#my bthb card | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

galaxywhump · 4 months

Text

Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago.

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#bad things happen bingo #recovery whump #slavery whump #forced relationship whump #childhood trauma tw #whump #wren rackham #nathaniel rackham #sv-240 #my writing #pls let me know if there's a better way to tag stuff about wren's trauma #well i finally wrote something #i dusted this off recently #and woah i have a bthb card #so close to filling it out actually #anyway. this chapter's a bit different #but i suppose that the entire recovery arc is going to be a bit different #i hope you like it #and that the taglist works

41 notes · View notes

jamiesfootball · 1 month

Text

Six Sentence Sunday (and one emoji)

[Jamie]: Really? Did we have to make a new chat just for this?

[Isaac]: No, Dani's got the the right idea. We're dealing with a legend. We may need to coordinate our behaviour appropriately to make sure we don't scare him off to a different team

[Jan]: Which means until otherwise noted, you do not have the signal Jamie

[Jamie]: 🖕

#six sentence sunday #this was going to be for the non-consensual touching square on my BTHB card #but then I wrote a *different* zava thing for that so this is now the #bad things happen text chain fic #until I think of an actual title #in related queries - does anyone know a good source for formatting fics to look like text messages?#or at least something that simplifies the dialogue name / timestamp formatting part of it?#I'm not looking for one of those picture generators for text messages to be clear #though I'll probably need to figure out how to do emojis on ao3 #eesh #writing snippet #jamie tartt #afc richmond #zava #(implied zava at least)

22 notes · View notes

avvail-whumps · 10 months

Note

“On a leash” for Leo and Roy? (Spicy? Whumpy? Consensual? Your choice)

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: on a leash also requested by an anon! word count: 1.02K

content warnings: multiple whumpers, intimate whumper, mentioned failed escape, collar and leash, partial nudity (not sexual), manhandling, humiliation, stress positions, mention of bruises, non-con kissing, non-con touching (not sexual)

Burning tears were threatening to spill down his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to keep them back. Leo’s eyes remained trained on his thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, no matter how many noises were coming from the television in front of him.

He’d been kneeling on the carpet for so long, that crippling pins and needles were beginning to torment him, and no matter how many times he dug his nails into his legs, it still didn’t take his mind off of it. He didn’t dare move, not when the other mercenaries were still around, and not when Roy had specifically ordered him not to.

He couldn’t see him from his spot on the ground, but his presence was like fire from behind him. He could feel the occasional shift, switching one leg to the other, as well as the teasing little tug on the leash attached around his neck.

It was humiliating, to be donned in only one of the mercenary’s stupidly oversized shirts, with a collar fixed snugly around his neck and the leash resting comfortably in Roy’s hand. He was twirling it between his fingers as he absentmindedly watched the TV, seemingly unaware of Leo’s discomfort.

The bruises blooming all over his body were the least of his worries, though.

The weight of the collar on his neck made him feel diminished into nothing. Like he was this thing that Roy could drag around and put on display whenever he pleased.

Leo supposed it was his own fault for trying to run away. Another night of Bran’s heckling torments and constant degrading comments had made him act irrationally, but he’d barely even been halfway out of his window before Roy came into his room.

The bruises would linger for a few days, and it was a punishment he could deal with. But this?

Leo bit down on his lip hard.

His legs were throbbing, and it was the only pain he could focus on right now. He tried not to succumb to the tears, but it was growing increasingly difficult with the gradual build up of frustration in his chest.

A light tugging on his neck drew him out of his thoughts. His head craned round to meet Roy’s amused eyes, twirling the leash between his finger to pull it taut.

“Come here, lion.”

Leo let out a shuddering breath, his hands finding the floor. He tried to do as he was told, but the moment he moved his legs, the pain seemed to grow worse. He bit back a shaking whine, his hand bracing against the sofa for support.

There was a sudden harsh tug on the leash, and the collar jarred painfully against his neck. Leo choked on a gasp, forcing him forward roughly between Roy’s legs. His trembling fingers dug into them in a desperate attempt to steady himself, his legs wobbling from underneath him. Roy wrapped the leash around his wrist, forcing his head up further.

The man leaned forwards, tucking a strand of his blond hair behind his ear.

“You should see how pathetic you look right now,” he murmured quietly, the finger sliding down to glide along the collar. It had dug uncomfortably into his neck, leaving a ring of sore, raw skin behind. “This is cute. I think you should wear it more often.”

Leo held his breath, surpressing the wince at the man’s wandering finger along his face. He couldn’t pull away when he had such a tight grasp on the leash, preventing him from moving anywhere with the collar. His knees were aching painfully through each little muscle, pressing his weight into Roy’s legs.

“Please,” he whispered shakily, humiliation crawling through him. “Please, take it off.”

“Take it off?” The mercenary parroted, his tone dripping with a sinister playfullness. “Why would I do that, lion? Clearly, you need to be put on a tighter leash. Or did you forget what happened already?”

Those burning tears began threatening his eyes again, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop them from spilling over. He knew that the mercenary would just torment him further if they did.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the tension in his neck throbbing from the uncomfortable position. “I mean it. I-I promise, I won’t do it again.”

The pressure from the collar didn’t ease, and Leo’s face wrinkled in discomfort. Roy tilted his head, cocking a brow.

“I know you’re sorry,” he hummed, tugging him closer. His knees dug uncomfortably into the floor, the crippling pain in his legs searing from the movement. Roy kept a firm grip on the leash, making it impossible for Leo to jerk backwards when the man’s lips sealed over his harshly. He squeaked, his fingers digging into his legs, but the man didn’t seem bothered.

The secretary’s breath felt like it was being hoarded away from him, the brazen, rough kiss prying his lips apart and making it almost impossible to breathe. The collar dug into his skin, prompting the tears to finally slide down his cheeks. When his chest started burning and the man’s kiss was all he could focus on, Roy finally seemed satisfied enough to pull away.

Leo greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air, feeling the saliva on the corner of his lips, and the shameful burn in his cheeks. His vision had started wilting, and it took a moment just to blink away the lingering spin on the edges of his vision.

Roy’s fingers dug into his jaw, forcing him to meet his pointed gaze.

“Unfortuantly, lion, your apologies mean nothing,” he murmured coldly, loosening his grip on the leash and letting Leo collapse back onto the floor. He curled his legs out from under him, cringing at the stiff pain. “And until then, you can stay there like a good boy.”

Leo stubbornly wiped away his tears, and tried not to grimace when the mercenary gave another unnecessary, playful tug of the leash.

“Though I’m not too sure, lion,” Roy smirked. “Seeing you on a leash is a little too tempting to pass up.”

#bad things happen bingo #on a leash #original work #ask #guns for hire #guns for hire special #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #whump scenario #whumper #whumpee #leo and roy #writing #my writing #avvail whumps #bthb card

66 notes · View notes

prodbionic · 2 months

Text

Destiny vs. design (two faces of a coin)

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: caught in an explosion

Fandom: Supernatural

Word Count: 18.9 k

Summary:

Dean had been acting off. A recent bout of nightmares had overrun his sleep –Sam's sleep as well because that was bound to happen when one's brother woke up shouting from the bed next to his. Sam reckoned they were memories of Hell, triggered by the apocalypse creeping up on them. A regular hunt was Sam's fix to the situation, as it had usually proved a sure way to take Dean's mind off of more awful stuff. Of course, when had anything ever been that straightforward, or easy? In this case, nothing was what it looked like.

Read full on ao3

Snippet from chapter one:

To describe it as simply as "he woke up" would be a stretch when he merely got some of his senses partially, sluggishly awakened while others were deep underwater. Hungover , his mind helpfully deduced. Bar fight , screamed the way his body ached and his leg muscles throbbed... monster fight would also track. A successful monster fight? Now that was debatable. Sam was such a dick, Dean thought , for removing Dean's blanket when he was clearly cold and shivering. Did the punk want to wake and sober him up? Tough. He would sleep like the dead , even like this. He was damned tired, and he deserved his rest. And anyway, he had slept in worse conditions. Way worse. Although, his foggy mind failed to recall any such instance with any degree of clarity. Time passed, as time usually would in such a state of drunken haze, incongruent and corrupt, among halted dreams, broken recollections, and failed attempts at actually waking up. He had no idea how much of it had passed between his initial 'waking up' and his internal alarms blaring. It was when a warm trickle in his right ear slid outwards, followed by a low hiss in his eardrum, followed by faint warbled sounds like wind wheezing through a gap in a window frame–filtered through to him that it clicked: something was wrong. Eyes bleary, arm heavy, he moved to rub his ear until the hissing stopped and all the wetness had been smeared away. The surface underneath him was not that of a shitty motel's lumpy mattress—which in itself sounded heavenly compared to the rotting wood he was actually lying on. The darkness of the room or wherever he was, had some thin streaks of light enough to let him know it was shoddy. If his sinuses weren't so congested, he'd bet the cloying smell of mold would be up his nostrils. Shifting from his stomach sideways aggravated all of the sores he'd known about, and a lot he hadn't had a clue about. A throb in his thigh intensified to agony, it was all he could do not to gasp. Not an entirely successful monster fight. Memory didn't readily serve to erase the bewilderment of his situation, although upon some gentle prodding his mind supplied flashes of a gut ripping fall, and a whiplash into running water. Walking through the woods. Bickering. Looking at gooey remains. Running through the woods. Boring breakfast. Awful nightmare. Bullets. Pain in his abdomen. A Grenade launcher… All of it broken pieces of glass, hanging weightless, shining against a vast, blankness of context. They felt distant, like they happened to someone else. Except for the last one: his brother's face, calling Dean's name in panic, his face and hair dripping wet, inches above his own. That was recent, Dean was sure, and probably the last time he saw Sam. Further inspection of the room around him through his blurry vision assured him of being alone. Where exactly did Sam stash him? Couldn't the punk find a better spot? More importantly, what the hell happened? The stickiness on his face, when he followed it to its source and felt the god-awful gash in his head, was enough for him to connect the dots as to why his memory was botched. The dizziness was not helping. Dean grunted, sitting up. In an instant, his vision swam and his head severely swirled inside his skull. He felt himself falling back the short distance he'd gained off the floor, but couldn't help it at all as he smacked the ground back. His poor battered head. He was going to kill Sam for leaving him like this , he thought, breathing the musty air wafting from the blood-wet floor.

8 notes · View notes

laffy-taffy-creations · 8 months

Text

CHAPTER FOUR BABEY!!!!

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Prompt: Degloving

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO READ MY FIC PEOPLE

15 notes · View notes

evanbegins · 5 months

Note

Hi, bthb soup for the sick for the wip ask game please.

hi!

BTHB soup for the sick plot is basically that eddie has the flu, denies it even though he feels like garbage, then buck comes to bring him some homemade soup :-)

here's a snippet:

He’ll be stubborn about it, though; he’ll act like he isn’t, and maybe that’ll cancel it out so he isn’t sick anymore. It’s childish logic, but maybe it’ll turn out actually working. Something about out of sight, out of mind.

What’s not out of sight and out of mind, however, is the sound of his front door being unlocked and opening, before shutting again.

There’s nobody calling out, speaking to him across the house to his room with the door wide open, but Eddie instinctively knows who it is, and his shoulders sag deeper into his shitty mattress.

It’s Buck. He doesn’t have to hear or see him to know that, because nobody else that has a key to his house would come in without announcing it or telling him besides Buck.

Wonderful, lovely Buck, who’s probably following his routine that he does every time he comes into Eddie’s house, like clock-work.

He’ll toe off his shoes and put them on the rack by the door right next to Eddie’s pair of sneakers, which are right above his work boots. Then, his car keys will go on the counter in the kitchen, then whatever he brought with him will go next to them.

“Eddie?” Buck finally calls out, his footsteps heavy on his creaky floorboards. Eddie thinks his voice is a good thing to hear, and he must apparently forget to respond, because he continues. “Eddie, are you there? Pepa told me you were sick.”

Of course she did. Eddie rolls over to face the wall instead of the door, now that Buck’s here. He doesn’t have to be vigilant anymore, because Buck’s safe, and he’ll do it for him.

#sick eddie diaz #i really need to write for my bthb card #9 1 1 on fox #9 1 1 show #evan buckley #eddie diaz #9 1 1 on abc #buddie #9 1 1 tv #buck x eddie #buddie fic #9 1 1 fox #sick fic

11 notes · View notes

blackberry-bloody · 1 year

Note

Chained to a Bed with BEE <3

So uh- this has been sitting here for a while XD

Hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

CWs: Intimate whumper, objectification whump, brief (non-sexually) stripping, whumpee being unable to enjoy comforts, restrained, shock collar (mentioned), angel whumpee, demon whumper

Mibium was so, so tired. The heavy set bags under his eyes were visual proof of that.

However, he couldn't bring himself to sleep, even as he was laying on the giant, plush bed. The sheets were soft against his exposed skin. The mattress under him, almost feeling like a cloud. The blanket wrapped around him was warm and comforting. And yet, he felt like screaming.

His wrists had been bound together and stretched out above his head, and chained to the headboard. His ankles were similarly bound and chained to the foot of the bed. Leaving him stretched across the bed. His wings had been posed and positioned to be spread out, and the metal device against his back and piercing his wings left them unable to fold.

Octavian knelt over his side, admiring his work. As though Mibium were nothing more than an art piece. Or a doll to be posed and played with. He reached his hand down and removed Mibium's sheer fabric shirt. Tossing it to the side with a hum.

Mibium resisted the urge to protest, as he knew being shocked in this position would be more pain than he could handle right now. He simply fixed his eyes up to the dark fabric canopy that stretched across the bed. Distracting himself as he felt Octavian gently running a finger across his chest. He even refused to look as he felt Octavian shift, climbing under the covers and snuggling up to him. Feeling Octavian press against him, made him want to recoil… But he could do nothing more than tremble as he felt the demon wrap an arm and a leg around him, and rest his head on Mibium's now bare chest.

Ah… Not a doll…

He felt Octavian's breathing slow, and even out.

Mibium had been reduced to a pillow…

He closed his eyes against any tears he could feel welling up.

---

@emmettnet @icyheart-and-friends

#nightingale sings #nightingale writes #my ocs #mibium oc #octavian oc #bthb #bthb card #chained to a bed #angel whumpee #demon whumper #tw objectification #intimate whumper

32 notes · View notes

etonzolo · 7 months

Text

Huevember Day 1 "Confrontation"

I drew the end of Wynncraft's Recovering the Past quest as i've been enjoying playing on there and have wanted to draw my character!! The outfit is 1520s insired to help w/ the "Medieval Manuscript" vibes (despite that being long done by that point lol)

#huevember #huevember 2023 #art challenge #wynncraft fanart #wynncraft #original character #original art #my art #oc: Emphyte #also i have a BTHB card for prompt inspo #hence the name lol #undescribed image

13 notes · View notes

arizbethcolor97 · 2 months

Text

@badthingshappenbingo 1st fic!

Prompt: Appendicitis

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Rating: T

TW: Medical condition, mentions of vomit, description of appendicitis

Summary: 80% of humans have a quirk, meaning that 80% have evolved to no longer have those unnecessary organs that the pre-quirk physiology has. But Midoriya, although being blessed with One for All, still has the pre-quirk body. So what if one day Midoriya feels a sharp pain in his abdomen? It gets worse as the day progresses, but scared to reveal his quirkless status he says nothing. It's just a stomach ache, right?

#ao3 fanfic #bnha #mha #fanfiction #my hero academia #appendicitis #bthb card #a03 fic

4 notes · View notes

fanboy-sloth · 6 months

Text

I'm doing BTHB!

So, I have a BTHB card! I've filled a few prompts already, but wanted to share it in case anyone has something specific they'd like to see me write.

I'm hoping to write for Daredevil or CRC2 - Caleb Widogast specifically, but am open to other Marvel or CRC2 characters.

If you have any ideas, get in my ask box! :D

Snowy's BTHB:

Broken Nose - Pretending (Peter Parker) You can find it on AO3 here.

On the Run - We Will Meet in the Woods (Caleb Widogast) You can find it on AO3 here.

Distress Call - These Infested Waters (Caled Widogast) [Incomplete] You can find it on AO3 here.

Grief/Mourning - Red (Foggy Nelson&Matt Murdock) [Incomplete] You can find it on AO3 here.

#bthb #bthb card #bad things happen bingo #fanfic #snowyfic #daredevil #matt murdock #foggy nelson #cr c2 #caleb widogast #my fic #fanfiction

6 notes · View notes

galaxywhump · 3 months

Note

I'm so sorry you're having a hard time my friend. Sending you love ❤️

So, why do you like the trope "mouth sewn shut" so much? And what got you to love it? 👀

-- @whumperofworlds

Thank you so much friend ❤️

Oooh okay, so I'm a fan of characters being silenced in general, but mouth sewn shut adds the aspect of being kind of out of left field, so it's more shocking to the character in most circumstances. Duct tape or cloth is a classic, muzzles are a bit more out there, but needle and thread? It's a whole new level of horrifying.

I also like that it takes time, so there's a process to describe. The whumper has to be precise and focused, the whumpee is forced to stay still, otherwise the needle might slip. I suppose it just fits into my love for Realizations, gives the whumpee more time to think about how messed up what's happening to them is.

And, of course, I like the aesthetic.

#asks #is this coherent i hope so #almost 3 am now #thank you for giving me the opportunity to ramble about mouth stitched shut ❤️#always a good time #i first saw it on someone else's bthb card and my eyes were opened #and now i'm really happy with the two pieces i wrote about this trope #i should write more #thanks again!#mouth sewn shut #mouth gore

3 notes · View notes

jamiesfootball · 21 days

Text

Six Sentence Sunday

“Uh, yeah? It’s a present? Who doesn’t like presents?”

“Let’s try reframing this,” said Sharon. “I’d like you to imagine the last time you felt hurt by someone, or perhaps the last time someone really pissed you off. If the next time you saw that person, they offered you a present, how would that make you feel?”

#six sentence sunday #jamie tartt #dr sharon fieldstone #tentatively putting this one under ‘therapy session’ on my bthb card #writing snippet

17 notes · View notes

avvail-whumps · 10 months

Text

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: homesickness requested by: @whumpatize-me-captain word count: 1.4K

content warnings: mention of multiple whumpers, defiant whumpee, captivity, homesickness, panic attack, knife threats, gun violence, gun wound, blood, mention of punishments

Leo didn’t know when it started to happen, but a horrible, crippling feeling had started weighing heavily on not only his heart, but his mind as well.

He was curled up on the sofa with a blanket tucked around him, mindlessly staring at the television. He found he did that a lot nowadays, just to shut off from the grisly situation he had found himself trapped in. Luckily, for now, he was by himself. Roy was occupied somewhere upstairs after a particularly violent confrontation between him and the other mercenaries. Mainly Bran, of course.

Joey had offered to take the car so they could cool off and spend the evening away and stay at a hotel for the night, and Roy had been okay with that.

Leo had been okay with it too, since he didn’t want them anywhere near him.

The television flickered in front of his eyes, but it was hard to take anything in. None of the odd shapes and colours were registering in his slow, occupied brain. All he could think about was how quiet it was now.

It reminded him of his own home, after moving out of his childhood house in order to fulfill his life away from his grieving father. It had always been so quiet when it was only him who lived in it. Small, cozy, decorated how he liked it with paintings and little plotted pants to clear the air. He had this tea tree air freshener he would plug in, the memorising aroma greeting him after a hard day at work.

Leo anxiously picked at the blanket. Roy’s house wasn’t like that. It wasn’t cozy. It didn’t smell of tea tree. If he’d been at home, he would have switched off the mind numbing television and filled the room with the notes of his precious violin instead.

It was too quiet.

This wasn’t home. He wanted to go home.

The very thought slammed into him with a dizzying force. It suddenly felt as though his lungs had dried up, and his hand landed on his tight chest with a choked gasp. His thoughts were growing too loud in his own mind, the sickening feeling of homesickness sinking into his cells and ripping out his nerves.

Leo gasped violently for breath, staggering to his feet. All at once, the world seemed to tip and spin, causing him to bump into the coffee table and send his glass sprawling onto the ground. He was sure he heard a distinctive shattering, but his ears had become too fuzzy to tell.

Tears burned at his eyes, stumbling into the kitchen. What was he even doing? Why was he sitting around complacently in the house of the man that had kidnapped him, instead of finding a way home? Even if he went covered in blood, kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail, why wasn’t he doing anything?

Being alone in his home had once brought Leo a sense of vivid loneliness. But now, he would do anything in the world just to be back there. Just to touch his violin and sleep in his own bed. To freshen up his plants with a spray of water.

The secretary choked on a sob, barely able to see what he was doing through the blurriness in his vision. It was getting too hard to breathe, even as he felt his fingers fumbling dramatically in the kitchen drawer. They somehow managed to tighten around the hilt of a knife in his panic, doubling over with the countertop to brace him.

He sucked in a ragged breath, shaking his head viciously. He would do anything to be home right now. Even to see his father; to hug him, to hold him, to hear his voice again. What if that never happened? What if he was truly going to be trapped here forever?

“Hey, lion,” a voice called out by the kitchen door, and Leo squinted through his rapidly blurring vision to see Roy. He swayed on his feet as he shakily raised the knife, pointing it in his direction. The table was separating them, and for that, Leo was glad.

Roy’s expression morphed into that of weary amusement. A sigh escaped his lips as he spoke. “What are you doing?”

Leo scrubbed away the tears sliding down his cheeks, trying to steady his rapidly increasing breaths. Somehow, throughout it all, he managed to do just that enough to speak.

“I want to go home,” he choked.

Roy raised a brow, moving slowly around the table. The secretary jerked into action, circling in the opposite direction, just so the table remained in between them. The thought of a punishment hadn’t even occurred to him. He was too overwhelmed by the thought of his home. His sweet home.

“I’m willing to be nice and forget about this if you put the knife down, lion. You’ll do more damage to yourself than to me.”

Leo felt a fiery spit in his chest. “Screw you!”

His heart sank straight to his boots the moment those words tumbled from his wobbling lips, but he just couldn’t help himself. Roy’s expression seemed to lose all sense of amusement in seconds, his eyes suddenly becoming cold under the light. A quiet sigh left his nose, and he reached under his jacket and into his belt.

“Come on now, lion,” he hummed, stopping where Leo had originally been standing. The secretary was in the doorway now, and he couldn’t keep the knife from shaking uncontrollably in his own hands, breathing through the pained sobs wracking through his bones. “I think you should hold your tongue.”

“I-I want to go home,” he pleaded shakily, blinking away the onslaught of tears that just wouldn’t stop coming. “Please. I need to go home.”

Roy’s lip quirked up into an unamused smile. A hand gun had been residing in his belt, and he had no problem pulling it out and pointing it at Leo in turn.

“You know that isn’t going to happen, lion.”

The gun went off with a jarring bang, and Leo felt a searing pain explode in his forearm. A horrible, gut wrenching cry escaped his lips as the knife clattered to the ground, hand gripping the gushing, bloodied wound. His vision went white with static for a moment, but the sudden rush of adrenaline forced him into action once he realised Roy was much closer than a table length.

Leo’s shaking legs managed to jerk himself out of the doorway, and he twisted into the stairway with heavy, thundering footsteps. His knees could barely even support his own weight as he darted with a terrified sob, threatening to buckle under his feet.

He could hear Roy behind him, the familiar clicking of the gun, and then—

He staggered into the wall when another gunshot soared past his head, herding him up the second flight of stairs without a second thought. Leo knew that if Roy had wanted to hit him, then he would’ve, and he wasn’t willing to risk that chance.

He threw himself into the first door he got his spinning eyes on, and slammed it shut behind him. His bloodied fingertips only just managed to slide the lock into place, before a loud bang vibrated the entire wooden door, making him yelp and slide pathetically to the floor. He pressed his back against the wood and curled his legs close to his chest, letting out a harrowing sob at the state of everything. He could barely feel his arm through the numbing pain, and the disparity shuddering through his spine.

“You’re making this worse for yourself, little lion,” Roy sang from behind the door, where he didn’t seem to be attempting to be making any efforts to force it open. That was scary in of itself. “The longer you stay in there, the more painful your punishment will be.”

Leo screwed his eyes shut, letting out a groan through his clenched teeth.

“Please, just let me go home,” he sobbed, biting back the pathetic whimpers in his throat. “I just want to go home…”

Roy was less than sympathetic.

“Making it worse, lion.”

Leo cursed under his breath, letting the back of his head rest against the door. He didn’t need a clear vision to know he’d managed to lock himself in Roy’s room. The only place that he wasn’t allowed; that completely violated the rules. He knew that with each second he spent with the door locked, the more painful his time in the basement was going to be.

His heart ached at the very thought of being down there, and subsequently splintered at the conflicting thoughts tearing his mind apart.

It smelled of Roy in here.

He was devastated it didn’t smell of tea tree.

#bad things happen bingo #homesickness #original work #ask #guns for hire special #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #whump series #whump community #whump scenario #whumper #whumpee #leo and roy #my writing #writing #avvail whumps #bthb card

49 notes · View notes