#Sorry i um

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

I love reading kidnapping whump. However, the thing I really enjoy is reading the process of being kidnapped. Like, I enjoy the chase just before whumpee gets dragged away.

I really dislike when the story doesn’t describe how the whumpee gets captured or even “whumpee felt a prick and felt their eyes close”. I feel like a good kidnapping story needs to make my heart sink.. I guess I just like the juicy details 🥰🥰

Just something I wanted to share. Haha

Yes! YES! Honestly all whump is in the details; you just gotta find people that appreciate the same details as you. I 100000% agree that the process of kidnapping is overlooked all too often. 

We need more whumpers that are sadistic during the kidnapping, not just afterwards. Whumpers that like the chase and the power trip that comes with catching whumpee, not just owning them. 

They could make it quick. Stick them with something fast acting, manhandle them into place while the drug kicks in. They'd be done in minutes, no fuss or issue. 

 But what would be the fun in that?

So they don’t. When they finally get ahold on Whumpee, easily pinning their flailing limbs to the side, Whumper only injects them with a half dose. Not enough for them to escape, mind you, but enough for them to think they have a chance.

And then Whumper let’s go. And then they watch.

What does Whumpee do? From the moment the needle enters their body, they’re on a timer. Every beat of their terrified heart is bringing them closer to oblivion, makes the distance between danger and safety seem so much wider. There's nobody to help them, nobody in sight but their attacker. What can they do?

Does Whumpee try to fight back? 

They send an elbow back into Whumper as soon as the arms around them give way, whirling around with angry, terrified eyes. Fear sends their heart pounding as their gaze locks onto Whumper. They see those cunning eyes and lean muscles, see the shine of something metallic in their attacker’s hand.

Wumpee sees the emptiness around them, both vast yet horrible claustrophobic. There’s nowhere to run.

They’re terrified, they’re helpless. And in that moment, anger worms its way into Whumpee’s heart. It’s fueled by panic, a sort of prey rage bred from true helplessness, but it’s enough to spring Whumpee into action. In that moment, they realize the only way out is through Whumper. 

So they rush forward, lashing out like a cornered animal. There’s nothing graceful about their attacks. Each push does more damage to themselves than their target, most kicks don’t even land at all. Every swing is a flailing, pathetic thing, fueled by nothing but blind panic. 

And Whumper isn’t even fighting back. They block each blow with expert precision, not even bothering to restrain Whumpee’s movements. Whumpee’s putting everything, everything into their struggle, and Whumper isn’t even breaking a sweat. There’s no sign of effort or strain in Whumper’s movements, none of the desperate urgency Whumpee feels. There’s only that grin on Whumper’s face, cruel and mocking, like they’re enjoying it

A scream tears its way from Whumpee's throat. It’s full of frustration and terror,  a high pitched whine that comes out like a half sob. They keep fighting, trying to knock down the unmovable wall in front of them. 

But Whumpee can’t keep it up forever. They’re slowing by the second; with each beat of their heart, the sedative is spreading throughout their bloodstream. Each swing is weaker than the last, sloppier. They’re swaying on their feet within minutes, barely standing against the growing static in their mind. They can’t stop the world from tilting around them.

It only sends another wave of terror through Whumpee. They keep pushing. 

But terror can only take them so far. Whumpee’s heart freezes in their chest as Whumper effortlessly grabs one of their weakly swinging fits. They don’t let go. Whumpee pulls, and they don’t let go. They kick and whine, too exhausted to even properly scream, and Whumper’s hold stays firm. Each effort to escape only sends another wave of unnatural exhaustion through their body. 

The sensation of the drug working into their system is suffocating. It forces their pounding heart to slow, smothering their terror under a thick haze, sapping the energy from their limbs. The fear is still there, still overwhelming, but they just can’t react to it anymore. 

Swaying on their feet, all they can do is stare into the triumphant, predatory eyes of their captor.

Finally, they drop. Whumpee’s body tilts forward without their control, slumping into Whumper’s chest. They're caught effortlessly as their legs finally give out, pulled into a half-hug as Whumper supports their weight. Everything in Whumpee tells them to pull away, to bite or scream or anything. But they can't force their body to respond. But they can't form a plan, can't think beyond the haze clouding their mind.

The last thing Whumpee feels as their vision fades is their body being lifted into someone's arms.  They don't have the strength left to fight it.

Or maybe Whumpee runs?

They push away from Whumper the moment they’re free, taking a stumbling step away from their attacker. Before terror can kick in, there’s only surprise, maybe even anger. They turn to face Whumper on instinct, some angry rebuke already on their lips. 

Whatever they’d been about to say died in their throat the moment they look back. Whumper is simply standing there, as if they were waiting for something. There is no explanation in their expression. Not the anger of some scorned lover, not the frustration of a failed mugging. Whumper just stands there. Eyes sharp, eyes focused squarely on Whumpee, ready to strike at any moment. 

There’s something inhuman about it, about the absence if all expression but an animalistic intensity. It calls to something animalistic in Whumpee as well. Something that screams that Whumpee is staring down a predator ready to eat them whole. 

Terror comes to Whumpee slowly, like a pressure laying itself against their chest. As their expression morphs into terror, a grin splits Whumper’s face.

Whumpee’s running before they even realize it. Shoes slamming against the sidewalk, heart pounding in their chest in their mad dash to just get away. They don’t know where they’ll go, don’t know where they’d be safe. But anywhere, anywhere is better than with that monster. 

Their escape is graceless. They run half blind in the darkness, stumbling over obstacles in their mad dash. Tears are streaming from their wide eyes, mouth wide as they pull in desperate lungfuls of air. 

They can’t hear anything beyond their own ragged breathing. They don’t dare slow down, don’t dare turn around. They don’t know if they’d managed to escape or not, and so they keep running. 

The first wave of dizziness hits them like a truck, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground. It feels like the ground is shifting underneath them, tilting side to side like a boat in the ocean. 

They stop, not because they want to, but because they have to if they want to stay upright. Whumpee leans against the nearest wall, taking deep, shuddering breaths in hopes of chasing away the disorientation. 

It doesn’t help. With each inhale, it feels like their vision is growing dimmer, their body growing heavier. It’s not long until Whumpee is resting their full weight against the wall, barely remaining upright. Their attempts to collect their thoughts crumble as their mind wanders. Each wave of dizziness breaks their concentration, and it’s becoming harder by the moment to recollect themselves.

They’re exhausted. It creeps into them like a chill, and now that they’ve stopped moving the feeling is near overwhelming. 

Panic still flows through their mind, demanding that they move. But their body won’t listen. Whumpee’s limbs won’t move despite their fear. Their heartbeat has slowed despite their terror, a relaxed, sedated beating in their chest instead of the panicked drumming from moments before. Whumpee can feel their eyes closing without their consent, and it terrifies them. 

Whumpee can’t stop themselves as their legs give out on them. They fall like dead weight, head smacking against the sidewalk. All they can do is groan, a low pathetic keening that barely manages to creep past their lips. 

The pain is just enough to bring a spark of alertness back to their eyes. Just enough to bring back the memory of their attacker. The look in their eye, the expression that gave away no motivation but malice. The gleeful smile full of a hunger Whumpee couldn’t explain. 

The glint of something sharp and metallic on Whumper’s hands. The sharp pain in Whumpee’s neck seconds before they managed to pull away. 

The revelation makes Whumpee’s throat go dry. And suddenly that pain is the only thing they can feel, a pulsing ache from where they’d been stabbed. No, injected. They’d been drugged, and it’d taken them this long to realize it. 

In that moment, as Whumpee’s eyes finally slip shut, the faintest of smiles crosses their lips. It’s mirthless, almost angry. The broken smile of someone who's just realized all their effort was utterly pointless.

Whumpee’s not awake to hear the sound of even, confident footsteps approaching them. 

It doesn’t really matter what they do. Stay and fight, run and hide, it’s futile.

And that’s the point. The point is the struggle, the desperation that can only exist when there’s a sliver of hope left. Even when that hope is an illusion, even when that hope only exists to be mercilessly crushed.

[lilithsterrarium]

thinking about horny post-apocolyptic scenarios again...

Through every scenario people conjured up about the apocolypse, the actual cause is one nobody expected. It wasnt a nuclear meltdown, it wasnt caused by nuking each other to bits- there were no blowing trumpets... instead, all there was were tiny, pink spore-like radioactive growths that quickly spiralled out of control. It was found quickly that these spores had an aphrodisiac effect, spurring intense bouts of lust in whoever was exposed- however, more than that, it seemed to target kinks specifically. Some part of this spore targetted the parts of our brain inducing pleasure, and acted based on whatever the host found pleasurable.

A girl with a pooltoy kink, who secluded herself off with one for personal use found her body changing, morphing into that rubbery texture, complete with cute colors and even a little pump to let in/out air... within a matter of hours, she was an adorable little pooltoy.

Cases like this were everywhere. People would grow fur, scales, or feathers depending on their desires, vore fetishists and stuffing enjoyers both found their gluttony increasing. Those who wanted to be hypnotized were like walking dolls, braindead and drooling, just waiting for instruction.

A younger woman with dark hair, hidden away in a bunker alongside a variety of others, was quickly reported as missing. Her outfit was found hours later, lying on the floor of the bunker, entirely abandoned. She lived in that bunker for years- not as a dweller, but as a pest, a tiny little thing stealing scraps and rations to survive... and finally working up the will to leave the bunker. A naked little thing, whimpering something about "incons" while travelling... who knows the sort of people she'll meet ;3

The wasteland is still dangerous, of course. Mutants galore, radiation, and a long period of seclusion has turned this world into your standard apocolyptic fantasy. Each survivor in this world has that same pink tint barely visible in their eye, and each one is driven by two factors; the will to survive...

and lust.

[blatantlyhidden]

is it romantic or platonic is it romantic or platonic is it romantic or platonic it it romantic or

[mvrcellas]

@prodigum said, "You should not be here in my chambers. . ." (from aegon - while he’s recovering. he’s embarrassed of his current state)

it had become a daily occurrence -- first objected to by alicent (nobody could see the king in such a state, she had said), but as the hightower queen began to be more and more absent, well... it didn't feel RIGHT to myrcella that he should be alone. that NOBODY should see him. loneliness was an illness of itself, was it not? besides, he was never awake for her visits anyway.

"i brought a story of durran godsgrief today. i don't think you'll find it very exciting, of course, but my father sent it ANYWAY to remind me of my home." she believed that she was speaking to a sleeping aegon, one who only answered in soft mumbles and half formed words. she was used to that -- almost spoke to him like he was a FRIEND. "but i did bring another of aegon the conqueror as well. just in case you only want to hear of TARGARYEN history."

it was when she got settled and opened up her scroll, ready to start on this story of a long ago king that myrcella heard the words. green eyes snapped wide open as she closed the scroll quickly and bowed her head politely. "y-your grace! forgive me." cheeks burned and the baratheon girl cleared her throat, offered a small smile. "my apologies. i -- i've been reading. while you've been sleeping. just so that... i don't know. perhaps i thought the tales might ease your dreaming."

[the-phantom-peach]

🗣️ huh?? what do you mean I haven’t posted any Link signing propaganda yet??

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

the crucible (1953) - arthur miller

“ough”

[seagiri]

heatstroke

[calnexin]

Yuri MD…

[obsesssedblerd]

when sukuna kisses you for the first time, it’s far more intense than you’ve ever imagined. you’re sitting in his lap, and your head spins as the king of curses’ tongue hungrily explores your mouth. his large hands possessively roam your body; squeezing, stroking, discovering every spot that makes you tremble and whine into his mouth. when he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you back to look at your flustered, dizzy expression, he laughs, dangerous and condescending. “we’ve barely begun, and you’re already breathing hard, little sorcerer? i thought you said you could handle it.” he licks a slow, long stripe, starting from your collarbone and going all the way up your neck, enjoying the way you shudder. “silly girl,” he purrs near your ear, “oh, i’m going to ruin you.”

[waspgrave]

I can’t believe people are acting like Solas and Varric aren’t friends….did you listen to their dialogues? They talk philosophy, laugh, ask each other questions, give advice, Solas even goes from polite but distant ‘master tethras’ to a friendly ‘varric’ in the span of a few conversations. Solas took genuine interest in his writing and read his books. Varric even invites him to play Wicked Grace. Foolish.

[chirp-featherfowl]

SOMEBODY GET TOMMY THAT MACE

[spilycoris]

etc etc that one madoka comic but make it cotl etc etc . .

[blondie-drawings]

do NOT watch star trek. you'll get a disease where you see any post and think oooh i can make this about star trek :3 no you CANT!!!

[girlboyburger]

i was extremely sleep deprived yesterday when i discovered the dragon survival mod which was LIFE CHANGING when you're on three hours of sleep so of course i made a whole custom forest dragon texture in one day about it. and. just for fun, some concept art i made for it:

[rotruff]

wising you a very sleeping on your f/os chest so you can hear their hearbeat or vice versa. wishing you a very instinctively moving towards one another and pulling eachother close and holding on tighter in sleep. wishing you a very one quietly talking to the other who's spouting off sleeptalk-nonsense in loose responses. wishing you a very ignoring blankets in favor of eachothers warmth. wishing you a very kisses to the crown of the forehead and the cheek and the collarbone and the shoulder and the crook of the jaw right where it meets the neck. ok?

[sbeana]

the pool scene