#hunting cabin whump

[thingsthatgowhumpinthenight]

Hunting Cabin 9

CW: EXPLICIT NONCON 18+, beating, whipping, sexist language, GRAPHIC NONCON under the cut

Previous

Waynette woke to see Carter leaning over her.  She stayed stock-still as he dabbed at her face with an antibacterial wipe.

    “Easy now.” he said gruffly.  “You took one hell of a beating.”

She tried to even out her breaths, wondering when his touch would turn hard and uncaring.  

    “My eye.” she croaked.  Carter handed her a water bottle and helped her sit up.  With a chill she noticed she was still chained to the bed.  

    “It looks bad.” Carter said, adjusting the dressing on the eye patch.  “I got it best I could.

Neither spoke for several minutes.  “Did you really mean it?” she asked, one eye pleading.  “You- you won’t-”  She took a breath and blinked the brimming tears away.

    “No.” Carter said.  “I won’t, I don’t do that shit, it’s-”  He stood, removing his gloves and packing the medical supplies.  The door opened and Roman walked in accompanied by the two men from before.

    “Carter you’re still here.” he said, derision clear in his voice.  

He stood, casually placing himself between Roman and Waynette.  “You did quite a number on her.” he said, his voice as damnably even as ever.  “I had to do some emergency dressing or risk infection.”

Roman’s eyebrow rose. “Admirable Mister Forge but your skills are no longer necessary.  If needed my personal physician will patch up the whore.”

Carter tilted his head in half-respectful acknowledgement.  “I’ll collect my things and leave.” he said.

Panic rose in Waynette’s chest as Carter left, the two goons following, the door behind them shutting like a tomb.  

She pressed her back against the wall, eye wide in fear.  Roman grabbed her wrists and pulled her to the center of the bed.  He yanked the sheets off and started to grope her bruised breasts.  

    “Please, sto-” she broke off in a whine as Roman pinched one of her nipples, his fingernails digging into her flesh.  

    “Quiet.” he ordered, punctuating it with a slap across the unbandaged side of her face.  Waynette bit back another cry, her heart beating faster and faster.  He was on her a second later, his tongue writhing in her mouth like a slug.  Waynette couldn’t move.  Fear flooded her body with each stroke of his tongue and each shock of pain from his fierce groping.  “When I heard your screams being whipped-” he broke off in a groan, threw his jacket off and tore off his belt.  His lips were back on hers a moment later, “I came harder than I have in years.”  Waynette sobbed around his lips, her breaths growing faster.  He shoved himself off her and yanked her underwear off.  Waynette screamed at the burn and humiliation flooded her as Roman eyed her, the lust and hate in his eyes growing.  “How did you get them to strike?” he asked, the grip on his belt tightening.  “Did you fuck them?” he asked, bringing his belt down across her abdomen.  A scream tore from Waynette’s lips as the metal buckle hit her sore skin.  

Roman panted and wiped sweat from his brow with one toned forearm.  “I bet you did.” he said, bringing his belt down again.  “Bet you were the cannery slut sucking off anyone who’d shove their dick in your face.”  Waynette thrashed, trying to escape the metal bite of the buckle.  “Don’t move!” he brought the belt down once more, the buckle hitting the edge of Waynette’s hip.  She screamed, arching her back painfully.  “Oh that’s perfect.” Roman moaned lewdly.  “Do it again.”  He tried to hit the same spot, only for Waynette to move, pressing herself farther away from him.  He was on her a second later, pinching her cheeks, his other hand pulling her up by her neck.  “You keep disobeying and I’ll make what Carter did to you seem like a field trip.” he hissed.  Waynette winced at the rage rolling off of Roman, her mind a racing jumble, she did the only thing she could think of.

Roman blinked and blinked again.  Waynette would have laughed if she could.  He dropped her onto the bed and she bit back a groan at the impact.  Chuckling, he smirked at her before licking her spit off his lips.  

    “If you’re going to be a bitch;” he said, rocketing a punch into Waynette’s gut, “I’m going to break you like one.” Waynette gasped, dimly aware of the door closing, her good hand held to her gut.  Looking around, she sighed in relief to see Roman gone.  Her heavy breaths, punctuated only by hiccupping sobs were the only sound in the room.  Her eyes caught the blinking light of another camera on the sideboard next to the narrow bed and her heart sank further.  In some way, Roman’s eyes were always on her.

The door burst open and Roman came in, whistling happily, his goons behind him.

    “Animals who spit at their Masters get tied up.” he sneered, holding the moving straps out in front of her.  Waynette’s eyes bulged at the bloodstained straps. “Tie her down.”  The two other men took the moving straps and advanced on her.  She let out a shrill scream as they swarmed her; one throwing a strap across her chest, just under her breasts, while the other secured one over her hips.  “Make it tight.” she heard Roman say.  “I want her still.”  The straps bit down so hard she could swear her hips and ribs were going to shatter.  Waynette managed to kick one of the goons in the face as they came to tie her ankles to the bedposts, receiving a snapped toe for the trouble.  When they were done, they stepped back and left immediately.  

Waynette’s eyes caught Roman’s.  His smile grew as he strode over to the bed, stripping slowly.  She started to shake as he leered over her.  

    “Isn’t this better?” he asked, running a hand between her breasts and down to her waist.     His hand hovering over her clit.

    “You sick fu-” Waynette gagged as Roman stuck his middle and ring finger in her mouth, pinched the underside of her jaw with his thumb and shook her head up and down. 

    “You say ye- Ow! You bitch!” he yelled, yanking his finger from her mouth.   He reached for his belt and hit her across the stomach.  Waynette howled and screamed as the buckle hit her stomach, hips and thighs; unable to do anything but wait for the next hit.

    “Stop!  Stop please!” she sobbed, her forearms flailing, uselessly trying to protect herself.  The hits stopped and Waynette gasped,laying her head back and breathing heavily.  

    “I want to keep you like this forever.” Roman sighed, gently wiping her tears away.  “Your screams-” he grabbed her chin and yanked her head to look down below his waist. “Look what they’ve done to me.”  Her eyes widened and she felt her stomach heave as he shoved his thick, erect cock in her face.  She closed her eyes, only to be slapped on the bandaged side of her face.  Her vision returned in fading white to see Roman straddling her, making a loop with his belt around her neck.  

    “D-” she was choked off as he pulled the belt taught.  Waynette froze, her frenzied eyes locking with his lustful ones.  Roman smiled, the belt loosening ever so slightly as he sheathed himself in Waynette with one push.    

Waynette gasped, all the air driving from her lungs.  He was huge, bigger than anyone else she had had before- and he wasn’t even all the way inside her yet.  

    “You’re tighter than I expected for a two dollar whore.” he grunted.  “Or am I just the biggest you ever had?”  Waynette felt the shame rising in her chest, creeping from the tops of her breasts to her forehead in a scarlet blush.    Roman threw his head back with a laugh.  “I really am; you should enjoy this then.” he smirked as he began to piston his hips with abandon.  She screamed as each thrust ground her harder into the straps and the old spring mattress.  He let go of the belt and braced both his hands on her shoulders.  

Waynette sobs of terror grew as he pulled her into each thrust.

    “God yes.” Roman panted.  He leaned down and kissed her hard, crying out himself as he shoved her down and sank himself deep into her.

Waynette couldn’t scream, she felt Roman filling every inch of her and she couldn’t scream.  

He pulled himself out of her with a groan and cleaned himself off on her thigh.

Waynette ached for something, anything to cover herself with as Roman watched her while he dressed.

“Don’t worry.” he told her, pulling a knife out of his pocket.  “You’ll learn to love it.”  

He shouted for his goons and they burst in leering over her as Roman cut the straps off her.  Wayntte immediately curled in on herself, her mind reeling over the pain that enveloped her entire body.

    “Get her into the bag and onto the back of the ATV.”  Roman said.  “I have some people to introduce her too.”

###

    “We can’t wait anymore.”  Kamea said, “We have to look for her tonight.”  Ramsay and Ryu nodded in agreement, their faces grim.  “Now, we should start-” the doorbell rang.  The trio paused and slowly stood, Ramsay, beckoning Kamea and Ryu to hide while they opened the door.

They had never met the man in front of them, but they knew who he was.  They remembered how Waynette had sobbed as she described the man that took her.  Carter Forge.

    “What do you want?” They hissed.  Kamea and Ryu peered around the corner, eyes blazing with fury as they took the man in.  

    “She’s here.” Carter said, holding out a GPS tracker.

Next

#whump #nsfwhump #cw noncon #waynette thorpe #roman reed #hunting cabin whump

[sprout-fics]

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 8

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 5.7k Rating: Mature Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Witch Laswell, Traditional German Fairytale setting, World Building/Lore, F! Reader, Mating/Claiming Bites, Witch Hunts, Angst, Whump Warnings: None

The tick of the hours until sundown echoes in your ears as you near Laswell’s cottage.

Normally you’d stop just shy of the clearing to breathe in the familiar scent of burning birch, of the nearby stream, relishing the sunlight that feels brighter here than in the village. Now, sunshine hardly escapes the damp cover of gray that obscures the sky, making the afternoon already feel so dark. The sun has passed its zenith, and soon darkness will descend on these woods, ensnaring the souls that live here as the monster lifts its blood-streaked muzzle to the hanging, yellow moon.

You’re running out of time, and now the lives of you, of Laswell, and König all hang in the balance.

The witchers’ mares nicker anxiously as you trot the remaining distance to the cabin, tied to a post and already saddled. From behind them appears Soap, fully adorned in his armor, sword at his side.

“Hen!” He breathes with a rush of relief, closing the distance between you and sweeping you into an embrace before you can protest. “Price was about t’ send a search party for you. Thank goodness yer alrigh’.”

You wrap your arms around Soap’s middle eagerly, pressing yourself to his front with an unsteady exhale. You can feel your heart hammering in your ribs unevenly, and with each beat you feel the minutes thin until your world is irreversibly changed.

“Laswell-” You gasp, clutching at the metal bracers on his forearms. “Where is she?”

Soap’s brow furrows deeper in worry, eyes glinting with confusion at your sudden frantic energy.

“Inside,” He responds quickly. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, push past him towards the door, Soap’s concerned voice trailing after you. You all but burst into the cottage, finding Price and the others bent seriously around a map splayed across Laswell’s kitchen table. They look up with surprise at your abrupt entry, taking in the sight of you with your chest heaving and eyes wild.

“Red?” Laswell asks, straightening and turning towards you, her wise gray eyes alight with anxiety at your frazzled state. “What-”

She’s cut off as you take two large strides towards her, wrapping your arms around her slender frame and breathing out a shuddering sigh. Laswell makes a small noise of surprise, stiffening before she forces herself to relax and return the embrace.

You swallow thickly, throat dry as you try to reassure yourself. It’s alright. Laswell is safe. The others are here, they won’t let the villagers hurt her. They’ll keep you both safe.

Laswell pulls you back so she balances you by your forearms. Your eyes feel too warm, threatening tears as you struggle to find the words to explain the panic inside you.

“You need to leave.” You tell her at last, voice shaking. “The others- the ones in the village, they’re- tonight, they said-”

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Gaz urges quietly as he appears at your side, a featherlight touch at your shoulder. “Deep breath.”

You nod, face warm as you heed his words and force yourself through a trembling exhale. You look up at Laswell once more, feeling the grip on your arms tighten as you speak.

“They’re going to burn us both.”

Silence descends upon the cabin.

You see the fear dawn in Laswell’s eyes, and feel it shake it to your core.

Laswell is never afraid. Worried, yes, in her quiet way where she’s analyzing, considering, lifting her face to the wind to understand its direction. She always has a plan, always has a way out, a secondary escape. To see this, to see fear...

“Kate-” Price tries as Laswell wobbles on her feet, allowing you and Gaz to help her into a nearby chair as she presses a hand to her face. Price hovers at her shoulder, lays a hand there as the wise woman bends her head in distress.

“I knew there were murmurs in the village.” She confesses at last, voice hoarse. “There’s always been murmurs, but-”

You kneel at her side, red cape spilling across your form as you hold her hand. She turns it over, curls her fingers around yours in a wordless acknowledgment. She looks up at Price, and you see his pinched expression as a mirror of her own.

“I thought perhaps summoning you all would prove to them I’m an ally, not an enemy. It seems I was wrong.”

You clutch her hand tighter, and Kate turns her gaze to you, lifting a hand to pet at the hood of your cloak.

“You too?” She asks, and despite the fondness there’s a grief, a heartache. “Even though you’ve lived here all your life?”

You clasp her hand to your cheek, relish the warmth against your frigid skin.

“They never wanted me, Kate.” You whisper with a sad smile. “They never will.”

Kate’s eyes are full of sorrow.

“Come with us.” Soap blurts out, still standing near the open door, allowing cold air to sweep inside. “After we kill the wolf. We can keep you safe, take you somewhere else.”

Yes. Leave with them, travel alongside these men you’ve come to trust, enjoy the company they keep. Go with Laswell towards a new horizon, have her keep you as the family she’s always been to you. Perhaps learn her trade, take over her craft and grow into the same woman you’ve always admired. Stay somewhere safe and keep a hearth warm for the traveling knights who have become your friends.

Yet your words from naught but a few hours before linger tight in your throat, an oath that tangles around your heart like the quiet interwoven braids of a daisy chain.

“Then, once it’s over, we’ll leave these woods. Together.”

Leave him? After everything?

Your face falls. Kate’s hand stills.

“Red?” She echoes cautiously, and you bend your face to her lap, gripping the folds of her skirt, feeling your eyes warm.

You close your eyes, force yourself to swallow down the grief in your throat and at last sway to your feet. The motion loosens the hood from your head, gently pooling onto your shoulders. Cool air washes across your nape, and you shiver, staring down at your boots as you try to collect yourself before you speak.

Before you can, you feel a presence shift behind you, hear a small suck of air as a gloved hand reaches out to graze your skin.

"What is this?" Soap asks suddenly from behind you, and you stiffen under his touch. His hand grazes aside the fabric of your cape, revealing the tender flesh of your shoulder where the bruising indent of Konig’s teeth lays against your skin. "...Red?"

The bite mark.

You slap a hand over the bruise before you can stop yourself, eyes wide with surprise at being noticed. You turn to look up at Soap, only to catch the fright that etches clear across his expression.

"Wh-what-" He tries in his shock, and the room goes silent.

"Red?" Laswell asks from beside you gently, cautiously, reaching forward to lay a reassuring hand on yours.

You draw back as if you've been burned.

It's too obvious, but you can't help it. Soap looks at you with something in his eyes akin to fear, gaze flickering desperately between your face and your hand covering the bite.

"Lass-" he tries, but his voice is a croak in his throat.

"Soap."

Five sets of eyes, including your own, turn to Price. He's halfway risen out of his chair at the head of the table, eyes staring not at the Scot but at you.

"I-it's a bite." Soap manages, gesturing to you, looking lost.

“I-I can explain.” You stammer, eyes wide, backing up to put distance between yourself and the group, even as Soap gently stretches a hand towards you. Warmth burns across your face, mortification at being revealed as the temptress you’ve been accused of.

The group is silent, wide-eyed as they watch you hesitate near the hearth. There’s worry and fear there- but beyond that there’s trust, a conviction that you will confess to them the truth.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” You admit, eyes traveling to each of the men in turn. Kate’s eyes are kind even though she does not yet know the secret waiting in your chest. Ever loving, ever accepting, Kate. Your beloved friend.

“I-” You try. “There’s someone waiting for me.”

Confusion fills the faces of the four men gathered around you. You look at them, then to Kate once more.

“His name is König.” You begin. “I found him in the woods, injured. He was bitten by the wolf. I took him in, nursed him back to health, and I-” The words come tumbling forth, a secret at long last revealed. Yet you pause when you get to the confession of your love affair, the feelings you harbor for the man who slept with you in his arms.

“He was bitten?” Ghost cuts you off, voice urgent, grave. “When?”

“Weeks ago now.” You clarify. “He’s- he’s deformed. I mean, I haven’t seen his face, but he wears a hood to conceal his face. He was hiding in the woods because he couldn’t come close to town. He was afraid of the villagers.” You blink, look down towards the floor with a mirthless smile. “I can hardly blame him.”

“I found him the day after you arrived. He was injured, could barely walk because of the bite on his leg. I-I couldn’t just leave him there. He would have died.”

The group around you is silent, weighing your words. it’s almost eerie, the way there’s no questions. Looking down as you are, you can’t see the looks exchanged between them, a silent conversation unfolding before you.

At last, Price steps closer, closing the distance so he gently balances you by your forearms. He holds you there, tucks a gently gloved hand under your chin so you look up into his eyes.

“You kept this a secret.” He murmurs, and you grimace at his tone. Stern, comforting, but beneath it- hurt. There’s a pain in his eyes that stabs at your chest, and you recall his gentle hand at your back, the way he’d secured your arms around your middle as you rode with him, his soft entreaty towards your safety. The kindness of his words then haunt you, cast in sharp contrast to his current voice.

“I...was worried you’d hurt him, chase him away.” You answer softly. “He’s a vagrant, a traveler. He’s been chased from villages before because of his deformity. I was afraid you’d do the same, and...and leave him to the mercy of the wolf.”

“I...couldn’t let that happen.” You go on, voice hardly a whisper. “You haven’t met him yet, but he’s gentle and kind. He’s protective and strong and we can talk for hours about all things. He’s told me about his travels, about stories he’s heard. He’s caring and sweet and makes me feel safe and warm and-”

Price stiffens, swallows.

“You love him.” He states, and it isn’t a question, but you nod all the same, ducking your head to avoid watching the hurt blossom deeper against his gaze. Guilt clenches sharply inside you, sours your mouth into a grimace of despair.

“He bit you.” Gaz observes quietly from the other side of the room, voice full of a grief you don’t understand. You turn to him, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing to try and explain. Yet all that escapes you is a small agreement, a confession in hardly a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Price.” Ghost says suddenly, and Price turns from you to his second in command, hands leaving you. Ghost stares intently at his captain, and you watch Price drag a weary hand over his face before he adjourns your conversation to approach Ghost in low, hushed tones you don’t hear.

“Red.”

Your attention is instead brought back to Laswell, who stands, draws near and gently gathers you closer to her, tilting your head to examine the bruise along your neck. Her hands tremble as they ghost over the mark, and you watch the way her smile of reassurance doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Did it hurt?” She asks soothingly, and you pause, shake your head.

“No- well, yes, but not too much.” You answer plainly, and it only deepens the worry in her eyes in a way you don’t understand.

“You agreed to it?” She asks, tone firmer.

“Yes- Kate, what is this?” You ask with a mixture of confusion and concern, but before she can answer you only shake your head instead. “Never mind that. Kate, König is sick. He has a terrible fever. He was all but delirious when I left, he couldn’t even stand. You have to help him.”

Kate pauses at that, and then shifts so she grips you by your arms with sudden urgency.

“Where is he now?” She asks sharply, and you blink at her, startled by the sudden fixation of her gaze upon yours.

“I-In my cottage, in the village.” You stammer. “Wh-”

“John.” Kate speaks, moving away from you, and you make to follow, only to pause as Ghost turns from them both and towards you instead. There’s a heavy set to his shoulders as he steps forward, and it feels all for the world like a promise of danger. You flinch away from it, hand once again raising towards your neck, something instinctual forcing you to conceal the evidence of König’s claim on you.

Ghost pauses where he stands, instantly freezing at your response. When he approaches again it's softer, gentler, as if he's trying to tame a trapped, scared animal. He doesn't speak as his hands stretch an inch forward, just enough to placate you as you tremble, legs weak with uncertainty. You can barely see the darks of his eyes from behind his mask. Yet his posture radiates gentleness, a beckoning of trust, safety, allowing him to come closer.

"You're alrigh'." He murmurs softly as his hands smooth up your shoulders, gently tugging the tie of your cape so he can scoot it to the side. You try to refuse him when his grip gently pries away your hand covering the wound, but Ghost offers you a graze of his thumb on the inside of your wrist, making you go lax against his touch.

He doesn't make a sound when the bite is revealed, doesn't move to touch the bruise lest it hurt you. All he does instead is continue to rub a gentle circle into your wrist, offering a little hum of reassurance before he turns, looks at Price.

He nods. Price’s face falls open with a despair you long to understand.

You look up at Ghost, meeting his eyes through his mask. There’s questions left unspoken in your gaze, but you know from his eyes alone he won’t answer them. You try to understand why the group is suddenly so grim, why Laswell, Soap, Gaz and Price whisper to themselves and cast furtive glances in your direction. Why the secrecy?

You’re so tired of secrets. You’ve been keeping your own for so long, only to find König keeping his in turn. Now that you’ve confessed, your friends have only turned away from you, discussing amongst themselves in words you can’t hear. You want to raise your voice, bat at Ghost’s chest, demand answers that they will not yield. The forest holds all things quiet, a hushed, damp softness that curls within the morning mist, obscuring shapes shifting between the trees.

Price sighs from the council gathered in the corner, rubbing his face once more before speaking.

“Right.” he announces, voice suddenly filling the cottage with an authoritative declaration. “We’re going back to the village. The werewolf will likely attack there after dark. Laswell will see to Red’s vagabond. Soap, Gaz-” He looks towards his second in command. “You’re with me. Ghost, I want you with Laswell and Red. I don’t want a single person that isn’t in this room to set foot inside Red’s cottage, understood?”

“Understood.” Ghost replies firmly and settles a hand on your shoulder in a silent reassurance, a promise of protection.

Laswell shoots the younger man a warm smile at the gesture, but you can only nod, thoughts once more drifting to the feverish man writhing in your bed back in the village.

“I want everyone geared up in five minutes.” Price goes on, arms crossed, letting his gaze weigh on each of you in turn. “We are leaving, and we’re going to slay this monster once and for all.”

He turns then, reaching for his sword that lays across the map on the table. He pauses for just a moment to look at you once more, mouth a grim, thin line before he vanishes outside into the growing mist that keeps all secrets, even those in your heart.

----

Four sets of thundering hooves race through the trees as the six of you bolt back in the direction of the village. The sun hovers near the horizon, and with every growing moment it dips closer towards darkness. The moon is already rising, obscured by the trees but hanging heavy in its fullness. The mist of the dim forest swirls around you as the horses gallop down the same path you once saw this monster, with its towering stature and gleaming golden eyes. Then, like now, you had clasped tightly to Price’s back, casting terrified glances over your shoulder to find the shadow that lurked just beyond the tree line.

As nighttime falls, you wait for a lachrymose howl to carve up into the sky.

You lift your face towards the wind, will the mares impossibly faster, urging them into a sunset flight as the hour darkens, as König lays waiting in your cottage. Helpless, feverish, perfect prey for a monster to claw through the door, lift him to its waiting, dripping jaw.

The memory of your dream, of König’s scream slicing through the midnight forest and urging you to run, run pulses in tandem with your heartbeat, a wild canter just with the deafening fall of hoofbeats against the woodsy, damp earth.

König reaches for you again, and the warning he calls out to you is muffled by the thunder of your heartbeat. You catch his eyes, his gaze bright with fear. Gone are the soft green irises that speak to you with warm familiarity, replaced down with an eerie, glowing, gleaming gold that mirrors the light of the moon above.

“John!” Laswell’s voice cuts through your reverie, and you cling tighter as Price urges his horse to a halt, the others steadying their own mounts to a stillstand. Laswell gazes out from behind Gaz, brow drawn tight beneath her own dark cloak.

“What is it?” Price prompts quickly, voice dragging in a gruff growl as his mare circles uneasily under you both. You cling tighter to his waist, fingers clenching uneasily against the leather straps of his armor.

“Look.” Laswell gestures, and the five of you follow her outstretched hand up above the trees, where a wisp of dark smoke snakes a tendril against the gray sky. You blink, lips parting as the acrid smell of smoke suddenly floods your nose. It’s not uncommon to smell chimney smoke as you enter the village, but the heavy, charred scent of something burning seizes sharply in your lungs with a cold wash of fear.

“The village.” You breathe, looking to Price with wide, startled eyes. “The village is burning.”

Price looks down at you, and there’s only a momentary flash of surprise before his expression once more settles into a grim resolve.

“Hold tight.” He announces to you, and then to the others: “Quickly!”

Once more he urges the mare under him into a full gallop, and you cling helplessly to his back, your only anchor from the rock of the horse under you. You scrunch your eyes shut, thoughts racing alongside the sprinting hoofbeats as you imagine the town engulfed in flames, of a pyre awaiting you and Laswell, the sparks floating up towards the moon.

Clouds lurk darkly against the horizon, warning of a coming storm. As you all race towards the village, the wind begins as a gentle breeze, only to rise to a full howl as it rustles through the trees. Inky dark clouds obscure the orange haze of sunset like charcoal, and the horizon is painted with embers that you pray you don’t find of the town you once loved.

The village comes into view as you round the final bend, just as Price and the others did all that time ago when they first came to you. Atop their dark steeds, they’d gazed down at your scarlet form, and had chosen you to guide them through the woods.

"Go on then, Rotes Mädchen."

How long it has been since then. So much has happened. The wolf, König, the villagers, the promise of a burning hellfire, and now the full moon rising as an abraxas curse above you all.

König waits for you in the burning village, and you pray once more to the Gods that he’ll honor his oath, that he’ll be there once you return, whole and safe.

I promised I would go with you. You whisper inside the gale of your thoughts. Don’t make me break that promise.

At first glance the village appears whole and intact, the houses boarded with their shutters closed, hastily made barricades sheltering barns and stables. There’s not a soul that peeks from the windows as the six of you circle in the town center near the well, and it isn’t until Soap’s despairing, quiet murmur that you understand what’s truly wrong.

“Oh no.” He whispers, barely audible above the nickering of his mare. “Oh, Red.”

You follow his gaze, and feel your whole world turn to ash.

“NO!!” You scream, quickly sliding from Price’s saddle-

and bolting in the direction of your home set ablaze.

Laswell calls after you, but you heedlessly disobey her warning, legs pumping under you, hood flying from your head as you run in the direction of your burning cottage. There’s a crowd gathered just beyond your front gate, and among them are men holding pitchforks, hoisting them high and chanting a curse towards the clouds that roil dark and mysterious against the rising moon. As you near one of them turns, shouts to his compatriots. You ignore them, trying to push them aside to run up the path to your home, to the place you left your beloved resting fitfully in the bed where he had embraced you.

“NO!!” You shriek as one of them catches you around your waist, an arm stretching out in the direction of the cottage. Flames erupt from the windows, smoke billowing from the ceiling, and your own scream is muffled by the cracking of wood, like bones breaking inside the fragile cage of your heart. “KÖNIG!! PLEASE, NO!!”

He’s inside, he’s trapped. They’ve secured him there, no doubt, sent him to burn in your stead when they could not find you. He’s waiting for your return as he promised, waiting for you to find aid and embrace him once more, say the words you wish you had spoken sooner.

“Let me go!!” You scream as you’re hauled off your feet, shouts echoing in a frenzied cacophony around you. “Please- he���s inside, I need to save him-!!”

Your hands are caught, hauled upwards as someone calls for rope, and you scream then, a wordless, terrified cry just as tears blossom against your vision.

He’s dying, he’s dying, please-

You sob hysterically as you thrash in the unyielding grip of your captors, fighting against them like a feral, trapped animal and screaming, screaming for your beloved, for them to release you so you can throw yourself into the flames and rescue him or at least kiss him once more before the both of you drown in flames.

“Please-” You cry, throat thick with tears as the hunter’s son approaches you with your bindings-

Only to be stopped by a sword at his throat.

The men holding you freeze, not yet releasing you, but staring up at the towering witcher who’s eyes gleam darkly behind his mask.

“Release her.” Ghost growls, and you watch the blood drain from the young man’s face, his sinister sneer changing instead to a pale look of terror.

“I said.” Ghost announces once more, tilting the sharp of his blade so it nicks a shallow, red slice against the man’s throat. “Release her.”

The hands holding you vanish, and as soon as you’re released you bolt in the direction of your cottage once more, cape flaring out behind you. Yet before you can make it past the gate, another arm snakes around your middle, hauls you back against a broad chest.

“No Red!” Soap cries above the crackling of the flames that glow against your face. You struggle in his arms, chest heaving erratically as you claw at him to release you. Soap only grips you harder, prevents you from taking another step with his admirable witcher’s strength.

“I have to save him!” You gasp desperately, stretching towards the burning silhouette you once called home, even as the eaves begin to buckle. “Soap, please!!”

“He’s gone.” Soap mutters hoarsely into your shoulder. “Hen, he’s gone.”

A sob cracks your throat, and you slump against his hold, exhausted, grieving as tears stream openly down your face. You chant desperate pleas against him even though you know it’s too late, even as the roof finally caves in, burns down the only place you ever called home. You cry out in a wordless despair, your voice cutting through the silence that has engulfed the crowd behind you, kept at bay by Ghost and Gaz atop their dark mares.

“Please.” You beg once more, cradling your face in your hands as tears slip through your fingers. “König...”

“Rotty. Beloved Rotty.”

You loved him. Truly. Endlessly. Now he’s gone.

“Red!!” Laswell cries from behind you, and at once she’s at your side, arms around you as Soap releases you into her hold. You sob openly into the embrace, cling to her like a child in your despair. Laswell holds you, rocks you, but then at last holds you at arm’s length.

“He’s not there.” She tells you in a rush, eyes open with desperation. “The villagers said there was nobody inside. He’s alive.”

You stare at her through wet lashes, feeling the heat of the flames lick at your cape like the pyre that beckons you. It takes a moment to process her words, but when the realization dawns at last you clutch at her, face open with hope and terror.

“W-where is he, then?!” You beg, voice cracking. “Is he safe?”

Laswell’s face pinches in an expression you don’t understand.

Then, she looks to the woods.

It’s in that moment that a howl splits the sky.

Silence falls over the village as you all tense, looking towards the misty tree line just as the full, yellow moon appears atop the trees.

You’re out of time.

It’s Price’s voice then, that cuts through the silence that follows.

“Listen!” He calls out, voice thunderous, drawing all eyes towards his towering figure atop his anxiously prancing mare.

“The werewolf will be here soon, and when it comes it will tear this village to shreds. None of you will be safe when it does. Not unless you listen, understood?”

You watch the villagers look at each other anxiously, murmuring to themselves until a voice cuts through the crowd.

“Feed the witches to the wolf! It’s the only way!”

“Shut it!” Gaz snaps venomously from beside Price, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard- only for Price’s hand to shoot out and stop him. He nods at the younger man, who simmers with anger, his eyes dancing with fury in the light of the fire. Price turns once more to the crowd.

“These two women are under our protection!” His voice booms, gesturing to you and Laswell, Soap just before you, bristling with his teeth bared at the threat before him. “If anyone dares to lay a single hand on them, I’ll slice it off and feed you to the wolf. You will die a bloody, agonizing death, I promise you that.”

You watch the man who shouted the threat take a step back, aghast at Price’s words.

“It was Laswell who summoned us here to kill the monster.” Gaz interjects, seething. “and Red who guided us through the woods in search of it. You owe them your lives, you ungrateful swine.”

He urges his horse forward a single step, just enough to make the crowd step back, as Price barks at him to get back in line before turning towards the villagers once more.

“I want everyone in the village hall!” He declares, voice rough, overshadowed by the sudden shattering of a beam behind you as your house folds in on itself. You flinch into Laswell’s arms, feel her hold you tighter protectively, tucking your head away from the sight of your ruined home. “All able-bodied men are to grab a weapon and meet me in the square!”

The group hesitates as the bravado of some of the men evaporates in the face of the threat the wolf poses, muttering between themselves and sharing furtive glances. Price waits for them to come to an agreement, and when they don’t his voice carries over them once more.

“We were called here to protect you!” He announces, voice rising towards the inky clouds that roil past the moon. “If you wish for us to leave we will do so right now and leave you to the mercy of the beast.”

You watch a shudder run through the group, hear several gasps as they protest. It seems to settle Price, who nods with resolve before nodding towards the village hall.

“Go!” He bellows, voice thunderous. “There isn’t much time. Women and children inside. Men outside. Now!”

The townsfolk finally heed Price’s words and scatter in the direction of their homes to grab belongings, children, weapons. Price watches them, and once more casts a long look at the tree line before turning to the rest of you. You break from Laswell then, rush forward to grasp at the captain’s stirrup in desperation.

“Price.” You gasp, throat still not clear of your cries. “König- he’s in the woods. The werewolf will kill him. You have to go help him. Please.”

Price looks down at you, and you freeze at the sorrow in his gaze, the grief he unfolds for you.

“I’m sorry, Red.” He tells you, voice quiet. “It’s too late.”

You freeze, face falling open with your horror as you process his words.

He’s leaving him to die.

“N-no-” You try, voice cracking, grasping harder at his saddle. “No he’s- he’s somewhere nearby. He couldn’t have gotten far. We just need to look for him, I-I can’t leave him-”

“We need every person here.” Price tells you gravely. “The wolf will strike where there’s the most blood to be found. We cannot risk a search party, not with so many souls gathered here in the village.”

You stare at him, tears once more obscuring your vision as a plea dies in your throat. When Price pulls away, you jerk back as if you’ve been burned. The motion sends you straight into Laswell’s arms once more. She hauls you to her, pressing from behind you and cradling her nose against the bite mark that still lays against your skin.

“I’m sorry, Red.” She whispers. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

There’s a protest of despair that flutters helplessly in your chest, and you want to scream, to shout, to cry out for all things gained and lost in the pale moonlight cast down upon your lonely figure.

Memories surface unbidden as you stand stiffly, gazing at the sky.

König, frightened and injured, hid in the hollow of a tree. König, who had accepted your aid, offered you his name in a gesture of trust. König, who had gently placed his palm in yours, had offered quiet companionship near your hearth. König, who had snuck longing gazes at you, eyes glinting from the flames. König, who had held you safe from the world, who had cared for you so tenderly and protected you so fiercely. König, who had pressed you into bed with endless murmurs of devotion, who had called you by his name for you, who had laid claiming marks into your skin to show you were his. König, who had promised to stay so you would never be alone again.

“Laswell.” You speak in a raw whisper, watching the others gather in grave conference with their backs turned towards you. “I can’t leave him.”

Laswell tenses at your back before she at last releases you, turns you to face her. Her hair catches the glow of the flames, gray eyes soft and burning as they peer into the depths of your heart. She holds you there, hands clinging tightly to the cape she once bestowed upon you as a gift of her affection towards you.

“There’s one more thing.” She tells you, and in her voice you hear prophecy, the magic she keeps in careful concealment. It winds around you like brambles, a protection for the soul inside you striving towards something you’ve desired all your life, something which remains so close and just out of reach, residing in the woods you’ve always called home.

Laswell gathers you to her, and whispers words in your ear you don’t yet understand, holds you tight like she would a daughter. You think for a moment she’ll refuse to release you, will prevent you from the terrible act you are about to commit.

She releases you, gray eyes gleaming. She looks towards the turned backs of the witchers you’ve come to befriend, the ones who will now abandon you in your greatest time of desperation.

“Go.” Laswell whispers, and you take a step back, resisting the urge to throw yourself once more into her arms. Instead, you turn towards the forest, towards the cradle of the woods that has kept you safe your entire life. You turn towards the groves that hold secrets and danger, the woods that now hold your beloved as a prisoner, awaiting the fatal bite of the monster that haunts your nightmares.

You run for the trees, and you don’t look back.

Taglist:

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@writeforfandoms @zwiiicnziiix @soapskneebrace @tealikestoread @mikrou @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @kiroshang @adorephina @equalstrashflavoredtrash @dog55teeth @seraphimcollections @pettyprocrastination @borderlinecatboybehavior @warenai @moskaisley @nachtcirce @feelingnotmyself @lovenotcomputed @rk1v35 @kikisstrawberrie @emrzennn @montenegroisr @frazie99 @graybraids @ohgraywardens @tangerines-mustache @poohkie90 @arbesa-mind @glitterypirateduck @ihatethinkingofnames10 @josieguts @berryjuicyy @emmbny @merkitty49 @danisblog164 @trashedies @arael-asuka @angryvengeful @fake-id-69 @theallpowerfulrosami @ramadiiiisme @elsasshole @emrzennn @grimraindrop818

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#konig x reader #konig x you #könig x reader #könig x you #witcher 141 au #könig x f! reader #my fic #fic: rotes madchen #werewolf x reader

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 30: Whump

Agape | @tami-ryver Rating: Mature Word Count: 2,421 Main Tags/Warnings: Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Torture, Tortured Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin (Supernatural), Blood and Injury, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Saves Dean Winchester, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), First Kiss, Dean Winchester Swears, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond Summary: Cas, I don't know if you can hear me, I need your help. I got myself kidnapped by a demon; you told me to pray in case something like this happened, so, please, help me! With his eyes closed, Dean doesn't see the way the demon starts leaving his old vessel and starts drifting toward him. Only when the smell of sulfur fills his nose, his eyes open quickly and he sees the black mass of the demon right in front of him, he sobs. Then a bright light fills the room.

The Confessions of Buried Bones | @Joysprings-a03 Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 3,120 Main Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injured!Dean Winchester, Protective! Castiel, Hunt Gone Wrong, Curses, Blood and Injury, Worried!Sam, Worried!Castiel BAMF!Castiel, Trapped, Love Confessions, Case fic, Summary: On a case gone wrong, Dean is seriously injured while Cas is running low on grace. The two are trapped together and running out of time. Things come to light, feelings and desperation take place. ********** The cave rumbled again and a few loose rocks fell, which only served to raise Dean’s hackles even more. They’d definitely missed something. “There’s a catch to the curse! After it’s broken, the place it was protecting starts to self-destruct! You have to get out of there now!” Suddenly crystal clear, Sam’s words came through his phone just as the mouth of the cave popped into view. Time slowed, and Dean’s stomach plummeted as he realized what was happening. “Run!”

Take Enough Soul | @envydean Rating: Explicit Word Count: 9,450 Main Tags/Warnings: Demon!Dean/Human!Cas, Alternate Universe, summoning demons, Selling of Souls, Angst, Hurt/very little comfort, cock bulging, Bottom!Cas, slight body horror, Ambiguously Happy Ending, temporary major character death, rape/non-con Summary: Dean is summoned to an old cabin in the middle of the woods by a man who has lost his brother. After making sure Castiel's soul is worth the bargain, Dean goes in search of Castiel's brother only to find that he's not on Earth, but in Hell. Unfortunately for Castiel, deals are addictive and once he's made one, he finds he has Dean wrapped around his finger.

Entirely Unacceptable | @samanddean76 Rating: Mature Word Count: 10,794 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Modern Royalty, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Alpha Gabriel, Omega Sam Winchester, Alpha John Winchester, BAMF's, BAMF John Winchester, Rescue, Revenge, Or Justice, First Time, Knotting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, True Mates, Love, Happy Ending, All The Bad Guys Get Punished, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Kneeling, Past Abuse, Mpreg, Dean Winchester Whump Summary: Alpha Castiel has unexpectedly acquired a very well-trained Omega Dean when he escorted his brother Gabriel to a public auction house. But the Omega he brought home harbors not only secrets, but enemies as well. Will they survive long enough to reach their happy ending? And can they really be true mates if neither is sure that they even believe in such a thing? Love, rescue, and some revenge in a modern-day A/B/O setting.

The Penitent | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 17,832 Main Tags/Warnings: Demon!Dean, post apocalyptic AU, memory loss, temporary MCD (Sam), hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, whump!Dean, top!Castiel/bottom! Dean Summary: Ten years have passed since Demon! Dean murdered his brother Sam and devastated the land. His footprints have become almost untraceable by the angels, who've lost faith in and defeating the one in possession of the Mark of Cain. Everyone except Castiel, who after incessantly searching for a way to save Dean, finds one last hope. He must request something extraordinary from Heaven to heal the mark. block the demon, and recover Dean. Dean must reverse the events, bringing Sam back to life. To do this, he must use the Penitent's Ring, which had once belonged to Cain, and with it, he must defeat the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit. Yet is Dean capable of such this? And can Castiel heal the darkness within Dean? This is a dystopian fic, based on canonverse, post 10x20 episode. Dean had lost his memories and he will be slowly recovering them. This will bring a lot of angst, and sad moments but Castiel will be there to comfort him. It's an angsty story with action, romance and a happy ending.

#destiel trope collection #destiel trope collection 2024 #destiel #fanfic #supernatural #whump

[whumping-valentine]

🦌 Fawn and Hunter - Part 6 🦌

"Fawn and the Fog"

Content: Animal death, animal skeletons, threats, hunting, anxiety, defiant whumpee, spooked whumper, whumpee forced to kill, weird rural woodsy shit in true rural redneck fashion 💪

I may have German, Irish, and Slovak in my blood, but at the end of the day I am merely just a northeast yankee here to represent the horrors of the American woodland lol

2000 Words

Part six baby let's goooo. And only two days after part five, I'm on a roll!! If you're someone who wanted to see a more mean Hunter, especially after the last part, this is the chapter for you.

This is where the batshit paranormal stuff that I was talking about earlier starts happening. I am physically incapable of writing something grounded in reality, you guys aren't prepared for what this seemingly normal, woodsy whump series is gonna turn into.

Also shout out to you guys who leave comments on this. I appreciate the little words so much you don't even know, it really motivates me to keep going. There's only two of you atm, you know who you are. Thank you, truly.

Hope you enjoy! 💕

       After a few days, Fawn began to overcome their illnesses, being oh so carefully tended to like the sickly little fawn they were. Being so busy nursing their pet back to health, Hunter had no time to gather or prepare food. They began running low on resources. Turns out feeding two people rather than one will cause you to run out of food faster. Who knew?

       Now that Fawn was better, and was the very cause of their food drought in the first place, Hunter decided that it was about time they helped out around the cabin and made themself useful. They grabbed an extra gun and walked down to the basement, where Fawn was back to seeping on the old mattress.

       Hunter threw the shotgun on the tattered bed. Fawn looked up at them in puzzlement.

       “Don’t get any funny ideas, it’s not loaded.” Hunter said, “Though it will be, soon. You and I are going hunting.”

       Fawn scoffed, “Absolutely not, you psycho.”

       "That wasn't a question. Get up."

       “Or what?”

       “Or I’ll make you get up. Your choice.”

       “You don’t scare me.” Fawn said, though they could feel their anxiety sparking up.

        “Oh, so you’ve gotten too comfortable, have you? I can fix that.” Hunter said, leaning down as they grabbed a fistful of their hair, pulling Fawn to their feet as they yelped and winced. Hunter twisted their head to look up at them with those wide, big, deer-in-headlights eyes. They tugged on their hair, holding the gun to their chin with the other, “This is not a place to get comfortable in, or abuse my hesitance to kill you. I can be nice, so long as you're good. But be bad—” They pulled harder, “—and I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare. Got it?”

       “Y-yes, Hunter.”

       “Good.” They let go, “Now pick up the gun and follow me.” They turned to walk back up the stairs, and Fawn obeyed, following them meekly, their head down. They clutched the gun tightly in both of their hands, ascending the staircase. The two of them stepped outside into the crisp late Autumn air. A chill waved through the wind, an incredibly foggy and cloudy day.

       The two walked through the misty woods in silence, leaves crunching beneath their feet. Fawn stuck close to Hunter, finding it incredibly hard to see.

       Fawn grumbled to themself as they tried to hold back, but couldn’t help themself, and they broke the silence, “You sure picked a brilliant day to go hunting. Can’t even see a foot in front of me let alone a fucking deer.”

       “Okay, smartass, you think you’re a more qualified hunter than me?”

       “I think I’m smarter than you, yeah.” Fawn said, and Hunter kicked their feet out from under them, causing them to fall backwards.

       “You’re not the one who gets to be sassy here, in case you’ve forgotten.”

       "I can do whatever the fuck I want, I'm not your pet and I never will be. In case you've forgotten." They stood back up.

       "Oh, I haven't forgotten your defiance. How could I when you make your resistance so clear? Though I do remember you were letting me hold and comfort you so softly just a few days ago."

       "Oh, fuck off."

       Hunter ignored them, "You turn into such a helpless baby when you're sick. You should be like that more often. But I guess your dramatics are quite entertaining."

       "How in all of fucking hell have I been dramatic? I think I act perfectly fucking reasonable, all things considered."

       "Oh, well firstly, I've killed people who were far less pissy than you. Secondly, a pretty thing like you should cut the swears."

       "Yeah, how about you go and kill me, too, that'll fucking stop them. Maybe I'll just do it more to piss you off. Fucking shit ass bitch, suck a cock, dick."

       "Don't make me wash that mouth out with soap."

       "I'd be surprised if you even owned soap, you filthy dirtbag."

       Hunter shot a bullet at the ground, next to their feet. Fawn yelped and jumped back as their adrenaline spiked. The boom echoed through the trees.

       "I let you get away with saying a lot of shit. I'm starting to get tired of it. Have you already forgotten the little chat we had earlier? You have no idea what I’m capable of, baby. I guess I’ll need to show you later.” They said, a threat laced in their voice.

       Fawn literally growled in fear and anger, “I will run off into these fucking woods! I can do it! I’ll— I’ll fucking leave!”

       "Threatening to run away like some angsty teenager? Oh, no, by all means, go ahead." Hunter said, gesturing out into the misty woods, "Run off. Find your way home. I'm sure you'll be able to."

        Fawn glared at them in wide-eyed hatred, biting their lip in anger. Hunter found it adorable, which only contributed to Fawn’s disdain.

      “Come on,” Hunter said, roughly nudging their shoulder with the shotgun, “Keep moving.”

       Fawn glared back at them, rubbing their shoulder, angry tears in their eyes. Hunter wore a smug smile, and Fawn wanted nothing more than to punch it off their stupid face. Wanted to just turn the gun around on themself and shoot. That would be better than this. But they couldn't even have the luxury of death, holding an unloaded gun. They wished there were two bullets so they could take both of them out all at once.

They continued on through the endless woods, Fawn's involuntary anxiety growing by the second. They hated that they couldn't control it. Couldn't stop their heart from beating so fast, stop that dreadful feeling in their arms and chest. They didn't want to be afraid. Anxiety is such a bitch.

       “Shh, shh.” Hunter hushed suddenly as they pulled on Fawn's arm, crouching them both down into the bushes. Their eyes were locked on a beautiful doe. The same doe with a coat pattern of hearts that Fawn had fed those many weeks prior. A pit opened in their stomach.

       Hunter loaded a single bullet into Fawn's gun, and guided their hands to point it at the doe, who stared down Fawn right in the eyes, almost in recognition. Fawn’s hands were trembling as Hunter held them tight, smirking as their warm breath trickled Fawn’s neck. Hunter guided their fingers to the trigger, and forced them to pull it.

       A loud gunshot rang through the air, as Fawn winced and trembled. The deer was dead, and the forest ran silent. Fawn stared blankly ahead as their eyes locked onto the carcass, trembling hands still gripping the gun as Hunter went over to look at their catch.

       Crows gathered around out of nowhere as they sat silently in the barren trees, as if to pay respects to the fallen, and condemn Fawn for their actions. They'd never felt guilt quite like this.

       Tears welled in their eyes behind the cracked glasses they wore. The gun dropped from their hands as they shook uncontrollably. As the pure shock of the deed began to wear off, they slowly broke down into tears, and before long, they were sobbing uncontrollably.

       It begins to lightly rain in a mist, and all around the massive murder of crows sat and watched in continuous silence. Though neither seemed to notice.

       Hunter threw the deer over their shoulders like it was nothing. “Enough of the crying. Get up.” They kicked Fawn in the ribs with their foot.

       Fawn again, growled like an angry animal, and they snapped, “Fuck you! Fuck you all the way to Hell, you bastard!” They yelled, voice cracking as tears streamed down their cheeks, “I hope you die in a fucking fire! At the edge of a cliff, covered in burns, poisoned, coughing up blood, with no one to fucking love you!!”

       They buried their face into their hands as they sobbed. Hunter stared at them with a blank, neutral expression. They reached down and grabbed the scruff of their sweater, pulling them to their feet in one swift motion.

       “No!” Fawn yelled, “Get away from me!” They pushed them away, falling backwards into the bush they were crouched behind. A burr bush.

       Fawn had burrs all over their clothes, and in their hair. Hunter shook their head, unamused, “How many times do I have to tell you, Fawn? These are the consequences of your actions. Now get up."

       “Fuck you!!”

       “I won’t ask you again.”

       “No!”

       “Get up.”

       “AAAAAAAHHHHH!!” They screamed.

       “Oh, so now you’re gonna just throw a tantrum like a child. Is that what you are, a child? Keep screaming and crying, it isn’t gonna get you out of that bush or out of these woods.”

"I'd rather die in this bush!"

"Then go ahead and be my guest." Hunter said, fed up, rolling their eyes, "Stop being dramatic."

       Fawn grumbled and kicked their feet as they struggled to get up, Hunter watching the pathetic act apathetically. The bush pulled on the threads of their clothes, and their hair, ruining them and causing pain. Once they were back on their feet, they held back a pout before roughly kicking Hunter in the ankle, quickly walking back the way they came. Hunter gave no reaction, following behind them in a thoughtful stalk.

       Fawn stomped through the trees, angry, upset, and anxious. They hoped if they'd move fast enough, they'd lose the hunter through the fog, the deer slowing them down, where they could somehow find their way home. Though somewhere along the way, they suddenly stopped in their tracks, gripping the shotgun tightly, staring intensely through the thick blanket of white mist.

Hunter caught up to them, "What?" They asked. Fawn just stared. Hunter squinted their eyes and could faintly make out what looked to be a skeleton of some kind.

       Hunter went ahead of them and approached it, only to find it wasn’t just some normal kind of animal remains, no. Not only were the bones perfectly picked clean, in perfect skeletal formation, but it was huge. Not just a large buck, either. More so the size of a car. The skull itself was almost bigger than Hunter.

       “What the hell?” Hunter muttered to themself in shock. They’d lived out in these woods for years, and never had they ever seen anything like it before. They were stunned, at a loss for words, and above all else, frightened. At first they thought it might be fake, or some kind of art piece. They'd seen those before.

But something deep down inside said that wasn't the case.

       They slowly backed away from it and returned to Fawn, watching it disappear through the mist. Hunter didn’t say a word, and just continued walking, trusting Fawn would follow. This caused Fawn great unease. Hunter had been out here for years. They’ve killed people. What on Earth could possibly have them spooked?

       The misty rain slowly turned to gentle flakes of snow, the wind picking up as it grew colder and darker. They made it back to the cabin as the snow began to stick and fall heavier, the wind howling through the growing darkness of the late evening.

       Hunter plopped the deer down on the table and turned to look at Fawn. The look on the hunter's face almost made them shiver, and not from the cold. Seeing your own captor frightened by something wasn't something you'd exactly want to see. They ran a hand through their long, messy hair, shaking their head as they pulled themself back down to earth.

       “Come on,” they said, “let’s pick those nasty things off you.” They said, and led them down into the basement. Fawn was far too spooked and exhausted to fight back anymore. They stood still as Hunter meticulously picked off all the tiny brussels and burrs, until they were finally free of them.

       Hunter pushed Fawn down onto the mattress roughly before locking both of them down in the basement. Hunter sat on a chair, clutching their gun tightly in their hands as it laid across their lap. They stared intensely at the door, frightened that something they couldn’t explain may come down it. Fawn looked over at them from the mattress which they slept.

       They hated that their presence made them feel safer.

Taglist: @parasitebunny

If you want added or removed, lmk!

Thanks for reading !!!

#fawn and hunter #whump #whump blog #whump community #whumpblr #my writing #whump writing #rural whump

[quietly-by-myself]

Shadow By My Fireplace Masterlist

Cyril Galanos lived alone in the woods until, one day, he finds a dying man with a collar collapsed near one of his hunting spots. Overwhelmed by an urge to help him, Cyril takes the man back to his cabin and saves his life. However, he soon learns that the life his Shadow led before him was a special kind of hell. Through helping his Shadow heal, Cyril learns to heal from his own battle scars and care about people again.

THIS STORY IS COMPLETE

THIS STORY CONTAINS 18+ CONTENT AS PART OF THE MAIN PLOTLINE. MINORS ARE NOT WELCOME ON THE TAGLIST

Story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 - 18+

Chapter 13 - 18+

Chapter 14 - 18+

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24 (alt) - 18+

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

AU:

Vampire!Cyril AU

Vampire! Cyril AU p2

Picrews:

Cyril Galanos

Sacha

Master/Emery

Fanart and other things:

Moodboards for Sacha (🐘 anon)

Sacha’s Missing Persons Report

Taglist (always open):

whumpsday, i-can-even-burn-salad, pigeonwhumps, darkthingshappen, pumpkin-spice-whump, darlingwhump, maracujatangerine, just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, flowersarefreetherapy, 33-sdtr-45, octopus-reactivated, quietshae, whump-blog, inkkswhumpandstuff, whumpycries, whumpkinz, roblingoblin285

#shadow by my fireplace #whump #whump writing #sacha #cyril #whumpblr

[quietwings-fics]

my love, my heart, don't cry

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Jack & Lucifer) Additional Tags: Protective Lucifer (Supernatural), Lucifer is Jack Kline's Parent, Alternate Universe, Jack Kline Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Minor Character Death, Violence, Crying, Blood and Injury, Psychic Bond Wordcount: 1918 Summary:

Even leaving Jack alone for a few hours is dangerous when the whole world wants him dead.

Lucifer turns the milk bottle over in his hand. It’s identical to all the others in the row behind it, but the bottle cap is a different color than the ones beside it and the label says skim milk where the other says whole milk, and he has no idea what the difference is. Is there one? He casts about in Nick’s memories, but the milk his vessel’s lost child drank came from an entirely different source than a grocery store, one that Lucifer and Jack… don’t have. 

He’s not even sure if Jack needs milk. He’s only a month old, yes, but he dogs at Lucifer’s heels around their well-warded cabin on growing legs he hasn’t gotten used to yet and is constantly asking questions. Nick’s baby didn’t do that. Most human babies, Lucifer’s figured out, actually stay babies for longer than a few days.

Most babies do not spend the first week of their life being hunted, hurt, nearly stolen away from Lucifer. 

Lucifer takes the bottle. If it isn’t right, than he’ll come back and get another one. It isn’t like money is a problem. He doesn’t plan on paying for anything. He places the milk down in the bag he’s carrying, next to the medicine he swept off the shelf without reading what any of them were really for and the squishy rubber toy turtle he found right past the mountain of different dog foods. Jack always needs more toys. 

He can feel his son’s grace no matter how far away he is. Their connection never wavers. It hasn’t since the first time Lucifer picked him up and held him, when Jack was still small and crying. He’d been almost as scared of the world he’d been born into as Lucifer was of hurting him. Nowadays, that fear has faded a little. He’s proven to himself that he can take care of Jack, and more importantly, that Jack knows Lucifer loves him. 

It leaves room for a much worse fear to take root: that one day, Jack will be taken away from him and there will be nothing Lucifer can do. That’s why he only ever leaves Jack alone for a few hours at most to get him the necessities his human half needs, whether that’s food for dinner or tissues when he gets sniffly. He keeps a careful watch over Jack’s grace in the back of his mind, but today, he’s been happy and calm, responding to any of Lucifer’s calls with bright chirps. 

Lucifer moves down the next aisle. His bag is heavier than usual. He might have taken too much medicine, but last night, he couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not Jack could get sick. His human half is full of unanswerable questions that terrify Lucifer, and looking down the barrel of a flu he doesn’t know how to handle, he’d rather have half a dozen pills all claiming to lessen fever than nothing on his side at all.

He stares down cereal mascots, trying to decide which one Jack would like best. There’s a little green man that Lucifer finds suspicious and something that claims to be a honeybee that’s gaze makes him uncomfortable enough that he turns the box around before he continues perusing. He taps a cardboard tiger. Jack might like that one. 

He’s standing in the cereal aisle with the box in hand when he feels Jack’s grace spike in fear. He doesn’t have time to react before he feels pain vividly tear through him. The box Lucifer is holding explodes from being squeezed too hard, scattering cereal all over the floor. The lights in each aisle pop and shatter, making other patrons yelp as Lucifer tries to breathe. He raises his wings without a care to the attention he’s attracting and with one powerful sweep, he’s gone.

Lucifer can’t land inside his and Jack’s cabin. He warded it against angelic flight to keep his son safe, but now he knows he’s going to rip up that sigil with his bare hands. Jack needs him *now*, and every moment’s delay sends more of his pain racing down their connection. He’s screaming for Lucifer so loud that Lucifer’s scared other angels might hear him, too. Unless that’s who’s hurting him. 

Lucifer doesn’t want to kill his siblings, but for laying a finger on his son, he will break them down to their atoms. 

He breaks the door down. He’s still holding his bag of groceries as he steps inside, a white-knuckled grip around the straps. The shadows of his wings rise to cover the room as he burns with fury. 

They are not angels. They’re humans. Hunters, with guns loaded with the mangled blades of his dead brothers, bullets that are so broken that they can only whisper syllables of the names of angels they once belonged to. Someone taught these men how to kill angels, and now there’s a bullet lodged in Lucifer’s son, and he has never been as dangerous as he is right now.

They shoot him, too. An archangel glanced by the bullet of a melted blade? It hurts, but Lucifer pulls it out with bloody fingers and throws it to the ground. It clinks against the wooden floor as Lucifer advances.

“Jack,” he says, so gently, as his son cries, “close your eyes for me. Cover your ears, little angel.” Jack does, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his hands to block his ears. There are tears streaked down his face. Blood reflects the glow of his grace where the bullet is buried in him, turning it into a terrible red glow. Lucifer makes sure he won’t see what’s about to happen.

It only takes three minutes for there to be no more hunters in Lucifer’s home. The cabin will smell strongly of blood for a week. Jack will find an ear under the couch when he’s looking for a toy in a few days, half chewed-on by a hungry mouse.

When he’s done, Lucifer cleans himself up and kneels down next to Jack. Jack’s eyes start to open, but Lucifer covers them with his palm. “Not yet,” he says, and when he removes it, Jack’s keeping them shut tight again. He whimpers when Lucifer goes to pick him up. “Shh. Shhh. I’m going to fix it.” There’s only one bedroom, Jack’s. Lucifer doesn’t need to sleep, and when Jack has nightmares, Lucifer comes to comfort him rather than Jack seeking him out. Lucifer has last count of how many times Jack has fallen asleep on top of him. 

Now, they’re getting Jack’s blood all over the sheets. Lucifer soothes him as best he can, but until he gets the bullet out, the pain isn’t going to stop. Jack hiccups, clinging to Lucifer. He’s so much older than Lucifer wishes he felt like he needed to be and still so small, still and always Lucifer’s baby. Lucifer kisses his forehead. “This is going to hurt. I’ll try to be quick.” 

“Just make it stop,” Jack wails. He buries his face in Lucifer’s shoulder, shaking. “Make it stop, make it stop!” Lucifer can feel Jack’s pain like its his own. He wishes he could put Jack to sleep until this was over, let the merciful embrace of unconsciousness wash over him while Lucifer patched him up, but Jack’s will fight him without meaning to if he tries and make things worse. 

Lucifer lifts Jack’s bloody shirt away from his stomach. There’s a nasty gash where the bullet tore through. Lucifer has to resist the urge to heal it up. What if Jack needs all that blood? What if he’ll die without it even if Lucifer can get the bullet out? But his grace needs Lucifer’s attention as much as his human body. The bullet has to go. 

Jack screams when Lucifer touches his wound. “I’m sorry,” Lucifer tells him as his son shakes and Lucifer has to hold him tight against his shoulder to keep him from wriggling away from the pain. Jack’s muffled sobs hurt the most. “I’m sorry, I know, I know.” Lucifer tries to be quick, but when he finds the bullet broken inside of Jack, he has to keep digging around inside his son to get each shard out. Jack goes limp, the pain too much for him to handle. Lucifer exhales shakily and turns his head to press his face into his son’s hair. Even that smells like blood. “I’m so sorry,” Lucifer whispers. Jack doesn’t struggle. He only shivers weakly and cries.

Lucifer’s hand is coated beyond the wrist in blood and clinging fat and other things he never wanted to see. The bullet lies in pieces across the floor, but it’s out. It’s out. Lucifer works his grace through Jack, mending the damage he had to make worse to retrieve the shards. He kisses the side of Jack’s head, apologizing more as he knits up torn muscles and skin and repairs punctured organs. His anger has burned out to ash, leaving only paralyzing fear as he begs, “you’re okay. You’re okay, Jack. I’m here. Please be okay.” 

He holds Jack as he crawls back up the bed, cuddling him close and wrapping his wings around his baby. He never should have left him alone. There’s a whole world out there that wants Lucifer dead, and maybe he deserves it, but Jack is trapped in the crossfire of that. Lucifer pets his hair as Jack’s shivering slowly stops.

“How did they break in?” Lucifer asks. He’s not expecting an answer. He just has to say something to feel like he can prevent this from happening again. He’d thought he’d covered their tracks well enough. At best, he’d considered that maybe Sam and Dean might find them. They always managed to be frustratingly persistent. But other humans, other hunters? Where did he go wrong? Where was he not careful enough?

“They didn’t break in,” Jack whispers. His voice is scratchy from crying, and he doesn’t move away from Lucifer to speak, leaving his words muffled into Lucifer tear-soaked shoulder. “I- I thought-“

“Jack?” Lucifer feels cold all of a sudden.

“They knew who you were and who I was, and I thought they were your friends. They said you told them where to find me. That I should let them in so that-“ Jack sucks in a breath. “And they shot me, and I thought I was going to die, and you weren’t here.” Jack sobs. “I just wanted you here to make them stop.” 

“I came,” Lucifer says. “I heard you, Jack. I can always hear you.” 

“It hurt so much.”

“I know.” Lucifer’s gaze drifts across his own scarred wings. He wraps them more tightly around Jack. “They can’t hurt you anymore. No one will.” And though Lucifer means it with every fiber of his being, he doesn’t know if that’s a promise he can keep. Jack going through this kind of pain, or worse, ever again is a nightmare, but all of Lucifer’s life has been one long bad dream. Jack has been the only bright spot.

No matter what Lucifer has to do to keep him safe, he won’t hesitate. If he has to burn the world down to build one that Jack can live in without fear, he will. Nothing else matters.

“I love you,” Lucifer says. Jack sniffs. There are mangled corpses rotting a floor below them to keep him safe. 

“I love you too, Mama,” Jack says. Lucifer kisses his temple. 

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#whumptober2023 #no.24 #'I thought they were with you.' #supernatural #fic #injury #child endangerment #blood #violence #fanfiction #1001-5000 #teen and up audiences #spn #genfic #jack & lucifer #jack kline #lucifer spn #lucifer as jack's parent #hurt!jack

[painful-pooch]

A Hunter's Intuition

Whumptober 2022 (@whumptober)

NO. 2 - NOWHERE TO RUN

Cornered | Caged | Confrontation

Tag list: @whumpopology, @whumper-in-training, @ocean-blue-whump, and @for-the-love-of-angst

CW: Hunting people, serial killer vibes, gun violence, lady whump, blood, knives

The clock ticks away in the rustic cabin, announcing with its incessant sounds how each second goes by while Levi sits in his recliner, his legs crossed and his eyes focused on the outside scenery, watching the forest practically breathe in the wind. It's been over an hour now since he let her have a head start on their fun little game. She never enjoys playing the game, but Levi doesn't give a shit. He's already dressed up for the occasion, but there are a few key elements of his missing. The fire crackles in the background while the clock... keeps... ticking...

Second.

After.

Second.

Everything goes silent for a moment, Levi inhaling deeply and forcing himself out of the recliner, sneaking up to the window to gaze out of it with a different view- a different mindset. There's now an urge building up within him, catching on like wildfire and spreading without any sign of it stopping. It all begins with a deadly focus, looking for any sign of life in the distance, from the smoke of a campfire to the sight of a flock of birds taking off from a specific area... Or even catching the melodic screams of someone ensnared by a bear trap.

Then, just as he thinks she has learned how to not give away her location, a tugging sensation is felt from deep inside, a hunger that is known to all predators before the hunt. He knows it's the adrenaline working its way through him, but it's like a drug to him; one that he welcomes with open arms. It makes everything so much clearer, but it makes his finger tap against the window sill. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tick. Tock. Tick.

He exhales harshly, tearing away from the window and heads over to his trophy room, seeing the countless animals he's hunted from all around the world. He rarely pays them any glances since they no longer bring him joy. Their hunts were meaningless and they didn't offer him a challenge whatsoever. Something about an animal makes their hunting lackluster, and it could be because of many things. For Levi, it's because an animal doesn't truly know what the stakes are nor what the consequences are for being caught. An animal doesn't yearn to live out of want, but only after need and some inherent instinct embedded in them by the laws of nature.

But a person? No, they don't need to live. There's already plenty of people around the damn planet. There's a level of intrigue when it comes to a human for Levi. He finds them complex and interesting during a hunt. Some people will fight back, some will run until they can't, and others try to beg their way out of their fate, but in the end, they are still prey to him. Only rarely does he enjoy a person enough to hunt them continuously, but this one… she's a keeper. There's a fire in her eyes that he finds captivating, even at the moment she's caught and punished for being caught.

His fair Lady is out there, and he can't stop thinking of how beautiful she truly becomes when streaks of red compliment her tear stricken eyes. The image itself drives him into a frenzy, ripping open the gun safe and gazing at his collection of hunting rifles, running his fingers along the cool gun metal of the barrel. He imagines how warm it will become when he pulls the trigger to send a round into his wonderful victim, his heart skipping a beat and a gentle smile decorating his face. This is the rifle he wants, and so he pulls it out, shuts the safe with a loud clang, and steps back, looking at himself in the mirror.

He is used to seeing a dapper man in a suit and tie, leading a company into financial success from his position as a Chief Financial Officer, but that's not who is staring back at him. He's staring into the eyes of someone with an apathetic look, his body both rigid yet fluid, his gaze as cold as ice yet his smile can warm the coldest of glaciers. He sees a man determined to end this hunt by the time dinner rolls around. It is like a switch that Levi can feel whenever he enters into that safe haven within his mind.

And he loves it.

The ticking of the clock continues, but quickly it turns into the crunching of the leaves under his boots, the slight clanging of the extra ammo in his chest pocket along with his knife, and the sounds of the forest dying away as the hunter enters the playing field.

It's simply cathartic in a sense that the animals of the forest don't fear Levi anymore; they don't get hunted and killed constantly, so why should they run in terror from the hunter? Levi never chases them and if they do get caught in a trap, he releases them and sometimes even cares for them. More often do the animals watch a person fleeing away from Levi. And that is exactly what is happening.

Levi has been playing this game for so long, he doesn't have to run after her. He practically has her in the palm of his hand. He can see everything she does based off the evidence she is leaving behind like an amateur. She's had so much time to perfect her skills, yet clumsy mistakes always make the hunt more comical. Though it doesn't matter to him just as long as he gets to enact his every desire unto her, to watch her eyes convey fear, animosity, and most important of all, to see the loss of hope. Her screams, as melodious as they are, can never compete against the sobs that erupt from her when she attempts to hold them back. All in a simple effort to spite him.

There is a fire now, scorching his very being and it can only be satiated by the blood he's going to spill.

Minute by minute, hour after hour, he follows her until he plans out his next move, to force her into a position where she can't escape him. He unslings his rifle from his back, seeing her trying to alleviate the pain from her constant movements next to a river. His heart pitter patters with each passing second. Thump. Thump. Thump. He loads in the beautiful bullet he has pressed himself after he melted the golden ring she had on when he first brought her to his home right into the chamber. With his next breath, he uses the action bolt to send the bullet home, now focusing on his prey through the scope. He thinks about how wonderful her screams will sound soon, a smile forming on his face. One more deep breath he inhales, letting about two-thirds of it out, and he goes perfectly still, rechecking his aim.

Without a second to wait, he pulls the trigger, the quiet forest now echoing with the thunderous bang of a rifle followed by a shriek and then a splash.

His prey has fallen into the river and now is trying to get up, but before she can fully prop herself up, Levi laughs and approaches her, his silver knife glistening beautifully with the setting sun setting in the horizon. He has her cornered, no where to go. He crouches in front of her, watching her pant and try to back away, wincing while holding her wound tightly. His eyes read her and then he is caught by the sight of her blood mixing in with the water and following the current of the river. "Beautiful… Your blood is equal to no one," he murmurs, looking down at her and forcing her chin up with his knife. "Did you have fun? Did you really think you could outsmart me?"

She snarls at him and spits on his face as a response before growling out, "Go fuck yourself."

There it is again. The world going still around him as he feels the switch once more in his mind flip. His body is rigid and his knife is an extension of him, procuring a droplet of blood at the tip. "I like you better when you scream."

When the knife enters her thigh roughly, a guttural scream plays loudly in his mind and he knows he's won.

He always wins.

#whumptober2022 #no.2 #nowhere to run #oc #hunting people #gun violence #blood #lady whump #serial killer vibes #levi skoldolfr #hunter whumper #knives

[forsty]

If you don't mind answering this, do you have a favorite whump trope/situation for Rooster? 👀

HONESTLY just any of my favorite whump tropes in general.... Don't really have a specific one for each character, it's more like I put them all through the same stuff -SWEATS-

my fav whump tropes below the cut pfft

SO MY FAVORITE WHUMP TROPES (and believe me I've put Rooster through most of them, if not all)

General gunshot wound, and the whole hurt/comfort that comes with it

Usually scenarios where the characters are isolated/trapped (can't get to a hospital or a doctor) and sprinkle in some sickness or injury -chefs kiss-

HYPOTHERMIAAAAA

POISONS!

Most injuries tbh... stabbing, scratches, cuts, etc etc

fever..... you can ALWAYS add a fever

Some of the scenarios/stories I've come up with regarding Rooster whump:

The entire Dagger Squad plus Mav gets yeeted back to cowboy times, Rooster gets shot, they're hiding on the farm of an older woman who helps them out and hides them from the local sheriff who is hunting them

The Dagger Squad and Mav is on a SKIING HOLIDAY YAY! Except there's an incoming snowstorm and when they were out skiing, Hangman and Rooster fucked around and crashed into some trees and bushes. Hangman got some scrapes and a cracked rib and Rooster GETS IMPALED BY A BRANCH <3 (he doesn't even notice the branch stuck in his side until they get back to their cabin, adrenaline be funny like that)

Same skiing holiday story except instead of being impaled by a branch, Rooster gets sick, tries to hide it/play it off as not that serious, but it quickly turns serious all while they're trapped in their cabins cause of a snowstorm

The dagger squad is taken hostage by some Bad People who are after Mav, Rooster is shot in a skirmish,

Rooster, Penny and Phoenix (and later Mav) being held hostage at the Hard Deck. A group of criminals break into the Hard Deck one late afternoon when Penny is closing up alone with Phoenix. Rooster randomly arrives abit later to either a) pick something up for Mav or b) deliver something to Penny for Mav. He walks straight into this hostage situation, tries to be a hero and fight some bad people, gets fucking shot (but that was actually an accident, nobody was supposed to get hurt... says the people who took them hostage) AND YEAH.... Rooster laying injured on the pool table is a something I think about alot

PROBS LOTS OF OTHER SMALL THINGS I CAN'T REMMEBER RIGHT NOW

#ask #anon #whump #im so sorry if i didn't really answer your question i got caught in the sauce #started rambling #I APPRICIATE THE ASK THO I REALLY DO i love talking about Injured Rooster (dont look at me)

[hils79]

Monday Fic Recs

Liu Sang/Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling (DMBJ)

When The Rain Provides by faradheia

The tomb, a monster, a storm and a secluded cabin refuge. Wu Xie just wanted to take Liu Sang for a nice visit to simple a tomb. This was little more than he'd bargained for.

I really enjoyed this. Some good whump and some good OT3

Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling (DMBJ)

Well Met in the Evening Evergreen Forest by fuzzball457

Zhang Qiling comes across an tiny dragon caught in a hunting trap in the woods. The rest is history.

This is really cute and fun

where you find light, when all grows dark by eirenical

Zhang Qiling loved dawn. It was quiet, still, the sun sending the softest of fingers to dance over the landscape, refracting off the dew-laden grass and painting the land in warmth. But more than even the most beautiful of sunrises, he loved this: Wu Xie slowly waking, his nose wrinkling in the sweetest of smiles at the sight of the face hovering above his, his breath catching at the touch of Zhang Qiling's fingers on his face. These things were more precious than any dawn, and they humbled Zhang Qiling every time.

A really lovely, soft retirement fic

Poison Leads To by elenothar

A few months after Xiaoge's return from the gate, Wu Xie is still in a holding pattern. Cue (another) tomb adventure going sideways (again).

-

His mind flashes to the feeling of being enveloped by a solid presence amid a steady stream of noise that he now fears was him talking in his delirium. He casts a glance at Xiaoge’s face – still quietly neutral – and decides to ask Pangzi later if he’d said anything too embarrassing. Or compromising.

I loved this so much. It's sweet, funny, whumpy and some great ace rep that felt all too real

#fic recs #dmbj #pingxiesang #pingxie

[thingsthatgowhumpinthenight]

Hunting Cabin #5 (really I should come up with a better name)

Previous

CW: hanging/ strangulation

Carter came downstairs, kicking Waynette’s foot as he did.  Biting back a curse, she sat up quickly, adjusting the t-shirt she wore over her underwear.  

    “Stand.” he said.  

Embarrassment burned in Waynette’s cheeks, but she complied, her back bent awkwardly on the too-short chain Carter had handcuffed her too.  He walked around her, the corner of his lip caught up in his mouth.  

    “Courtesy of Mister Reed.” he said, a slight sneer to his voice.  

    “Fuck that.” Waynette spat as Carter held up the choke collar.  

Carter laughed as he wound the metal around her neck.  “Hey I did you a favor.” he said, unlatching her handcuffs.  Briefly Waynette thought of running, then her eyes caught sight of the massive knife and gun on Carter’s belt.  “Roman wanted you to wear a dog leash.” he scoffed.  “Can you believe that?”  Waynette didn’t reply, too focused on whatever Carter was fiddling with on the collar.  “I told him this was much more effective.”

Carter took a step back, tossing one end of a rope over one of the ceiling beams.  He winked at her and yanked the rope.

    “N-” any other sound was cut off as Carter pulled on the rope.  Panic ran through Waynette’s veins like ice water as her feet lifted off the ground and the choke collar tightened around her neck.  The collar dug into her neck and her legs started flailing as Carter watched, seemingly unbothered.  He lowered her, just enough for her to get one ragged inhale in before he was hoisting her up again.  

    “Isn’t this less degrading than a dog leash?” he asked her with a grin.  Waynette’s legs still kicked and her lungs burned as she clawed at the collar, her nails scratching her neck frantically.  “What’s that?” Carter said.  “I can’t hear you.”  

Waynette felt the corner of her vision growing black and she thought this was it.  He was going to hang her in the basement from a dog collar.  

She hit the ground, landing in a heap, her ankle twisting painfully.  The first breath she took came back immediately in an ugly, hacking sound that Waynette could hear even over the sound of the blood in her ears.  She kept gagging on bile and air, still trying to get one clear breath.

    “Here.  Sip it slowly.” Carter said, handing her a water bottle.  Waynette took the water with no hesitation.  She spilt most of it on herself as her shaking hands lifted the bottle to her lips.  When she finally managed to get more than a sip down, she sat the bottle down, her eyes red and ragged, and looked up at Carter.  He stood there with his arms crossed, looking not quite concerned, but not smirking at her for once.  “So.” he said lightly.  “Less humiliating than crawling around on all fours?”

Waynette took another shaky sip of water.  “I d-don’t kn-kn-know; how ‘bout we switch places?”

Carter threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve got some fire in you yet.”

Waynette looked at the other end of the rope, still swinging lazily.  “Are- are you going to do that again?” she dared to whisper.  

Carter shrugged.  “Maybe.” he grabbed her water bottle and drank the rest of it in one long pull.  “I’ll see how I’m feeling after dinner, you want anything?”  Waynette glared at him and he laughed, chaining her cuffs low to the ground and tying the rope off so that she could sit on the floor, just enough for her to sit, but if she tried to lay down, the choke tightened around her neck.  “Back in a few!” he shouted, tossing the empty water bottle at her, the light clicking off as the door latched.  

In the darkness Waynette sat, perfectly upright rubbing at her neck.  She had no idea how long she had been gone.  For all she knew she dreamed her escape; maybe she never left the basement.  Waynette looked over her shoulder at the blinking blue light of the camera and dimly wondered if it could see her in the darkness.  

Some time later, Waynette didn’t know if it was hours or minutes, her eyelids grew heavy and her head lolled forward.  The collar tightened and Waynette’s arms shot up of their own accord, scratching and pulling at the collar.  

    “Stop!  Stop sto-sto- stop.” she whispered raggedly as her mind caught up with what was happening.  The basement was empty, save her, and the lights were still off.  Waynette pulled her legs to her chest and cried softly into her knees in the inky darkness.

Next

#whump #hunting cabin whump #waynette thorpe #carter forge

[sprout-fics]

Mayday Mayday Chapter One: Bravo Going Down

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Six of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Themes Wordcount: 5.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Bad Flirting, Whump, Blood and Injury, Active Combat Scenarios, Teammates to ??? to Lovers, Angst, Banter Warnings: Crashes, Descriptions of blood and injury A/N: Special thank you to @gazs-blue-hat , @laeilaps , and @vampirekilmerfic for the research and development of this installment! and thank you to everyone still reading despite the large gap in updates.

It’s a starless night when your helicopter gets shot down.

The ride to your destination is a long one. The ever-present roar of helicopter blades is the only sound you seem to hear in the darkness of the chopper, sandwiched between two larger marines who seem to check and recheck their gear every five minutes. They chatter in small exchanges over comms, barks of laughter to cover up the anxious energy caught between the darkness of the thumping blades above. There’s a tense, heavy atmosphere in the cabin that pulses between you all, a pent-up focus prowling just inside its cage, waiting to be released into the thick of battle. You feel it as much as they do, grounded only by the tap of your fingers in a steady rhythm against your weapon, running and re-running the attack plan in your mind as the marines around you shift with taut, scarcely contained energy.

They’d sat behind you during the briefing, watching attentively as Laswell detailed the fly-by-night mission to hunt down an AQ cell holed up in the dry desert mountains. Normally such a cell would be swiftly dealt with using air support, but in this instance Laswell needed one of the majors hidden inside the mountain bunker alive for interrogation. It’s high-risk, high-reward business, and the gravity of the mission isn’t lost on you.

The marines seemed surprised to find you second in command of this mission, shifting uneasily with low tones as Laswell announced it so. You were surprised yourself at the arrangement, considering the leading CO that stood broad-shouldered and heavy-stared before them as Laswell went over the approach. With Price off-duty and nursing a sprained shoulder from the team’s last deployment, and Soap and Gaz on an assignment of their own, the mantle had fallen to you to be partnered with the team’s one and only lieutenant.

It doesn’t sit well with your fellow American troops, you can tell. They’d expected one of their own to be second in command, especially considering your medic designation. Yet when one of them had dared voice such an opinion, his fellows snickering behind your back, Ghost had barked at them a snarling, low reprimand that quickly silenced any and all objections.

Now Ghost sits across from you, legs spread wide enough that the soldiers on either side of him have to compact their spaces to allow him room. You see the way they’re a little tense, a little intimidated by his size and presence. You can hardly blame them. Ghost has been quiet aside from a few orders for the entire ride so far, and you’re not sure whether to be grateful or unsettled by his silence.

Things have been...odd since you got back.

You’d been given all of a week to settle at base before the team was tasked with a flurry of missions- all short and swift deployments that left you with plenty of leftover energy to spend on the rest of the team. You’d been concerned about integrating yourself back into the group after such a long stint away, but fortunately the team had accepted you back with open arms. It had taken time to catch up with the most recent intel, and even then Price had insisted on putting you through your paces with training and other exercises to ensure your skills were still fresh. With Soap and Gaz at your side, it was a relatively easy task to tackle the list of training exercises your CO had tasked you with, buoyed by the boy-ish, lighthearted energy of the other two sergeants.

To test your revitalized skillset, Price often designated you to Ghost’s squad during deployments, trusting his second in command to sharply and swiftly correct any blunders on your part- of which there had mercifully been few. More than that, you seemed to flourish under the command of Ghost, quickly ceding to orders and swift with your deliverance. It had garnered you several rare instances of praise from the Brit, spoken quietly and perfunctory over comms, quick enough that you had to pause and ensure you had heard him right. When you had offered bits of banter over the radio, Ghost had surprisingly indulged in your humor, leaving you grinning even during ex-fil and almost giddy with the oddly fluttering feeling in your chest.

As if that wasn’t odd in itself, Ghost seemed...different than you remember off the field. More than once you’d caught him staring at you across the rec room between missions, dark eyes boring into you as if you were something to be studied. He sometimes sought you out himself to relay a message as opposed to using the team’s designated chat log, offering the excuse that he’d been nearby anyways. His gaze always managed to catch yours when you entered a room, and despite the man never smiling, you always saw the glimmer of recognition there as you caught his stare, as if he was anticipating your arrival.

You told yourself he was just looking out for you, as his duty as your superior, but the truth of it felt...more than that. Ghost was never one to go out of his way for his teammates, always offering the bare minimum of what was required of him to keep the task-force functioning. You know his past, mysterious and intriguing as it is, prevented him from truly bonding with the rest of the team. To him you were all co-workers, soldiers, but not brothers in the way you thought of them.

Yet it was Ghost who tossed you an extra water bottle after training, who had nodded to the weights someone stashed in the gym when you looked for them, who had given you his full attention as you stood before him and checklisted your gear for him before mission, who looked out for you at the bar and escorted you back to the barracks on the night of your return...

It made you wonder if there was a man behind the mask after all.

You dance around each other in fleeting glances and quiet words, and the meaning of it all is contained in the distance between you. You never touch, never dare to scrape against the soot-dark form of him, but you feel the presence of him at your back all the same. Watching, guarding, a sentinel that you can’t find yourself to venture far from. You lay awake at night ruminating over the way he says your name, ‘Fix’ like it’s his mother-tongue, a word so inherent to his language that it makes you feel like you were born to belong there against his lips.

Now, in the darkness of the helicopter, Ghost basks in the wash of red light overhead. His arms are crossed, weapon at rest between his legs as he awaits the slow downturn of motion that signals your approach. When you catch his eyes, the Brit tilts his head at you, heavy helmet and night vision goggles shifting expectantly.

You smile at him a little nervously, feeling the return of taut anticipation flowing through your veins as the hour of your hunt inevitably draws closer.

“Good night for a hunt, eh LT?” You venture cautiously, feeling one of the marines beside you tense. Nobody has dared to say a word to Ghost for the entire journey so far, and instantly all the attention in the cabin seems to land on you and your hesitant, clever smile.

Ghost blinks at you, doesn’t move an inch from where he’s seated. In the dim, red light of the hold you can barely make out his half-lidded, lazy stare as he regards you. Unbothered, unlike the men around him, he huffs a small sound before replying.

“Can’t see shit on a night like this.” Is all he offers brusquely. It’s enough.

“Well that’s what night vision is for. Anyone ever tell you you look good in green, sir?”

Shit.

You instantly clamp your mouth shut, but it’s too late. The words you just spoke hang heavy in the space between you, and the silence that follows is deafening. You wince internally, struggling to contain your expression as a dozen eyes regard you- gawking at your brazen flirtation you just offered to your fucking CO.

You want to crawl six feet under.

You can make out the whites of Ghost’s eyes in the darkness, surprised and taken aback. It takes him a moment to collect himself, eyes hardening and words steely.

“Spend less time gawking and more time watching the rest of your squad, sergeant.” Ghost tells you pointedly, though it’s without true malice. You contain a cringe at the reprimand, wanting nothing more than to groan into your hands at your own foolishness.

Yet your mouth seems to have a mind of its own, because before you can stop yourself, you reply with a “Gawking isn’t the word I’d use, LT.”

The private beside you sucks in a deep, trembling breath.

“Is that right?” Ghost’s eyes are suddenly sharp as they pin you to where you sit. “What word would you use, then, sergeant?”

Christ alive, just send you home in a body bag.

You feel your mouth open and close a few times, desperately trying to find the words, any words with which to salvage the rapidly spiraling conversation. You should really shut up, offer a murmured apology and keep yourself silent for the rest of the mission, but the eyes of the other soldiers stare unblinkingly at you as you finally find your voice.

“Looking...respectfully? Sir.” You manage, a little strangled.

The marine on the other side of you snorts. Ghost glares at him, and the man clears his throat before avoiding the Brit’s gaze.

“’Respectful’ isn’t the word I’d use for your behavior right now.” Ghost warns, low and dark, and you sit up straighter just by his tone alone. “I’d suggest you find a way to sort that mouth of yours before we drop in.”

“Speaking of-” A different voice interrupts, and even the pilot seems a little perturbed by your conversation. “Approaching target. Five minutes out.”

That seems to divert everyone’s attention well away from you and towards the mission at hand. Mercifully, Ghost draws the attention of everyone on board as he stands and clutches at the ceiling to steady his massive form.

“Listen up.” He barks, a dozen eyes looking towards the source of the deep, growling Manchester accent as it repeats the name of the asset you’re after. “That’s our target, needed alive. You know your orders. Keep this op clean, understood? No fucking body bags.”

A chorus of ‘Yes Sir!’s joins your own voice. Ghost seems to take up all the space from floor to ceiling as he nods, begins again-

A sound catches your attention, a distant fizzle that you manage to hear above Ghost’s booming voice. You open your mouth, a warning on your lips-

“RPG!!” The co-pilot yells just as the alarm blares, and suddenly the heli tilts, launching you violently against your straps as the pilot takes evasive maneuvers. The cabin descends into a chaotic flurry of voices as the marines react, trying to process suddenly being under enemy fire.

What happens next takes only seconds.

The sudden change of axis has Ghost stumble, one hand clenched in a white knuckle grip against the ceiling. You can hear the rocket above the growing alarm just as it whooshes past the hull, missing the chopper by mere feet. The blades whine above you, straining as the pilots try to right the heli, grunting over the comms. Garbled radio traffic is drowned out by the groan of the chopper, and the sudden gasp that tears from your own throat as you instinctively suck in air.

Yet just as it seems the chopper rights itself, you hear another sound outside. The two pilots' voices drown out each other as a second alarm screeches, and you manage to catch Ghost’s shocked eyes just as the sound of the incoming missile reaches a shrieking whistle. You open your mouth to holler at him to get back in his seat, and you see him move in the same direction, finding his balance and stretching out the hand not attached to the ceiling-

“Deploying flares-!”

“Hang on!!”

The RPG catches the flares on the outside of the hull, but the impact is close enough it throws the heli sideways, sending the bird into a tailspin. You watch in horror as Ghost instantly loses the balance he’s collected, hand slipping from the ceiling as he’s hurled up into the overhead so hard you hear a crack even past the roar of the straining blades. If it’s your voice that screams for him, you aren’t sure, but instantly you’re reaching for your straps, fumbling in an attempt to reach him. Your hands shake, breathing shallow and rapid, world spinning endlessly as the pilots struggle to contain the bird into a controlled descent. There’s voices yelling above the claxon, screaming orders, but yours is silent, heart hammering as you try desperately to remember how to breathe.

Ghost slides limply across the floor, head lolling.

You yell as you reach for him, fingers barely scraping his helmet and night vision goggles, unable to catch a grip. Yet the two marines across from you holler over the comms, one set of hands and then the other managing to find the edges of Ghost’s tac vest and hauling him with tremendous effort up into his seat across from you. Just as they manage to secure him, the pilot’s voice once again yells over the comms, barely audible as the helicopter groans and shrieks and the alarms blare deafening in your ears. Everything is spinning, turning on a dizzying axis you can’t find the balance to. You’re not sure which way is up, trying vainly to track the ground growing closer through the window next to Ghost’s slouched form.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo going down-”

“EVERYONE BRACE!!”

You shut your eyes, hands in a death grip on your seat straps. Your jaw clenches so hard you can feel your teeth grinding, but the sound is obliterated by the catastrophic groan of the heli around you. There’s no time to do anything else except pray, and you try to remember the hymns and blessings taught to you by your mother all that time ago- having lost them when faced with a God that didn’t care about the suffering and the damned.

Fuck. You think for a half-heartbeat, the G-force of the spin forcing your head against the wall before you manage to tuck it forward. Blood rushes in your ears, and you catch a glimpse of Ghost before you, body leaning as the inertia drags at him. I never got to tell him-

The impact is catastrophic.

It forces all the air up from the bottom of your lungs in a wheezing gasp, tossing you violently against your seat straps. The force of it digs sharply against your ribs, painful and horrific as your entire body is hurled about like a rag-doll. You have no doubt if you weren’t secured you’d go flying against the interior of the bird, likely breaking your neck and leaving your body to rot in the dry desert sand. The bird groans desperately around you, tilting dangerously so your feet tilt up towards your head, the blades thumping at the sand once, twice, before getting caught and going still. Even then, the chopper slides another dozen meters, threatening to roll over completely before you at last come to a shuddering stop.

It’s automatic when you start counting in your head. One, two, three- Your training instinctively kicks in. Wait for the debris to settle, check for fuel leaks-

As soon as you reach five you fumble for your buckle, clawing at it in an attempt to free yourself as your voice rises over the groans and wheezing gasps of the men around you. It takes a few attempts to get enough air into your lungs to yell to your team, feeling your chest struggle for oxygen as your heart races up into your throat.

“Report.” You manage, voice cracking with grit and sand just as your hands find your buckle, one arm bracing yourself on the wall behind and below you. The lights flicker. In the darkness of the desert, the stars obscured, you can scarcely make out the bulky figures of your comrades in the cabin- similarly trying to free themselves. The chopper seems to have rolled onto its side somehow, as you find yourself with your legs higher than your head, the forms of the marines around you all but dangling from their straps from where the ceiling should be. There’s a brunt, singed metal type of smell that instantly has your gut coil with the instinct to go, move, clear out-

A few breathless murmurs, and after a moment another voice in the darkness.

“We’re good here, sarg!”

You breathe a sigh of relief at that, until-

A groan, loud and low, somewhere towards the ramp.

“I-it’s Johnson! His helmet is off!”

“LT is unresponsive!”

“I think the pilots are dead!”

Fuck.

You don’t stop to consider the possibilities of what that means. Fear claws at your chest, and you give yourself a breath to stubbornly swallow it down. You know that panic is a death sentence in this situation, and losing your head means endangering not only yourself, but the rest of your team.

You run through your options as fast as you can, knowing every second could be a grain of sand in a rapidly draining hourglass.

The helicopter can’t fly. It’s dead. The comms may still work, and no doubt the crash alarm has signaled the base about the nature of the situation. Yet it’s unclear if the chopper is sound. You can’t smell smoke yet, but you know the mangled mess of metal may change at any moment, sparking with fire and consuming you all in one bright blaze. Even if that’s not the case, it doesn’t solve the fact that the RPGs had to have come from somewhere nearby. The window to evacuate shortens by the second, and so you raise your voice in the darkness, drawing the attention of the others.

“Everyone out!” You bark, finally unclasping your buckle and feeling gravity drag you down, gear and all. “Check your squad, make sure nobody is left behind!”

It takes effort with the weight of your supplies to force yourself up above the seats, feeling bodies around you do the same. Fortunately the wreckage feels stable, even if the tremble in your limbs has yet to settle. Your chest doesn’t seem to expand enough to suck in all the air you need as you fumble in the darkness, eyes drawn to the gaping hole where the tail of the helicopter used to be.

Your hand lands on the closest arm you can reach, feeling the other soldier startled in the flickering darkness. “You.” You manage, throat dry. “Help me get the pilots.”

“Yes ma’am!”

You precariously balance as you turn, catching the slumped figure of Ghost out of the corner of your eye and watching with blessed relief as he raises his head a few inches.

Thank God. You think with an exhale of utter gratitude. He’s alive.

Yet the task at hand remains, and as Ghost is balanced between the shoulders of two marines, scarcely lucid, you turn towards the flight controls, a younger corporal just behind you.

There’s shattered glass at the windshield, and it allows the nighttime wind to breeze inside, sand spilling over the cracked panels and monitors. A red light flickers erratically overhead, illuminating the limp forms of the two pilots. It’s not an easy undertaking to wrestle free the two unresponsive men- one of them sticky with what you assume is blood as you haul them towards the exit carved by your landing. You’re not even sure they’re alive, but you’ll be damned if you leave them after their miraculous mid-air recovery that likely saved the rest of you.

“Damn good pilot, Smith.” The marine grunts beside you as he shoulders the pilot and makes towards the exit. “Sure hope this sonofabitch made it.”

You silently wish the same, hauling the co-pilot by his straps backwards with you, nearly tumbling twice before mercifully making it towards the hatch someone has kicked free. You can hear garbled words over the radio, and in the blinking light you see a small shower of sparks as the dashboard short-circuits. Thankfully, it doesn’t catch into flame, and you at last make it onto gritty desert sand with the limp form of the co-pilot atop you.

Two soldiers on either side of you manage to hoist him up and allow you to scramble to your feet. It’s the first time you’re able to take stock of the situation now that you’re free, heart thumping against your ribs and form trembling from the adrenaline still pumping fresh through your veins.

Good God.

The crash looks like something out of a grotesque action film. The tail lays feet away from the rest of the bird, one of the blades sticking straight up into the night sky and the over bent in a mangled wreck only feet away from you. There’s bits of metal and debris strewn around you, smoking and stinking as they’re half buried in the sand.

It’s nothing less than a miracle that you’re standing, bruised and battered as you are.

Twelve of you total, including the pilots. Four of you are standing, another kneeling beside the prone forms of the injured and two more helping to rest the co-pilot next to them. You check yourself, cataloging the various scrapes and bruises you can feel under your gear, and managing a prayer of thanks when you don’t immediately feel anything broken or bleeding.

and in your second breath-

“Where’s the lieutenant?”

“Over here ma’am!”

You turn on a swivel, neatly avoiding the debris as you find Ghost sat halfway up, eyes bleary but focusing upon seeing you.

“Fix.” He offers groggily, and the breathless sound of relief that leaves you is far from subtle. It takes you two steps to kneel before him, a wobbly smile on your face.

“Chopper went down, LT.” You convey quietly.

Ghost gives you a scathing look. No shit. It seems to offer. Were it not for the dire circumstances, you might have even laughed at the utter annoyance in his eyes.

“What’s our status?” He bites, hands limp at his sides and making no motion to inspect himself just yet.

You look at the chopper, rolled halfway on its side, one of the rotors bent and buried deep into the sand. It’s clear it isn’t going to fly again.

“We’re stranded. Emergency beacon went up as soon as the bird went down, but it likely will be a few hours before we see any sort of response- and that’s if they decide to fly despite the RPGs in the area.”

You suck in a breath then, steadying yourself. The truth of the situation begins to wash over you with cold, deathly dread.

“We’re on our own.”

There’s movement behind you, and you glance over your shoulder to where a few of the men have gathered, looking to Ghost for orders. You look to him as well, trying to track his eyes in the darkness. He looks...unsteady. You can tell he’s still trying to get his bearings after blacking out, and briefly it makes you wonder just how severe his concussion is.

“You solid?” You ask him quietly, trying not to draw too much attention from the men hovering anxiously around you both.

“Fine.” Ghost grits, but makes no effort to stand just yet.

Liar.

“What’s our move, Ghost?” One of the other soldiers asks, eyes darting between you to the mission’s designated CO.

Before Ghost can answer, you stand, drawing the attention of everyone including Ghost.

“I want a perimeter around the crash.” You state, settling yourself where you stand. “No doubt the team that crashed us saw us go down. They’re headed our way. Head on a swivel. Let’s make sure we see them before they’re on top of us. Move the wounded to whatever cover you can find. I’ll handle triage. Salvage whatever supplies you can from the helo, but if you smell smoke or fuel you let me know as soon as you do, understood?”

There’s a beat of silence from the men gathered around you, some of them shifting nervously, their eyes flitting between you and Ghost, who looks up at you in a mixture of shock and some sort of irritation you can’t place.

“I said understood?” You bark, making several of the men jump.

“Yes ma’am!”

“Good. Now you, and you-” You point out two men at the back of the small huddle. “You’re with me. I need your assist for triage. You two, I want to know what supplies we have left in the helo. Dawson, I want you to radio base and give them a report of our status. See if you can find answers about how long until we see a rescue team. The rest of you, I want you on the perimeter. Now.”

It’s only after the small huddle has dispersed that you turn to Ghost, nearly flinching at the ire there in his eyes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, sergeant?” He seethes, and you have to swallow down the sudden bout of fright at his tone- dark and furious.

Your hands shake. It’s not rare to encounter Ghost in an annoyed or irritated mood, but what this is right now, the bright blaze of your lieutenant's eyes in the desert darkness, has a warning of danger zipping down your spine and settling low and heavy in your stomach. 

No doubt he doesn’t appreciate you overriding him, injured as he is. Ghost is used to calling the shots on missions, and you know it’s a comfortable position for him, not having to rely on others' judgment to ensure his own survival. His own instincts pave the way for his men, allowing them to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. In control, it means he doesn't question his superiors and if they truly have his survival in their interests. 

It stings, admittedly, that he doesn’t seem to have that faith in you to make a call when he’s concussed as he is, his eyes still trying to focus on your form above him. You thought by now you might have earned that.

Perhaps you’re wrong about that.

“I’m sorry sir.” You offer at last. “I’m not trying to override your command, but you’re injured-”

“I told you I’m fine.” Ghost snarls, shifting and trying to get his legs under him. It’s a wobbly sort of maneuver, and you resist the urge to aid him, knowing he’d only shrug you off with a growl.

“Ghost.” You manage tightly, trying to swallow down the hurt of his anger. “You’re concussed.”

Ghost pauses then, still glaring at you, but manages to raise himself up to a stand anyways. There’s a beat between you before Ghost is suddenly leaning into your space. You have to tilt your head up to keep eye contact with his higher stature, setting your jaw and trying not to flinch as his eyes burn down into your own.

“I did not give you permission to take command of this mission.” He growls, low and deadly. The vibration of it hums through you, settles low in your gut as a threat that you try vainly to ignore. There’s a natural instinct inside you to automatically defer to Ghost despite his injury, the fact that his pupils are blown completely wide and you think you can see the white edge of his mask tint with something dark and slick that oozes from his head.

You want to tell him you outrank him when it comes to the health and safety of the men, that your status as a medic means you can assess him if he isn’t of sound operational mind. You know his call wouldn’t have varied drastically from your own. Yet you also know that if Ghost perceives you to be a question to his authority the second he gets injured, it means hell for you in any future missions you may be on with him.

It means it might erase any trust you’ve managed to gain from him after all this time.

Ghost towers over you, hands clenched at his sides. You keep your gaze locked on his, trying to maintain a brave face despite the grave warning in his stare.

“Fall in line, sergeant.” He growls, voice bone deep and drumming dark into your skull. 

You shouldn’t.

You do.

“Apologies, sir.” You offer in deference as you finally avert your gaze, feeling something liquid hot burn under your skin at the action. “Your orders.”

Ghost seems to relax a bit, shoulders unwinding as he lets out a long, slow exhale. Your own air still feels caught tightly in your chest, your heartbeat thumping like a battered thing between your ribs.

Ghost studies you, and even without meeting his gaze you can tell his stare hasn’t ventured from your form. What he seems to be searching for is unclear, and you restrain the urge to look back up at him, allowing him to see the bitterness in your eyes. He doesn’t need to see how much his lack of faith in you carves something deep and wounded into your skin, a failure in yourself to prove yourself to the man you admire the most.

“Handle triage. I’ll check the perimeter.” He orders abruptly, voice more even now that you’ve ceded to his authority. You nod mutely, not meeting his eyes, feeling a wash of shame and anger warm your face as you avoid his stare.

You turn from him in the direction of the injured men when his voice catches you again.

“Fix.”

You pause, not turning.

Ghost is silent at your back. He seems to be weighing his words, debating with himself. The desert breeze whispers at the bare skin of your neck where his gaze seems to be resting. The flickering red light from the helicopter washes crimson over your form.

“Good call.” Is all he offers, and you blink, lips parting in surprise as he brushes past you brusquely. The moment is gone in an instant as he moves towards the marines with their night vision trained on the horizon, broad and dark against the starless night sky.

Alone in his shadow you wonder why, despite his anger, his words sounded almost trusting.

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Fic Tag: Shadow and Bone

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #Simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x ofc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #fic: snowblind

[leyswhumpdump]

Hidden Ink #1: Hunting Trip

Inspired by this post by @albino-whumpee about rough caretakers and feral whumpees.

Hidden Ink masterlist

Tropes and CWs: Hunter caretaker, reluctant caretaker, hissy kitten whumpee, brief blood mention, leg-in-beartrap whump, some swearing.

Mika rose before the sun did, fumbling with the hurricane-lamp until its glow illuminated the inside of the cabin. It was one his father had left him, a centuries-old relic that still worked by some miracle. By the time he’d pulled on his hunting boots and helped himself to the berries and jerky he’d scraped together the night before, the lamp was no longer strictly necessary. He made sure to turn it off before he went out.

It had rained in the night. Mika could smell the petrichor in the soil and on the trees. When he brushed past a shrub to get to the forest track, the leaves left wet smears where they’d made contact. He shivered a little—the rain had absorbed most of the unbearable heat from the day before—and lifted his bow away from the foliage to help keep it dry. The morning birds sang to each other in the canopy above.

The first thing to do, Mika decided, would be to check on the traps. He’d set up a few new ones yesterday, a little more efficient than some of the others. He hadn’t forgotten the way something had pulled itself loose, dragging the trap with it. Mika had followed the trail of blood some way before he’d concluded he wasn’t getting the trap back. It had been a harsh lesson and, if his father had still been alive, he would not have let him forget it. The size of whatever he’d initially captured would have kept him fed for weeks.

“All right,” he muttered to himself as he pushed away waist-high ferns. As much as he’d tried to maintain the path he’d beaten, the local flora had other ideas. “First trap—up here…”

First trap was empty, of course. Mika checked briefly for damage, then let it be.

“Second trap…”

And then he heard the deer. Thrashing, loud thrashing. Instinct pressed him against a nearby tree trunk, turning his face towards the sound. The bow trembled a little in his grip. Something big. He needed to not mess this up. Land a few arrows in it, finish it off before it caught wind of him and struggled even harder…

His back still to the tree, he manoeuvred with a hunter’s practised silence. Get a good view, get a good shot. He reached for the quiver at his hip, his fingers seeking an arrow. He drew back the string, aiming that arrow at the writhing patch of darkness, and waited for the moment.

Something stayed his hand. Not a conscious realisation, but an itch that urged him to reconsider. He lowered the bow, returning the arrow to its quiver before he’d even realised what he was doing. Stalling… why was he stalling? He was almost out of food at the cabin, with each trip this past week having ended in failure. He couldn’t afford to pass this up, and yet…

The deer sobbed. Mika had killed plenty, and was familiar with their dying throes. He had never heard one make that sound before. And that weakly struggling darkness didn’t have the form of a deer; the configuration of the limbs suggested something closer to home. The early sun illuminated the side of a face, and a matted tangle of hair that did not resemble a deer’s fur.

“Oh, fuck.” Mika ran forward.

Prising the trap away would have been perfectly possible with the correct technique. The person caught in its jaws did not know the technique. Mika saw rips on the trouser leg where they’d tried to brute-force it, saw the splatters of new and dried blood on the leaves of the forest floor. He couldn’t blame the captive for that. The position of the trap on their ankle had forced them to the ground, pressing their face into dirt. Even for someone who knew what they were doing, who knew the release mechanisms like Mika did, it would not have been a straightforward task. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone would be… Here, I’ll help you.”

A scream startled the surrounding birds into silence. The thrashing recommenced, but without focus. Mika tried to catch the imprisoned leg and received a kick from the other. He was about to try again when a stone smacked him in the shoulder. A quick glimpse told him the captive was scrabbling in the dirt for another.

“Will you stop?” The impact of the first one would leave a bruise. Drawing back his bow-string was not going to be fun. “I’m not trying to hurt you!”

The captive’s hand did not still. Mika saw them grab another rock, this one much bigger. He did not hang around to see if they were strong enough to throw it. Instead he tackled the arm, using his weight to pin it against the ground, and the captive screamed until his ears rang. Under all the dirt, they were young. Probably a boy, although the presented profile and neutrally messy hair made it difficult for Mika to confirm that. Whoever and whatever they were, they were not content to let Mika contain them further. Mika had to duck his head as teeth snapped at his ear.

“I’m trying to help,” he snarled. “Help. Not hurt. Help.”

The boy hissed something incoherent, trying to raise his free arm to take a swipe. Mika shifted his weight so he was sitting between his shoulder blades. “If you keep wriggling, you’re going to do yourself a worse injury.”

Gradually the boy’s struggles stilled, although his shoulders heaved below Mika. Muttering to himself, Mika turned his attentions to the trapped leg. He knew he had no right to get so impatient, and indeed it was mostly a cover for the guilt. He’d set that trap, and a human being had stumbled into it.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, and got to work on the mechanism. The jaws opened with a click, the metal teeth stained with the boy’s blood. “There, it’s done. I’m sorry again…”

The boy scrambled up, dragging his injured leg. Mika could tell from his stance that his centre of gravity was off. A pale, trembling hand reached for a discarded backpack that Mika hadn’t noticed. He was about to call him back, tell him he needed to look at the wound, when the boy’s balance gave out. Mika grabbed him, half-expecting a snap or a snarl, but the boy seemed to be beyond that. Glassy eyes stared uncomprehendingly under heavy lids as Mika lowered him to the ground.

“Great,” Mika muttered. Without a deadweight, the cabin was a half-hour away. He did not like to think about how much more difficult the journey would be if he had to drag the boy along narrow trails and treacherously steep slopes. He’d done it before with deer carcasses, and the multiple trips always left him exhausted. Slicing the boy into manageable parts would not be an option here.

“We’ll get that leg seen to,” he promised, hauling the weakly stirring shape over his shoulder.

The boy dug his nails into Mika’s back, a rebellion that reminded Mika just what he was signing himself up for.

Part 2

#whump #whump writing #caretaker pov #hunting whump #feral whumpee #reluctant caretaker #hidden ink #original post

[jaffacakerebellion]

whump in log cabins oh my fucking god

-out in the middle of nowhere, bleak, cut off

-wintertime babey, hypothermia

-howling wind rattling the windows, rain pounding the roof

-log. fucking. fires.

-only one bed, given to whumpee, as caretaker stays up all hours to care for them

-whumpee getting caught in a storm/ cut by an animal trap and not being able to go far/ having nowhere else to go

-using it as a rendezvous point with caretaker, who only finds out that whumpee has been hurt (or is actually at death’s door) when they get there

-delirious whumpee running out into the elements whilst caretaker’s back is turned/ injuring caretaker before they run off

-both caretaker and whumpee being/ getting hurt (maybe caretaker gets themself sick whilst caring for whumpee, neglecting themself and suffering for it)

-olden days, and therefore period-appropriate whump and caretaking methods- e.g. vikings, anglo-saxons, gay Canadian lumberjacks in the 1800s

-a kind forest/ mountain stranger taking in someone who overestimated their hiking ability

-hearing animals outside at night, caretaker comforting/ being comforted by whumpee

-using camping pots and pans, and whatever they’ve brought with them/ found in the cabin as makeshift medical supplies

-finding the previous inhabitants’ bodies, caretaker not telling whumpee because they have to make do and nurse them back to health

-bathing in a tiny tub on the floor with lots of help from caretaker, the water having to be heated over an actual fire/ log burner

-caretaker foraging in the surrounding area, even hunting some animals and fishing

-blankets, but in a very log cabin way, u feel me?

-search parties being sent out for them <3 <3 <3 oh the angst

-having only one room, nowhere for caretaker to go and cry at night, have to just suck it up or let it out right in front of whumpee

-the nearby lake being frozen over or the way back too difficult to trek through until months later

please add more, I’m absolutely in love with this

#whump #sickfic #fever #cottagecore #gay #hurt #comfort #hurtcomfort #emeto #whump tropes

[masterwords]

running toward nothing (part six)

Summary: Hotch is injured in an explosion while on overseas assignment, putting Derek in a difficult position both with the team and with Spencer who has spent the last few months inadvertently falling in love with him. (Set around 07x01 - It Takes a Village but canon divergent by a lot.)

Warnings: drug use, infidelity (almost), kind of non-consensual touching, panic, pain...kinda nsfw so do with that what you will...Derek is about to have a lot of regrets.

Words: 2.1k

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan established

Notes: This is for @tobias-hankel’ s Spencer Whump Challenge. My assigned prompts to do my evil with were Derek Morgan & Betrayal…ooooooogh. This one is rough. I had a hard time writing it, not gonna lie. I threw a few temper tantrums. But we press on, right? Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do to get the outcome we're after...

CHAPTER LIST

Read on AO3: Running Toward Nothing

**

Lights out everywhere. The whole town was pitch black in a swirl of snow. A surprise late season storm, and the only perk Derek could see as he watched a flame flicker to life in his zippo was that at least the unsub would be held up as much by the storm as they were. Hard to hunt when no one was leaving their homes and so far, he didn't have another victim that they knew of. Time was suddenly suspended in the mountains.

“Generators should kick on shortly, but it's so damn cold who knows. Y'all should go back to the lodge and get some shut eye while ya can. Bound to be a long cold night.”

“They got power?” Derek asked, smirking in the dark. The sheriff laughed.

“Not likely. They got generators too but in this kinda freeze...well everything up here's old, see. Might take a bit. Few extra blankets and a night cap might not be a bad idea.”

The lodge, perched in a small clearing of trees, was dark. Shockingly dark, though the hum of a generator could be heard rumbling from where they parked their tired SUV. The snow was piling up rapidly, by morning it might be buried. “Well, something has power...” Rossi muttered, following the team through the deep snow. He could feel it forming clumps against his socks, bunching up against his ankles. Rossi really, really hated the snow. (Now, snow falling outside a warm cabin with a crackling fire and a glass of Sangiovese...that was different. This was not the same.)

“Not us,” was all Emily said, she and JJ breaking off from the pack to make for their room. Derek regarded Spencer with a strange look, wondering if he was still upset. It didn't seem like it but he'd learned over the years that if there was anyone he was absolute dog shit at reading, it was Spencer Reid. The kid had more nooks and crannies than an antique shop. The first thing Derek thought when they entered their room was simply that he wished he'd thought to leave their heater on, at least it would be warm in there now. Hotch wouldn't have forgotten that, he would have turned it up to full blast, the room would be stifling but no. It was almost as cold as outside.

“I say we pile all of the blankets onto one bed and huddle for warmth,” Derek announced and Spencer nearly choked on his tongue. “It's the smartest option. Better to do it now while we're not too cold than in the middle of the night when we're both shivering.”

Spencer had no argument. It was smart, sure, but also exactly what he wanted. While he went into the bathroom to change into his pajamas, Derek decided he'd do it right out in the open while he called Hotch. He just wanted to say goodnight, they hadn't talked since the argument about the damn pills, and he still had plenty of battery charge if he made it quick. “Hey baby, how are you doing?”

Hotch was quiet. It was a bad pain night, one for the books. He was trying to bide his time and make the pills he liked stretch until the new prescriptions could be filled but it was unpleasant, and he was having a very bad time with it. “I'm okay.” That's what he said, but what he meant was that he wished Derek was there and it was understood. Derek could hear the strain in his voice.

“I'm sorry baby," he said quietly. "I'll be home soon. We just got hit with a bastard of a storm...it'll be a few more days.” He spoke with a softness in his voice that he hadn't been able to find in the time he'd been away. He still felt terrible for snapping the night before, was just glad that Hotch was willing to talk with him after that. “I miss you.”

Hotch hummed in response, somewhere deep in the belly of his pain with nothing more than a handful of aspirin to take the edge off. It wasn't cutting it. Jess was rubbing his lower back, kneading in circles to try and take some of the pressure off but it was barely helping. He told her it was good because it made her feel like she was doing something while Sean slept. They were ships in the night these days. One on duty while the other slept or kept Jack occupied. Sean was better at helping him manage his pain, he could take him for walks (mostly up and down the driveway, maybe to the corner) because he was strong enough to help if anything happened. Jess couldn't do that, so she sat with him and rubbed his back.

(x)

It didn't take long before Spencer was shivering. Derek's internal thermostat seemed to be firing on all cylinders, he was still plenty warm, so he pushed right up next to the kid and whispered something cheeky about snuggling in the dark that made Spencer laugh. He'd taken one more of Hotch's Vicodin while he was changing, the fear of the dark too great. He thought it might take the edge off of everything being so black, no light in the room save for the pool of silver trying to drip through the blinds from the winter moon.

Spencer couldn't find a way to shut his mind off, even with the swirling feeling the pill was giving him. He was floating inside of the blankets, relaxed and almost separate from the intensity of the cold. Is this what it feels like in a chrysalis? His mind was fluttering on furry moth wings, warm and sticky and god he just wanted to talk. Like a child afraid of the dark, talking would help. Maybe he could tell Derek about moths.

“Derek?” His voice was small and came from deep in the mound of blankets, floating through the curves and crevices. It didn't sound like his own as it moved further from him. Derek's response was simply a hum, deep and gravely and thick with sleep. Derek slid closer on instinct alone, wrapped him in his arms and buried his face in Spencer's neck. His deep breathing had all the quality of a big cat purring and Spencer lost his moth dream and was thinking about tigers now. There was a part of him, buried deep, that knew without a doubt that Derek was sure he was holding Hotch, and he was right. Hotch, forever cold, shivering in the blankets and putting his cold feet between Derek's legs to steal whatever warmth he possessed...that was where Derek's mind was. Deep in a dream of being home, in better times, when Hotch wanted to be touched and, hell, could be touched. And maybe he was being silly about that, maybe he should have asked Hotch if he wanted it, if he was waiting too but he just didn't...it didn't matter. He was dreaming about it now and it was so good.

Spencer slipped around inside of the embrace until they were face to face, and in the dark he couldn't tell if Derek's eyes were open or closed but he pressed his lips to Derek's quickly and waited. Bold, maybe, but he had felt Derek's erection against his back and he wondered just enough if it weren't for him, at least on some level. Maybe he was thinking about Hotch, sure, but if he found out it was Spencer would it really be that bad? Derek kissed him back hungrily, holding him tight, and Spencer found himself no longer second guessing any of it. His entire world was the swell in Derek's pants and his sweet cherry chapstick.

It was all he'd ever wanted. The kiss was sleep laced and languid, full of a weird slow-building intensity. Every move carried rainbow shock tracers in the dark, and Spencer almost seemed to watch himself grow bolder by the minute, cold hands slipping up beneath Derek's sweatshirt, fingertips against abs he'd been dreaming about for years. Every move with less and less inhibition, and when he wasn't pushed away, when he was welcomed...he couldn't stop himself, he lost all control of his impulses. One hand first, no sense of timidity left, slipped lower and lower until he was grazing Derek's hip bone. Just a little further and he'd have it all, he knew it, and he felt bold. An out of body experience, he felt Derek hard against his thigh and he let his hands move further without waiting for any further invitations, Derek's lips on his and his roaming hands were all the permission he needed. Beneath the waistband of Derek's sweats he paused and smiled into the kiss, not surprised to find that Derek wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Pressed up close, Spencer's pulse quickened and Derek's breath was so damn hot against his neck. The chill of the room couldn't touch him there. He let his hand slip further, dangerously close and trembling with anticipation, would have made it too if he wasn't stopped by a sudden sharp intake of breath from Derek. Not quite a gasp and definitely not a noise of pleasure, Spencer drew back instantly, pulled his hand back to safety. The space between them grew until it felt like a canyon and he listened to the quick, shallow breathing from Derek in the dark. He couldn't see a thing, and for the first time that night he was grateful because for another blissful second he could pretend that it hadn't been a mistake and that Derek wasn't going to be upset with him. Spencer stared wide eyed straight ahead as Derek blinked himself fully awake, came to his senses, his breathing now almost panicky.

“Spencer?” he gasped, almost falling out of the bed in his desperation to put more distance between them. There was no amount that felt like enough. His hands were shaking, but his body...god his body still wanted that touch. It had been so long, almost 4 months now, he'd been dreaming about touching Hotch again...he dreamed it almost every night now and woke up in a cold sweat but he hadn't thought it would happen now, in a bed with Spencer and god...what has he done? Spencer was almost cowering for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He thought Derek was awake, or at least partially awake...into it...

“I'm...I'm sorry. I thought...” Spencer stammered, blinking wildly in the dark. Derek stood in the puddle of silver moonlight rubbing his face, trying to get a grip on what was happening, what his body was still driving him toward. For one blissful moment he lighted on the possibility that he was still stuck in his dream, that he was actually still sleeping. But somehow he knew that wasn't true. This was real. A cold shower sounded stupid under the circumstances but he needed it. So desperately, even if he froze to death. “Derek?”

“No, it's my fault,” Derek mumbled, still in shock. “I guess my mind...” Four months, he thought bitterly. Four months and now look at him. The worst part was that there was maybe no end in sight. And god now he was going to have to tell Hotch...he couldn't even look at Spencer, he felt so awful. “I must have been dreaming. Kid, I'm so sorry. I really fucked up.”

“It's okay...” Spencer said it in a way that Derek thought sounded heartbreaking and hopeful, like he wanted it. Suddenly things were falling into some kind of painfully clear and bright order and Derek felt his stomach twist. He was going to be sick. “Derek, it's okay if you wanted to...I know it's been a long time...”

The dark wrapped him up tight, and Derek thought for a moment that he might pass out. What had he done? What the hell had he done? Forcing his breathing to slow, he counted, tried all of his tricks to calm himself and think rationally. He didn't do anything he couldn't explain to Hotch, it was innocent...stupid, incredibly fucking stupid, but innocent. As long as he took a shower and killed the last of the fire on his skin (and in his pants), it would remain innocent.

“No,” he replied softly, finally finding his voice. “No, Spencer, that's...I'm sorry if I lead you on, made you feel like something was here that isn't...”

He was already walking toward the shower, now in a sort of daze. “I never meant to. I'm so sorry.” The bathroom door closed and locked behind him, and yeah, he knew the power was off and he'd be freezing in a pitch-black ice-cold shower but that was fine. He sat himself down beneath the spray and cried the tears he'd been holding in since Hotch got home. Maybe longer. Maybe since the moment Emily came back and smiled at him with a watery apology floating in the depths of deceit. He didn't know anymore, but his tears were hot and the water was cold and his body went numb sitting there.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #criminal minds #hotchgan #mortch #moreid #accidental moreid anyway #fanfiction #may 2022 whump spencer reid challenge

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I’d like to ask Bram his favorite day with Red, and Danny his favorite day with bram?

CW: Pet whump, noncon, references to recorded torture, dehumanization, references animal death

"My favorite day from our time together-"

"I didn't ask for your favorite anything," The detective protests, but Abraham Denner ignores her, sitting with his hands in his lap, easy and casual as if they were having coffee together, rather than sitting in the cold interrogation room with shitty coffee long since gone cold.

Something about his voice stalls the detective's further protests. She watches him, lips pressed together, and he finds himself happy for a captive audience.

He might be wearing the handcuffs, but she's the one trapped. Not him.

"Obviously, you know, that first Christmas is still my favorite. You can't beat the holidays, now can you?" He tilts his head to one side, his smile widening until it seems to the detective like his face will break from the strain.

And yet she can't quite look away.

"We already discussed that," She says, keeping her voice low and calm. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, a drumbeat of adrenaline demanding she flee before it's too late. "And I'll repeat this - no one asked you what your favorite-"

"Gotta be that first time," Abraham Denner interrupts her, his smile going dreamy and nostalgic. "With my good boy's face shoved into the backseat, all the blood, the way he was just... squirming trying to get away from me... the tears... and of course, my prince waiting for us to finish our first time together so we could keep heading north. You know, later on I bought this old car from someone who lived about an hour's drive down the road... we got it back into the yard, I cleaned it up on the inside a little... and then, for that first anniversary of when Red and I met, I recreated it."

The detective's jaw sets in a straight line. "I am aware. We were able to go through the variety of media you kept-"

"Made a lot of money on that one," Abraham says, smiling. He takes a drink of his cooled coffee in the small plastic styrofoam cup, smacking his lips like it's fresh and not long since gone stale and bitter. "Even if he didn't fight so much anymore, he still had some in him. He kicked and scratched, but not at first. Had to give him a little encouragement."

"Encouragement?" The detective blinks.

"I kept that stupid fucking phone," Abraham Denner says, smug as can be. "And I found another voicemail, one I hadn't let him listen to. I played it in his ear, let him think it was new."

"You played an old voicemail to Daniel Michaelson-"

"Red," He says, the first hint of real irritation he's shown. "I played it for Red."

She should make notes. She should be writing this down. But all she can do is stare at him, somehow transfixed by his voice. Horrified by the casual affection for his victim when recounting the torture he'd inflicted.

She wonders if she picked the wrong career path.

"Anyway... once he heard his brother, that's when he started to really fight me," Abraham says, and he leans forward, looking at a photo arrayed among the many on the table in front of him, old pictures they found in the ruins of the cabin, scarred or smudged from the fire. This one has Daniel Michaelson, with shaggy longer hair and in a thin t-shirt, his arms criss-crossed with fresh cuts, standing on the porch looking out at the snow.

"And your... audience was exceptionally interested in the fight," The detective says, not a question. They've been hunting down those subscribers, one by one, however they can.

"Not the fight. I mean, the fight's always good, but... really... what paid the bills was the crying."

Abraham Denner is a monster, but monsters, in the detective's experience, are invariably just human.

However... something within her is screaming that what she's looking at isn't the simple contentment of a serial killer recounting a victim's suffering, but something deeper, something worse.

"But, you know. That's definitely one of my favorites. Anniversaries are special, you know?"

That smile comes again, and the detective shudders at the colorless sparkle of his eyes.

The detective realizes her cup of coffee is empty and excuses herself to refill it. It takes every ounce of inner strength not to quit her job right now and drive as far as she can to get away from Abraham Denner.

Whatever they sentence him to, it won't be enough.

-

"It's okay," Dr. Rosa says, gentle and reassuring. "We can move on to another topic, if this one is too difficult for today. I am not here to cause you pain, Red, but to help you work through it."

"No, um. I know." Daniel Michaelson picks at his bitten fingernails, runs the tips of his fingers over the ropey, thick scars layered over the backs of his hands. He doesn't look up. His wavy red hair hangs over his face, a little shaggy, in need of a cut.

He's curled up on the floor, shivering in an oversized blue cashmere sweater and jeans. She gets the feeling the sweater was given to him by the parents she has already understood to be overbearing and controlling in his youth. It doesn't seem like a choice he would make on his own.

"Once he... once he trapped a rabbit," Daniel whispers, and Dr. Rosa doesn't move - any sudden motion can startle him, on these harder days, into silence. "And he... he brought it to me to cook for dinner. He did the skinning and everything, you know. The butchering. I, um. I only had to cook it. I was making a stew..."

He trails off.

She waits, knowing that he'll start up again when he's ready.

"He came back with this... box. He told me the stew smelled good..." A nervous, eager-to-please smile flickers across Daniel's face and disappears again. Dr. Rosa privately thinks of it as the biggest giveaway she has that today is a 'Red' day for Daniel, when he smiles that way.

It's not an expression she's ever see on Daniel Michaelson at any other time.

"That must have been reassuring to hear," She encourages him, making a couple of quick notes. He's more comfortable when she doesn't watch him or look directly his way.

"Um. Yes. It was. But in the b-box... he'd, um. The rabbit had... babies. And Abraham had, um, had f-found the... nest? Hiding hole? Burrow, maybe? I, um, I don't know what a rabbit nest is called."

"I think burrow is correct."

"Oh, okay. Okay. Um, so, I asked... I asked him... not to kill the little babies, and he said... why not, we just eat rabbits, and I, um, I asked. I just said... I just, um, I said... please, Abraham."

She waits a beat, but when he just goes silent, she asks with dread in her stomach, "What did Abraham do?"

Daniel MIchaelson licks at his dry, chapped lips, pulling his hands into the long sleeves of his sweater. "He drove, um. He drove them three hours down the road to someone... someone he knew from town. Who kept rabbits in a hutch. And asked him to-... to keep them safe. And he, um. Showed me... showed me photos on his phone, sometimes, of them... growing."

"And you believe that these rabbits in the photos were the same ones?"

"Yes." He answers readily, for once without hesitation, and looks up at her. His blue eyes are warm and shining, but the fear lingers as always around the edges. "I, um. I know he did. And that... that was my favorite-... um. When I realized he would... do a nice thing for me, um, sometimes. Was my favorite day. With him. He was... um, he was sweet that day. To me and Nate. Um. He could be-... better, some days."

Daniel clears his throat, as if hearing himself for the first time.

"He could be nice," He repeats, but with less certainty.

Dr. Rosa sits back, and makes a quick note on her notepad.

Unexpected kindness. Capture-bonding. A sign of possible mercies in the future.

Baby rabbits.

-

@gobliiine @whump-it @bleeding-demon-teeth @finder-of-rings @whumpywhumper @endless-whump @18-toe-beans @pumpkinthefangirl @goneuntil @burtlederp @astrobly @evermetnotforgotten @whumpiary @card-games-and-pain @raigash @whump-tr0pes @orchidscript @wildfaewhump @doveotions @eatyourdamnpears @wicked-whump @hackles-up @pumpkin-spice-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @pretty-face-breaker @thefancydoughnut

#whump #implied noncon #referenced noncon #pet whump #daniel michaelson's story #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #noncon tw #recorded torture #isolation #captivity #recovering whumpee #trauma recovery #trauma bonding #captor bonding #dr. rosa martinez #therapy whump #dehumanization #sadistic whumper

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

Untitled Werewolf Story : Panic in the Woods

I found this in my WIPs and hey, I think its complete enough. ^-^

CW/TW : panic attack, references to past lab whump, dissociation, auditory hallucinations.

*

He curled up tight in the alcove. His breath was rapid and his heart beating as fast as the rabbit he was chasing. Not that he could remember where it went, or how long ago it was that he stopped hunting.

Time made little sense on a good day and was meaningless the rest of the time. It was morning when he started out, but now it was dark. Or were his eyes just closed? A whine rose up through his throat and he shakily pulled his snout closer with his paws. He had to keep quiet, whines were a sound of weakness.

A low buzzing hum filled his ears, ever present and vying for attention like an insistent pup. Through the din of the noise he heard ghosts of instruments he wished never to see again. Even if the images didn't float through his vision he could still feel them. Tearing open his flesh, spreading heat or ice through his veins, restraining every limb, manipulating his body to a whim that was not his own.

His muscles twitched and ached, he pressed his back harder against the stone behind him to ease the pain. Phantom jolts raced their way from behind his ears and danced their way down to the tip of his tail.

Was the ground real or was the straps and metal table? Did he hear leaves in the wind or the shuffling of clothes? Was it the white noise again or just a hive of bees nearby? Was he due for adjustment or had he become lost in his mind again?

He could not tell how long he remained laying there, writhing, whining, and pleading to monsters less mythical than he was. But when his heart started to slow and he was able to finally fill his lungs with air, his muscles began to untangle themselves. He went limp as the ring in his ears started to fade in volume.

The trees nearby shifted as if he was dreaming, the ground pulsating slowly, the sounds a bit far away. How could he tell if what he saw was real? He was sure he had run through the wood, but he had been sure of lots of things, before they shattered in front of his eyes.

He needed her to find him, to tell him that the ground was real, that this time and place was real, that he was real. But would she know to check the lab? Or in the alcove? Or maybe he never left the cabin and she would find him nearby…

His thoughts continued to slip and slide until his exhaustion caught up. His eyes drifted closed and hid the world from him. It was less painful if the images where gone when he woke, he didn't want to be disappointed again that he wasn't truly free.

#whump #whumpee #werewolf whump #werewolf whumpee #supernatural whump #supernatural whumpee #panic attack #panic attack tw #referenced lab whump #referenced past whump #auditory hallucinations #auditory processing problems #dissociation #dissorientation #anything else I should add? #I think that covers it #The New Adam