#lindsay00000008

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

Part 1 (Next)

CW: panty-thief, suggestive fluff

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley who just loves handling the frustrating, mundane, mildly-anxiety-inducing issues in JustAFriend!Reader’s life.

For a man who’s been through… everything, nothing phases him. Not the phone call to pressure your old landlord into giving you back your deposit, not the broken dryer and the giant pile of wet laundry that needs to be hung in increasingly ridiculous locations, not the stray cat birthing a mewling litter on your doorstep in the middle of winter, or the neighborhood’s package thief stealing your delivery of what may be something electric and flower-shaped.

If you didn’t know any better (you don’t), you’d say he gets a kick out of it, how easily he handled these things compared to you. His take-no-bullshit demeanor, coupled with the respect afforded to those who earn it, smooths things over fairly quickly with difficult people.

He’s handy and likes taking things apart — he’s sure you won’t miss the dusty lace panties he finds slipped under the dryer’s barrel when he bullies the metal frame open (they were your favorite, where on earth did they go??)

When the kittens are a few weeks old and Simon comes to visit with more supplies, they snuggle up under his chin as he slumps on the rug, the furious blush from your earlier teasing (“Daddy’s home!”) warming him from his cheeks to his toes and making him the most cozy spot in the room. He waves off the offer of a hot drink and tells you to “Open a window or sumin’, the lil’ bastards are smotherin’ me”.

When he catches the package thief red-handed on his way up to your door — a fourty-something woman who talks at him louder and meaner than anyone has in a long while — he gives his best impression of a bull at the edge of an unmarked field, making his territory known with a wild look rather than words. When he sets the package down on the kitchen counter, along with the ingredients for tonight’s Thursday Dinner Experiment, he prompts you to open it. “Wanna see what my hard work has earned ya.”

You slice the tape and pop open the cardboard before you remember — and slam the flaps back down. That has his attention. “Whatcha got there, lovie?” He crowds in behind you, looking over your shoulder and grinning, lopsided so you can only see the smirk on the left of his mouth when you turn your head to stammer, “uhh n-nothing, just this stupid book someone recommended me. Can’t let the gang know I fuck with hockey romance, haha.”

“Hockey, huh?” He huffs and leans his elbow on the counter, half of his body still behind you somehow. You pull the box close to your chest, hands shifting to best keep it closed.

“Lemme just take this to my room and we can start making-“

“You’d deprive a man of valuable literary experience?”

“No, nuh-uh,” you dance away as he grabs for it teasingly, fast enough to make you panic but not too fast you can’t get away. A play fight. Your pulse thrums fast in your chest, like it always does when he gets that calculating glint in his eye. It’s thrilling, the way his shoulders shift and settle low, and his touch comes gentle and fast, his face a terrifying mask with that piercing glint of playfulness just barely hidden. You usually love this game. But he cannot see this.

His hand rushes towards you as you skirt backwards into the living room, his fingers tangling in the tape hanging from the box. It tears away and you shriek a laugh at his efforts, leaving him with nothing but another opening as you twist to run to your room. But you don’t count on another opponent entering the ring: the rug — trundled up the stairs by the man himself, the previous one sacrificed to the God of Foster Cats — still new and curling at the edge.

He must not expect it either. Before you’ve fully turned you’re falling into the couch, catching his arm in a bid to save yourself. He goes down too, landing atop you. Your “Oomph”s mingle together in the suddenly still air. His big body makes it impossible to breathe until he lifts up on his arms and takes stock of the situation. He eyes snag on the box where it’s fallen, the shiny inner box and red packing grass spilled out on the rug. You attempt to wriggle out before he sees. Your legs are firmly pinned between his own. You wait for him to laugh.

“Well that,” he breathes, not a giggle in sight. He settles his eyes on you with a look of hot reproach. “That is not a book.”

He hopes it’s broken. That’s a problem of yours he’d love to have a hand in solving.

(Next)

[lindsay00000008]

More of Whumper forcing Whumpee to disobey

[CW: general torture, general whump]

Using a substance to influence inhuman Whumpee’s claws, fangs, wings to appear, or to shift forms, then punishing them when they lose control [“You dare bare your teeth at me? You are nothing but a worm beneath my heel. I’ll show you what happens to those who disrespect me.”]

Spelling Whumpee to only speak the truth, then punishing them for their beliefs and opinions [“What do you think of me?” “I thin-“ Whumpee grits their teeth- “think you’re the most vile waste of air the gods have ever created” “Well. That’s no way to speak to me, now is it?”]

Putting someone else in Whumpee’s cage, then igniting them with feral bloodlust [“Look what you’ve done to your new friend. I worked so hard to bring someone for you to play with, but it seems you’d rather be alone. So be it.” Meanwhile, Whumpee is coming back to themselves and sobbing over the mess they’ve made, having ruined their one chance at connection]

Whumper provides food, water, and small comforts, but Whumpee is punished for accepting them [“Shhh, darling you took the bread yesterday, and the tunic the day before. Just a few more bruises and I’ll consider your debt paid. Don’t whine about it now. You can afford it after all, can’t you?”]

Whumpee is not allowed to speak. But when something comes to light about their past and Whumper needs information from them, they find it’s impossible to get [“I command you to speak! You have a voice — you still are able to scream and yet you do not answer me. The pain will be over if you give me what I desire!” Whumpee just shakes their head, forcing down pained whines. They’re in a state of unending panic — after years being tortured for even the slightest vocalization, any decision they make will surely end in misery. So they keep their mouth shut, and it only prompts Whumper to retaliate harder.]

whumper pushing whumpee to the ground, ordering them to get back up, and kicking them back down each time they try. repeat as many times as you like. especially w whumper getting more snippy each time.

“i said get up” while they’re making it physically impossible

physically and mentally exhausting them in addition to hurting them. forcing whumpee to participate in their own abuse.

[kabie-whump]

Out-of-character-Onthyes snippet!

I'm about to delete this part of the next R,ATF chapter because it's pretty out of character for Onthyes but I also really like it so here's a little treat for y'all <3

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-whumpstuff @morning-star-whump @purity-weeps

@sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck @wounds-seen-and-unseen @3-2-whump

@looptheloup @lindsay00000008 @rainydaywhump @scoundrelwithboba @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

@saffitaffi @ravenqueen21 @tomato-whump

[lindsay00000008]

More quiet whump :)

Inspired by this post by @defire

[CW: general abuse, whump in public, hiding abuse and injuries]

Keeping Whumpee in line.

Whumper doesn’t need to deal threats when they can simply deal consequences.

Shock collars are far too gaudy for a night out, not to mention conspicuous. Whumpee wears thick bands around their wrists instead, hidden beneath their sleeves, making their hands clench and shake whenever they’re activated.

The sharp pinch of a guiding hand on the sensitive skin of Whumpee’s ribs. A “friendly” hand on Whumpee’s shoulder, grinding collar bones and fraying nerves. The quick step of a heavy boot on the toe of a cloth shoe. Whumper leaves bruises where no one else will see.

Whumper with a painful magic touch. What looks like a gentle caress can come with the bite of thorns. It’s starting to hurt whether or not the magic is used. God forbid Whumpee flinches in front of Whumper’s friends, or their enemies…

A more severe punishment is sometimes required. But no need to be dramatic or cause a scene, just find a quiet place to get Whumpee back on track…

Whumpee is backhanded, the blow startling them to fall to their knees. Whumper’s expression never even changes. They just continue walking, expecting - demanding - Whumpee to keep up.

Whumpee has their knee kicked out from behind, making them drop, and their hair is gathered and pulled in an unrelenting grip. They gasp as their head is pulled back, their airways straining. Then, as quickly as it started, they’re released with a shove.

Whumper pulls Whumpee into a dark corner and wraps their hand around Whumpee’s throat. It’s jarring, yet the action itself is slow, tempered; every twitch of muscle fiber spelling out Whumper’s intention. Whumpee tries to apologize, but their breath emerges limp from the crushed airway. Just when their eyes burn and flash with dots and darkness - like a thousand cigarette stubbings - Whumper let’s go. They stare at Whumpee then, watching the heaving lungs and the shuffling, unsteady feet. Then - maybe the flash of a pleased smirk, too quick to tell - they turn away.

Actions speak louder than words, even in Whumper’s personal domain.

When Whumpee says anything other than what Whumper wants to hear, their head is forced under cold water. They’re sputtering and gasping for breath before the next shove, and Whumper gives them no hints as to how to end the torture. They can only guess wrong, and drown again.

Whumper likes the way their whumpee responds to the snap of their fingers. The sound, after alerting Whumpee to a mistake, used to be immediately followed by pain. A fist to the side of the head, a dose of magic poisoning the blood, an ear-splitting scream transposed into their thoughts. Now it’s followed by silence. Of course Whumpee still flinches, still cowers, still tries to right the wrongs. They know about the mental tally Whumper keeps. How Whumper likes the efficiency of this new tactic — how Whumper also likes that if they hold off on the impulse to punish Whumpee in the moment, they’ll have plenty of time to think of something better. Something a lot more fun.

Was gonna make this an even three but I’m tired lmao

Bonus

Whumpee is restrained and muzzled. They’re being spoken about, but not to, and they feel like an observer in their own torment. Are they being sold? Examined? Evaluated? Mocked? Even cooed or awed over, they’ll feel the shame of their silence and inability to participate. They can only glare… that is, if they can get away with it.

[lindsay00000008]

Whumpee who seems to be getting less attention from Whumper-

-and that terrifies them. They don't want Whumper's attention. It only brings pain, humiliation, discomfort. But Whumpee has seen what happens when Whumper loses interest. It's the reason they're there.

They don’t know if Whumper will like it better if they break or stay disobedient, so they shift wildly back and forth. They need to be interesting to stay alive. Their fear, which once kept them defensive, now makes them shout at Whumper, looking for ways to get under their skin (though they doubt it's even possible). When tortured now Whumpee may laugh, beg, or stay silent according no discernible pattern. Sometimes they roll their eyes at Whumper brandishing their weapon of choice, other times they cry and drool and babble nonsense.

It's incredibly convincing. At first, Whumper suspects Whumpee has gone mad. It would make sense, after all they've gone through. But this Whumpee was chosen - curated - for their mental durability. They thought for sure Whumpee's body would go before their brain. Any other way was wasteful. Distasteful to Whumper, for the way it would take the witness from behind Whumpee's eyes.

Upon closer investigation, Whumper realizes Whumpee's game. It pleases Whumper that Whumpee wants so desperately to be a good toy. They wonder at the challenge of getting this new personality to break - removing the mask, cracking into the bedrock. How might it be to truly break the mind before the body?

So they give Whumpee all sorts of new rules, just to see how far it’ll go. New confusions, new substances, new comforts and environments. New ways to fail, new punishments and rewards. Whumper should thank Whumpee, for expanding their world. Maybe it was their fault all along that their Whumpees eventually turned dull.

Now Whumpee curses themselves. They'd tried to make their imprisonment more interesting to Whumper. But it looks like Whumper has just taken them up on the challenge.

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

Part 2 (Prev)

CW: suggestive fluff, bad jokes, boners, reader is willfully dumb, author doesn’t know where this story is going but wants to write more parts anyway, first cod fic actually send help, is he smiling too much? Idk, happy ghost I guess

“Well that… that is not a book.”

Ghost’s eyes lock onto yours, too close for comfort. Your whole body flushes, and your stomach dips. This situation is way out of hand. His breath huffs and his body tenses, and your skin tingles with the charge in the air — the playfight isn’t over.

You do the only thing you can think of. You wriggle your arm between the two of you and cover his mouth with your palm, using his surprise to smoosh his face away from yours and twisting your body to the side. Both of you roll off the couch and onto the floor. You’re on top, and ready to break away, to end the fight with a handshake and burning cheeks.

But you gasp as his legs come up and around your hips, and his arms catch your torso and head, bringing you into his hips like a tree to a bear.

“Simon!” you yelp, though it sounds more like Fimom, the word getting lost in his meaty shoulder. His hold is gentle but stiff, and it’s impossible to go anywhere. You shift your body, feeling like you’ve been gift-wrapped by a professional knot-maker. “Mmph…” you give up and let your body relax on top of his.

After a few moments of heavy silence he sighs and relaxes his grip.

“Mmm,” he purrs. “This is nice…”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up as he finally allows you to move.

“If you wanted a cuddle you could’ve just asked,” you tell him, rolling off him to land on your back.

“I meant the roughhousing,” he deadpans, turning his head to watch you.

“Oh, of course. My mistake,” you quip back. Then you remember the box on the floor and jolt upright, stuffing the contents back in before stumbling to your feet and heading to your room, your shoulder tensed for a possible pounce. But it seems playtime is over, and you make it to your room without a fuss. You toss the small box on your bed, then change your mind and put it in a drawer instead.

When you return, Simon is in the kitchen, peeling the dry outer layers away from an onion.

“You can just cut it in half and it’d be easier to get those bits off,” you tell him.

“It’s not clean,” he retorts.

“You’re worried about a little dirt?”

“No,” he doesn’t elaborate, but keeps peeling it anyway. You settle into his side and smile, taking the skin off a second onion. How silly, that this man cares so much for grocery store germs, when he probably had days at a time in the field where he couldn’t even wash his hands?

When he finishes peeling his onion, he washes his hands again, and even rinses the onion, before grabbing the knife. You follow the routine, not wanting to gross him out or overstep. You guess it may be an overcorrection, him trying to be as clean as possible when he can. You just don’t remember seeing these tendencies when he’s made food for himself, those times you came over after your own early dinner. In fact, this may be the first time he’s cooked for you.

“You want to become God, then?” You joke, feeling a bit lame.

“What?”

“Cleanliness. Close to godliness.”

He shrugs. “You deserve a clean onion.”

That’s makes you snicker. “You must think so highly of me. Odd, considering you’ve seen the kind of messes I make when I cook for you.”

He smiles at that. You’re thinking of the time you accidentally heated up soup in a soapy pot. Simon had half of his bowl before you took a bite, only commenting that he must have that rogue cilantro gene. But he could be thinking of one of the many other food mishaps that occurred under your hospitality.

As he chops, you bend down and pat his leg to scooch, so you can access the cabinets beneath him. He tilts his hips and steps away — but not before you notice the bulge tightly packed behind his zipper. As you nonchalantly grab the glass bowl and pan you need, your head spins. Is this some odd side effect of cutting onions? Your eyes sting, you cry, you pop a boner…

Or was it because he just had your body under him, atop him, picturing you using your recent delivery…?

No. It’s not you he’s reacting to, he’s just a guy. He just got a little excited, got his blood pumping for a play fight with his bestie. That’s normal. But you can’t help thinking how you have this giant, manly — sexual man in your kitchen. How you ever managed to disregard that fact in the first place.

You’ve stalled after placing the pan on the stove, and you don’t realize until a handful of minced onion hits the pan in front of you.

“Oh wait, the oil,” you tell him, looking up at his face. He looks concerned for you, and maybe a little warm himself, a pink flush on his cheeks.

“Just poured some. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah… Water?”

He grunts his confirmation. You open the fridge to find the filter empty. You sigh.

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

(Next)

[lindsay00000008]

Outdoor Pet Whumpee

CW: dehumanization, the usual pet whump stuff

Whumpee hates when it’s sunny.

When it’s sunny, being outside in the heat is miserable. Their exposed skin burns, and their lips get cracked and dry, even when they lay under the big tree. Whumper asks a favor for each sip of water, demands more for the lemonade they sip lazily on the shaded patio. Most of the time it’s not worth it. But all this is better than asking to stay inside where it’s cool — where worse treatment awaits them. Still, Whumper puts aloe on the burns, cream on the bug bites, and switches out the chains for ropes. So, there’s that at least.

It’s nice when it storms.

The sound of rain is soothing, and the thunder a satisfying rumble over the trees. It makes Whumper forget about Whumpee for a while, content to work in the garage with the door wide open or rest near the fireplace. Makes it easier for Whumpee to cry without notice. Makes it easier to move around the yard unnoticed. All the water they could want, falling from the heavens. Whumper can’t take that away from them.

Whumpee doesn’t know how to feel about the first winter.

They’re allowed inside more often, overnight, allowed to sit in front of the fireplace. Whumper takes the time to wash the frost out of their hair when they get home, and towels them off instead of letting them air dry. Whumper even gives them a sweater to wear over their undies, oversized and thick and cable knit like the one Whumper wears to work sometimes. Whumper lets Whumpee up on the couch, when they’re clean, to drape them over their lap. Whumpee can’t help but take advantage of the warmth Whumper’s body provides.

For the daytime, when Whumper is away, Whumper buys them a little doghouse, traditional and red with a tin roof. The floor is plastic, which is better than the cold ground, and the walls shield them from the worst of the wind. Whumpee isn’t surprised when Whumper tells them they aren’t allowed to enter for the day without Whumper’s permission. And what does that permission cost them? A quick cuddle, or eating off the floor? Out of Whumper’s hand? Do they have to wear the heavy chain collar all night, or have their arms tied behind their back?

[lindsay00000008]

YES AND (OR),

What if caretaker battles against the odds and triumphs against Whumper — they’re bruised and beaten, but grinning wildly, ear to ear, thinking they’ve just saved Whumpee. They claim their prize, the keys from Whumper’s pockets, and enter the deepest part of the lair, barely looking at the last few henchman they finish off. They find the cell. They open it. And it’s just Whumpee 2.

They look around in a panic, but it’s the only cell. Whumpee 2 has long since stopped pleading for better things, long since stopped pulling at the chains, so they just watch Caretaker as they move in and out of the space in a daze, hearing their steps go and return. Only a faint spark of hope lights in their chest. But they saw how henchman was so easily disposed of. They wonder what would happen to them if they told Caretaker the one they were looking for was dead. If they would last the time it took so finish the sentence, or if Caretaker would break and end Whumpee’s suffering. Or maybe they would help Whumpee. But would they really, if all they had been fighting for had already been lost? Whumpee sees it now, the way Whumpee 1 spoke of a tall, menacing beast of a Caretaker, but with a heart of gold inside — a heart hidden from Whumpee when quiet, cold eyes finally stop their frantic searching and find their own.

“Where are they?”

Whumpee swallows. Shakes their head. “Gone.”

“Gone?” Caretaker’s voice is flat.

“They’re… they’re dead.”

Everything is still. Silent.

“When?”

The word breaks the air. It scorches Caretaker’s tongue, abraids Whumpee’s ear.

“I dont know, it’s- it’s hard to tell how-“

“When?” Caretaker’s voice shakes. “Please.”

“Weeks ago,” Whumpee whispers.

“H-… How?”

Whumpee shakes their head again.

“It wasn’t- I don’t think you-“ Whumpee can’t tell them. Can’t relive what had almost been their fate. It makes their empty stomach churn. Their eyes burn, too dry for tears. They feel a mass of guilt and sick relief when Caretaker looks away, putting the question aside.

“And then?”

“And then…? O-oh.” And then. “I buried them. Whumper wasn’t there, they made me dig- I-I said a prayer, I wanted to do it right, but it- but it was just me. I can show you if…”

The words almost make Whumpee gag. Here they are, delivering the news to Caretaker, whose loved one died in their stead, and they have the gall to ask for their own freedom?

Caretaker nods, though they look so far away Whumpee isn’t sure they’ve heard. Whumpee’s shoulders twinge from their position, and they wince when their chains clink. Caretaker looks at them them, takes a step towards them— Whumpee flinches away.

“I wouldn’t leave you here,” Caretaker says. Their voice is flat again. Strained against their teeth. It sounds like a lie, even to Caretaker. But they move slowly around Whumpee and take the manacles in hand. Whumpee’s skin is mangled by the rough metal edges. But they hold their breath as Caretaker tries several keys. When the manacles come off, they pull at Whumpee’s skin, sticky with old blood.

“Was Whumpee…” was Whumpee 1 like that too?

Whumpee 2 doesn’t answer. They aren’t sure what they should do. They don’t think Whumpee 1 would have wanted Caretaker to know everything. And Whumpee 2 has reasons for keeping things to themselves. But they can say this much.

“Thank you.”

They meet eyes for a long moment as Whumpee rises. Then, not wanting to push their luck, Whumpee 2 nods jerkily in what they hope comes off as a respectful goodbye. But before they take two steps Caretaker steps in their way.

“Wait, don’t — come with me.”

Whumpee looks at them, certain Caretaker couldn’t want Whumpee to burden them any longer.

“I mean,” Caretaker says, “it just feels… wrong. Like, I’m going to walk away from here and it will be like, like I’m still looking. If you came with me, I could…”

“I don’t want to… be that reminder for you.”

“Please, not like that, just… just let me help you. Just for a while. And it’ll be…” Caretaker’s eyes are clear, but they blink hard. “All this, it’ll be worth something.”

Something passes between the two.

Whumpee nods.

“Ok. Good. Ok.” Caretaker repeats, like they’re trying to keep themselves awake. “Let’s go.”

Caretaker walks steady and slow, but doesn’t touch Whumpee as they leave, even when Whumpee stumbles on the crumbling stone, avoiding the lifeless bodies littered about the place. When they feel the sunlight on their face, it’s surreal. Whumpee 2 had buried Whumpee 1 in the dead of night, with only cold wind and a sliver of moon for company. Whumpee 2 was so sure it would happen that way for them too, that the sun would never again warm even their bones.

They can’t help but wonder, when Caretaker finds out the truth, will they be made to dig that grave, too? What time would they be laid to rest?

If Caretaker bothered to say a prayer, would Whumpee deserve it?

caretaker breaking into whumper's trying to save whumpee, but they find whumpee's corpse and a new whumpee tied up next to it

[lindsay00000008]

Conditioned whumpee thoughts

CW: conditioned whumpee, nonconsensual nudity, manhandling

No hesitation when told to strip. They just do it. Are they about the get whipped? Examined? Bathed? Doesn’t matter, they move with efficiency and a lack of self consciousness that only comes of having no sense of self. If it’s caretaker asking them to disrobe, they can be shocked at just how easily whumpee complies — and the marks beneath the clothing they shed.

Going frozen and limp in the grasp of someone bigger or stronger than them. Whether they had made up their mind to fight, or were looking for affection from a caretaker, their brain is overridden with the sensation of frailty, of failure, the kind of learned danger that makes them want to hide and play dead. Especially delicious with monstrous supernatural whumpers. A large hand on the back of their neck, an arm around their shoulders, a touch to their face. Any thought of resistance is no more than a leaf on the wind.

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

A little worldbuilding for ya. Enjoy! Maybe next will be a how-they-met drabble.

Part 3 (Prev)

CW: cursing, reference to solo hanky panky

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

So it turns out a honey glaze can catch fire in the air fryer. Who knew?

The Thursday Dinner Experiment dissolves into a slapdash affair of side veggies (sautéed onions, broccoli and peppers) with frozen beef and bean burritos as the main course. You and Simon settle on a movie to offset the stress of dousing the flames, have a couple more beers on the couch, and talk about the project Simon wants to complete before his next gig.

“Built-ins.”

“Incredible. Love a good built-in.”

His fixer-upper has been the highlight of his time off, it seems. Not a distraction, per se. You get the feeling he likes the act of creation, healing the house and seeing the effect of his work in measurable ways. He says he intends to sell it for profit, but those times you see him at work it’s a bit hard to believe.

“The roof is all fixed then?”

“Mm,” he gives a more-or-less wave of his hand, and you snicker.

“Remind me not to sleep over. Or would you hold an umbrella for me?”

He huffs and takes a swig of his drink.

“Oh, hey have you heard from Johnny lately?”

He gives you a look that seems to say o‘course I have, and you continue.

“Ok yeah, I just meant I haven’t been able to get ahold of him in a bit.”

“Some’n you need?”

“Um, it’s more like I owe him,” you chuckle. “He told me I could buy him dinner but he’s been slippery.”

Simon snorts, covering his mouth and nose before beer can spout forth.

“What?” You smile, bewildered at his sudden humor.

“Hmm. Johnny... yeah, you could say he’s slippery.”

“Is this a sex thing? Cause I remember that story Johnny told at the bar and it really-“

“Nah,” Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, “Nah it’s not a sex thing. It's a... work thing. Inside joke.”

"Oh, haha..." You laugh faintly, that familiar, outside-looking-in feeling creeping up. You're not exactly sure what Simon does for work. You've been friends for two years now, and see him constantly for those periods of time when he's home, but there's still so much you're in the dark about. You don't need to know these things to enjoy your time together. And Simon seems comfortable separating his work from his daily life. Besides his attachment to his coworker Johnny, of course, the two closer than brothers.

Sometime you think they're in some kind of international mafia. Simon shows up after a month away looking like he's been steamrolled and blown up, with trinkets and treats from places far away. Specialty coffee, a tiny stained glass lamp, an ocarina engraved with a lily. The military maybe - but you've had friends in the military, a cousin who joined the marines even, and this feels very different.

Simon rubs his mouth, slotting the bridge between his thumb and forefinger beneath his nose, an action you've noticed seems to sooth him. Perhaps he's thinking the same things, feeling the secrets between you. You want to pull him away from the thought, show him you're fine with however much he can give you. Your friendship is all that matters.

"So he's good yeah? Just busy, then?"

"Hm. Bloke's fine, probably just joined a knittin' club or sum'in. I'll ask 'im."

"Hah. Well like I said, it's repayment, for that time he spotted me at Hooligan's. Don't want to be a bother."

Simon levels you with a serious look.

"He'd be a big idiot to turn down your offer."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Why are you avoiding her, ya big idiot?" Simon accuses Johnny when he phones him later that night.

"Oh 'am the idiot? Yer the one who can't see 'am tryin' to give ye room to make a move on the lass."

"Fuck righ' off Soap, we're just friends. Thought the two o' you were friends too, but you're making her wonder."

"She'll ge' over it. But you won't ge' over it if she goes out with me and falls for my charms, no' will ya?"

"Gimme a break."

"Look. I like her. Which is why I'm backin' off. It's no' so rare for me to have a wee crush. But the second I saw you makin' goo-goo eyes-"

"I do not make-"

"Hush it, LT. 'Am just tryin'a give ye yer best shot. She's the first thing ye think of when comin' off deployment, yeah? 'Ah know, I see it in ye every time. One day you'll thank me."

"Look, just..." Simon speaks through a raging blush, his voice a grumble that sounds grumpier than he really feels, "call her back, would ya? Go grab a coffee or something. I'm not pressed. If she likes you... I'll deal. Don't count on it though. She's too smart for you."

"Sure LT. I'll do it for you, alright? Kisses,"

"Soap..."

"Yeah, LT?"

"Fuck off."

"'Night, LT."

"G'night."

Simon tosses the phone to the floor beside the bed and curses up at the ceiling, rubbing his hot face. His mind turns back to the wrestling that afternoon. The way he "accidentally" fell atop you when you tripped, how you were enveloped perfectly beneath his body, the way your eyes widened and cheeks flushed when you both looked at the salacious packaging spilling out of the nondescript cardboard box. Oh, how he wanted to tease you relentlessly. Give in to the desire to drag your pure, ladylike demeanor through the mud and then lick it all off. If he said the things he was itching to say, would you cover your ears, or laugh? Would you bite back? What would happen then, on that couch, if you hadn't scurried away when you did? The images take him away.

It's a long time before he finds sleep, his hands too rough and knowledgable to truly satisfy.

He can't go on like this. Not forever. But what else can he do?

Taglist:

If you've given me love in the comments or reblogs I've added you too! Thanks for the support! Lmk to add/remove.

@littleghostbride, @cmbghost, @anotherrickinthewall, @etherealinthewoods

P.S. About Simon's mask

My sister told me she was confused as to why Simon doesn't have a mask in these drabbles. I have the idea that he keeps his civilian life so entirely separate from work that he can't wear a mask all the time for fear people might make that connection. People know him in the field as the guy who always wears the mask, right? He has two identities. With the mask, and without. Ghost, and Simon. He does still wear a plain black KN95 on errands, citing health awareness (it's really his anxiety). But when he's comfortable at home or with friends (even at his favorite bar, sometimes), he takes it off. That's my headcannon, anyway.

[lindsay00000008]

[Whump]

The dynamics of forced self harm

CW: manipulation, psychological torture, self harm, general whump physical harm, bloodletting

Whumper makes whumpee slap themselves across the face after a punishment. They soon learn to use a good amount of force, as Whumper requires. Eventually the act of hurting themselves is tainted with the sweet ache of knowing the punishment is over.

Whumper has whumpee kneel and present their hands when they make a mistake. Whumper will grind their boot on the fragile bones, unquestioning of what act preceded it. They don’t even need to know of Whumpee’s mistakes to punish them. Whumpee presents themselves for punishment instinctually now. It’s almost as if Whumper is no longer part of the equation.

Whumpee bleeds for their supernatural whumper. Whether a deity or a vampire or something else entirely, the Whumper requires an offering, and the whumpee is beholden to them. Whumpee keeps their ceremonial blade close by, ready to cut into their flesh in an instant if their master desires it. If not for sustenance, then for show of loyalty. It doesn’t really matter why. The master demands, and the servant provides.

[lindsay00000008]

CW: Fem!whumpee, Male!Whumpers, burning at the stake, religious insults, mentions of noncon/breeding & body horror, malnourishment & passing out

The man speaks as he piles wood around the pyre.

“The beasts would keep you caged, like a prized cow for milking. Your wicked blood must not fall into their hands.”

The ropes tying Whumpee to the sturdy wood make her ache. Her throat, her arms, her waist and ankles. Her skin crawls with the sensation of grime and rough fabric, with the useless urge to flee. She’s long since stopped speaking, stopped pulling at the restraints. She’s burning already.

Another man comes to douse the wood with oil and old wine. The stench makes Whumpee’s head jerk as she tries not to gag, her stomach empty enough as it is. But what does that matter, if the only way she’s to leave this pyre is in black flakes, carried by the wind?

Whumpee doesn’t even get a moment of silence to contemplate this as the second man speaks. “They’d drain you every night, leaving just enough to keep you alive, and they’d breed you in the hopes you’ll make a child with god-forsaken blood. And as soon as it’s ripped from your womb, they’ll feed on ‘im too.”

“It’d not be a child what comes from the mixing of a devil and a witch. A thing like that’d tear itself out the womb,” the first replies, shuddering even as he cracks a long stick over his knee and tosses the pieces on.

“This is a mercy,” he repeats.

The two circle her, cracking sticks and tossing hay and volatile liquids, and soon she doesn’t feel the sting on her aching feet. They’ve stopped talking now, thankfully. Their quiet rhythm is hypnotizing.

Whumpee almost weeps when she feels her mind go numb, weakened by lack of food and water, by spending so much time on a cold stone floor. She doesn’t need to be here for this. It will happen and that will be it. Hopefully she won’t wake up again.

And so she isn’t aware that the torch never lights the stack. She doesn’t hear the way the men fall to the ground with two thuds in quick succession, or the way her body slumps into cool, strong arms when the ropes are cut in one long swipe.

All she knows, all she feels in the darkness of her mind, is that perhaps they were right. Perhaps this really is a mercy.

Whump prompt:

"This is a mercy compared to what they would do to you."

[lindsay00000008]

CW: Med whump, stalking, drugs/poison, escaped whumpee, blood

Thinking about this post again, whump happens in a “safe” environment where it’s witnessed by people who want to help, and it’s very very nice that they’re just acquaintances because it opens a dynamic that’s so new and scary but so good. There’s also a lot to be said for a whumpee who is just focused on doing a good job, not messing up, not causing a scene, and other recognizing that they need support. Great post OP.

Here’s some more public whump prompts:

Whumpee having a medical emergency during a meeting. (They seize and choke and their least friendly (read: tsundere) coworker jumps into action, clearing space and ordering people to call 911, bring an AED, wait in the lobby to direct EMS, get the building coordinator)

Whumpee being stalked menacingly on their way to an early morning class. (They rush in flushed and close to tears and they slam the door to the small room with too many oak built-ins. The professor stops his conversation with one of the few students and looks concerned, and Whumpee doesn’t know how to explain until a thud sounds on the door behind them and it’s almost pushed open, only stopped by Whumpee’s rigid body. An angry voice shouts Whumpee’s name. The students shriek and Whumpee pleads for someone to help block the door. No one hesitates to rush forward and lend their strength. “Do they have a gun?” “Call the police!” “Whumpee get behind me”)

Whumpee has been trying and failing to get a new job. (Their industry is already competitive, and they seem to be having the strangest bad luck every time they go in for an interview. They aren’t usually a nervous person. They can’t be, to work in such a demanding profession. But whenever they go to meet a prospective employer, their palms sweat and their voice turns stuttering. They feel faint and flushed all over. This time, it’s too much, and halfway through, they pass out. They wake up in a hospital to a report that strange toxins have been found flooding their system. They’ve been poisoned. And their interviewer is sitting beside them with a hard, calculating look of concern, angry on Whumpee’s behalf.)

Whumpee escapes from whumper, and stumbles their way through the city, looking like a dirty vagabond. (Street rat, people think as they pass. Whumpee’s old workplace looms ahead of them, the route they’ve taken worn into ruts in their tired subconscious mind. Can they ask for help there? Their coworkers are shocked when they get a call that a homeless person needs medical attention in the lobby — then panicked when they realize this is a person they used to work with. Someone who disappeared several months ago. The cops come and assume they have mental health issues, drug addiction. They must be a criminal, the way they ran up to the receptionist’s desk with rolling eyes and grabbing fingers. A makeshift weapon is found in their pocket, splatters of blood on it and on their hands. Whumpee wakes up dizzy and disoriented, handcuffed even as paramedics tends to their wounds. The coworkers shout at the cops for their rough treatment, some trying to offer clothes and food, others crying in relief and fear for Whumpee. “They wouldn’t have gone off on their own!” “Something terrible must have happened to them…” “Don’t grab them like that!” “Why don’t you go and find out who did this, instead of harassing Whumpee? Can’t you see they’re in pain?”)

[lindsay00000008]

Low to the ground, limited movement whump inspo.

Whumpee can roam a little, but their environment keeps them on their hands and knees.

CW: dehumanization, captive whump

The chain is attached to a track on a fence, it’s shape a broad square like an oversized puppy kennel. Crouched at the perimeter sits Whumpee, grinding their teeth and straining against the chain, only given enough room to lay on the floor or kneel. They can crawl around the edges (if they forsake their pride), but can’t leave the wall. In the middle of the fenced area, hands held calmly behind their back, an older Whumpee watches them. It’s a simple boost up and over the wall for them to exit the ring, but right now they have work to do, and the shouting and snapping of teeth isn’t scaring them. Breaking this new Whumpee, like they were broken, is their task. How else will the Whumpee know what they’re supposed to do in the future, when the chain is lengthened and they’re allowed to stand?

Whumpee is confined to what seems like little more than a chicken run, leading from one end of the darkened study to the other. There is nowhere to curl up away from the glorified cage walls. Gold plated grids surround them on three sides. The red cushions that sit atop it block some light and sound, but they do nothing to make Whumpee feel more secure. Especially when Whumper sits atop it to read, their foot tapping against the cage with little rattling clang clang clangs. Each one makes them flinch. When the clangs stop, Whumper makes their way to the end of the tunnel and cooes at Whumpee to come get their lunch. It’s a stressful, anticlimactic event, as Whumpee crawls along the dusty floor, as is expected of them. They stop a foot and a half from the gate. The little hinges creak, and Whumper is placing a plate of grapes and crackers on the floor. Whumpee doesn’t move. The gate closes, and Whumper praises Whumpee for their patience, their obedience. But their singsong tone drops when they see Whumpee meet their eyes and turn away without touching the food, stretching out on their stomach like they couldn’t care less. They flinch when a kick lands on the side of their cage. But they hide their smirk behind their folded arms.

[lindsay00000008]

Pet whump society headcanons

CW: Dehumanization, systemic pet whump, ableism (mention of “changelings”), allusion to apartheid with “pet only” facilities, ageism and allusion to putting pets down, yeah it gets pretty dark

How are pets dressed?

Pets would have a specific vibe of clothing or hairstyle, so it would be easy to pick them out of a crowd or sense they don’t belong. I’m thinking “fun” haircuts like wolf cut, mohawk, elaborate braids and buns. Or hairstyles that are very easy to maintain, shaved or effortlessly short and messy.

Clothing would be an overcommitment to a certain aesthetic, depending on the owner’s tastes. Usually bold and gaudy, or an uncomfortable style made to show off the pet’s best qualities.

The punk crowd could keep wearing these too, to show solidarity against pet ownership. And boomers get angry at the youths for dressing like pets just because it’s “trendy”.

That may also cause clashes with the cops or pet control departments, if they keep stopping people who “look like” pets.

Do pets have to crawl?

I mentioned in my story about Honey that only rich assholes with too much time on their hands make their pets “trot” on hands and knees everywhere they go. While it’s wrong to make your pet walk upright for too long (can be dangerous and exhausting), it’s not a good idea for them to trot outside or in most public places, as the ground is dangerous and unsanitary. Most of the time it’s acceptable for them to walk. That is, unless they’re inside a house, in which case it’s up to the house owner to determine.

Sort of like “a no-shoes household” —not everybody cares, but it’s generally polite and acceptable for pets to trot then, even if they wouldn’t normally. Sometimes the same holds true for working/service pets, made to trot within an office or classroom, whereas they would stand and walk around the rest of the facility with their owner.

They’ll generally sit or kneel on the ground when not moving, whether in public (on a train, at a restaurant, in a library) or in private. Many public places have designated plastic or rubber pads for pets to sit on, next to human seats and below tables.

Do pets use their hands?

I also made a note that while pets are still considered to have “hands” and not generally prevented from using them (not bound into paws or anything), it’s generally frowned upon and considered bad training if a pet uses it’s hands. This is because pets are silly little creatures who don’t know their own strength, and tend to hurt themselves or others if allowed the same mobility a human has. They’re basically allowed to use them as a primate might, holding food (not utensils) and drinking from them, moving a pillow or playing with a toy. But they shouldn’t be opening doors or doing more complex things like using tools (drawing/writing implements, hairbrush/toothbrush etc).

How long have pets been around?

Pet theory has been around for hundreds of years, but emerged as an evidence-based sociological/governmental designation comparatively recently. Pets have been scientifically classed and evaluated for since the late 1800s, although for many years after, only the upper class was able to afford evaluations for their family and peers. The caretaking of pets was seen as both luxury and philanthropy. While some families were shocked to learn that theirs included pets, many understood the necessity of revealing pets through scientific inquiry, as research would later show the rapid quality of life increase for pets who no longer have to play “changeling” and were treated appropriately with medication and training. It became common for rich families to evaluate prospective matches and employees for pet classification, and they often adopted those who were discovered, a generous act lauded by many pet conservationists. Nowadays pets are more commonly found and more affordably adopted, as testing procedures have simplified and become mandatory for most jobs and some cultural events, such as acquiring a marriage license or passport.

Do pets speak?

Pets are trained to rely on their caretaker to provide, and to not focus on their confusing pet thoughts. It isn’t good for a pet to engage in prolonged communication, so giving a pet small commands is most appropriate. Pets should be encouraged to reply with expressions, actions, or humming vocalizations. Some owners choose to correct their pet’s unnecessary vocalizations by trimming the hyoid bone, docking (shortening) the tongue, or (for the wealthier owners) undergoing a procedure in which a selective aphasia is triggered in the pet’s brain, keeping their comprehension in tact but limiting output ability.

Pet peeve question: pet hygiene?

Well trained pets can use the same restroom facilities as humans do. Because they’re not so dexterous with their hands, bidets are a universal commodity (lol idk - guys I really don’t want to make any pet owners rely on diapers or soemthing eugh)

It’s recommended that owners alternate sponge bathing and fully bathing their pets, checking their hygiene daily. They should also consistently brush their pet’s teeth and/or give them brushing toys to gnaw on.

It’s recommended that pets visit a care center for checkup every three months once fully trained, to ensure both physical and emotional well-being.

Pets in training should return to their home facility at least twice a week to get proper care.

Are there any older pets?

As pets age their appearance and mobility can suffer, as well as their emotional and mental well-being. While pet research is advancing and always finding new solutions to prolong the wellbeing of a pet, current projections note that a pet’s lifespan is generally between 25 and 35 years, depending on the age of pet status acknowledgement. If pets are found at a later age and do not receive proper care in time, they will generally suffer complications and resist training, requiring end of life care earlier than a well-trained and stable pet.

[lindsay00000008]

Whumper’s bad habits

CW: kidnapping, drugged, captive whumpee, cigarettes, second hand smoke, choking

Whumper takes a drag of their cigarette, idling in a parking lot near a vacant grocery store. They always need a smoke during a gig. Keeps them calm, keeps the adrenaline from gnawing at them. They’ll start up the car in a few minutes. For now, they tilt down the rear-view mirror. Whumpee has exhausted themselves, tied hand and foot and ratcheted to the back seat like a piece of furniture. The chloroform wore off an hour ago. Then the streetlights passing with muffled, weary screams until Whumpee’s voice gave out. Now, Whumper fills the car with smoke. The haze stinging their eyes is familiar, welcome. For Whumpee, dehydrated and bruised, gagged and hoarse and coughing through their nose in the back, it’s the start of a new nightmare. A new association, the memory of this night burned into their nostrils. They can’t get enough air. Their mouth fills with saliva, they choke on the fabric stuffed between their teeth. They turn their nose into the seat cushion, but the smell is there too.

Whumper leans around the driver’s seat and blows their last huff directly at Whumpee’s face. Whumpee makes a sharp stuttering, hacking sound — gasps in a smoke-filled breath. Whumper laughs.

“Bless you.”

Whumper starts the car, blasting the AC against the summer night’s heat, just as Whumpee’s eyes roll back. They’re blissfully quiet for the next two hours.