#forced celebration

[painonthebrain]

DAY #1: SANTA CLAUS

Claustrophobia | Forced celebration | Panic attack

Fandom: Original work/OCs

CWs: Captivity, nonbinary whumper, demon whumper, masc whumpee, angel whumpee, nonbinary whumpee (mentioned), restraints, humiliation, alcohol use/drinking, forced drinking, choking, beating (past), neck whump/gore (past)

@amonthofwhump

Hearing footsteps, Oath looks up, his face dark. His body is tense, forced to kneel, chains holding him down — pinning his wrists and ankles to the ground, with a slimmer chain around his neck keeping him from holding his head up. His muscles burn with the strain of holding the position. His wings are secured, bound together with tough leather, cramping and twitching, the tightness of the bonds creating a horrible ache that spreads from the limbs to his back.

There’s a spell circle keeping him from escaping too — but it has no use, because he has no way out of the restraints anyway.

The rest of his surroundings serve no further purpose than to humiliate and break him down. Blank concrete walls littered with cracks on every side box him in, still leaving too much space that he can’t occupy because he’s tethered to the floor. He’s cataloged every detail of this place, and still he hasn’t been able to leave. Now the only thing worth paying attention to is the person walking into the room, waiting for whatever cruelty they have in store for him now.

As Oath turns his eyes upward to see who it is, he sneers. The approaching figure is tall, imposing, with long curly hair tied back in a low pony — messy and wild otherwise. They carry themselves with a confidence like what Oath once had long ago, lips curved into a toothy smile, canines sharp like shattered glass. Their face is dotted with dark red markings, as if they gored someone only moments before, the deep black of their eyes reflecting back death and untimely demise.

It’s Marrow.

A demon, a beast of hellfire. Someone who thinks they can tame Oath, turn him into a trained animal, rip apart his spirit and turn him into something he’s not. Like it’s simple.

Oath’s eyes narrow.

He should be in its place.

He doesn't speak, merely eyeing the demon suspiciously as he bites his tongue. And despite refusing to speak, his gaze communicates his inner thoughts perfectly.

What do you want, scum. Going to beat me again?

The marks from that have already healed anyway.

Marrow stands, regarding him thoughtfully. Or at least appearing to.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” it teases.

“Shut up.” Oath scoffs.

Marrow goes silent for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that pretty little mouth of yours would look so much better without a tongue. I’d have half a mind to chop it off if that little halo around your neck didn’t do that wonderful thing where it stabs you!”

Oath jerks a hand against his restraints, trying to bring it to his throat. The halo around it does exactly what Marrow describes. It punishes liars for their dishonesty.

Oath has tiny little scars in a ring around his neck.

…

He’s been lying a lot recently.

He says nothing more. He’d rather not test Marrow. After all, he’s not the important one here. That’s Starling.

“Oh, don’t worry!” They wave their hands, brushing off the threat like it’s a silly joke. “You won’t be punished for that. I’m here to celebrate, after all.”

“… Celebrate what.” Oath says, his voice flat. He can’t imagine anything Marrow would celebrate is worth celebrating at all.

“Oh, you don't know?”

Oath shakes his head, regretting it when he hears it crack. No, he doesn't.

“I’m going to let you go!”

Oath stares. “Really?” Yeah, right. They still haven’t finished questioning him. The irritated pinpricks around his neck are evidence of that.

Yet for a brief moment, he indulges in the fantasy that his captor might actually let him go free. Albeit probably without his charge, but the cost of freedom is great sometimes. It would be worth it — besides, he could come back later to save Starling. Just to save his reputation. Just to save his job. Nothing more.

“That’s… that's—” That’s unbelievable, when did Marrow ever express any sympathy or care for him? Who is he trying to fool?

Marrow’s expression doesn’t look right, and Oath knows they don’t mean it.

“You're lying.”

“Oh no, I’m not! You’ll never see this place again, I promise.”

“Sure.” His voice is laced with sarcasm. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit. There’s two options: let him go or don’t. Simple.

Just pick one already.

Marrow grins. “Come now —” it tips Oath’s chin up to look at it, bending his neck backwards; Oath bites back a groan, knowing he isn’t truly able to stretch it that far, not without the chain around his neck — “that’s no way to act during a celebration! Loosen up!”

Marrow pulls out a flask from its pocket. “Here,” it holds the container out to Oath. “Drink.”

“Oh-“ He stares at it. “No… no thanks.” It has to be a trick. Besides, how does Marrow even want him to drink it? With them holding the flask for him? Heat rises to Oath’s cheeks. The idea is humiliating.

“I insist!” Marrow smiles, all teeth, and Oath shrinks back, as much as he can while immobilized by the chains.

“No, I don’t —”

“You don’t what?” Marrow growls. “You don’t want to? I don’t think you have a say in that.”

Marrow unscrews the cap and presses the lip of the flask to Oath’s, holding his jaw tightly, tipping the container back. “I. Said. Drink.”

The liquid spills down Oaths' chin and he chokes, sputtering as the bitter liquid floods his throat, almost too fast for him to swallow.

Marrow takes the flask away before it’s emptied, leaving Oath to hack and wheeze, spit and whiskey dripping down his chin. Gasping in fresh air and hacking, he doubles over with every cough. The taste of it coats his tongue and throat, hand in hand with searing pain.

“Was that good?”

Oath stifles another cough.

“W-wonderful.” He doesn't want any more trouble.

“Then surely you'll want more.”

“No no no —”

Marrow dumps the rest of the flasks contents on Oath. The alcohol drips down his forehead, into his eyes and down his cheeks, and for a minute, Oath is too stunned to speak. His mouth fails to form the words.

His body is so warm, the drink is like lava across his skin, washing him away as it dribbles down his face.

“Aren’t you just drowning in excitement? I know I am! I’ll be rid of you and someone else will have to deal with your bullshit.

“Someone stupid enough to sign a contract over you.”

Oath goes rigid.

“I only have so long to whip you into shape, now. So maybe you’d best behave.

“I know you’d hate to spoil all of this for yourself.”

#amow winter whumperland 2023 #winter whumperland 2023 #day1 #forced celebration #captivity #captivity whump #demon whumper #angel whumpee #nonbinary whumper #masc whumpee #my writing #oath oc #marrow oc #i started doing this challenge like. really late so if some prompts are a couple days late or whatever dw guy #guys #im not retyping all that to correct hitting return on my keyboard too fast #anyway yeah i only have this written so far as of typing these tags #and an extremely rough draft of day 2 #i have ideas for all the days im just trying to get through them

[evilwriter37]

Winter Whumperland 2022

@amonthofwhump

Prompts: Forced Celebration | Public Whump | Comfort: Getting a Letter in the Mail

Rated: mature

Warnings: rape/noncon elements, implied/referenced rape/noncon, noncon kissing, noncon touching, broken bones, kidnapping, captivity, ableism

Pairings: Viggo/Hiccup

Word Count: 4,181

Summary: Hiccup is Viggo’s “special guest.” Viggo is throwing a Christmas party and forcing Hiccup to attend. Will Hiccup be able to follow all his rules?

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #forced celebration #public whump #comfort: getting a letter in the mail #whump #hiccup!whump #rape/noncon elements #noncon kissing #noncon touching #broken bones #kidnapping #captivity #ableism #angst #modern au #httyd au #httyd #rtte #httyd rtte #fanfiction #writing #nsfwhump #nsft

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

A Strange Celebration

Winter Whumperland 2022 Day 3!

Summary: Written for Whumperland 2022 Day 3. Set after THW, the dragons never left. The bigger Hiccup’s foes get, the more people who know of him and his dragons. Many people are happy to see Drago and his goons gone, while others are worried something just as bad is merely on the horizon. And they deal with him.

Warning: Implied torture

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid, Valka, Gobber, Toothless, Snotlout, Spitelout

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 3272

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: Forced Celebration, Public Whump, Comfort: Getting a letter in the mail

Whumpee: Hiccup, Astrid, Valka

Author’s Notes: Enjoy!

#winter whumperland 2022 #day 3 #forced celebration #public whump #getting a letter in the mail #httyd fics #httyd movies #httyd 3 #how to train your dragon 3 #httyd: the hidden world #hiccup haddock #hiccup whump #astrid hofferson #astrid whump #valka #the haddocks #the haddocks whump #gobber the belch #snotlout jorgenson #spitelout jorgenson #my fanfics #a strange celebration

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Miracle On 34th Street

A/N: Day 3 of  @amonthofwhump​ Winter Whumperland, as usual uses all prompts.

Emily knows the troubles start with mistaken identity, her kidnapper has called her Elle several times now. Then she sees him scanning for JJ and makes a choice, she has to distract her kidnapper, no matter how dangerous it is. They celebrate, she is forced to celebrate with the kidnapper to keep JJ alive, but she’s shaken. Forcing celebrations has always seemed wrong but this is worse. She sits, now, letting her kidnapper party, faking joy and love, wishing she had never known this could happen again, with JJ. She’s dragged into public three days later, beaten, kicked and punched until she can barely breathe. She can feel JJ watching it, she can hear Elle’s voice in the crowd, then gunshots. Elle is at her side in moments when the man falls, picking her up. Later, four weeks later, they get a letter in the mail. The man who took Emily is dead of course, but he had threatened to kill a woman’s entire family for not telling her where Elle is. The letter is full of thanks and praise, Elle smiling softly when Emily lets herself cry for once. “I’m so proud of you babygirl… so so proud.” Elle’s voice is tender and Emily snuffles again, curling into her arms. She’s survived, somehow.

#elle greenaway #emily prentiss #elle/emily #greentiss #amow winter whumperland 2022 #letter in the mail #public whump #miracle on 34th street #mistaken identity #forced celebration

[redfieldfamilyfan24]

Winter Whumperland Day 03

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43397511

@amonthofwhump 's Winter Whumperland Challenge Title: A Sob No One Could Hear Prompts: Forced Celebration and Public Whump

Fandom: Star Wars

Genre: Hurt/No Comfort Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, Pre Vizsla, Rook Kast

Length: 2177

CW: Implied/reference rape/non con to a minor, child abuse, and canon typical violence. Also alcohol and swearing Summary: Pre Vizsla has taken Sundari and Bo-Katan Kryze has no choice but to pretend like she is happy and has no mixed feelings at all. However, when he gets drunk and starts declaring crazy things like the two of them are engaged, it might become even more difficult. Especially when she upsets him. Nothing good comes from offending Pre Vizsla.

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #whump community #bo-katan kryze #bo-katan #star wars clone wars #the mandalorian #pre vizsla #hurt/no comfort #public whump #forced celebration #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction

[chronurgy]

Reading forgotten realms lore is just like [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [something really unique and interesting] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [standard fantasy worldbuilding]

Except for when it's like [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING] [standard fantasy worldbuilding] [EXTREMELY WEIRD SEX THING]

#Inspired by me reading the highharvesttide wiki page #That's the first sort of experience #Anything even remotely related to drow is the second thing #bg3 #Yeah so the highharvesttide wiki page is like it's a festival to celebrate the harvest! Children born on this day are thought to be blessed #By tymora. Oh also “human females” born on this day can “control their reproductive system through sheer force of will” and #Only get pregnant when they want. Also they can immediately sense if they've been poisoned #Always a roller-coaster the forgotten realms wiki

[a2zillustration]

Good for you, Wyll (:

| First | | Previous | | Next |

[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

#Rambling in the tags time #I know Wyll's been shafted in a lot of ways - this is not an argument against that #But seeing that his quest ends with him finally making a decision solely for himself felt very appropriate #I didn't understand why he required tav's input for his contract #but knowing that he's always had outside forces influencing his decisions as part of his character #it all makes a little more sense now #And he was so excited to cook dinner to celebrate! Bless him. We love Wyll in this house. #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #act III spoilers #croissant adventures #tav #wyll #duke ulder ravengard #comics #Y'ALL WE FINISHED ANOTHER COMPANION QUEST I'M CRYING THIS IS ALL HAPPENING TOO FAST-

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A Lot Like Christmas

CW: Pet whump, dehumanized whumpee, references to beatings and torture, burns, sadistic whumper

Antoni’s tag | Masterlist (scroll down)

For @amonthofwhump, day 3: Forced Celebration

-

On Christmas morning, the ashtray wakes up on his little cot in his tiny room to cold sunlight through the bars of his high, small window. His nose is so cold that it feels like it all but burns his hand when he presses a palm against it to warm it, burying himself even further under the scratchy but warm wool blankets he is given in winter.

The light makes a broken square on the floor, and he lays there watching it slowly move, bit by bit, as the quality of the light changes.

All down his back the newest burns ache and itch. They’re slathered with the heavy, healing cream that would keep him from scarring if Mr. Davies did not burn him again and again in the same places. As it is, his master is pressing new burns over old scars, and the ashtray shifts only a little as the itching grows with every second he thinks about it, gripping hands onto his collar to keep himself grounded, to feel safe.

Last night had been a night of bourbon, warm and brown in a glass, clove cigarette smoke down his throat filling up his lungs, holding perfectly still for every bright hot pain until finally he could not hold back his whimper. 

Last night had ended like so many nights end now, the smoke driven out of his throat by something he will not think about, will not remember, will simply put somewhere else in his mind. Mr. Davies, afterward, had fed him sips from the glass of bourbon and whispered, “It’s after midnight. Merry Christmas,” and sent him with a jar of the salve to his bed, to rub all the wounds he could reach and ignore, as hard as he can, the greater wounds inside.

A bird calls outside the window. 

Eventually, he hears the sound of Mr. Davies on the stairs, and he pushes himself up to seated and then to standing. His feet freeze on the chilly concrete floor, and he shivers in the loose sweats he is allowed to wear. 

It takes four steps to cross from bed to door, three if he lengthens his strides.

He opens the door, peering out into the hallway. The warmer air in the heated part of the house hits him like walking into a wall, and he comes to a sudden stop and lets his skin prickle and goosebump as it acclimates. The burns itch worse in warmth, but he ignores that and pads barefoot down the hall, walking on the heavy soft rug.

He can hear the clinking of silverware against dishes as he nears the kitchen. His own stomach twists, empty and light, at the scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. He enters with his eyes down, letting his gaze move to Mr. Davies’s feet in his fuzzy fur-lined slippers.

“Ah, the lazy little pet wakes,” Mr. Davies says, with amusement. “Say Merry Christmas, darling.”

The ashtray looks up to follow his command, only to realize it isn’t meant for him.

Next to Mr. Davies is the woman, who looks at him with blank eyes that see but don’t comprehend. She just stares at him, blinking once or twice, and then says in a soft voice, “Merry Christmas.”

The ashtray thinks she probably had a lovely way of speaking, a long time ago. She forms each word like a singer, all enunciation and melody, but it’s a harsh rasp now, a broken violin voice. 

Her hair is perfectly curled and pulled back at her nape, with tendrils framing her face. Her lower lip is busted, a burst of bright red where she was bleeding, but she doesn’t even seem aware of it. She just puts a forkful of cinnamon roll into her mouth and chews. Any awareness she had of him seems gone in an instant. 

“Very good, love.” Mr. Davies is rubbing her back with one hand. If she tenses a little at the touch, it isn’t obvious beneath the warm, fluffy robe she wears in a deep royal purple lined with gold thread embroidery. “Say Merry Christmas, ashtray.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Davies. Merry Christmas, ma'am." The ashtray’s voice is low, carefully shaping each word to make his accent as slight as possible. He almost succeeds, and it’s enough to win a rare smile from his master. He doesn’t feel warm at the sight of it - only the absence of any new fear of punishment. 

“Come and eat,” Mr. Davies says, gesturing broadly. 

The ashtray’s eyes drop to discover an empty plate and set of silverware, a mug of steaming coffee with a little carafe of cream beside it. He dares to look back at Mr. Davies, and finds him smiling. 

"... at the table?”

“Yes, at the table, you brainless thing. Sit.” 

The ashtray moves forward, jerking like a puppet moved by strings, and finds himself sitting at the table staring across at the woman, who doesn’t look at him anymore, only off to the side, as if dazed or dreaming. There are bruises layered dark over her wrists, in the shape of the ropes Mr. Davies ties her with at night. She sleepwalks, he explained once to the ashtray, who had not asked. He’d said it like testing out the story, the way you practice a speech to a wall. She’ll wander out into the street and get hit by a car, you know. I have to keep her in one place. Anything could happen if she leaves.

There’s a threat, in those words, and the ashtray heard it. He only nodded, and wondered what in his face had made Mr. Davies feel the need to explain.

Her black eye from last week has nearly healed, which he knows only means another one is coming soon.

The cook puts a cinnamon roll on his plate, and the ashtray thanks him. He receives no reply, but he didn’t expect one either. 

Warm, fluffy cinnamon-sugar sweetness bursts in his mouth when he eats, and he shivers at how unfamiliar it is to eat warm food, or to eat anything that tastes this good at all. He exhales, and takes another bite, and another. Somehow, the whole thing disappears into his mouth before he even understands that he’s eating it.

He stops when Mr. Davies starts to laugh, with cruel good humor, and looks up, briefly meeting those cold eyes. 

“... Mr. Davies, I’m sorry, I did not mean to eat so quickly-”

“Hush. Call it a gift. I’ve nothing for you under the tree, after all.” He turns to the woman, who doesn’t look at him, only stares through the window at the trees outside, as if she could will herself out there if only she could remember how to walk out. Mr. Davies leans over to give her a kiss to the side of her head, and the ashtray watches her eyes briefly close, then open again to focus back on the world just beyond the walls.

“Darling,” Mr. Davies says in a low voice, “My ashtray and I need a smoke, I think. Will you go and wait by the tree for me? I’ll open your gifts for you afterward.”

The woman looks at the ashtray.

Just for a moment, something surfaces from beneath the still pool of her mind. She knows what happens when he and Mr. Davies are alone in the office, he thinks. And for just a second, he can see that she feels all the grief for him that he tries to feel for her.

Then her expression goes blank again and she nods, standing and drifting into the grand living room where the 12-foot-tall Christmas tree glistens with perfectly coordinated ornaments, tinsel, and a star on top.

The last the ashtray sees of her is how she sits on the couch with her hands in her lap, and turns her eyes back to the window.

Then Mr. Davies’s hand is on the back of his neck, and the ashtray’s stomach flips. Suddenly that perfect warm soft sweet bread sits like a brick in his stomach, and he wonders if he’ll keep anything down after they’re done. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes after-

But it’s not happening.

It doesn’t happen to him.

Not if he doesn’t let himself think about it.

Nothing happens in the office.

Mr. Davies is already lighting a cigarette, the scent of cloves is settling against his skin and soaking into his hair, his sweatshirt and sweatpants, burying itself so far down in his lungs that he will never escape the way it steals his breath.

The burns from last night itch.

The older ones do, too, as the ashtray follows Mr. Davies to the office and wonders where the new ones will go now.

His master’s hand rests at the base of the ashtray’s spine, stealing up under his sweatshirt to press like a brand against his skin. 

The ashtray burns long before the embers ever touch him.

Mr. Davies hums as he walks.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @emdeighamae @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #whump #forced celebration #holiday whump #christmas whump #antoni sings lullabies #dehumanization #pet whump #domestic violence tw #drugged whumpee #(not antoni but still) #burns tw #cigarette burns #sadistic whumper #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #amow #amow winter whumperland #winter whumperland

[blushedfemme]

daydreaming about inviting a butch over, under the pretense that i have all this good flower going to waste bc i don’t smoke anymore, but would they be willing to help me out and take some off my hands? i’ll let them try it first, to make sure they like the strain. then pull them into conversation so they keep talking and smoking and talking and smoking, offering to roll them another joint/pack another bowl for them, and when they say they’re kinda thirsty instead of offering water i’m like oh i have some soju in my fridge, wanna try it? and because they’re thirsty and it’s so sweet and cold and refreshing they drink it way too fast. only then do i offer them water. and more soju, of course. they decide they really like the strain so i tell them to go ahead and smoke some more. and pretty soon they’re too crossed to stand, laughing and apologizing, because fuck, they didn’t mean to get so fucked up. i rub their thigh reassuringly, smiling as i tell them in a soft, mesmerizing voice, it’s okay, i don’t mind. poor thing, no wonder they got so wasted, they were no match for my sweet encouragement, combined with the swish of my hips and the way my tits fill my shirt. it’s hard to resist a femme in her element as hostess.

maybe they dimly grasp the truth of the situation, when i raise the bottle to their lips and order, finish it. but their brain is too foggy to give it much weight, and besides, they like the way my hand feels holding their jaw. by the time i set the empty bottle down and press my mouth to theirs, to drink in their sweet, hazy, boozy breath, any thought in their head has dissolved completely.

i pull back, coo in mock sympathy at their dizzy, dazed expression. i slide a hand up the back of their neck. savor the heat pouring off their skin. i tangle my fingers in their hair, scratch their scalp, making their eyes roll back and their mouth fall open. i giggle, teasing them, what, does it feel good? and all they can do is nod in response. i hum in appreciation as i playfully walk my fingers down their stomach until i reach their bulge- they knew what they were doing, coming over to my place packing- and i laugh when they moan, so loud and uninhibited, so needy, melting under my touch.

awww, sweetheart, i murmur in their ear. just relax, i’ll take care of you.

#blushing #intox #intox tw #alcohol tw #weed tw #butch sub #femme dom #happy 4/20 to all who celebrate 😘 #dubcon tw #forced intox #cnc tw

[svnflowermoon]

why do people care so much about celebrities' sexualities. like why does it make a difference to you, they're not into you so you have literally no reason to care. stop pressuring them to come out to the whole world. they are not required to come out to you.

#luc posts #lgbtq community #we don't need another kit conner incident guys literally just stop it #kit conner #celebrities #coming out #queer #lgbtqia #gay #lesbian #bisexual #pansexual #aroace #asexual #aromantic #sapphic #its actually none of your business #like shut up you don't know them personally #stop forcing people to come out #unlabelled #unlabeled

[mistydeyes]

hi :) congrats on the 1k!!

can you do morning sun with price? Our old man needs more attencion were!!

Imagine his dick in the morning inside you, where it's been warming up all night and Price can't resist the urge to make the reader his again 😳🤭

-🌺🦋

ooooh thank your for this lovely little image @qilinxingg ;) price is definitely a morning sex after a late night session kinda guy

link to the prompt list and 1k celebration! - closed now! thank you all for your submissions

prompt: morning sun (18+) - you have nowhere to go and decide to spend it in bed ;)

pairing: John Price x fem!reader

warnings: SEXUAL DEPICTIONS AND SEX POLLEN (literally my new favorite term for cum), swearing

a/n: sidetone but wouldn't we all like to think that price has a praise kink for his favorite girl ;)

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

When John was home on leave, he acted as if he was deprived of sex. After the pleasantries and a good meal, he would always make sure to remind you of his assets. Whether it was in the kitchen, on the porch, or in the shower, he made sure to pound you in submission. Despite acting like a horny teenager, you couldn't help but love his possessive nature and the countless hickeys he left as his mark.

His favorite thing to do was wake you up with a morning session after a long night. As he held your waist tightly and rubbed reassuring circles into your skin, he would ask for consent. "Wake you up in the morning?" he would always ask before kissing you. You nodded as you knew of his desire to wake you up with a surprise. As you opened your eyes to reveal the bright morning sun, you felt a wave of pleasure flood of your body.

"Morning, sweetheart," John said as he kissed your shoulder. Your legs felt weak as he held onto your waist. He grunted as he pumped into you slowly, taking long strides that made your toes curl. "Fuck," you breathed out slightly as his hands explored your chest. He spooned you and continued, building up a steady pace as the bed creaked in response. "Good girl," he reassured in a low hum and you gripped the sheets tighter at his compliments. He loved whispering in your ear and seeing how you unraveled. You could hear him groan as he held you tighter and kept angling himself at your G-spot. His hands traveled to your jaw and caressed it before he put his fingers into your mouth. "Just like that," he reassured as you moaned against his calloused fingers. He held them in your mouth as your saliva began dripping down and your stomach began to tighten.

At the clenching of your walls around him, John began to fuck you as if it was the last thing he would do. You moaned a string of swears into his palm as he held your breasts with his other hand. You could feel his strokes become more erratic and he breathed heavily into your hair. "Fuck, you're always so good to me," he whispered as the room became filled with your muffled moans and the sound of wet skin. You couldn't help but tear your hands into the bed sheets as you crumbled beneath him. Moments later, you could feel yourself fill with his seed as it warmed your insides. He slipped out of you as you both regained your breaths. You flipped over to see his reddened face and he brushed a finger over your wet lips. "Always such a good girl," he complimented and you couldn't help but climb on top of him for another round.

#task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #john price x reader #price x reader #captain john price #price imagine #mw2 #izzie is writing #izzie celebrates 1k

[f1shart]

brandi looking pitiful while skip broke presumably shakes his ass

this image broke me

#shart #erm i acrually forgot it was the sims 2's anniversary 😞 sorry queen #i had something in mind for the 20th one not the 19th #i guess this my contribution to the 19th anniversary celebration ☠️ #brandi broke #skip broke #ts2 #im so sat it got rushed toward the end because my mom was forcing me to go to bed and i didnt want to postpone this #because if i did i know i would procrastinate #mom why.

[brother-emperors]

Now Valentinian was chosen emperor in Bithynia (as we have said before). He gave the signal for the march for the next day but one, and assembling the chief civil and military officials, as if ready to follow safe and sound advice rather than his own inclination, inquired who ought to be chosen as partner in the rule. [...] Dagalaifus, at that time commander of the cavalry, boldly answered: "If you love your relatives, most excellent emperor, you have a brother; if it is the state that you love, seek out another man to clothe with the purple." The emperor, angered by this, but keeping silence and concealing his thoughts, forcing the pace, entered Nicomedia on the first of March, and appointed his brother Valens chief of his stable with the rank of tribune. Then, on his arrival in Constantinople, [...] on the twenty-eighth of March he brought the aforesaid Valens into one of the suburbs and with the consent of all (for no one ventured to oppose) proclaimed him Augustus. Then he adorned him with the imperial insignia and put a diadem on his head, and brought him back in his own carriage, thus having indeed a lawful partner in his power, but, as the further course of our narrative will show, one who was as compliant as a subordinate.

AM 26.4.1-4

there's some hint of 'no one's allowed to talk shit about my brother but me,' energy, but also generally I'm just kind of obsessed. not with Valentinian I, but with Valens. hello.

I'll probably get into Valens later, since he's taking up a significant amount of room in my thoughts, but for now, it's the 'oh! the brothers were co emperors!' that's making the wheels spin. (the last time I was reading about brothers, or people made to be like brothers, as co-rulers, it was with Tiberius. and that goes about as well as you expect it to lmao)

Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century A.D, Noel Lenski

⭐ I have a tip jar (ko-fi)!

⭐ and other places I'm at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app

#roman empire tag #komiks tag #there's that one painting of saint basil celebrating mass and valens looks SO hot in it. it's actually a little baffling. like. #what's up with that. but what's important is that i immediately got obsessed and had to look him up and now i'm speed running #what happened with crassus only there are no real life dead people involved with that arc #long post #rip tiberius you would've loved to know that there was indeed a pair of brother co-emperors #you probably would've tried to force them into twin roles if you could. #later Roman Empire tag

[nixoon-again]

Sonic doesn't know what he loathes more; being forced to sit in the dark, unable to move in a locked cell for Chaos knows how long or facing the nightmares the occasional light entails.

He grumbles to himself as he shifts in his restraints, the chains clinking against the metal floor as he tries to sit up straight once more. Half lidded, tired eyes look ahead aimlessly, the bright shine in those emeralds has taken on a more dulled shade in these past few months or something. How long has he been here exactly? He doesn't know. A part of him doesn't want to know. 

He's tired.

Sonic places his head on his knees as softly as he can as to not worsen his throbbing headache and then he runs a hand through his dishevelled quills; his fur is a mess — don't get him wrong, Sonic isn't that much into modern fur care techniques, he just lets the wind style his quills but the recent lack of, well, just about everything from proper food and water to even a hint of sunlight has made his fur thinner than it already was. Sticky with sweat, his fur has become dry, dull and matted. It feels horrible, or that's what he would say if he didn't have worse things to worry about right now.

The door to his cell creaks open, a shilling sound that makes him pin his ears down to his skull and grit his teeth — speak of the devil…

Sonic doesn't look up, doesn't want to, not anymore when he hears someone step in and close the door to his cell once more, blocking the onslaught of more light than he's ever granted in this confined space again. 

Again.

It happens again and that's what gnaws at Sonic's guts from the inside out.

Always, he always comes back.

Little, calculated steps patter towards him, a bit scared with the way they move. As if too confused whether or not it's a good idea to reach Sonic and too hasty and terrified that they wish to be next to his side in an instant. 

Or so it seems to be, Sonic knows better.

Because always it starts the same; like a dream he wishes so badly to be true, a vestige he longs to hold in his arms, a visage he never wants to let go of and yet he knows how it ends, how he's painstakingly given a ray of hope and how mercilessly it is snatched from his hands, how quickly the light is snuffed out, just how heartlessly everything is taken from him, leaving him feeling more vulnerable than he's ever been, re-evaluating whether he even deserves to be called a hero when he can't even save the people he holds dearest to his heart, why has he gone so weak that he can't even save someone in his protective embrace.

Nothing scared his little brother in his embrace, nothing.

It's as if the warm barrier of his arms is enough to word off every threat, every nightmare, every strike of thunder.

He remembers it so vividly, holding a scared little fox kit close to his chest and watching his tense shoulders relax, his shivering body calm down, his soft sniffles turning into gentle purrs.

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He'll never hold his little brother like that again.

He can't hold him at all.

Tails isn't here anymore.

And it's all Sonic's fault.

The little footsteps stop somewhere before him, not more than a feet or two away. Sonic doesn't want to look up, Sonic doesn't want to see that face again.

(He's lying. He desperately wants to see that face again, he's dying to look in those ocean eyes full of life, to run his hands through the soft golden fur, to wrap himself around that little body and protect him from everything. Everything—)

Sonic's quills bristle when he feels them plop on the cold, metal floor before him.

Nothing happens for what feels like hours. Sonic doesn't look up and his guest doesn't move an inch from the spot they've taken. The silence becomes overwhelming, frightening but Sonic will never say that out loud. Because why should he? Why should he admit he's afraid when he swears he's not. 

(And if he's not afraid why won't he look up?)

Sonic has had many nightmares in his life, why does this have to be the worst one, why does this one has to repeat itself — why can't they just let him mourn once.

Everyone dies.

But everyone dies once.

Then why bring him back every time? Why use his face to haunt Sonic? Why can't they just let his little brother rest? Why does he have to suffer just so they can get to Sonic?

What did he do to deserve this?

A small hand rests on his forearm.

Reluctant, yet Sonic finally raises his head.

Just as he feared, he is greeted by his little brother's face. Not the same as he lost him but the same as he so clearly remembers — the brown fur, the big baby blue eyes open wide, the unsure movements, the oh so tiny hands, the cream tipped twin tails, the three unruly bangs… The weak little toddler he took under his wing, malnourished, scared with a mind brighter than anyone else in the whole world and a determination to rival his own.

He looks what? Four? Barely five?

It makes Sonic's heart crumble.

He shouldn't be here. He doesn't belong here. 

There's no recognition in emerald eyes, no emotion the little cub before him can decipher. Just tired, dull greens that match lively, bright blues.

The cub tilts his head when Sonic doesn't regard him, one of his ears flops to the side when he does, a small frown tugs at his lips as he knits his brows in confusion and Sonic has seen this little perplexed face too many times to count.

Still, the kit words the question assaulting his mind and, Chaos, the small voice tugs at the hedgehog's heart, “Sonic, are you upset?”

Innocence oozes out of the simple question, the cub's bug eyes don't help Sonic's case at all. He knows it will only hurt to reply, but how long can he ignore a child he raised?

“Yeah… I guess you can say that, bud.” Sonic reaches out a hand, seemingly to pet the kit's head but stops midway. The gloved hand hovers over the younger for a moment before Sonic retracts it, resting it on his knee instead.

If it is possible, Tails adds with an even smaller voice, “... With me?”

Are you upset with me?

What a silly question.

Sonic can never be upset with Tails.

The answer is right there, it is not even something he has to think about. Upset with Tails? As if. He can't be even if he tried to, not more than a second at best. Why would he? The kit has never done anything wrong, anything worth getting mad at. Tails is a good child and he's so much better than Sonic in many ways — Tails is polite, he plays ahead, he's a better negotiator, he's almost always the voice of reason, he makes better decisions — Sonic can never be mad at him.

Yet he says none of it out loud.

His reply never comes.

He doesn't know why.

(Is he actually upset with him? For coming back or for promising to make him live through the loss again?)

The kit all but crumbles at the lack of a reply. His ears pinning against his skull as he lowers his head, carefully taking his cold hand off of Sonic's arm and leaving it lying uselessly in his lap.

Instinct yells at Sonic to pick up the fox cub and cradle him in his arms, hush him and tell him whatever self-deprecating nonsense his brain is feeding is wrong and Sonic can never be upset with him, isn't upset with him right now and how he shouldn't beat himself up over little nothings when his big brother is right there to protect him from ill thoughts but Sonic doesn't move. Don't get him wrong, he wants nothings more that to pull the kit in a strong embrace but he can't get himself to do so. 

He always loses Tails in his arms.

He's too scared to hold him, afraid that he will lose him the moment he pulls the boy to his chest.

He doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to go through that again.

Maybe it's selfish of him to think like about his charge but he can't. 

He just can't.

If it was anyone but Tails, Sonic might have done something. He might have pushed himself to at least calm them down even if it will just make the departure more painful.

But not Tails.

Not his little brother.

(Not as a toddler for Chaos’ sake)

“Sonic?” The kit calls again, the hedgehog doesn't acknowledge him. Tails continues anyway, “Did I-I do something bad?”

No. No, he didn't. Of course, he didn't. He can never do anything bad. Not in Sonic's eyes, never. Still, the hedgehog doesn't say anything. He doesn't find his voice strong enough to reply. Instead, he rests his head on his knees again and runs a hand through his quills with a sigh.

Now that he's not looking at Tails, it sounds like the kit is on the verge of crying, “Do you not like me anymore?”

Nothing. The answer is right there but Sonic says nothing.

Tails sounds terrified when asks another question after a brief pause, “Are you going to throw me out too?”

Never. 

Never.

Sonic will never understand those stupid, superstitious villagers who abandoned this sweet child because of something out of his control, chasing him out of every warm place he could find, starving him, abusing him like he wasn't even a person, looking down at him like he was some freak, sneering at him as if he was a curse — they make his blood boil to this day. Irrelevant, they don't matter. What matters is that Sonic will never be like them, Sonic will never abandon Tails, Sonic will never leave him behind. He will always wait for Tails and they will always stay together because that's just who they are; they're Sonic and Tails, they're the unbreakable bond. Nothing separates them. Nothing can.

And yet…

“I'm scared…” Tails sniffs, “It hurts.”

That gets Sonic's head snapping up, eyes wide open as he uncurls to reach for the kit, looking over him to find any injury that may be causing him pain that he hasn't noticed yet. His chains move with him as he cups the younger's face in his hands — and oh Chaos, did he really use to be this small? — and tries to ignore just how cold he is as he gently checks for whatever is wrong.

“It hurts, Sonic…” The kit cries as Sonic uncovers the bleeding wound that was previously hidden by the tail wrapped around the boy's blood-covered torso. Sonic gulps, finding himself unable to breath at the amount of red staining the cream fur. The wound spans over more than half of Tails’ torso with no signs of the bleeding to stop anytime soon.

It's so unfair.

He hasn't even taken the kit in his arms yet and Tails is already… 

“Sonic, please—” Big, fat tears roll down Tails’ muzzle as Sonic wordlessly gathers him in his arms and hastily pulls him to his chest. Tails’ ear flickers with something red as he is moved but Sonic chalks it off as another injury he missed while Tails wraps himself around the hedgehog's middle like his life depends on it. Tails buries his face in Sonic's chest as his voice cracks, “I don't wanna be here anymore.”

“S-Sonic,” Tails calls him again but Sonic doesn't say anything. The hedgehog puts a hand on the boy's back and cradle his head with another as he slowly begins rocking the kit back and forth. None of it helps Tails, “Are you listening?”

He sounds so lost, so desperate. 

“I-It hurts… You promised me… You promised you'll save me,” His claws dig into the hedgehog's sides, “Sonic, why aren't you saving me?”

Sonic just rests his face on Tails’ head, nuzzling into his fur as he holds him tight enough that it must hurt. The kit cries and claws, sputtering out words that each feel like a new dagger stabbing Sonic's heart before being mercilessly twisted out. He hates it. He loathes it. He wants nothing more than Tails’ suffering to end.

He doesn't say anything.

At least that way, he can pretend the little body in his arms going still and lifeless doesn't hurt as much as it did the first time. At least that way he can ignore the tears that fall unprompted from his eyes.

_____

It happens again.

It always does.

The door opens with a screeching noise, footsteps sound against the metal floor. They stop somewhere before him.

This time he looks up.

He's met with the masked face of the jackal.

#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #drabble #happy sunday to those who celebrate #heres a deleted scene from the forces fic i think about often #deleted because it conflicted with another plot point :( #you still get it tho :) #at least no one died lol