#this isnt actually whump

[justplainwhump]

at work from the smut asks: i'm thinking of dany or peyton visiting the other at work during their fling 😏😉

Of course, Vic! Gosh, I love them during their fling. Their dynamic is just. Good.

[Just A Fling Masterlist]

(Peyton is Vic's character; this is just all build up for later whump)

Content: pure spicy flirting and (fade to black) consensual sex.

Montgomery Capital resides on the top floors of a skyscraper downtown, all sleek glass and steel.

It wouldn't be a challenge for Dany to get an invitation; one text would do - but it's more thrilling to get in without one. And these days, Dany is all in for the thrill.

A few well-placed soft smiles, nervous swirls of her locks and randomly dropped names is all it takes to get her a visitor's badge for the conference floor, where some real estate workshop is being held. Then, it's time for another demeanor - arrogant, confident and obviously annoyed at things not going her way, and the stressed out guy in the elevator doesn't only swipe his badge for her but even holds open the security door to the executive wing. She walks in, as if the building belongs to her, gaze skimming the names on the doors, until she finds the one she came for. The desk in front of it is empty; lunch break for the CFO's assistant she assumes, and just because she can, she sits down on their chair and checks the computer. It isn't even locked. Some strokes on the keyboard, and Peyton Montgomery's calendar opens.

Dany rolls her eyes. Horrible OpSec.

She puts in a do not disturb blocker for the next two hours, spins on the chair once, before she gets up and strolls into his office.

Peyton is sitting behind a huge desk, focused on reading something on his screen, and he doesn't even look up when she walks in. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, "Leave in on the sideboard."

She presses the button next to his door that obscure the glass walls.

"Not your sweetheart," she says, and at least he gives her the satisfaction to flinch for a second, before his lips twitch into an appreciative grin. "Your OpSec is sub par. I could get all the way up here with just a visitor's badge and a pinch of acting."

"Oh yeah?" He murmurs, his gaze running her up and down. "I guess our security system isn't calibrated against femmes fatales."

"Seems so." She reaches behind her head with one hand and loosens her updo. "Now, what if I came with sinister intentions?"

He lifts his hands and rolls back in his chair. "True. You've got me, unarmed and alone."

Dany smirks. "And with a two hour blocker in your calendar, saying 'getting fucked over my own desk'."

Peyton's hand twitches to his mouse with a rare nervosity that makes her grin grow wider.

His shoulders loosen up a tiny bit when he sees the actual entry - xoxo, D - but the way his eyes narrow, when he turns back at her, both appreciative and hungry, lets her shiver in anticipation.

Dany stalks toward him, until she's right in front of his chair and leans in, hands on his armrests.

He breathes in the smell of her hair, before he meets her gaze with a grin. "Over my own desk, huh?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me it'd be a first."

"First time with a trespasser." Peyton's hands rest on her thighs, thumbs playing with the hem of her neat business dress, slowly pushing upward. She's obsessed with his hands, somehow, with the way his hold of her is firm, resolute, confident, but never relentless. His touch alone makes her dizzy.

"For a seasoned criminal, your legs are sure shaking a lot," he remarks. She can't hold back a small gasp, when his fingers shove up her dress, cupping her hips and guiding her backwards until she's pinned between himself and his desk. "Seems like we better start off with you on that desk, huh?"

He lifts her up onto the edge, reaches over her for something, and she gasps when cold metal meets the skin between her thighs and her panties are swiftly cut off.

A letter opener, she realises dimly, when he tosses it back onto the desk, a silver letter opener with his family crest as the handle.

Like she's his.

Then his face dips between her legs, his tongue teasing just the right spot, and suddenly, just for now, she doesn't mind being his at all.

[paingoes]

Rubies

Asking

“Aegre fero” here has a double meaning of “I’m sorry” and “It hurts”. Taking some license with the Latin I think. Forgive me.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, comfort!!!, crying, past trauma, conditioning, malnutrition mention, emotional whump, abuse mention, rocky recovery)

=========

Apollo readjusted the dials on the old receiver. He clicked in between the channels of the small device, listening in as best he could through the static. The sheer range of Galatea’s radio always impressed him. 

“-off the Western side now, escalating-“

“-running out of provisions! Just a reminder-“

“-tell Contra if she doesn’t fix her damn-“

“-worst summer in years, but not like-“

“-does anyone not need their kidney-“

Delta came out of his room, slipping quietly out into the hall. His short hair was hard to get used to. It was actually kind of curly when it wasn’t weighed down. Apollo thought it was cute. His expression was totally unreadable, but that was about typical for him. 

“Hey.” Apollo pulled one of the earbuds out. He didn’t move much beyond that. Delta had gotten comfortable enough that he didn’t feel the need to fuss after him nor the impulse to coax him out of hiding. It’d be better to stay still, not spook him too much.

Delta skirted the edge of the couch carefully and knelt down onto the carpet. He folded his arms on the cushion, resting his head down on top of them. It hid his face. Apollo took out the other earbud, leaning forward.

“You okay, bud?” Apollo’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Delta hadn’t knelt for him in a while. He’d thought that he was getting out of the habit. Delta nodded, his face still buried in the cushion. Not speaking, but that was also to be expected.

“Do you want to sit up here?” Apollo offered, just in case he needed to be reminded that he was allowed to. He shook his head for no.

“…Okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” He only put one earbud back in. Delta spoke so softly, he didn’t want to miss it. He wasn’t going to force him to talk about it, if there was anything to talk about at all. Delta needed to do what made him feel safe. As odd as the behavior seemed to him, he wasn’t going to correct it. 

He turned his attention back to the radio, but kept his sights on Delta to see if there was any change. His eyes widened as he noticed the small hitches along his shoulders. He was definitely crying.

“Hey, hey.” Apollo put the radio aside on the couch, sliding down onto the floor. He touched Delta’s arm lightly, “C’mere.”

It was all the invitation he needed. Delta shifted off of the couch and into Apollo’s arms, burying his face in his chest. Small sobs wracked his body. Apollo was surprised at how silent he was being in spite of this. He made shushing noises reflexively, even though there was no sound. He felt the fabric of his shirt marginally tighten as Delta gripped it. 

“Aegre fero.” Delta’s voice wavered. It was only when he spoke that Apollo could hear just how much trouble he was having breathing. He carded his hands through his hair.

“It’s okay. Deep breaths, yeah? Four-seven-eight,” he said. Delta knew how. Apollo had caught him doing them alone before, unprompted. He was clearly used to being the only one to calm himself down. Apollo’s heart ached at the thought of him sitting up whenever they had kept him, forcing himself stable for somebody else’s sake. Still, he slowed his breathing, picking up the pattern. From where Delta was curled into his chest, he should’ve been able to hear it well. His shoulder blades gradually steadied. The shaking stopped. He didn’t let go.

“Do you…like when I play with your hair?” Apollo’s hands stilled. He realized he’d never actually gotten permission to touch it. He probably should have. Delta nodded slowly. His face was still hidden. Apollo continued to run his hands through it. It was very soft — and seemed to be a lot healthier than it had been when they’d first picked him up. He was proud of that, the way the malnutrition symptoms were gradually fading. He had missed cooking for people.

It took a while before Delta would pull away. His face was flushed when he did, eyes bleary. He looked down like he was ashamed. Apollo patted the couch cushion.

“Sit up, sweetheart.”

Delta climbed onto the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was always more responsive when given direct orders. Apollo didn’t want to force him, but honestly, his joints couldn’t take any more time on the floor. He stood up himself, disappearing briefly to retrieve a cup of water. He brought back the burner phone too, passing both of them to Delta.

~

It was mortifying. When had he ever cried? He could count on one hand the number of times he had done it over the last two years. On two hands, he could count the last decade. Now it was like he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t supposed to behave like this. He had learned, so early on, that he was not supposed to behave like this.

It had felt so nice to be held for a second.

Mortifying.

Apollo sat back down on the couch and opened the IRC program. The burner phone buzzed in Delta’s hand. He unlocked it.

sunspot: Hey

nodiving: hi

nodiving: sorry

sunspot: Do you want to talk about it?

nodiving: i dont know

nodiving: i dont know whats wrong with me

nodiving: im not supposed to be like this

sunspot: Be like what?

nodiving: pathetic

sunspot: Why do you think it’s pathetic?

nodiving: because it is

“That’s circular logic,” Apollo said aloud. Delta typed faster.

nodiving: im not supposed to need anything and i usually dont

nodiving: now i have to keep bothering you for everything even things that dont matter

nodiving: im sorry

He began to type something else, but couldn’t bring himself to. He knew he should be punished for it. For having the audacity to even take notice of the emotion, let alone make it someone else’s problem. He should’ve just stayed in his room until it passed. 

sunspot: Everyone needs things. 

sunspot: I’ve been telling you this entire time to please come to me if you need anything

sunspot: Thank you for trusting me enough to take me up on that

Delta blushed, his fingers idle about the device. Apollo looked him up and down.

“When you say ‘things that don’t matter’,” he ventured cautiously, “You mean your own feelings?”

Feelings. The word itself sounded childish to him. He was supposed to be above it, as cold and mechanical as they’d trained him to be. But his skin was still damp where he’d been crying. It was a little late for that.

He nodded. Apollo couldn’t be mad at him for it; Delta already acknowledged their own worthlessness. It wasn’t a lie.

“Okay,” Apollo said softly, “I understand why you would think that. Nobody’s had much regard for them throughout your life. But it’s not true. Your feelings do matter. It was wrong for anybody to make you feel like they didn’t.”

No they don’t. Delta hid his face in his hands. He shouldn’t need this. He recoiled from the words as if they had burned him. No they don’t.

“I know you might not believe me right now. That’s okay. I’m still really proud of you for coming to me with this instead of trying to deal with it alone. Even if you think it’s not important, I still want to know what you’re feeling. It matters to me.”

Awful.

“Delta?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, showing he had heard. Not that he agreed, just that he’d heard.

Apollo paused while he caught his breath. It took a lot of effort to try and recover from what he’d just said. It still burned.

“Do you want to try?” Apollo encouraged.

Delta nodded, picking the phone back up. He typed slowly and decisively.

nodiving: nothing caused it

nodiving: im just sad

“Thank you. That’s a really good start, Delta. I know you’re not…used to talking. So maybe you don’t have all the vocabulary you need for it right now?”

Delta’s eyes narrowed at that, the mention of vocabulary. He wasn’t stupid. He read books.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you’re smart.” Apollo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your technical skill is advanced. You’re great at arguing. I know. All I’m saying is that you probably don’t have a lot of practice talking about this kind of thing. It might be difficult at first. And that has nothing to do with your intellect.”

That was objectively true. He had no idea what to describe what was happening to him, not with all the words he knew. He thought of the one that had shocked him most when they first suggested it. Abuse. He knew the definition. He did not see how it could slot into his life. Many of the words they used triggered that same uneasy feeling in him. Chess-piece. Feelings. Love. 

Most days, he could barely talk at all.

“I’m...gonna get you some CBT workbooks or something. We can work on it more later. Is there anything you need for right now though? Anything that normally helps?”

He didn’t know anything that would help. He’d never felt like this before. Whatever it was, it seemed like it was receding. The mood had passed.

He realized that crying might’ve helped. Touch. Talking. All the things he’d never been allowed before. All the things he thought he didn’t need.

Mortifying.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[krotiation]

"You can't ship rhack, it's toxic!!" Wrong, that's exactly why I ship it

[whumpshaped]

13. Favorite physical whump trope? <- @strawberry-whump

OOOO OH NO THERES SO MANY GOOD ONES.... okay let me think..... oh wait yeah i know. slamming whumpee against the wall and pinning them there by their throat. top tier, i am correct, i dont accept criticism

some honourable mentions:

snapping someone's bones like a twig by a whumper who's just so much stronger (specifically if it's like. whumper grabs whumpee's wrist an squeezes until it shatters.)

dragging someone around by the hair (dragging them across rooms, just yanking their head up to force eye contact when theyre too hurt to lift their head on their own anymore)

any and all manhandling. sign me up.

when uh. when. when whumper grabs and twists whumpee's arm behind their back. its a classic i know but it hurts so much if they push far enough. bonus points if whumpee is also pressed up against a wall or the floor. ESPECIALLY THE FLOOR. with whumper's knee on their back too.. hhghhnnhgh IM SO NORMAL ABT THIS I AM I PROMISE

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot #14

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: brief murder, offscreen sex

Once upon a time, a hundred years ago or more, there was a temple boy. The title was a bit of a misnomer, really. Ambrose was a grown man at 21. But he was no priest, and if you lived at the temple and weren’t a priest, you were a temple boy. Or girl, or assistant. 

Ambrose’s job was to keep things clean and tidy. To sweep the polished floors, launder the tapestries, water the plants, and secretly open the windows when the priests used too much incense in his opinion. That last part wasn’t in the job description.

It was monotonous, but it was a job. It allowed him some anonymity anyway, his parents wouldn’t think to look for Ambrose here. No one paid attention to the temple cleaners when there was a chance to run into a god. 

Ambrose wasn’t a worshiper but he knew better than the fanatics. He’d peeked and seen the serpent god a few times, and he was certainly divine, but also he was kinda just… a man? A very handsome man with pretty brown-and-gold slitted eyes and lovely black hair and a sharp smile that made his stomach do some interesting maneuvers and-

Still. Not exactly the mind-meltingly powerful image some followers claimed to see. Their offerings usually went unnoticed, and Ambrose bet they hadn’t actually met him.

He was wandering the upper floor of the temple, looking for the rumored records room, when the tell-tale flash of golden light appeared behind him. He whirled around. And yup, the serpent god was right behind him. Shit.

“You’re getting closer,” said the god, in a sing-song voice. Fuck, his teeth were sharp.

“Hm?”

“The records room,” he said, stepping forward, and holy shit he was tall, “you’re getting close to it.”

“Oh, uh, you know about that?” 

“Of course. It’s my temple after all, and secrets are in my domain,” said the god. Right. How could he have forgotten?

“So you know what’s in it?”

“I’ll do you one better,” the god moved to face the wall, pressing on a stone, and a part of the wall creaked open.

Unfortunately, the records were just a log of offerings over the centuries. Incredibly uninteresting, and the serpent god laughed at the face he made.

___________________

Apparently he was the god of a lot of things. Sure, most people knew the “secrets” aspect, but there was much more to the serpent god than most were aware. Self-confidence, Generosity, Indulgence. The list went on.

"How are you the god of all these things?" Ambrose asked. "They're all so contradictory."

“We can stretch our natures. Some of my kin pick up and put down titles like toys. As long as we can connect them. A friend of mine branched from logic to knowledge to science because it interested him,” he explained.

“So how do you connect yours?”

The god smiled at him. “You’re a clever man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Ambrose learned he was also the god of Revenge when he came to the temple with blood up to elbows, cheerfully informing Ambrose that his abusive parents were now dead. Or was it Justice? It certainly felt like the latter when Ambrose was planning the funeral.

___________________

They were on the grassy hill outside the city. They’d had some pastries, and split a pot of chamomile tea between them. Ambrose wasn’t a tea person, but it was growing on him. Now, though, they were just watching the clouds go by.

“Why do you visit me?” asked Ambrose, after picking out a bird-shaped cloud. “Surely I'm not that interesting.”

“Hm? I don’t know what you mean.” Jay fidgeted with a flower stem. For a god of self confidence and secrets, he was a terrible liar.

Ambrose rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow. “You know exactly what I mean. You could see anyone in the world, do anything you want, but you come see me. Why?”

Jay turned towards him. “Maybe you’re just pretty.”

Terrible liar.

___________________

“I have a gift for you, darling.” Ambrose examined the golden jewelry that Janus presented to him. It was gorgeous. A golden arm cuff in Janus’s signature animal, complete with emerald eyes.

“It’s beautiful, honey, thank you,” said Ambrose, pulling it on. It fit perfectly. He kissed Janus’s cheek, and the smile he got in return was as radiant as the sun.

___________________

Ambrose had never been so happy. The past few years had been sheer bliss.

They were in Janus’s bedroom, in the divine realm. The smell of sex still lingered in the air. Janus was exactly a head taller than him and Ambrose (who had always been taller than his previous partners) laid on his chest with his head tucked under Janus’s chin.

Janus had one arm around his waist, and the other was stroking his back. He hummed, nearly purring as they cuddled. 

“I love you," he murmured. He kissed his forehead. Ambrose's stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. Janus tensed underneath him. Ambrose rolled off, sitting at the edge of the frankly massive bed.

“Wha- Rosey, why would you say that?” Ambrose could hear the hurt in Janus’s voice. He couldn’t stand to look back at him.

“I... I just,” Ambrose sniffed. “I’m going to die someday. And I love you too, and I’m sorry.”

The bed dipped behind him, and Janus’s warm arms wrapped around his waist. He brushed a kiss to Ambrose’s cheek. 

“It’s okay.”

“It really isn’t,” sobbed Ambrose. “I don’t want to do that to you. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to leave you! I’m so sorry, Jay, you should go, it’s not fair to you-”

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s alright. We can fix it.” Janus tucked a piece of Ambrose’s hair behind his ear.

“We- we can?”

“Of course, darling,” Janus gave him another kiss, this time to his temple.

“You could live forever, if that’s what you want.”

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair@paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @starfields08000 @littlespacecastle @mylovelyme

[kvroii]

Mod's asleep have whatever this is

[flowers-that-sing]

"baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad"

(a post s3 steve harrington songfic based on Gibson Girl by Ethel Cain)

TWs// sexual content, dubious consent to put it lightly but it's more implied to be sexual assault, past csa, grooming, it's not super detailed (the csa much less so, and told through memories where steve doesn't even exactly know what's happening), but like. you know. it's pretty bad. referenced physical abuse. referenced past incestual sexual abuse. alcohol consumption, smoking. lightly implied drugging.

also, disclaimer: this is all told through steve's eyes—the way he sees things is very warped, his relationship with sex is unhealthy to say the least, and just because he's saying he feels good does not mean that anything that happens in this is good. it isn't. nothing about this is good or healthy at all.

She approached him in the dark behind the bar, where Steve was half-considering lighting up in spite of his promise of quitting to Robin. He had drank enough that it didn't seem to matter. She had leather pants on, and sunglasses, despite the dark. 

"Corey Hart fan?" he asked lightly. She didn't bother to answer. 

"Just saw you leave the bar. I'm glad you stuck around."

Steve didn't recognize her, and she didn't seem to recognize him either. She was dragging her eyes across his body, and Steve was suddenly all-too conscious of his scars on display, his sweat-melted hair wax. 

He was sick of it, he was sick of feeling ugly, and this girl had desire in her eyes. Steve was craving desire. 

And he was craving thrill. His thoughts had been rapid all week, his body more fidgety, his stomach constantly filled with bees and his energy so high he hadn't needed more than a couple hours of sleep a night. He had so much time in every day, but nothing to fill it with besides the monotony of work, and he needed adrenaline. There weren't any monsters to fight now, and there weren't any basketball games to play since high school, and he needed the feeling. The melting, excruciating, nauseating excitement, racing heart, the feeling of something about to happen, the fear, the risk. 

"You came alone to me—from however far away," he mused, lighting his cigarette, delicately placing it between his lips, exhaling into her face. 

"How'd you know?" she asked with a grin. 

You're all the same. 

Steve shrugged. "Lucky guess." 

She stepped in, so he could feel her breath on his face. "You gonna buy me a drink?" 

Steve put the cig out on his thigh. He didn't feel the burn. "I was just about to ask." 

If I'm still walking straight, I need another drink anyway. 

They went inside together, sat back at the bar. Steve opened a new tab. 

By the time he had a glass of whiskey in his hand, she had a hand on his thigh. She didn't even pretend to drink the vodka she'd ordered, and he was still downing his last gulp of whiskey when she pushed it into his hand with a little half-smile. He drank it. 

The lights were bleeding all over him. 

He felt a hand in his back pocket, and when he looked up, she was pulling cash out of his wallet. 

You wanna love me right now? 

"You wanna get alone with me?" Steve asked. Her eyes were bright, and she nodded, pulling him to his feet and all but dragging him out of the bar. He wasn't exactly sure when he'd gotten there, but he was in the trunk of a car, the backseats folded down to make room. "You wanna get my clothes off and hurt me?" 

He hadn't meant to say 'hurt.' But she just laughed and grinned, and ripped his clothes off.

☤

"Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad," Lynn says. Steve's eight now, beginning to question if it was wrong. He's remembering his Sunday school teacher talking about how nakedness was wrong, or something. And a new word, he doesn't know what it means. 'Chastity.' 

Lynn's touching him, she says it's to make him feel good. He doesn't really know how he feels. It reminds him a little of his grandfather, but Lynn's a woman, and she's not family, so it's different. It's better. If he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it, he likes it. Is he supposed to like it? Lynn says he's supposed to like it. 

He tells her he does, and opens his eyes when she's done, and she's smiling. She promises him a new teddy bear. But for right now, it's his turn to make her feel good.

☤

Steve likes to think he's a good person now, but he knows he's still a whore, and he can't deny the high that comes with being immoral in a stranger's lap. He's kissing over her chest and grinding down onto her leather pants, and she's digging her nails into his back. He still doesn't even know her name. She doesn't know his. Maybe it's better that way. 

She hasn't taken off more than her shirt still, but he's fully naked. It's dark, the only light coming from a dim greenish streetlamp outside the car, and he thinks maybe she can't see his scars, but she's running her hands over the scar on his chest, from where the Russian guards had cut him open. She looks at it with something he can't quite decipher. It almost looks like fascination, but he knows that isn't it. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated. 

Ah. Desire. 

"You know, I was serious about hurting me. You wanna add some more?" 

☤

"I'm in love with your body. That's why I'm fucking it up." Steve listens to Lynn's voice from where she sits on the back of his legs. He is on his stomach, face turned to the side so he can breathe. He can’t see her. He sees his disorientingly patterned wall. He smells rosewater and orange zest, and his head feels fuzzy. Something hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn’t think about it too much. He just focuses on the warmth, the heat from the points of contact between him and his babysitter, the sweat in the backs of his knees, on his upper lip. The bedsheets are damp. It’s itchy. 

☤

Steve tasted his own blood on her teeth as she bit his upper lip. He was starting to see colors in the spaces where she'd been after she moved. And then his face was between her thighs, and when had her pants even come off at all? His heart was racing, exactly like he'd wanted, and his body was wracked with tremors. He listened to the music coming from her lips, the moans rising from her chest, and his heart leapt. I did that. I'm making her feel good. 

His arms felt a bit numb as he reached up to rub his thumbs into her hips. She was panting hard, and he was giddy. 

"Oh, fuck—you really are special, baby," she hissed. 

Steve's eyes widened, watered, and he whimpered against her. 

I'm special. She said I'm special. 

Steve was going to ride this high for at least a week. He was desirable, wanted, special. He basked in her attention, even if he knew he wouldn't see her again after tonight. 

He felt like he was being shown something he could never have. Something he'd searched for all his life. For a second, he could pretend it was love. Love for his brain and his scars and his body. Him taking all of her attention and giving back anything she wanted in return. Just to feel special. He'd do anything. 

Because that's what love was, right? Love, want, attention, specialness, was just tied to sex. Maybe his parents didn't love him since they couldn't fuck him. His grandfather loved him, his babysitter loved him, and for one night at a time, anyone could love him. And growing up, it was the only way he was really touched, with affection, at least. In ways other than a beating. 

He knew that wasn't right, because him and Robin loved each other. He loved the kids—never in that way, ever, and he still loved them. It was a different kind of love. But then, it was another different kind he was looking for, anyway. Maybe he was ungrateful. But he was hungry for attention, for someone to call him special, to want him around, he was starving for it. 

His thoughts weren't making much sense anymore. 

She was holding him in her lap, his boxers were back on, he was resting his head on her shoulder. He assumed she'd finished at some point, he didn't remember, and he knew he hadn't, but he hadn't really wanted to anyway. 

He was drooling, and he couldn't stop himself, and he couldn't see much, but her body was warm. He crawled closer, squirmed in tighter. It felt good to be held. He felt good. 

He woke up almost naked on the sidewalk in the sun with drool pooling at his chin and the rest of his clothes on a pile next to him. 

[whumble-beeee]

Whumptember 2023, Day 23

“Is that blood?”

Passing out | Hyperventilating | New scars

The Bee's Whumptember Masterlist

~1010 words

CW: blood, cuts, medical suturing (with needle)

------------

Blood spurted out from under Caretaker’s fingers as they pushed the curved needle through red and dirt-stained skin. They cursed under their breath and pressed into the fresh wound, squinting to make sure they were pressing in the right place through the blanketing darkness. Whumpee’s fliched and their head shot up.

“What, uh… what’s wrong?” they lulled with dull eyes.

“Shh, Whumpee, quiet please…” Caretaker whispered, wishing they could tear their gaze away from their work to look Whumpee in the eyes. “It’s nothing, just lay back down, keep your heart rate low.”

Whumpee blinked. “Caretaker… We ah, we gotta go. They’ll gonna… They’re gonna catch us.”

Shouting in the distance. A beam of light arked over their heads.

“I know, Whumpee, I know. Just gotta get you patched up first, okay? Then we can run.”

Whumpee nodded and slumped back down, satisfied with Caretaker’s nonsensical plan. As if Caretaker could fix the deep slash running across their calf with needle and string and hope. They’d need an extra dose of prescription-strength miracle for that… Caretaker busied themself with their sewing again as the shouting of their hunters grew louder, and they had to duck down further into the brush. 

"Ow!"

"Shh… It's okay Whumpee, it's okay, quiet..." Caretaker stuck another suture through the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but they only had basic training. The blood continued to gush down, down, down. Whumpee whimpered and tried to pull their leg away, a fruitless venture considering their current state. They barely even got a twitch in before they stilled again.

"What're… What's happening…"

Caretaker cringed. "Some bad people are looking for us.” They whispered, intentionally dodging the real intent of the inquiry. “They'll find us if you don't shush, so please…"

A small hum sounded from Whumpee's throat as they finally laid their head back down and closed their eyes. 

Another stitch. Another. Whumpee twitched and pulled under Caretaker's grasp, but they held their ward still. Blood gushed faster from the wound.

“Caretaker…”

Only the ruffle of the foliage and the light sounds of wildlife rustling about. Boots crunched leaves in the distance.

"Caretaker!"

"Shh!" Caretaker hissed. "Whumpee, it's so important that we're quiet right now, please!"

"What're you doing to me?" Whumpee's voice was suddenly so small. Caretaker froze.

"I'm, uh…" Caretaker stared down again at their blood-soaked hands, the maroon liquid dripping down and soaking into the forest floor. "You have a bit of a cut. We can leave until I make it better. So I'm making it all better."

Whumpeesuddenly shot up stock straight, and Caretaker nearly toppled backward. 

"I'm hurt?!"

"No, no, shh, Whumpee, it's okay, you're okay, you’re fine, lay back down!"

Whumpee clawed forward and grasped at Caretaker as the far away crunches of leaves started to close in, shouts ringing throughout the forest that they thought they may have heard something this way.

"Caretaker, I can't, I can't, not again, please don't let them–"

Whumpee's face blanched suddenly as they caught sight of their half-stitched together and gored up leg, thick sticky liquid gushing out between threads spreading tendrils down their entire leg and dyeing the pine straw surrounding them a deep crimson. Caretaker went to reach for Whumpee until they remembered their hands were too covered in the same gore.

Whumpee's breath shuddered. "Is that… is that blood."

Caretaker sat frozen, torn between demanding Whumpee shut up and freezing from all the sudden noises. The beams of light swinging above them were multiplying, slowly but surely lighting up the forest around them. Whumpee's breathing started to become shallow.

"...my blood?"

Caretaker lunged over to Whumpee’s and tucked their arms under their charge’s back to support them as their breathing started to get heavy and fast and loud, chest puffing in and out sporadically as all their muscles seemed to go tense at once and they kicked out as if they could shake the wound off entirely if they swung hard enough

"Shhhh, shh, shh, shh, Whumpee, Whumpee, look at me, look at me, everything's okay, it's okay, you're fine, you’re fine, I promise, you’re okay."

"Not fine. Blood. So much–. Blood! I'm dying! Help! Help me–! Caretaker! Ple-ease I can't– I can't– I ca-a-an't– can't die– I can't die– please don’t–!" Whumpee barely managed to get out the onslaught of words through their ever-increasing shallow breaths, their eyes darting around trying to find safety, only finding Caretaker for a brief moment before panicking away again. Their body trembled violently as they grasped to hold onto anything that they could, littering burning red scratches across Caretaker's arms and back as they pinned Whumpee down.

"Shhh! Shhh, Whumpee you'll be fine but I need you to calm down–"

"Caretaker! Caretaker– I don– I don't – can't– I can't–... don't– Wanna die– die-e-e-e-e please–... please let– lemme go–... please… ple-e-e-ease, please… Ca-aretak…"

Whumpee's eyes started to flutter shut as they stopped dancing around and struggled to focus on anything in particular. Their body fell limp in Caretaker's grasp before violently tensing wholly again, then relaxing again, over and over until Whumpee's body fell fully lax in their arms.

Footsteps crunched barely a rock-skip away, trailing a searchlight methodically raking the ground and waiting patiently for its moment to betray the duo's meager hiding spot. Caretaker gently slapped at Whumpee's face, barely earning a flutter from their eyes as their breathing started evening out.

They cursed softly once again and held Whumpee close to their chest, pushing back as far as they could into the perceived safety of the brush. The boots stomped at the ground just outside where Caretaker and Whumpee had first crashed down.

They set Whumpee back down onto the ground and softly slapped at their face again. No response. So they checked their pulse, their own heartbeat pounding loudly in their ears. The vein pulsed erratically under their fore- and middle-fingers. Caretaker heaved an unsteady sigh of relief.

They very carefully moved back to Whumpee's leg, eyes never leaving the methodical boots as they moved ever closer. 

And they continued to sew.

@whumptember

[sammyboiocs]

This comics a bit rough, but this moment in their story is rather important in the long run.

putting in elaboration on this scene, its meaning and importance under the cut:

cw that previous abuse for these characters is implied throughout.

Faruaill had been against Kaerr's marriage to begin with, but was powerless to stop it till far too late. he has held an unchecked assumption for much of his life that anyone with power of Kaerr will abuse it. This was not an assumption made without reason, given the abuse they both suffered in their own households, but also the abuse Kaerr suffered from involvement in the faith. All abuse Faruaill feels eyes wide open to, but which Kaerr continues to deny for what it is.

The assumption that Kaerr's husband would hurt that was not an assumption he took lightly. But one that Faruaill believed vividly. It isn't until reuniting a year after Kaerr had been shipped off to Coreilmar that they have this moment. One where Kaerr confides in Faruaill about an argument they'd had with Neirin. One which Kaerr is upset about but can't understand why.

They explain to Faruaill that they feel guilty for the arguement, even though Neirin and they talked through the issue and came to an understanding about it. For all purposes, the issue is solved.

Faruaill is never going to be a reliable man for advise, with his own biases, and hardly hears what it all was. He assumes that kaerr has hurt enough and that they should not let neirin hold any guilt over their heart. he implies boldly that Kaerr's conversation was not as calm as Kaerr knows it to be. He assumes violence.

Its startling, not just for Faruaill, but for Kaerr, to realise that not only was Neirin not violent during the argument, but that he has in fact never been violent with Kaerr. He has rarely raised his voice, at kaerr at least.

This is not a reflection of any meaningful read of character that either has of Neirin mind you. This is a reflection of the people Faruaill and Kaerr have grown up around, to not only assume violence but to welcome it bitterly in some capacity. Faruaill is stunned nearly to disbelief that Neirin might be the only other person alive he's known to be generous with Kaerr. Kaerr themself realizes that they aren't just guilty for having upset Neirin, they've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. One they know isn't coming suddenly.

Its a big moment that doesn't have a big fallout. Its a quiet realization and an acceptance that they have to stomach. Its a hopeful one, but its heavy all the same.

This moment marks a change in how Faruaill views the marriage and Neirin at all. It also marks Kaerr realizations in exactly how different Neirin is to the rules of life they have always known. Seeing his words as not just odd exceptions but suddenly accepting them as a way of life. One they aren't used to, but one they begin to actively realize is true to Neirin and which he won't faulter on.

[tmmyhug]

dunno what exactly ur looking for but I think this is real whump??

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57133102

this technically is still hurt/comfort. looks like a great fic. i'll be checking out this whole series so thanks :D

mind the tags people

[whump-in-the-closet]

15. Fear Tastes like Pine

previous.

cw: whipping (implied), burns (mentioned), inhuman whumpers

Valian slips an arm around you, helping you stumble to your feet. You want to push them away– but without their help, you would collapse. Your knees threaten to give out at the slightest increase of pressure.

So you cling to Valian and hope they can’t see your face. 

With so little distance between you and them, tiny details stand out.

Flecks of crimson blood on their hands.

Bitten down nails.

The sound of uneven breathing.

Singed flesh.

A stark-white thread that’s unravelled and floats into the air, drifting lazily. 

You focus on these details and try to drown out the agent’s voices. Try to drown out the unforgettable click, click, click of leather against the ground. 

Valian shudders against you. 

“Is it…?” The question is left unfinished, a whisper choked with old memories of chains and cells and running.

The burns around your throat fade in comparison. 

Valian whispers something in your ear– the roaring in your head blurs out the words but you think it amounts to ‘Stay strong’. 

The comfort is more than you ever gave them.

You don’t have time to regret how you treated them because one of the agents–you think it’s Keres– rips you away from Valian. 

The world fractures into silver-lined green. Silver-lined terror. An explosion of panic in your chest, twisting your ribs with the force of it. 

You’d forgotten the taste it leaves in your mouth. 

Cotton. Tastes like cotton. 

You’re half-dragged across the ground before coming to an abrupt stop. Keres grabs your wrists, yanking them up until you’re on your knees, face pressed into the tree trunk. Your burn brushes against the rough wood and it's all you can do to keep from screaming. 

An ant crawls over the bridge of your nose as Keres ties your hands around the tree. She steps back, calling over her shoulder for Solis.

You yank at the ropes. 

A futile effort to escape. 

Heart in your throat. Vision starting to peel apart– when did the fear stop tasting like cotton and start tasting like pine? 

Tree bark. Focus on tree bark. On anything else. On the way the ropes feel. On—

The crack of a leather whip in the air knocks all coherent thoughts away. 

Fear tastes like pine needles and salt tears. 

“Count,” says Solis and raises the whip. 

taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @d-cs, @annablogsposts, @sorrowful-hyacinth, @whumpsday, @whumpinthepot, @whatwhumpcomments, @whumpycries (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)

[whumpitisthen]

1. Do this uquiz

2. Do this picrew

3. Tag people

The quiz result looks like that bc i did this at like 2 am on my phone and my screen dimmer was on so don't mind that

Anyway i was tagged by @whumpshaped and the og chain by @headlinesdontsellpapes was becoming too long so i decided to put it into a separate post :)

Random tags: @spookyboywhump @pigeonwhumps @whump-galaxy @whumblr @ziptiesnfries everyone who sees this yes you you are tagged now live with the consequences of glancing upon my blog

[aria0fgold]

I had a dream with a pretty neat (yet messy cuz dreams are like that) story that featured yuri in the scale of "this girl is so in love with her boss but hides it in fear of her boss rejecting her so she's just content to be of service to her" and "the boss not knowing what to do with her own feelings towards the girl and also fearing of being rejected by her just kept calling her as "the best friend I've ever had" instead of being outright with it."

Somehow I ended up as an accidental wingman by disguising myself as the girl and when found out I was like: "Oh yeah and... if you're going to confess, can you actually like-- drop the "friend" thing? You're gonna end up in a deep misunderstanding cuz of that." Cuz during the time I was disguised as that girl, the boss was saying some INSANELY sweet things only to end it with "that's why I love you, as a Friend!"

[painonthebrain]

I wanna write some cringe asmr rp level stuff but also im too busy listening to cringe asmr rps imagining my ocs in the situations to do anything

[ei-mugi]

im not a even a fan of the "hellaverse" but i have seen helluva boss and with all the twitter uproar over the hazbin ep4 leaks i went and found a reaction video of the full ep on yt so i could see how bad it really was and. jesus christ. theres certainly analysis of the visuals that could be had regarding the original criticisms but for me the episode was more like... 1. angel dust is the exact same character as fizzarolli 2. hellaverse is never going to break away from writing its characters like a whump fic is it and 3. this is an absolutely horrible portrayal of sex workers. vivienne pleaseeeee get your head out of the yaoi bin and remind yourself of like. women and misogyny. and stop writing all your sex worker/sexually abused (notice how that is grouped together) characters in the same way. sex workers arent all victims who need to be saved from their jobs

[clockworkcheetah]

who am i if i dont have dirk getting kidnapped