#cigarette burns

[endofautonomy]

Siiiiiiissssssssss you didn't eat today did you? naughty girl. Welllll, you know waht big sis thinks about that. No, stop it, stop struggling. I'm just trying to help you, sillly girl. Just put your lips on my tits already, c,mooonnn big sis is soooo swolen, just help me out would you? Shut the fuck up already! Stop struggling! If you tell mom about this I'm gonna fucking hurt you again. Yeah, you had a real hard time explaining those cigarette burns to your girlfriend didn't you. Shut the fuck up and take it. just drink my fucking milk like a good slut. Be grateful i'm not throatfucking you again. oh do you want me to get the gun again? because i fucking will. shut up and be a good whore like the fucking sex toy you are.

[honeycollectswhump]

Porcelain Cracks

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, physical harm

Something is off today. Ashtray can feel it in his bones —not that it’s his purpose to make a judgement about the situation. He is only supposed to please his Mistress. 

Kneeling next to her, his golden collar connected to a leash held loosely in her hand. It’s picturesque, her beautifully manicured fingers tapping against the shining metal in something he can only hope is not annoyance.

There is no visitor today, a surprise given the collar, but he is still on his best behaviour. Mistress is only watching the TV, decorated in a golden antique frame to be hidden at will. Only his beloved Mistress could come up with such a perfect concept, combining her intricate style with the comfort of modern invention. He hopes her servants appreciate the design when they clean it. 

Mistress doesn’t seem to care much for it today though, just instead making a sound he’d never dare compare to a growl. Nevertheless, it makes him shiver. He can’t seem to stop, ever since she marked her own artwork —rightfully so!—, but he does his best to keep them under control. Barely visible to the eye, only noticeable when he is touched. 

And nowadays he rarely is.

Suddenly, she tucks at the chain, beckoning him closer. She blows her smoke into his face, drowning him out in the cloud, his eyes stinging. Finally, something familiar.

Instead of extinguishing her still-lit cigarette, she pushes his chin with a single, slender finger until he leans back, the posture tugging at his many scars.

As gracefully as possible, almost sensually, Ashtray lets his head fall back too, light blond hair spilling over his face, getting caught in his long eyelashes, his eyes closed. 

Suddenly, her nails trace the letters over his heart and they are sharp almost like—

like knives. 

Sharp, honed, new blades, with the single purpose of splitting Ashtray’s flesh with ease. 

Prolonged cutting he doesn’t dare call cruel, white lighting and red rivers. 

He is right there. All over again. 

It’s like his body reacts before he can, caught in a memory he should be grateful for if he wasn’t somehow broken.

The body flinches back, from his Mistress's holy touch.

For a moment, everything is silent. 

Ashtray stares at the ceiling, a horrible feeling of knowing washing over him. Whatever his Mistress did, rightfully, he never flinched. 

In the next second, his head snaps to the side, the loud bang of his Mistress slapping him echoing through the room.

Mistress is screaming at him, for the first time. He has never failed her before, not like this. And he can’t even comprehend her words. 

Whatever she is telling him is lost to his mind that he never quite understood. He only knows he is inferior in a way even an ashtray shouldn’t be, and he can do nothing to remedy that.

Tears pool in his eyes, as the servants drag him away from his still-shouting Mistress. When did he get so useless? 

When did his beautiful porcelain conditioning crack?

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,

@sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump

@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump

@saffitaffi let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[stefisdoingthings]

546 / unstable and radiant

[whump-blog]

Whump Art 9

Whumpee is safe, but terrified of his rescuers, or maybe he's still with Whumper, who is trying to be a better person, but Whumpee can't forget all the things Whumper did to him so easily.

[deluxewhump]

I Know You Remember Me

John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.

CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably

-

“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”

The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.

His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.

The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.

John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.

“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”

The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.

“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”

The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.

“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”

That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.

“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”

He stopped that train of thought.

“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”

The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”

He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.

He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.

“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.

“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”

Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.

“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”

The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.

“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.

“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”

He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.

“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”

He nodded again.

John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”

Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.

“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Paulo.”

He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.

“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.

John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”

Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”

An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.

He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”

“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”

Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”

“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.

“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”

The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”

“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”

John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.

The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”

Paulo glanced down.

So he’d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.

Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.

John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.

“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”

Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.

“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”

Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.

“You wanna do this next part?”

Paulo didn’t answer.

John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”

Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.

He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.

Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.

“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”

Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”

So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”

Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.

“Are you hungry?”

Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”

“…Are you scared?”

The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.

He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.

“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”

He nodded.

“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”

“To Jack?”

“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Horses. You wanna come?”

He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.

“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”

Paulo did as he asked.

Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”

He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”

“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”

“No?”

“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”

A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.

“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”

“No,” his patient said in a small voice.

“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”

It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.

John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”

“I said you could.”

“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”

Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”

He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.

When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.

“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”

He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.

Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry’ to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.

[pl-ceh-lder]

toxic yuri wip

[g0refre4k]

Hickeys are nice but not permanent. Maybe a nice cigarette burn right under my eye would do nicely..

[waterme-stories]

I hope your Deadpool/Wolverine fic is getting some fresh love from people introduced to the pairing by the new movie. Truly ahead of its time.

Yeah, I'd say it's doing alright for itself 😉

I think the characterization in "Burn Baby Burn" is pretty similar to the movie, which is surprising given that I wrote it over two years before! They love to hate each other, and will never admit how much fun they both have doing it. Combine that with the gratuitous violence of The Honda Hatefuck and we got ourselves a hit! Not too shabby for a silly gross rarepair fic that came to me in a dream!

“This what you’re looking for?” Logan asked. “This what you fucking want?” Wade swallowed hard. Rasped. “Maybe. Not what I’m not looking for.” Logan and Wade share a smoke, and celebrate Canada Day in their own special way.

(cigar kink, hate sex, bad bdsm etiquette, and gratuitous bodily injury for sexual gratification)

[elliot-amy]

Masters of Horror Cigarette Burns (2005) John Carpenter

[s3d4t3m3]

I kiss your lips u close your eyes I'll take you away to paradise~

[sister-lucifer]

Brian x Tim cigarettes? Can we get an elaboration on that?

here’s a fun piece. featuring tim’s vice turned pleasure

imagine, if you will:

tim with his face buried in a pillow, half turned onto his side and shaking while struggling to hold back tears. brian has one of his calves over his shoulder, exposing his inner thigh, which is now marked by a trail of burns from the tip of the cigarette hanging between brian’s lips. they’re both still clothed for the most part, minus tim’s pants, but his boxers are still keeping him decently modest despite his leaking hard on. brian’s expression is completely blank, but there’s a whirlpool of emotion swirling behind his eyes that tim can’t see through the blurry tears.

“please…please…” tim whispers, voice raspy and worn, but he’s not sure what he’s begging for. his nails dig into the sheets as brian adjusts his hold.

without warning another searing burn is brought down on tim’s inner thigh, making him cry out unbearably pleasurable agony. he buries his face into the pillow, tears soaking the case as his chest heaves with a sob.

brian pauses as he takes a drag, waiting to see if tim speaks, waiting to see if he lets the safe word slip past his trembling lips.

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t.

there’s a fair chance he wont even have to touch tim tonight. he might cum in his boxers just from this. either way, he’s definitely not leaving this session unscathed.

[honeycollectswhump]

i want to see ashtray get a pat on the head 🥰 and maybe a burn at the back of his throat. you know. for fun! - @whumpcloud

im very sorry it took me literal AGES to write this! at least you get some angst now :D

Smoke in His Lungs

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, burns (cigarette & other), dehumanisation, conditioning

Being used is his greatest wish, his only purpose, the one thing Ashtray knows without a doubt how to do. The months –months? he can’t remember anymore– of relentless training prepared him, made a truly polished Ashtray out of the senseless Shape he was before.  

Now, he gets rewarded with the highest honour anyone could bestow upon him: kneeling at the feet of his first and only Mistress, the one who owns his body, mind, and soul, and Ashtray couldn’t be more grateful for it. For a short moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and let himself drift in the unintelligible drift of conversation and the comforting smell of smoke.

Not for too long though.

Ashtray blinks himself to awareness again and swallows with difficulty, the tender flesh of his throat still aching with the memory of the scorching wave. Yet he knows not to flinch. Instead, he wills himself to focus on the fresh burn on his left palm, the red, inflamed blister feeling hard against the bare skin of his thigh. It burns, of course, a rush of delight coursing through him. 

Burning means he is being useful. Burning means he is a Good Ashtray and, perhaps even, a Good Boy. 

There is an ugly feeling in his stomach though, sticking to him and turning the wafting voice of his Mistress into a minefield he has no choice but to cross. Ashtray knows he is dumb, his only purpose is to serve, to obey, he doesn’t need to think. But unlike his blunt Handlers during training, his Mistress’ silky voice remains incomprehensible to him. 

It should be a fatal flaw, and maybe it eventually will be, but right now his Mistress shows endless compassion, graceful mercy, seemingly knowing her Ashtray’s limited capabilities, despite his price point. She speaks slowly, gesturing kindly to whatever area she demands of her Ashtray. And he complies –of course–, always eager to serve, and hopes that maybe one day he will memorise the meaning of her words.

This time, his Mistress elegantly points to her mouth with one slender finger, perfectly manicured, her nails sharp and red like wine. Ashtray straightens up towards her, opening his mouth, eyes closed, waiting for how he will be used this time.

Suddenly, his Mistress’ hand is in his mouth, violating, and it takes all of his training not to gag then and there, as he inhales fumes and soot. Burning engulfs his throat like a forest fire, sizzling in a place not made for it. 

Calming breaths do nothing against the threat of smoke filling his lungs. Ashtray freezes, his nails digging into his thighs like claws, tries to stop moving, stop thinking, stop breathing, until the colourful spots in his vision make room for a flurrying blur of white static. 

Then, almost as abruptly, his Mistress removes the cigarette again, leaving him only with the overwhelming taste of ash seeping into his blood and soul. 

He wants to gag. Heave. Retch. 

Ashtray waits a moment, then two, until he allows himself calm yet stuttering breaths against the fumes. In his early training that alone seemed like an impossible task, going against instincts he couldn’t explain to himself. It feels good to have his training reinforced, to show –even if only to himself– that it was worth it, that he worked hard to become the perfect luxury product for his beloved Mistress. 

Staring back down on his hands, a barely touched canvas for her markings, Ashtray can only breathe. The blister on his palm seems to have broken when he clenched his fist against his reflexes, but he barely feels the additional hurt over the charring pain all over his body, concentrated, irreparably, in his throat. But it's okay. It’s okay. It must be Okay.

It is nothing but pure mercy, when his Mistress lays her hand on top of his head, almost absentmindedly, and starts petting him in slow, gentle motions, making sure not to ruffle his prettied hair. Ashtray tries not to press into her touch, chasing a sensation he knows will be rare. It floods his body like a cooling wave and a fever high at the same time. 

Only Good Boys get pet; a blissful knowledge deeply ingrained into him. 

Good Boys take the pain they were trained for and Good Boys look graceful while doing so. 

And then, maybe, Good Boys will be rewarded with a touch so rare they can barely remember the last time they felt it.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[enbykittyfag]

joke flirting with that cute butch at the smoking table when she pretends like shes going to put out her blunt on my arm by batting my eyes all cute as i stick my tongue out nice and far for her, tapping the tip of my tongue invitingly, but instead of laughing and carrying on her eyes grow dark and she does put it out on my tongue, grabbing my jaw to make me hold still as i cry out and jerk from the pain, tasting the grit of the ash and the radiating intensity of the burn-

[whumpasaurus101]

Whumpee coughed as another cloud of smoke was blown into their face, their eyes squeezing shut as they closed their mouth shut as tight as they could.

"Oh quit being such a baby," Whumper scoffed, twirling a cigarette between their two fingers before bringing it closer and closer to Whumpee, smirking as they watcjed the other lean away with a whimper, eyes glistening with fear.

"Open up." Whumpee's mouth stayed glued shut, eyes suddenly burning with defiance, making Whumper chuckle, "Fine, have it your way," And with that, Whumper shoved the butt of the cigarette against Whumpee's cheek- soaking up the cry of pain from the younger.

Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut;

Quit being such a baby...

[unforgivenn]

SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#5: Beyond the Gilded Cage

Previous/ Masterlist/ Next

CW: Captivity, Slavery, pet whump, cigarettes :), coercion, violence, oppression, dominating whumper

Noah's heart raced as he lay on the cot, his mind swirling with dread at the thought of meeting Andrey's parents. If Andrey was anything to go by, his parents were likely to be just as cold and ruthless. He clenched his fists, willing himself to remain composed despite the fear gnawing at his insides.

True to his word, Andrey returned after what felt like an eternity of Noah being trapped in his thoughts, his presence filling the room with an oppressive weight. Noah braced himself, steeling his nerves for whatever was to come.

"Ready to meet my parents, pet?" Andrey's voice was as commanding as ever.

Noah nodded remembering the rules that Andrey had taught him, his voice barely a whisper. "Y-Yes, sir."

Noah struggled to his feet, his movements slow and pained from the so called "punishment" he had been given only a few days before. The guards moved to support him, but Andrey waved them off, wanting Noah to stand on his own. Noah swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand tall despite the agony that radiated through his body.

"Remember what I said," Andrey whispered, his breath hot against Noah's ear. "One wrong move, one hint of defiance, and you'll regret it."

Noah nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice trembling.

Andrey led him out of the room and down a long, dimly lit corridor. The air was heavy with a sense of foreboding, each step echoing like a drumbeat of impending doom. Noah's mind raced with thoughts of what awaited him, his anxiety mounting with every passing moment.

They reached a set of grand double doors, intricately carved with Russian symbols. The guards standing before the doors bowed to Andrey respectfully and then pushed them open, revealing a lavishly decorated dining hall.

At the head of the table sat two imposing figures that Noah recognized from newspapers and tabloid magazines—Viktor Kozlov, a man whose presence exuded authority and ruthlessness and with a cigarette in his hand, and his wife, Elena, whose icy beauty was matched only by the coldness in her eyes.

"Mother, Father," Andrey greeted them with a slight bow keeping a hand on Noah's back making the young boy shudder. "This is the new... acquisition."

Noah's heart pounded in his chest as he was brought forward, his gaze dropping to the floor in a gesture of submission. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his body trembling with the effort.

Viktor's eyes raked over Noah, assessing him with a critical eye. "So this is the one you've chosen," he said, his voice a deep rumble.

"Indeed, Father"

Noah's palms were slick with sweat as he tried to steady his trembling hands. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, the weight of their expectations and Andrey's simmering anger pressing down on him.

Elena finally spoke, her voice as cold as her gaze. "Andrey, dear, what are your plans for this one? He seems... delicate."

Andrey's lips curled into a smile that sent a shiver down Noah's spine. "Oh, Mother, I have plans to ensure he becomes a valuable asset to our family. He will learn to obey without question."

A cold silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Noah's heart raced, his mind desperately searching for a way to survive this encounter.

Lady Kozlov's gaze bore into him, her eyes like shards of ice. "Speak, boy. What skills do you possess?"

Skill? What the hell was he supposed to say now? He looked at Andrey from the corner of his eye who just tightened the hand on his back eliciting a small hiss of pain as his previous wounds throbbed.

Noah swallowed hard, his mind racing. "I-I can learn quickly, m-my lady," he stammered thankful he was able to think of something.

Elena arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her gaze piercing as she regarded Noah with thinly veiled contempt. "Quick learner, hm? We shall see about that."

Viktor leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Noah with a calculating intensity. "And what of your obedience, boy? Can we trust you to follow orders without question?"

Noah bit back a retort, the bitterness of his situation clawing at his throat.

"Trust?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You expect trust from someone you've chained like an animal?"

A collective gasp echoed through the room, followed by a tense silence. Andrey's fingers dug into Noah's back, his nails drawing blood as he fought to maintain his composure.

"Watch your tongue, slave," Andrey growled, his voice a dangerous whisper.

But Noah couldn't stop himself, the anger boiling within him like a cauldron ready to overflow.

"Slave?" he spat, his voice rising with every word. "I am not some piece of property for you to command at your whim!! I am a human being, fuck this! A-All of you! All of you are fucked up! Just because you have money y-you think you can do whatever the fuck you want! Where's the goddamn humanity in you ASSHOLES!" Angry tears filled his eyes.

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of Noah's words hanging heavy in the air like a curse. Andrey's face contorted with rage, his eyes flashing dangerously as he advanced on Noah, his grip on him tightening until it was almost unbearable.

"I told you one thing. One. Thing." Andrey's voice was a low growl, his fury barely contained. "I told you just not to be disobedient and you go and do just that." Andrey chuckled lowly.

Before Noah could react, Andrey's hand lashed out, striking him across the face with a force that sent him reeling. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he staggered backward, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

"O-One thing? You've kidnapped me!!" Noah lashed out, his voice going higher in pitch from crying.

Andrey was about to slap him again before Viktor held up a hand, a signal for him to stop. Viktor remained quiet before walking up to Noah, looking at him as if he was no more than just a pet waiting to be disciplined.

He held up the cigarette in his hand, making Noah's eyes move towards it in confusion before it pressed down hard on his arm.

Noah cried out in pain as the burning tip of the cigarette seared his flesh, leaving behind a sizzling trail of agony. He writhed in Andrey's grasp, the scent of singed skin filling the air as he struggled against the overwhelming pain while desperately trying to pull his arm back.

Viktor watched with a cold detachment, his expression unreadable as he observed Noah's suffering. Elena remained seated, her gaze fixed on Noah with curiosity, as if studying a particularly revolting insect.

Suddenly, the cigarette pressed down again, eliciting a scream from Noah who started sobbing in pain. The cigarette was lifted but the pain didn't go. It still felt as if his whole world went hot white.

Why is this happening to me? Another hard sob escaped him.

"You should make your pet behave, Andrey. We cannot afford to have disobedience tarnishing our reputation, especially now." Viktor spoke as he threw the cigarette aside.

Andrey's jaw tightened. "I am handling the situation, Father," he replied through gritted teeth. "Rest assured, Noah will learn his place soon enough."

Viktor's expression remained unreadable as he regarded his son, a silent challenge burning in his eyes. "See that you do." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Viktor turned away, his attention already drifting back to the matters of business that consumed his every waking moment.

Andrey then looked down at the weeping boy and started dragging him out the throne room in frustration.

Noah's sobs continued to wrack his body, each breath a painful reminder of his helplessness in the face of such merciless tyranny as Andrey continued dragging the helpless young boy.

Taglist: @miireux134 @nuriiz134 @ash-reh @noeul-whumpsss @morning-star-whump

@parasitebunny @anutz1234 @whatwasmyprevioususername @whumped-by-glitter @lordcatwich

@someoneoninternettt(let me know if you want to be added or removed :D)

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 8

Part 1 Next

Content: nonconsensual taking shirt off, beating, scars, self-blame, humiliation, ptsd, memories of child abuse, burning, on camera, gunshot injury, charmander gets ripped up :(, failed escape attempt

Michael gritted his teeth as they moved around him, masked and threatening. There were a couple other gangsters in the back with sticks and brass knuckles. They expected him to try to run. What were they about to do to him? Sweat ran down his neck. Pete had said if he behaved, he wouldn't get hurt, right?

"Okay, take off his shirt."

"No!" Michael screamed, lurching forward at the most vulnerable part of the trap--the camera.

A kick and a tug back toppled it. He caught Pete's eyes widening just before Jordie cut him off with a blow to the stomach that sent him to his knees.

"A-hah--" He cried, body lurching to retch once again.

He closed his mouth, not wanting to puke. Hands were tugging up his shirt over his back, high enough to reveal that knife scar on his shoulder blade that itched when it rained. It had been a pretty dull knife.

He could hear his breath hitching as he tried to get his lungs to fill. He clamped his arms over his back as much as he could, trying to squirm away.

"Fine, just beat him." He heard Pete growl, rummaging with the equipment.

There was a momentary pause; Michael guessed they were getting their weapons out.

He wheezed in a breath and pushed up to his feet and charged forward. Low flexibility also meant fast reflexes, so he docked under a swing and dashed past for the stairs. He'd almost reached the banister when a gunshot sounded behind him, and suddenly his leg was thrown forward as something slammed into it from behind. He staggered to catch his balance on the banister.

Hands immediately dug into his arms. It was like that triggered the pain. A pain that sprang out of his leg and flexed into his whole body.

He completely collapsed, and a second later, a scream ripped out of his lungs.

He was being dragged back in front of the damn chair, screaming, writhing in pain. A couple punches landed on his back and face on the way back.

He was on the floor, bleeding, the pain was actually getting worse, and he was losing his ability to think. His screams ended in squeaks as he tried to breath in when all he could do was keep screaming till his head tingled and his face went numb.

"Fuck, help me," He begged mindlessly, vaguely aware of a knife against his side. "Don't, don't…" He cried.

The shirt was being ripped off him with the knife.

Don't kill charmander, he thought randomly. Stupid ADHD.

A hand cupped his chin and he didn't respond. His chin was forced back and his screams gurgled against his trachea.

"Michael," Pete said. "This is what happens when you run. Now you can't."

His pants were wet.

Michael felt the dreaded sensation of the back of his shirt being torn away.

"Pete, sir, please," Michael clutched at Pete's hand.

The shirt sleeves ripped off his numbing left arm bit by bit.

Michael groaned and let go, leaning his head down on the floor again. He wanted to hide and crawl out of his skin as his scarred arms were revealed little by little.

He knew what they'd been seeing, probably wondering what kind of person he actually was.

Not much of one.

"Are those pock marks?" Someone said.

Michael's screams of pain were hoarsened and muffled down to gritted yells.

In his head he could hear Mr. Huer.

"Come here, little ashtray. Show me what you're made of."

Apparently, he was made of cotton, because he flinched and hissed every time the cigarettes pressed into his skin. The scars proved, as Mr. Huer said, that he knew he deserved them. Because they were full and round. He'd just stood there and taken it. Every. Single. Time.

No amount of "I'm not that kid" could keep the marks on his arms from burning with shame when they were exposed. He groaned, focusing in on the ripped flesh and pulsing blood from his leg.

"Alright, Michael," Pete was saying. "You're going to sit there and introduce yourself as Michael Huer, and ask for help. Got that?"

Michael could hardly understand what he was saying, and he just groaned.

"Alright," Pete said. "Go."

Suddenly the people around Michael stepped back and left him there, writhing and shirtless in the mess of his own blood, bruised and scarred. And the camera clicked on, and the sound of a skype meeting starting was quickly muted.

A suspicion grew like the catch in his throat as he picked up his head and looked at the computer.

Gabe turned it away so he couldn't see, but he caught a glimpse of his own face--dirty blond hair stuck to his forehead and mouth, face quivering in a grimace of pain.

They were all glaring at him, especially Pete.

What do I say again? What do I say? His mind was muddled when it was usually so quick. Sure, it was moving at leaps and bounds, but he was too overwhelmed to organize his thoughts.

Maybe Mr. Huer himself was watching, watching his scarred little ashtray be put in his place.

"Look, I--" His voice came out guttural and low. "Pete, please…" He shuddered. "Let me have my shirt back before I bleed out."

Gabe tossed a fragment of torn charmander at his face. His shirt was in unwearable tatters. As it fell to the floor, he caught a sob back and forced it down. He wasn't looking tough at all, despite trying his hardest to keep from acting vulnerable.

Lesson two from fucked up childhood--if you play tough for a while, they'll believe you when you beg.

"You're not going to bleed out." Pete said. "I hit your calf."

Despite a clear sense that Pete said that for whoever was watching the camera, Michael felt a sense of bolstering courage at that. They weren't wanting to kill him.

He groaned, lifting himself up to funnel every ounce of willpower into control.

"I was supposed to say something, but…" He gritted his teeth and glanced at Pete, who smiled grimly. "I'm on the west side. Past Sane Street."

Pete took a breath and clicked his tongue, and Michael grimaced.

"Fuck." He lowered his head, growling in frustration. "What do you expect? Good grief, man, it hurts!"

"Okay, Michael," Pete said, peering at Gabe's screen over his shoulder. "He says, 'I'll kill him if you don't finish him off for me.' And some language." He looked up at Michael. "Answer him."

Michael closed his eyes.

"No." He said. "That's crazy, man."

His breath sank into shudders as he waited for retaliation. All he heard was his own grunts of pain at the beginning of each breath. He hoped desperately that the Huers didn't want him, but at the same time, if they didn't, the Westsiders had no reason to keep him alive. If Mr. Huer himself was involved, maybe that was better anyway.

He didn't want to be undercover anymore.

"Ha." Gabe scoffed, gesturing at the computer. "He thinks we'll let him talk to him alone?"

"Alright, go, everyone." Pete said. They all hesitated in surprise. "I said go. Give them space. Gabe, turn the laptop."

They unplugged everything so Michael was looking straight at the laptop.

"Spill a tear for me," Gabe jerked a thumb into Michael's bruised cheek on the way past.

Michael winced, trying to sit so he didn't flex his destroyed calf.

And then the camera on the other side flickered on, and Michael saw the Huer on the other end.

Taglist! Almost forgot

@fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whump-writings @mimostic @tildeathiwillwrite