’s restrained to the chair. “Go ahead babe. You heard him: he won’t hurt you. Have a look at him.”

Bucky does. He inches closer until his leg hits the side of the chair. He reaches forward with careful fingers, as if Steve is a wild animal that might bite. Bucky’s eyes are cold and calculating as they pass over Steve, no recognition to them. Not like Steve wants. “He’s healthy,” Bucky murmurs, almost as if he’s afraid to say it. “Strong.” Behind, Brock chuckles a little.

“Yeah he is. Don’t worry though. He won’t be rough on you.” Brock meets Steve’s eyes over Bucky’s head. “I have it on good authority. He’s going to be real gentle.”

Bucky doesn’t react to this, and Steve feels as if he can hardly breathe as Bucky continues to examine him. He touches Steve’s arms, his legs, his chest. Steve is still clothed, but the touches ramp up the desire that the drugs have kickstarted. In his pants, he’s hard as a rock. Bucky leans down and sticks his nose into Steve’s neck, scenting at the glands there. It’s all Steve can do not to moan where he’s sitting, all he can do not to try and thrust his hips up the way his body wants to. After a long inspection, Bucky seems to make up his mind about Steve. He stands back and away, looks to Brock. “He’ll sire good pups. I understand why he’s been chosen.” He nods once to show his obedience in the matter. “I’ll complete the mission.”

Brock smiles at him. “Good boy.”

“Buck you don’t have to do anything these sacks of shit tell you to—”

“Cap,” Rumlow warns, “That ain’t the way. He WILL do what we tell him to. And if you’re resisting, he’ll take you by force. That how you want this to go?”

Steve grimaces at the threat, imagining the absurdity of Bucky raping him. “He should have a choice,” Steve tells Rumlow darkly, hating the man with every fiber of his being. “Does this make you proud?” he asks. “Treating him like a thing? Violating him?” Steve forces himself to meet Rumlow’s eyes in an imploring manner. “You said that you mated him. If that’s true, is this really what you want for him?”

Rumlow shakes his head, looks at Steve as if he’s incredibly thickheaded. “You just don’t get it, do ya Cap?” He walks over, takes a hold of Bucky’s neck and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Steve watches the display with horror, especially once Bucky brings both of his hands up to cradle Rumlow’s jaw. Brock pulls away from Bucky, their lips separating with a pop, and he glares at Steve. “This isn’t about ‘want’. It’s about following orders.” With that he pushes Bucky up to stand close to Steve, turning away before either man can stop him. “Now just shut up, lay back, and get him pregnant,” he throws over his shoulder as he walks out the door.

James tries not to feel anything when his mate leaves the room. He tries to slip back into the mindset of the Asset, a place where feelings are irrelevant. Brock has explained the parameters of the mission, has given the soldier his orders. Now James will execute. He tips his ear towards the door, his enhanced hearing helping him to pick up on the sounds of many intricate locking mechanisms being set. He flicks his gaze back up to the body of the other man—the man they’ve chosen to sire his pups.

James wants to sneer, feels like maybe he does. He shuffles uncomfortably in place, wetness already growing sticky and cool where it’s seeped into the back of his pants. He wonders if Captain Rogers can smell it. Stepping close to the chair where he’s restrained, James examines the mag cuffs that hold him in place. They’re similar to the ones that his handlers use on him. It makes James wonder just how strong this man is. Brock had said he was enhanced. He tilts his head in curiosity.

“… Bucky—”

“Directive clarification,” James calls out to the room, ignoring whatever the Captain had been about to say to him. James doesn’t wait for a response; he knows they’re being watched. “Am I to mount him like this?” he asks, not particularly caring either way. He shouldn’t care about this stranger’s comfort during the act—he’s not Brock. The soldier has his orders and James has no choice. He has to do it. A quick glance shows him what he can already smell: Captain Rogers is fully erect beneath his clothing. On the chair or in a bed, he’ll be easy enough for James to take inside of his body. But a crackle comes through the speakers in the ceiling, echoing Brock’s voice into the room:

“Use the bed if you want. He’s been chemically subdued so he shouldn’t be able to put up much a fight. Releasing mag cuffs in three, two...”

In the next second the restraints on the chair click open, and James turns back in time to see Captain Rogers pulling his arms away from the chair. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side. His bare feet touch the floor but he remains perched on the chair’s edge. For the first time, James realizes that the Captain is dressed in sleeping clothes. A standard issue tee shirt and cotton pants are all he wears. “Bucky,” he says again, holding out an arm in James’ direction. It is unclear if the gesture is meant to beckon James closer or to keep him at bay. James is not unaware that, omega or not, he presents a threatening image to most men. With this in mind he narrows his stance, draws his shoulders down to seem as small and nonthreatening as possible. Hopefully this will keep the Captain from trying to do something as counterproductive as running, or fighting.

“I realize you don’t recognize me, but don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Steve.

James blinks at him. He takes stock of the situation. Captain Rogers—Steve—has been made aware of his role in the breeding program. He’s been given his orders just like James has, but he’s resisting. James can smell it on him, the warring scents of desire and disgust. James steps closer, tilting his head to the side once he’s just in front of him. “Smell that?” he asks, being sure to keep his eyes cast down. The Captain’s hands are clenched tightly by his sides as James bares his neck in a submissive gesture. “Come on,” he says as gently as he can. “Alpha?”

“Don’t,” Steve bites out. He sounds pained. “Don’t call me that Buck.”

James bites his cheek, thinking he may just have to use physical force if this man won’t listen. “You’re in forced rut,” he says, trying again. “That can’t feel good.”

Steve huffs an abortive laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’re flushed,” James tells him. There is perspiration all along the collar of Steve’s tee. “And you’re hot. Burning-up-inside hot. Believe me I know how it feels. When you’re so desperate that you’re miserable?” He reaches for the hem of his own shirt, pulls it quickly over his head. He knows that the movement makes his scent burst into the air. Now his top half is exposed and James has to hold in the sigh that wants to come at the relief of having that much less clothing on his body. He tosses his shirt aside. In front of him, Steve’s nostrils are flaring. “It doesn’t have to be like that,” he tells him, “You can have me. It’ll help.”

Steve’s fingers sink into the chair’s cushion, little bits of foam padding ripping out and falling to the floor. His scent is soaring—a deep, rich scent like copper and burnt wood. James grits his teeth at the sudden urge to drop and present. He slowly reaches out with his flesh hand and touches Steve’s thigh. “Why are you afraid?” he asks. It’d be nice to know. Everyone always seems to know more than he does…

“I can’t hurt you like this Buck. I just can’t.”

James shushes him, ignores the continued use of that nonsensical name, Bucky. “You won’t,” he soothes, pulling lightly at the fabric of Steve’s pants in an effort to get him to slide off the chair. “I’m in heat. I’m ready. It won’t hurt.”

Steve scoffs, but he does allow himself to be moved. Standing barefoot, they come eye to eye. “That’s not the kind of hurt I meant.”

James ignores the clench his heart gives as he thinks of Brock. He wonders if his alpha is watching from another room, observing them through a little camera. He hopes not. “Come here,” James says, pulling Steve forward. Steve’s hands find their way to his hips, and James feels more slick rush out of his body at the contact. He whimpers without meaning to. “Scent me,” he says, tilting his head again. He’s pressing up against Steve, their bodies connected from thigh to chest. He can feel the alpha’s erection and he’s certain that Steve can feel his. But that hardly matters as Steve releases an answering growl somewhere in his throat. His head dips down and he buries his nose in the crook of James’ neck. James’ breath leaves him in a satisfied puff. He’s been in heat for nearly twenty-four hours with no relief until now. He’d been expecting Brock, his mate, but the mission has changed.

His body has already decided for him, he realizes. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t Brock. Doesn’t matter that it’s a stranger who’s been selected to put pups in him. James’ body recognizes this Steve for what he is; a strong, virile alpha.

The Asset grabs Steve with his metal hand, pushing him towards the bed before the other man can protest.

Steve stumbles over his own feet, not having been prepared for the rough grab and push of Bucky’s metal arm. He falls gracelessly back onto the room’s bed with a grunt. Bucky doesn’t give him time to recover. He’s there in a flash, one hand planted in the center of Steve’s chest and the other yanking down his pants. Bucky tosses them to the floor and reaches for Steve’s shirt. But Steve isn’t having it. He grabs Bucky’s arms and attempts to fight him. They grapple for all of three seconds before Bucky has him pinned, and Steve is panting furiously. The drugs make him so much weaker than before. With Bucky’s metal arm in play he doesn’t stand a chance. Begging is all he’s got left, it seems. “Please,” he says, staring imploringly. “You don’t want to do this.”

Bucky ignores him completely. He rips Steve’s tee shirt down the front like it’s paper, pulls it off of him and throws it somewhere in the general vicinity of where the pants had gone. Leaning forward over Steve’s now-naked body, he gives a very un-omega like growl. “Stay down.” He stands up and divests himself of the boots he’s wearing, then his pants.

Of course Steve doesn’t listen. He manages to prop himself up by the time Bucky’s taking his underwear off, and the scent that hits Steve then is so strong it makes him clench his eyes shut. “Fuck.” He can’t look at Bucky, he can’t or he’ll lose his shit. The bed dips and Steve jerks as Bucky pulls him to lie down again, too much naked skin pressed up along his own. “Bucky, don’t—” He’s cut off by lips crashing down on his own. Bucky wastes no time in forcing his way, mouthing and biting at Steve to make him open up. His hands pull at Steve’s hair and he fucks his tongue lewdly into his mouth. A garbled noise that probably would have been a moan had it been allowed to form leaves Steve, his hands grabbing the first part of Bucky they can find—his hips. Steve pulls on Bucky, whether to bring him closer or push him away he’s not sure, but he winds up tugging the other man fully atop him, and the second Steve feels him start rolling his hips downwards, he’s lost.

Bucky breaks the kiss, pulling away. Steve opens his eyes to see the omega staring at him, eyes a hard grey. He’s still fucking downwards, rubbing himself off against the crest of Steve’s groin, and his breath has become harsh. “This is our mission,” he breathes, sounding rough and desperate. “We have to. You have to.”

Steve feels sickness rise up and mingle with the desperation of his rut again. “No.”

“Yes.”

Steve repeats the ‘no’ several times more as Bucky continues to writhe against him, but his hands don’t loosen their hold on Bucky’s hips, and he doesn’t try to push Bucky off of him. “I can’t.”

Bucky makes an angry sound in his throat and yanks Steve’s head back with the grip he has on his hair. It’s his metal hand and it hurts. “You don’t have a choice,” he says. Steve growls at the dominant gesture, his hindbrain urging him to put the omega in his place. But Bucky leans closer again. For a second Steve thinks he’s going to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He puts his lips to Steve’s ear, the dark length of his hair falling around them. “Don’t make me take it,” he whispers, sounding desperate. His hips have not stopped moving. “Please. Alpha. You’re supposed to give it to me. Take me. Don’t make me do it.”

Steve groans. There’s nothing worse that Bucky could have said. He’s in heat, and Steve’s in rut, and now he’s calling Steve Alpha and begging Steve to mate with him the way that he wants it; to take him the way an alpha should take their omega. Steve opens his eyes to find Bucky staring at him once again, only this time his eyes are soft and his brow is pinched—pleading. He looks more like the Bucky that Steve remembers, and Steve can’t ignore the urge within himself to make that pleading look go away, to satisfy.

He flips them over. The only reason he’s able to do it is because he takes Bucky completely by surprise. Bucky’s eyes go wide for a moment, assessing a threat, before he realizes the move for what it is and he relaxes and purrs. Steve doubts himself immediately. He brings his hands to Bucky’s face, pleased when he’s not pushed away and Bucky fucking bends his neck to expose himself. “Alpha,” Bucky whines, but Steve’s not having it.

“You listen to me,” he says angrily, using the last goddamn piece of himself that he has left to convey seriousness in his tone. Bucky stares at him obediently and Steve swallows. “They don’t wipe my memory, got it? You may not remember me, but I remember you. And I won’t hurt you. I hurt you, you have to tell me. If you want to stop, you tell me. Got it?”

James frowns, even in his lust-ridden brain he knows he does. This stranger—no, some distant and unreachable part of his mind corrects, not a stranger—Steve—is referencing the wipes, is telling him that they’ve met before. James can’t disprove such a claim. He wonders if this Captain Rogers was once his handler, or possibly a target. He wonders if “Bucky” was his call sign then. Steve is still staring intently at him, waiting for his answer, and James shakes his head to get the thoughts to go away. They’re not important, not relevant to the mission. If his promise is all the Captain needs, then it means nothing to James to give it. “You won’t hurt me,” he says again, thinking that the alpha above him is stupid to imagine that he could, but adds, “I’ll tell you if you do.”

That seems to settle it for Steve. He comes down and kisses James’ forehead, leaves his lips to linger there in a manner that makes James distinctly uncomfortable—as if they are old friends, or family even. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Turn over.”

James flips, never having obeyed an order so quickly. He tries to push himself up to present but with Steve’s heavy weight at his back he can’t do it. Behind, he can feel the alpha’s hardness pressing between his cheeks and it makes him whine needily. This may be a mission, but he’s still been left wanting and unfulfilled for close to going on twenty four hours now. There are no feelings of doubt or discontent with the situation that James needs to force down to be a good soldier. He’s allowed to want this, and he does. “Alpha,” he urges when Steve doesn’t move to penetrate him. “Please. Now, please.”

He can feel the exact moment when Steve gives in. His hands are clamped tightly on James’ wrists to keep him still, but when James nearly begs to be fucked it seems to push the alpha off whatever edge of hesitance he’s still managing to hang onto. James can feel Steve’s cock on his ass as he allows himself to thrust at last. The teasing slide is made easier by the slick that’s gathered there. James groans in frustration, rubbing his face into the bed and fairly suffocating himself as he waits for the other man to get on with it and get inside of him. He’s aching for it, for the stretch and pressure of an alpha’s cock, for a knot. He knows he’ll start yelling in a moment if Steve doesn’t DO SOMETHING.

But he does, and James doesn’t have to yell at him after all. Steve presses up onto his arms, the sweaty warmth of his chest leaving James’ back. He positions himself, bumping against James’ hole, and it’s a relief that he forgoes the unnecessary gesture of using fingers first—James is sure he would snap at him if he tried. Steve presses inside, entering him slowly but never stopping until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with James’ ass. It’s not hard to take him in. James’ body is slick and ready for it and he groans lowly into the bed at the sheer relief of it. “Yesss,” he hisses, and turns his head as much as he can to look back at Steve. The man looks about as gone for it as James feels, and a dark thrill shoots through him at the thought that he’s about to be taken just the way he wants to be. Fucked and bred just the way his body is crying out for. It may not be Brock, but James has decided not to think about that. All he can think about in his current state is Steve; the smell of him, the feel of him, even the sounds he makes, it all feels too perfectly satisfying. Maybe it has something to do with the barrage of drugs the techs had shot him up with yesterday. Maybe. He’s not supposed to care though, and he doesn’t. He tries to thrust his hips backwards, wanting movement and having no idea how the other man can bear to hold so still now that they’re connected. There’s nowhere to go with Steve pinning him down at the hips, but he knows the Alpha feels him squirming, recognizes it for the request that it is. “Move,” James says, sounding more demanding than a good omega should. “God just…”

Steve has a hand in his hair and his nose in his neck before James can finish the sentence. A very low growl, almost a feeling more than a sound, is coming out steadily from his chest. It makes goosebumps break out on James’ arms. “Are you telling me what to do?” Steve asks.

Against the bed, Bucky’s mouth splits in a smug grin. This is what he wanted, what Brock would’ve done. At the height of his heats, all the asset wants, all James wants, is to be taken. To be held down and owned. James strains to look back over his shoulder. The angle is awkward but he ignores it, fixing Steve with what he hopes is a challenging stare. If he has to goad the alpha into a more feral headspace to get things done, then by god that’s exactly what he’ll do. “I came here to get fucked, so yeah, I am. Move,” he bites out, hoping that it will spur Steve into action. It does. He pulls out, ignoring James’ cry of protest. His big hands slide down to his hips and he gets onto his knees behind him. James follows, pressing back and presenting. He can feel Steve’s hands pulling him apart, baring his hole. There is silence and James knows without having to look that Steve is just staring at him. The thought of it makes him shudder. He presses his face into the bedding and whines.

“God,” Steve exclaims softly, dragging a thumb across his leaking hole. “You’re soaked.”

James cannot stop whining low, needy omega sounds. Then he feels the blunt head of Steve’s cock at his entrance and he moans. “Yes,” he hisses, though it’s muffled against the sheets. He presses his ass back harder, and that causes Steve to pop inside of him. The alpha grunts in surprise, but then he’s right back to thrusting, this time faster. Just as deep though, and god, if that isn’t exactly what James wants. “Oh, hugn—oh!” The noises he’s making are obscene but James hardly notices. They seem to drive Steve on, his hips slapping harder each time he moans particularly loud.

It goes on like this until James reaches for his own cock. He only gets a couple of strokes in before Steve is knocking his hand away. James cries out indignantly but then Steve pulls out, flips him over and pushes right back in. He wraps his hand around James’ cock, hips working at the same pace as his hand. He’s staring down at James with a burning intensity, breath heavy with his efforts. “Mine,” he growls, giving a calculated twist on the upstroke.

James’ eyes roll back in his head. “Ugh, fuuck.” It’s incredible and nothing he’s used to. No alpha has ever done this for him before, always leaving it to him to take care of. He can hardly thrust into the grip very well when he’s being fucked as hard as he is, but damn if he doesn’t try. “Please,” he groans, grappling at Steve’s shoulders for something to hold onto. He hardly knows what he’s asking for. The alpha is sweaty above him and James’ hands glide over the muscles in his back. “Please, Steve,”

Steve’s eyes shoot to his at the use of his name. Something raw and more intense than what they’re doing now passes through them, and before James knows what’s happening he’s being kissed. It’s not gentle. It’s plying, and insistent, and needy. God, is it needy. Steve is kissing him like it’s the answer to something and all James can do is go along for the ride.

“Bucky,” Steve is grunting at him when he finally parts enough to speak. James knows he’s speaking to him, so he opens his eyes to the nonsensical name. He doesn’t really care what this man calls him, so long as he never stops. “Buck I’m gonna,” Steve tells him, brow sweaty and pinched. “I have to.”

James groans, feeling how true the alpha’s words are. His knot is growing, tugging more insistently with every thrust. When it feels like Steve might pull away at the last second, James wraps his arms and legs around him in a fierce hold. “No,” he begs. “Inside me. I need it.” He’s not thinking even a little bit about the mission now, only the ache inside him. It’s an ache only a knot will fix, and he whimpers this to Steve as he holds him. “Knot me. Alpha, please. Want to feel it. Fill me up. Breed me.”

Steve makes a filthy sound and shoves forward, groaning long and low into James’ ear. His knot catches, fully blown as he climaxes. His hand has stopped moving over James’ cock but it hardly matters now. He’s rocking his hips shallowly, pulling his knot taut against James’ rim, pulsating it over his prostate again and again and again. James doesn’t need anything else to make him come spectacularly.

“Why do you torture yourself like this?”

Brock doesn’t turn around from the observation window. He figures Rollins is just here to taunt him anyway. “Nobody asked you to come in here,” he says quietly, attention still fixed on the pair in the next room.

“Yeah well…” Rollins comes up and stands right next to Brock, eyes taking in the same sight. “I was curious.” When Brock says nothing, he adds, “Looks like they’re finished.”

Brock scoffs and turns abruptly from the window, putting his back to it. “They’re not fucking finished.” Idiot, he wants to add. He scrubs his hands over his face and it occurs to him that he needs to shave. “That was just round one.” Brock doesn’t know about Rogers, but he is intimately familiar with his own omega’s stamina during a heat. “They’ll be in there for a good two days at least.”

“And you’re just going to stand here and watch?” Rollins rolls his eyes. “Stupid.”

“I can’t do anything else,” Brock snaps, irritated at his friend. “You’ve never been bonded. You wouldn’t understand.”

“No?”

“No.” He sighs. “You think what? It’s just jealousy?” He shakes his head. “I could handle that. But this… It’s like a physical ache.” He turns slightly to glance through the window again, thinks better of it, and turns back around. “Can’t stand it.”

“Can’t do anything to change it.” Rollins points out. “You never should’ve gotten so close. He’s just a thing, and at the end of the day he’s Hydra’s thing, not yours.”

“Yeah.” Brock really doesn’t have it in him to argue that point. He wants to, but he doesn’t. It isn’t like he doesn’t wish he could set the poor SOB free. But that’s never going to happen, and playing house with his bonded for the last six months has just been wishful thinking. “They still going at it?” he asks, unwilling to turn around and look again. He wasn’t exactly getting off on the sight before.

Rollins looks. “Naw. Resting.”

Brock grits his teeth, can’t keep the image of that goddamn super soldier, tied to his mate, out of his head.

“You think it’ll take?”

“Christ Rollins, you just don’t quit. Of course it will.” Pretty soon he’ll have to see the soldier, heavy with a litter of his pups. He hates it. Hates it more than anything.

Rollins shrugs and claps a hand onto Brock’s shoulder. “Don’t stay in here.” Another glance back. “He’s obviously not going to hurt ‘im. Leave them to it. Come and have a drink with me.”

Brock looks at Rollins then and really considers him. He calls him his friend, but the truth is the two of them are just the same as the Winter Soldier—property of Hydra. It’s taken years for him to realize it, but it’s true. Still, Rollins is offering him a drink now, and even more than that, a temporary escape. It’s the closest thing to friendly Brock’s ever gotten from the other man, and he figures it’s the best he’s going to get for a while. He might as well go. Because Rollins is right; he never should have gotten so close.

Brock sighs and nods at Rollins. Tells him, “Yeah. Yeah I think I will.”

Masterlist

🍵Extra funds? Consider tipping your local starving artist smut author!

💖To be added to any of my tag lists, please use This form (it's easy!)

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

@scottishrosefury, @not-that-syndrigast, @lolitsbuckybarnes, @kathy-2005, @stuckysgal, @thenewmissescullen, @sapphirebarnes, @Yoruse, @autumnrose40, @alexakeyloveloki

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #stucky #steve rogers #fanfiction #steve rogers x bucky barnes #fanfic #fuck or die #breeding program #winter soldier #hydra #captain hydra #dark fanfic #brock rumlow #captured whumpee #angst #bucky x steve #hurt/comfort #forced drugging #a/b/o #alpha steve rogers #omega bucky barnes #alpha/beta/omega au #omegaverse

[echoingalaxies]

Captured Whumpee overhears Whumper making a ransom call to their team, asking them for a certain price, and the team at the other end of the line starts negotiating, only offering ridiculously low sums.

The call ends with no agreement, only the team telling Whumper they'll "think about it" after Whumper announces their final offer.

Whumpee pulls their knees to their chest and hugs their legs tightly, trying not to cry.

They know the fact that their team didn't make a deal with Whumper isn't about money - they possess a lot of money, and could've easily paid what Whumper was asking for even at the very beginning. Whumpee could be on their way home already, and it wouldn't have affected the team financially all that much. They'd earn the money back with only a few missions.

It's about them, and that to their team, they're not worth it.

#bad caretaker(s) #team whump #captured whumpee #abandoned whumpee #whump prompts #whump prompt #whump ideas #whump scenario #writing prompt #writing prompts #whumpee #whumper #whump #whumpblr #whump tropes #whump trope

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee's been kidnapped and dragged down a hall. They're forced back on their feet and pushed towards a wide open door.

"Come in, dear. Don't be shy." A voice lulls for them. A guard shoves them in as they stumble through the door and collapse on their hands and knees. A chuckle rings above them as whumpee raises their head to a whumper they know has a deadly reputation.

"There you are, I've been looking for you." They smiled, trying to coax them to come closer.

"St-stay away from me." Whumpee quivered and tried to stand up. Whumper grabbed them by their shirt collar and yanked them back on their knees.

"I'd lose the attitude. How much I like you is how long you get to live." 

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump scenario #whumper scenario #controlling whumper #whump prompt #kidnap whump #kidnap prompt #kidnapped whumpee #defiant whumpee #whump angst #captured whumpee #abused whumpee #whump drabble #whump tropes #possessive whumper

[whump-queen]

a hero coming to a villains compound, surrendering themselves, their friends dead and gone, they’re giving up, falling to their knees, head bowed, wrists held aloft in surrender.

#SURRENDER IS HOT #hero villian #whump prompt #hero whump #whump scenario #surrender #akia.txt #idfk tags #captured whumpee #hero whumpee #no punctuation it’s fucken whump poetry time over here letsgoo

[abhainnwhump]

Putting your characters in a kidnapping scenario is a great way to practice characterization because there are just so many ways you can take being kidnapped. Are they terrified and crying? Or calm and determined? Screaming and yelling curses or making jokes? How about begging for mercy? Immediately getting violent?

And when/if they break, how does their behavior change? You can have a character start calm and collected and turn paranoid after weeks or months in captivity. Iconically, take your defiant and cocky character and make them scared and meek. Take the sweet innocent character and turn them into a monster. How would your OC develop if they were in a problem like this?

My closing statement is, test your characters. Like a geode, you need to break it to see the gems inside.

#i saw this mentioned in a video I was listening too and wanted to make a post about it #whump #whump prompt #whump writing #whumpblr #whump tropes #defiant whumpee #broken whumpee #characterization #writing help #captive whumpee #captured whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #whumpee prompt #whump scenario #whump ideas #whump thoughts #writing thoughts #character thoughts

[shywhumpauthor]

A gun pressed to a feverish Whumpee’s forehead, but they’re so delirious and the cold feels so good against their flushed skin, they can’t help but lean into it, much to Whumper’s shock or delight.

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #its me coal #coal wrote something #whumpee #whumper #whump prompt #whump prompts #creepy whumper #captured whumpee #captivity whump #intimate whumper #writing prompt #whump drabble #kidnapped whumpee #abused whumpee #gun whump #writing prompts #whump trope #whump tropes #whump idea #whump ideas #pet whump #whump fic #prompt #writing ideas #whump things #whump scenario

[whumpshots]

Whump ABC #11 - Knife to throat

Based on the results of this poll.

_

"And now we wait," whumper whispers into whumpee's ear, holding them in place with an arm wrapped around their waist, a knife held to their throat.

Whumpee feels the cold blade against their skin and tries to stop themselves from moving and struggling, a thing cut already bleeding from previous struggles.

Their team is on their way, but whumper hides behind whumpee, making it impossible to shoot them without hitting whumpee. Depending on what they plan to do, whumper has enough time to cut whumpee's throat.

"Drop your weapons," whumper shouts and makes whumpee flinch in their grasp, the knife even closer to their skin now. "Drop your weapons or I'll cut their throat," they add and hold whumpee closer to them.

"Shoot them," whumpee whimpers and closes their eyes as they feel the cold blade draw blood again. "Shoot them, I'm not worth it."

#whump #whump writing #whump drabble #whumpee #whumper #captivity #knife to throat #captured whumpee #knife to the throat #whump trope #whump prompt #poll results #whump abc #whumpshots #a day later because i forgot to schedule lmao

[whump-is-love-whump-is-life]

What about a hero whumpee currently captured by the villain whumper, and villain gives them a scar for each person killed by villain or their henchmen {or just non-natural cod} while hero’s there.

Of course, it’s not actually their fault but nevertheless; the hero blames themself for each death and it’s only reinforced by the villain cooing “you deserve it.” right in their ear as they cut each and every scar

#and don’t even get me started on the potential aftermath #oh bonus if someone they care about dies #anyways #my posts #my whump #my prompts #whump #how do I tag this #tw victim blaming #in a way #hero whumpee #villain whumper #captured whumpee #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #ah. heroes who blame themselves for everything… #what no I have no one specific in mind— #nope

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 10: Hypothermia

TW: bonds, hypothermia, punishment

Whumpee’s teeth shattered as Whumper marched them through the cold, snow-covered forest. Although the sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds, the failing light told Whumpee it was growing late. Whumpee’s bare feet ached from walking on the snow, their wrists burned from the course ropes binding them together.

Whumper didn’t slow once, not even when Whumpee stumbled over a hidden tree root and pitched forward, unable to use their arms to catch themself. Whumper only glanced over their shoulder at the fallen Whumpee and ordered them to stand. Whumpee, now sporting bruises on their right elbow and shoulder, had no choice but to obey or be dragged in the snow by the rope in Whumper’s hand.

Finally, the dense thicket of trees opened up, revealing a vast lake, completely frozen. Whumper didn’t hesitate, leading Whumpee out onto the ice. Whumpee barely noticed the change in terrain; their feet were so numb they felt less like feet and more like blocks of ice attached to their ankles.

When they reached the center of the frozen lake, Whumper stopped and studied the ice below, nodding to themself. 

“Wh—what are—what are we—are we—do—ing—doing here?” Whumpee stuttered out, teeth chattering so much it made speaking nearly impossible.

Whumper fixed them with a flat, disapproving stare that made Whumpee want to curl up and wilt. “This,” they said, voice as cold and lifeless as the snow, “is your punishment for defying me. I do not allow tolerance for disobedience.”

Whumpee’s eyes flicked from Whumper to the frozen lake. “B—b—b—!”

“Shut up!” Whumper snapped, eyes flashing in anger. They drew the long, sharp dagger they always kept at their side and raised it high in the air. Whumpee cringed back, apology already forming on their quivering lips.

But instead of striking Whumpee, Whumper plunged the blade deep into the ice. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, creaking and splitting underneath Whumpee’s feet. They cried out as, with a large crack, the ice beneath them gave way, plunging them into the unforgiving waters below.

The shock of how cold it was overwhelmed Whumpee, forcing the air in their lungs out in a spray of bubbles. They sank like a stone in the freezing water until the rope binding them to Whumper jerked up, keeping them from going further down. Realizing their lack of air, Whumpee tried to kick their legs, but they only moved lethargically, unable to propel them against gravity.

Panic began to set in as the cold seemed to seep into Whumpee’s bones, their blood, their very soul began to freeze over. And they couldn’t get air. The dark waters seemed to grow even darker, and everything grew numb and faded.

Whumpee barely noticed when Whumper yanked them out of the freezing water onto dry, solid ice. They slowly blinked the water out of their eyes and stared at Whumper, shivering violently. Why did they look so angry?

“See this,” Whumper hissed, “as an example of what will happen if you invoke my wrath.”

“...I’m…I’m…s…sorry…” Whumpee mumbled through unfeeling lips with a tongue they weren’t entirely sure existed anymore.

Whumper glared down at them for a few long heartbeats before they turned and marched back to their stronghold, dragging Whumpee along behind them.

Part 2 >

#merry whumpmas #my writing #whump #whump scenario #whumpee #whumper #sadistic whumper #captured whumpee #hypothermia #hypothermia whump #punishment whump

[squishablesunbeam]

Consequence of Action: Collared

This whole thing took on a bit of an outside perspective. Not sure why my brain did that but I hope you like! Continued bits from Consequence of Action series :)

CW: captured whumpee, mentions of beating, execution of side characters, collared, allusion to noncon, would be multiple whumpers, all the science inaccuracies in space

It had been hours since Thompson had caught him hacking into the ship's systems and unceremoniously bashed his head into the console. Still, Quinn remembered finishing and executing the program that would override the system and give Murphy's crew all the access they needed take down the Captain. He had managed to do his part at least, before being taken out of the fight and tossed into a cell. No one else had been brought into the brig with him so, at first, he held onto hope that it had been enough. That the plan was solid and Murphy had overthrown the Captain. But that felt like a long time ago now, and Murphy had yet to come for him.

Quinn's arms ached from being tied behind his back for so long and his head was throbbing. He'd managed to drag himself up the wall and onto his feet. He needed to move. They had been gearing up for this moment for months. Careful planning and precise timing had led them to this moment and Quinn refused to just sit on his ass while the others fought for all of their lives. He was useless in the cell, so he paced. All that unspent energy slowly morphed into a quiet, knowing panic that rooted itself deep in his gut.

It was one thing to know you were going to die, to accept that fact, but it was another to have to wait in dreaded anticipation for it to actually happen. Quinn pictured the many ways the Captain would do it. Execution by beheading? That was rather grand. Shot in the head? Maybe? A lot for the rest of the crew to clean up. Beaten to death? Possibly. In the end, the airlock was the most likely choice. He could do it. When the Captain's men come for him, he'd walk down the hall with his head held high. He'd let himself be led into the airlock and force himself to look straight into the Captain's cruel, evil fucking eyes.

He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't scream.

Quinn envisioned it a hundred times, preparing himself, before the door finally opened. He spun toward the sound of the door, his vision spinning along with him but he planted his feet firmly and stood his ground.

The tiny ember of hope that had remained died out in a quick burst of fury when it was the Captain that strolled into the brig instead of Murphy.

This was it. He was a dead man.

The Captain looked worse for wear. He had dried blood all down his neck and soaked into the hem of his shirt from a deep gash on his cheek. His hair was a mess and he looked like he'd been in the fight of his life. Quinn couldn't help the smirk that tugged up his lips.

“On your knees,” the Captain ordered.

Quinn huffed out a surprised breath, “Fuck you.”

–

They'd been sealed up in the airlock for hours. Still, every single one of Murphy's crew remained on their feet in defiance of these cowards that refused to just get it over with already and pull that damn lever that would send them to their deaths. They leaned heavily on one other, bloodied and broken, defeated, but by god, they would die on their feet.

Murphy was proud of each and every one of his crew. They had lost, spectacularly, but they'd fought hard.

He grunted as he tried to straighten up a bit and take some of his own weight off of Martinez's shoulder. She tightened her hold on the waistband of his pants, effectively holding him up on his feet. He squeezed her arm, hoping to convey something along the lines of, he didn't know really... thank you, I'm sorry, we're so royally fucked and it's my fault, it was worth it. He wasn't sure how to convey that much weight through a single death grip on her arm but he was pretty sure she got the message.

Murphy's leg pulsed, blood still trickling in rivulets from the wound Jackson had stabbed deep into the meat of his thigh. He figured he would die soon anyway by the heavy weight of blood soaking into his pants. He might as well go out with the few friends he had left in the feigned glory of an execution. They'll go out like sailors on this beloved, godforsaken ship of theirs and it will all be worth it. He wasn't sure how that could possibly be true, but he knew that trying and failing still mattered, somehow, in the end.

He glanced through the thick glass that separated his crew from the Captain's. The others stood in a lazy half circle around the glass of the airlock, waiting for the show with something akin to rabid glee. All except one. Murphy took his time taking in the measure of the man that would seal their fate. Sure, it was the Captain that would give the order, but it was Security Officer Collins that would heft that damn lever and suck all of the oxygen out of their lungs. And he would do it without blinking an eye.

Murphy had underestimated the man.

He knew that now.

He'd been afraid that Collins' time spent in the wars would have instilled in him a kind of honor that would be particularly offended by the overthrowing of his captain. Well, Murphy was right about that part, but he thought of Collins as a good man underneath all that blind duty and honor bullshit. Murphy will admit, he was hoping that Collins would, bare minimum, stand by and let it happen. He had to know that it was the right thing to do in the end. It turned out, Murphy had overestimated Collins' moral code and underestimated the man's effectiveness.

That was his first and second mistake.

Collins was a brutal and efficient soldier. He had almost single-handedly quelled the uprising in the battle that followed the first power outage on deck. Quinn had locked the Captain's crew out of all the consoles and sealed the doors to the armory. Murphy was certain the lack of weaponry and the element of surprise alone would turn the battle in their favor. His delusions were shattered when Murphy personally witnessed Collins taking out at least 5 of his crew in hand to hand combat and utilizing the close quarters of the ship's halls to his advantage. He'd made quick work of Murphy's best fighters and had them dead or on their knees in what couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes.

It was impressive.

God, if only he'd been on their side, they most certainly would have won. They had started with fifteen people willing to fight, and die, to overthrow the Captain and his ranks. Only six were left. Six good, decent members of Murphy's crew, forced into the airlock and shoved to their knees and there Collins stood, eyes front with his hand on the lever.

The ever dutiful soldier.

Murphy's gaze caught sight of the outer door to the chamber opening. He couldn't hear anything through the reinforced glass except for the exhausted breathing and barely contained hisses of pain from his own people. Everything outside those thick windows was silent. He drew in a sharp breath when the Captain stalked through the door dragging a bloodied man by his hair.

Seven. Seven of his crew had survived.

“Quinn.”

Murphy felt those around him tense as the man was dropped onto the floor and crumbled into a bloody heap. His hands were bound behind his back with what looked like wire and he'd taken a hell of a beating. Murphy held his breath, his heart swelling with pride, when Quinn slowly folded his knees under himself and tried to stand. The rebellion would never had made it off the ground if it wasn't for Quinn. The man was brilliant. He had a head for strategy that Murphy truly didn't expect and he knew all the ins and outs of the communication and security systems like the back of his hand. He had done his job expertly.

It was Murphy that had failed. It was Murphy that had gotten them all killed.

Quinn didn't make it far off the floor.

The Captain kneed Quinn in his ribs and the collective gasps of his crew in the chamber almost tricked Murphy's mind into thinking he could actually hear Quinn grunt in pain. The man folded in on himself. Murphy watched as Quinn grit his bloody teeth and quickly fought to straighten back up again. The Captain placed a single hand to his shoulder and it stopped his ascent this time. Quinn slumped, staying on his knees and silently gasping for breath.

The man was clearly struggling to stay conscious. Blood was oozing down his face from a gash up in his hairline but he managed to drag his head up and his eyes cleared the moment he saw Murphy through the glass. Quinn's eyes widened as understanding dawned on him that some of his people were still alive. Alive, and waiting for Quinn before they would be put to their death. His gaze darted over to Collins standing by the lever that would open the airlock and then back to Murphy again. Murphy saw the muscle in Collins' jaw jump but that was the only indication that he had any feelings at all about the impending executions.

Murphy took a small, careful step forward, his hand reaching out to Martinez for balance. He could see Quinn visibly trying to steel himself, preparing himself to be tossed in with the rest of them. Willing himself to be brave in the face of every sailors greatest fear.

“I'm sorry,” Murphy whispered, to Quinn, to his crew, to all those that the Captain would continue to hurt in their absence. He watched as Quinn actually had the audacity to smirk. He gave a half shrug as if he was saying, “hey, we did our best.”

Murphy smiled back.

Quinn grunted as the hand on his shoulder pressed him down, forcing his back to round and he hung his head, unable to keep it up any longer. Murphy could feel the eyes of the Captain on him and he finally relented, looking at the man that would order them to their collective deaths.

What he saw in that man's eyes, he didn't understand it, but it turned his blood cold.

A smirk of his own crossed the Captain's face as he revealed what looked like some sort of metal contraption out from behind his back.

“Captain? Lewis, what are you-” Murphy shook his head, limping himself another step forward as if he could actually reach the men not two feet in front of him. His words turned to ash in his throat as the Captain's hand that was pressing down on Quinn's shoulder dragged up the man's neck and grabbed under his chin.

“No,” Murphy swallowed bile.

–

Something in the room had changed.

Quinn dragged his face against his shoulder, trying to get the blood out of his eyes before forcing himself to lift his head and look at Murphy. A strange look had come over his friend's face and Quinn cocked his head. His expression had morphed from anger and brave defiance to what Quinn could only describe as repulsed horror? Quinn felt the firm grip on his shoulder loosen to almost gentle as it slid up the side of his neck and Quinn watched Murphy mouth the word “no” as a shiver crept through his own body.

Quinn startled back and slammed right into the Captain's legs when Murphy took two steps and kicked out at the thick glass separating them. Fingers tightened painfully around Quinn's chin but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Murphy. He was screaming without sound, fury turning his angry face red as he repeatedly kicked the glass. Quinn could see blood pumping from a wound on Murphy's thigh and he wanted to tell him to stop. He felt like it was all happening in some slow motion nightmare, the kind where you weren't entirely in control of your own body. He couldn't fight it when the hand gripping his chin forced his head up and he had to tear his eyes away from Murphy and look up at the Captain.

The volume in the room suddenly became far too loud. The Captain's men whooped and groaned out sounds that didn't make sense to Quinn.

He'd missed something.

“You hear me, boy?”

Quinn ground his teeth, hissing when the Captain tightened his grip on his chin.

“I'm not a fucking boy,” Quinn spit out, shifting his legs underneath him with every intention of standing. Then, the Captain's thumb brush through the blood that trickled down the side of Quinn's mouth and swiped over his bottom lip.

Quinn froze.

“Captain?” Someone said over Quinn's shoulder, but with one look from the Captain, he was silent again.

The Captain lifted his other hand and held something out in front of him. Quinn could hear the sound of the glass trembling slightly. He could practically feel Murphy throwing the full force of his body at the glass but he didn't dare look away. In the Captain's hand, was a collar. There was no other word for it. Two pieces of metal slid smoothly into one another, a lot like handcuffs, and there was even a slot for a key where the two pieces locked together.

“What-?” Quinn mumbled, confused. Why the fuck did he have a collar? Before another horrifying thought was able to pass through his mind, the Captain fisted his hair and dragged him onto his feet. He felt his body slam into the glass and an arm pressed against the back of his neck, and suddenly, he was face to face with Murphy.

A thread of fear unlike any Quinn had ever felt before unfurled itself throughout his body.

“Murphy?” Quinn stupidly said in a numb panic.

He didn't understand what this was. Why wasn't he being marched into the airlock with the rest of his crew? Why the fuck did the Captain have a fucking collar?

Murphy's face twisted in desperate, sobbing rage. Quinn felt the reverberation of the glass against his chest as Murphy kicked out at it uselessly before he finally gave up, his own chest heaving in frantic breaths.

He'd never seen Murphy look so defeated before. It didn't make any sense. Murphy was strong, idealistic. He was honorable. Murphy always held onto hope for a better world, if we could just stand up a little more for what was right. If we just fought back.

“Quinn,” he watching Murphy's mouth move, “Don't fight him, Quinn.”

Quinn swallowed the fear that boiled up into his throat. Even if he could hear Murphy's words he wouldn't have understood them.

Cool metal touched the back of Quinn's neck and that thread of fear ignited. Quinn jerked his head back, connecting solidly with something that felt very much like bone. Hands left his body just as more hands seized him and pressed him into the glass. He twisted and kicked out at anything he could find.

Quinn felt his body weakening as bodies pressed his own against the glass. Murphy just stood and watched. Quinn hated that he was the one to put that look on Murphy's face. He was supposed to be brave, to stand proudly and walk to his own death without fear.

This wasn't the plan.

He again felt the cool metal touch the back of his neck and he recoiled in the hands of the men. A hand pressed his face against the glass and they held him firm as the metal enclosed his throat.

Quinn screamed.

The sound of the lock clicked in some thick, distant part of his mind. This meant something he didn't yet understand. His body felt heavy and almost unreal, separate from his mind in a way he'd never felt before. Quinn realized he had closed his eyes and forced them open again.

Murphy had his forehead pressed to the glass, right over his own. The puffs of their breath fogged up the space between them. He didn't want Murphy to die. Not if he wasn't going to die too. They were supposed to go together. Brothers in arms. Quinn realized that Murphy was saying something again but a horrifyingly alert corner of his mind felt fingers brush up under his shirt and trail across his stomach. The men closed in around him and he felt someone press their lips against the underside of his jaw. He felt the man's stubble drag roughly against his cheek. Another hand was scratching to get their fingers underneath the waistband of his pants.

What was happening?

Quinn couldn't look away. He watched Murphy's face as the Captain muttered a single word...and then another, much louder this time. Quinn couldn't hear it past the thump of his own frantic heart pounding in his ears.

The lever that opened the airlock must have been hefted up because the big, metal doors slid silently open.

It didn't happen like in the movies, with a rush of air that sucked the crew out into the vastness of space. First, the airlock was depressurized. Air hissed out of the room and the crew's mouths opened and closed, gasping for oxygen that was no longer there. The door slid open and the gravity was turned off, their feet lifting slowly off the floor. Murphy was still mouthing words Quinn didn't understand, his mouth only stopping as he slowly passed through the doors with the rest of his crew and drifted off into nothing, leaving Quinn behind.

Quinn heard himself make a terrible, broken sound as the fingers under his shirt flattened against his stomach and he was dragged back away from the glass and into the hands of the crew.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn, @whumplr-reader, @hold-him-down, @monochrome-episode, @dogface3000, @skyhawkwolf, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @maddam-redder, @susiequaz12, @pigeonwhumps, @starlit-darkness

#consequence of action #this story always does what it wants #i hope you like! #collared whumpee #captured whumpee #execution #of side characters #dissociation #beating #noncon touching #allusions to noncon #innocent naïve Quinn in those early days 🥺

[the-forsaken-princess]

Whumper always tending whumpee's wounds after inflicting them, but roughly and just enough to keep them from bleeding out or getting infected to make sure they'll live to go through it all again the next day

#whump #whumpee #whump community #whump prompt #whump roleplay #whumper #whump ideas #whump thoughts #whump things #whump request #captive whumpee #captured whumpee

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee fought at the end of their chain while whumper stood just out of reach. Neither said a word while whumpee struggled in rage.

They were flooded with adrenaline; but slowly they degenerated to weak pulling and tired disgruntles. They sank to their knees out of breath; their chained wrists were bruised blue and one looked broken.

"Good, I'm glad you got that out of your system." Whumper smiled, walking within the chain length and crouched in front of them.

"Now the fun can begin."

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump prompt #kidnapped whumpee #captured whumpee #chained whumpee #restrained whump #defiant whumpee #exhaustion whump #whump angst #whump dialog #whumper dialog #whumper prompt #whump trope #whump scenario

[abhainnwhump]

Whumpee being held alone in a cell, their only comfort being an object that used to belong to Caretaker. A hoodie, a plushie, a treasured book. Caretaker might never come for them, but at least they had this.

OR

Whumpee having their ears pierced by Whumper and wear earrings of the first letter in Caretaker's name, just as a remind for the person they will never see again.

#i had both ideas and thought they would be best in one post #whump #whump writing #whump prompt #whumpblr #whump tropes #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker x whumpee #creepy whumper #noncon piercings #noncon body modification #captive whumpee #captured whumpee

[shywhumpauthor]

I like the idea of possessive Whumpers with their Whumpees in a setting that’s not direct captivity

Like Whumpee is still living their life, going to work and stuff, from the outside everything seems fine with them. Inside their house, though, of course it’s anything but.

I want the subtle signs of power. The necklace Whumpee wears, that nobody—save for one very specific person—ever gets close enough to notice that there isn’t a clasp—it’s welded on.

Their watch, seemingly a normal smartwatch, but it’s not connected to their own phone. Their location is always being shared to Whumper, and they better pray that the heartbeat monitor on it keeps working because if Whumper thought they took it off for even a minute, they’d be fucked.

Numerous wounds and bruises, hidden under gauze, then bandages, then a long sleeved undershirt, and finally their work clothes. They feel like the fabric is choking them, temperature growing unbearable in the many layers and the office’s heater. But they can’t take it off, not even their jacket.

The dark circles beneath their eyes, concealer smeared over their face to hide the bruises. When their coworkers ask why their voice is so hoarse, why their eyes are so swollen, they respond “just a head cold,” and quickly return to work.

They pray for somebody to notice the signs, and at the same time they hope no one will ever find out, fearing not only what Whumper would do to them, but what they would do to the coworker too.

#I found this half done in my drafts so #quickly finished so I can post #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #its me coal #coal wrote something #whumpee #whumper #whump prompt #whump prompts #creepy whumper #captured whumpee #captivity whump #writing prompt #intimate whumper #whump drabble #kidnapped whumpee #abused whumpee #whump idea #whump ideas #whump scenario #emotional whump #whump inspiration #whump inspo #whump blog #whump prompt list #writing prompts #writing ideas

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I Long to Hear You

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won’t You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale’s Song | Bones in the Ocean | For She Was Afraid | Time for Us to Leave Her | To Unchain Me | A Good Time Coming | I Long to Hear You |

CW: Gender dysphoria, brief magical mind manipulation, referenced mind control

-

There was a candle made with lavender oils in the room they had locked her into.

Kiraya hadn't realized there was anything more to it than wax, and had lit it just for something to do, quickly writing the symbol with her fingers to heat the air around the wick until it caught fire. The shiver of magic felt like a reassurance that she would find her way out of this, somehow, some way. 

Without her kit, she could do only these small magics - and the spell to make her body right, which was tied so firmly to her that no one else could have replicated it the same. She could warm water to wash her face, she could make the drapes shift as if in a breeze... it wasn't much, but at least it was something. 

Once the candle was lit, she had gone to lie on the cozy, comfortable bed.

Then, she had simply wept until her eyes were worn and her head pounded, until the soft quilt beneath her was damp with her tears and she could weep no more. 

She must have slept, though she had no dreams.

She opened her eyes and groaned as she realized she was in the wrong body again, the spell having faded as soon as she fell asleep as it always did. She grimaced as she shifted and her dress no longer fit right, too loose at the chest and hips, fabric wrinkling where it should have been gently curved. The other body, the one she worked so hard to leave behind whenever she could, met her with a flat chest and the wrong… everything. She felt like a snake trapped within skin that should have shed, rubbing wrongly all along her and yet unable to be left behind.

When she ran fingers along her jaw and found it sharper, more angled, she swore and grabbed a throw pillow, tossing it at the wall with a noise of sheer helpless frustration.

Then she wept again.

Was it worth using magic to fix the problem again, or would she need all she had later on, and she should save it up? Maybe best to wait, but she felt uncomfortable in this body, as if someone had switched her with her twin - a twin who didn’t exist. 

Then again, maybe if she kept the wrong body, Guilford Wentworth would not ogle her like meat in a butcher shoppe. Although who knew how a man like him would react? 

She thought of the cold smile on his face as he threatened her so casually… and she slumped, lying still and silent for a while, feeling utterly hopeless. 

At least there seemed to be no mirror in this place, so she didn’t have to stare into the red-rimmed, wrong-shaped eyes, the wrong face with all its hard angles, as if waking up in her brother’s body and not her own. At least there was that. 

She frowned and moved to rise up, weight back on her elbows and forearms. She could smell something like flowers in the air, and that was when she realized the candle she had lit was scented. The wicked man who had locked her in here was the sort of person to make sure his guests had the comfort of a soothing scent while he decided how they might die at his hand, and when.

She’d felt incredulous laughter burst from her, half-hysterical and bubbling with panic, as she stared at the dancing flame. Even when she finally managed to clap both hands over her mouth and muffle herself, it felt like it rang and echoed, bouncing around the room, a sound that was only a few steps below a scream. 

She touched her bottom lip with her fingertips, wincing at the swollen spot, tonguing at it. Those slaps had busted her lip, and she hadn’t even noticed until the lavender scent had broken her from what had felt like some strange stupor. She could see where blood had spotted on the quilt along with her tears, and she pressed at the place with one finger.

If it weren’t for the bars on the windows in this lovely, well-appointed room, she might have been able to forget she was a prisoner. Well, the barred windows, magic woven into every single wall and door, the wild and terrifying threats of the wealthiest and most powerful man she’d ever met, and… also the portraits of strange people that hung on all the walls, staring unblinking at her until she could feel their weight like a hand on her back. 

Rain spattered on the windows as the wind blew it nearly sideways, hitting the glass like it had been thrown by an angry spirit. She turned her head to watch it, bleary and blurred until she blinked away some of the last remaining tears that clung to her lashes. Some of her books on histories and mythologies had said that the moon goddess had a hand in the weather, and she wondered now if the moon hated her - or maybe Guilford Wentworth - and had sent the rain as a punishment, or maybe just a warning.

Give me back my child. Is that what it all was meant to be saying? Had the moon herself pulled the waves from the ocean to dump them on the coastal peoples until her son was sent back home?

Maybe Kira was already losing her mind. The weather had been lovely when she arrived in the city, clearly Wentworth wasn’t being divinely punished by anyone for anything. This was just a storm. 

Lightning flashed so close outside the window that Kira jumped in surprise, fingers tightening on the blanket. Thunder cracked on its heels and rattled the windows, rumbling up from the ground through Kira’s very bones. There was a sound outside, a groaning and cracking and then a crashing as - she thought - a tree must have been split in two and fallen to the ground. She swallowed, heart pounding, and stared outside into the near-total darkness, past the water drops and to the faint shadows of tree branches blowing wildly, throwing their leaves into the wind. 

Somewhere down below, nearly inaudible, she heard the captive siren begin to sing. Somehow the sound traveled out of his own beautiful prison and through the walls, finding her two floors up, and settled over her skin, found its way into the very marrow of her bones. 

His voice was a strong tenor, rising effortlessly high, and she felt her heart twist painfully in an echo of the grief the siren had layered through the notes. He had spent so long, she thought - not recognizing the dizzy spin in her mind for what it was - so long trapped here. He was scared, and lonely, and angry. He needed help. He needed her help.

She caught her breath, realizing only too late that there was a command in the music. It wasn’t strong enough to compel, not yet, but she could tease it from the notes if she concentrated on it. It was meant, she thought, only for her.

Relax, the song whispered into her mind, and she felt herself lay back on the bed, staring up at the canopy above her. Thunder rumbled again, but this time she did not jump, and her heart rate slowed to a peaceful, settled rhythm. 

It felt so nice.

It was so terribly wrong.

“Stop,” She whispered, but it had no weight to it. Fear was there, at the back of her mind, but it couldn’t get past the soft fog of the notes as they ran up her arms and around her neck. As if the siren himself were holding her.

And yet… the command, when it came, wasn't quite what she had expected. All she heard was a simple, infinitely sad, I want to go home. Please…

“Please what?” She whispered, lips barely moving. The creature couldn’t possibly hear her, and yet she had the feeling that he felt her words, through the connection his song made between them. 

Please… His voice felt like lips moving against the sensitive skin on the curve of her ear. He breathed, as if he laid next to her in the bed. Wound around his song, she very nearly felt the weight as he shifted on the mattress. Please help me. Help me…

“Stop trying to force me,” She said in return, and found herself half-smiling, mischief rising irrationally, “And I will.”

Please help me…

“I don’t like you in my head. Stop singing right now, and I swear on my magic and my name that I will do what I can to help you."

There was a pause. 

The siren’s voice wound down into a hushed hum. What is your name? Tell me your name so I may have the power of it.

Kira thought of the way names had power to the creatures of magic in the world, although much less for people, and she smiled. "I will give you the name I was born with. It isn't mine any longer, and you may do with it whatever you want."

What name did your mother speak when first you cried at her breast?

"She called me Olen because she thought I was her son," Kiraya whispered. "Olen Losna. Then she died, before she learned I was never a son at all. Her name was Kyrie, and my grandmother's name was Olenna, and my great-grandmother changed her name every five years or so…”

The tenor of his voice changed, just a little. 

What is your name?

 “Kira.” Her lips seemed to be moving all on their own, without her help at all. “Kiraya Losna…”

Help me, Kiraya Losna-... be so kind to me-

"I want to be kind to you." Her eyes began to flutter shut. Each blink took longer and longer. "But you must stop commanding me to be. I want to help you..."

Kiraya Losna-

She heard a pounding, a shout muffled through wall. "Miss Losna! Don't listen! Miss Losna!"

The song abruptly went silent, and its spell shattered within her, breaking apart. All at once, her mind cleared, and she inhaled sharply and sat up.

“Please!” Came the strange voice from the other side of the door. A woman's voice. “Please, don’t listen to it! Block your ears! Don't let it take you!"

She ran to the door and it finally, finally opened when she turned the knob. On the other side of the door was the serving-girl from earlier. She no longer wore a hazy smile, but instead had a sharp gaze full of panic, wearing her nightclothes and with her hair a loose pile of red curls falling around her shoulders. She still had one hand raised in the act of pounding on the door. 

Kira swallowed. “Thank you, are you-... are you all right? Are you-... are you still-”

“It fades,” The girl whispered, reaching out to grab onto Kira’s hands, clinging to them. The girl’s fingers were as chilled as if they were carved from ice. She squeezed Kira’s fingers until they ached, tears running from her wide blue eyes over freckled cheeks. “Lately, it fades sometimes in the night, but still we cannot leave. You must not let it take you, Miss, you must not let it sing you to madness like it has sung us all! You must not listen to the siren song! You will lose yourself, as we have lost ourselves! It will ruin you!"

Before Kira could respond, a deep voice boomed from down the hall, “Nadette! What are you doing in the residence this late?” 

The two women's heads jerked to the side at once, both of them turning to look. Then Nadette’s eyes seemed to widen even more, if it were possible, and she shook her head, her lower lip trembling. “No, no no no…” She whispered. "No, please... Please, please..."

Then she… blinked, and all her panic and fear was gone.

The serving-girl looked confused, staring down at herself and then giving a little squeak and flushing bright red, freckles disappearing into the rush of blood. Terror replaced by mortified embarrassment. “Oh, no! What am I-... what…”

“Nadette.” The deep voice went slightly softer, kinder, and one of the men who had forced Kiraya up to this room came walking up. His gaze went to Kira, and she felt herself bristle at the flat hostility in his foggy gaze and glared at him right back. Controlled by the siren or not, his grip had been tight enough on her arm to leave bruises. “You. You are to stay in your room, Miss Losna. And you, Nadette, should be asleep in the servants’ quarters by now.”

“I-I should… But I was asleep.” Nadette blinked rapidly, but then only shook her head. “I-I’m sorry, Ellwen, I must have… been walking in my sleep again…” 

“Clearly,” Ellwen murmured, with odd care and concern for Nadette that Kira hadn’t seen in him before. "You've done it so much lately, I worry for you, love."

Nadette patted him on the hand, and Kira tried not to wonder if their romance was their own, or if Wentworth had ordered the siren to make them like this. The horror of the latter option threatened to shatter her completely.

Ellwen gave Kira one more desultory glance, and then leaned over and yanked the door shut in her face as she stood there staring. It slammed before she could even move, and when she jerked forwards, the handle no longer turned.

“Wait! Wait!”

“Be quiet,” Ellwen said, bass voice booming right through the door. “Lord Wentworth will see to you in the morning.” She heard them moving away from her down the hall, Ellwen speaking in a low soft voice to Nadette, Nadette sounding confused and uncertain, but gradually reassured. 

No matter how she called out after that, no one answered her.

No one came.

The siren did not sing again.

-

Taglist:  @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

@whumptober, day 29: scented candle

#whump #whumptober2023 #no. 29 #scented candle #captivity #captured whumpee #magical whump #magic whump #mind control #mind manipulation #original writing #fantasy writing #original fantasy #siren whump #whump writing

[baughtio]

I wanna see sadistic whumper and reluctant whumper trapping a single whumpee.

Sadistic whumper would throw whumpee around with their telekinetic powers while laughing gleefully. Later, reluctant whumper would find whumpee lying against a bloodied wall and guide them back to their cell. Maybe give whumpee something to eat.

Will whumpee become fond of reluctant whumper or despise both of them for making them suffer? Is reluctant whumper actually nicer or just pretending? Which one is more intimate towards whumpee?

#whump #multiple whumpers #captured whumpee #whump prompt #I just love the contrast between the two tormentors #manhandling #I love how whumpee’s attitude changes depending on who is watching over them #carewhumper