#whumpee a and b

[whumpster-dumpster]

Character A driving through the middle of nowhere, wondering where they might find help for the super sick Character B in the back, only for them to get into a crash. Now A is injured, B is sick as a dog and somehow they're both trying to pull themselves together enough to take care of each other while they get out of this

#whump #whump prompt #writing prompt #caretaking #sickness #car crash #multiple whumpees #multiple caretakers #caretaker turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #character a #character b

[theinsomniacindian]

New dynamic idea: Touch-starved living weapon x haphephobic human experiment

#person a was trained to be a living weapon from a young age and lived a life devoid of kindness and affection #person b used to be a human experiment and became touch-repulsed thanks to the torture and the abuse they've faced while in captivity #not me describing my ocs that are secretly based off myself and my own haphephobia #the dynamic can be romantic or platonic #character tropes #character dynamics #imagine your otp #otp #otp prompts #prompts #writing prompts #character inspiration #writing #writing inspiration #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writers community #living weapon #living weapon whumpee #haphephobia #touch repulsed #experiment whumpee #tw haphephobia #moonlight and blazing stars

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Breeding the Winter Soldier"

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 7893

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

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

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

Breeding the Winter Soldier

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

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

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

His mate is going to be so confused.

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

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

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

“Captain. Hail Hydra.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You son of a bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve’s eyes widen at that. “What?”

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

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

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

“Fuck you!” Steve spits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rogers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brock smiles at him. “Good boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve huffs an abortive laugh. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you torture yourself like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

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

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

Rollins looks. “Naw. Resting.”

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

“You think it’ll take?”

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

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

[whump-queen]

couldn’t stop until I had @demondamage’s pretty boy Aziphem in my art style

he’s mine forever now ~🔪🫀

[tags and progress shots below]

General whump taglist: @whumpshaped @whumpsday @emmettnet  @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot @wolfeyedwitch @whumper-soot @unorganisedalienrubbish  @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived @spooky-scary-vampires @burningkittypoet @veyroswin @painsandconfusion @skittles-the-whumpee

Art only tag: @burntcoffeewhump

#he’s been a murderin 💘💘🥰🥰❤️‍🔥 #I want them bloody and foolishly overconfident #demon whumpee #demon whumper #idk if it’s his blood or someone else’s blood ok probably little column a lil column b yknow #delicious I put it on my ice cream like strawberry syrup #my art #akias art #others OCs #aziphem #blood

[max-attack-whumps]

Person A who works some kind of high-end IT, or other job, that doesn’t require them to be at work all the time. They get home for the weekend to find B sick with the flu (or something else). They take care of them, getting little to no sleep, during the weekend and for most of the next week. Their boss said they didn’t have to be in until Thursday, and luckily B gets better right before Thursday.

A goes into work on about 2 hours of sleep total from that entire week. It starts as a normal day until there’s some kind of emergency. Whatever the job is, A has to continuously work to neutralize the threat while the others find the source of the problem. (Think like, they have to keep an important system running manually until the others can find what went wrong.)

A works off of nothing but willpower and coffee for the next 30 or so hours. They don’t even register their burning eyes or their cramped body until the job is done. They don’t register much of anything past their exhaustion. Everyone congratulates them on their extremely hard work once the emergency is over. A stands, leaning heavily on their desk as their vision swims, and Person C, their coworker and close friend, also stands to congratulate them. C catches A as they sway into their side.

A doesn’t pass out, exactly—C feels their sluggish blinking against their neck where A’s head is still limply resting. But they’re not moving much and are beyond registering anything going on. They don’t have the energy to move or think at the moment. C asks when they last slept, they can usually take an all-nighter pretty well. A mumbles, “what day is it?” C is only more concerned at their slurred words.

“It’s Friday.”

“Friday”

“Yeah, so when did you last sleep?”

“That’s what I said…” A trails off and C realizes, with horror, that they mean last friday. Cue C shaking A awake as much as they can, either dragging them to a break room couch or some other place to rest, or all the way home, with an incoherent, slightly-warm A barely keeping their feet under themselves. C manages to deposit them onto their bed or wherever. You can decide if A is already asleep by the time their head hits the pillow, or if they don’t sleep until C says something like “It’s okay, you can rest now.”

C probably stays with them to make sure they’re still alive, and they eventually notice the sweat on A’s forehead and the flush to their cheeks…

#I just think that getting sick is inevitable after pushing yourself like that #A’s body said let’s crash this mf so they have to get the rest they need #It’s personal preference though #can you tell i know nothing about technology #this specific scenario was stuck in my head #which is why the days and everything are so specific #whumpee #caretaker #whump scenario #whumpblr #exhaustion #sleep deprivation #fever whump #losergeek writing #whump #left B up to interpretation #but the main focus is on A

[whump-it-like-its-hot]

A mage Whumpee who’s still learning to control their magic powers and not overexert themselves, but one day they get cocky while trying to prove themselves for some really stupid reason and pass out as a consequence, much to the concern of caretaker who knows like nothing about magic and it’s side effects

Caretaker rushing to Whumpee’s side, praying that they’re not dead, and feeling so relieved when they feel Whumpee’s pulse still going - Weak, but still going.

They gently prop them up on their lap when they notice Whumpee slowly regaining consciousness, almost crying in relief when Whumpee’s eyes flutter open.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, hey, can you hear me? What the hell was that?”

And Whumpee, still dazed and not fully there, focuses on Caretaker for a moment, before pulling the corner of their mouth up into a half grin.

“Guess you could say that was a...dizzy spell,” before closing their eyes again from exhaustion.

How Caretaker reacts is up to you.

#whump #whump prompt #whumpee #caretaker #magic whump #magical exertion #magic whumpee #unconsciousness #passing out #whimpers who don't take themselves seriously to a concerning amount my beloved #this idea stems from my oc Loki who is like this #and comes up with a dumb pun in every situation #the more unfitting the better #I meant to say whumpees not whimpers wtf #ANYWAY #working in whumptober rn B) #stay tuned #and have this #kinda #Whump meme #in the meanwhile #as my first original post in forever LMAO

[justplainwhump]

Spotted

Co-written with @hackles-up. Part of the Ridley-Dies-Arc, can be read on it's own. B and Tom (aka second bad guy) are her characters.

Dany and B's escape takes a bad turn.

[Masterlist]

Content / Warnings: BBU elements, recapture, feverish whumpee, restraints, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, abduction, threats of noncon.

Being the daughter of a man like my father, I've been taught quite a lot about being on the run, even though I've rarely been myself. The importance of high quality fake papers, for example, and how much further you can get if you just behave like a rich person; how with the right tip a concierge at the Ritz will surely keep you out of the books, while a dingy motel owner might sell you out for the price of a Big Mac.

It's ironic, that we have both of that - good documents and good money -, and still need to rely on the very dingy sort of accommodations. Because all I learned didn't take into account being the subjects of a nationwide manhunt for the murder of a mafia-affiliated just-not-billionaire. Or hiding a huge, broad-shouldered traumatized man with sharp titanium teeth who refuses to take off his collar.

We've slept in the car, twice, but B's fever had only become worse, and none of us had been able to close an eye.

We're at a rest stop on a highway, a small shady restaurant with a bunch of guest rooms above it. A significant share of these is most likely occupied by the prostitutes sitting at the bar right now, slightly bored because it's not yet their time of the night. It makes me feel better, in a way. Means the police aren't quite welcome here. That can only be good for us.

B has stepped away for the washroom, and I'm just studying the road map once more, when a thin man in a leather jacket slips into my booth and sits down in B's spot.

Under the table, my hand wraps around my gun. I can help myself, but it would create attention, and attention is the very last thing we need.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, while he looks me down. Black jeans, oversized black Tee, short gloves, dark baseball cap over a short bob. I look nothing like the pictures from the wanted posters. I also look nothing like a sweetheart.

"Fuck off," I tell him. "That seat is taken."

He chuckles. "You don't even want to hear my offer?"

"Pretty sure I do not, no."

"I can get you out." He gestures roughly towards the border. "Out of the country. Friend's got an airplane, used to... unregistered cargo."

"What makes you think I want to leave?"

He laughs, points at my cap, my baggy clothes, the duffle bag between my feet. "I know the looks of people like you. And I know this place isn't exactly a spa retreat. People come here for reasons."

"Oh yeah?" With the hand above the table, I take a sip of my coke. "And say I were interested. How much would that flight be?"

The stranger tilts his head towards the restrooms. "Your... buddy back there. Built like a brick, isn't he? Seems like he can handle himself quite well."

I lift my chin in alarm, while he just leans in conspiratorially, and asks, "WRU material?"

I clench my jaw and shake my head.

"If he came back, and I said the magic word, what would he do, huh, princess?"

I can't help but tense at the pet name. At the implication.

"What would you do, huh?" He gives me a slow smile. "Wanna give it a try? Respect!"

"Fuck off." I slam my gun onto the table, trained at him, keeping my voice low. "I'm not a runaway pet, nor is my friend. I've just had some trouble with some assholes, and it didn't end well for them. If you don't want to test your luck, I think you should just walk away and forget we've ever met."

He stares at the gun and lifts his hand in a mock gesture of defeat. "Gosh, you're a flimsy one, aren't you? Alright, I'm leavin', I'm leavin'."

My heart is racing, as I watch him retreat through the front doors, looking back to me with a final mock salute.

It still does, when B returns to the table. He still looks exhausted, his eyes dull, with deep rings underneath, feverish sweat glinting on his forehead. 'Seems like he can handle himself well', the man has said. Fucking ironic, a threat within a threat.

B needs a break. And I’m not giving him one. I toss two bills onto the counter and grab the uneaten burger from the plate, before I nod at him. "We gotta go."

“Trouble?” He asks, moving in step with me as I move. All professional, all alert Guard Dog. Both of us know how much it costs him to keep it up.

"Yeah." I cast a glance around. Nobody seems to spare us any attention, but I've been fooled before. I hadn't seen the guy coming. And he must've been watching us for a while. Fuck. I'm pretty sure that I haven't convinced him. Just need to hope that he'll find easier prey. Or that we'll be gone before he returns. "Some gangster spotted us. Can't tell you what he wants exactly, he doesn't know about the bounty, but way too interested in you to be safe."

I lift the heavy bag and throw it over my shoulder. It's better if I carry it than him. He's sick; and he needs his hands free. "He left through the front door. Don't think we've seen the last of him though." I bite my lip. "Any other way out?"

B nods, indicating to his right hand side. "This way."

He makes steady determined steps past the bathrooms and towards the back entrance, almost betraying the exhaustion he must be feeling. Just as I try to let myself be fooled, too, though, he wavers for a moment, stumbling and reaching to hold himself on the wall.

I'm by his side right away, holding out my arm to steady him from the other side. He's burning, even through his clothes. His fever has become worse. A plane ride would've been just what we needed. Fucking asshole.

I rest a hand on B's hot cheek. "It's not far," I promise. "Two more days, and we can find Frankie's friends, and rest there."

I had thought about just leaving our car behind, making a run through the fields behind the rest stop, and just find someone who sells us their car for enough cash.

But B isn't even well enough to make it to the parking lot in one run. I grimace, making sure the gun is where I can reach it. I can't use any police attention. But if that's the price to pay to get B out of here safely, so be it.

Whatever that guy is up to, he's bad news; he's a threat, and he won't be any more with a bullet in his chest. I wonder for a second, if Dad would like that reasoning. He never wanted me to think that way. But there's many things about my life that he's never wanted.

"Come on, Ben," I say quietly. "We need to keep moving. You can hold on to me, alright? You can sleep in the car."

B bunches his hand into a fist against the wall, exhaling with a groan.

"Nh... No... 'M fine, Dany... I can do this." He mutters, and pushes himself off of the wall and stumbles forward, shrugging off my hand. "We can't stay here."

He pushes himself against the back door, holding it open with his body so I may slip out.

Something moves behind me. There’s a hand on my side, and cold metal pressed to the back of my head. They came from behind. Of course they did. Fuck. Fuck.

"Stay nice and still, pretty thing." someone murmurs.

I will not.

"B!" I shout, when I feel the barrel shift as he reaches around me, fumbling for my gun. I spin the other way, let the heavy duffel bag slam into his side and shoulder, while I grab my gun myself. The attacker stumbles, but catches himself too quickly, his gun in front of my face just as I bring my own up.

Fury is burning in his eyes. "You fucking... Don't fucking move or I'll put one in your knee. Sluts don't need to walk."

In front of us, B lets out a low growl. He bares his titanium teeth, taking a shaky step forward. The backdoor is still open, the night air wafting in.

"Oh no you don’t," the stranger hisses, pulling back the safety on his gun and pointing it at my leg. "I saw his collar. Tell your pet to back down or I'll shoot."

My mind is racing.

My gun is still in my hands, half way up. I could get a bullet in his chest, but he'll be faster, shooting my leg. I could kill him, but we'd never get away.

They want us alive. They want us alive, and they don't know who we are, so chances are they want us alive and not torture us to death.

Sickening as it is to admit, we'll stand better chances later. It feels like a betrayal, when I say, "Stand down, B."

B’s glare stays on the man, burning and deadly. He dropped his defensive stance immediately, though.

I don't lower my own gun.

"What do you want?"

He doesn’t reply, keeps his own gun level, while he remarks, “Impressive. It’s very responsive to you. How did you get your hands on a Guard Dog, huh? Must’ve cost a fortune. Daddy bought him for you?” He sneers.

Daddy. My hand trembles and I need my other hand to steady it and the gun. "Daddy is not in the picture any longer. And he answers to me," I reply. "What do you want? There isn't a lot to get out of us. The Guard Dog is old and sick, he isn't worth much any longer, but we can talk money." Ridley's words taste sour in my mouth. I hope B gets why I have to talk like this. They need to let us go.

The man just laughs. “Oh I wouldn’t discount you two so quickly.” He takes a step forward. “Now I need you to lower that gun and come with me. I’ll tell you all you wanna know then.”

“Don’t move…” B grits out. “We won’t go… anywhere with you.”

“Oh it talks too. Clever doggy.”

"Don't come closer," I hiss. "And don't talk to him like that. Or I'll shoot, and I won't bother aiming for the leg."

When I notice the shadowy movements behind B, it's too late. Something lowers around his neck and yanks him back.

I lose all control.

"No," I yell and stumble over towards him. "No! B!"

He’s falling, catching himself just before he hits the ground and lunges with teeth bared at his assailants, fighting the noose around his throat.

“Oh no you fucking don’t.” The man behind me is on me, grabs me in a vicious choke hold, arm pressing into my throat and kicking my legs out from underneath me to send me crashing to the ground. The gun falls from my hand, clattering across the floor behind me.

I have eyes only for the scene in front of me, the long catch pole, the noose lanyard choking B’s neck, his desperate, feverish thrashes. He’s panting for breath already.

"Stop," I shout, half sobbing. "B. Don't. Don't."

At the sound of my voice, B freezes in place.

It’s enough. The men yank back on the pole, sending him crashing into the ground.

The man behind me presses me down, pinned under his weight.

“Shhh, there’s a good girl", the stranger breathes in my ear, wrenching my arms back and fixating them with zip ties, while hissing obscenities into my hair.

Good girl.

I have betrayed B. I have betrayed myself, giving up this fight.

The man's hands are wandering over my ass. I don't care. All I care about is the man folded over on the other side of the back door, the man whom I promised to get him to safety.

My eyes are burning with tears.

I swallow back a sob.

"Don't hurt him," I whisper. "Please. Fuck me however you want to, I'll let you, but please, don't hurt him."

“Oh I think we’ll do whatever we please, sweetheart.” He murmurs, hand still firm on my ass. “We’ll take good care of your dog. Better than you have. Get it back on its feet and it’s gonna earn us a fortune in the dog fights.”

Better than you have. I can't breathe. He's right. I've almost let him die of this fever, keeping him on the run, always on his ties, never allowing us to rest.

The man who’s sat in the booth with me has stepped in outside, kneeling on B’s back.

I watch with tears in my eyes, as he pulls out a collar.

I didn't have a choice, I tell myself. I had to.

I’ve failed him, nonetheless.

I’ve failed us both.

---------

-

Tag list (this is a very old one; lmk if you want to be added or removed!): @distinctlywhumpthing @whumping-on-the-ridge @queenofthenoobs @ocean-blue-whump

#b the guard dog #failed escape #whump #dany #noncon mention #sick whumpee #multiple whumpers #abduction #whumpee x caretaker #bany #listen I love them

[whump-n-comfort]

build-a-whumpee: final summary

man, a week sure flies by fast. i was checking the results of the build-a-whumpee experiment yesterday to see how it was doing and realized "oh shit! this ends tomorrow!"

and now that tomorrow is here! so without further ado, the Ideal Kidnapping Scenario Based On The Results Of My Silly Little Poll Game Issss *drum roll intensifies*

More than one whumper gets together to set whumpee as their target for their latest scheme, and after careful consideration, no other person is picked; just whumpee is good enough. Whumpee is all alone when the whumpers attack, and they are terrified out of their mind. Still, they do their best to get away, but unfortunately, their best is not enough. They are brought down swiftly, whether through drugs or some kind of injury, which incapacitates them enough to prevent further escape attempts. Their time in captivity is a nightmare, as their whumpers continuously mess with them and refuse to let them forget their situation and how it may never end. But not all is lost, as their faithful friends and family learn very quickly that something is up with whumpee and that they need help. With absolutely zero hesitation, the group bands together to bust whumpee out and pay sweet revenge to those who thought it was okay to hurt their friend. The state they find whumpee in is horrible, so much so that whumpee is completely unresponsive as they get them out of there and back to a safe location. Recovery is a bumpy road, and it's obvious the whumpee will never forget about their experience, but with lots of comfort and care courtesy of their loved ones, they will one day laugh and smile somewhat similar to how they used to, which is good enough for them.

So there you have it, the collective winning choices from all 12 polls. Of course, if only some of it or even none of it is your jam, that is perfectly okay! There are many different ways to enjoy the trope, and even some of the choices I voted for didn't end up winning. The whump community is a vast place with lots of imagination after all >;)

And honestly, I wouldn't mind doing this again in the future with other tropes like illness or torture. As this week went on, I realized there was a lot more I could have added to make this more specific (questions like "did whumper(s) do the kidnapping or did they hire someone else," "why did whumper(s) target whumpee to begin with," and in general realized that I left some answers a little vaguer than I meant to), so if I were to do a repeat of this, I have a more solid idea on how to do it and make it even better :D

Regardless, thank you so much for participating. I hope it was as fun for you as it was for me <3

Tag requests under the cut for those who wanted to be tagged :)

@whimpity-whumpity @birdfossil @just-ten-cents @plupluplu @heartsherps @justwhumpythings

#whump #whump trope #kidnapping #drugged #injury #protectiveness #rescue #build-a-whumpee #sorry this took a second to type the dyl4n b h0llis cookbook just came and my mom and i were looking it over LOL #~my stuff~

[bilightningwriter-writing]

Watching Criminal Minds while I write my whump fics because apparently that's how I can get into the mindset and motivation to write them, lol.

Just the prologues for two of them right now. The Little Mermaid and Red Riding Hood ones for "The New Eden Intsitution" (the Dystopia Whump Omegaverse Soulmates LBGT+ Fairytales Collection, for those that saw the OG Intro post before I edited it) will be on Ao3 hopefully soon and not too long after each other, as I'm sort of writing them simultaneously.

All the fics for this are in the same universe and, if not happening at the same time, happening close together.

#female whumpee #caretaker x whumpee #intimate whumper #whump community #archive of our own #ao3 writer #queer writers #writers on tumblr #autism writing #ao3 #autistic writer #creative writing #diversity in writing #gay writing #lgbt writers #lgbtq writers #writer community #writblr #writeblr community #writeblr #whumpblr #whump writing #writerscommunity #writer things #writerblr #writers of tumblr #a/b/o verse #omegaverse #alpha beta omega dynamics #lady whump

[inky-the-artist]

cw: post-possession whump, character conflict, dialogue, threats

"C, I didn't mean-- I wasn't myself, please, just hear me out," A urged, but C turned to them with a stone cold stare.

"stop talking to me before I jam this through your throat," C stood up, taking a step towards A while holding up the tool they were currently working with, aiming it closely at A's chin.

"there won't be none of that unless you go through me, first," B lightly pushed C back and stood between the two, spreading their arms in a protective manner.

"well, I'll be damned," C scoffed, "that's a nice two-for-one."

#the DRAMA #C hates B obvi #whumpee turned whumper #whumper turned whumpee #former whumper #possession whump #whump dialogue #dialogue prompt #writebl #whump blog #inky's occasional writing #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #caretaker x whumpee #whumpee x caretaker #bitter whumpee #revenge whump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I’m late to the party but “I’ll take care of you” for the five sentence fic?

(B/Daniel belongs to @hackles-up - Scott and Connor Manning are mine.)

CW: Death threats, whumper trying to be a better person but being shit at it, recovering whumpees

"I don't like the way you look at me, lately." Connor waves the chef's knife in his hand lazily, and Scott's eyes track it, his heart beating a little faster as he kneads the dough, punching and then rolling and stretching, over and over again. "Like you're going to put arsenic in my soup."

Scott forces himself to take a deep breath, and looks down. Kneel, his instincts scream. Tell him to have your mouth, or you. Make him happy.

Romantics are only safe if someone's fucking them.

He fights it off with every ounce of strength he has. He keeps working the dough, reminding himself that there are other things his hands can do, now. "I don't even know what arsenic is."

"It's like poison powder. My Aunt Anne used to watch this movie-... That isn't the point. The point is that I don't like it. I feed you, I get you clothes, I take you into town sometimes. You know? I hide you from Ferrick when he visits-"

Scott feels a chill down his spine and closes his eyes against the memory of John Ferrick's wandering, cruel hands. He stills, hands buried in the elastic dough.

"Like, I do whatever you and my sweetness need me to do," Connor continues, seemingly oblivious. "And still you look at me like I have three heads and four sets of fangs."

"He deserves better than you." Scott can't help it - the words come out on their own. He takes in a breath but despite the panic inside him, his mouth won't stop moving. "You're a handler."

"I was a-"

"You're still a handler. You don't get to just shrug off everything you-... you did to us because you feel bad about it now. If I thought Daniel-"

"B-"

"Daniel wouldn't be angry with me, I'd k-kill you right here and n-n-now-" He shudders, terrified of himself, of what might happen next.

Connor only stares at him, dark eyes wide, chef's knife aimed squarely at Scott's chest. "What?"

"I'd-... I'd take Daniel." Scott shapes the dough into a rough loaf and drops it into a bread pan, trying to hide his shaking hands. "And leave. Go somewhere."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Away from y-you. You're still... You're still everything terrible that ever happened to us and I hope you choke on a bone one day when Daniel isn't inside and I swear to God, Handler Manning-... Connor, I swear if that happens I'll w-watch you die."

There's another long silence while Scott opens the preheated oven and shoves the bread pan inside, hearing it thunk against the back as it slides along the metal rack. He lets the oven door close with a thump, and turns around to find Connor's knife just touching his breastbone, pricking the cloth of his shirt.

"I'm taking care of my baby," Connor says, voice low. His eyes are darker than ever. "You get that? I got him out of there, I gave him a place to stay, I gave him the barn cats, I gave him you-"

"I don't want to be given to anyone anymore!" Scott is pushed backwards by Connor's weight. Their hips push together, a feathery pleasure twisted sick in the base of his pelvis. The oven digs against the small of his back, heat rising up his shirt, tickling the nape of his neck. "Don't-"

"Why not? You just said you would." Connor hums. Outside, B is singing to himself as he works on the yard. Scott could cry out. That's all. Just one yell...

"Listen to me," Connor whispers. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'll take care of you, because my sweetness wants me to. But if you take him away from me... Before he's ready-"

Scott sees the twist of pain and guilt that Connor shudders with before he shoves it away.

"-if you take my baby... I'll find you. And I'll take care of you a different way. All it takes, Scott, is one little scan of that barcode. So stop looking at me like that, and enjoy your fucking life out here. All I want is to be here with my baby. Just my fucking luck he loves you, too."

Connor turns and stalks out of the room, the knife dropping with a clatter onto the counter as he goes. The door opens and shuts. Connor calls out a greeting to B, who shyly returns it.

Scott closes his eyes.

They're kissing.

He knows it.

He sinks slowly down to seated on the old tile floor, his back against the oven, hands pressing slowly over his mouth.

He hates it here.

But he can't leave Daniel, and Daniel won't leave Connor Manning.

#whump #connor manning just wants to be friends #scott the romantic #oh b #pet whump #box boy universe #bbu #box boy #intimate whumper #recovering whumpee #connor being a jackass #defiant whumpee

[tinywhumper]

tiny’s first whump

h-hello, pls have my very much nothing really happens but kinda something still happens whump drabble??

thanks to @a-crumb-of-whump for encouragement! imma try to tw/cw this properly but gimme a shout if i need to add something ^^ tw/cw: whumped caretaker, whumpee edges into whumper territory, idk what it’d be called but like … irritating an existing wound? by like poking it? and stuff? lmk if there’s an official term or something! whumper watches them through camera

—

whumpee is just so tired. they can’t hardly keep their eyes open, but they need to keep awake, alert for signs of whumper returning. it’s cold in the room, the cement hard beneath them and grime digs into the bonnie’s of their knees, shins, ankles, the sore, thin-skinned tops of their feet. a half shudder shakes through them, oddly making saliva pool in their mouth. and then caretaker groans from their place in whumpee’s lap. whumpee blinks down at them, one hand already going to caress their temple and cheekbone. they wish they could whisper some sort of comfort but petting back caretaker’s hair is draining what little energy and focus they have. they need to save some to keep watch.

their breath is heavy in their chest with a gravitational pull that threatens to make their sternum, heart, lungs, ribs, everything cave in. caretaker looks torn in their sleep. a line between their brow and the downturn of their lips display their discomfort even in rest. whumpee’s lips tremble and that vast, yawning thing within them threatens to swallow them hole. staring down at the obscene swelling of caretaker’s dislocated shoulder is like staring over into an underwater trench: terrifying and beautiful in a dark, enthralling way, calling them to fall over the edge and into the unknown and nothing.

whumpee’s hand, shaking, trails over the blue, purple, black without thinking. despite the flinch of caretaker in their sleep, the jumping of their skin, whumpee lets their aching fingers press into the mottled bruise. the swollen, tender flesh gives as blood and other subdermal fluid moves as whumpee presses, pokes, pinches, exploring the thing in front of them like a toddler presented with something new.

it isn’t until caretaker cries out in their sleep that whumpee notices what they are doing, that caretaker is crying. tears run down caretaker’s face, slipping into their hairline, running into the hollows of their ears and starting to soak into the feeble excuse for a pillow that whumper gave them. with a flinch whumpee jerks their hand from caretaker’s shoulder, fingertips burning and bile roiling in their stomach. they were hurting caretaker, they hurt them. they clutch their hands to their chest, the urge to utterly tremble crossing their mind, yet they don’t, they remain frozen as they stare down at caretaker. acrid guilt pools in the back of their throat, the taste of shame. whumpee presses a hand to their mouth to quell the sudden panting breathlessness that hits them, making them whimper.

caretaker squirms in their lap like they were still trying to escape whumpee’s painful prodding and exploration. whumpee hesitates to bring a hand to caretaker’s temple and hair again to soothe them back into a deeper rest. only when caretaker settles does that tempting trembling take its course.

whumpee stares at caretaker’s face, searching for any sign to anything but sleep. they nibble at their fingertips as their panicked breathing, having run its course, starts to ears. what in the world had they been doing? why had they done that to caretaker? what possessed them? why were they fascinated by what they did, drawing that pain, feeling that plush give of flesh, why did they want to do it again?

whumpee glances around the dingy room again and listens, listens for any sign of whumper as they try to gather themselves. when they find nothing, hear nothing and their breath no longer hitches, hiccups in their chest whumpee’s gaze turns back to caretaker.

in their lap, curled mostly on their side, face upwards, caretaker seems so small. whumper knew how to break down even the stronger ones, and my gosh, caretaker is so strong— they held on for so long, until their body gave out. until surely some part of them had to acknowledge how out of place they were for trying to help whumpee beyond whumper’s strict commands. that they should stay their role, do only as whumper says and allows.

whumpee is unaware of the frown on their lips nor the way their eyes narrow as they look down upon caretaker. they don’t feel the pinch of their brow as itfurrows in some unfamiliar and overwhelming rush of anger.

slowly, as though caretaker would wake upon the slightest move, whumpee lowers their hand. they hover over caretaker’s shoulder, nails brushing featherlight, for several dreadful seconds as their heartbeat rises into their throat, ears, eyes, thudding harder and harder with every next beat. they squeeze down. it’s gentle at first, of course, then a little more and a little more. careful, measured increments of pressure and then starting to bear their weight down, torn fingernails cutting in. the more they bear down the more that floaty, absent sensation of before drifts in. they can’t feel anything, thinks anything as they dig their fingers and nails into caretaker’s shoulder with one hand and then both in a cruel mockery of a massage. they watch as caretaker’s chest heaves and they twist - still sleeping - away from the pain. whumpee follows them. they even go so far as to use one hand to pin them in place, hold them right where they want them.

whumpee isn’t sure how long they abuse caretaker’s shoulder. but they do know that when they are done, they feels less tired than they did before. sleepiness does still drag at their eyelids and dirt still digs into their legs as they resume watch for whumper.

—

whumper leans back in their chair, thumb stroking over their chin as a slow smile furls up the corners of their lips. the monitor in front of them flickers gently as the frames load in the live feed of their basement. it’s a little difficult to make out, but there is definitely something of a smile on whumpee’s face, something more relaxed about them after that pretty, petty show. this was unexpected, yes, but not detestable, no. no, whumper decided, there was no need to correct that behavior. it could bloom quite beautifully.

#whump scenario #whump writing #whumpee turned whumper #whumped caretaker #my writing #baby’s first whump #sorry #enjoy? #thanks for reading #twiddles thumbs and crawls back into blanket fort #pls be gentle with corrections ;w;b

[scratchandplaster]

Stack The Deck - PART 11

CW: obsessive thoughts, drug mention

Intermezzo ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 12

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Yaletown Park looked more like a rocky desert than anything adjacent to the open hangout it was sold as, especially in the hollow glow of the streetlights. Caught between high-risers and vacant retail space, the few square meters of cobble only offered some trash or needles to pluck from the ground. If the grass patches shooting out here and there were ever kept trim in the first place remained a mystery.

Behind a strategically chosen planter sat a reserved man, smoking the second pack of the day and stewing in his jaded mood, still waiting for whoever wanted to stop by. All this was normal for Morris by now.

The evening had started promising, with frat boys strolling along the sidewalk and a few girls in tow; a view that was starting to become more and more frequent. He smiled joylessly, remembering how he met Amber on a night like this.

More than a year must've passed since then, he figured, trying to cling onto thoughts that wouldn't shock him with memories of someone he didn't have to think about anymore. At least when he was chased around enough.

"You're gonna sit there until I tell you otherwise!"

Goddamn. Not that it was easy for Belanger either, patrolling the streets to prospect the usual scum. No regret laid in avoiding each other, but since Morris was dependent on any signal to engage with the more casual clientele, he was stuck in place. 

That's what I get for my not so tight scheduling. 

As a fixer caught at the bottom of the food chain, and honest to god no agency or willingness to change his position, it was better to keep his mouth shut and head down. But with skin still in the game, did he have another option? For all he cared, they could make him do their laundry and scrub all crack houses of the state squeaky-clean. Anything else than ending up in Dutch's office with that thing-  

Another thought he quickly shoved aside, another problem to ignore till it blew up.

Except a lone hobo who threw up way too close to his shoes, nothing ripped Morris out of the daydreaming that kept his last sliver of sanity alive. The risk of being arrested on the spot or stabbed to death by someone who needed cash even more than him aside, the prize of it all was just...surviving.

"One day you wake up, and your whole life is spent in what?" Amber's life lesson was now sober reality, spot-on to the last detail.

Hearing her voice again used to pierce through his gut and leave him wrecked with self-hatred, although these feelings had died down in the time they spent apart. Not that he didn't try to distract himself from the distraction, oh no, he had several chances to drown out boiling memories of past love during the spring months, but this year it was different. Nobody was waiting at home. Morris couldn't let go, not this time, not since her...since him-

If Belanger didn't call right now, he would find a good use for all those narcotics in his pocket.

A break from it all, that's what he needed to work himself to the bone for. 

Wrapping his leather jacket closer around his body, Morris wished to disappear into it completely. Even the colorful August couldn't hide that it had gotten colder in the last days of an already far too chilly summer. 

Without any warning, his peaceful solitude was interrupted again. 

A figure stumbled blindly along the sidewalk. Morris' gaze followed them closely, how disoriented feet pushed each other forward and finally letting them flop down onto a bench near the park's exit.

Drunk or high, certainly. Care for another round? 10 bucks for a flat of fentanyl - dark green, quite popular at the moment. 

Still, Belanger didn't give him the go-ahead yet. Maybe he should make today's slow business hum: be proactive, independent. Write it on a resume, why not.

His stiff knee gave an audible crack as it was forced to stand straight, lazily stretching the sore muscles in his back and taking the first few steps towards his potential customer, Morris started to become flustered. 

Could be a setup, for all he knew. Something was off. 

The soon-to-be buyer was wrapped up in shadows, sitting quietly by themself and only rarely mumbling at the stones below their feet.

He approached until their shoes nearly touched, time to play offense: "You good?"

Nothing. Awkward, he wasn't used to making the first move like this.

Shoving at the motionless shoulders only made their head flop forward, and a forced sigh quickly followed it. First week on campus, probably, lost their friends and self-control only to aimlessly walk around the neighborhood.

"You definitely had enough fun for today, buddy," Morris scoffed, ready to turn around. 

Suddenly, he faltered. They had to rethink Belanger's strategy if he ought to stay here, passed-out freshmen were only good for catching unwanted attention and as long as Dutch didn't want to see his ass in jail, any cops on patrol should be avoided. Not that they lost sleep about the mass of catatonic bodies scattered throughout the city streets, just when they were seen in the wrong parts of town - the pleasant ones.

"Move," so he demanded, quickly lifting up their chin, nestled against the stiff collar of their windbreaker, with his fist. "You're gonna get me in trouble."

The hot breath against Morris' hand sent shivers up his spine. After nights like these, he felt mostly frozen numb, but the air coming out in labored and shallow puffs let his fingers tingle with newfound life.

Suddenly, the howl of an ambulance cut through the silence. Not for them, of course, it was surely headed east. As it took a turn and rushed past the unusual couple, Morris caught a quick glimpse of his vis-à-vis.

For less than a heartbeat, his body froze.

His mouth began to open and close like a fish on land, unable to produce a single word, whilst the prickle spread from his back through every inch of his body. A wonderful illusion bloomed under the blue-red-blue-red flicker and as quickly as it had reached both, it left them alone in the nightly glow of streetlights.

Morris didn't hear himself gasp, the rush of blood in his ears was too deafening. Now dead focused on the freckle-sprinkled skin, tousled dark hair and soft lashes, an inward pull kept him from blinking: the fear that he would be ripped out of his trance.

No dream, no wishful thinking. Morris would recognize this face anywhere.

"Elliot?"

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

#stack the deck #christoph morris oc #elliot ribera oc #they are b-b-b-back #only took me 8 months whoops #happy halloween #nothing is scarier than meeting your whumper while plastered #whump series #kidnapping #not really but kinda #whump #whumpblr #creative writing #whump community #lima syndrome #drug mention #accidental overdose #disabled whumpee #drug addiction #fentanyl mention #obsessive whumper #recapture #but offscreen

[rosewriteswhump]

Original Masterlist!

Prologue: Fear, numb

Mistake Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

My Art!: 1, 2

Drabbles: I'm Fine 1, I'm Fine 2

Picrews! Marlie and Dawn Marlie2 All of them, Fae,

Worldbuilding 1 Worldbuilding 2

oddly specific oc ask game: 1, 2

device battery ask game: 1

Wheel of whump: Stranded/lost, Cave In, Buried Alive, Whipping,

Own ask game: Crystals 1 Crystals 2

#rose whump #dawn briarwing #leader #fairy caretaker #human whumper #rose writes #fairy #fatansy whump #teammate a #teammate b #nonhuman whumpee

[whereallthewhumpgoes]

Bad Memories

CW: Post-traumatic stress (like, a lot of it), bad caretaker (not like abusive or anything, more like B+ caretaking), implied minor character death, female whumpee, male whumper, male caretaker, whumpee is fidgeting with a gun for most of the drabble because she has issues, mentions of beating, strangulation, and solitary confinement

Whumpee sat at the dinner table, idly tapping her fork against the edge of her half-empty plate. The conversation swirled around her, individual words mashing together and turning into a chaotic blend of noise. She caught “shut up” somewhere in the mix, immediately followed by laughter. Were they laughing with them, or laughing at them? Her hand began to tremble as she looked down into her wine glass, pondering the face she saw in the reflection. Pale and thin, her clumsily cropped hair bleached an ugly blond in an attempt to hide herself from her former captors. 

Whumper had been the worst of them. Even as blurry as her memories were, she could remember that. She remembered him beating her, tearing her back to ribbons for no particular reason other than boredom and sadism. She remembered him telling her to be quiet, and then making her be quiet when she wouldn’t do what he told her to, choking the life out of her. She remembered being left for hours in a cold, dark cell, alone, all alone, for what felt like a thousand years, until she was practically begging for some company, any company, even Whumper’s company. The memories drifted through her brain in fragments, cutting into her will, making her hands shake, turning her breath ragged. She bit back a scream as she dropped her fork and it clattered to the floor.

“I need to go.”

She bundled her cloak around her and ran out into the garden. She could feel the eyes of the partygoers following her as she left. She could only pray that they wouldn’t worry, that Caretaker would be able to get them all settled and back to their silly gossip. She’d caused a situation. She hated to cause situations. Back when she’d been Whumper’s prisoner, causing situations meant getting into trouble, and getting into trouble meant suffering. But she wasn’t with him now. Caretaker wouldn’t do that to her, he didn’t have the capacity for that, she reminded herself. Except that he did. She’d seen what he’d done to the people who’d imprisoned her when he broke her out. So much blood. So much screaming. He’d told her not to look, but she’d looked anyway, and look where that had gotten her, drowning in her own memories.

 She sat down on the edge of the fountain and took out her small, rust-covered six-shooter. A gift, she remembered, this had been a gift, but from who? It didn’t matter. She began to fidget with it, twirling it around her finger as she loaded and unloaded it over and over, disassembling and reassembling it again and again. As she slid the cartridge back into place, she turned around to see Caretaker sitting right beside her.

“Jesus, Caretaker, warn me next time you’re going to pop up out of thin air,” she squeaked.

“You usually spot me a lot sooner than that. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just…bad memories.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

She wanted to scream and snap that no, no he did not ‘get that’. He hadn’t been trapped for days and days with nothing to eat, no room to even breathe in that horrible, cramped dungeon. He hadn’t been tormented day and night by madmen whose motivations he couldn’t understand, would never be able to understand. He wasn’t living in fear of being dragged back to that place again, too scared to sleep, too scared to even think properly. He had no idea what her world looked like right now. But she didn’t say that. He was trying to help, he really was. He just didn’t understand this the way she understood it. He probably never would. And maybe that was alright. 

She ran a hand through her hair, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her wandering mind. “I…it’s not the way you think it is. It’s like…you know how I usually can’t remember my time with Whumper very well?”

“Yeah. I know that.”

“Well, it’s like all the blurry memories just went into hi-def. And I have no idea what caused it, but it’s messing me up.” She spun the pistol around her finger again, briefly checking to make sure it was unloaded first. “I’m trying to focus on the garden and the gun and nothing else, but it’s not…it’s not easy.”

Caretaker sighed as he hoisted his ukelele onto his knee. “I don’t know if it’s ever gonna be easy. I mean, I hope it is one day, but the shit you went through…it makes me sick to think about. And I’ve seen some shit in my day, but that…” He shook his head, tipping his feather-filled hat back into place when it began to slip off of his head. “I am not very good at this.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughed, and she laughed with him. 

“I’m sorry. I promise, I’m doing my best.”

“You know what you could do to help right now?” she stated.

“Yeah?”

“Play me something on that thing,” she said, gesturing to the ukelele. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do, but maybe it’ll drown out some of the noise in my head. Help keep me grounded, you know?”

“Alright.”

He beamed and began to play, his music drifting through the garden, up over the peach trees and through the rose bushes, filling everything with light and life. She leaned back and breathed it in, holding out her arms as if to embrace the song, drinking it in like water. She breathed a gentle sigh of relief as she wrapped her arms around herself, smiling as she stood up and began to sway to the rhythm. The fabric of her pinstripe pants drifted along the ground as she danced, trying to be happy to spite everyone who wanted her to suffer. She leaned back against an oak as the song came to an end, feeling strangely safe despite everything. 

“You feeling any better?” Caretaker asked.

“Not great, but not terrible,” she replied, popping her aching back. “Let’s go back inside.”

#female whumpee #minor character death #cw gun mention #whump #whump writing #whump drabble #i might turn this into a series later #who knows? #b+ caretaker