dragonfireridge

[dragonfireridge]

“Let me get this straight about you Earthlings. You cannot drink water from the most abundant source on your planet because it is 3% salt, yet you can easily process various poisons like capsaicin, caffeine, and menthol, with no harm and even some benefits?” “The human body is weird, man.”

[dragonfireridge]

Visiting a childhood friend...

[dragonfireridge]

I bet octopuses think bones are horrific. I bet all their cosmic horror stories involve rigid-limbs and hinged joints.

[dragonfireridge]

You know what the best underutilized trope is, is when a a gruff female caretaker comes into possession of a fragile male whumpee, and there’s a sense of frustration/unease between the two at not meeting their respective traditional roles, but they slowly begin to understand each other and read the others’ mannerisms to better help heal whatever demons they have because they’ve come to care for one another so damn much, I think that’s just swell.

content: apocalypse, comfort

“What are you looking at?” Caretaker snapped, way too used to men gawking at her buzzed head and many piercings. “Got a problem?”

“No!” Whumpee said hurriedly, putting both hands in front of himself defensively. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare!”

“Well then look somewhere else, will you?”

She turned back to her lunch, still pissed that the group voted to take this guy in — in the middle of the fucking apocalypse. They needed everyone to pull their weight. There was no time for stragglers. And they didn’t even really check if the fucker was infected! They should’ve done a strip search, but no, of course not, that would mean stomping on his human dignity of whatever. There were lives at stake!

And now he was staring. “For fuck’s sake!” she groaned. “What is it? What? What do you want?”

Whumpee curled up a bit more, pulling his borrowed coat tighter around himself. “I just… I was just wondering… Y-You seem really strong, and, and like you know what’s going on, and like you’re on top of things… I just— I just wanted to ask if I could stick by you?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” she said immediately. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

Whumpee nodded and averted his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m sorry.”

A week later, Caretaker was used to pulling Whumpee out of the deepest of troubles, and always having him basically hanging off her arm. He stopped thanking her after about the third time she snapped at him not to — she didn’t want any acknowledgement of what she was doing.

In two weeks, when Whumpee went down with a pretty serious cold — because of course he did, the weak little shit — Caretaker was the one feeding him the canned soup previously warmed by the fire. She stubbornly refused to look him in the eye as she did so.

“Caretaker?” he whispered one night when she was almost asleep. Their sleeping bags were next to each other, and Caretaker turned over to look at him.

“What?”

“Do you think we’re gonna make it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think… we’ll get to live normally again? At some point? At least… somewhat normally. Or are we just gonna run around for a few more months before getting infected and—”

“We’re gonna make it,” she cut in. She could hear the barely held back tears in his voice, and it was so annoying, the way he couldn’t keep himself together for a single second. She couldn’t bear to listen.

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’ll find a place without infection and settle down. Once we get to growing our own food and digging a few wells, we’re basically set.”

Whumpee sniffled. “That’ll be nice.”

“Yeah. Go to sleep, now.”

Whumpee curled up in his sleeping bag. “Alright. Good night, Caretaker. Thank you.”

“Good night, Whumpee.”

[dragonfireridge]

Hey, also, all the anarchist shit aside, tomorrow I want you to make something.

I forced myself to draw something after the 2016 election. I forced myself to draw something when my mother died in 2018. I forced myself to draw something when my spouse was hospitalized for multiple organ failure in 2021.

When you are miserable, make something. Add a row to your project, bake a box cake, draw on a sheet of lined paper, write a poem on a napkin, fold an origami shirt out of a dollar bill, make your favorite recipe for dinner, but make something with your hands, something that you can hold and look at engage your senses in.

It won't fix the world, but it will change the world. You will have made something that didn't exist before. You will have impacted your reality, even in a very small way. And it is going to be something you made *after.* Something bad happened, something shook you, and you made something after, in spite of it.

[dragonfireridge]

Oh he down bad

She wanted her blood pouch

[dragonfireridge]

you speak as if from a distant dream.

[dragonfireridge]

[dragonfireridge]

Home alone

Prev chapter: Taken- pt 1 here

-

“I know you’re awake,” Roman’s voice sounded, too close. “Why don’t you open your eyes.”

Dani shifted under the covers, nestled further in and mumbled: “Because I’d have to see things I don’t like.” It was too early to see Roman’s fucking face first thing in the morning.

Roman hummed in understanding. “Like this knife,” he said after a beat.

She didn’t move yet but her eyes shot open.

A chuckle followed. His hands were empty. Fingers laced, resting on his stomach, legs crossed, sitting in her chair at the end of her bed, crumpling up her jeans. He opened his hands, fingers still laced turning his palms up, showing he wasn’t hiding anything.

Dani groaned and rolled onto her back. Yeah, she sure was awake now.

“I brought you breakfast,” he said, noticing her side-eye towards the plate spying what he’d brought her. “I’m going to leave in a bit. Out for some business. I’ll get some groceries on the way back, anything you want?”

Yeah, a gun, but she didn’t say as much. “Chocolate,” she said instead, voice still hoarse with sleep, just to say anything really though she did crave it. And to her surprise he nodded when he got up from the chair. She’d figured she’d have to earn such things.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said in a playful tone and closed the door behind him. The key rattled against the lock, the doorknob twisted as he tested to make sure she was locked in, and his footsteps retreated down the stairs.

Dani waited under the covers until she heard the front door slam shut in a somewhat more distant part of the house, then she threw the covers aside and sat up.

She shot into her jeans, pulled on a t-shirt over her tank top and put her hair up into a neater, less bed-heady high pony tail.

And as she did, she pulled a bobby pin from her hair.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she repeated sarcastically and sat cross-legged in front of the door.

The bobby pin alone had been useless for lockpicking, she’d already found out. Days of prodding and tickling the lock with nothing to show for it. But with the combined forces of the large paperclip she had stolen from Roman’s desk – she pulled it free from the loop of the bobby pin, both hiding in her thick hair –  now there was a winning combo.

It had surprised her, actually, the first time she tried it and the lock sprang open. She’d done a small victory lap around the house, but hadn’t dared to try his office yet. She needed a plan first.

She had been waiting for Roman to leave her alone for a day and now she finally had her chance.

As she worked she nibbled on the toast he’d brought her. With the literal electric device around her ankle, she didn’t really have any hopes of getting out of the house yet, but still... If there was going to be an opportunity, say, she found the remote for the blasted thing, she’d be out of here in no time. And judging by the view from the library, she would have a long forest trek ahead of her, civilization miles away.

The lock clicked and she almost literally inhaled the last piece of bread dangling between her teeth, sucking it into her mouth, chewing vigorously as she pushed the door open in triumph.

She sprang to her feet, out the door, leaned over the banister to look down into the main hall to make sure Roman wasn’t glaring up at her, silently ordering her to go back into her room. But the house was silent. And she had it all to herself. She dipped back into the room for a minute, munching down the rest of her breakfast, quickly washing it down with the orange juice he brought.

Back on the landing she had a range of options.

Oh, how she wanted to comb through the file cabinet in the library. Or see if his computer was protected as well as this house.

But first things first. An opportunity like this may not come again and getting out had more priority than sketchy information. If Roman kept the stupid remote in his pocket at all times, she was pretty screwed. Maybe she could cut the ankle band with a bolt cutter or look for a saw somewhere if push came to shove, but looking for the remote came with the option of rummaging through his office. Who knew what else she could find. Or maybe call for help. If there was nothing, she could always go for the library again.

The door to Roman’s office clicked open just as easily as her own door.

Everything on his desk was neatly tidied up. No files strewn around for him to get back to later, all papers and notebooks meticulously put away. He’d probably turned it into a habit now that she was often allowed to stroll around in the house, on the off chance the door was open and he wasn’t there. He just kept some books on the one corner, a desk lamp, and some office supplies, with of course a fucking hunting knife as a glorified paper knife. All electronics were turned off, laptop closed, no phone.

Maybe a burner in one of the drawers. And the remote could be hiding in there too. But as she rounded the desk, something moved.

“Well, well, w—”

“Jesus!” Dani all but screamed and literally jumped a few feet back.

The office chair on the other side of the desk slowly spun around. Roman beamed at her, legs crossed, hands in his lap, slowly twirling into view, looking like a fucking B-movie villain.

Dani huffed out an indignant scoff, her heart still in her throat from the unexpected twist.

“Figured you’d come here,” Roman said, pushing his fingertips together, leering at her like she was prey caught in a trap.

She fought the impulse to just bolt. She wouldn’t get far anyway. And the glint of the knife on the desk drew her attention.

“How did you know?” she said after a long exhale to steady her nerves, and she took a step towards the desk.

“Motion sensor camera’s. Your first escapade didn’t go unnoticed. Wanna see?” He opened his laptop, tapped it back to life and turned the monitor towards her, showing a notification of ‘motion detected’ and a still of her sneaking over the landing like a thief in the night. “I knew you’d take the first opportunity to try again. But you couldn’t just leave the house.” He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the little remote. “You’d need this.”

Her expression soured. Of course he kept it on him. Still, kind of him to show her that. And to her, his words couldn’t sound more like an unsaid ‘you’ll get that remote over my dead body’ and she’d gladly oblige.

“Yes, I do.”

She lunged forward. Her hand closed around the handle of the knife, but the brief sense of victory was squashed when his hand immediately clamped around her wrist and pressed it into the wood. She glared up. He smiled back. She pulled at the grip but he only replied by squeezing her wrist harder. And harder. Until she yelped in pain, but she didn’t let go yet. Only when he pulled her wrist up and slammed her fist into the desk, once, twice, the knife slipped from her hand.

“Thank you.” Roman casually took it from her. Twirled it in his hand into a backhanded grip.

The twirl had effect, it caught her full attention and she was sure he was about to drive the blade into her fist. But instead, a hand slithered to her neck, his grip turned bruising, and all of a sudden forced her forward and he slammed her face-down into the desk.

Her head exploded in pain. Her vision went white. And her body went limp.

Muscles turned to strings of goo and she slowly sank to her knees, sliding from the desk to the floor.

Roman let her. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a coil of thin silver wire.

As she was still trying to expel the tiny flashes in her vision, Roman took the opportunity, ripping her hand away from her brow, pressed her wrists together, and he looped the wire several times around her wrists.

She hissed when the razor sharp wire immediately snagged against her skin and her light struggle only made it dig in deeper. A drop of blood already welled up.

“Don’t fight it now, dear. You’d just cut off your own hands.” He tied the end on the whirl of silver in-between her wrists and lightly tugged at it, making sure it held and pulled at it to get her to get up. “Now come along.”

She had no choice but to let him drag her along to the basement.

He deposited her to the floor, right under a pair of chains dangling from the ceiling.

Her stomach churned when she looked up, a foreboding sensation tingling all over her body, freezing her muscles and she didn’t dare even get up.

Lighter metal jingled and Roman advanced on her, a pair of handcuffs in his hand. He cuffed it to the wire around her wrists, pulled her arms up and attached the other end to the chain dangling above her.

Again she hissed, the wire pulling at her skin, tightening around her wrists. She aimed a glare at Roman but he already walked away from her. He stopped near one of the support beams, slowly unrolled the rope looped around the hook there. Dani followed the rope with her eyes, over the ceiling beams, tied to a metal bolt, linking it with those chains right above her—

“No…”

She scrambled to get her feet under her. Just in time as Roman pulled hard at the rope. It yanked mercilessly against the chains, against the cuffs, against her skin and she couldn’t help a cry of pain as it pulled her faster to her feet.

He stopped when she was on tip-toes, struggling to keep balance. Then he firmly grasped the rope, braced himself, looked her straight in the eyes, and gave a final heave.

Her feet left the ground and she kicked out in panic, only making things worse. The wire dug into her skin and she cried out in surprise. “No. No! Let me down!”

“Very well.”

The tips of her toes brushed over the floor again and she breathed a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, he didn’t lower her any further.

She tapped a few tiny steps back and forth. With her arms in the air, though nowhere as graceful, she almost looked like a ballerina. She nearly twirled on the spot and only managed to prevent doing so by pulling hard against the rope. She grit her teeth, lost and let out a whine as her head fell back. It worked though. It hurt, but it worked. She managed to get back into position, maintaining her balance and lessening the strain against her wrists and she stood stock still on tip-toes.

Roman simply watched her strain, nodded in approval and looped the rope back against the hook. It mercilessly kept her up. He walked back towards her, stopped right in front of her.

Helpless, she had to allow him into her bubble. Couldn’t fight or flinch back, couldn’t buck against him to get him to back the fuck off. The only thing she could do was glare at him, but with her trembling like a leaf – and she was sure he could fucking feel it so close as he was – and her face twisted in a grimace, the glare surely looked more like a plea of mercy.

Without a word he reached up, lightly closed his hands around her forearms and slowly stroked down the length of her arms, tenderly, his eyes not leaving hers. His hands came to a rest on her shoulders, gave a small reassuring squeeze, pressed down for a bit just to see her wince, and then he finally stepped back.

He looked at his fingers, hummed, and wiped the streak of blood off on her shirt. His hand dipped down, stroked her hip, and slipped into her pocket. He fished out the bobby pin and paper clip. “I knew I didn’t lose this,” he murmured and put it in his own pocket, backing away towards the stairs.

“Now, then. This time I am going for some groceries. It might take a while.” He stopped near the stairs, hand on the railing, turned towards her with a smile, and again said in an even more patronizing voice: “Don’t go anywhere.”

-

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpy-daydreams

@whumpyourdamnpears @auroragehenna @alsolucakairomi @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumppmuhw

@untethered-symphony @withdrawingramen @theforeverdyingperson @treasureguardingdragon @theorangestofjuices

[dragonfireridge]

What I like seeing is like... pet mages. Pet spell casters. Were they won in a war? Were they someone born with magic that didn't hide themselves from the town guard well enough? Either way, they get brought to whatever nobles or royals to serve all their magic needs, no matter how cruel or annoyingly frivolous.

Being tantalizingly powerful enough to kill their new master- they have magic and the noble presumably DOESNT- but certainly not being strong enough to get away from the guards or out of the grounds without being caught and punished.

Or worse, some kind of magical restraints that prevent them from casting spells whenever they want, only permitting magic to be used when the noble commands it. The magic itching under their skin, clawing to be free and making them sick as it festers in them.

And a step further on that, being forced all day to charge something maybe, a big battery that fuels the power in the castle, or a secret weapon that they've been working on. Getting exhausted day to day.

Perhaps they're used as a training dummy in the army or guard, learning to fight and catch more mages.

Just gosh, being having the power to partially escape, being subjected to that humiliation, or being used and used until the magic is all gone then being disposed of. Very fun.

[dragonfireridge]

Gav’s Tavern Hi, I hope you like this. It is different from what I usually do. Also it was a lot of work.

[dragonfireridge]

Whumper is a fae creature and they decided to curse Whumpee for daring to free their captive human.

The curse makes the victim to feel an intense itching sensation in the skin. This causes the victim to uncontrollably scratch until they break skin. Once the skin splits, a flower blooms in place of the skin. This spreads throughout the whole body until the victim is nothing but flesh beneath a bush of beautiful flora. If the flowers are removed, they grow back, and it is quite painful for the victim. Similar to pulling hair or nails out.

Whumpee tells their friends to tie them up so they can’t scratch while their friends search for a cure. But when Whumpee doesn’t scratch, the flowers force themselves through their skin anyway. One night, it happens in Whumpee’s mouth. They can no longer speak and can barely breathe. They have to communicate with their friends with their eyes, and all their friends can see is pain and terror. Whumpee’s friends desperately search for a cure, Caretaker searching the hardest, barely sleeping or eating.

Another night passes and the friends find Whumpee’s eye on the ground, replaced with bloody flowers in their eye socket. They can hear Whumper trying to sob but barely any sound comes out.

Eventually, Caretaker makes a deal with the fae. They sacrifice the freedom of one of Whumpee’s friends to save Whumpee.

This friend is turned into the fae’s personal pet and Whumpee, though free from the curse, is hammered with guilt for the loss of their friend and the whole group splits because of Caretaker’s actions.

Caretaker knows what they did was right. Friend wasn’t exactly an angel and Caretaker loved Whumpee more than anything and couldn’t bear to part with them. And Whumpee would learn that. Soon enough.

[dragonfireridge]

Don't lose your head today...

[dragonfireridge]

trick or treat :3

content: demon whumpee, magical whump, captivity

When Whumpee was summoned against their will, they didn’t know who did it or where they landed. All they knew was that they weren’t in hell anymore and the stupid pentagram on the ground was keeping them trapped.

“It worked,” someone off to the side said. “It worked!”

“Who are you?” they growled, trying to seem like an actually scary demon. Maybe she would send them back to hell, then. “And how dare you summon me without permission?”

“Oh, quit it. I intentionally looked for the weakest type of demon in the book.” She set said book aside, a wide grin on her face. “That’s why you can’t even leave the pentagram, right? A powerful demon would simply burst through the barrier and kill me.”

Okay, so the witch knew they were quite weak. But then… “Why did you summon me?”

“I sell potions,” she said, gesturing to the brewing station on the other table. “And both of my top sellers require demon blood. It doesn’t matter how powerful the demon is. So I thought, hey, instead of trying to hunt demons every time I need fresh blood… why not summon an immortal and keep harvesting it infinitely?”

Whumpee swallowed. “That’s— you can’t—”

“Make yourself comfortable, because that’s the most comfortable you’ll be for a while. Before the cannula goes in.”

[dragonfireridge]

Things I wish I saw more of in living weapon whumpees: a non-comprehensive list from being around actual Marines and army people

They can and will sleep anywhere... except an actual bed. The moment you give them access to an actual bed with a mattress and sheets, their immediate instinct is to make it up in barracks style, not sleep in it. The moment they're expected to sit and wait and/or have no expectations of them, they lean back and enter a light doze.

Caffeine addiction. Usually through pills, sometimes through special caffeinated gum. This pairs with the weird sleeping habits.

When they ARE guaranteed eight hours of rest, at least two of them are spent maintaining equipment/ their uniform if permitted. When they wake, they're up and ready for whatever comes next in under five minutes. This includes making up the bed.

If it's not the bare minimum to keep them functional and armed, they don't have it. This is going to be especially true for LWW's who were raised in the lifestyle and/or brainwashed after abduction from civilian life. Watches, jewellery, spare clothes, even non-obtrusive things to occupy them outside of training like books or a phone are not things they have without stealing or being given a gift by someone around them.

Paired with above, they have no preferences for what they do get. If someone above them fucks up and gives them too-small or too-large clothes, they just make it work and take the punishment they don't deserve at inspection time. If the only toilet is a bucket on the floor, they use it without complaint.

Their language when speaking freely is something the fuck else, like for real the shit that comes out of their pieholes is unbelievable! A "fuck" every other word!

They only speak when spoken to, and when they do, it's in what I like to call a Sir Sandwich: "Sir, [response goes here], Sir", usually in a very flat and (if appropriate) loud tone. "Sir" can be considered gender-neutral in this case and is meant to denote someone in authority, not a masculine someone specifically.

Buzzed hair on men, pixie or chin-length bob on women, though if your LWW is the only woman in a mostly masc environment, buzzing her hair can be a deliberate tactic by her captors/superiors to dehumanize her.

Food aggression. They inhale their food, they never eat anything that takes time or effort to prepare OR to consume (salad, omelette, pancakes/waffles, steak, etc.) and if the situation calls for it they can and will eat with their hands no matter how nasty their hands are. Permission to sit down for more than ten minutes and actually TASTE what they eat should be alien to them during recovery/leave if they get it.

Hazing. Sorry, but if your LWW is in a group with other soldiers or LWs, they're going to experience some kind of unpleasant/humiliating/dangerous initiation ritual, ESPECIALLY if the team is going someplace dangerous or going to be together for long stretches of time. Stealing clothes while your whumpee is in the shower, mocking them for things they can't control/weren't aware were 'weird', anything and everything that would get them screamed at or punished by the commanding figure on an individual basis. (For my NSFWhump peeps, yes this can include SA or harassment and often does, especially for women and effette/less masculine/nerdy men.)

Exercise as punishment. This can be extra labour, a pointless task they can later be yelled at for not stopping by curfew after not being told to stop at a given time, or even just the classic "drop and give me twenty!". Hitting or otherwise physically abusing a trainee is a federal offense, but for a LWW it depends... are you leaving a mark? Can they still perform as intended?

Just. The irl army is already pretty horrible and I don't see anyone making use of that.

[dragonfireridge]

Yk, if you ever get desperate for a post again, search in page + manually scrolling to a date works, too. Takes little to no effort if you use a mouse and click the middle to scroll without building finger muscle. It took me 5 minutes to scroll back to 5 February 2021 due to the mass your blog holds tho.

I... I was too lazy to manually scroll to 2022. Hence the archive but ughhh. Or tumblr's search function: absolutelyuseless. Also, I love the phrase 'the mass your blog holds'.

[dragonfireridge]

Somehow he still seems to enjoy basking in the sunlight and the quiet busyness of the birds and butterflies. They say necromancy is a dark art, but whoever reanimated the beast of the black swamp knew what they were doing.