#man handling

[wildfire072]

Man handling 😎

[collapse-and-comfort]

Hi!! I'm writing a SickFic where the whumpee has a super high fever and feels like they're freezing. Could you help me out with a couple including a small group of friends please??

🌡🌡Oh, goodness! I LOVE fevers! Here you go! Happy writing! 🌡🌡

-”I’m cold,” Whumpee says as they pull their blankets closer. Their friend puts the back of their hand on Whumpee’s forehead, then, after moving the covers, moves to feel their throat. Whumpee leans into the touch; the warmth of it gives them the smallest bit of relief. Their friend frowns deeply as they feel the heat rolling off their friend’s body.

-Whumpee’s friends monitor their temperature. Under the tongue? They must help Whumpee keep the thermometer still. They keep a hand on Whumpee cheek as they watch the number go up and up. Axillary? Whumpee’s friends move their arm and hold it in place as they await the reading. It’s disheartening when they have to add a degree. Do they use an infrared thermometer? It reads Whumpee’s temperature quickly, but Whumpee winces at the sound the instrument makes so close to their ear. Either way, the higher Whumpee’s temperature climbs, the more they shake.

-The shivering makes it that much more difficult for Whumpee’s friends to give them medicine, or something to drink. They can’t afford to think too much about Whumpee’s degree of comfort with being this vulnerable. One friend lets Whumpee rest against their chest as another puts a cup of something up to their mouth. When Whumpee tries to take the cup in trembling hands, their friends encourage them to let them help. Despite their best efforts, some of the drink spills over Whumpee’s lips and chest. Whumpee’s friends tell them it’s okay as they wipe away the mess. They pat and rub Whumpee’s back if they cough and sputter.

-If Whumpee is wounded, the chills and shaking add a whole new layer of agony. Their friends are mindful of this when they touch Whumpee. Occasionally, they have to guide Whumpee’s hands away from the injuries to keep them from doing more harm to themselves, all while hushing them and exchanging worried glances.

-Whumpee’s fever spikes higher and their friends know they need to get their temperature down. They lead Whumpee to the bathroom and whumpee screws their eyes shut when the light makes their head pound even worse. They try to stop their friends from stripping them out of their clothes, but they’re too weak. All they can do is tremble and wonder why the people they trust are doing this to them. They’re freezing! Whumpee gasps and panics when their friends force them down into the water. They can’t fill their lungs as they plead and struggle. Their fight is short-lived, though, and they slump in the water, panting and crying. Their friends’ attempts at soothing them are lost on Whumpee.

-As Whumpee sits in the tub, their teeth chatter. They’re delirious. They call out their friends’ names. Some are quick to assure whumpee that they’re right there with them. Another, as they hold their friend down in the cool water feel guilt for not only what they’re doing, but for things they’ve done in the past that they still wonder if Whumpee has forgiven them for. That friend meets Whumpee’s glassy, desperate gaze and tells them how sorry they are.

-If a hospital is an option, several of Whumpee’s friends decide to take them. They bundle Whumpee into a vehicle, blankets and all. One friend drives and the other holds Whumpee close, even while they wait for Whumpee to be seen in the hospital. When Whumpee is taken from them, they feel a rush of cool air where Whumpee had been nestled.

[whumpacabra]

The Making of a Black Knight

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Chapter 2: Loyalty

Tag List: N/A

The knight was too cold to move, curled in on himself as he shivered in the corner of the cell, the metal of his bindings biting into his skin. Hunger coiled tighter and tighter in his stomach, the filling feast a distant memory as time passed.

His memories continued to slip away into the ether, so he cherished them while he still could. The smell of his mother’s perfume soon turned to the scent of the dusty dungeon. The melody of his father’s lullaby silenced and smothered by the magic. A woman’s warm smile and bright eyes, alight with magic and mischief, rendered to a faint afterimage that quickly faded.

Between the cold and hunger and his own rapidly withering memory, he was almost grateful for Ælfwig’s return.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” The sorcerer asked, producing an apple from his robes. It crunched between his teeth, the knight fighting to keep his composure.

“I will not serve you,” He managed between chattering teeth, the fire in his eyes only matched by the ice invading his bones.

“Why not? Surely you would rather a bed, beside a roaring hearth, with plates of salmon and honey at your beck and call.” Ælfwig asked, magic shivering around him as he stepped through the bars and into the knight’s cell.

“I…I have my honor,”

“Honor to an ungrateful Lord?”

“Honor to those I cannot remember, to those you took from me,” He hissed, anger fanning the flames within his heart. “I may not remember them, but they remember me. I was – I was loved, I had friends. They will seek me. They will come for me – they will come for you.”

“You believe that?” The sorcerer tutted, shaking his head. “Important to them, perhaps. But they had no use of you. One knight among thousands, easily replaced in the eyes of a cruel King.”

“No, no I…I was useful, I had a purpose I just can’t…can’t remember…”

“Your purpose was to die; your use was to suffer so the King would not have to soil his hands.” Ælfwig knelt to the knight’s level, expression soft. “I saved you, my knight. And I can give you a new purpose.” He held out a fresh apple, smile warm. “I can make you mine.”

The knight threw himself forward as far as his chains would let him. The sorcerer flinched away from the show of aggression, the knight’s teeth bared and eyes full of hatred. The rattle of chains continued as the knight tested his bonds, trying to reach the small man before him.

“I belong to my Ki…I, I belong to no one, especially not you.” The knight snarled, finding a small victory as the sorcerer retreated between the bars of the cell. But it was short lived.

The world shimmered and shifted, the chains loosening then drawn taught as the ground below his aching feet grew solid once more. The knight collapsed as his mind spun, the dizzying magic fading as he took in the new surroundings. The castle’s smith, the coals burning white as the sorcerer slowly inspected several hammers and chisels.

“Tell me, knight. What purpose do cattle have?”

“To…to provide meat,” The knight answered reluctantly, for he feared the consequences of outright ignoring the powerful man before him.

“And sheep?”

“Their wool.”

“And what of knights?” Ælfwig had picked up a tool, magic fire in his hands working the metal into a new shape. The man in chains stayed silent. “Their loyalty, correct? As you remain loyal to a King who shall send no search party nor hold a feast in honor of your memory.”

“Your loyalty means nothing to him. His creatures are unbranded – for every cattle and sheep and knight in his kingdom are his to slaughter and sheer and abandon at will.” The sorcerer continued, approaching the knight with steady footsteps even as the larger man shuffled away as far as his binds and the confines of the small room allowed.

“No, no please don’t…” The knight swallowed back his pleas as Ælfwig grabbed a handful of his hair with surprising strength. He had his honor. He still had his honor.

“Begging already?” The sorcerer chuckled; the red hot brand set down in the hot coals, away from the knight’s face. “Have you reconsidered my offer?” The man swallowed hard as Ælfwig gave his hair a tug.

“No.” He said, though the regret that boiled in his veins sung as the word left his lips. The sorcerer tutted, raising a hand and letting the green glow of his fire dance over his fingers. The fire molded itself into a shape, a rune or series of runes that shimmered like water.

In an instant the sorcerer’s hand was pressed to the knight’s left cheek, the fire burning through flesh and searing skin as the magic pulsed through the man’s body. He screamed and writhed, hot tears slipping from his eyes as he tried to pull away from the man’s unnaturally strong grip.

“Don’t wiggle too much, or I’ll have to do it again.” Ælfwig threatened, though his voice remained level and charismatic as the man he held screamed in agony. 

Finally, the sorcerer stepped away, letting the knight collapse to the ground in tears and sobs as he tentatively touched his burned face. Even without Ælfwig’s hand holding the magic in place, the rune shaped wound throbbed and burned, the traces of magic still lingering and burying itself into the man’s flesh. He hardly noticed the world warp and return him to the dungeon’s cold confines through the agony.

“You should thank me, knight.” He was vaguely aware of the man standing in front of him. “Now all shall know you are not the King’s to claim. Now you are marked as mine.”

“Fuck you,” The knight moaned between the pained cries that wracked his body. He whined as magic slammed into him, compressing his lungs and making breathing difficult, let alone crying.

“Thank me, my knight.” Ælfwig said, voice firm and serious. The knight only whimpered. The world warped, the smell of burned flesh sharp and smothering in the smith’s workshop. “Thank me.” The sorcerer held the knight up by his hair once more, green fire curling into existence in his open palm.

“Thank you,” The knight blurted out, fear and pain overtaking defiance.

“Address me properly, my knight,” Ælfwig insisted, letting the flames curl into runes as they had before.

“Thank you, my – my…Lord,” The knight was released from the sorcerer’s hold, the world warping and the familiar cold, damp air of the dungeon replaced the scent of his own burning flesh.

“You are welcome, my knight.” Ælfwig shimmered, stepping through the bars of the cell. “I may remember to bring you something to eat tonight, provided you have learned your lesson. Have you?”

A keening whimper was his only reply.

“Hm, perhaps not.”

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[seven-oomen]

could you maybe right a stuckony head cannon with Bucky and Steve man handling Tony?♥

Oh, I have many headcanons about Bucky and Steve man handling Tony. 

My favorite is when Tony gets pissed about things and the 40s boys just pick him up, plop him on the couch and get him a blanket and some coffee and snacks. Depending on what Tony needs, they either talk it out in private or they watch a movie/cuddle him/ brush their fingers through his hair, etc.

And of course there is a lot of manhandling during sex, Tony’s the smallest of the three of them, so he gets pushed up against walls, bend over surfaces and picked up at random moments. (All with consent, the second Tony starts protesting or tells them no, they put him down. Unless it’s part of a game that they discussed beforehand. They have safewords for the game.)

Bucky especially just loves to randomly come up behind Tony to lift him up just high enough so he can comfortable kiss Tony on the neck/cheek or lips. Tony’s just sort of hanging in there, feet dangling off the ground. But he doesn’t mind, he thinks its sweet.

Steve, on the other hand, is slightly sadistic and loves to push Tony up against walls, pull his hair and get him riled up just enough. He then leaves Tony hanging and breaks away until Tony can’t take it anymore and practically jumps Steve in an empty hallway. 

[peachlikestowrite]