#resigned whumpee

[whumpwillow]

let’s give it up for resigned whumpees, whumpees who just take any punishments inflicted on them without so much as a reaction, who collect scars and barely tend to their wounds because nothing matters to them, least of all themselves

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower Masterpost

A stolen fae is forced into slavery. Tortured into giving up his true name, he doesn't feel much of anything anymore. Until he's given to Queen Iris, who wants to make a deal.

Contains Caretaker x Whumpee (slowburn)

Based on this post

Warnings: slavery, torture, past non-con, dehumanization

Chapters:

Arc 1:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | -

Drabbles:

one | two

Picrews:

one | two | three | four

My Writing Masterpost

[angels-whump]

Obsessed with whumpee telling whumper, “don’t bother”.

When they’re trying to bait whumpee’s team or demand a random and whumpee knows/is convinced they don’t care so it’s not gonna work. When they’re already resigned to whatever happens next as soon as they’re captured. When they’ve been through it before, there’s nothing else you can do to hurt them

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Whumpuary 2024 Day 2

2. (Jan 03-04) "Get away from me" / Collapse / Choking

cw celebrity whumpee, exhaustion, fainting, controlling whumper 

Whumpee stumbled offstage, lightheaded. Every muscle in their body ached, down to their feet which were unbelievably sore from endless nights of performing. They wanted nothing more than to unlace their boots and chuck them into the nearest trashcan. At the very least, sneakers might be more comfortable onstage—but that wasn’t their look, according to Whumper. 

“Hey, you did great out there!” The guitarist from one of the opening bands clapped Whumpee on the shoulder as they passed. 

Whumpee gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.” They could barely hear their own voice through the cotton that filled their ears. 

Sit. They needed to sit. Whumpee scanned the backstage area desperately for somewhere to rest—just for a minute, that was all they needed. Spots swam in their vision and a wave of dizziness sent the world spinning around them. Before they knew it, Whumpee’s eyes rolled back and they collapsed to the ground. 

“Whumpee,” a voice said, from what felt like a million miles away. “Hey, Whumpee, are you alright?” 

A hand smacked their face lightly, and Whumpee groaned. They blinked away the spots in their vision as someone helped them sit up. 

“What the fuck was that?” the voice demanded, anger concealing a hint of genuine concern. It was Whumper kneeling beside them, looking Whumpee over. 

Still a little out of it, Whumpee rubbed their eyes with the heels of their hands. “Mm. Tired.” 

Their manager sighed in annoyance. “So you’re just gonna pass out on me every time you get tired?” 

“No, ‘m sorry,” Whumpee muttered. A few people had stopped to check on them, but Whumper was shooing them away. “Just so many shows. I need a break.” 

Whumper rolled their eyes, reaching out to straighten the singer’s shirt. “You’re fine. I don’t hear any of your bandmates complaining. You’ve only got a couple more shows on this tour and then you can go home and get as much beauty sleep as you want, princess.” 

“Don’t condescend me,” Whumpee said, pushing away the hands that had begun fixing their hair for them. 

Whumper pulled back with a glare. “Don’t forget who’s making sure you get paid.” 

Of course they were right—that was why Whumpee did what they said, no matter how much it broke them down. No matter how badly their body ached or how numb the exhaustion left them. This was the life Whumpee had wanted. The fame, fortune, and everything that came along with it. They looked down, sniffling. 

“Oh, come on. Don't cry,” Whumper said, voice a bit gentler. They pulled Whumpee into a hug. “Just a few more shows. I know you can tough it out.” 

Whumpee nodded. They’d do it—they’d push through the sleepless nights in the bus and the ringing in their ears and the spotlights blinding them. It’s what they had to do. 

[fleur-a-whump]

ok this was not at all how I was expecting it to go. IM SO INTRIGUED?? like wtf why?

and this is a spoiler but HIS LITTLE 'okay' TO HERO ARE YOU JOKING I WILL SOB??? PROTECT HIM!! LOVE HIM!! HES A BABY HE DOES NOT DESERVE!!

also another spoilerish but I hope 'take care of them' meant kill them bc they deserve it ok

Resource L10#11 - Part 2: A dumpster fire of a day - Crestlen universe

Contents: waking in a dumpster, description of injuries, left to die, freaked out whumpee, resigned whumpee, whumpee who considers himself an object, mentions of past horrible trainings

I love Lionel. As I’m sure you can tell >:)

Part 1

……………………………………………

The underlying throbbing of his muscles on top of the ripping pain in his arms, legs, and nose was what Lionel woke up to. He tried to take a deeper breath, but only succeeded in choking on the blood that had dripped in to rest in the back of his throat from his nose. 

He rolled his head and weakly let the blood slip from the back of his throat to his mouth before he dribbled it out between his lips. After spitting weakly a couple of times, he rolled his head back over the bumpy surface he was laying on to pry his eyes open and figure out where he was. 

Blue grey skies and the sharp line of a building’s eave above him met his eyes, all within a greenish metal container. He blinked a couple of times and rolled his head to the side to spit again and found that he was laying on a bunch of trash bags in a dumpster. 

Keep reading

[bloodybloody]

Whumper who records the process while the experiment is occuring✨✨✨

Whumper is checking the equipment and medical devices after tying the whumpee down to the operation table. They gaze upon the camera, which is in the corner of the room, and start the voice recording. They plainly state the date, time, whumpee's number, which is determined by whumper when they are captured, and the experiment's subject. Then they inject muscle relaxants in order to hold the whumpee still.

Despite the medications they've taken, whumpee is in excruciating pain. They can't save themselves or even move; they merely cry and scream in pain. Whumper is unable to record their voice properly because of whumpee's wails, so they shush and calm whumpee down with comforting words, caressing their hair and holding their hand. Whumpee is barely fighting the urge to scream; all they can do is sob and whine while clutching whumper's hand tightly.

Whumper leaves whumpee immediately after finishing the experiment to examine the record while whumper is writhing. They notice whumpee's desperate but resigned gaze at them while watching the record. 

They thank whumpee for being a good lab rat while treating, headpating, and kissing them.

Whumpee watches whumper for a couple days studying the results of the experiment while they wait for whumper to finish their work on their knees. Whumper randomly asks questions about what they've felt in specific moments and makes them remember the pain they've felt, intentionally or unintentionally.

[unforgivenn]

CHOKING IN WHUMP

I know this is like very basic in whump but its something I just CANNOT get over with.

It’s not just about the physical pain but also the mental and emotional anguish. It’s like a perfect storm of fear and helplessness, and that combination really gets me hooked.

Plus, there's something about the dynamic it creates between the whumpee and whumper. It adds layers of control and power plays, which can make the whole situation even more intense. The way it forces characters into such a vulnerable state is just sooo deliciousss.

What I love the most is the thought's that whumpee gets while being choked. When a character is choking, it’s like everything else fades away, and it’s just them and this immediate, life-or-death struggle. The thoughts are the one thing that changes the whole situation. It ramps up the tension and keeps them on edge, wondering how they’ll get out of it or if they’ll even make it.

Whumpee's breaths are ragged, each gasp a desperate plea that falls on deaf ears. The world seems to be narrowing, collapsing into a pinprick of darkness as their lungs scream for air that isn’t coming. Their mind races, a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Is this how it ends?

Whumpee can feel the pressure tightening, relentless. Their vision blurs, and they struggle to focus on anything but the suffocating grip around their throat. The room spins, and their heartbeat feels like it’s trying to break free from their chest. It’s like being trapped in a nightmare where the walls are closing in, and there’s no escape.

There’s an almost surreal clarity in this moment of terror. They think about everything They won’t get to do—no more sunrises, no more laughter, no more moments of peace. All those simple things I took for granted are slipping away, one choking gasp at a time.

Whumpee's hands claw uselessly at the constriction, nails digging into their skin, but it’s like trying to fight a storm with bare hands. Whumpee's thoughts are a blur of panic and regret, all mingled with a helpless resignation. I’m fading, losing grip on everything familiar.

The worst part? The absolute isolation. In this moment, no one can hear my silent screams. I’m utterly alone, drifting into the darkness with only the oppressive pressure as my cruel companion.

Is this it? Is this what it means to truly lose yourself? To have your life squeezed out of you, one choking breath at a time? The fear grips them like icy fingers, and whumpee can’t help but think that there’s no coming back from this.

Oh god oh god oh god Please please Im sorry im sorry

Please let my family be okay..

Finally.

So, yeah, choking in whump isn’t just about the physical act. It’s about the emotions, the stakes, and the dynamic it sets up. :))

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #2

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: torture, fantasy illness

Queen Iris had long since perfected her “interested” face. In truth, she was only half listening to the man’s spiel. Instead, she was focused on the fae at his feet.

She had seen paintings and read descriptions of fae in books. They were vibrant and colorful, even the pale winter fae with their bright eyes. The fae kneeling on the marble floor was dull, like dying roses in a dry vase.

“What an… impressive feat,” she said, “How did you manage it?”

“Well,” said the man, nearly bursting with pride. “We caught the creature while he was sleeping, with a net lined with iron weights.”

Iris watched the fae, but he did not react to his captor’s words. Poor thing.

“There is no need to worry about containing him,” the man went on. “I have his true name, and will gladly give it to you along with the fae.” He waved an envelope. 

“How thoughtful.”

Iris waved a servant over, and she delivered the envelope. It was sealed with wax.

“And he’s as tame as a mouse. Watch.” The man pulled out a knife, an iron knife. Iris’s guard placed a hand on his sword.

“Open,” he ordered. The fae opened his mouth, and she watched in carefully concealed horror as the man put the flat part of the blade on the fae’s tongue. 

The crowd gasped. She couldn’t help but wince at the sizzle of burnt flesh, steam pouring from the fae’s mouth.

The fae made no move to push him away.

“See? Perfectly docile.” She swallowed down her disgust. He put the knife away, and the fae closed his mouth.

“Fascinating,” she deadpanned, and finally the man picked up on her displeasure.

“Sir Brennan, please take my present to a spare room,” she said aloud to the room, “keep an eye on him and be nice,” she murmured to him.

“Right away, your majesty.” He moved from her side, and another knight took his place on the platform.

Sir Brennan waved off the fae’s captor, and hauled the fae to his feet. He didn’t cut away the bindings on his wrists, which was a wise move.

Even if the fae was placid and submissive, he was still fae and she needed to know more of him to judge if he was dangerous.

___________________

Iris made her way down the hall, Sir Maxus and a maid trailing behind her. She listed off everything she knew about fae in her head.

Couldn’t lie, benevolent at best and malicious at worst, usually mischievous, lived forever, burned by iron, pained by salt.

The politics of fae were mostly lost on her, but she knew there were two courts. Seelie for summer and spring, and Unseelie for fall and winter. There were the gentry, the royal fae, and the wild fae, commoners.

If the fae in her home was gentry, she could be in deep trouble with their court.

She stopped in front of the door. Iris glanced at the envelope in her hand. Supposedly it held the fae’s true name. A useful thing, if cruel to use against him.

Iris opened the door. Sir Brennan leaned against the left wall, looking bored. A good sign. The fae was sitting on the floor, eyes trained on the rug in front of him.

“Your grace,” Brennan greeted. 

“Any incidents?”

“Not at all. Very cooperative.”

“Good.”

Iris studied the fae. He looked even more miserable up close: dark shadows under his eyes and a thinness that couldn’t be good for him.

The colorless tinge to him was obvious, and she wondered if he was sick. His eyes were dull blue and his hair a blackish gray. He looked like he had rolled in ashes.

“Can you understand my language?” 

The fae nodded, and still did not look up.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, Mistress.” His voice was devoid of anything, a flat note. 

She unsealed the envelope, and read the short scrawl of ink. It was a pretty name, short for a fae. Maybe he was young; true names supposedly got longer over time.

Iris felt eyes on her, but the fae looked away when she put the paper back in the envelope.

He must be terrified she was going to use it on him. She tossed the envelope into the lit fireplace, and he watched as it burned.

“What may I call you?”

The fae startled a bit; he hadn’t expected that. He hesitated.

“You may call me Kit.”

“Lovely.” Iris turned to the maid. “Sadie, please fetch Kit something to eat. No salt, no metal plate or cutlery.”

Sadie bowed and left.

“Are you gentry, Kit?”

“No, Mistress.”

“I see. And your season?”

“Spring.” 

“Hm.” She should have guessed from the name. ‘Moonflower’ didn’t seem very Unseelie. “Sir Brennan, please do away with the rope.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Brennan cut the rope from Kit’s wrists, and the skin beneath was scarred and raised. Like it had been cauterized. Kit must have worn iron shackles at some point.

What an awful thing to do to a person.

Sadie brought in a tray with a wooden plate of food and a glass of water. She set the tray in front of Kit.

“Thank you, Sadie.”

Kit didn’t move. “You can eat,” she said. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

Iris sat in a nearby chair, and thought as he ate. Maybe he could be useful. Someone who couldn’t lie to her would make a valuable ally if she could ensure his loyalty. He could spy for her with his keen senses, or use magic in useful ways.

“That will be all, Sadie. Sir Maxus, Sir Brennan. Leave us.”

The knights hesitated but followed Sadie out.

“I’d like to make a deal with you,” she started, and Kit looked up from his meal.

“If you are loyal to me for five years, I will let you go where you please. Whether that be leaving for your homeland, or staying here, or someplace else entirely.”

Kit thought it over. It was a fair offer, and she wasn’t sure why he hesitated.

“Only… only if you stop them from stealing more of us,” he said, quiet but firm. 

Ah. It was admirable he’d risk forfeiting freedom if she didn’t agree.

“Fair.” She offered a hand to him, and he took it. A tingle ran up her spine, and the air smelled like flowers for a moment. But then Kit’s eyes rolled up into his skull, and he collapsed on the floor with a thud.

She yelped in shock, and the knights burst in, swords drawn.

“Are you alright, my queen?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she waved them off. “He fainted, that’s all. Sir Brennan-”

Sir Brennan was already moving. He took off his steel gauntlets and picked Kit up without effort. “He’s rather cold,” he said, a frown on his face.

“Find a guest room for him.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “And post a guard. I don’t want him disturbed.”

___________________

He woke up groggy, his head pounding. He was lying on something soft, and there was heavy fabric on top of him.

Kit slowly opened his eyes. The room was empty, save for him. There was a large window to his left, and sunshine streamed through but didn’t quite make it to him.

He nearly cried from relief. Finally, he could get some sun. But the air was still stifling. He needed that window open, needed to sit in the sun’s rays, and he needed it now.

He pushed off the quilt the best he could, and stumbled towards the window. He nearly collapsed on the way, his legs as weak as a newborn deer.

Just a bit further. He managed to push the window open, but then the world tilted. He shot out a hand to steady himself against the wall. He gasped, desperate for the fresh air.

A wave of tiredness hit him again, and he closed his eyes, struggling to stay upright.

He heard the door open. 

“You should be in bed,” said the queen. Of course it was her. “You fainted earlier.” He opened his mouth to respond, but nausea bubbled up in his stomach.

She came closer, and it took an immense effort to turn to see her.

The queen was pretty, more so than most mortals. Her dark hair and blue eyes made her look like a stormy winter. And her dress would have made even the fairy prince jealous.

Mistress came to stand next to him, looking out the window. The view was beautiful. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“It’s not contagious.” She looked at him, the tilt to her head indicating she saw right through the evasion. She waited for him to elaborate.

“We call it iron poisoning.”

“There’s no iron in here. I made sure of it.”

“It lasts.”

She paused.

“You should lie down,” she said again.

“I- I need the sunlight,” he admitted. He waited for her to hit him. It didn’t come, even though the deal didn’t forbid it.

Instead, Queen Iris crossed the room, and pulled a chair towards them, placing it directly in the patch of sunlight.

“Sit, then.” He didn’t dare disobey, and he sank into the plush chair, closing his eyes and soaking in the sun. The dizziness was already fading.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His eyes flew open. He didn’t expect such casual language from her, not when he’d seen her order around servants.

“I gave the command to arrest the people who hurt you, by the way.”

Kit stared at her. Humans lied all the time, but the magic of the deal told him she had in fact kept her word. Why so soon? She could have waited five years if she wanted. Was she trying to manipulate him?

Not that it mattered. She could do as she pleased with him. There was nothing he could do about it.

The queen looked away, which didn’t help his nerves.

“I’ll let you rest. Do you need anything else?”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t ask, even if he did. 

“Alright. I’ll have someone fetch you for dinner.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She slipped out of the room, the door closing behind her with a soft click. The tension bled out of his shoulders. Finally, he could relax. For a few hours, anyway.

He closed his eyes, and let himself sleep.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Whumpees that are mostly resigned and accepting of their role. They understand that they’re the punching bag. They understand that they’re going to get hurt. They accept this.

They’re not going to fight back, they know how this all goes.

So an odd question for the whump community.

What is that one trope that is your "brand" (as in, you write/draw it all the time, you love reading it, and the trope always bleeds into your stuff without you realizing)?

Mine is the "used as bait" trope 😆

[oddsconvert]

August trying to make Christmas cookies or a ginger bread house. He is very bad at it. He checks the recipe every ten seconds, and still gets something wrong.

cw / recovery whump, fluff, vampire caretaker, bloodbag whumpee (recovering), reference to previous torture/captivity, wholesome asf baking

Huge TY to @dragonqueenslayer6 for the prompt!!! ❤️

August glared at the recipe card like it might bite him. As far as he was concerned, it was written in some ancient, lost language. He couldn’t decipher it to save his life. His plan? To throw everything in a bowl and hope for some miracle - pray that his cookies would be at the very least, edible.

“Alright, okay, let’s see…” August mumbled to himself, reading over the recipe for what felt like the gazillionth time, tracing each line with his finger. He gawked at his chaotic array of ingredients sprawled across the counters. Flour, butter, eggs, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, baking powder, icing sugar, sprinkles - each one looked more alien than the last. 

He couldn’t help but marvel at how complicated human food was. Compared to the simplicity of blood, this whole process felt like a science experiment. One that was destined to end in smoke and flames. It was all completely foreign to him. He’d never had to worry about meals—Lucas was self-sufficient enough. The only thing August ever had to handle was the shopping list. 

But he really wanted to do this. He wanted to bake the two most important people in his life a sweet treat, a small promise that all their Christmases from now on would be as magical and joyous as this one. His chest tightened at the thought of his friends - how much they had both suffered in their short lives. Marked by so much pain and anguish, so many Christmases spent in loneliness and hardship. Lucas with his years sleeping rough on the streets, alone and afraid. Declan, at the mercy of Vince’s whims, his mind and body twisted beyond his control. 

He couldn’t let them down now.

August’s mind momentarily blanked. “Sugar. Sugar, sugar…where would Lucas keep the sugar?” 

It felt bizarre, scavenging through his own kitchen as if he were a stranger in his own home. August rifled through the cupboards, pulling out a small glass container. He shook it gently, watching the white granules spill out, and without much thought, assumed it was the sugar he was looking for. The recipe had called for one cup of sugar.

“What are you doing, August?”

August whipped around, startled. Declan stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He wore a loose-knit, sage-green jumper and faded, ripped jeans, a far cry from the broken shell of a man August had rescued from the depths of hell. Declan had gained weight, strength, and a quiet confidence, but August still saw the faint scars on his body—and the ones that lingered in his eyes.

“Uh, nothing-” August stammered, quickly ducking in front of the mixing bowl to hide the incriminating evidence. Declan raised his eyebrow, a knowing smirk on his face urging him to confess. August sighed, resigning and stepping aside, “I was, um…about to make cookies… for you.”

The warmth in Declan’s gaze was unmistakable as he took a delicate step closer, his voice low and touched with appreciation. “For me?” he asked, as if the idea of someone doing something so kind for him was still too much to believe. His eyes flickered to the salt shaker.

“How much salt were you putting in there?”

August blinked down to the white granules, pointing to them with an accusatory finger, “No, that’s sugar-”

Declan chuckled, “Let me help you.” He limped closer, gently guiding August away from the counter with a hand on his shoulder. Reaching for the salt shaker, he swapped it with the sugar container, his smile never fading. “Sugar is in these pots, by the sink,” he explained, “Next to the coffee and tea bags.”

“I have never seen those in my life.”

Declan shook his head, exhaling a soft laugh through his nostrils. August watched as Declan moved along the counter, his movements slow and careful, as if still measuring every step. He felt a rush of admiration - despite everything, Declan had come so far. It was hard to believe this was the same man who lay zombified and catatonic in that bed upstairs.

“Alright, what’s next?” Declan asked, taking charge. August fumbled with the recipe card, scanning the first step.

“‘Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl until creamy’...” August’s voice faltered, his face scrunching in confusion. “'Beat butter'? Like... do I just punch it? What did the butter ever do to deserve that?”

“No,” Declan giggled, “It’s just a term. ‘Beating’ means like, mix it really well. Getting it smooth, so it holds the sugar better when you mix it together.”

“But how do you ‘beat’ butter without... actual beating?” August questioned, still dubious.

“Use a spoon. You have to put a little muscle into it, though” Declan explained, holding the butter up to August. 

August blinked at the stick of butter in Declan’s hand, his eyes narrowing. “That seems... unnecessarily complicated for something so simple.”

“Bakings like that sometimes,” Declan replied, smiling. “It’s about making things come together. It’s a little messy, but it works. You just have to trust the process.”

August grabbed the bowl, hesitating for a moment before he started. The eggs and sugar splashed together, but soon enough the mixture began to smooth out. He watched with a sense of triumph as it lightened, the sugar blending in. He stopped, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and stared at the fluffy mixture.

“That’s looking good! See, you can do it!” Declan cheered. He peeked at the recipe card on the counter, “Now it wants us to add the egg and vanilla.”

August’s face drained of colour, his stomach sinking. The egg. He stared at it, feeling as though it had suddenly become his arch nemesis. There was no way in hell he was going to crack it without getting bits of shell everywhere. These cookies were definitely going to have some extra crunch.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the egg, holding it over the bowl. He tapped it against the edge, and the shell cracked wide open—too wide. A shower of small fragments dropped into the mixture. He froze, eyes widening. Declan stepped in, effortlessly scooping out the pieces of shell with practiced ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “It happens.”

August let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, feeling both relieved and embarrassed. “Thank you, Declan. I dread to think how these would have turned out without your help.”

“Hey, it’s you doing all the work! I’m just…keeping you on track,” he winked, fishing out a particularly large chunk of shell from the mixture. 

Declan always had a way of making the impossible possible, of taking something hopeless and finding the light through. It reminded August of when he first found Declan - on the brink of death, locked in his own mind, and August had fought to bring him back against all odds. And now here Declan was, steady and strong, helping him with something as simple as baking. 

August’s thoughts were interrupted when Declan glanced at the recipe card again. “Next up… we need to add the flour and baking powder.”

August nodded, grabbing the containers. He didn’t think twice, just tipping them both into the bowl in one swift motion. The moment the powder hit the batter, it was like a bomb went off. A massive cloud of flour erupted from the bowl, enveloping them both in a thick, white haze. August froze, blinking as the smoke swirled around him, coating his hair and clothes in a fine dust. The kitchen was suddenly a disaster zone, and Declan couldn’t help but let out a stunned gasp. 

“Well, that’s one way to do it. Declan chuckled, brushing flour from his eyes. 

"Well, that was a bit of a disaster."

Declan shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “At least it’ll be a delicious disaster.”

August chuckled, shaking his head. “If these cookies turn out half as good as this mess, we’ll be lucky.”

“One things for sure,” Declan chirped, “they’ll definitely be unforgettable.”

I luffs them, your honour 👩‍⚖️ I love cheeky, lighthearted Declan SO MUCH. He deserves all the happiness after all the horror he's endured <3333

dividers by @/bernardsbendystraws

[anartisticnerd]

All of my current Leverage and Leverage Redemption headcanons!!!!!

• Every night, Eliot checks that everyone is asleep in their beds, checks the locks on the doors, and makes sure the security system is working.

• It really freaked Breanna out the first time she saw Eliot severely injured. Hardison's stories made Eliot seem invincible. Eliot had to hug her and assure her that he was alright.

• Sophie hates Converse and Vans. Like she has some extreme beef with them.

• Breanna and Harry play Pokemon Go together often. Breanna is Team Instinct and Harry is Team Mystic and they fight over gyms all the time.

• Harry knows how to braid hair because when he was still married, his wife insisted that he should be able to do his daughter's hair.

• Eliot has an entire cupboard of drugs, mostly painkillers, ambiguously labled. He has received calls from every single girl on the team boiling down to, "Eliot, I'm on my period, and I can't figure out which of your stupid white bottles is ibuprofen." He's become quite used to it, and now keeps a special area of the cupboard for period stuff.

• Parker steals a stuffed toy whenever the con involves a store owned by an evil person. She's amassed quite a big collection, but bunny will always be her favorite.

• Hardison, with contributions from Parker and Eliot, now sends so much money to Nana that Nana was able to save up to buy a new house in a better neighborhood for all her foster kids.

Edit: she instead invests in supporting local community programs because people have enlightened me that nana wouod never move

• Harvey and Brenna text terribly made memes to each other all the time.

• Breanna's contacts are as follows:

Eliot: Wallmart Batman

Sophie: 👑SLAY QUEEN👑

Hardison: 👨🏿‍💻

Parker: 🐈‍⬛️Cat Burglar🐈‍⬛️

Harry: STUPID LITTLE LAWYER MAN

• Weekly movie night choices:

Sophie: Downtown Abby

Parker: Finding Nemo

Eliot: The Last Mohican/Rocky

Harry: The Spy Next Door

Breanna: Sonic (for the memes only)

• Eliot's room is the comfort room. Bad dream, feeling kinda sick, a recent con weighing heavily in mind, go to Eliot's room. He's almost never asleep, he knows more than anyone about first aid, and he gives the best hugs. He'll act all annoyed, but he'll always make the whumpee stay until they feel better.

• Everyone assumes Sophie can sew because she's the mom friend, but she has no clue. The team seamstress is actually Harry.

• Eliot keeps an ever-growing list of everyone's favorite foods. He keeps extra ingredients around, so he always has what he needs to whip something up if someone's having a bad day.

• Breanna can be extremely petty when she wants to be. She has been known to hack alexas to say creepy stuff out of nowhere and streetlights to turn each one red just to mess with people.

• Harry really loves dogs.

• Sophie once owned a turtle named Mistress Shellington that now belongs to her daughter.

• Harry's favorite color is yellow.

• Breanna forcing everyone to see the Barbie may not be the worst thing to ever happen to him, but Eliot ranks it pretty high on his list of life tragedies.

• Sophie has noticed that Eliot, when it comes to Parker and Breanna, will always grab them (hand, elbow, shoulder) when crossing the street. Nobody gives him any grief for it because they know he just wants to keep them safe.

• Breanna, from upstairs: ELIOT WHAT'S AN 8-TRACK TAPE?

Eliot: *deep sigh* I'm so old.

Harry: *chokes on drink*

• There are so many dents in the walls, and Sophie loves each one. Scrapes from Parker's grappling equipment, divots from Eliot's throwing knives, dents from Breanna's drones. It makes the HQ feel like home.

• Harry is an honorary girly. Girls' night is more like girls plus Harry night.

• Hardison has a note on his phone of things Breanna has said that make him feel old.

• Eliot has resigned himself to the fact that he will be Parker's and Breanna's personal jungle gym until his dying day. Parker pokes his bruises and climbs all over him, and uses his shoulder as a pillow. Breanna is almost the same. She punches and pokes him, just like Parker, and she often lays her head in his lap when watching tv.

Sophie has a picture on her desk of Breanna, asleep in Eliot's lap, and Parker, asleep against Eliot's shoulder. Eliot has one arm around Parker, the other caressing Breanna, tucking her fly away hair behind her ear. A calm smile is on his face. It's one of Sophie's favorite pictures.

• Eliot follows the sidewalk rule at all times.

• Eliot always sits facing the door. If the team is somewhere in public and one of the others takes the seat with the clearest view of the entrances and exits, he will make them switch seats with him so he can see the doors. It's a military habit.

• Parker hides chocolate in the vents so that nobody else can find it.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

💗 Sex as Caretaking 💗

What it says on the tin! These are ways to make whumpee happier or even physically heal them with sex.

CW: NSFW of course

Whumpee is touch starved and lonely before finding Caretaker. Maybe they're a virgin who has never had sex and feels self-conscious about it, or maybe they're going through a dry spell. Every touch feels like salvation.

Whumpee copes with stress by having meaningless casual sex, but Caretaker is much more loving than they were expecting and they end up feeling comforted on a deep level.

Or Caretaker just delivers the meaningless, casual sex that they need and doesn't ask questions. They trust whumpee to handle things their way. It's refreshing.

Whumpee is an insomniac who can't fall asleep without orgasming, but they're too sick or injured to do it themselves, so Caretaker helps.

Whumpee is in severe pain and there are no pain meds available…but sex releases natural feel-good chemicals!

Whumpee is depressed or panicking and Caretaker offers to pleasure them to help them get through it.

They're in a cold environment and need to share a sleeping bag to avoid hypothermia. A little activity wouldn't hurt either…

Caretaker's healing magic is performed via sex. The better it feels, the better it works!

Living weapon or vampire whumpee who thinks they'll be dangerous in bed, but gradually realizes they can have sex safely and trust themself not to lose control.

Monster whumpee who thinks everyone finds them disgusting and has resigned themself to never having a partner. But Caretaker is a proud monsterfucker!

Orgasm is necessary to break a curse or to release chemicals that serve as the antidote to a poison. Caretaker is willing to help without making a big deal about it.

Whumpee wants to take back control of their body after dealing with some kind of trauma or even just an illness that made them feel weak. Caretaker makes sure that the sex is focused on them and lets them dominate.

Whumpee has a disability or chronic pain that interferes with sex. Caretaker accommodates everything and makes sure they get pleasure without getting worn out.

Whumpee with low self esteem being worshiped and praised in bed. Caretaker encourages them to ask for exactly what they want.

Whumpee with low self esteem who is still too shy to ask for what they want or to hear praise about themself. So Caretaker takes the lead and makes sure they get their needs met with frequent nonverbal check-ins.

Whumpee who developed "weird" kinks from all the whipping, torture, etc., and Caretaker who is happy to indulge them!

[fineiguessimintowhump]

Yes, sir

after re-reading for editing i have one question for the general and it's is the intolerable misbehaving in the room with us right now? show me the intolerable misbehaving.

cw: military whump, captivity, pow, starvation (mentioned?), resigned whumpee,

The guards throw him on the general's rug without any care. His bound hands are useless to catch himself, and he only hurts his wrist when by trying. One of them kicks him in parting, and Leo bites his lips to prevent any sound from escaping him. The general doesn't spare any of them a glance, not even looking up from the document he's reading.

The guards leave, the tent growing quiet. Leo slowly straightens. He doesn’t get any further than to his knees, silently waiting to be addressed. A few months ago, he would have been screeching, struggling, lunging at that man to tear his throat - with his teeth if he had to - but he has learnt better.

There's a weight settling in his stomach, a nervous kind of energy spreading through him. He doesn’t even try to hide the trembling in his hands; he's starved and exhausted, shaking is nothing new.

There's the shuffling of turned pages, and Leo glances up. The general is still not paying any attention to him. He looks down at the rug under him. Dirty and rough, spots that would be unidentifiable except – it's blood, of course it's blood, some of it probably even his.

He'd thought it coarse even through a layer of cloth, the first time. Now, it feels almost like a luxury.

"The guards tell me you haven't been eating."

The general isn’t looking his way, writing something down with that fancy quill of his. He hasn't been asked anything yet, so Leo stays quiet.

“We spent quite some time… rationing you. I recall your being quite distressed by the idea. So distressed in fact,” the general finally looks up, pointing the tip of his pen towards Leo as the corner of his lips lifts in a slight smirk “that when the guards brought you to this tent, at your own request, you dropped to your knees, right in that spot, and begged.”

He uses his desk to push himself up, approaching Leo with slow, steady steps.

“Did you feel like repeating that day, mutt? Should I ask for stale bread? Teach you open, and chew, and swallow again?”

Leo doesn’t reply, keeping his eyes on an interestingly shaped spot. Those aren’t questions you answer, he’s learnt; those are questions you get struck to.

The general stops in front of him, in the perfect spot for a kick to the sternum. Or the face.

“Look at me.” He doesn’t wait for Leo to obey, fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head. “We had an agreement, didn’t we?  Why the sudden defiance?”

Leo tries to turn his head. It’s going to hurt, no matter what he says, so he’d really like for the general to grow bored and leave him in peace. The general grabs his chin, holding him in place.

“No. We are having a conversation. Unless you’d like to wait until screams are-”

“Don’t-”

Leo expected the hit, not the kick that immediately follows. He folds in two, hands still useless to steady himself.  The general sighs, as if disappointed, and takes a step back.

“Don’t interrupt. Explain yourself.”

Leo swallows, slowly straightening back up while keeping his eyes on the general’s shoes.

“I’m not hungry.”

The general scoffs, starting to walk. He’s slowly circling around Leo, who curls up tighter in hope of softening the blow he’s sure will come soon. He follows the general from the corner of his eyes for as long as he’s able to, stilling when the man leaves his sight.

“You know better than to lie to me – or should I go over that lesson with you again?”

Leo feels the ground shake slightly as the general gets closer to him. He can’t help but to shiver, trying to curl up tighter. Something hits him in the back and he forces himself to straighten. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knowing better than to look.

“Your misbehaving is becoming intolerable, mutt. My patience is not limitless, as you know. Try again.”

Leo has to remember to breathe, having instinctively held his breath. He can feel how close the general is, and bracing himself for a hit only worsens his trembling. Blood is rushing through his ears, and he’s sure the numbness in his fingers isn’t from the rope. His lips part, and he’s not sure where the words pouring out of him are coming from.

“You won’t kill me. Thought I’d do something.”

There’s a chuckle right next to his ear. It doesn’t blossom into full-bellied laughter, but it lasts long enough that Leo shifts a little uncomfortably. A hand settles atop his shoulder, tightening painfully around him.

“Did you, now? And why would you want such a thing, hmm?”

It feels like he’s bearing the general’s whole weight, and it presses him down. Leo doesn’t feel grateful for the rug anymore, knees painfully digging into every single strand, it feels like. He tries to relieve himself of part of the weight by leaning forward slightly but the general only follows, still looming over him.

“Is life in my camp truly so harsh? I’ve been kind to you, no?” His grip shifts slightly, and Leo feels something in his shoulder move. “Certainly, nicer than the guards. Is little traitor unable to cope with the morality of his actions, is that it?”

Leo doesn’t snarl – he knows better, he’s too exhausted, he’s not sure – but he raises his head and turns to look at the general.

“I’m not a traitor-”

The general’s fingers dig into his shoulder and he cuts himself off with a whimper. The man’s expression is devoid of any emotions and Leo’s breath catches in his throat. He forces himself to speak again.

“I’m not a traitor.”

The general’s lips twist into a smile. “No? A dog brought to heel, then. A mutt in need of discipline, if I’m feeling mean.”

He finally lets go of Leo’s shoulder, fingers tangling in his hair instead. “I thought you’d learnt something from the time we’ve spent together, but apparently that hasn’t been the case.” He exhales sharply, speaking into Leo’s face. "You are property of the empire. And before that" – the general’s grip on his hair tightens and he pulls Leo’s head back sharply – “My property. I have the final say about everything that concerns you. If I have food brought to you, I expect you to eat it. You will die when I am done with you, not before, and certainly not on your terms.”

He holds him in place, meeting Leo’s tired eyes with contempt. Leo is dropped, and this time doesn’t even bother to try and catch himself. He has a feeling the general would have kicked him down, anyway. He sees the general walk away, the man returning to his desk.  

“I expect an answer. It’s something even your sham of an army must have taught you.”

Leo twists just enough to rest his cheek on the rug. He looks away from the general, eyes on the light filtering from outside. He closes his eyes, the words like ashes on his tongue.

“…Yes, sir.”

There’s the scratching of quill on paper again, and the general stops paying attention to the prisoner in the middle of his tent.

[fairyniceyeah]

⌛🧸You are my Starlight

Title from Light (ATEEZ)

Summary: Wooyoung's emetophobia flares up when Jongho is sick.

CW: emeto

Sickie: Jongho Whumpee: Wooyoung Caretakers: Seonghwa + Hongjoong + Yeosang + San

“If you don’t play you lose. Kawibawibo!”, Wooyoung shouted in excitement which was swiftly turned into disappointment as he and Seonghwa both ended up losing out on first shower privileges.  San giggled in joy and danced around happily, having won the game and therefore able to shower first. They had just returned to the dorms after a long dance practice and all of them were hoping to wash off the sweat as soon as possible. As San tried to get closer to Seonghwa, who looked less than impressed, the oldest shoved him off gently.

“Sannie”, he groaned, “just go take your shower.”

“Yes, hyung”, San replied, still grinning and sticking his tongue out at him as he was out of reach. He even walked backwards to make sure his oldest hyung saw it.

Teasing Seonghwa was fun. As he made his way to the bathroom San heard him complain to Hongjoong who was less than sympathetic, having wanted to go back to the studio as well.

“I wanted to take a short shower and sleep”, the oldest muttered, but it seemed like he had resigned himself to his fate. “As if you have ever taken a short shower in your entire life”, Hongjoong teased.

Once done with his shower and feeling much refreshed, San stuck his head in the room he shared with Yunho, informing him that it was now his turn. His hyung thanked him and gathered his stuff up from the bed leaving quickly. Not quite knowing what to do with his free time, San wandered into the kitchen, where he found Wooyoung preparing dinner.

“Need any help?”, he asked. Wooyoung turned around and mustered him up and down. “Sure. You’re not Yunho”, he jabbed. San grinned and took the knife he was given.

Sometimes he wondered why anybody in ATEEZ allowed Wooyoung of all people to hold sharp objects but at least Wooyoung wasn’t a hazard in the kitchen unlike San’s roommate.

San had always been a deep sleeper, never really waking up in the night and it was difficult to get him to wake up in the morning. He always told his members that the only reason was the comfort his plushies provided and how would he abandon his warm bed and Shiber for a cold morning? The members always teased him for it but for some reason if anybody ended up sharing San’s bed with him they never wanted to get up too.

Well, back to Yunho’s kitchen adventure. San had woken up from deep slumber a not so long time ago to the sound of the fire alarm blaring, Mingi’s panicked yelling and Hongjoong’s angry yelling. From what he had gathered in his sleepy daze Yunho had tried to make himself and Mingi late night ramen and for some obscure reason the pot had caught on fire. San had pitied his captain who had just returned from a late producing session to find the dorm nearly burning down. But in the end Hongjoong had helped them hide the damage before Seonghwa had returned from visiting his parents in the morning. Even Hongjoong was afraid of what Seonghwa would do to them if he found out what had happened. Now Seonghwa still couldn’t solve the mystery of where his favourite pot had gone. Since everybody faked innocence he till now hadn’t found out but not for lack of trying.

Slowly the meal took form and it was Wooyoung’s turn to shower, leaving San with strict instructions. 

Hongjoong joined San to keep him company. Though he soon regretted it when Wooyoung returned dripping wet and shaking his wet hair over poor Hongjoong who just got dry, all the while cackling loudly. Hongjoong rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Wooyoung, why don’t you wake up Jongho-yah? It’s his turn to shower after you. He fell asleep on the couch and we all know he always needs a little time to wake up.”

“Sir, yes, sir”, Wooyoung replied, offering a two finger military salute, and crossed into the living room to wake up the older man.

San rolled his eyes as he heard Wooyoung sing “Get up” by Na Sangdo on top of his lungs. He had just gotten that song unstuck from his head after performing it with Yunho during the Salary Lupin episode.

What he didn’t expect was the sudden scream from Wooyoung and then silence. Hongjoong also turned around from the stove at the sound and they both looked at each other in confusion before Hongjoong turned off the stove and they both ran to the living room.

⌛

Nothing could have prepared San for the view he was greeted with. Wooyoung was standing frozen in the middle of the living room, mouth open in shock and whole body shaking. Jongho was still lying on the couch, though hanging his head over the edge and there was a disgusting, chunky, yellowish puddle of vomit coating the floor. And Wooyoung’s socks and lower pants. 

Shit. This was not ideal.

“Jongho-yah, you could have told us that you felt sick before”, Hongjoong said weakly, probably mentally trying to prepare himself for the next hours. His voice dripped with sympathy for their youngest, clearly worried.

“Wooyoungie?”, San whispered, reaching out to his best friend. He felt bad about leaving the sick youngest to Hongjoong alone but he needed to get Wooyoung out of the situation ASAP.

“Wooyoungie?”, San tried again as he got no answer. Cautiously he stepped forward, turned Wooyoung away from looking at Jongho and knelt down next to his friend, trying to assess the damage. He definitely didn’t want to touch their makneas’s puke with his bare hands, so he slipped off his own socks to use them as a barrier.

He helped Wooyoung stay steady as he gently pulled down his right sock and helped Wooyoung balance as he got the shaken but obedient man to lift his foot. Then his left sock was off and San tossed them as well as his own to the side. He got up and said: “Your trousers?”

Wooyoung showed no reaction, silent tears flowing down his cheeks. San heard a whimper behind them, not sure if that meant Jongho was about to be sick again but wanting to avoid that in Wooyoung’s presence. He grabbed Wooyoung’s hands and pulled him to the door. 

Miraculously - and very unhelpfully - none of the other members had been alerted by the commotion.

“Hongjoong-hyung, I’m taking Wooyoungie to the bathroom”, he called out to his captain-hyung, getting a nod in approval. Hongjoong was talking quietly to Jongho who was still really pale and swallowing visibly, having pulled a trash can close. San ignored them in favour of yelling for Yeosang, knowing he needed the other man to help with the shaken youngest of their trio.

Yeosang stuck his head out of the door of his room and gasped. Immediately Seonghwa appeared behind him, both of them looking like comic characters with just their heads showing at different heights. San would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. Wooyoung was clutching his hand with all his might, eyes clenched shut and still trembling like he was going to fall apart.

“Wooyoungie is sick?”, Yeosang asked and ran over to check on their friend. San shuddered – that would be a nightmare. It had happened once that Wooyoung got the stomach flu despite all their precautions and none of them really wanted to remember how much he had suffered under the illness and the constant panic. He shook his head as they led Wooyoung into the bathroom. “Jjongie is sick.”

“Oh”, Yeosang frowned, then turned his attention to Wooyoung. He didn’t even spare a glance at Seonghwa now, who told them he was going to check on Jongho. “Let’s sit you down on the toilet seat, okay? We can take off your trousers and then we can take a shower, okay?” 

Wooyoung showed no reaction, so Yeosang just unbuttoned his pants and slid them down, before helping their unsteady friend to sit. Carefully they tucked the soiled garments over his feet and as San continued to hold Wooyoung’s hand, Yeosang started to strip out of his own clothes. There was no way they would let Wooyoung shower alone right now.

Carefully Yeosang and Wooyoung stepped into the shower, their youngest compliant in their hands until San tried to pull away. Panickily he clutched San’s hand tighter, not wanting to give up the little comfort it provided. San shushed the little whimpers he let out. It was the first sound Wooyoung had made since the scream and it broke their hearts to see their always happy friend reduced to tears due to his phobia.

Yeosang started the shower; the new, comforting input was enough to calm Wooyoung down so that San could step away to throw the clothes into the trash can to dispose of them later. There was no way Wooyoung would ever want to wear them again.

San took off his own shirt, not wanting it to get wet when he helped Wooyoung in the shower. But before that he quickly washed his hands, knowing he hadn’t touched the dirty parts of the clothes but wanting to give Wooyoung (and himself) a little relief. Maybe it was more for his own benefit - he wasn’t sure if Wooyoung was even aware enough of his movements. Still, he wanted to return to Wooyoung’s side as soon as possible.

⌛

Once the water had washed off all traces of sickness Yeosang and San helped Wooyoung sit down on the shower floor. Yeosang took out his own precious body wash, pushing out a generous amount and started to lather Wooyoung’s body in bubbles. San stayed close, one hand holding Wooyoung’s ankle to ground him.

They stayed in the water for as long as Wooyoung needed to feel clean again, knowing that while it wasn’t rational and he was already clean, it helped him to calm down to stay for longer. They wouldn’t take it away from him.

“I wanna sleep”, Wooyoung mumbled, nearly fifteen minutes later. He had rested his head against Yeosang’s shoulder and the tension in his body had slowly subsided.

“Alright”, San whispered and while Yeosang shut off the water he got a fluffy towel to make a Wooyoung-burrito. As he said it aloud, encouraging Wooyoung to step out into the real world again, the younger one even giggled a bit. It was far from his normal laugh that everybody loved but it was a start. San hugged Wooyoung close all the while rubbing him dry, as Yeosang got himself dried up.

“What do we do?”, Yeosang asked quietly. “We can’t have them share the dorm like this. The walls aren’t really soundproof - if Jjongie … well, we’ll all be able to hear. Wooyoungie can’t handle that.”

“What if we take him to the managers’ dorm?”, San suggested. While most of their managers had family, there were always at least one or two managers staying the night in the apartment across from theirs to be available to the group. It had been quite useful in the past.

Yeosang tilted his head in contemplation. “Yeah, that might work. Will you call Hyunseok-hyung?” 

San nodded, already pulling his phone out to call their manager who was scheduled to stay the night. Yeosang turned back to comfort Wooyoung, while San stepped out into the hall.

“Hi, Sannie. What can I do for you?”, Manager Hyunseok asked as the call went through.

“Jongho threw up”, San said, sparing no time for formalities, “we were wondering if we could take Wooyoung to your apartment so we can keep him separated from Jongho? He already had a panic attack once.”

“Yes, yes of course”, the manager agreed. They all knew about Wooyoung’s phobia - it wasn’t the first time a member was sick after all. “Do you need anything? Should I come over to help with something?”

“No, it’s okay, thank you. We’ll be over soon,” San said before hanging up hurriedly. They needed to get Wooyoung to safety and free the bathroom for their sick youngest swiftly.

So San stepped back into the bathroom and lifted the exhausted Wooyoung, still wrapped in the towel, into his arms. Wooyoung gave a content sigh and cuddled closely, resting his head on San’s shoulder. Yeosang wrapped his own towel around his waist and peaked outside the bathroom, giving a thumbs up. San, holding on tightly, followed him to the room the other two shared and set down Wooyoung on Yeosang’s lower bunk.

“Let’s get you into comfy clothes”, San suggested and moved around to find him a new set of pyjamas to wear, as well as a new shirt for himself as he had abandoned his old one in the bathroom. Wooyoung whined a bit at the loss of contact but as it was the norm for him so San wasn’t as worried as before. Yeosang meanwhile also changed into pajamas so they could go over to the manager’s dorm quickly.

Once Hyunseok let them in, they spread out on the big couch in the living room, cuddling close to each other. Yeosang would probably fall off the couch in the middle of the night, not quite as fast as San to claim the backrest side. Well, that would be Yeosang’s problem - for now they could rest.

⌛

Seonghwa rushed to the living room as soon as he heard that their youngest was sick. He was a bit confused about what had transpired but the state of Wooyoung was enough evidence that he knew something bad was up. He found Hongjoong kneeling on the floor at one end of the sofa, one of the older blankets they had meant to donate sooner or later thrown over an obvious puddle of sick on the floor. Jongho was lying on the couch, a trash bin by his head and he looked positively awful. Pale, sweaty and incredibly nauseous.

Seonghwa took a moment to observe Hongjoong and Jongho without being noticed, smiling to himself at how far they both had come. Hongjoong was brushing back Jongho’s red hair in obvious worry, gently shushing the now mostly silently crying maknae. Listening closely he could make out the phrases ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Wooyoungie-hyung’. Seonghwa felt bad for the poor maknae, always trying to be so strong and who had now very unintentionally without being at fault at all hurt his beloved hyung in one of the worst possible ways.

The oldest watched the tender moment between captain and youngest play out before stepping forward.

“Wooyoungie is going to be fine, makdoongie”, Seonghwa said, knowing that he was in good hands with Yeosang and San. “Sannie and Yeosangie are taking care of him.”

Jongho didn’t reply, still shaking, but from the way some tension left his shoulders he seemed to have heard him. 

“What happened?”, Seonghwa asked, curious but also wanting to understand. “Have you been feeling sick for longer, baby?”

“When Jjongie woke up from his nap he immediately got sick”, Hongjoong explained in Jongho’s stead, not mentioning Wooyoung at all to keep the maknae calm. Seonghwa could put the pieces together anyways.

“Do you know what is wrong?”, he instead asked. Hongjoong opened his mouth to answer but was shoved aside as Jongho lunged for the bucket.

The maknae’s face had a slight green hue to it and he was gagging dryly, the sound of it terrible. He coughed and then another wave of stomach contents fell from his mouth, landing in the receptacle with a disgusting splat. Hongjoong sighed and rubbed the maknae’s back. From the fullness of the bucket Seonghwa guessed it wasn’t the first time that Jongho had been sick after the disaster on the floor.

“I have no idea”, Hongjoong said with another sigh, “he just can’t stop throwing up. I was hoping it had stopped for now but… I … could you get some cleaning supplies and maybe his bed covers? A thermometer? Anything to make him more comfortable?”

Seonghwa nodded and walked into the kitchen to grab some cleaning stuff. But before he could make it to the cabinet, Mingi and Yunho appeared in the doorway with the same looks of confusion.

“Shouldn’t dinner…?”, Mingi started, but Seonghwainterrupted him. “Maknae threw up. On Wooyoungie. Dinner is cancelled unless you make it yourself.”

Yunho grimaced at the explanation. “Shit. Okay. What’s the plan?”

“I’m gonna get some cleaning supplies and a fresh bucket. Could you go and find the thermometer and medications and bring his comforter and pillow?”, Seonghwa asked. Both nodded and left.

With a sigh, Seonghwa took out the cleaning supplies and a new bucket - the actual designated puke bucket, not the living room trash bin that was now a casualty of war. With gloved hands he returned to the living room where Hongjoong was softly talking to Jongho, a soft hand on his upset stomach. Jongho had his face buried in his captain’s shoulder, clearly still not feeling great. 

Seonghwa replaced the disgustingly full bucket, puke sloshing around and handed it to the very unhappy Yunho who had returned with Jongho’s blanket at just the right - or in Yunho’s case the wrong moment. Hongjoong spread out the comforter over their maknae, patting his back. 

With his thumb and index finger Seonghwa lifted the towel from the floor and, wincing, stuffed it into a trash bag, setting it aside to be thrown away later. Then he went over to mopping the floor and disinfecting it.

Meanwhile Mingi had returned with medications and the thermometer, giving both to Hongjoong. “You’ve got a bit of a fever, Jjongie”, Seonghwa heard Hongjoong mumble. “Do you want to take … no? Okay, just rest for now.”

⌛

Once everything was cleaned, Seonghwa joined Hongjoong in sitting on the floor by Jongho’s side. The maknae had his eyes closed now, head resting on the pillow. He looked incredibly young that way, much younger than he actually was.

“Hyungs? I feel awful”, the maknae whispered, his voice rough from all the vomiting. 

“I know, baby”, Seonghwa mumbled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Jongho’s ear and kissing his forehead. “I know. But we’ll be here with you, okay? Even if it’s all night. Even if it’s tomorrow too. Even if it’s forever, hm? We’ll take care of you.”

And so they rested. Until the sound of the fire alarm broke the silence...

Notes: This is a rewrite + finally finishing one of my first ATEEZ fanfics from over a year ago. I think it shines through in the writing style but I still hope you like it!

Masterlist links: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's Masterlist - ATEEZ

[whumblr]

Ball and chain

Whumpee meekly walked along, resigned, hands cuffed in front of them, two henchmen clinging to both arms as they were marched into the large room. Like they were both walking them down the aisle.

Except the man who they were tied to was all but bliss. And did not accept any form of seperation.

And he now stood waiting for them in the middle of the room. He turned and his eyes immediately fixed on Whumpee. Myeah... they were in trouble.

The man barely contained himself, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, and his rage plain to see in his eyes, swirling about like thunderclouds.

You'd think that, with all the trouble they caused, he would be glad to see the back of them... instead of sending out a search team and dragging them back to their cell.

They stopped right in front of him and Whumpee swore they saw something twitch in his jaw. His eyes bored into theirs, but they didn't look away.

"Leave," Whumper growled.

The two men gladly let go of their arms and turned to leave the room.

Whumpee however followed suit: they spun on their heels and made to follow them out. But before they could even take one step, a hand clamped around their shoulder.

"Not you, you goddamned little gargoyle, what makes you think I was talking to you."

Willfully ignoring the fingers digging into their shoulder, Whumpee simply watched, a little rueful, as the henchmen succesfully made their way out, leaving them alone here. Then they turned around again, shrugging the hand off with the softest huff.

"Well, you were looking at me, so..."

-

General whump tag: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @auroragehenna

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #1

Prompt

Masterpost

Next

Warnings: torture, rape mention

They had stolen him in the summer, which seemed like cheating. He was a spring, and summer was for laziness and play after a strong season. He shouldn’t have had to worry about mortals trapping him in iron.

It didn’t matter now. 

Moonflower had no idea where he was, except that he was far from the fae realm. The cell was unforgiving cold stone, with horrid iron bars that burnt his skin and weakened his magic. There was no sun, or clean air, or any plants at all. Not even moss.

It was suffocating.

What did they want from him? Wishes, or luck charms? Moonflower was a simple nymph, not gentry but wild. His magic was unimpressive; not suited for the miracles mortals often craved.

He could hear distant footsteps coming towards him.

___________________

Moonflower stuck his fingers down his throat, vomiting up the saltwater they forced him to swallow. The salt hurt like a thousand tiny cuts, the sheer amount of his making his tongue bleed.

The wound wouldn’t last long, but he’d rather get his mouth salted than see what it would do in his stomach.

The air stank of his burnt flesh, and the sizzling sound of iron on his skin still echoed around in his mind.

Summer was slipping through his fingers, and he was so tired. But he had to hold out. 

He would not give them his name. No matter what they tried.

___________________

Stars, he was weak. Couldn’t even fight back anymore. In the beginning, he trashed and bit and clawed. It took three men to hold him down then, and now mundane rope kept him in place.

Fall was turning to winter, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. Winter was hard on him; springs didn’t do well in frost. His color was fading, which had never happened, even in blizzards. His hair was graying, becoming brittle like dead leaves.

Moonflower was starving to death. He was starving for more than fresh meat and water, he needed light and air. He’d even settle for eating soil like a seedling. Just a taste of something other than cold stone and salt and iron.

He curled up on the floor the best he could, trying to stave off the cold. His clothes were long gone, and his nakedness bothered him when it hadn’t before. Plenty of fae wore nothing, but here-

He saw the way they looked at him.

He didn’t want to think about it. Moonflower closed his eyes and tried to sleep the hunger away. 

___________________

“Good morning, fae boy.” Moonflower opened his eyes slowly. He had a headache, and the blood on his skin was still tacky.

“What, no snarling? Not even a little growl?” Moonflower said nothing. It didn’t matter what he said; it was only wasted energy. It was midwinter, and he just wanted to sleep.

“You look like shit,” said the mortal. He crouched down in front of him. Moonflower must look really pathetic if the mortal was so blasé about it.

“Got anything to tell me?” Moonflower stared at him. He felt numb, an aching emptiness.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged the human. He pulled out an iron knife from his belt. The mortal pressed it to his neck, searing his skin.

Moonflower whined, high in his throat. He couldn’t take this anymore. The salt, the iron, the rape.

And when he died, they’d just take another of his kin. Maybe they’d even snatch a seedling. He couldn’t let this happen to a child.

“Moonflower,” he croaked. The human pulled away, and the cool air did little to help the burning.

“What did you say?”

He dug his nails into his palms. “My name is Moonflower, and you may have it.”

The human grinned down at him, a sadistic look on his face, and Moonflower immediately regretted it.

“Moonflower,” said the human, and every muscle and nerve in his body was alight with magic, waiting for a command.

But then the human let go of the puppet strings. He sank against the cold stone, trembling.

“Now we can finally start your training.”

Of course.

It was never going to be over; it was never going to stop. No matter what he did.

Moonflower looked up at the human, and felt nothing at all.

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