#nakedness whump

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 26: Shivering

Another direct continuation of Day 10: Hypothermia, this time from the Whumper's POV.

For more shivering whump, check out Day 4: Chills.

TW: imprisonment, hypothermia, vulnerability, implied nudity, noncon undressing (nonsexual)

Whumper shoved Whumpee into the cell, not even bothering to secure their bonds before slamming the door shut and searching for dry clothing. Whumpee, in their hypothermic, shivering state, had barely reacted to the temperature change when they finally returned to Whumper’s lair. They would not attempt to escape. Not that they would get very far if they tried.

Finding what they were looking for, Whumper returned to Whumpee’s cell. Whumpee had not moved an inch in the moments they'd been gone, instead curling up into a pathetic shaking ball. Whumper regarded them for a few long moments, arms full of clothes, towels, and blankets.

Whumpee’s lips had turned purple. On the trek back from the lake, their wet hair had iced over in a matted clump that, starting to melt, was dripping water all over the cell floor. Their body wasn't shivering so much as spasming as their muscles tried desperately to keep them warm.

Whumper could leave them like this. Alone, soaked to the skin in icy water, Whumpee would surely freeze to death before sunrise, even in the slightly warmer confines of the cell. Whumper could walk away and put all the dry things back in their places. They would still serve as a fine example for the others.

Nothing would stop them. 

No one would dare question what had happened. Whumper’s underlings were being paid not to ask questions, and the other prisoners would be too beaten down, too terrified by Whumpee’s tragic death, to speak against Whumper.

Whumper sighed through their nose. Death would be far too merciful for Whumpee. No, they would serve as a living reminder of what Whumper was capable of. The memory of the frozen lake would suffice to keep them in line.

Dropping the mess of clothing, towels, and blankets in a heap in the corner, Whumper crouched down beside Whumpee, careful not to get their pants wet in the puddle forming beneath them. Slowly, methodically, Whumper pulled untied the ropes around Whumpee’s wrists and began to strip off the soaked garments.

Whumpee whimpered, teeth chattering uncontrollably, and tried to recoil, but they were too weak from the ordeal in the icy water. “If you don't get out of these clothes,” Whumper hissed, tugging Whumpee’s shirt over their head, “you will die a very unpleasant death.”

“R—r—r—r—ra—-ra—rath—”

Whumper smirked as Whumpee struggled to form words. “Rather what? Rather die? No… I think not.”

Dropping the shirt to the floor, Whumper continued removing Whumpee’s clothing until it all lay in a pile at their feet, a soaking wet and naked Whumpee curled up next to it. Rummaging through the heap in the corner, Whumper found the towels and carefully began to pat Whumpee dry, reveling in how they cringed and flinched away.

Not another word was spoken, but the dark look on Whumpee’s face as Whumper finished dressing them in the set of clean clothing brought Whumper more amusement than harsh words ever could. New ropes went around Whumpee’s wrists and ankles; and Whumper even generously allowed Whumpee to keep a blanket, as their hair was still damp, their lips still purple.

Gathering Whumpee’s old clothes and the now-wet towels, Whumper left the cell and locked it behind them. Fabric rustled, and Whumper glanced back just in time to see the blanket hit the bars and fall to the ground. Whumper blinked, looking from the fallen blanket to Whumpee, who crouched in the corner of the cell, glaring at Whumpee with such malevolence Whumper could almost taste it.

Whumper inhaled sharply. How dare they—!

They closed their eyes and exhaled. When they reopened their eyes, Whumper worked their face into an expression of simple annoyance and disappointment, a clear contrast from the bubbling rage that made their fingers curl into fists and tightened their jaw. Stooping, Whumper pulled the blanket through the bars and added it to the top of the bundle in their arms.

Whumper did not spare Whumpee another glance as they left, no matter how much they wanted to drop everything and show Whumpee exactly how the consequences of their actions would affect them. As Whumper continued down the hallway, they congratulated themselves on their restraint. Whumpee would see their punishment in due time.

All in due time.

[3-2-whump]

Adjusting Well: A Parallel

<prev next>

By all accounts we weren't going to even have this chapter, but my beta readers convinced me to make this drabble canon. So, here it is. Everyone say thank you to @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for letting Tom live one more chapter and prolonging Khaled's misery

A parallel to Adjusting Well

TW/CW: noncon nudity, multiple whumpers, degradation, emotional manipulation, degrading speech, threat of castration (not followed through), humiliation, noncon oral, self-harming behaviors

“How’s he adjusting?”

Thomas sighed. “Fine, I guess?” He threw a backward glance at a shirtless Khaled from where he sat on the sofa. The slave was engrossed with buffing out the scratches on the granite countertop. “He doesn’t talk much anymore-”

“When did he ever talk much?” Luca shrugged.

“Well, it’s worse now,” Thomas explained. “He just sulks all the time, shambling like a zombie from one room to the next!” He leaned in close to his oldest and most trusted friend. “When I took his cock cage off yesterday, he barely even reacted! Barely remembered to thank me, too,” he grumbled.

“I don’t understand,” Luca said as he furrowed his brow. “This is what you wanted, right? A living fuck doll to keep you warm at night?”

“No, that’s more of what you want, man!” Thomas shook his head, then leaned back onto the couch with a sigh. “I wanted at least a little bit of liveliness, maybe even some enthusiasm, if that wasn’t too much to ask for! I don’t know how to break him out of this slump, or if I even can!” he groaned.

Luca pursed his lips, looked over the side of the couch back at Khaled, and then back at Tom. “Bring him over here, I want to talk to him,” he said.

His friend obviously had an idea, though what exactly this idea was remained to be seen. Thomas craned his head over his shoulder once again to look back at the slave behind them. “Khaled, come here,” he ordered.

The boy looked up from the countertop as his hand holding the cleaning rag stopped buffing. He looked back down at the counter, then sighed, putting the rag down and stepping out from behind the counter. Without the granite and hardwood in the way, it was plain to see Khaled was completely naked. Luca gave an appreciative whistle. Thomas shot him an exasperated look. It was nothing the man hadn’t already seen at this point, but he always leered at Khaled’s nakedness as if it were the first time Tom got the idea to pass him around.

Khaled finally stood before the two men, waiting silently until he was commanded to kneel in the presence of his master.

“So, I heard you’re feeling kind of down,” Luca said as the boy settled onto his knees.

Khaled glanced toward his master, then back at Luca, and nodded somberly.

“Not sure why you’re so upset, though. I mean, really –did you not think your actions would have consequences?” Luca asked rhetorically. Thomas recognized this speech from those few times he’d interacted with Luca and his family before. This was the speech Luca used to use on his sons, with some obvious modifications to fit this specific situation. Never had he ever thought the man would rehash the ‘own up to your mistakes’ monologue onto his slave.

“Here my buddy is, just trying to protect you from your baser instincts –the same instincts that got you infected –and you think you have the right to be upset about it?” He tutted and shook his head in disapproval. “You stupid little slut! You still don’t know how good you have it, do you?” Luca admonished.

Khaled hesitantly shook his head, a flicker of uncertainty crossing those dark, lifeless eyes.

“If you were mine, I never would’ve tolerated this shit! I would’ve had you fixed like the horny little bitch you are the moment I suspected you spreading your legs for someone else!”

Khaled flinched, bringing his hands to his front to shield himself the moment the word ‘fixed’ was uttered. “Khaled,” Thomas warned. The boy nodded his head and reluctantly placed his hands at his sides, exposing himself again.

“You would never have left my sight for even a moment,” Luca continued, “but noooo, Tom felt bad for you and allowed you to ‘make friends’ or some shit! At least it was with Nico, at first –did you screw him to be your friend, too?”

Khaled’s face burned bright red at the invasive question. “What? No, I-”

“Quiet!”

On the other end of the couch, Thomas rolled his eyes. “See, of course now he talks, to defend what little honor he thinks he has left!” he scoffed.

“Honor?” Luca let out a snide laugh. “These slaves don’t have honor!” He leaned back onto the couch and gestured to Khaled as he explained. “No, no, what you think of as honor, I see as favor. Slaves are granted favor at the discretion of their owners, and that favor can be lost just as easily as it can be given. And this one lost favor due to his own actions alone.” He cast a smug look back at Khaled and asked, “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Um, I’m sorry?” Khaled murmured.

“Tom, do you accept that apology?”

The boss shook his head as his lips quirked into a wry smile. “No, I don’t think I do. It didn’t feel…genuine enough.”

“Yeah, come on, Khaled,” Luca jeered. “Let’s try that again! What do you have to say to the man who raised you, who waited for you to become legal all those years before laying his hands on you, who gave you everything?”

Khaled gave a shuddering sigh before lowering his eyes respectfully. “I’m sorry,” he answered, voice full of conviction. He effortlessly folded himself over into a bow, planting his forehead onto the carpet in front of their feet. “Forgive me, Master,” he said loud and clear.

“Forgive you for what?” Thomas asked, fully leaning into this game now.

“Forgive me for sleeping around, for taking you for granted, for-for not loving you like you want me to!” Khaled answered.

“How sorry are you?”

“So sorry!”

“Would you like to show us? Go on, boy, show us how sorry you are!”

This reminded Tom of when he and his friends were younger, when they would bully the freshmen at St. Drogo’s and rob them blind of pocket change. Khaled begged and screamed repeated apologies over and over, bashing his face into the carpet repeatedly each time as Luca goaded him on. “Okay, okay, stop, stop, stop!” Thomas commanded, intervening before Khaled could truly hurt himself. “Goddamn, Luca, you’re gonna give him brain damage!” He softened his tone as he redirected his tone to Khaled. “Get up here, sweetheart.”

Khaled raised his head slowly, sporting a deep red, carpet-patterned imprint on his forehead and tears falling from his inky dark eyes. He crawled on all fours until his body was between his master’s legs, his cheek leaning against his master’s thigh. Thomas stroked his face gently, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Show me how sorry you are,” he ordered softly. His hand left Khaled’s face to tug down the fly of his pants. Without a word, his slave pulled his hardening member out of his pants and popped it into the warm, velvety cavern of his mouth, lightly sucking on it and brushing it along his tongue to stiffen it to full mast.

“See? That’s better,” Thomas cooed.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Luca chimed in. “He’s out of his slump and onto your cock where he belongs.”

“God, how do you not have one of your own to boss around already?” Thomas asked, completely ignoring Khaled’s efforts to please him.

“Not all of us have $30k to throw away; some of us gotta put our sons through college,” Luca griped.

Thomas rubbed the back of Khaled’s head, brushing the boy’s shaved undercut against the grain as he hummed contemplatively. “Well, I know it’s kind of gross for me to be offering my used sex toy like this, but you’ve always seemed to take an interest in him.” His hand traveled up to the longer hair on top of Khaled’s head, fisting into it as he pulled the boy’s face further into his lap. “What if I left him to you, if something should happen to me?”

Khaled made a small choking sound, which Thomas shushed away as he continued face-fucking him.

Luca smirked. “If it was anyone else’s used sex toy, I would say they were crazy. But him, I like him. He’s still young, and handsome too. And god forbid anything should happen to you, of course-”

“It’s already happened, Estrada shot me-”

“-I would be happy to take him,” Luca said.

Thomas sighed in relief. That was one less thing to worry about if Julio or anyone else ever succeeded in killing him. They shook on it, with Tom promising to contact his executor on the next business day as he came down his slave’s throat.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[katyawriteswhump]

Never let me go (Steddie holiday drabble)

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 18, Free Space--Hurt/Comfort. 

Steve’s really good at pretending he’s fixed—especially to himself—and decides he’s totally up for kinky fun with Eddie. Also part of my steve whump fic thread on ao3

WC: 922.

Rating: M.

CW: Mild kink and bondage, sexual content, panic attacks, PTSD, flashbacks. Tags: Emotional hurt/comfort. Trauma. Fluff, whump.

***

Eddie draws the tinsel garland around Steve’s arm, looping it loosely before dragging it tighter. Not too tight. Steve swallows hard, nerves fizzing. Eddie tethers Steve’s wrist to the bed frame behind his head with a loopy, hitchy knot.

“Where the heck did you learn—"

“My uncle. He’s worse than a billion scout leaders, I shit you not.” Eddie lazily kisses the tender underside of Steve’s wrist, beneath the knot, setting Steve’s pulse skittering. Eddie shifts his attention to Steve’s other hand. Steve has, without thinking, moved himself into place, ready to be tied. He’s happily drowning in Eddie’s gorgeous eyes, lapping up Eddie's hungry appreciation of him, till…

“You’re sure you’re good with this, Stevie?” 

“How many times, dude? I’m fine.” Steve slides his tongue around suddenly dry-feeling lips. “Tinsel is dangerous for cats and babies. I could literally snap this crap in half.”

“You could snap me in half.”

“I dunno. You’re crafty. And deceptively strong.” Steve tugs speculatively at the tinsel. It’s deceptively strong too, and the wire holding it together grooves into his flesh. Clearly breakable, though. If he wanted out.

He doesn’t.

When Eddie confessed a drunken desire to tie Steve to their bed, they’d both been apprehensive—given Steve’s “history,” with Soviets and throttling vines, and the rest of the shitshow. Using tinsel was Steve’s dumb, buzzed-out-of-his-skull idea.

Now, Eddie drags the tinsel across Steve’s bare chest, swirls it over his abs, raising goosebumps in its wake. Eddie’s using black and silver tinsel. “So pretty against your skin,” he purrs. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, because the sensations… Gnng! So good! Also, kinda excruciating. Both too little contact, and too much.

Eddie trails the tinsel lower. Steve’s wearing his boxers, and he moans, whimpers—why isn’t he naked yet? Eddie’s fingers drift down Steve’s leg, and Steve flexes into Eddie’s hand. Eddie spreads Steve’s leg toward the bedpost then crouches beside.

Eddie’s hot breaths scorch his flesh. Steve’s breaths accelerate further. As he binds Steve’s ankle, Eddie’s brows knit in concentration. Why’s that super-hot? Steve’s gotten a semi already, and he’s no clue what Eddie’s gonna do next.

“I better be naked soon, Munson.” Eddie lightly pinches Steve’s inner thigh, a total blindside. “Ow!”

“Patience, Babe. Or I’ll start over with your ass upward.”

Steve smirks: “Only just thought of that, moron?”

“Haha, don’t be a brat. Takin’ this slow. Now, shhhh.”

Steve shudders, frets his lip. Eddie winds the last of the tinsel around Steve’s other leg. This is still fun—right?—and he trusts Eddie. Okay, that nervous stirring in the pit of his stomach persists, but it’s sure as hell exciting. Eddie backs away, and Steve rolls his eyes. “Gonna eat me or fuck me?”

“C’mon on, man. Didn’t I say, ‘Sssssh’?”

“There’s better ways to shut me up.”

The kiss is delicious and deep, and Steve just breeeaaaaks. It’s easy to surrender to this—the hot, thrumming weight of Eddie’s clothed body pressed to his near-nakedness, the slick sweep of Eddie’s tongue, the frisson of tinsel against Steve’s ever-more-sensitive flesh as he fidgets and sighs. He feels wanted, worshipped… and randy as hell.

Eddie breaks the kiss abruptly. Before Steve can whine about it, Eddie presses a finger to his own lips, looking… kinda stressed?

The blood thundering in Steve’s ears calms enough for him to hear the loud knocking on the door.

“Eddie? Steve? Hellloooo!” It’s goddamn Henderson.

“I’ll tell him to scram.” Eddie leaves.

Steve’s breathing speeds up again—his face burns, the rest of his skin feels oddly chilled. Distant voices murmur, an owl hoots, and he’s all alone… and feeling… okay, yeah, vulnerable.

Don’t be a wuss, Harrington. You can break free if you want. It’s candy-ass tinsel.

He tugs at his bonds. 

No, don’t spoil the game.

His eyes lull closed, and he’s lost in an instant. 

His hands are tightly bound… above his head… no, behind his back? Shit, shit, shit, he’s losing track of everything save his terror. All he knows is he’s struggling, and he can’t get free and the Soviets are gonna hit him again. They just keep hitting him. Shouting in his face. He tastes the blood, and he’s screaming it over and over: “For the millionth time, I work at Scoops Ahoy.”

His raw throat clogs, then closes up. He can’t breathe! The vines… Those goddamn vines. They’re winding about his every limb, slithering, squeezing tight around his neck. His whole existence reduces to a desperate fight for air… I’m choking… drowning… suffocating… Oh God… Oh God! He fights in small, snatchy gasps that he barely believes in. Vecna’s got him, and he’s gonna die, and…

“Steve! Sweetheart, you’re okay… You’re okay… I gotcha.”

“Wha—” Steve’s eyes fly wide. Eddie. Eddie’s here! Leaning over him. Touching him tenderly. Reality slams back, and he throws an arm around Eddie’s neck and clings. Eddie hugs him close, and the whirlwind of his panic slows. His only actual pain is a faint sting in his wrists and ankles, where he’s busted through the tinsel.

“Crap, I’m sorry.” Eddie presses a soft kiss to Steve’s clammy brow. “Leaving you was dumb. The whole idea was dumb.”

“S’okay.” Steve buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder, and his pulse and breaths calm further. “I kinda enjoyed it till…” I totally lost my shit. He slowly inhales Eddie’s warm, reassuring scent. The terrifying flashbacks retreat a little further. He’s okay… He’s okay! As long as Eddie never lets him go, the darkness won’t win.

He nuzzles up toward Eddie’s ear: “Maybe try again next year?”

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Wash Away the Pain #5 - Crosshair

After being rescued from the Empire's clutches, Crosshair is struggling to heal and adapt to life on Pabu.

Pairing: Crosshair x gn!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: whump, guilt, angst, Cross is prickly (what else is new), reassurance, hopeful ending.

A/N: I was heavily inspired by these gorgeous drawings by @thattoothpick.

This is the last installment in a mini-series where each of our boys get their angsty shower time.

Each can be read as a standalone or as a continuation. Check out the whole series: Echo, Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker.

I'll die on the hill that Cross is still chipped and was lied to by the Empire that it was removed. And that it's effectiveness was all but worn out mid-way through S2.

Sign up to be tagged in my future fics.

The cold water hits him, and, for a moment, Crosshair forgets how to breathe. It feels like thousands of icy pinpricks piercing his skin. The pain, the cold, they remind him that he’s alive.

He escaped.

He was rescued. 

Like a lost child. Or an abandoned tooka. He’s not sure which is worse.

For two months, he’d been free. Two months ago, he’d opened his eyes, still strapped to one of those Maker-forsaken tables in that Imperial hellhole, expecting to see Hemlock or Karr hovering over him. Instead, he’d seen you. Wide eyes that had crinkled with delight, his name falling from your lips.

You shouldn’t have come for him.

The kid? Yes. But him…

He doesn’t turn at the sound of the fresher door opening. He doesn’t need to. Only one person would have the guts to bother him this early in the day.

The warm hand on his back makes him want to flinch, makes him want to pull away. He doesn’t deserve the softness, not after everything he’s done.

You step into the shower, not caring to discard your clothes or bothered by Crosshair’s nakedness – after so long with him and his brothers, nothing was sacred anymore. The cold water makes you hiss, but you push through it. “I can hear you overthinking again.” You murmur, fingers leaving a feather-light trail down the curve of his spine. He’s still too skinny; the few pounds he’d once had took him much longer to regain, no matter how many meals you presented to him.

“Then stop listening.” Crosshair’s reply slides out quickly but lacks the bite it once had, the snark and sneer that had sent countless others running. But never you, the plucky medic assigned to him and his brothers early in the war.

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Where’s the fun in that?” You tease softly. A low grunt is all you get in return, but you don’t take it to heart. Your gaze flicks up from his back to the scars on his head – the messy web of scar tissue from Bracca and beside it, a thin, straight one, a recent addition from where you’d pried the inhibitor chip out of him.

You’d known none of it was his fault. Known he’d still been under their control.

Crosshair can feel the weight of your gaze on him, and he’s uncomfortable with the attention. “Picture will last longer.” He huffs, knowing he won’t get rid of you easily.

You haven’t said much over the last two months, letting his brothers try and rebuild their relationships with him. It had been rocky at first; a few times, you’d had to physically put yourself between him and Hunter so they wouldn’t start scrapping. You knew they loved one another dearly, but there were a lot of problems to unpack and work through. They were making progress, though, learning to admit they were wrong, compromise, and apologise

But you’d noticed Crosshair was still withdrawn. He’d never been chatty, but he’d never hidden away either - he’d spend days in his room in your shared house on Pabu.

Even sending in Tech – who’d by some miracle survived his fall on Eriadu and had been taken to Tantiss on Hemlock’s orders – hadn’t proved very fruitful.

Now, you suppose it’s your turn. “None of it was your fault.” You start, tone gentle but firm.

“Don’t placate me. I’m not a child.” Crosshair grumbles, rolling his eyes as he draws his arms around himself as if he could shield himself from the conversation.

“No, you’re not.” You sigh. “I get it. I really do. Maker above, Cross, I don’t know where to begin with everything you’ve been through over the last year. But bottling it up, locking us all out, withering away. It’s not healthy.” You feel Crosshair tense under your touch, his shoulders stiffening. The water continues to cascade down, a constant drone almost drowning out the tension in the small space.

“I don’t need your analysis, medic.” He mutters, his voice low and gruff.

You wince at the name. When you’d first joined them, he’d used it mockingly. It was only when you’d persevered and formed a quiet friendship that he’d stopped using it. Choosing not to focus on the little stab of pain from the barb, you press on. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Crosshair. We’re here for you. Your brothers... and me. You don’t have to carry the galaxy’s weight on your shoulders.”

He scoffs, a sharp edge to his voice. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one pulling the trigger on innocent people.”

The fresher has a bit of room, and you use it to your advantage. Shifting your stance until you’re standing at his side, body pressed to him, you reach out and snag his chin with one hand, turning his face to meet those hawkish eyes that have recently lost their lustre. “And you weren’t the one doing it willingly. There’s a difference, Cross. The inhibitor chip controlled you. You’re here now, free from its influence.”

He doesn’t protest, so you continue. “You’ve been through hell and come out on the other side. But healing isn’t just physical; it’s mental, too. You can’t keep shutting everyone out.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t retort immediately. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of water droplets hitting the floor. “I don’t deserve it.” He finally admits, his voice barely audible over the shower.

The vulnerability in his words tugs at your heart, and you realise that breaking through the walls he’s built around himself will take time. You’ve seen him at his lowest, physically and mentally battered, and now the scars on his body are mirrored by the ones etched into his soul. “You’re not some burden we’re shouldering out of obligation, Cross.” You say, your tone unwavering. “You’re family. And family sticks together, no matter what.”

He grunts, the rough sound echoing in the confined space. “Family? I hunted you across the galaxy. No wonder you all left me.”

“That wasn’t you.” You assert, your voice steady. “You were manipulated, controlled. We know that now. Blaming yourself won’t change what happened, but we can work through it together.” You still regret leaving him behind on Kamino twice, not stunning and dragging him onto the Marauder.

He averts his gaze, fighting back the emotions threatening to surface. The vulnerability you’ve glimpsed in him is a crack in his armour - you just need him to remove the rest of it and let you all in.

“We’re not giving up on you.” You declare, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek. His eyes close at the contact, subconsciously leaning into your palm, and your heart aches for how touch-starved he is. “And you shouldn’t give up on yourself either.”

“Accept that you deserve to heal.” You suggest. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Let your brothers in, let me in. We’re not here to judge you but to support you.”

The water begins to lose its icy bite as your body becomes numb. Crosshair doesn’t respond immediately, but the tension in his shoulders begins to ease, and you take that as a small victory.

“Maybe.” He concedes, a hint of vulnerability in his voice as he opens his eyes to meet your gaze again.

You smile, a mixture of relief and determination coursing through you. “Maybe is a good start, Cross.” You keep your hand on his cheek, offering silent reassurance. “It’s okay not to have all the answers right now. We’ll figure it out together.”

Crosshair takes a deep breath, a shuddering exhale escaping him as if releasing a burden he’s carried for far too long. “I don’t want your pity.” He mutters, his gaze dropping.

Your thumb brushes along the edge of his tattoo, your touch a grounding force. “You’re not getting pity. You’re getting understanding, support, and a second chance. You’ve been through enough; it’s time to let others in to help you navigate the aftermath.”

He doesn’t argue further, and you both simply stand there for a moment. The silence is no longer heavy with unspoken pain but holds the promise of a shared journey towards healing.

“Come on.” You say, finally breaking the quiet. “Let’s get out of this shower and get some breakfast. Tech is attempting a new recipe, and Wrecker claims he’ll out-eat everyone.”

Crosshair arches an eyebrow. “I’m unsure if that’s a threat or a promise.”

You chuckle, the sound echoing in the fresher. “Knowing Wrecker, probably both. But it’s a distraction, and distractions are good right now.”

He nods in agreement, and together, you step out of the shower, the air hitting your damp skin. As you reach for towels, you catch Crosshair stealing a thoughtful glance in your direction.

“What?” You ask with a slight tilt of your head.

Crosshair hesitates momentarily, feeling a little stupid but wanting to ensure you understand how much this means to him. “Thanks... for not giving up on me.”

You meet his gaze with sincerity. “Never have. Never will.” You state.

Your words touch something in him, a little more weight lifting off his shoulders. “And I’m sorry for…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, but you know exactly what he’s getting at.

Amusement curls at your lips. Crosshair’s apologies were new, and while he wasn’t particularly good at them, you saw it as growth. “Apology accepted. Call me that again, though, and I’ll snap every toothpick on the island.” You reply, tossing him a clean set of clothes from his cubby with a small smile.

Relieved at your acceptance of his admittedly poor apology, Crosshair notes to keep working on them while gracing you with a small smile. “I don’t doubt that, doll.”

You roll your eyes at the familiar nickname, a sign that perhaps, despite the struggles, a sense of normalcy is slowly returning. As you both start to dress in clean, dry clothes, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope that this small breakthrough might be the turning point he needs. The scars may run deep, both physical and emotional, but the shared understanding and unwavering support from family might just be the key to helping him rebuild.

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @littlemissmanga @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog

[goronska]

Eodum x Setia agaaaaain >:3

I am so damn thrilled, because I received a finished comm today from the one and only @emmettverse (previously @emmettnet) with my fav pairing of Eotia <3 My little blorbos, so perfect yet again. I love the expressions, the coloring, the love shining through this work and I literally hugged the screen with my cheek when I saw it. My pwetty boiz... *holds gently*

This has been commissioned as an illustration of a very pivot moment in the RP Eodum and Setia originally come from and thrive. The scene in question under the cut: TW: slightly NSFW (nakedness mentioned), intimate whump, gore ideation, manipulation.

[sideblogformindtrash]

Orfeu and Haru Ver. II.

Cw: Mentioned noncon (not too explicit this time); Mentioned starvation/food insecurity; pet whump; dehumanization; humiliation;

The pet wakes up in that man’s arms. Orfeu, if he recalled.

He has his hands resting over the pet’s hips, hands that look like they belong to a monster, ink black until almost the elbows, nails thick and curled like that of a beast. Pet still surprised those claws got inside him and somehow hurt less than Master’s soft fingers.

Turning to the side he sees Farlan’s up and getting dressed to go to his college lectures. He figures the guest is the only reason why he wasn’t kicked from the bed today as soon as Master woke up. He tries to get up by himself rather than wait for the man to wake and push him down…

“Stay”

He freezes staring dumbly at his Master. He rolls his eyes, his patience always too short for the pet. 

“Stay. You’re allowed. At least while he’s cuddling you”

He lets the air escape his lungs, sinking back into the sheets and quite relieved. Still, he remains weary as he watches Master moving around the room, combing his hair and putting it on a ponytail, dressing up in his tailored suit and applying so much cologne the Pet has to bury his face on the pillows to hold back the sneezes.

Master always smells so good. His favorite cologne has tops of lemon and jasmine and a soft wooden background. It denounces his arrival before the master enters a room, and lingers after he leaves. It has also impregnated the sheets, the pillows and even the pet itself, sticking on his skin and leaving a trace where he was held. 

After he’s done playing or hurting him, Master takes him to the bathroom and places him on a tub which he lets fill with mercifully warm water. He washes his back with milky soap and his hair with strawberry shampoo. Sometimes, he baths by himself too, making extra sure he’s clean and groomed to his Master’s liking. 

Still, the Master's smell is stronger.

It stays, no matter how much he scrubs his skin.

Which is why he’s oddly glad about how much the guest just… stinks. 

He stinks of sour cigarette smoke, candle wax and forest mold, sweat and booze and sex and asphalt. He stinks and for once, it overpowers Master’s lemony scent. 

Once Master finally leaves, he sinks his head on the man’s chest and inhales, trying to pick apart all that makes his smell, nuzzling a little so his stubble beard scratches the pet's face. 

Unfortunately that wakes him up, and they lock eyes, pearly blue in toxic green ones. He feels himself grow cold, afraid he’ll be hurt for waking him, but the man simply smiles, a row of creep teeth. He thought those were fascinating, but wondered how much it hurt to make them look like this. 

“Good morning” he says, and Pet cringes at his breath. And Orfeu notices “Oh, guess I need to brush my teeth. And a shower-”

Two mistakes. It’s barely eight in the morning, and he’s made two mistakes with Master’s new guest. He’s shaking…

“I-I- nhh s-s-sorry, pet… dirty, pet is, is, not-”

“Shhh” he picks up one of Pet’s white locks, playing with it between his distorted fingers “Not a big deal. I have an idea. Why don’t you go get us some breakfast, while I wash, hm?”

He nods, nearly jumping out the bed. 

He doesn’t bother getting dressed. He knows it bothers some of the workers of the mansion but… it’s nothing that they haven’t seen before. And he’s been through… so much worse, he hardly feels humiliated by the nakedness anymore. 

“Good morn- Oh fuck. Please wear clothes” Ms. Lenora complains, as the pet runs into the kitchen. 

He blushes a little and waves at the housekeeper apologetically, one of the few employees that work at the house. It’s a small task force and there’s always a lot of work to be done. The Pet has to help sometimes, and while most of them are either bothered or even hostile towards the pet, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“It 's alright. Go see if you can find something in the laundry room, I’ll prepare your food” She says, just smiling at him.

"G-guest" Speaking is getting harder and harder these days.

"Guest?” She frowns. Farlan must have forgotten to warn her, but she knows Pet wouldn't lie about "Fm. Guess you’ll need something better than oatmeal then. Now, please, get dressed-"

He nods, going past the kitchen and into the laundry room. People there glare, disgusted by his presence, his nakedness, the violence marked on his body. He quickly snatches a shirt from the clean pile. It’s Master’s, but he won’t mind. 

He smiles when he gets back into the kitchen, seeing Lenora preparing a tray with avocado toast and eggs, cuts of meat and picked fruits. He hesitates for a second, then approaches to help her, which earns him a soft pat on the head.

“Good boy”

Something deep inside him says he should feel humiliated by this sort of affection. But it’s all that exists in his world, and oh, he’d take humiliating affection over pain any day. 

Finally he carries the tray back upstairs, hoping this man Orfeu allows him to eat. He’s not good at starving. Farlan is not the most merciful of Master’s, but he’s generous about food, only denying it when it annoys him enough for a hard punishment.

But sometimes he’s left under the care of Master’s father, Gerard, the lord of the house, who is very prone to making him starve. ‘A petite little songbird’, the man says, feeding him nothing but what he can lick off of his fingers.

He remembers them fighting the first time his Master traveled and left the pet under Gerard’s care. After a week, when he came back, the pet went to welcome him and ended up passing out from starvation. 

“Oh, that’s fancy” Orfeu says, coming out of the bathroom and throwing himself on the bed, a towel wrapped around his hair. 

“Come on-” he taps the bed by his side, coaching the pet to sit by his side. He does it hesitantly. Master Farlan would be angry if they dropped food on the sheets… but he’d be even angrier if the pet denied a guest's request, so he obeys.

…He immediately notices the smell. He must’ve stolen the cologne because he smells exactly like Farlan now. He swallows, wondering why this makes him feel grief. 

“Did you make the food?” 

“H-h-helped” the pet mumbles, a bit thrown aback by how casually he talks. He must be used to pets. Maybe even have some of his own.

“Own, it's very good”

The pet just nods, hands crossed politely over his lap, trying not to stare at the food.

"You aren't much of a talker, are you?"

He flinches hard. It used to be so easy.

"I-I can, ifsir wamt. Msorry Sorry" he whispers, feeling the words roll and mix, his tongue too heavy to properly form them.  Why speak, if no one wants to hear? "Hard. Msorry"

"It's alright, love" 

He realizes the pet staring and chooses to be merciful, cutting a piece of toast and taking the piece to his lips. He parts them obediently and chews the food slowly, enjoying the taste. It also makes for a good excuse to stay quite.

“You don't have to. I'd like you to, if you can. But I don't mind if you don't want to"

It sounds like a mockery, if not for his genuine expression. 

Pets don't have wants, or so they say. Of course it's a lie. The pet wants a lot of things. It's just that a pet's wants are meaningless. 

He just obediently opens his mouth again, letting the man place a piece of fruit inside. So it seems that just like Gerard, this man likes to hand feed pets, enjoying the utter submission of the act. He does his best not to resent that, at least he's being generous with the portions, letting him chew a cut of strawberry. 

"He said you don't have a name…" the pet struggles not to flinch with the way Orfeu toys with the knife.

Thankfully, he simply cuts a piece of the meat for himself. 

"I kinda wanna give you one"

…Pet stares. This screams of a trap. He recalls him telling that to the master last night, and Farlan being very clear that the pet does not deserve one.

"Sir'angry" he replies, the best he can, in between the little bits of food he's being fed. 

"Farlan? Nah, I'll handle him" Orfeu promises, seeming all too confident. Well, it's true the Master seems to forgive a little more disrespect from him than from most others… but this is a big thing. 

"It's unfair to not be named. I'll think of something. You can help too" he offers. 

The pet shakes his head shyly. It's not for him to decide. But… he kinda hopes this strange man can indeed get him named. He'd like to be someone. 

tag: @whump-blog

[gotta-bail-my-quails]

okay I have Thoughts about this which I need to let out. So first of all, it's kinda accepted that children are genuinely, innately good. There have been studies that show children prefer "nice" puppets over "mean" ones. To take a religious spin on it, children aren't even considered able to sin in some religions because they don't have a concept of good and evil, much in the same way Adam and Eve were only ashamed of their nakedness once they were aware of it.

That leads into the second part of that first quote which is actually quite interesting because I do agree on the part of "conscious" good. Maybe not for the same reasons as others though. Having intrusive thoughts (which get very disturbing and violent) means I think I'm evil and an awful person and all that jazz but at the end of the day I choose to be a good, law abiding citizen. It is extremely reassuring to know you could be awful inside, your first thoughts on someone could be absolutely reprehensible but what matters is you fighting that impulse. That being said, we must also bring into question whether unconscious good is actually good--if a child does good simply because it has no concept of what is and isn't, is it actually genuine? In general, I think what should be focused on is the deliberation behind an action. And that in turn leads me to the third quote. What exactly is evil? I know we are probably generalizing and reducing "evil" to mean straight sadism but we cannot ignore how much nuance goes into "bad" actions have nuanced and complex reasons behind them and that even good and evil themselves are rather subjective terms. Even the most cliched and simple "i was forced to do x evil thing or die" has some amount of morally complicated depth to it (and, again, religion wise for at least Christians, that wouldn't necessarily count as a sin!). I don't want to assume but maybe we are trying to downplay the many facets of "evil" from a biased desire to believe in "good". However, if we do that we risk shoving anyone "evil" into simplified boxes and that's no way to start a conversation to move forward.

I myself might be biased because I, outside of the intrusive thoughts thing, am genuinely just a lover of whump and pain, but I don't like it because I just want to see people screaming and crying. I have ALWAYS hated that thing some people say about the opposite of love being apathy and not hate, because of whatever reasons. NO! Apathy (by definition) is the opposite of emotion itself, including love and hate and what have you. And you hate because you love, and you hurt because you want to be happy. They are two sides of the same coin (or, for sake of my own consistency, a many sided die of emotions) and you cannot just split the beautiful spectrum of human emotions in twain like that! To me, to hurt is to have had something to love. I'd legitimately get bored if my life was all sunshine and rainbows, so to call only evil banal and boring means I have to assume you live in some world where there's only that (which is kinda what the quote implies, but again, you kinda have to have happy to define a sad so...)

Also where's that quote that says all happy families are happy in the same ways, while unhappy families are all uniquely unhappy, because I believe it's quite relevant here.

cruelty is so easy. youre not special for choosing it

[kartaylirnaak]

Dear Creator Letter

Thank you for making something for me! As usual, I have gone into far too much detail, so if you have any questions, please just message me.

Likes

Likes General

Queer everything

Stories that lean towards the more happy, positive and lighter side of things, rather than being grim, dark, bleak, and miserable

Disability and chronic illness with realism 

Men crying and showing emotions

Quiet moments between characters

Dealing with trauma, including from canon events

Intimacy and tenderness

Affection

Vulnerability

Relationships full of support, validation, empathy, compassion, understanding, and care

Having responsible adult conversations with clear, open, honest, and transparent communication

Subverting expectations, especially around gender and sexuality

Characters being BAMFs

One character caring for another e.g. hair washing, cutting, shaving, bathing, cleaning, dressing, massaging sore muscles (the vulnerable intimacy of being taken care of/taking care of someone else)

The rest is under a cut as this is rather long.

Likes Star Wars Specifics

Order 66 didn’t happen

Clone rebellion

Rex as an ARC Lieutenant in the 212th early in the war and being Cody's ARC

Trans clones 

Clones fucking with gender and/or not being bothered with gender

The clones free themselves (either from the Republic or the Empire, either is fine)

Clones as terrifyingly hyper competent and exceptionally highly skilled genetically altered super soldiers (basically a bunch of Steve Rogers running around the galaxy) 

Clones get, find or discover a cure to the advanced ageing

Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies post war no order 66 where the clones get to live out their lives as free people and get their happily ever after ending or similar

Clones communally sleeping together i.e. vod piles

Natural blond Rex

Neurodivergent clones

Likes Characters

Rex

Cody

Echo

Fives

Fox

Dogma

Jesse

Kix

Wolffe

Waxer

Boil

Wooley

Hardcase

Tup

Thorn

Alpha-17/Seventeen

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Ahsoka Tano

Blackout

Spark

Howzer

Fireball

Nemec

Comet

Boost

Sinker

Barriss Offee

Plo Koon

Likes Ships

Jesse/Kix (Jessix my beloved)

Cody/Rex 

Fox/Dogma

Echo/Fives

Cody/Rex/Echo/Fives

Cody/Fox

Rex/Echo/Fives

Echo/Fives/Fox

Blackout/Spark

Wolffe/Comet

Poly Wolf Pack (Wolffe/Boost/Sinker/Comet)

Poly Corrie Commanders (Fox/Thorn/Thire/Stone) 

Poly Command Batch and Rex (Fox/Bly/Cody/Wolffe/Ponds/Rex)

Likes Fandom Tropes

Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies

Fluff

Whump

Hurt/Comfort

Light Angst (must have a happy ending where the angst is resolved)

Non-traditional omegaverse

Mers/merfolk/mermaids/merpeople

Chat fic

Canon divergence

Touch starved

Soft AUs

Missing scenes

Slice of life

Domesticity

Number plus one e.g. 5+1 times 

Reunions

Likes NSFW and Kinks

Dom/sub

BDSM

Bondage

Leather

Latex

Leather bondage restraints

Sounding

Cockwarming

Free use (must be respectful)

Somnophilia (prenegotiated)

Sex toys

Vibrators

Cock cages

Milking

Cock and Ball Torture (CBT)

Total enclosure

Sensory deprivation

Predicament bondage

Impact play

Sensory play

Body worship

Boot kink, especially grinding and humping

Gags

Hoods

Pup play

Medical kink

Knotting

Cum inflation

Overstimulation

Mouth fucking (with fingers, cock, strap-on, dildo, toys or other appendages e.g. tentacles)

Consentacles

Subspace

Polyamory

Porn with feelings

Praise kink

Breeding kink (no risk of pregnancy)

Humiliation and degradation, including verbal

Sex toys worn under clothing

Begging

Edging

Oviposition

Collars

Face sitting

Fucking machines

Healing and acceptance through porn (basically the trojan horse smut meme)

Cunnilingus and rimming

Non-exclusive polyamory 

Threesomes and moresomes

Rough sex

Tender sex

Dirty talk

Casual and non-taboo nudity, sex, and kink

One character utterly ruining the other until they’re a sobbing, limp, boneless wreck

Aftercare 

Trust, respect, vulnerability and openness, especially in kink and BDSM

Electrostimulation

Hypnosis 

Polyamorous clones

Clones with an approach to sex, intimacy, relationships, nakedness, their bodies and solves where it’s casual, non taboo, open, and just another part of their relationships with each other

Heavy leather muzzles

Knotting

Fisting (anal and vaginal)

Glory holes and reverse glory holes

Nipple clamps and weights

Predicament bondage

Brat taming

Basically, the kinkier the better, with the exception of anything that is a DNW of course

Please treat the following topics with respect, care, and maturity:

Disability and chronic illness

Trans, non-binary, and gender diverse characters

Neurodivergent characters

Characters that are part of an minority, oppressed or otherwise

Body shame and self worth

Kinks, fetishes, and BDSM

Power imbalance in relationships

Do Not Want (DNW)

DNW General

Any kind of abuse or abusive situation, including but not limited to rape, sexual assault and harassment, domestic violence, and emotional abuse

Abusive, toxic, messy, unhappy or unhealthy relationships

Characters being assholes or nasty for the sake of it

Discrimination of any kind

Non-critical portrayal of cults, authoritarianism, paternalism, patriarchy, misogyny, sexism, racism, transphobia and/or ableism

Anything underage

Anything involving kids or children, including appearing in the background or being mentioned

Pregnancy

Horror, thriller and suspense

Ambiguous endings

Betrayal

Gratuitous and excessively detailed descriptions of violence and injuries (descriptions are fine, just not over the top)

Anything to do with smoking

Infidelity

Melancholy and anything overly depressing

Pining and yearning

Slow burn (unless it is complete and resolved with a happy and unambiguous ending)

Character bashing

Focus on proposals or weddings

Toxic positivity

Bittersweetness

Religion or religious symbolism and themes

Drug addiction

Gambling

Terminal illness

Parasites

Eye trauma

Body horror

Cops

DNW Star Wars Specifics

A heavy focus on the events of during Order 66 (mention of and/or some detail is fine)

Anit-Jedi or Anti-Mandalorian sentiment (neutral or balanced and nuanced critique is fine)

Ridiculously oversexualised outfits for female characters e.g. Suu Lawquane in early TCW

DNW Characters

Sheev Palpatine/Darth Sidious

Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader

Maul/Darth Maul

Savage

Shaak Ti

Wilhuff Tarkin

Pong Krell

Any Kaminoans

Any RepComm or Legends clones, with the exception of Alpha-17

Lieutenant Nolan

Mas Amedda

Edmon Rampart

Royce Hemlock

Saw Gerrera

Count Dooku

Cad Bane

Orn Free Taa

Any of the CX clones

Pre Vizla

Jar Jar Binks

Ki-Adi-Mundi

Any of the Hutts

DNW Ships

Any ships involving anyone listed in DNW Characters

Crack ships

Any ships for Ahsoka, Barriss or other underage characters during TCW

DNW Fandom Tropes

Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Hurt No Comfort

Angst with no happy ending

Most AU’s, including modern, highschool, sport, cowboy and harry potter (please see the section about AU’s below and message me if an AU you’re considering isn’t listed anywhere in this letter)

Time travel and time loops

Crossovers

Sickfic

Main Character Death

Crack (crack treated seriously is ok)

Enemies to lovers/friends

DNW NSFW and Kinks

Noncon and dubcon

Gun play

Blood play

Age/regression play, including diapers

Scat and vomit

Spitting

Breath play, including choking

Cannibalism

Gore and vore

Possessive behaviour

Smoking or ash tray play

Necrophilia

Guro

Anything unsanitary

Mommy/Daddy kink

Castration

Detransition

Wire or metal cage muzzles

Face slapping

Beastiality

Fluffy handcuffs

Needles

Brats or bratty subs acting out (a small amount of light, playful cheekiness is ok)

Unsafe BDSM and kink practices — E.g. violating boundaries and hard no’s, ignoring safe words or signals, or making safe words something unclear and generic, like “Stop” or “Wait”, which could be easily misunderstood. This is less about including safe BDSM and kink practices for the sake of it and more about not doing unsafe practices like the examples above 

Art 

All of the above Likes and DNW’s still apply, this section is just specifically for art.

Likes, including NSFW

Characters that look real. This can include, but isn’t limited to, scars, body hair, stretch marks, skin conditions, and birthmarks; fat characters with rolls; disabled characters where their disability isn’t hidden and they have accessibility devices

if that’s something they need

Characters that look like they’re in a moment of ecstasy or lost in the moment

Quite ok with explicit NSFW e.g. genitals, penetration, body fluids

Moments of tenderness, vulnerability, and openness

DNW, including NSFW

Religious symbolism and iconography

Tarot cards

Pinups

Styles or colour palettes that involve too much eye strain (a little is ok)

Ambivalent

These are topics, tropes, characters and more that I’m not overly interested in but also not overly bothered by either. It’s fine for them to appear, though preferably not at the expense of any Likes.

Ambivalent Characters

The Bad Batch (not including Echo)

Ambivalent NSFW and Kinks

Vanilla sex

Honour bondage

Rope bondage/shibari — I’m not the biggest fan of rope bondage in general, which is hilarious for someone who’s written some. I do think it can be done well, particularly for something like tender shibari involving subspace and soft D/s. However, on the whole I generally prefer bondage done through other means listed in the Likes section.

Tricky Areas

These are topics, tropes, characters and more that are close to a DNW but can be included under the right circumstances. Please message me first before including any of these.

Tricky Characters

Commander Bacara and Neyo — I’m still warming to Bacara and Neyo and forming my own understanding of them as characters. When done well, I do enjoy them but with the caveat that this is with specific and more developed and nuanced characterisation. I’m not a fan of the prevailing fandom tendency of making them cold bastards and having that as their entire personality. 

Luminara Unduli

Jango Fett 

Boba Fett 

Tricky NSFW and Kinks

Knife play

Omorashi/Watersports

Sections of Note 

AU’s

I’m not really a fan of AU’s for Star Wars, hence why they’re in the DNW section. That said, the following AU’s are ok:

Fantasy

Magic

Prompts for the Codex Plus Flash Exchange

Here’s a few ideas if you’re looking for something a bit more specific.

Clone rebellion Cody/Rex/Echo/Fives where Fives Lives and they all reunite

Sub Dogma. I love sub Dogma. He’s the perfect wet rag of a clone to put in the blender.

Alpha-17 domming the fuck out of Cody and Rex

Cody/Rex/Wolffe where two of them are caring for the third after they were injured or something happened to them

Cody and Rex are on Coruscant at the same time and are making this Fox’s problem

Established Codex and Jessix where, for whatever logistical reason, they all end up sharing Rex’s quarters, and then end up in a pile on the floor sharing each other

Kix teaching Cody and Rex sounding by demonstrating on Jesse

Codex join a play night with the Wolf Pack (Wolffe/Boost/Comet/Sinker)

Clone rebellion Cody/Howzer/Rex. Cody bends Howzer over the holotable and fucks him while Rex has a lot of fun providing commentary and watching, before eventually joining in.

Kinky additions or variations on these

Credits

Thank you to the following people, from whose Dear Creator Letter’s I have liberally pilfered.

Elthadriel

cabezadeperro

haltiamieli  

trudemaethien

lightningbig

Nons

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober 2021

Prompt #7: Helplessness

Balancing on his one good leg, Strike leaned into the shower stall and turned the water on, waiting for the meagre stream to warm up to a decent temperature before stepping inside. Or hop, rather. The small flat he’d been able to afford on his ridiculous army disability pension wasn’t designed for one-legged tenants, and the shower tub wasn’t level with the floor of the tiny bathroom. When he’d finally moved out of Nick and Ilsa’s guest room two weeks ago, declaring that he would be able to handle life as an amputee without assistance from now on, Nick had insisted on at least adding a handhold inside the shower stall, and he’d bought one of those ugly shower chairs they’d had in the hospital.

“Don’t start whining at me about dignity,” he’d forestalled Strike’s protest. “This is about safety. Stuff it!”

Strike had removed the chair from the shower as soon as Nick had been out the door.

The water running pleasantly warm now, Strike firmly grabbed the handhold with one hand and the sturdy shower fixture with the other and hopped inside, onto the anti-slip mat Nick had also laid out. Strike had done this before; it was a tried-and-true procedure after two weeks in his new flat. Until today.

With a sharp crack, the shower fixture he was holding onto suddenly gave and tore out of the wall. Strike was still holding on to the handhold with his other hand, but he lost his balance, his brain forgetting for one startled second that he only had one foot left. He came down hard, smacking the back of his head against the wall and landing on his arse, all three-and-a-half limbs askew. A few broken tiles rained down on him, and the showerhead and hose along with them.

“Ow, shit!”

He cursed, trying to gather his bearings. His head was spinning, and his buttocks and right hip hurt. Blinking, he shifted a little to take his weight off the most painful spot where the showerhead was lodged against his lower back. He almost slipped again on his hands, the mat having come loose during the fall, now partially bunched up between his legs.

The shower was still running, spewing water out through the open sliding door with Strike’s good leg now sticking out as well. He pulled it back inside and tried to get his one foot under him. Pushing against the floor with his hands, his stump waving about uselessly, he tried to get up.

It didn’t work.

He was too tangled up, his large body too jammed in the stall, his sense of balance too off, the pain in his hip too bad. From the other side of the room, the banished shower chair seemed to jeer at him, his crutches leaning against the wall right next to it, out of reach.

“For fuck’s sake!”

Strike looked at his truncated leg, its scars still purple and chafed in a few spots. Then he looked at his own nakedness, his flaccid dick between his legs. And then he began to cry.

He’d become used to feeling exposed and embarrassed in hospital. In those first few days and weeks, when an infection had added to the fallout of his injuries, he hadn’t been able to do anything himself. Peeing into a catheter, getting sponge-baths in bed and being spoon-fed, he’d quickly learned that dignity was a privilege he would have to regain, one-legged step by step. He’d worked on it, fighting for every bit of independence he could reach.

But even then, he’d always been surrounded by helpful hands. Nurses, physiotherapists, then Nick and Ilsa had always been close by to compensate for his disability. He’d felt his limits, for certain, and he’d raged against them in endless frustration. But here and now, in a heap in his shower tub, all alone, unable to even pull himself up and get to his phone, he felt completely and utterly helpless.

Everything crashed down on him: his bravado of the recent weeks, his determination to hold it together even when it got difficult - he was SIB, made of tough stuff - and his insistence that he could make it on his own. It all fell apart, and everything hurt.

Strike buried his face in his hands and let the tears flow.

When his sobs began to subside, he became aware of a noise in his flat. Alarmed, he lifted his head. He’d closed the bathroom door and even locked it, by habit, defending every bit of privacy he could get. Steps approached. Only two people had keys to his flat: Nick and Ilsa and the cleaning woman Ilsa had insisted on hiring for him.

God, please, don’t let it be her.

It wasn’t. A knock on the door followed, and Strike heard Nick’s voice, muffled through the wood.

“Oggy? You in there?”

Strike wiped his face.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“You alright, mate? You didn’t answer the door, so I let myself in. Can I come in?”

Nick was already turning the knob, but the door was locked.

“Oggy! What’s going on in there? You aren’t wanking, are you?”

Strike, despite himself, gave a half-sob, half-laugh.

Outside, Nick paused at the strange noise.

“Listen, unless you’ve grown fins or a dragon’s tail since the last time I helped you get in the shower, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Let me in?”

Strike heaved a quivering sigh, unable not to smile a little at Nick’s off-hand remark.

“I can’t,” he finally answered. His voice sounded steadier now. “I slipped in the shower and fell, and now I can’t get up. I think you have to-”

With a crash, the bathroom door flew open, lock and jamb splintering, and Nick stumbled inside the room, catching himself against the sink. The door swung back on its one remaining hinge, creaking decrepitly.

“... find the spare key on the rack,” Strike finished his sentence, flooded by a sudden feeling of hilarity that made him want to both laugh and cry at the same time.

Nick stood staring at him, panting.

“Are you hurt?”

He leaned inside the stall to turn off the water, running his eyes over Strike as he did so.

“Just my pride, I think,” Strike answered, buoyed and strangely touched by his friend’s unassuming, unwavering presence in this precarious moment, in his life.

“Help me up?”

Nick did. Strike pushing, Nick pulling, they maneuvered him onto the chair that Nick had grabbed and placed just outside the shower stall.

“God, you’re heavy,” Nick complained.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“I would never.”

Nick took a towel from the rack and spread it over Strike’s lap. He grabbed another and threw it across Strike’s shoulders. Then he proceeded to give him a once-over, checking for injuries.

“Oggy?” he said, standing behind Strike and palpating the lump at the back of his head.

Strike grimaced. “Yeah?”

“Use the bloody shower chair next time, alright?”

Strike nodded, guilt mixing with warmth in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, meaning it this time. “I will.”

(You can also read and comment on this fic on AO3:)

[whump-the-caretaker]

Shifter - pt. 2

previous / about the characters / next

Beck had recovered just enough to be pissed. 

The shock from being forced to shift and shift and shift had worn off, and now he was planning his retribution. The only thing tempering his rage was the growing hunger. 

“Are you ready to try a few easy experiments?”

Beck’s head snapped up. He had no intention of trying shit, but the man was laying out those damn gas-filled spheres on a tray and bringing them over along with the plugs for the air holes.

Beck narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “The fuck are you trying to do?”

“Well, I want to see how far I can push you.”

He could certainly try.

The man was about to learn why every authority figure in Beck’s life had cursed his name and why even his friends despaired of ever getting him to do something he hadn’t always intended to do anyway. 

“Shift your tattoos away.”

This was going to suck.

“Go fuck yourself,” he answered, tipping his chin up defiantly. 

The man frowned. “Now, there’s no call for that,” he chided, reaching for the tray.

Beck braced himself. He didn’t know what he would be forced to become, but he knew he would not participate in his own destruction. He had just enough time to be seized with the sudden fear of being aquatic, of drowning on dry land, before whatever was in the sphere reacted with the air around him and filled the case with gas.

With a painful squeeze, his body crumpled in on itself.

All his muscles shrank, contracting sharply around bones that couldn’t quite keep up. Fur split his skin and a tail pushed free below his spine. 

His strangled cry of pain came out a squeak, and, when the fog of it lifted, he was a rat in a glass case, staring up at an infinitely huge testing room.

The man tapped a pattern on the front of the glass, which glowed slightly at his touch, mimicking a keypad. It hummed a soft vibration that he could feel through his whiskers, and the top came free.

He ran.

There wasn’t anywhere to go, but adrenaline coursed through his body, spurred by the hands reaching for him. His best efforts to evade or sink his teeth into the the grip were pointless, though, and he was yanked to a stop by his tail and dangled in the air. 

The room swayed, tilting around him while he tried to pull himself up, to bite or free himself or at least right the twisting world.

“We could have tested this a much less painful way,” the man tutted.

Beck’s heart pounded in his tiny chest. 

His struggles, swinging freely at the end of the muscular tail, took on an edge of desperation when he saw surgical scissors in the man’s hand. If he’d had the voice to do it, he would have shouted or threatened, but there was nothing he could do to stop him from sliding his grip down the tail and cutting off the last half inch of muscle and bone.

His reality collapsed into that one point of pain.

The shrieking sounds that rat lungs could make were humiliating and inadequate in response to the white-hot, electric pain. It felt like losing part of a limb. It was losing part of a limb. He was dropped back into the case, blood spattered, streaking the floor around him with each distressed movement, and he shook, unable to shift back, unable to do anything while he waited for the time to be up.

He pressed into the corner of the cage.

The lid closed. 

He was still gasping in pained cries when he shifted back.

It hurt.

Even human again, it hurt, sharp pain radiating from the curve of his tailbone. There wasn’t all that much blood spattered on the glass, but it felt like he’d lost a lot more.

“Why would--” Beck shuddered, swallowing down the desire to puke or sob. He wouldn’t give him that. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Can you still feel it?”

Beck breathed deeply, desperately working to get a hold of himself, and didn’t answer.

“I can try again,” the man offered.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Yes, I can feel it.”

“Shift back to a rat.”

“Go to hell.”

He sighed, like the whole process was putting him out, and selected another of the drugs.

Beck gritted his teeth and steeled himself. 

The glass bead cracked and the transformation took him again. The shifting of his muscles, the shrinking of his bones--all that discomfort paled in comparison to the splitting shock of growing back a cut tail. 

His tail: back, in all its disfigured glory.

Blood spilled freely again, and all of his instincts were screaming to run and hide and bite. He hauled his mind back from the brink of falling totally into animalistic terror and focused instead on shifting back. The faster he overcame the gas, the faster he stopped bleeding.

Time dragged torturously, seconds ticking out with the course of blood from his tail.

The man cleared his throat as they approached the minute mark. “Make it easy on yourself and shift to a mouse next.”

A moment later Beck knelt in front of him, human, hissing breaths through clenched teeth. “I have never once in my life gone easy on myself, and I’m not starting now.”

The man picked up the next dose, and Beck braced himself.

This time, he shrank even further, a mouse with soft white fur and a whole, if throbbing, fuzz covered tail. He trembled with relief to see the undamaged tip of the tail, even while the man hummed curiously and scratched out notes.

Rat wasn’t a form he defaulted to. It had never been a favorite. 

He could lose a bit of tail there if nothing else changed.

The pain was there and the horror, the blood loss, but he wasn’t irrevocably damaged. Not in every shape. Not even in any shapes he liked.

He was still shaking with pain and relief when he shed the mouse, telling himself that he could keep defying the man and doing a decent job at believing it.

“Now, can we try that with markings or are you going to make me keep cutting off pieces of you?”

***

The noise of someone cursing and struggling with the display case woke Beck where he was sleeping, curled up as an arctic fox in the scraps of his clothing, his tail over his nose to keep out the cold. He squinted up at the familiar face.

Avery.

He jolted up, snapping into his human form, and pressed his hands to the glass. “Avery!”

“I’ll kill them. Whoever did this, I’m going to kill them,” he snarled. “Fuck, how do I get this open?”

Beck shook his head. “Some kind of touchpad. I don’t know how it works. God, Avery, how’d you find me?”

“I tracked your phone to a dumpster.” He slammed his hands against the glass. “Fuck!”

“Shh, don’t--”

“I see we have a rat out of the cage,” a voice commented idly from the doorway. 

Beck stiffened. “Avery, run,” he breathed. “Don’t fight. Run.”

Avery tossed a disbelieving look over his shoulder at Beck, already shifting into place between the man and Beck’s cage. “Open it.”

“How did you even get in here?” the man said curiously, stepping towards them into the room. 

He was too calm. Beck was beginning to panic. 

“Don’t hurt him.” The words spilled out of Beck.

Avery reached for his sidearm, hand brushing the grip, but didn’t get it drawn before he fell with electric prods in his chest and current spasming his muscles.

“No!” Beck slammed against the glass. “Don’t hurt him, fuck, please. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

The man stepped casually over until he was standing over Avery. He looked between him and Beck, head cocking curiously to the side. “Inter-species copulation is generally frowned upon.”

“Fuck you.”

He tutted and leaned down, sliding a needling into Avery’s arm while he was still groaning his way back to consciousness. “Well, a complication, certainly. But I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t,” Beck breathed, but Avery’s eyes were sliding closed again before they’d even really opened. 

“Waste not, want not.”

He hadn’t fought against his containment so hard in days, but nothing seemed to matter. His nails scraped uselessly on the glass, his hands and feet slammed into the sides without leaving a crack, and outside, Avery was dragged away.

[leyswhumpdump]

The Larceny of Lord Liron #5

It’s back!

Masterlist

Tropes and CWs: Thief whumpee, noble whumper, female whumper, captivity, kidnapping, bleeding, pain, some hand whump.

Agantha hadn’t needed to use the blindfold. By the time she came to collect her little pet, his eyes had spent time aplenty in the darkness, and the light at the top of the stairs hurt him. She still kept a sharp grip on his wrist, not trusting him not to squirm away from her. The boy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, or Urien would never have caught him in the first place.

“I want you to know we have guards,” she breathed against that mop of limp, dusty hair. “Their families have served ours for generations. Completely under our command. You can’t sweet-talk your way into their sympathies.”

The boy shivered. He should have been used to the cold after a few days in the cellar room. It was of course still summer, but the manor saw grey skies more often than it did sun. Under Agantha’s fingers, his arm felt like it had been out in the snow. “My little songbird must be frozen,” she said. “If you’re good for me today, perhaps you’ll see clothes again.”

She steered the boy into their billiards room. If she were honest, she’d never much cared for billiards. Not when there were so many more interesting games to play, but perhaps the boy could make her enjoy it. She pulled out a hard wooden chair she’d reserved specially for him, letting its legs clatter into position on the parquet.

“Sit down, little songbird.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ‿︵‿︵‿︵  

Wren’s eyes had only just started to focus when Agantha showed him the chair. He stared at it with wariness, horribly aware she wanted him in a yet more vulnerable position. That was assuming she didn’t intend to restrain him. His nails dug crescent gouges into his palms, bracing himself for whatever she was about to inflict.

The slap nearly blinded him again.

“You’ll do as your betters command.”

Wren sat. The chair hurt less than the stone cellar floor, but its seat had been designed by an anatomically ignorant carpenter—or perhaps simply a cruel one. No matter how much he wriggled, it was impossible to find a comfortable position. He resisted the urge to rub his reddened jaw.

Agantha smiled, moving around the other side of the billiards table. “Do you know what this room is used for?”

Wren tried to speak, but his words caught. Fear, stupid fear. She may as well have bound and gagged him for all he could move, all he could talk.

“You will answer me, songbird.”

The billiards table may have been the focus of the room, but Wren saw plenty of other pursuits. A large dartboard. A chess set-up. A table with a backgammon board. A few sets of playing cards. “It’s used—it’s used for games, my lady.”

He needed to keep his voice normal, pretend this was some thievery job he hadn’t been caught at. He couldn’t give Agantha the satisfaction, and yet every nervous tumble of words only broadened her smile.

“Quite right. It’s used for games.” She picked up a cue from the billiards table, chalking the tip. “Do you know billiards?”

“I’ve never played any cue games, my lady.”

The light glinted off her eyes the same way it had done her daggers. “Then this will be fun.”

That gleaming look exposed him in a way he hadn’t known since Urien had first grabbed him. He hugged himself, hating all this nakedness. Not even the horse blanket would have rescued him from the way Agantha seemed to stare right through his soul.

“You think you’re good at getting into pockets, don’t you? Well, let’s make you do just that. You see the billiards table. Well, this one is technically a pool table, but pool is such a low-class game. Nonetheless, my husband enjoys it. And we need pockets for this, so it all works out quite well. I want you to perform some trick shots for me. Stand up.” She handed him the cue.

“Trick—trick shots, my lady?”

“Why, of course. You do enjoy your tricks.” She indicated the billiard balls. “Pocket those balls. Each time you do, there’ll be a little reward for you. Wouldn’t you like to get out of here with a little reward?”

Wren’s fingers sweated on the cue. “You’ll let me go, my lady?”

“You would have to impress me, of course.”

He swallowed, moving closer to the table. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone play a game like this, but it couldn’t be that difficult, could it? He readied his cue, trying to work out angles.

“Oh, and if you ruin the baize, my husband will do to you what you did to the table.”

“The—the baize, my lady?”

Agantha did not reply. Wren gulped, staring at the billiard balls.

“Your cue ball is the white one. That’s the one you hit the object balls with. Pocket it and I’ll find a forfeit for you.”

He had to hit the cue ball into the others? And somehow still hope to get a pocket?

“Go on, then. No point in stalling. Nobody’s coming in to let you off.”

His first shot missed both the cue ball and the object balls. The cue skated across the surface of the table.

“Remember what I said about the baize,” Agantha said.

The baize… she had to be referring to the cloth. Wren drew back the cue, his hands shaking. Agantha took another cue from the wall and for a moment Wren thought he was in competition, but she simply stood aside and held it in manicured fingers. “Try again.”

“My lady, I don’t know how to…”

“Are you asking me to show you how to use the cue?” She laughed when Wren nodded. “You have a nerve, a grubby little thief like you asking anything of a lady. You’ll simply have to learn through experience.”

His second shot nudged two of the object balls, but otherwise barely stirred them. When he missed his third shot, Agantha’s cue rapped him on the knuckles. “Concentrate!”

Wren licked his lips, desperately summoning focus. His hand stung from Agantha’s cue, and sweated on his own. Everything felt slippery. He leaned forward a little, attempting to align himself with the pocket. He could do this, it couldn’t be that difficult…

The cue ball shot into one of the object balls, pinging it into the pocket. Wren’s ecstasy was short-lived; the cue ball hovered next to the hole, then dropped after the one it had just knocked in.

“Oh dear,” Agantha murmured.

“I—I got the other ball in.”

“So you did. I’ll let you have the prize inside.” She struck a tally mark on the chalkboard next to the darts. “Go on. Pick the pocket.”

Wren hesitated, his cautious hand creeping into the pocket. His fingers curled around something small. Agantha smiled as he pulled it out. “Tell you what, you can have it now.”

Wren set the toffee on the side of the table. Knowing Agantha, it was probably poisoned.

“Oh, you silly songbird. When were you last fed? You’ll regret not taking that sugar.”

“Where do I put the cue ball, my lady?” Wren said a little stiffly.

“You’re getting quite into this game, aren’t you? Set it where I chalked the baize.”

Wren placed the ball on the little white cross. It seemed a long way from where he’d knocked the object balls.

“Remember, there’s only one prize for each pocket.”

He’d try for the corner opposite the last one, Wren decided. He seemed to have knocked most of the balls down that end anyway.

“Don’t let me put you off, songbird.”

The shot went wide. Again. And again, Agantha’s cue rapped him over the knuckles. It hurt a lot more the second time. He suppressed a small cry.

“What’s the matter? Does the songbird have performance anxiety? Maybe we should resolve that. Servant!”

A servant hurried into the room; a pale young man with puffy dark swelling around one eye. “Yes, my lady?”

“Close the curtains,” Agantha commanded, even though she’d been standing next to them. “And dim these lamps.”

“Yes, my lady.” The servant caught Wren’s eye for the briefest of seconds—then turned his face away so quickly Wren wondered if he’d imagined it. “At once, my lady.”

“It’s so delightful having servants,” Agantha said once the young man had left. “Urien and I have similar tastes, you see. Why go for some crusty old maid when you can have someone young and attractive? Of course, we are faithful to each other, as befits a lord and lady. It’s simply the aesthetic of the thing.”

Wren trembled against the table. The drawn curtains had plunged the room into twilit gloom. He could still see the billiard balls—just about—but not the pockets. He’d have to try and remember the dimensions of the table.

“Keep going!”

Wren lined up his next shot. Maybe Agantha wouldn’t notice if he pocketed the white ball as well. But no—the white ball went in without taking any others, and he heard the distinctive scuff of chalk on a board as a second tally mark was made.

Two forfeits.

“I enjoy the waiting game, little songbird, but even you try my patience.”

This time the shot was successful. Wren sighed in relief, pulling out a coin from the pocket. He put it with the toffee.

“That’s four more pockets left.”

Four pockets. Already his nerves were beginning to split. He missed the next shot, and the one after that, and the one after the one after. Each time he missed, his knuckles screamed between the pool cues, and he knew his hand would be a mess of bruises if he survived long enough to see it.

“Are these punishments not encouragement enough for you, little songbird?”

Wren closed his eyes, trying to steel himself a little. He had to get this next shot, he had to, or Agantha might do more than just rap his knuckles. Maybe she’d force him to play with broken fingers. Or no fingers at all. His grip curled a little tighter on the cue as if that might protect his hand.

The ball met a third pocket. Just the object ball. The cue ball stayed on the edge, almost but not quite in.

“Good boy. Take your reward, then.”

Wren plunged his hand inside, eager to finish the game. For a moment he felt nothing. Then the pain ripped through his fingers, hot pain and hot blood. He gasped.

“Oh dear.” Agantha laughed. “That must have been quite the sharp reminder.”

Wren dragged out a suddenly limp hand, cradling it against his chest. It felt sticky and yet slippery, all curled up and useless and screaming at him. He doubled over in the hopes it might control the pain, but nothing could dull the sharp, deep slices the blades had left.

“Come on, three more pockets.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. And yet in this darkness, with this physical manifestation of cruelty standing before him, he couldn’t shake his head either.

“Three more, or I put your other hand in there and you play with both hands bleeding.”

“What’s—what’s in the other pockets, my lady?” The words hissed out through clenched teeth as his sobs threatened to surface.

“You’ll just have to find that out for yourself, won’t you? Dear me, and we haven’t even moved on to the forfeits yet.” He thought he saw Agantha smile, a monster he could barely see. “Oh, little songbird. This is going to be simply delightful.”

Tags: @formally-yours @heart4brains @lilac-and-lemon-whumps @painsandconfusion @quietshae @whumpsday

[justplainwhump]

Morning

Mark and Gemma get a pet - p. IV

Cw for BBU, pet whump, lady whump, nakedness, scars.

(Note - This series is in some way about the twisted 'normalcy' in the BBU. Neither Mark not Gemma want to hurt the pet, so I'll tag it pet whump but it might not be what you expect. Hope you like it!)

[Part I] [< Previous] [Next >]

Ira The pet could hear her owners wake up in the morning, soft stirring from the other side of the apartment. She hadn't slept too bad on the bathroom tiles - it had been quiet, she hadn't been in pain, at some point in the night, the man had opened the door and silently spread a woollen blanket over her before she even had the time to scramble into position.

Ms Gemma had been scared of her the first day, when the pet herself had been weak and confused, but this was a new day and a new chance at making her owner love her. Love her back. She fought the little sting in the back of her head that wondered if she really did. She was a pet. Designation romantic. She loved her owner, with all her being, from the first moment on. She'd loved Mistress, and now she loved Ms Gemma.

The pet had already cleaned herself with what she had available in the small guest bathroom, taken a cold shower, even tried to style her hair in the way Mistress had always liked.

She hadn't been given fresh clothes, so she assumed she should be naked. Mistress had liked her like this, when it was warm enough in the house, to be able to look at all of her, to run her fingers down the scars, and to add a new one whenever she felt like it. Ira mirrored Mistress' motions now, feeling the little bumps under her fingertips, following the lines marking her body like a map. Good girl, Mistress' voice ghosted through her. My good, quiet, obedient little Ira.

Outside the room, soft footsteps fell on the corridor, and the pet straightened her back - position two, on her knees, butt rested on her feet, gaze forward.

The door opened. She'd be -

"Oh my god," Ms Gemma squealed. The pet could just catch a short glance of her green eyes, widened in shock, before the door slammed shut. "Get decent, pet, for God's sake," she yelled through the closed door.

The clothes she'd been wearing yesterday rested on the ground next to her, a tank top and short sweat pants. WRU clothes. Facility clothes. Ira reached for them slowly, swallowing back the nausea. The touch of the cheap fabric, so familiar, from memories and nightmares.

She felt a sob stuck in her throat. She was bad, a bad pet, for not understanding her owner's wishes, and getting back into these clothes was her punishment.

Trembling, she slipped into the pants, pulled the shirt over her head. They were slightly smelly, her own sweat from being stuck in the delivery box, and while it stung that she couldn't be neat and perfect for Ms Gemma, a tiny part of her was relieved that this at least smoothed over the smell of the facility.

There were low noises coming from the main room, and Ira put a smile on her lips and walked over, quick, but not rushed, with soft steps and a light sway to her hips.

In the open kitchen, Ms Gemma was typing something on her phone, but looked up at her with a frown. "Better," she said. "This is a decent house, pet. Don't be naked where I or Mark have to see you."

The pet cast her eyes down and nodded. "Of course, Ms Gemma. Forgive my mistake. I deserve to be punished."

Ms Gemma almost choked on a cough. "Punish? Gosh no, I'm not into that kinky stuff."

The pet almost flinched. "I... I don't understand, Ms Gemma," she whispered. "I... I'm sorry. I was bad. I... I want to be good for you. Please."

"Then make coffee, pet. You know how to do that, don't you?"

Nervously, the pet glanced up at the counter. The coffeemaker looked familiar, like the one in Mistress' office, and a relieved smile spread on her face. "Yes," she said. "Yes, Ms Gemma, I would love to make you coffee. Thank you."

Her owner tilted her head, and there was a frown in it, but also a hint of a smile, of something warm, and the pet's body was flooded with relief. Relief and hope.

She could be good for Ms Gemma. She'd find a way. And then, eventually, she'd be loved.

[Next >]

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Hair's Breadth From Death

i rlly like this one so we do be thriving

ao3

Prompt: gun to temple

Fandom: none

Characters: Whumper, Whumpee

Trigger Warnings: gun, threats, intimate whump, possessive whump, suicidal ideation

269 words

The cold metal of the barrel is pressed deep against Whumpee’s skin, nuzzled directly into their temple. They do not move. They do not breathe.

A hushed, involuntary whimper slips from between their lips. They cannot control their trembling.

“Let me make something sickeningly clear,” Whumper says, digging the gun further into their flesh. “You fucking belong to me. Your life is in my hands to do with as I please. If you fucking disobey me again…”

The safety clicks off, and Whumpee chokes on a sob. 

“I’m sorry,” they whisper, tears spilling from their eyes. “I’m sorry…” they repeat helplessly. Deeper down, beneath the primal fear for their life, they almost want Whumper to do it. To put them out of their misery. Let them free of this hell.

“God…” the gun slowly, deliberately pulls away, and they are too tired to acknowledge the nakedness they feel without it. “A crueler whumper would never show you mercy like I do,” Whumper says, whispered like a sweet nothing against Whumpee’s ear. It does not still their sobs. “I give you chance after chance, and still I haven’t lost my patience.”

They circle around Whumpee until they’re in front of them again, and the tip of the gun is placed directly under Whumpee’s chin, tight against their throat and jerking their head up.

“Pray. You don’t make me lose it.”

“I won’t,” Whumpee whimpers, desperate, “I’ll be better, I’ll do what—” they interrupt themselves with a hiccup, “whatever you w-want.”

“There’s a good Whumpee,” they smile, caressing their cheek with their free hand. “I knew we could reach an understanding.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A concept: Allyn is cold. Allyn steals one of Jameson’s oversized gray hoodies that is like a dress on them. Jameson reacts

CW: Referenced past captivity, vague allusion to past noncon/dubcon, Jameson's masochism makes an appearance, like PG-13 spicy thoughts

He's got the laundry in his arms, the plastic basket carefully balanced as he moves step by step up the stairs. It's his stuff - a few tshirts and some boxers, couple pairs of jeans and sweatpants, his big hooded sweater on top - and he's a little proud, honestly, that he owns so much now.

A whole week's worth of clothes, extra socks. Socks at all. He's got two pairs of shoes now, regular and rainy-day. When it gets chilly he has sweaters to wear, three of them, plus the hooded one.

None of the stuff is all that special, all pre-owned thrift store donations, but... It's all his.

He wears clothes all day now, all the time, barely taking the time to peel his shirt off as he steps into the shower. If it wasn't gross as fuck, he'd stay dressed in the shower, too.

The fucking therapist he sees twice a week now says he's choosing to cover yourself fully as a way to exert control over your body and become familiar with it belonging to you again, her voice soft and sympathetic. She tastes like oranges when she speaks, bursts of membranes dissolving into bright sweetness on his tongue. He likes her.

He doesn't tell her that.

The laundry is all still warm from the dryer and smells like the fabric softener sheets that Jake uses, tears in half to make them last longer. Jameson never fucking asked, Jake Stanton just says things like he assumes Jameson cares about hearing them.

If Jake's voice tastes like water that has worn down mountains, Jameson wonders if that means he's the mountain Jake is wearing down.

When he steps back into the room, Allyn is hanging a garland along the top of the window, up on their tiptoes. They made the garland themself, taking twine and carefully stapling folded over, cut up tissue paper lined with thicker construction paper. It looks a little like flags made of stained glass catching the sun.

Their hair hangs loose down their back, not wild but not so controlled as usual, and they glance back at him with gray eyes sparkling. "Do you like it?" They ask, and Jameson stands in the doorway, basking in the rainfall on his tongue, a sunshower, light through raindrops warm on his tongue now.

His eyes move over the little garland, and he gives a crooked smile. "It's all right," He says, after a second, and Allyn's smile widens. They know Jameson's praise when they hear it.

"I thought we should make our room more our own, anyway. Oh, laundry's done."

They move to him and Jameson's eyes follow them. He forgets for a second he should be putting it all away in the two dresser drawers he has all to himself in the big dresser he and Allyn share.

Allyn plucks the sweatshirt with the hood right off the top and pulls it to themself. Jameson's mouth goes dry as they bury their face in the fabric and breathe deep.

He has an image, a flash, hardly a second, of them burying their face into his neck just like that, biting deep until they draw blood, until he begs for it to stop-

And then it's gone. He forces it down as fast as he can, ignores the awkward pool of heat low in his stomach, not demanding attention, just... reminding him he could think about that, if he wanted.

He doesn't.

Not... not like that. That's trained in, it isn't his, it's not who he wants to be. Or maybe it is. He doesn't know, and he's terrified of the answer.

"Oh, it's still warm. I used to love when Rosemary would bring everything right from the dryer." Allyn sighs wistfully, and they look back to the window. Jameson looks at their profile, the upturned nose, the soft bow of their lips. "It's chilly in here, warm laundry feels lovely."

The rainfall is heavier, now, but the taste of rain no less welcome. He loves their voice.

"Well, put it on, then," He says, more roughly than he intends to speak, voice going husky and raw at the edges as he jerks into sudden motion, setting the laundry basket down on his bed. "Warm up."

"Are you sure?"

They say sure almost like shore, a hint of some accent from somewhere else. Their words all feel constructed to him, distinctly shaped, where his own run together, spoken too fast for spaces between.

"Yeah, go for it."

He busies himself putting the clothes away, one by one. His socks, his boxers, his pants, his shirts, his his his. All of it. No more days shivering and begging for a blanket, no more eyes that see every bloodied scratch, no more Brute or Robert laughing at him when his teeth chatter.

His clothes, his blankets, his bed, his life.

He sees the smudge of gray and red from the corner of his eyes as they dress, but he doesn't look. Not that they all aren't used to nakedness, numb to it, but here... they don't have to be.

So he tries, and it's weird, he tries to treat it as something that you decide to be and not just something you are made to be.

"So, what do you think?"

Jameson looks over, mouth open with a joke that dies on his tongue.

They smile at him, slightly shyly, their hair mussed up by pulling on the hoodie and a wild halo around their head, a waterfall of red around their shoulders. Their gray eyes match the sweatshirt exactly somehow. Or he just thinks they do.

It comes down to their thighs, just barely, and Jameson thinks about how it's look if they weren't wearing those pants and it was just three fucking miles of long long legs and above that-

He spins back around before his face can go red enough to give him away. "S'big on y-you."

"It's bigger on you," They respond, dropping to sit cross-legged on their bed, giggling a little. "You're shorter than me, aren't you?"

His mouth tastes like spring rain but he wants to taste blood, his own, he wants them to wear just that sweatshirt and drag their nails down his back and then make him lick the blood off their fingers one by one by one by one.

"Yeah, well." He swallows, again and again, looking down at the bed. He wants to crawl under it and hide until he doesn't feel the heat inside him any longer. He wants to curl up in the closet, and run his fingers over the letters he has carved into the wood in there. He needs to calm down. "You look... good. In it. Anyway."

"Well, thank you," They say, and there's a moment of silence, awkward on one side of the room and content on the other. "I'll go move my stuff into the dryer. Think about how else you want to decorate our room while I'm gone, okay?"

They're up and moving, out the door, and Jameson breathes out slowly, slowly, as he sits down and puts his head in his hands.

He'll-

He'll tell the therapist.

He has to.

I'm thinking good boy thoughts again. I'm wanting someone to hurt me. I want them to hurt me. I want them to. I'm thinking about it again.

Maybe the therapist, with her orange-burst voice, will tell him how to make it stop.

Secretly, he hopes she'll tell him it doesn't have to.

—

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @endless-whump @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen

[outofangband]

Masterlist/Explanation of the Dark Arafinwë verse

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Maedhros is attending a formal event near Alqualondë and is accosted by another elf. Unable to wrangle the truth from the ages of pre-existing biases and feuds, Teleri wardens arrest both the accoster and Maedhros who finds himself fighting against his own memories. When, to his very great surprise, Arafinwë himself intervenes on his behalf, Maedhros is brought back to the palace to be kept under supervision until the matter is investigated. (More details at the end notes)

CW: forced stripping (non sexual), abuse of power, callous disregard of past trauma/exploiting trauma responses, dissociation, gaslighting 

Edit: I’ve had some people tell me that the gaslighting in this story is very difficult to read so I wanted to give an extra warning for that element

Tag list: @iwenttomordor @elarinya-nailo @mozart-the-meerkitten @tears-and-lilies @much-ado-about-whumping 

“Strip.”

There was no malice in the command, simply an almost weary calm. Nelyafinwë was aware of his own eyes widening just as a sense of unreality came over him. The soft warmth of the evening felt suddenly oppressive and the clean and comfortable room he had been lead into twisted and distorted. He took a step backwards and his half uncle raised an eyebrow.

“I know you carry weapons upon thy person, Russandol. For rather obvious reasons I cannot allow you to keep them.”

The room did not come back into focus but Maitimo gave a small sigh, apprehension as much as relief. He raised one booted foot and undid the laces, pulling out a small blade and handing it over to Arafinwë who pocketed it with a small nod of acknowledgment. Maitimo then undid the other boot to show there was nothing in it.

Arafinwë looked impassively at the other elf, fingers pressed together at his chest.

“It would not be very prudent to simply take thy word, Russandol. Remove the rest, I will give you something to wear.” Maedhros’s gaze traveled to his face, his own expression of startled disbelief. He waited for a few moments for Arafinwë to leave or turn away. Arafinwë does not. 

Maitimo swallowed, aware of the tingling, almost trembling in his arms or legs. He started on the buttons on his tunic so it fell into two sides, revealing the scars on his chest. Including the numerous iterations of kinslayer carved or tattooed into his flesh. He winced as he thought about this, not wishing to force Arafinwë to view another reminder of what had happened here so many years ago.

But he handed the tunic over over. Arafinwë set it and his boots on the bed, more of an examination table than for rest. He gestures for Maitimo to continue when the Noldor prince pauses again. Next come the trousers, slightly scuffed from the altercation that had landed him here in the first place. The heat rises to his ears and he can no longer maintain any sort of eye contact, directing his gaze to the floor instead.

Maitimo procrastinates pulling off his leggings until Arafinwë makes a soft sound of impatience, jarring him back to the present. The present where he is standing almost completely naked in front of the king of the Noldor in Valinor.

“I was there when Angamando fell and I have worked as a healer. I know you are scarred. Please remove the rest.”  

Maitimo hands over the last of his clothes and finally Arafinwë looks away from him, gathering up his leggings, tunic, trousers and boots along with his jewelry. 

“Stay here, Russandol. I will bring these to my guard to examine.” He starts towards the door.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Maitimo sees that the beaded bracelet Rôg had crafted for him is visible in the pocket of his trousers. He longs to hold it, to rub the smooth stone between his fingers as he does when the memories of the past intrude so vividly into the present.

“Lord Arafinwë?” He starts to say but the look on his half uncle’s face, that same impassive, cool interest, prevents any more words from leaving him and he merely shakes his head and waits as the other leaves.

...

Arafinwë returns nearly half of an hour later and Maitimo has not dared to move, even to try and cover himself. Loathe as he is to admit it to himself, any scolding or reprimand he might receive is likely worse than the shame of being so exposed. The door is closed, perhaps it was locked. 

The king moves past him to take up his previous position. His expression has not changed. 

“I am afraid you will have to be restrained for the night, Russandol. I do not have guards to spare.” Maedhros looks up at him, his heartrate spiking again. 

“I do not need to be restrained, My Lord” he says slowly, carefully, “I am hardly going to attack you nor anyone else, naked and with no weapon.” 

Arafinwë studies him. “I have absolutely no idea whether or not you will attack another should you become frightened or angry. I cannot afford the possibility that you enter such a state and harm someone. Lay down,” he gestures to the narrow bed before continuing, “This is a process that would typically be done by our wardens. Are you not grateful you are not suffering this under the hands of strangers?” 

Maitimo was more acutely aware than ever of his nakedness as he took the few steps forward and lay down on his stomach. He hears rather than sees Arafinwë come to his right side, using a strap made of a soft leather to fasten his hands down. He urges himself silently to breathe through his nose, to remain calm. By the time his ankles were also strapped down, he had to actively count his breaths to keep them steady.

“Open your mouth.” This next command is spoken as calmly, coolly as the others, it is only Maitimo who is experiencing the dizzying panic. He doesn’t obey this time. Arafinwë approaches him again, kneeling beside his head and holding out what seem to be more of the leather straps. 

 “Your teeth are a weapon, Russandol,” now there is something like sarcasm, mocking in the king’s voice, Maitimo is sure of it.

 (Is he sure?)

“You can hardly be surprised that you are not trusted here. Do you not understand I have made this process significantly better for you? Open your mouth. This will not hurt you and it is only until the morrow.” 

Maedhros tastes cleaned leather as something is forced into his mouth, preventing him from moving his tongue. More straps are fixed around his head. Arafinwë is careful to keep his hair out of the way of them so it does not become caught or tangled. But the parts that press against his face irritate the old scars made when less considerate hands strapped similar devices over him. 

Finally, Arafinwë takes a step back. Maedhros’s shallow breathing is softened slightly by the piece in his mouth. 

“Good. Get some rest, Russandol. I will check on you in the morning.”

To be continued

Author’s note: This type of gaslighting used both implicitly and explicitly throughout here, the “no, of course there’s nothing sinister about me doing these things, that’s just how you’re interpreting them because of Angband and it’s really offensive of you to compare me to the Dark Lord” is incredibly insidious and makes me really angry! Unfortunately it will only get worse from here. 

Author’s note: Maedhros was caught off guard here and his shock as well as his guilt is used to manipulate him into thinking this is legitimate procedure however he soon starts to understand more how dangerous Arafinwë and please know that he becomes an absolute nightmare to hold hostage. Or well he’s not currently a hostage but he’s soon to be

There is more about why Ara is doing this linked in the AU masterlist and more will become known as the story progresses! 

More backstory here:

Maedhros is attending a formal event near Alqualondë and is accosted by another elf. Unable to wrangle the truth from the ages of pre-existing biases and feuds, Teleri soldiers arrest both the accoster and Maedhros who finds himself fighting against unpleasant memories of being confined and restrained.  He’s alone in his cell, trying not to flinch whenever a guard comes by and alternating rapidly between the instinct to fight and scream and lash out and the instinct to hide and be subdued. He sees the guards stop and bow and he stands and walks to the door and sees Arafinwë. To his astonishment, he’s told that Arafinwë has agreed to have him released into his custody. He can’t leave the city for a few days, at least not until the matter gets sorted out. Maedhros starts to refuse just on instinct, saying it’s not necessary, etc. Arafinwë looks loftily at him.

“Do not speak foolishness, Russandol. Come with me.” And the guards unlock the door and nod to him and he can’t exactly insist on staying in prison especially because he is actually innocent in this encounter so he agrees reluctantly and follows Arafinwë to his carriage.

[serickswrites]

Hiss VIII

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 9 Part 10

Warnings: captivity, pet whump, noncon, muzzling, collar, nsfw whump

For the first few days Whumpee was with Whumper, Whumper chained them to the bed post. Whumpee had cried silently as Whumper slipped the leather collar around their neck. The only reason they didn’t fight was because Whumper dangled the muzzle in front of them. Each day when Whumper woke, came home randomly, and before Whumper slept, Whumpee obediently lay face down on the bed, butt in the air, putting as much arch in their back as possible. They cried silently, thankful that the soft bedding hid their tears, as Whumper thrust violently into them. 

This morning, after Whumper had woken and taken their time with Whumpee, Whumper unhooked the collar from the chain. “Come here,” they beckoned to Whumpee. 

Whumpee hesitated for a moment. Part of them was tempted to run, not caring about their nakedness, just because they could escape. Part of them realized that was futile and that this was their life now. Obeying every order. Complying with every touch. Stiffly, Whumpee lay back against Whumper’s chest. 

Whumper immediately began to stroke Whumpee’s hair. “It doesn’t have to be all bad, pet.” 

Whumpee remained silent and unmoving. 

“I am a gentle and loving master. You’ll come to enjoy your time here. I promise.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Whumpee’s eyes again. They couldn’t help but think of Caretaker. And how much they missed Caretaker. Caretaker’s soft, gentle touches. Delicate, sweet kisses. Full of so much love. Whumpee sobbed as they realized they would never feel that love again. 

Whumper’s fingers trailed lower and lower. They cupped Whumpee’s butt, squeezing and kneading. Whumper quickly worked fingers back into Whumpee, their fingers slicked with the remnants of what had just happened. “So soft, so open. And all mine.” They nibbled on Whumpee’s ear as they thrust their fingers in and out. 

Whumpee let out an involuntary moan. They immediately regretted the sound. 

“Do you like that, pet?” Whumper positioned themselves so they could stare into Whumpee’s eyes. See the brokenness. See the fading ferocity that had led them to buying Whumpee. 

“Yes, Master,” Whumpee whispered back, eyes closing around the unshed tears. 

“Good.”

Tags: @smuwfy-side-blog @bookworm7543 @struggles-before-cuddles @minecraftedmarvel @jadeocean46910 @ann-stoicdefiantwhumpee @whumpy-daydreams @the-soup-is-burned-too @alittlewhump @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @siren-of-agony @dont-touch-my-soup @potatoo-angst @batfacedliar-yetagain @love-it-when-you-scream @gambroisa2021  @endlesscyclezz