Tag: strangulation

wrote something small with rival CEOs AU and Jack violently protecting Rhys from a random alpha trying to hurt and assault him. 

Oppressive hands close around Rhys’ throat before he realizes what’s happening.

It should be impossible to take Rhys unawares, not with the upgrades to his ECHOeye and his own, well-conditioned paranoia, but he can’t deny the fingers closing around his throat nor the pain as he draws in one last gasp of air.

But Rhys is a fighter—even the most extraordinary omegas have to be, have to do things twice as well to be considered half as good as any common alpha—and he claws at the broad hands wrapped around his throat, nails digging hard into the skin and flexing tendon and drawing whiffs of blood. He hears gruff swearing behind him as he kicks, raking the heel of his boot down his assailant’s shin.

But his victory is short lived as the fingers around him tighten, and before Rhys can react the world blurs around him and his forehead smashes hard into the wall, steel reverberating around in his skull. The assailant slams his head again and again, pulping his mouth and nose and flooding blood into the back of his constricted throat.

Whoever’s attacking him is a brute, larger and stronger than Rhys is and easily able to get him on the ground now that Rhys is dizzy and stunned and bleeding. A heavy presence looms over him as the hands gratefully move from his throat and allow him to take a rough gasp of air. Before he can call for help, however, a palm slams against the side of his face and crushes his jaw out of place.

Pain lances through his brain and a strangle noise falls from his lips. Numbness rapidly spreads through his jaw but the other parts of his body are painfully aware—especially as his assailant slides his hands down the curve of his sides before settling on his hip.

Blood seeps from between Rhys’ teeth and pools out of his slack lips, his ECHOeye glaring up in glowing hatred but all he can see through the frazzle curtain of his own hair is dark eyes glimmering from behind a black cloth mask. He can’t focus properly, subsystems beyond the reach of his injured consciousness and unable to fish anyone information on the attacker as he starts to grope Rhys’ body.

The reek of dangerous alpha stuffs up Rhys’ nose, struggle renewed when a hand fished beneath the hem of his coat and tries to tug off his belt. His most intimidating snarl comes out little more than an agonized choke as he kicks out above him, trying to catch his attacker in the groin, mutilate him before he even dares to think about defiling the CEO of Atlas like this.  

But the dizziness and pain starts to get to him and nausea bubbles in his stomach, mixing with horror and panic because damn it—it shouldn’t be this easy to get him down, he commands respect and power and no one should be allowed to do this to him and get away with it—

But just as the alpha’s hands pull at his waistband and Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, ready to fall into unconsciousness, the weight and heavy, vile breathing above him rips away with a rough, deep snarl that has Rhys’ heart leaping in his chest. It’s familiar, as is the smell that cuts clear through the suffocating smog of the other alpha’s stench.

Rhys braces his hands on the ground as soon as the other man is ripped off of him, gloved fingers digging into metal flooring as he slowly pushes himself off. Growls and screams swell up behind him but all he can focus on right now is sitting up and moving away.

He drags himself over to the wall—speckled with his own blood—and with no small amount of effort slumps against it. Now, braced upright, he can finally watch as Handsome Jack pins his assailant to the ground.

Rhys has never seen Jack so angry, and Jack isn’t a calm man by any means. But the look on his face right now contorts in fury so fierce Rhys worries his skin might break apart, but the blood splattered on the pale, synthetic flesh of his mask isn’t his own.

Rhys never sees the real face of his assailant before Jack pummels it into wet mush beneath the mask. With one final, wet thwack he lets the man’s head hang back, fabric covering the face glistening. Jack stands hunched above the dead man, hand still fisted in his shirt. He breathes heavily, body shuddering with each twitch of his lungs as he falls back from the state of pure animal rage. Rhys doesn’t think he could say something, even if his jaw hadn’t been popped out of place, but he manages a low whine—more of a gurgle, really—that catches the alpha’s harried attention.

“Rhys.” Jack lets the man fall with a splat against the ground, shoes skating through the puddling blood before he falls to his knees in front of Rhys. A big hand—strong, but filled with warmth and safety—cups his cheek, thumb touching just below the split in Rhys’ lower lip.

“Can’t believe—dared to touch you, frikkin’ son of a taint, wish—should’ve done more, bastard, made it last longer—“ Jack spits out, sentences fractured even through his diminishing rage. Rhys forgets for a moment and forgets his jaw, blood and spit at the corner of his mouth.

Jack’s fingers shake, and anger flares up in the depths of his eyes once more. He hisses under his breath, his other hand coming to stroke Rhys’ hair, clumsily petting it back into place.

“…Let’s get you to medical bay, ‘kay pumpkin?” Jack swallows and speaks after a moment, his own voice hoarse and worn-out. Rhys’ throat works though he doesn’t try to speak again, saving his words for later when he can properly speak them.

He doesn’t complain when Jack picks him up, the broad arms around a thousand lightyears away from those that had pinned him down and pummeled his face moments earlier. He rests his head against Jack’s shoulder, finally allowing himself to slip into a daze as colors and shapes fade around him.

Rhys wakes up in a temporary bed in the medical bay with a nurse swabbing his wounds. A low whimper builds in his throat when he can’t detect Jack beyond the cling of his scent to his skin and clothes, but when he looks down he sees a Hyperion brand nova shield clipped to his lapel.

Even so, as he settles back into his bed, wounds bandaged and jaw wired back into place, he hopes Jack will return to visit him soon.

kaciart:

avariaum – pathetic

After seeing all of Proms more intensive injuries in HD, i def need to revisit that in drawings.

‘This is all rather disappointing.
I expected so much more from you.
I’m sure Noctis did too.
Pathetic’

Kaciart
hes lifting him by his neck

Asidian
Is Ardyn’s knee wedged between his legs here?

Kaciart
yup
Probably feels like Ardyn’s fingers are going to break through the skin of his stomach
skewer him

–

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Oh for the kink bingo Rhack with strangulation and a side dish of tongues :3c

thethespacecoyote:

I couldn’t really find a way to fit in tongues D: but I thought this was an interesting idea so I hope it makes up for it!

“Kitten,” Jack speaks firmly despite the fingers twitching along his throat, “you really need to put some more effort into it.”

“I—I’m trying,” Rhys refutes, shifting awkwardly where he’s seated atop Jack’s hips. He has his hands pressed nervously against his neck, fingers fanned out like a butterfly’s wings towards both sides of his lover’s throat. His thumbs meet just above Jack’s Adam’s apple, the solid bob underneath the digits a reminder of the life he could accidentally snuff out of Jack if he isn’t careful. But the older man seems pretty content with the idea of Rhys playing fast and loose with his life, which makes him even more nervous—especially when Jack grunts, reaches up, and grabs Rhys’ wrists to force his palms harder against his own throat.

“C’mon, I’m not made of glass here, babe. I told you to choke me, and I want you to choke me.” Jack taps the yellow chrome of Rhys’ right forearm. “I’m real curious about what kind of damage you can do with this.”

“I…I don’t exactly want to do any damage,” Rhys sighs, honestly wishing he could just lay back and put up his legs and let Jack do what they normally did until he’s fucked out enough to fall asleep. Or hell, if Jack really wanted to switch things up, Rhys could always just be on top. Or they could just use a couple of toys or handcuffs like a normal couple, experimenting with sex rather than with their lives.

But Jack’s insistent, urging Rhys to press more of his weight against his throat as he tugs his wrists, intentionally jerking him off balance. Rhys’ fingers twitch, cybernetic palm curling, still unwilling to fully bear down on his lover’s weakest point. He feels suspended on the edge of something new, and he’s not so sure he wants to take the next step.

But Jack is smiling at him, his confidence never wavering as he skirts his fingers up Rhys’ flesh forearm, sending a tingle of goosebumps in their wake.  

“Rhys.” Jack winks up at him, his cheeks starting to pink from either arousal or the pressure on his windpipe. “C’mon. You think I’d really let you kill me?”

Rhys breathes out, tension unwinding in his voice as he finally grins back.

“Of course not.”

He stops thinking about what might happen if he squeezes too hard or too long and instead gives way to Jack’s conviction, entrusting the man who’s survived this long with the weight of his own death as he clenches, cybernetic and flesh palm alike moving in tandem like two slabs of a vice—though even with years of working together, the incremental precision of the metal hand still contrasts sharp with the sweating, softer press of his human fingers.

Rhys had never thought of his hands as particularly large—nothing compared to the size of Jack’s own twin monsters—but as he bears down on his boyfriend and tightens his grip he finds Jack’s neck to be small, manageably fit between the circle of his hands as his fingers nearly meet back around in the sweaty nest of hair creeping down Jack’s neck.

The older man inhales, breath fighting against Rhys’ palms, and that bit of resistance goads Rhys to push down harder. His grasp grows tighter as Jack’s grin spreads, his cheeks growing more ruddy as his eyes roll up, stretching popping veins of red against the bulging whites in the same lurid thrill he’s dragging Rhys down in. Something warm and victorious rushes through Rhys’ chest as he rocks his full weight forward, ass nearly lifted off of Jack’s hips as their tented crotches rub together. He pushes harder and harder as he thrusts himself between Jack’s dick and his neck, the bed rocking and creaking with their shifting bodies.  

It’s only his own orgasm that breaks the hold Rhys has on Jack—a cry breaks from his lips and his hands clench tighter briefly before they fall slack, parting to reveal the thick ring of red bruised around the CEO’s throat.

Caught up in bliss as he is, Rhys misses the quick moment after he lets go of Jack’s throat where the breath doesn’t return so readily to Jack’s lips. But by the time the colored dots of bliss fade away from his vision Jack is already coughing his way back into consciousness, his crazed smile fallen to a dizzy, almost drunken little grin as he looks up at Rhys with watery eyes.

The younger man pants on all fours above his lover, his cum warm and heavy in his boxers, hands now planted shakily against the sheets, as if shocked at what they had done. Jack raises his head despite his bruised neck and brushes his lips against Rhys’, drawing the young man out of his post-coital fugue with a reassuring kiss.

“Told ya,” he croaks as Rhys catches his face in both hands, fingers grazing in worry over the fading blush in his cheeks.

“It’ll take more than that to kill me.”