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hitlikehammers · 2 months ago

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AVOIDANCE: the only real solution to all of Eddie’s your falling-in-love problems!

(0 out of 10 participants in this approach have proven its INeffectiveness; talk to your ✨love interest✨today to avoid this heartbreaking waste of your energy!)

It’s not like they were bosom buddies for years and years. A week at the outset, a couple months since, and now they’re all back in their own homes living their own lives and Eddie can avoid the way he’s most definitely, one-hundred-percent certainly in love with Steve Harrington. Very effectively. By simply avoiding Steve Harrington.

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, eddie munson and his newfound obsession/unprecedebtedly-close-to-love feelings for steve harrington, answer: avoid steve harrington like the plague, excellent and emotionally-mature ways of dealing with your problems! /s, primary hiccup in existing plan: forgetting steve harrington doesn’t take well to failure, (oops), miscommunication, boys so dumb, confessions, hint of angst (because eddie is a very silly boy with very silly ideas sometimes), self-confident!steve, steve harrington facing the issues head-on, feelings confessions, peak eddie dramatics, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day fifteen: “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”―Jane Austen, Emma

True fact: Eddie thought he was playing things cool. Thought he was totally copacetic, in, you know, keeping it all subtle. He can do subtle, y’know: being loud and proud, shouting on tabletops and shit, screaming at drunks—that was a choice, not a…a rule. He’s a freak, he’s an outcast, he’s a weird-ass motherfucker: he’d have had far more brushes with his actual-factual demise in this podunk town if he was literally incapable of blending in with the background, and not just kinda sickened by the concept, let alone the effort involved to appease fucking…normies.

So yeah, he’d…he’d thought he was flying under the radar. And anyway; why the fuck would Steve Harrington even notice eddies absence in his day-to-day? They were apocalypse ‘friends’. Hospital buddies at best.

They’re back in the real world now.

Eddie supposed Vecna or whatever the fuck his name is will come crawling back in the foreseeable future, but brighter minds than his are preparing for that shit. The sheepies will let him know if they need his assistance—pending what that assistance may or may not be worth dependent on how far along his PT journey he stands at that point.

But it’s not like they were glued to the hip. It’s not like they were bosom buddies for years and years. A week at the outset, a couple months since, and now they’re all back in their own homes living their own lives and Eddie can avoid the way he’s most definitely, one-hundred-percent certainly in love with Steve Harrington. Very effectively.

By simply avoiding Steve Harrington.

It’s kind of a foolproof plan, really. He starts wrapping Hellfire earlier, tells the little shitheads he’s gotta run, Wayne needs a hand with a revolving door of household projects now that they’ve got their own place with more than one bedroom. Gotta mount that hangers for that ball cap collection just right, you know, yadda yadda.

He thinks they gave up being suspicious without a week or two, now just hit him with annoyed eye rolls. God bless the scourge of self-centred teenage bitchiness playing directly into eddies hand.

What he failed to account for, however, about eleven weeks into his up-to-now flawless scheme, was…well. The leading man himself.

Showing the fuck up at Eddie’s door, which Eddie answered for once like a fool and now can’t back out of cleanly because there’s no truck in the drive—it’s clear he’s here on his own.

Motherfucker.

One thing can be said for the plan, in terms of like, general side quest observations—absence definitely made the heart grow fonder. Or at least didn’t contribute at all to the opposite. Which Eddie hadn’t been entirely sure was possible, because the speed and strength of how he fell with every fucking cell in him had honestly terrified the shit out of him on its own. But after avoiding Steve, nodding at best if he canoed paths and sneaking away when the man called out like he was gonna snake through a crowd at any of the number of the family dinners for interdimensional-trauma-survivors-anonymous that Eddie couldn’t weasel out of: it’d been clear pretty fucking quick.

The almost-indefensibly-absurd affection he’d developed for the King of Hawkins—it wasn’t just reign over the high school if the parents were so charmed, if the fucking hospital has cowed into acting and quick when they tried to hesitate in treating an accused murderer, as Eddie’d been regaled with by everyone but Steve, who shrugged his kinda crucial role in saving Eddie’s ass with a shrug and of course, man, like there was ever even a question—but his indefensibly overwhelming and absurd infatuation that spent every month expanding further to try and crack his fucking ribs, well.

It was chronic, at best. He wasn’t gonna shake it…any time soon.

Any time soon.

So: best to at least keep the catalyst at bay, stop it from causing the condition to worsen.

He’d made the mistake of thinking it couldn’t get worse already. Learn from your mistakes, and all the shit.

So what if it’s been months now and not only has the malady of being ass-over-nipple in-fucking-love persisted, but got so much fucking worse? Deeper? More, when that shit should have even been possible?

No. He just has to be persistent. Keep at the plan. Eventually, it’ll die off. It’ll whither and blow away. It’ll fucking fade—

He does, however, fail to calculate all contingencies.

Namely Steve Harrington’s incapacity to accept defeat.

He’s also too fucking scatterbrained to check the door before opening it when there’s a knock, just after Wayne’s left for his shift. When Eddie has no excuse to slam it back shut on the exceptionally exquisite face waiting when the hinges swing open.

Exquisite, but looking…pinched. Sour.

Pissed the fuck off.

And worst of all of it—because so far the list only server to underscore that unfortunate state of being fucking beautiful, on every possible level—but worst of it all, because it’s worst on its own but also because it twists, distorts all the beauty, and it’s so clearly Eddie’s fault because Steve is standing right here, and not elsewhere, after all this time.

Looking hurt, under everything else.

“I’m done with this, yeah?”

Eddie could run. He’d only make it to his room; Steve would probably be able to break down the door and get to him before he could slither through the window and run, but he’s still not 100%, right, he’s physically at a disadvantage anyway, it’s not even gonna be a question—

Steve’s got him cornered.

So he just stands. Blinks.

Doesn’t…know what Steve’s ‘done with’, but he feels his literally twist, wring like a dishrag, when he figures out the most likely answer is just:

Eddie.

Even trying to keep the maximum distance, he either knows, and hates it, hates him, or…

He doesn’t know, and doesn’t need to. He just is over Eddie and his bullshit.

It’s in the heart-piercing distraction of either and both possibilities that Steve pushes past him into the front hall.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?”

Steve crosses his arms as the door latches closed, caging them in.

Eddie’s heart starts kicking hard, which is painful. He assumes that’s because it’s been pierced by the hurt still on Steve’s face.

“I thought we were, like, that at least we were friends?”

He says it like he also has maybe had thoughts like there’s something else they were, or could have been. That by association and context would be somewhere more than friends?

Eddie’s pieced-through heart switches to a double-thumping sort of thing that’s really just as confused as the rest of him.

Hurts like a motherfucker, too.

“Did I do something?”

Steve asks, finally sounds more defeated than any of the other things Eddie can pick up in how he holds his body, and honestly that’s what breaks Eddie’s resolve, of everything; after everything. After holding out this long and failing for the entire fucking effort, after hurting Steve, the last thing he could ever want, probably the main underlying reason he’s been running from him the whole goddamn time—to not hurt him.

He’s suck a fuck up. He’s such a fucking fuck up.

“You know how sunflowers grow?”

Steve startles a little, grows the slightest bit.

“They find the sun, and the grow toward it,” and Eddie’s not stupid enough to think the whole disaster that’s unfolding in front of him, from his own chest, his own fucking mouth—he’s aware.

He can’t do nothing, but he also doesn’t think he can sugarcoat this in a way that goes down easier; sand the rough edges to make it make better sense.

He has to wrench it raw and bloody from his ribs, caught on the jagged bone like the messy fuck he is.

“You were the sun,” Eddie finally says it out loud, and his voice is so small and wondering, he can’t hide it. “You were the sun and I woke up broken, I had to grow back so much and I did, because I had the tools,” he swallows, takes a shaky breath:

“I had the sun right next to me, to do all the growing toward. To…rebuild around.”

Eddie’s always been a weirdo, and outcast—he’s spent a lot of time in libraries; often hiding.

But he’s read a lot of random shit. And enough of it’s stuck to make some sense of this fucking mess.

Steve’s face gives nothing away. It’s usually so…so generous with its feeling, even if there are some feelings Eddie knows Steve’s careful to never let show.

But in the now, he just stares.

“Otters,”Eddie blurts out, fingers twitching, wrists shaking; “they hold hands when they sleep,” and he looks up for a second before looking away again, pulse a mullet in his throat.

“I used to hold onto your hand when I fell asleep in the hospital,” and he says it like it’s a secret, a confession, even though of all people, of course Steve already fucking knows. The part he doesn’t, though:

“I still reach, and how fucked that? Like I deserve it as a rule, like it’s mine.”

Like you’re mine.

He can’t say it. But he doesn’t have it. It rings out on its own.

“But then there are the trees that shoot up all tangled,” Eddie can’t remember what they’re called; “where the trunks split off into one another, or they’re so braided up together the share their bark, whole pieces left Bernal’s, naked but the other tree covers it, makes it strong and safe but only so long as they’re literally fused together indefinitely,” and Eddie hopes that one…that one explains itself.

He pauses, waits for any reaction.

No dice.

“Bats sleep in pitcher plants.”

That at least gets the slightest lift of the chin. Probably because it’s weird, and also…bats.

Right. So Eddie’s gonna have to spell it all out.

Which he kinda knew. The examples are fucking weird. But they’re…they’re true. They’re where he is.

“If I get too fucking close, I will destroy you,” Eddie says, because that’s the fear, right—or no.

That’s the fucking truth. Eddie always ends up with the tatters of the things he loves the most.

“I’ll take too much, I’ll take everything,” Eddie confesses, pleads in his tone to be seen, which Steve’s always been weirdly good at, and understood—the bigger gamble.

“There won’t be any stoplights, there won’t be a barrier or a boundary where I’ll know I’ve gone too far because I won’t even think of what that fucking is, what it could be to even watch for, like the barebones idea of ‘too far’, let alone what it looks like, I won’t,” and his breath runs out, so he gasps, and he thinks he sees Steve move to reach, to help, to steady.

He thinks.

It’s probably just wishful thinking.

“I won’t stop holding on just when I’m sleeping, I’ll,” Eddie licks his lips, because now…now he’sstarting to hurt, closer to what it felt like with teeth ripping his flesh than anything has felt, than any loss has threatened. He has to clear his throat, because otherwise the rest will just spill out like a sob:

“I’ll tear your bark so you bleed, and you’re exposed and you die off slow, because I was selfish, so selfish, I held to close, I fucking…” eddies voice cracks; his eyes fucking burn; “because I fucking demanded the whole of you, and damn the cost because I couldn’t process an end, why would I stop doing to even think to be logical and careful when an end to you was, is, well, fuck,” he huffs, and a tear spills out white hot down his cheek;

“It’s incomprehensible, because that would be the end of everything, that was made real fucking clear for me with the bats, both times,” and Eddie means that—he’s had time to think through the origin of his aching and it was early, it was any hint of being in the world without this person in it, too; “and the end of everything, well,” he shakes his head, some of his hair sticking in the single trail of salt on his skin:

“Tied up in you, so tight we couldn’t physically untangle?” His voice drops to a whisper, and he knows his smile has to look sad, but he means this is the deepest places his heart even holds:

“What better way to go?”

He maybes watches Steve’s throat bobbing. Maybe.

Probably not.

So Eddie just sighs. Because…none of that matters. None of that matters in the face of the core truth:

“Those pitcher plants dissolve things inside them, it’s how they eat,” he half-recites, retreating into those deep-heart places, where the feeling is most saturated, but hard to find, somewhere to hide as he whispers, cowers in himself as he flats his own flesh:

“I’ll leech from you for wanting too much just the same. I’ll fucking destroy you, Stevie,” he moans, feels his arms wrap around his chest, protective. Trembling.

“I’ll love you so hard I’ll suffocate you, I’ll tear you to pieces trying to get closer, trying to hold the heart of you closer to mine,” he doesn’t even make a conscious decision to press a palm over his flailing heart where his arm already holds, hugs himself so fucking tight. His lungs are sore. It’s tight, trying to breathe.

“It’s not an overstatement, though, the other plants, the flowers,” Eddie feels overwhelmed, suddenly, with a need to make clear that there’s only one person at fault for this, and it’s him—Steve didn’t deserve to get hurt. Eddie should have found a better way to keep him safe—from Eddie—from the very start. Because—

“You are my sun,” Eddie makes himself look up, look at Steve. “I didn’t realize how little I was growing even before spring break. I didn’t notice, how fucking thriving wasn’t even in my goddamn vocabulary, until there was you.” His breathing shudders again, followed by the rest of him:

“I turn toward you as a rule,” because here’s the thing. All these weeks and months.

Eddie’s been shrivelling. Eddie spends his nights dreaming of sunlight.

It’s inescapable.

He was going to have to find a more sustainable compromise soon, anyway. Might as well…lay it all out now.

He’s already ripped off his bark. He’s already prepared to dissolve in the acid, to burn for what it means to have left the feeling grow so big.

“I hope,” he coughs, starts slow, formal-like: “I hope you can do me the favor of just,” he has to clear his throat again; fuck, it’s hard; “politely ignoring that part. Like, even at a distance, it’s not something I can seem to stop.”

He was aiming for apologetic for that last bit, honest.

He fucking fails spectacularly, so. That’s cool.

“I swear, I won’t bother you,” he tries to convey how he’s sorry, for all of it, save for the core of the loving, because he as granted. A taste, no matter how it’s fallen to ruin; he’s selfish that way anyhow, to have seen some of the sun versus darkness alone for always.

Still:

“I won’t come near, I’ll do what I’ve been doing but better, I’ll be better, I’ll try harder, it will—“

Eddie thinks maybe he’s finally died. Of heartbreak, of whatever the Upside Down did to him. Of living without his sun for a long.

Any. All of the above.

Because the next thing he knows is pressure. Heat.

On his lips.

He barely processes responding before its town away: of course death wouldn’t be a reward. Not for him.

“Are you fucking telling me,” a voice bites out close enough to Eddie’s lips that he can feel how sharp they cut:

“That you have been avoiding me, running awayfrom me,” and Eddie knows that voice—

“Breaking my heart,” and fuck, fuck Eddie knows he knows that voice because when it’s hurting—and those words are irate and disbelieving and they’re hurt—

“Because you’re fucking scared of loving me too hard?”

And Eddie pulls back, opens his eyes: Steve.

Steve’s eyes are fucking vibrant with feeling, so many feelings. He’s…he doesn’t think he’s dead, because a lot of those feelings are ones Eddie’s not familiar with, and how would he know to place them there if he’s never known them at all?

He doesn’t know of it’s better or worse, to not be dead right now.

Because he just apparently got to feel Steve’s lips on his lips.

But then:

“Because that’s what you’re saying, right” Steve raises a brow, demands in posture as much as in tone:

“You’re in love with me.”

And then on the flip side of being alive-or-dead: he has to deal with the consequences of spelling out the answer to…that.

Which he’s apparently broken Steve’s heart over handling…the only way he could figure out. And still fucking it up.

“That sounds less than what it feels like,” Eddie whispers; it’s the only thing he can latch on to.

Steve’s eyes narrow at him, contemplate him.

“And you think me, of all people,” Steve finally asks, slow, his tone wrenchingly deliberate; “that Iwouldn’t meet someone loving that big and that much,” “and he huffs, shakes his head in searing disbelief Eddie almost wishes he could flinch from, but it’s so warm, it’s his sun:

“That that wouldn’t feel like there actually was a heaven, and I’d died and somehow made it there?”

Eddie’s breath catches, then stops entirely. He can’t seem to properly suck in another one because…

“That finding that wouldn’t feel like I’d won the lottery, like I’d figured out what it meant when people talk about a blessing, and all that shit?”

Because what…what it almost sounds like Steve is saying can’t actually be—

“That finding it, with you,” and oh, oh Steve is a lot closer than he was last Eddie processed the world around him, his chest is grazing Eddie’s chest when he seems to have no trouble breathing, just is doing it really deep and reallt fast—

“That it’d be anything less than a gift,” Steve murmurs half against Eddie’s lips; “a dream come to life?”

And Steve’s eyes flick up, and it’s when they land on Eddie’s and see him that his lungs shiver and he chokes out the only word he thinks his every molecule knows by heart:

“Steve?”

And Steve doesn’t move, neither. Loser nor farther away.

Doesn’t look away; doesn’t blink.

Just asks:

“Do you love me?”

And something in Eddie unfreezes, some string holding him up, holding him back snaps free and he just grabs Steve’s hand and presses it to his chest, like he needs to be tethered now that the string in him’s been cut, and the touch, this touch: Steve is really all he’s been wanting to keep him.

To keep him at all.

And maybe this is the one shot he gets.

But Steve, Steve said…

He presses Steve’s hand to his chest a little harder, because he’s bathed in the sun again. Their hands are linked, and they’re not asleep. He’s peeled off all the pretense, he’s as bare and vulnerable as he can possibly get. His heart’s beating into Steve palm. Eddie will happily fucking drown in this, dissolve and be…

He’s already consumed.

How is it any different, save that maybe, just maybe, beyond all odds and against everything he’s feared—

“More than I can hold in here,” Eddie scarcely finds the air to breathe; “more than I can say.”

“Then share it,” Steve says, the assuredness, the rightness in his gravity that’s always been at his core radiating forth and warming Eddie in a way he’s never known to feel before.

“Let me know it, let that feeling not be alone anymore,” and the words hold more than their syllables, by so much; “let it out to see the sun,” and then Steve’s flipping their hands so eddies the one caught agains this chest, but he’s always pulling them close enough that Steve’s knuckles are still catching the drum of Eddie’s pulse. It feels…

Eddie didn’t know what to expect, to let the feeling be felt beyond his own chest.

It’s breathtaking in a new way. It’s…

“Let it meet its match here, in how I feel,” Steve doesn’t suggest, just speaks, instructs, leads with a match to what Eddie feels, has been drowning in, save where it stole his air it’s breathing into him; where it took his light it’s reinventing the sun as Steve murmurs close, so close to his lips:

“Let it see how it was killing me all this time without you,” and Eddie whimpers for the cost of what he’s done, what he felt so sure he had to do—

“Let the feeling inside here,” and he presses his touch back to Eddie’s chest just a little bit firmer; “know how much sharing it’s like stitching my broken heart back to rights.”

Eddie’s exhales shakes so fucking hard; he can’t be this lucky. It can’t…he can’t…

But his heart’s beating so hard, so fast, so free.

So fucking alive.

“You can’t say it, big enough?” Steve pushes, his breath so goddamn warm, his lashes so thick, Eddie wants to feel them on his skin like a blessing, a sacrament:

“You can’t say it? Then show me, instead.”

And Steve looks up at him before he grabs around the back of Eddie’s neck, pulls him close enough that speaking rubs their lips together, more combative than affectionate but still undeniably intimate as Steve growls:

“Fucking months, Eddie, Jesus,” and his grip is firm, but there’s no force, Eddie could pull back, Eddie could try to run, and fail, but how could he, how could he ever—

His hand’s crushed to Steve’s chest. The same wild thrum he feels in his veins is there.

Let it meet its match.

“Make up for it,” Steve’s breath trembles on Eddie’s lips, taunts him, begs him, asks so many questions.

Eddie flips their hands one more time, presses Steve’s hand to his heartbeat with nothing less than desperation until his ribs goddamn creak, and then he leans, makes the pressure bigger—

Meets the feeling in Steve with all the feeling in him with their lips on each other like they mean it this time, ready to dissolve in it. To grow themselves to protect around the soft parts. To keep their hands entwined for always.

To come alive inside this sun.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #post s4 #fluff #boys being absurd #(mostly just eddie)#unnecessary drama and angsting #(again: it’s eddie)#feelings confessions #getting together #eddie munsons’s A+++ plan to solve all his problems: AVOIDANCE! 🎉#problem being: falling in love with steve harrington #solution: avoiding steve harrington post-vecna at all costs #it’s FOOLPROOF #/s #(also: eddie is a first class fool so—this was fucked from the start)#SUCH EXTENSIVE DRAMATICS THOUGH #KING OF DRAMA!EDDIE #eddie putting some of his weirder knowledge-dumping skills on display #but steve’s unfazed; he knows his royal drama well #self confident steve harrington #(that boy didn’t take that you rule/you suck board in stride by NOT being a self-assured queen bitch at his core mmkay?)#stranger things #steddielovemonth #prompt: if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more #hitlikehammers v words #hitlikehammers writes

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loonybun · 3 months ago

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Two-dimensional prisons

- I’ve had the idea of somehow putting a whumpee in a computer for a really long time. confined to a single digital room, only able to interact with a few things, going from human to being bound by programming. The touch starvation that comes with that. Interacting with a cursor is nothing like interacting with another person. basically yeah tamagotchify them.

- Phones with the same concept^

- keeping whumpee trapped in a mirror, only ever able to gaze out at the real world.

- if you’re feeling really mean, make it a compact mirror. There’s hardly even enough space to shift around. A whole world just out of their reach from that claustrophobic little space they’re stuck in. They’re completely portable.

- Doesn’t have to be 2D, but a book or a journal. Being able to script whatever events they want for whumpee. Whether they’re aware of it all or not is also a fun thing to keep in mind.

- A painting overlooking a grand room. They’re allowed to move around in the frame. Being marveled at and spectated, or instructed to stay in a certain pose. That frame can always get smaller if they disobey.

- i know i already said mirrors, but basically any reflective surfaces work well. maybe a jewel or a puddle.

#do you guys see the vision…#i’ve loved this concept since forever but ive never seen anything with it #i have a character who is actively trapped in a book. and its a time loop whenever its reread #whump community #whump #whumpblr #whump prompt #whump prompts #captivity #unconventional restraints #magical whump #fantasy whump #magical whumper #display whump

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serickswrites · 2 months ago

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Bow Down

Warnings: restraints, stress position, torture, unconsciousness, cruel whumper, public humiliation, whumpee on display, forced to watch

Caretaker couldn't stop staring. They hadn't been able to look away from the dais in the center of the town's square though they had wanted to. They had very much wanted to look away, to leave, to run and never look back. But they stayed. They stayed because Whumpee had stayed.

Whumpee had refused to bow down to Whumper. Had refused to concede their lands to Whumper. Had refused to surrender and let Whumper take their throne. Had refused in hopes it would protect their citizens.

Whumpee's kingdom had been at war with Whumper's kingdom for as long as Caretaker could remember. Whumpee had inherited the throne in the middle of the war and had tried to maintain the status quo in the kingdom. Had tried to protect their citizens at all costs.

Whumpee was beloved by their subjects. Was a beloved and kind ruler. They were admired by all. And yet not a single person had stepped forward to defend Whumpee when Whumper had dragged their unconscious, beaten body out onto the dais.

Whumper had infiltrated the castle, seemingly overnight. And rather than let their court be slaughtered needlessly, Whumpee had offered themself up for their freedom. Had offered their body to Whumper to save everyone else. Whumper hadn't wanted that. They had wanted Whumpee to surrender their kingdom. To bend knee and bow down before Whumper.

Whumpee had refused.

And now, as Caretaker stared in horror while Whumper's men tied Whumpee to a table on the dais, each limb stretched out as far as it could go, Caretaker realized that Whumpee had been a fool. The men rotated the table so that all present in the town square could stare at their tortured, broken monarch. Whumper was going to torture Whumpee until they agreed to surrender their seat. Whumper was going to force the citizens to watch Whumpee bend and break.

Caretaker knew Whumpee well enough to know that Whumpee would rather die than break. Would rather give their life defending their subjects than surrender. They couldn't watch Whumpee suffer like this. Couldn't watch Whumpee die. Caretaker had to find a way to free Whumpee and defeat Whumper. And fast.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

#serickswrites #whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump writing #tw restraints #tw torture #tw stress position #tw unconsciousness #tw public humiliation #tw whumpee on display #tw forced to watch #cruel whumper #febuwhump2025 #febuwhumpday21 #prompt: put on display #queue

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wholecakes · 1 year ago

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zoro who is so caught off guard by sanji’s kinder actions towards him is one of my favorite tropes. sanji crafting him specialized post workout snacks personally adjusted for him but still down to fight and call him names. he’s still the biggest asshole zoro has ever had the displeasure of knowing, and he’s horribly considerate. he’s a little confused but doesn’t reject any of sanji’s specialized treats. it’s not like sanji is fawning and doting over him like he does nami, so zoro feels like he can cross off sanji actually liking him from his list of reasons as to why sanji is acting like this. but it’s still fucking strange..

meanwhile sanji is in his kitchen wondering how zoro hasn’t taken a damn hint yet

#i always thought sanji was really weird about showing affection to anybody who isnt nami or robin #bcz with them its just second nature like he likes them so much its so easy to shower them in love #meanwhile you have ZORO who is like #‘is that asshole trying to kill me?’#zoro who thinks its similar to when you get a dog excited to get into the car only for them to go to the vet #thinks sanji is ‘buttering him up’ for his own sick desire #sanji whose sick desire is literally just to make snacks for his crewmate as a display of care #doesnt even have to be romantic just wants to show a bit of appreciation #still tagging as zosan because. luv my babas #zoro: wtf is your problem #sanji who just made him lunch: MY problem??#zosan #one piece #txt #roronoa zoro #headcanon #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #zoro #prompt

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dellinkou · 2 months ago

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[ With only a measly orphan’s stipend to support him, Obito had to learn how to budget and learn fast. But… there was a limited edition jumbo dango at the sweets shop. He gazed longingly at the stick of dango, wondering if it would be worth missing out on a couple meals for it. ] @obito-week || prompt: gaze, food too ig

#naruto #obito uchiha #my art #obito week 2025 #prompt: gaze #this is how i be looking at cakes in the display at bakeries

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cum-a-calla · 4 months ago

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roman on a busy train/elevator/something and doing things to you whilst everybody else is stood around, maybe you don’t even know him

Of course, he sits next to you.

It’s a long bus ride, considering. There’s probably another.. what? 20 minutes til your stop? And it’s surprisingly light; only a handful of bodies. This is when you like it best, stepping onto the bus and having your pick of empty seats, of empty rows. Just worrying about looking out the window with some headphones, nobody needing to sit next to you. In a pleasant turn of events, the entire back of the bus is bare - you choose a window seat back there, surrounded by emptiness; at least, you were.

He’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He looks vaguely familiar, but that’s a dime a dozen in New York. There are important people everywhere, recognizable faces. The single relief of not watching the news much is not recognizing any of them, not giving a shit. He has little more than a small briefcase, eyes flickering to you as he boards, the hint of a smirk on his lips. You look away and out the window, trying to shrink from his attentions. He’s kind of handsome, actually. Sharp features, deep-set, sleepy eyes. Long, gorgeous nose. He isn’t the worst seat-mate in the world, just… didn’t need to be one at all.

He settles himself without much incident, barely speaking a word or a sparing a glance before pulling his phone out and ignoring you.

Not so bad.

It takes a while, and truly, it’s by mistake - by happenstance, you glance over and catch the screen of his phone. It’s angled at your thighs, your legs in your skirt. His camera app. In one hand he surreptitiously takes a picture. His other hand is down on his own thigh, petting the head of his erect cock in his slacks, tight in that trapped fabric. The gasp that leaves your throat can’t be that loud, especially with the way you snap your attention back to the window, eyes wide, holding your breath, now. You freeze up - there are creeps on the bus, you get it. It happens. It’s not the first, last, or worse thing you’ve seen in New York in public or on public transport. But this is… this is a lot. Of course, you could yell, you could confront him and stand up and cause a scene. You know the driver would kick his ass off. You know you could. You can. Every second that ticks by is wasted, but… for some reason, you don’t. Your cheeks flush and your fingers tremble as you smooth your skirt self-consciously over your thighs, wondering if it’s making things worse.

When he tucks his phone away, you glance again out of habit, his movements drawing your eye. All you can discern is a smug little smirk on his lips as he tucks it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His cheekbones slice an attractive curve down into his jawline, a barely-there dusting of five-o’clock shadow.

It must be minutes - right? Seconds? Time warps in your panic, and it takes effort to release the tension in your muscles.

That’s when it happens. His pinky, stroking against the side of your thigh. He’s not even subtle about it; he pets his pinky finger there and then it’s more, his fingers crawling, slowly but surely. Hand on your thigh, and then edging between them, his gaze held calm, facing forward, your cheeks burning as you stare out the window.

Emboldened by your silence, the man’s fingers slide over the tender inside of your thigh, undeterred by the way you press them together just a little tighter.

You turn sharply to look at him, steeling yourself, and you even get as far as opening your mouth before he matches your gaze. He furrows his brow, dark eyes glittering as he fixes his face into the perfect mask of confusion, polite concern. He waits, fingers tickling deeper between them. He lifts those eyebrows, expectant. Bored. Annoyed by your silence, the way you need to remember how to breathe.

“You need something…?” he asks, voice clipped. Irritated. Impatient.

Impossibly, you shake your head, turning back toward the window, and his fingers continue to crawl to push and seek until he’s stroking up under that skirt, against your underwear. A thin, damp scrap of fabric separates your flesh from his fingertips as he rubs. It’s barely a moment after he reaches that soft, plush place that he’s pushing underneath the elastic, reaching your sensitive, shamefully wet cunt. He pokes between the lips, rubs around, finding his way idly like it’s a scenic journey he’s taking, no real goal but to feel, test, push against the bouncy, plaint flesh there.

As he makes his home in the slippery confines of your cunt, pushing one and then two fingers slowly inside, he takes your hand. You don’t need to turn and watch to know where it’s going - he pushes it against the line of his twitching, impossibly hard cock, guiding the way you rub him through his slacks. Slow. Controlled. You can feel the curve of his head, fat, the tender ridge there near the tip. He slides his fingers in, out, before settling into a rhythm that makes you gasp. He curls them, fully cupping your cunt and snickering to himself in a low, derisive way as you spread your thighs a little - just enough to allow him proper access, focusing so hard on staring out the window. His middle and ring finger nudge and grind and thrust against that sweet spot inside of you, like there aren’t other people, like you know him. Like you want it. The way he grinds his palm against you puts a solid pressure against your clit. He moves your hand a little faster against his own dick, sighing as he reaches to undo his zipper.

And then… his cock. Fat, thick, leaking. He wraps your fingers around it and guides your rhythm just the way he likes, all that rippling, firm muscle, the slickness at the tip of his cock helping wet it. He makes a soft noise in his throat and disguises it as a groan.

Despite yourself, you rock your hips - just a little. Just a little, because - oh, fuck - are you really this turned on? Really this fucking desperate for some entitled stranger to finger-fuck you on the bus, wrist flicking as he fucks his fingers into you just a little harder? His cock makes an obscenely wet noise as he drips over your knuckles, and suddenly he’s not guiding you at all - it’s you, all you, rolling your hips subtly and stroking his cock, thumbing the slit as he leans his head back in your peripheral vision, shuddering. He hums, almost a whine in his throat, and your cheeks are so fucking red they burn.

“That’s real fuckin’ cute,” he whispers. So low, so quiet you think you may have imagined it, except he laughs again - a breath. A stab. And oh - that can’t be you, tightening up on his fingers and squeezing your thighs together, closing your eyes and leaning your head back as he manipulates your poor cunt into squeezing around his knuckles, and all that pillowy, plush, molten heat around him has him fucking into your harder, faster. Milking you clean of it, your shivery little gasps. In your grip, his cock engorges and he yanks his fingers out of your cunt to reach swiftly behind your head, tangling his wet fingers into your hair as he guides you. “Down you go - just fucking do it.”

He shoves you down over his cock, and can’t you just resist, can’t you just push off of him, slap him, scream? Can’t you? He rolls his hips up and a deep, rolling grunt issues up from his chest, subdued, his cock pulsing over your tongue. He shoots into the back of your throat as he forces you there, choking, drooling over his balls, over the open fly of his expensive slacks. He keeps his fingers in your hair with a grip that stings, that makes you whine softly as you try to swallow around him. After a few last, emptying twitches, he allows you to pop off, catching your breath and wiping your wet eyelashes, your mouth.

The bus comes to a stop moments after, and he rises up from his seat, all put away and smirking. He makes sure to catch your eye, lifting his eyebrows as he brings his fingers to his nose, winking. “Thanks for the ride,” he mumbles.

#ohhhh god lemme tell you hey. listen. i have such a fucking kink for public displays of… uhhh abuse #i have a need to be fondled in public and i will never be over it #thank you this is my dream thanks i’m wrecked #you ever write something so stupid but it just…. WHEW does it??? me. me rn #god fucking damnit anon you filthy fuck #love your bitch ass #roman roy #roman roy/you #roman roy x you #roman roy/reader #roman roy x reader #roman roy smut #succession smut #my writing #prompt

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whump-since-2010 · 10 months ago

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Butterfly Whumpee - Caretaker

Caretaker never had anybody

Caretaker spent his life alone

Caretaker only knew how to take and give insults

Caretaker only ever knew how to fight back in a relationship

How to be just as bad if not worse than those he loved

How to return blows, hit back

Until he met Whumpee

She spoke like a musical instrument

She treated him like someone who didn't deserved to be stepped on

He appreciated that

Until he learned

She was only doing it because she was taught to be stepped on in his place

To endure pain but smile anyway

Caretaker and whumpee are birds of a feather.

Flaws were brought to the front and punished while any semblance of positivity of virtue was covered and buried

They try to sacrifice themselves for each other because neither think they are worth saving

Caretaker and Whumpee only have each other to live for.

Because when your life crumbles around you and you need to hold onto something

Barbed wire is still a wire

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shivunin · 8 months ago

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"I know that wicked shape to your smile." - Where Is Your Rider // for Maria :3

Thank you, Mary! <3

Here is some post-Arishok recovery and some very messy feelings:

(Fenris/Hawke | 1,257 Words | CW: Injury/recovery)

To Languish in Repose

“See, your face wasn’t quite as I remembered, but I know that wicked shape to your smile.” —The Oh Hellos, “Where is your Rider”

When Hawke woke near dawn, Fenris was not overly concerned.

The first few times Hawke had woken from her magically-assisted slumber, there’d mostly been the basic necessities to contend with: discerning if she could stand, helping her get clean, fetching her clothing or water or food.

Every other time, Fenris had stood silently on the periphery, pouring a glass of water and handing it off to Merrill to administer or opening the cabinet for Varric to retrieve a nightgown for their friend. He’d found little to say, even if most of the others had joked or told stories until Maria—until Hawke fell asleep again. The woman herself had said only a handful of words since her near-death at the Arishok’s hands. It was to be expected; Fenris was certain that she had, for a moment, actually been dead.

And just before she had, she’d said—

Nevermind. It mattered little what she’d said.

Fenris was not concerned when she woke that morning, nearly three full days since she’d taken her wound. He need not worry what to say to her when she was unlikely to speak, after all. It wouldn’t be a concern that the only other person in the room was Aveline, still half in her guardsman armor and snoring loudly on the settee they’d dragged over to the fireplace.

When she stirred, he did not move from the wall, but watched and waited. Perhaps Hawke would ask for water or another pillow and then fall asleep again. She’d done as much a dozen times since he’d carried her here through the burning city.

“I don’t suppose you’ve—any idea of the time,” she said instead, words disjointed where she stopped to catch her breath.

Fenris, hand already half-reaching for the pitcher on her desk, looked at her.

“It is nearly morning,” he said, and cast a glance in Aveline’s direction. The other woman did not stir.

“Oh,” Hawke said. She shifted on the bed, buoyed by a small fortune of pillows, and grimaced.

“Need something?” he asked.

“Meredith is awfully—” she began at the same time and sighed.

“No,” she took a slow breath, grimacing again.

Fenris had half a thought to retrieve Anders from wherever he’d tucked himself away downstairs. If she was in pain—but she went on again before he could make the decision.

“She’s awfully late,” Hawke finished.

Fenris frowned at her for a moment, trying to puzzle the words into something that made sense.

“What do you mean?” he said finally, at a loss. His hand had found the handle of the pitcher and he grasped it now, more for something to hold onto than for any actual assistance it might provide.

“I thought she’d—” Hawke drew in a slow breath, “have me locked in the Circle by now. If I didn’t—die, that is. I thought I…thought I would be...”

For a moment, he could see the outcome of such a thing so clearly that the idea of it filled his bones with ice. He had not even considered—if Meredith had come for Hawke after she’d been wounded, they would have been hard-pressed to fight off the Templars. All of them had been forced to battle their way through the city in the wake of the attack. They had not been at their best. The Templars, comparatively untouched, would have easily cut their way through the lot of them and Hawke—

“No,” Fenris said. “No. She did not come.”

“Well, I did suppose—not,” she said.

Someone—Merrill, he thought—had braided her hair into a crown. It had more or less stayed in place for the last few days, but a few curls had crept loose overnight. They clung to her forehead with sweat now—it occurred to him that this conversation must be a strain after days of recovery. She should not be speaking like this; not now.

“I would be elsewhere—if she had,” she closed her eyes for a moment.

The room filled with the sound of her breathing, labored as it was, and Fenris turned away to pour the cup of water she hadn’t asked for.

“Wouldn’t want you fools,” she sighed, “to get hurt on—my account.”

Fenris snorted.

“I like you too much,” she went on, “to see you knocked about for me—when I can’t even hit back.”

When you were dying, you said—Fenris thought, and watched the water swirl wildly in the cup before slowly coming to a dizzy halt.

“Drink this,” he said when the water had drawn away from the mouth of the cup, and crossed to her bed to hold it out to her. Hawke didn’t take it. She stared at it instead, as if she didn’t recognize what it was. Her hand half-lifted from the sheets but fell again almost at once.

“Would that I could,” she said, and the pained half-laugh she managed was cut off by another grimace.

The next few moments were taken up by Fenris attempting to help her drink without looking too long at her—sallow and exhausted and still breathing too hard. When she drew away, her mouth brushed against the second knuckle of his forefinger and his chest gave a sick lurch. He could not do this, could not be here, but what choice had he? It was nothing; it was nothing.

I did love you, she’d said three days ago, thoughtful—as if she was remembering something she’d forgotten from an earlier conversation. Said it and then stopped breathing, half-smiling at the ceiling as if trying to remember the name of an acquaintance she’d forgotten. I did love you, she’d said, and Fenris was certain she’d died for a moment with the words still clinging to her lips.

He doubted she would ever remember saying so, but he—how could he forget it? He could more easily wrench his own heart through his chest. It felt as if he already had.

Fenris waited until she was done and he’d drawn away again to speak again.

“She will not take you now,” he said, and cleared the gravel from his throat. “You’ve been named Champion of Kirkwall. Or—you will be.”

“I—what?”

Hawke didn’t go on. Fenris turned to look at her, somewhat alarmed, and found that her mouth had fallen open in shock.

“Yes,” he said. “The letter arrived while you slept.”

“Oh!” she said, and went on. “Ohoho—oh, that must really gall her. That must—”

She paused for a moment, closing her eyes tightly, and went on when her breathing had steadied again.

“Champion,” she said. “Of Kirkwall.”

“So the letter said,” Fenris told her.

“Oh,” she said, and the laugh she was repressing curled the corners of her mouth. “Just wait until—Carver hears. Oh, he’s—going to be so annoyed.”

Fenris might have said something then, but Maria smiled and he entirely forgot whatever he’d been thinking. She smiled like she had before her mother had been taken, before the months of blankness had taken her in turn, smiled like he hadn’t seen since before they’d—

“I think,” she said after a moment, that same pained laugh hiding between her words, “I am going to sleep more. But oh—what a relief!”

Fenris had little to say to that. He nodded instead and tucked himself against the wall again in his silent vigil. She fell asleep almost at once, wrinkles of pain smoothing out again, but the curve of her smile stayed with him long after the sun rose.

#fenhawke #fenris x hawke #maria hawke #shivunin scrivening #had to use another quote for the title it fit too well lol #da fic #i still and always have so many feelings about the two of them. they are so messy and love each other so much it Kills me #also maria being convinced that such a public display of magic is it for her #but being so ill that she can't ask aloud when her time is up is so...my poor girl #ask response #prompt response

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serickswrites · 6 months ago

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Sunrise

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, self sacrifice, blood, wounds, threat of death, mcd, public display, betrayal

"Team Leader," Teammate One said softly. Team Leader had been slumped over in their chains for hours. The bloody, ragged wounds on Team Leader's back had clotted, but Team Leader hadn't stirred. "Team Leader," Teammate One repeated.

Team Leader groaned as they shifted. "Yes, Teammate One," Team Leader replied quietly as they blinked their eyes open. They didn't sit up, the wounds on their back far too painful for that.

"How are you feeling?" Teammate Two asked. They asked the question the entire team of ten had been wondering for the last couple of hours.

Whumper had conquered the region so swiftly and thoroughly. Had attacked and was merciless. And now ruled with an iron fist of cruelty. The team could not abide the atrocities committed by Whumper and their minions. Could not abide the oppression. And so they rose up in opposition.

Whumper had caught all eleven of them several days ago. They had been trying to take down Whumper for months and when they finally had their opening, the team took it. Whumper, however, was far more prepared than they had thought. The information they had been fed about Whumper had been a lie, and worst of all, Whumper knew too much about them. Teammate Three had been feeding Whumper information about the team, and their plan, for months.

All so Whumper could catch Team Leader and make an example of them. "You're the leader of the resistance," Whumper said as they paced in front of the kneeling Team Leader. The whole team had been restrained and forced to kneel, but Team Leader had been dragged to the front. "I'm going to make an example of you for your team."

"No matter what you do to me, Whumper, they will know what you are," Team Leader said as they thrust their chin out.

Whumper backhanded Team Leader. Team Leader listed sideways, but didn't fall over completely. "We will see how true that is. What's more, I am going to ensure your end is painful. Bloody. You will be dead by sunrise, Team Leader. I'm going to place your corpse on display so that all the world will know what happens if you defy me. Then, then your pathetic little resistance will end. And I will rule forever."

"As long as someone longs for freedom, the resistance will never end. You will be stopped, Whumper. I might not live to see it, but someone will. And when you are stopped, there will be hell to pay."

"Don't do this, Team Leader," Teammate Four hissed behind Team Leader. They cried out as a guard punched the back of their head.

Whumper stared down their nose at Team Leader. "Tell you what, if you bend knee publicly. If you renounce the resistance and support my rule, I won't torture you to death. I won't hurt a single member of your team. I'll free them all. You'll remain with me, of course, to ensure the public knows how much you and I are a team, and to keep your team from trying to continue this pitiful rebellion. Join me, Team Leader, and this all ends."

Team Leader spat on Whumper's face. "I will resist you with everything I have. I will resist you until my dying breath."

Whumper wiped the spit from their cheek. "So be it, Team Leader. Just remember, I gave you a chance."

That had been hours ago. The sun had been high when the team was dragged to Whumper's dungeon. What little light trickled in from the barred windows at the top of the walls was gone. It was dark and Whumper had been torturing Team Leader for hours. They had left to "refresh" themself before resuming the torture.

"I've.....I've definitely felt better," Team Leader said as they took a shaky breath. "It's not the worst I've experienced."

"Don't do this, Team Leader. Don't let them keep hurting you," Teammate One said as their eyes filled with tears.

"I'm doing this for you," Team Leader said wearily. The long hours of torture and blood loss were taking a toll.

"Team Leader, Whumper is going to kill you. They're going to kill you and display your body. Just agree to their terms. Please, Team Leader," Teammate Two begged.

Team Leader shook their head and hissed with pain, eyes screwing shut tightly. They took a steadying breath and opened their eyes. "I'm doing this for you. I'm doing this for all of you. I'm doing this for those who are still out there who long for freedom. I won't let Whumper win."

"But Whumper has won!" Teammate Four said incredulously. "They beat us. All of us."

"No, they haven't, Teammate Four. That's why they need me to bend knee. They can't quell the rebellion without it. They're going to use scare tactics. But they haven't won at all."

"Team Leader, you are being tortured. To death. Let Whumper hurt us for a bit. We're strong enough." Teammate One needed to convince Team Leader to take a break. They couldn't stand watching Team Leader be tortured. They were sure the rest of the team couldn't stand it either.

"I won't let whumper hurt you. Any of you. Just....just be sure to not give up hope. The night is always darkest before the dawn."

"Team Leader," Teammate Two said as tears streamed down their cheeks, "you'll be dead by dawn."

Team Leader's eyes flashed brightly. "That may be, but the cause won't be. I'm willing to lay my life down if it means whumper can be stopped."

The team would have spent more time trying to convince Team Leader to surrender, but Whumper returned. "Changed your mind? All of this can stop if you just say yes."

"Go to hell," Team Leader replied.

"That won't happen for a long while yet, Team Leader. You'll be there soon though. Unless you say yes."

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than serve you." Team Leader glared at Whumper. Though their face was pale and sweaty, their anger was strong. Their rage was a fire burning beneath the exhaustion and it would not go out.

"So be it, Team Leader. So be it." Whumper said as they nodded to their minions. "I did try to warn you."

Team Leader cried out with pain as they were dragged and pinned on their back, their wounds grating against the ground. "This is going to be fun breaking your spirit. I wonder how long it will be before your body gives out after I break your spirit."

"Hurt me!" Teammate Four begged. "Hurt me, please, Whumper!"

Whumper gave a wicked smile. "What do you think, Team Leader? Should I give you a longer break and test my blades out on Teammate Four?"

"Your issue is with me, Whumper," Team Leader growled. "Take it up with me. Not my team."

"Your wish is my command," Whumper said as they selected a particularly vicious looking blade.

Teammate One lost track of time as they watched Whumper torture Team Leader. Lost track of everything. Listening to Team Leader's hisses of pain, their cries and screams, was all that Teammate One was aware of. They couldn't stand it. But the more and more the team begged Whumper to hurt them instead of Team Leader, the more and more Whumper hurt Team Leader.

It was only as light crested through the windows at the top of the dungeon that Team Leader realized how much time had passed. Sunrise. They had made it to sunrise. And still, Whumper did not relent.

***

It was still early as the team was hauled into the town's square. The air was still chill and crisp though the sun had risen enough to chase away all the shadows of the night before. They were shackled to one another, some shivering in the chill air. Others shivered with something else. All of them were bruised and tearful. They had failed. Whumper had won. They had all failed.

They were led up to a stage. "Leave them down there," Whumper said as they marched up the steps. "Chain them to the base so all can see them still."

Teammate One offered no resistance as their arm was chained to the base. They didn't care. They had failed. Whumper had won. They bowed their head in shame as the town square began to fill with people. The entire team averted their gaze. None of them wanted to see the next part.

Teammate One couldn't hear anything over the ringing in their ears as the cart that had been behind all of them was pulled forward. Couldn't see anything over the blood staining the wood. Couldn't feel anything as their body went numb. And they couldn't breathe as they watched two minions drag Team Leader up the steps to the stage.

Team Leader's body hung limply between the minions, their chin lolling to their chest. Their still bound wrists were in front, jostling with each step. The slowly forming crowd gawked at the display as the leader of the resistance was dragged up onto the stage.

"Put them there," Whumper ordered dryly.

Team Leader was dragged away from view, though Teammate One's imagination supplied what they knew was happening. They knew that the minions dragged Team Leader to the pole in the center of the stage. They heard them drop Team Leader's body. They could almost see Team Leader lay in the heap, their blood staining the wood panels of the stage. They could hear the chains being attached to the pole and Team Leader hoisted up. They could see the horror on the faces in the crowd. And they heard the gasps as Team Leader was completely revealed.

Team Leader had bled out not long before the sun had completely risen, though Teammate One wasn't certain if it was the blood loss or the final wound that killed Team Leader. Their body was littered with with cuts and wounds, knife hilts jutting out from their sides and thighs. If it weren't for the knife buried in Team Leader's chest, Teammate One would have Team Leader was asleep, their features lax and eyes closed. But they knew better.

"Take note," Whumper said as they ripped the knife from Team Leader's chest, "my citizens, of what will happen if you fight me. Take note," Whumper stabbed Team Leader in the stomach and pulled the knife out again, "my citizens, of what is in store if you do not accept my rule. The rebellion is dead. It has died with Team Leader here." Whumper pinched Team Leader's cheek and shook Team Leader's head for emphasis. "Resistance is futile. Bow down and you may yet live and have a good life."

The team, though I hadn't stopped sobbing since Whumper had stabbed Team Leader one last time, sobbed harder as they watched everyone they had worked to save bend knee. Everyone that Team Leader had faith in. Everyone that was now swearing allegiance to Whumper. The rebellion was, indeed, dead.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

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