#but i forgot about the whump

[goodpointsandbadpoints]

he gets kicked a lot in DI, doesn't he

[egophiliac]

before episode 34: Kekera is the only fan of this godforsaken show who has a remotely healthy relationship with media.

after episode 34: frogman what have you done

[whumblr]

Bloody

The first time Whumpee had fainted after watching their own blood seep down their arm, Whumper had watched in silent amusement. Before realising that… well, this could be a bit of a pain.

So the second time he strapped them to a table and walked up with his knife at the ready, he came prepared.

Whumpee glanced at the knife and while their expression tightened, there was a hint of smugness crossing their face. Not much to torture when they’re out cold after just the first cut, Whumper had to admit.

But their face fell when Whumper held up the knife and a piece of black cloth dangled from the tip.

A blindfold.

“Figured we could see to what extent your fear of blood goes,” Whumper said, swinging the cloth back and forth until it slipped from the knife and draped over Whumpee’s collarbones.

“It’s not a fear of blood!” Whumpee bit, pulling at the leather straps binding them. “It just… happens,” they finished, less fierce.

“It happens…” Whumper mused. So this probably wasn’t the first time. “Have you ever tested it? Do you just go whoop when you see your own blood or is the sensation of it pumping out of your veins enough to pass out?”

Whumpee paused, their lips pressed together and their throat bobbed. “I… I don’t know,” they admitted.

“Let’s find out.”

He set the knife down on the table, deliberately placing it just next to Whumpee’s bound hand. If they struggled enough, maybe they could touch it with a pinky finger. Blindfold in hand, he leaned over them, easily slipped it over their head as they shook ‘no’ and they continued to shake their head even when the band fit snugly over their eyes. He shushed them gently, cupping their face with both hands, stopping them from shaking their head.

“Now, then…” His hand curled over the handle of the knife and as he lifted it he let the blade scrape over the surface with a scratchy shing to signal that he was about to start. And to draw a flinch from Whumpee. He grinned; now that they were dependent on their other senses, he wasn’t above helping out with that.

He rested the blade just under their shoulder where their deltoid curved, letting the cold touch seep into their skin before the sharp edge of the blade would follow.

A soft and surprised little yip sounded within their throat when the knife broke skin. Teeth clenched when he slid deeper, their chest heaving to keep their scream contained until he dragged the knife further through muscle and a broken gasp tore free.

Blood gushed along the stripe of the cut, streaming down their shoulder, tickling over skin.

A fist clenched. And Whumpee went white as a sheet.

But they didn’t pass out.

“You look like you already lost a gallon,” Whumper said with a smirk.

“Sh—shut up,” Whumpee shot back, but their voice was weak, high-pitched.

They tensed up when the blade rested against their arm again.

But Whumper merely held the flat of the blade under the cut, not yet breaking skin, and he caught a few thick drops of blood. Then he carefully brought the knife up, hovered it over Whumpee’s face, and watched as the red pooled closer to the tip. A single drop fell right onto their cheek.

And after an initial flinch, Whumpee completely stilled. To the point where Whumper thought that was it for the experiment.

But then a shivering inhale rasped past their lips.

“Don’t do that…” they managed to whisper.

“Don’t do what, dear?” Whumper drawled, smile creeping wider. He tapped a finger to the blade and watched a second drop fall right onto the blindfold. It drew out another twitch. The cloth absorbed the dark stain immediately, while the spatter on their face slowly rolled down their cheek. It sent a shudder through them as it tickled the underside of their ear and disappeared into their hair.

“That… the b—the blood, don’t—”

“It’s just a splash of water, love.”

“It’s not!”

Whumper grinned, fingertips swirling through the puddle of blood forming under their arm. “No,” he murmured in agreement, and he tapped two fingers slick with blood against their cheekbone. “It’s not.”

A strangled sound of anguish sounded in Whumpee’s throat as the two fingers slowly made its way down, leaving two cold stripes of red draped over their face.

Whumper watched them fondly. Amazing how the brain worked. It registered everything, from the warmth gushing out of their cut, to the splash on their face and it drying on their cheek. Yet it didn’t trigger that severe drop in blood pressure to make them check out.

With Whumpee blubbing their mouth like a fish on dry, heaving in shallow breaths yet none coming back out as cries, you’d think their level of emotional distress was at peak. But fight or flight was still overpowering everything. And oh, how they wished to fly; their wrists pulled tight against their bonds, straining as they hoped for the leather to give just a bit so they could slip free. Just a bit more, dear, and you’ll feel the blood bubble up there as well…

“Lost your voice?” Whumper purred.

His hand tightened over the cut and Whumpee screamed. Ah, no, still there. But they immediately fell silent when that same hand gripped their jaw tight. Fingers sleek with blood dug into the side of their jaw, just under their ear.

“That’s right,” Whumper crooned. He let a fresh drop fall onto his thumb and pressed it against their lips. “Just… shush.”

Their lips, slightly parted in despair, immediately pressed tight into a thin stripe. And with a grin, Whumper took advantage. He slowly smeared the drop over both their lips, coating them in red.

“You might wanna lick your lips. Seems a bit dry to me.”

Every little gasp had indeed made their lips uncomfortably dry, blood now seeping into the cracks, immediately drying and making things even worse. As Whumper pulled back, he could see them hesitate, fighting the automatic response of their tongue wanting to offer a bit of relief.

Those beautiful red lips trembled hard, and their chin started to quiver as well.

The underside of the blindfold started getting wet. Tears trickled out from underneath, mixing with the red stripes over their cheeks, breaking them up and a drop pooled on the edge of their jaw, tinted with a hue of red.

“P-p-please…” The word puffed past quivering lips. “Stop. Just… just cut me up like you wanted, but… stop…”

“Ah.” Whumper feigned his surprise, though he didn’t have to hide his grin, growing wolfishly large. “Right. I think we both got a little distracted.”

He scraped the knife over the table again before resting it against their arm, slowly moving up and increasing the pressure. “Let’s tap out some more.”

-

General whump tags: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @auroragehenna @oprhan

[whetstonefires]

#4 please !

Now see this could be tricky, because generally if I don't get some key elements written down very quickly the idea flows away again and the 'yet' disappears, even if I remember generally what it was about, but I have one this time! I am still just enough plagued by this vision that it's not out of the question I'll go for the capture, but so far nada.

Idea was basically a Jiang family character study by way of modern au. (So tw canonical abuse.) I started from the reflection, in a modern au very high chance the Jiangs are divorced, because being a divorcee wouldn't necessarily ruin Yu Ziyuan in the modern world, as long as she was allowed to control the narrative enough that she didn’t look at fault, so it might be on the table.

Especially because modern views on child abuse are such that while she'd hold back more than she already does in terms of physical chastisement, Jiang Fengmian would also be under less societal pressure to not interfere in her disciplinary system too much, and both these factors mean he’s more likely to put his foot down.

So, concept: Jiang Fengmian, when his son is eight and his daughter thirteen, forces the issue of taking in his best friends' abused orphan child whom he’s just managed to track down in a nightmarish group home, probably leveraging the fact that wherever their money comes from it's mostly his, something he usually doesn't do, but she has always known he could, and been fucked up about it (reasonable) and hated him a little (less so) and hates him so much more now (understandable but still fucked up).

They were obviously still both pressured into this marriage by their families, because I literally cannot imagine them choosing one another of their own free will, and if they did that would be an au in an even more dramatic way than being modern, and no longer work as a character or relationship study as far as I'm concerned. I mean or it’s a cql-based au, but that’s not the version of this toxic marriage I find compelling.

Situation subsequently deteriorates to the point that when the boys are around twelve some outside party observes and is repulsed or otherwise upset by Yu Ziyuan's treatment of Wei Wuxian specifically--she's emotionally abusive to everyone in the family, canonically, and it harms Jiang Cheng significantly more than Wei Wuxian, which I think is also pretty explicit on the page, but she's more openly antagonistic about going after wwx because he's basically a proxy for her husband, whom she doesn't consider to be someone she's capable of harming.

And ofc in a modern family scenario, being abusive to your foster kid is more plainly personal misconduct than being unfair in how you discipline one of your husband's many students, even if it is his favorite. Which means she's very unlikely to chase him around with a whip, but whatever she does do will sting that much more emotionally.

Anyway the outside judgement provokes a more explicit confrontation than the last four years of maneuver and attempting to balance all the competing needs according to two very different standards. And the upshot is that by the time wwx is 13, the Jiangs are divorced. To avoid making a humiliating spectacle of themselves they present a weirdly united front in court and have a very smooth uncontested proceding, although the closed meetings with their respective lawyers involved a lot of vitriol.

Yu Ziyuan, despite having a smallish trust fund and probably a job of some kind, though one that's more prestigious than profitable like uh. Olympic fencing coach. Idk what they make but it's probably not enormous. She and Cangse Sanren probably competed in the same events back in the day.

Anyway she gets a solid chunk of alimony, the house, and primary custody of both her children, although Jiang Yanli is almost 18 at this point so mostly she just gets Jiang Cheng. Everyone thinks Jiang Cheng wants it that way, including sort of Jiang Cheng; he has this idea that if he has his mom to himself they'll finally have a good relationship, even though he's also terrified of being left all alone with her. He's complicated. Families are complicated.

Also she would never have forgiven him if he hadn't concurred that he wanted to stay with his mother because she was the only one On His Side.

Jiang Yanli ofc does not move out right away when she comes of age, in part because her brother needs her, but she probably does go to college, so she's only around part-time.

Jiang Fengmian, meanwhile, keeps most of his financial assets and Wei Wuxian, and gets his kids on the weekends.

So that's all setup for how you have this situation where Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng are entering high school--probably the same school, together, but no longer sharing the commute except maybe Monday mornings--and Wei Wuxian's primary residence is Jiang Cheng's dad's apartment.

It’s really chill. They get a cleaning service in once a week and eat a lot of delivery food, but they do cook at least once a week. The canonical thing where they largely agree about what’s funny and what’s right-or-wrong, and so forth, on the one hand really pops when there’s mostly no external conflict disrupting it, but also probably gains more complexity now that it’s not a thread of positivity fighting for its life against a background of drama. They get to know each other better than they ever had a chance to in canon.

Some of that isn't all that positive, because now they have the space to discover the places where they do actually have the capacity for friction, but both of them are very good at dispersing tension (I do tend to suspect jfm's dad was abusive he sure acts like it), and on the whole it's a good thing.

Jiang Cheng is going to have such a mental health crisis, and Jiang Fengmian is going to handle it so badly. Because of course when his son starts replicating his ex-wife's toxic attitudes and behaviors more now that she has primary custody, he’s going to feel guilty and like it’s His Fault, but he’s going to feel like it’s his fault that Jiang Cheng is growing up to be a shitty abusive person.

And even if he’d never say that the subtext would come through, in the assumptions he made when framing communications and so forth, as in canon, so the thing where Jiang Cheng’s father loves Wei Wuxian more than him, or at any rate likes him better and thinks he’s a better person and prefers his company, would wind up feeding into a self-reinforcing loop.

(Jin Zixuan's nasty public remark about Jiang Fengmian treating Wei Wuxian better than his own children hits Jiang Cheng significantly harder in this scenario, where he's being Tormented by the feeling that all his peers know his dad walked out on him for another son. Wei Wuxian's punch is therefore even more clearly primarily for Jiang Cheng's sake, although Jiang Cheng is probably more inclined to see it as being for his dad's. Jin Zixuan is about halfway between the Jiang kids' ages here, so he's a senior saying this shit to a sophomore.)

So that cycle builds to the point where Jiang Cheng would eventually have one of those rare moments where he resorts to actual violence, because his poisoned feelings are choking him so bad his rationality deserts him.

He’s not going to be nearly as close to actually murdering Wei Wuxian as he was in canon the night the Jiang Sect was massacred, because it’s a less extreme situation, but he still goes for the neck. So Jiang Fengmian is in his home office one Saturday about a year and a half into this new normal, and realizes the boys are fighting. He hears through the wall the accusation you stole my dad. He says to himself, well that’s terrible but interjecting myself into this situation would definitely make it worse.

Then he hears sounds of violence, and then an ominous abrupt silence, and updates that analysis.

And when he opens the door to the boys’ room, Wei Wuxian is being strangled. He’s not really resisting, which is because he’s made the call that that’s way more likely to get Jiang Cheng to snap out of it, and thinks it might make Jiang Cheng feel better to get it out of his system (because he does sort of feel like what Jiang Cheng is going through is all his fault, or at any rate is much worse as a result of decisions made for his sake) and is severely underestimating the dangers of choking, but looks to a third party like he’s already passed out and Jiang Cheng is still at it. Which is to say, it looks like a serious murder attempt on the brink of success.

So that sure made that situation worse!

So yeah that's my idea that I probably won't write but it sure has its teeth in me.

[serickswrites]

Don't Tell Me

Warnings: presumed dead, kidnapping, restraints, torture, unconsciousness

Whumpee crawled their way back to consciousness. They had been walking along and their world suddenly tilted sideways and everything went dark. What happened to me? Where the fuck am I?

Whumpee could hear someone moving around in the room with them. They were on their back on something cold and metallic. What the fuck is going on?

The person hummed as Whumpee began to come to more. They could feel rough, coarse rope around their wrists and ankles. "Who....?" Was all Whumpee managed to say.

"Oh good, you're awake." The person leaned over Whumpee.

Not possible. That's not possible. They're dead. "Noooooo," Whumpee mumbled around the thick cotton feeling of their mouth.

The person smiled, their face pulling into something grotesque. "Don't tell me you forgot about me, Whumpee!"

You're dead. This is a dream. I'm dreaming.

"I'm very much not dead, Whumpee. And you are very much awake." They waved their fingers, brass knuckles glittering on their hands. "And I'm going to finish what I started all those years ago, Whumpee."

"Wh-Wh-Whumppppperrrrr, n-n-n-oooo."

Whumper smiled as they raised their fist. "Oh good, you did remember." And they brought their fist down on Whumpee's stomach.

[b0amagination]

Home Is Where The Fanart Is

Happy Fanuary! What's Fanuary, you ask? It's my own little excuse to draw some very long overdue art for my friends, and develop better style with lineart at the same time!

Without further ado, I started with an author whose work captivates me in a truly indescribable way. It would be truly terrifying to a hacker to see how often I'm on her blog rereading an old favorite or an entire story. I will never be able to find the words to explain the magic of her storytelling, but I sure try my damndest every time.

Kirsten @whumblr 's Zayne and Jay of HIWTHI have had a deathgrip on my soul since the first chapter back in 2020 and, though I've drawn them before, once was never going to be enough.

And, well, maybe I figured out the plot of this interaction and impulsively wrote fanfiction. At the end of the cut are a few bonus detail shots as well <3

Content warnings: Belting, forced stripping (partial, not sexual), and canon-typical home invasion.

~~~

“Aren’t you tired of this old song and dance?” Zayne flashed him an unimpressed look, then glanced down at his own outstretched hand. Still empty. 

“I am. Glad you finally agree,” he huffed and brushed past, only to be caught by the collar of his button down. The grip tightened and pulled him, stumbling, face to face with his unwelcome visitor. His eyes cast down. 

“Then why is that belt still around your waist?” 

Jay bristled. He knew damn well how long his day had been, because he’d started unloading it on Zayne the moment he arrived home. If it weren’t for the sudden order that cut him off, his tormentor would have still been listening to that afternoon’s office melodrama. The last thing he needed was to present his battered body on a platter before the long weekend. 

“I have more than one, you know. If you can rummage through my fridge, you can give my closet a passing glance every now and again.” Regret only came on after handing him an open invitation to look through more of Jay’s belongings, but he suspected Zayne had already done more than his fair share of that.

“As it happens, I was looking for this particular belt.” He drew a finger along the smooth leather. “If you’re craving ice cream, an ice lolly just won’t cut it.”

“Does the trick for me,” Jay shot back and turned away down the hallway. “Here, I’ll show you where they are.” His brisk pace far too closely resembled running, and the heart pounding in his throat mimicked that well. He’d hung last time’s belt separately when he remembered he didn’t have the funds to simply keep discarding them. Probably the same reason Zayne didn’t care to use it again.

Just like a cat. The moment something was designated his, his interest dissipated. 

On an instinctual level, Jay knew he wouldn’t make it to the bedroom, but some part of him still had the audacity to be surprised when a hand twisted his hair and flung him toward the wall. Even though his shoulder took the brunt of the impact, the blow to the head was enough to skew his glasses. Jay leaned back and raised a hand to set them straight when Zayne took hold of his shirt and yanked it from his trousers.

“Get off!” In finding a stable place to lean back, Jay had unwittingly trapped himself against the wall where a knee now dug into his hip, holding him still enough to free one button, then another. He wrapped fingers around Zayne’s wrist. “The hell are you doing?!”

“Why don’t you deduce that yourself, Jayboy? Surely you can be a more reliable source than your coworker found.” A fist drove into his gut and Jay lost his grip, allowing the shirt to be shucked off him and thrown aside. 

“You could’ve just asked!” He tried to swallow the clear hypocrisy. Somehow, he only happened to think these plans through about two minutes after initiating them, and wondered how he hadn’t already anticipated the outcome.

“Try giving the same order three times in a row. See how patient you are when your punching bag cusses you out,” Zayne shrugged, reaching for the undershirt next when Jay hugged his waist in protest. He didn’t understand why Zayne held him by the hip instead until nimble fingers flicked out the end of his belt, pulled to free the buckle’s prong, and whipped it out in a single flourish. 

“On your knees.”

“Wait, wait- fuck!” The full length cut across his front, only shielded by thin cotton, but the familiar sting throbbed on his jaw. A tentative touch found hot, angry skin just below his cheek. “That was my face, Zayne!” 

“You clearly don’t care to heed my requests today. I don’t see any reason to return the favor.” He doubled the leather over and tilted his head.

Finally Jay made eye contact, turned his back, and slid to his knees. 

“No. Face me.”

“I’m not letting you bust my lip with a belt!” 

He’d already resigned himself to the shove when it came and caught himself just before he hit the wall again. Zayne’s boot landed on his ankle and couldn’t hold back a smile at the yelp it forced out. 

“Then you’d better get your arms up and make sure I can’t.”

[tales-of-magic-and-chaos]

The probability of Loki having a gigantic crush on Stephen upon meeting him is 100%.

[pyrepostings]

The tied-to-the-traintracks trope, but stuffed inside a giant yule goat.

[brutal-nemesis]

ok siiince you asked for requests for demon boy castys… the tongue cut out + gag seemed like such an adorable situation for him <33

Giving you that and a little extra because I wanted More Whump 💕

←Previous - Castys & Terror AU Masterlist - Castys Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: manhandling, a lot of unsexy noncon touching, slight dehumanization, partial nudity

Castys wasn’t sure if he slept at all that night, but after what felt like an eternity, Neteri reappeared wearing different clothes under her white coat.

“Good morning, Castys!” She sat on one of the stools from last night and motioned for him to do the same. “Get up, I’ve got wonderful news to share!” 

Castys opened his mouth to retort, but he found he couldn’t form the words. His tongue was still…he looked away, swallowing, and sat up while remaining on the floor. 

“You’re going to have to start listening to me, you know. Because,” she broke out into an excited smile, “I get to keep you!” Upon seeing Castys’s glare, she just laughed. “I figured you wouldn’t be excited, but trust me,” she held up a finger, “you’ll be much better off in my hands than if you were sold as a pet to some bored aristocrat. I’m sure they’d beat that personality right out of you, and I don’t plan on doing anything of the sort. As long as you cooperate with my experiments, you’re free to be yourself. You can even hate me as much as you like!” Castys raised an eyebrow at her final statement. He’d see about that.

After rummaging in her bag for a moment, she pulled out a little silver medal and moved to crouch next to him on the ground. “Hold still now,” she ordered as she started to bring it towards his neck. Castys wasn’t sure what was happening at first, but after a moment, it clicked, and he decided he’d rather not listen, leaning back. Neteri just sighed. “You’re not off to a very good start.” Well, it’s not like he wanted to be.

Suddenly, Neteri changed tactics, shoving him down on his back and straddling his waist before he could try to sit up, pinning his arms down with a knee on each elbow. Castys cried out, the wounds on his back from the whip lighting up in pain, and that combined with her full weight on him kept him from moving. He bared his teeth as her hand came closer, daring her to get within range, but she just curled her other hand in his hair, yanking it back and keeping his head firmly in place. Great. He was once again powerless against this tiny lady, forced to keep still as she attached that dumb little tag to the collar and sealed the metal shut with the same spell that kept him from taking it off.

“There,” she said once it was on. She tapped the tag, cold against his throat. “Property of Neteri Crozien. Whether you like it or not. Now,” she grabbed his chin, “are you going to let me put some new restraints on you or should I call the guards to manhandle you? Your resistance is pointless and only delaying the inevitable, exactly like every other time. Just nod if you’re going to cooperate.”

Did he want to get manhandled again? Not particularly. He’d had more than enough of being grabbed and held still while chains were taken off and put on. And it’s not like he was resisting out of pride or something stupid, he just fought back when it was something he really didn’t want to happen. Which was most things in the past couple days, but, hey, if new restraints meant he got to leave this boring-ass cell, he was okay with it. Her grip on his hair had loosened enough to allow him a small nod, so he gave one, praying she’d get the fuck off of him now.

Neteri smiled brightly at his cooperation. “Great! Although,” she got off of him and stood, thinking, “maybe just stay laying down. I don’t really trust you not to try and run at the moment, so just roll on your stomach and I’ll take the chains off.” Castys sighed in annoyance but complied, gritting his teeth as his weight went from his injured back to his burned chest. The cold stone floor felt a little good on it, at least, but it was a small consolation as he watched Neteri walk back over with a key and a coil of rope. 

She squatted down and-fuck, that was a knee on his back, not her full weight but enough to make him gasp in pain. Paying him no mind, Neteri unlocked the manacles around his wrists, and he could barely enjoy the feeling of not having anything around them for a moment, just wishing she’d tie him up and get the fuck off of his back. It didn’t feel like she was going particularly slow as she pulled his arms behind him and wound the rope around his wrists, but the seconds still dragged by at an agonizing pace. 

Finally, she finished tying the knot and took her knee off of his back as she stood. “There we go!” Castys just groaned, rolling on his side. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. It’s not like I was hurting you.” Castys’s glare deepened, and he awkwardly used his bound hands to pull up the back of his shirt enough to expose the bandages wrapped around his torso. Neteri’s jaw dropped slightly, and she just stared at him for a second before worry took over her features.

“I…I’m so sorry I…I completely forgot. That you were hurt. I wouldn’t have done that if I remembered.” Her head hung slightly. “I’m really sorry, Castys.” Her apology seemed genuine, but how the fuck did she forget he got whipped and branded yesterday? She looked back at him again. “Let’s just hurry and get you to your new home so I can heal you up, okay?” Wait, new home? She was taking him somewhere else? At first the idea was scary, but then Castys remembered that he’d never particularly loved living in the castle, so whatever. It was probably just going to be a different prison cell, anyway.

With ridiculous difficulty and a lot of groaning in pain, he managed to sit up, using his elbows to help him do it since his hands were kind of useless. By the time that was done, Neteri was standing above him with…a chain? He was already tied up what the fu-no. No fucking way. He growled as her hands moved towards his neck, baring his teeth once more.

“Seriously, Castys? You said you weren’t a dog yesterday, but you sure are acting like one.” Yeah, sure, whatever, but since he couldn’t fucking talk, he was forced to resort to other means of protest. He honestly wasn’t entirely sure where the growling came from himself, and, yeah, it was a little animalistic, but that didn’t mean he deserved to get put on a leash. “This is happening either way, so just give it up already.” Her hand was moving closer, closer, the clasp at the end of the chain open, ready to-

Once again, instinct took over, and before he knew it, his teeth were buried in the flesh of her hand.

Neteri cried out, jerking her hand back and dropping the leash. “Lyte! Seriously?!” She winced as she dabbed the wounds with what smelled like the stingy liquid from yesterday and used her magic to close them up, during which Castys couldn’t help but smile smugly. Once she was done healing, she pulled on her leather gloves and grabbed a couple rolls of bandages from her bag. “I figured you were going to be difficult to keep in line, but this is just ridiculous.” Castys took pride in being ridiculous, so he’d take the compliment. What he didn’t want to take were the consequences of his actions, but he was a little bit helpless at the moment, so there wasn’t much he could do as Neteri shoved a wad of bandages in his mouth and tied a strip around his head to keep him from spitting it out.

“There. You’re just about the only person who’d need to be gagged when they can’t talk.” Castys just looked away, feeling his face grow hot as she clipped the leash to the collar. She gave it a tug, but he didn’t budge. Now he was just resisting out of spite. Neteri’s expression grew even more frustrated, and it looked like she was about to say something before she stopped herself and took a deep breath, calming herself down. She crouched down to look Castys in the eye.

“Look, I’ve been going about this the wrong way. I hurt you when I didn’t mean to, so I’m not going to punish you for biting me. We’ll just call it even.” She paused and held up a finger. “The gag stays until we reach our destination, though. Just for safety’s sake. But I’ll tell you something about my plans for you. If you come with me, you’ll have a tongue again by the end of tomorrow. Does that sound good?” 

Castys could be stupid and stubborn and petty and shake his head and sit here and then end up getting dragged off to wherever, or he could just suck it the fuck up and get the ability to complain back. Complaining would be nice...After weighing his options he nodded, and Neteri broke into a smile. “Good. Let’s go, then.” She helped him stand, and she seemed to do her best not to pull on the leash as they walked along. Soon enough, they had reached the teleportation stone, and Castys…he couldn’t help but be a little excited to leave this stupid place. He knew he was a fucking prisoner now, but he was basically a prisoner in his old life, too, minus the chains and plus a comfy bed. 

At least he was going somewhere else.

The other palace was pretty cool, at least, the short glimpses he got before he was pulled into the lower levels, down halls and through doors until they arrived at his lame little prison cell. It did have a bed, though, so that was an upgrade. And a private bathroom?! Why did the prison cells in his family’s dungeon have to suck so much ass? He only spent two nights there, but still. If he was ever in charge of a dungeon, he would make sure it was at least a little comfy in case he got thrown in there.

Neteri clamped a manacle around his ankle, which was whatever, because that meant she untied his wrists and took that stupid leash off. And then, true to her word, she healed his wounds. The brand scarred, of course, which was…the symbol was kind of cool, but since it meant he was “property” or whatever he wasn’t too excited about it being on his chest for the rest of his life. At least shirts existed.

After that was done, Neteri instructed him to clean himself off and left him alone for a bit. He wandered into the bathroom, chain clinking with every step, and paused in front of the mirror. He looked pretty much the same as always, just a little more tired and blood-covered than usual. Oh, and the stupid collar around his neck. Neteri was fucking delusional, it didn’t look the slightest bit “cute” on him, it just looked…He didn’t want to see it anymore.

Once he was clean and dressed in some slightly comfier clothes, Castys tried out his new bed. It was nowhere near as nice as his old one, but it was way better than the floor, so he’d take it. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Neteri poked him in the face.

“I’m back, Castys, get up and take your shirt off.” Castys sat up, but didn’t take his shirt off, instead just crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. His wounds were healed, so what the hell did she need it off for? “Come on, I’m just going to examine you and take some measurements. Nothing painful, I promise.” Not painful, sure, but probably still not pleasant. Even so, he didn’t really have much choice but to listen, so he pulled off his shirt and stood, hoping this wouldn’t involve too much touching.

His hopes were in vain.

It started off fine, her measuring his height and a few other things with a strip of leather, but then she started running her hands all over him, poking at him, moving him this way and that. He couldn’t help but flinch every time since he hated being touched, and Neteri was clearly getting annoyed by it. His full-body recoil after she ran a hand down his spine was the final straw. Wordlessly, she clamped a manacle around one of his wrists before shoving him down onto the bed. He tried to stand back up, but she basically fucking tackled him, pinning him down on his back for the second time today. And, to top it all off, she managed to loop the chain around the top of the cot before cuffing his other wrist, leaving him pretty much helpless.

“I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d just kept still,” Neteri sighed, seeing his frustration. Well, it was a little fucking hard to be still when someone who’s basically a stranger is running their hands all over your bare skin. He considered trying to kick her, but she’d probably just chain him up more and keep going, and he’d rather this bullshit just be over with already.

Being chained down on his back somehow made this infinitely worse. There was nowhere to run, nothing he could do, Neteri looming over him as she put her hands all over him, touching his chest, his brand, squeezing his arms, grabbing his chin, pulling at his eyelids, gloves on now, hands in his mouth, poking at the stump of his tongue, feeling his teeth, gripping his hair to turn his head from side to side, his skin was crawling, crawling, his muscles tense, breaths coming short, fast, he just wanted her to get off stop touching him examining him taking notes reducing him down to just numbers just a body not a person not someone who got boundaries or personal space no just someone who gets touched and touched and touched-

“Castys! Hey, hey, just breathe.” Neteri was standing over him now, fiddling with the cuffs on his wrists, releasing him. Castys hadn’t even realized he was hyperventilating, but he tried his best to calm down as he scrambled to the other end of the bed, as far away from her as he could get. Neteri watched him sadly. “I…I was making you uncomfortable, wasn’t I? I’m sorry, I just thought you were trying to be a nuisance.” No shit he was fucking uncomfortable, how the hell did she misread that?! At least she looked upset by this, but it was way too late for that. Castys still felt like there were bugs crawling all over him, and he could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. 

Neteri reached out a hand in a misguided attempt to comfort him, but after seeing how Castys flinched and bared his teeth, she backed off. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave you alone. Well, I’ll go get you something to eat, and then I’ll leave you alone. Until tomorrow, and then you’ll have a tongue again and you can complain all you want and yell at me, okay?” Castys would rather never have to see her stupid face ever again, but that’s not how this was gonna work, so he just nodded silently, not relaxing until she’d left the room. 

He almost wanted to take a shower again, just to wash the feeling of her hands off, but it was starting to subside, so he just pulled his shirt back on and hid under the covers. What was that, exactly? He knew he didn’t like being touched, and he’d never let anyone do it remotely that much, so maybe being touched for so long in such an invasive way had been too overwhelming. Castys had thought he’d be a little tougher than this, since the thought of pain didn’t really scare him, but apparently being pinned down and touched was too much for him? Kind of…pathetic. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he could talk, protest, fight back a little bit with his words. Maybe he’d be okay once he could talk again.

He just hoped Neteri wasn’t lying about giving him his tongue back.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen​​ @galaxywhump​ 

@starnight-whump​ @his-unspoken-words​ @misspelledwitch​ @suspicious-whumping-egg​ @pumpkin-spice-whump 

@painsandconfusion @i-can-even-burn-salad​​ @befuddled-calico-whump​ @whumpinggrounds​ @whump-queen​

@whumpedydump

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

yay for timeline!

no pressure on any of the asks ofcourse

That being said c:

What would Onyx do if someone kidnapped him?, like during his captivity era most likely, if someone just nabbed him from the royals house?

this is an excellent question omg

Well. Not much tbh. But every scenario with this would probably fall into two categories, one where he thinks the royal family has given permission and one where he doesn’t. So it would be something like:

“Excuse me, sir? I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I- um, I am not yet done with the chores. I need to clean the princes’ bathroom.”

“Aw, don’t worry about that, angel! Prince Cardan said he didn’t mind if we borrowed you for a bit!”

“My apologies for the confusion, sir. With His Highness’s permission, I will serve you like my own master for the time being.”

OR (with a specific person because there are not very many that onyx wouldn't wholeheartedly believe about having permission):

“Excuse me, sir? I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I- um, I am not yet done with the chores. I need to clean the princes’ bathroom.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Onyx. I’ve got it all taken care of.”

“With all due respect, sir, His Highness Prince Ryan ordered me to- um, he said that I am not to leave the house with your daughter or you. And I have responsibilities to attend to. If that’s okay.”

“And what do you think you’re in a position to do about that right now? …Yeah. Stay silent. You can’t do anything.”

like… frankly it would not matter if he knew the person or not. if they said they had permission, they probably had permission! and even if they didn't, what is he gonna do about that? they would not even have to restrain him or anything, he is such a good little servant <3

[dootplusone]

(OG post has Reblogs turned off. You can find it here!)

(OG post has Reblogs turned off. You can find it here!)

(If the OP would prefer this post not link back to the OG post or is otherwise is not okay w/ this post in reference to theirs, please let me know in some form so I can delete/edit it as needed.)

Thinking. Abt this but with Bones. Like. Post-Tholian Web? Post-Mirror Mirror?

For AOS, could be after Into Darkness and/or Beyond.

A Bones who's just. So anxious. So stressed. So overwhelmed that it starts taking a toll on his health. Maybe he doesn't even realise - or maybe he does and tries his best to push through it until it knocks him on his ass. Kind of in the vein of "You don't actually know how tired you are until you stop. And then you just physically cannot start again." It becomes his new baseline, a problem that just brews and storms in the distance.

And he just carries on. And keeps going and going and going until one day he realises that 'Oh fuck, I'm not okay' and has about 5 seconds of warning before he straight up collapses, doesn't matter if it's on the bridge, in the madbay, on a planet - he's going down. (Maybe a repeat of Tholian Web where he just straight up faints into Spock's arms? Full whammy, why not)

Maybe it's a high-tension situation getting resolved that does it. The pure relief of it reminds him of how tired he is. How tired he's been for a while. His body sees that momentary rest and goes "More of that, please. And I'm not asking."

And he's so rendered by it that he doesn't grumble about being coddled like he normally would when he wakes up. He knows not to fuck with the medbay staff - they're just as firm as he is on recovery, and that's not by accident - and he knows that Spock and Kirk will be hovering, because they see any problem as something they, too, should shoulder the burden of.

...And because they're some of the most protective people in the damned universe. And that goes for pretty much all the people on board the Enterprise.

In some scenarios, it's just a case of letting his body and mind rest properly. In others, there's a lot more recovery involved than anyone initially expects. Luckily for him, he has a found family who are determined to be there with him at every step. It just takes a couple reminders, every once in a while.

[whumpfish]

Conditioned whumpees who respond realistically to being on the outside

Whumpees who display appeasement or avoidance or incessantly apologizing or fleeing when they think someone might be upset with them

Whumpees who are afraid of the punishment they've become accustomed to

Whumpees who recreate lesser punishments to reassure themselves that they will not get the worst option

Whumpees who yell and berate themselves loudly when they make a mistake because in their mind, as long as there is yelling, the consequences end there

Whumpees who inflict small violences on themselves, hitting and pulling so that their caretaker won't have to

Whumpees who hide all the knives/potential instruments of torture if they suspect someone will be angry when they come home

Whumpees who take the initiative to try to influence or control how people respond to them and what they do

Whumpees who push boundaries, who test the waters by doing things that the whumper would have punished them for

Whumpees who keep pushing, for whom life becomes about doing the most terrifying thing they can think of just to see if no one will hurt them for it

Whumpees who do this to the point of self-detriment because their concept of what constitutes dangerous behavior is completely fucked

Whumpees who are people thrust into a world with rules they no longer know with people whom they can no longer read

Whumpees whose stories are about them and their journey into that world, not about their caretaker's shock and horror at their condition

[whumblr]

Between dreams and reality

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

Twitching. Trembling. Fingers curling tighter and tighter into the covers. Turning. Tossing. Soft whimpers escaping from his lips as his body jerked and his breath hitched.

All sorts of little tells of fear that in his dream, Jay was keeping firmly at bay. Hiding them behind a poker face from the man advancing on him, who was slowly cornering him and actively pushing him against the wall.

Unfortunately, asleep and in the real world in bed, he had no control over his actions.

And while he may have fooled the man in his dreams, that same man lying next to him in bed had a front row seat to his misery and was hungrily taking in the scene.

Zayne, turned on his side with his arm propped under his head, narrowed his eyes in amusement as the sleeping Jay twitched like a dreaming cat.

And Jay couldn’t stop the man in his dream getting closer, couldn’t stop the hand on his throat now slowly tightening, its fingers cutting off his air as the smirking face was inching closer and closer while he couldn’t get away— couldn’t breathe!

His eyes flew open and that same smirk was just as close now that he was awake.

He shot back with a high pitched gasp. Almost coughed out that same breath when he realised he was in bed, that it was a dream.

An exasperated sigh punched out of his lungs as he let himself fall onto his back, hands over his face as he tried to calm down, push those treacherous tears of lingering fear and humiliation away, and ignore the soft chuckle next to him.

"No, no," his nightmare crooned. Fingers curled over his wrist and pulled a hand away from his face. "Don't hide it from me. We were just getting to the good part."

-

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @whumpifi @painless-and-colourful

[forwhump]

a/n; more wren pov & a little bit of backstory ! what’s not to love ? <3

tw/cw: implied rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, kidnapping, captivity, mentions of drug use

creepy whumper, military whump

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother. The shell, anyway, of what was once his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he was swaddled in.

God, Wren had lived a lot of lives.

As a child, a teenager, he’d been white and blonde and he grew up in Texas — he did pageants. He used to clean house at them, too. He’d been a prized show pig.

So maybe his life really hasn’t changed all that much, actually.

Later into his teenage years, he started to transition, and that was an entirely different lifetime. His mother was also a white, white blonde former beauty queen from Texas, a good Christian woman. But she was a good mother, in a southern belle kind of way. She didn’t take issue with his transition, not really, she was just kind of a bitch to him about it. If he wasn’t passing, his mother was the first person to let him know. They used to argue viciously about his hair — she wanted him to cut it, why put in all this work just to have girl’s hair? It’s stupid! Wren had never wanted to cut his hair. He had great fucking hair. He’d taken meticulous care of it his entire life.

Now, if he ever gets the chance, he’s going to shave his fucking head.

His last year of high school, he got a few big breaks on social media, and that changed his life. That was an entirely different lifetime. He was an artist, a working artist. He wasn’t famous, not by any means, not outside of the art world, but he was making a name for himself within it. He had a girlfriend, Julie, a tattoo artist from Amsterdam that had always kind of scared him. That’s always sort of been his type, he supposes.

Robin, a few years older than him, also from Texas, had enlisted in the military as soon as he turned eighteen. Wren can remember begging him not to; he’d been only fourteen or fifteen, still a beauty queen. Wren can remember the begging turning to screaming matches between them; even if they both didn’t know it yet, they were both their mother’s sons. Wren was an artist, a hippy — he hated the military and everything they stood for. He hated they were taking Robin from him. Robin had always been a little bit more of a cowboy. He was gone within six months of enlisting.

When worried for him, that’s why he had fought him. The military sends teenagers to slaughter, and he knew it, even young. If only he had known it was going to be the beginning of the end of both their lives.

Robin does a couple tours. The first time he came home, Wren had started to transition while he was away, and he was almost nervous to see him again — he hadn’t needed to be. Robin was always a bit more of a cowboy, but Robin was his best friend. It was good to see him.

The first time he came back, he was almost entirely whole. The next time, something was missing, but it was hard to place exactly what it was. When Robin finally comes home for good, Wren is only nineteen, a year and a half into living in a beautiful apartment with his beautiful girlfriend, living the dream, a working artist. When Robin finally comes home for good, there’s nothing of him left.

He’s a shell of who he used to be. He’s empty. He lives at home with their mother for six months before he disappears to the streets. Wren moves back home. His girlfriend doesn’t wait for him. Robin starts doing heroin.

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he’s swaddled in.

“Come home,” Wren says softly.

Robin shakes his head, and the movement is unnatural. Twitchy. This isn’t the same older brother that used to get all gussied up for Wren’s pageants in boots and bolo tie. His teeth are chattering. “I’m-m s-sorr-ry.”

Wren sighs through his teeth. “Robin —“

“Wr-Wren,” he tries. “J-just a…a couple bucks.”

Wren looks away. Back against the floor, he remembers watching the fifteen year old version of himself that had thrown a textbook at Robin’s head in an attempt to keep him from leaving overseas.

“Wren,” Robin tries again. “P-please. Please.”

“Just come home,” Wren pleads.

“I c—I can’t,” he chokes, shuddering. “You don’t see how mo-om lo-ooks at m-me.”

Wren shakes his head slowly. “I’ll get us an apartment somewhere else,” he says. “Anything I can do to help. You just have to try and get clean.”

When there’s a sound like the front door has been kicked open, Wren doesn’t even jump. It’s an abandoned apartment building, shelter for homeless people and addicts, there’s always some kind of noise. Usually gunshots. Screaming, too.

“I j-just n-need a couple—a couple bucks,” Robin says. “Please.”

Wren does jump, however, when the door to the room they’re closed off in is kicked open.

It’s like a nightmare, the way it unfolds.

Wren can’t process what he’s seeing for a second, but his heart starts beating in his throat, anyway. Filling the doorway, blocking their escape, big and broad shouldered, is some kind of —

Wren thinks soldier, but what the fuck? What is this?

He looks quickly at Robin, whose eyes are glazed over. The man in the doorway looks like a SEAL, or SWAT, but the most nightmarish version of either that Wren could ever imagine. All black, armed and armoured.

He lifts his gun towards Robin as he pulls a mask down the lower half of his face with his other hand. “He’s in here!” He shouts, in the loud, commanding drone of the military. “And he’s got a girl with him!”

“Hey,” Wren says, almost inappropriately indignant. “I’m not a —“

And then the room is full of those soldiers, those SEALs, Alpha Team Six or whatever, shouting at each other, at Wren and at Robin, guns lifted, aimed. Two of them grab Robin, each by the arm, and he sags back into them without a fight. His eyes are still glazed over.

One of them grabs Wren by the braid and wrenches his head back. He cries out, silenced by the barrel of the gun that finds the soft skin beneath his chin. “No civilians,” he says, low and lethal.

This wakes Robin up a little bit, out of his stupor, and he tries without success to get his feet beneath him again. “No,” he grunts. “No.”

“What the fuck?” Wren cries, maybe screams. Hell, maybe whispers. He isn’t sure. He can’t hear anything over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

“No witnesses,” barks another soldier. “Put her down.”

“Get the fuck off me!” Wren cries, probably screams. “Get off me!”

“Wait,” says a voice. It has the same commanding lilt of military charge, but his voice is so, inappropriately calm, almost amused, that it makes all the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stand up. “Wait, now.”

The other soldiers part for this one. He draws through them with an unhurried, almost smug confidence, their superior in some form, platoon leader, maybe. They’re all big men, SEALs, but he’s considerably bigger than the rest of them, tall and broad, all thick, bulky muscle. When he pulls his mask down to grin at Wren, he’s handsome. He’s very handsome, in a very sharp, supermodel kind of way.

People had said of Richard Ramirez, those fortunate enough to have lived to have anything to say about him, that there was something not right in his eyes. That it wasn’t like looking into the eyes of a man, but a rabid animal. This man has those same eyes.

“Why,” the man says, and he puts on a bit of a twang, mocking him. “Aren’t you just a pretty little thing?”

“Fuck you,” Wren spits, an instinct. The man holding him by his braided hair pulls with enough force to make Wren cry out. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Settle down, now,” the man says, grinning at him. “Be a good cowgirl.”

“Fuck you,” he spits again. “What the fuck is this? What do you want?”

The man clicks his tongue and points at Robin. “We’re just here to reclaim what’s ours,” he says, and crouches slowly in front of Wren. He grabs him by the jaw, and Wren tries to jerk away, but the man holds fast, biting through his flesh and making the hinge of his jaw creak in protest. “We aren’t supposed to leave behind any civilians,” he explains, looking too closely at Wren. There’s something not right in his eyes. “No witnesses. Strict orders. But you, cowgirl,” he says, and his voice softens to something sickly sweet, something that makes Wren’s stomach turn, “are an awfully pretty little thing.” He turns his face this way, that. “And I’ve always liked ‘em blonde.”

He starts to run his thumb over Wren’s lower lip and Wren jerks away again on instinct. The man behind him holds his hair a little tighter until it strains at his scalp and his platoon leader slides his thumb into Wren’s mouth with a giddy smile. “Cheerleader?” He guesses. “Pageant girl?”

Bile starts to climb up the back of Wren’s throat. He tries to lean away and he can’t. He’s trapped.

“I think it just might be your lucky day, little darlin’,” he says, taking his thumb from Wren’s mouth, and Wren spits in his face.

He wipes his cheek with a gloved hand and grins a little wider. “It would be a shame to put you down, cowgirl. I think it would be a waste of you. I think I might just be able to find a better use for you.”

“Who are you?” Wren spits, and he’s shaking.

“Oh, darlin’,” he says with a coo, grinning even wider. It’s grotesque, an inhuman mimicry of a smile. “I think I might just be your worst nightmare.”

[paininseries]

Open Range | 2003 ( -1- / -2- / -3- )

[amethystpath-writes]

Could you do something with team having to lock up stoic team member. They expect him to be fine and they don't want him going on a particularly dangerous mission and getting hurt further. They don't expect him to spiral into panick behind locked doors and are guilt-ridden when they return.

He's Gone

NOT A PR0MPT

The mission went flawlessly; Team anticipated every backfire at Villain's base: alarm systems, security cameras, standing guards, Villain. They avoided each almost perfectly, which was a surprise to them. As confident as they felt, it was their first mission without Leader. After seeing the state he was in, it was easy to say the team was terrified; it aided their thorough preparation, to say the least.

There was no ease in the thought of escaping, but the Team felt better once they were on their way to base. Leader was there, and he would be so proud of them for orchestrating this mission on their own, and for carrying it out. They had all they needed to defeat Villain. All the trauma Leader had gone through could be laid to rest.

Arriving to the base, everything seemed normal. Of course, Leader had been left in the medical room, but they were sure he had ventured out.

Walking into the kitchen, they noticed otherwise. There was a cake in the fridge they had left for Leader, when he was ready to leave his bed. It was a celebratory cake, for Leader's return.

"Do you think he's still asleep?" Hero asked.

"Could be. He was in pretty rough shape when we left him. He must have taken the painkillers we left for the wounds." Other Hero shrugged it off, a little less concerned than she probably should have been.

Hero put a finger to her lips. Just on the way home, she had chewed every nail down to the quick. "I think we should check on him."

"You regret leaving him alone, don't you?" Other Hero sighed. "He said he would be fine. We were right to trust him; it's what he would have wanted-"

"But he was wrong," Hero argued.

"We don't know that yet."

But Hero did know. Otherwise, Leader would have been out here. He would have dove into the cake and hugged Hero and Other Hero when they walked through the door. Then, he would have offered a dinner with a team briefing. The house shouldn't have been this silent.

As Hero made her way to the medical room, she felt her palms sweating. "Leader? Leader, are you in here?" She didn't wait to open the door, and as she did, she drew in a quick breath. Her eyes burned with tears. "Leader, oh my god. Other Hero, come here- hurry!"

Leader was crumpled against the wall, clothes torn at the seams, skin scratched in frantic, zig-zagging lines- Hero couldn't believe her eyes. "Leader, talk to me, okay? What's going on? What happened?"

Of course, Leader was in no fit shape to respond.

"I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. I killed you. I let you go by yourselves. You were dead. You were dead."

"Leader, I'm here! We're- we're both here. Other Hero, tell him you're here." And they did. They repeated it over and over again if only to stop the panic rising from Leader.

"Villain is dead!" Hero finally screamed, and although it wasn't true, and although Other Hero looked at her like she was insane, Leader stopped.

"But he killed you."

"He didn't kill us," Hero said. "We killed him. We are all safe, Leader. He's gone." Leader took heavy breaths, and staring into space, he leaned against Hero. "He's gone. It's okay," she assured. "He's gone."

Even though he wasn't gone at all.