oozey mess
todays bird
cherry valley forever
occasionally subtle
NASA
Cosmic Funnies
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
noise dept.
Mike Driver
gracie abrams
Keni
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
EXPECTATIONS
if i look back, i am lost
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
shark vs the universe
official daine visual archive
YOU ARE THE REASON
ojovivo
seen from Germany
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from India
seen from Ecuador
seen from Malaysia
seen from Finland
seen from Spain
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Pakistan
seen from Germany
seen from Iraq
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from Colombia
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Ukraine
seen from TĂĽrkiye
@pumpkin-spice-whump
Masterlists
Kensington
my own slavery universe, 17 yo whumpee, generally pretty violent, threat of noncon (will never actually happen), disproportionate retribution. listed chronologically. (ongoing verrrry slowly)
847481: Jesse
box boy universe, platonic box boy, heavy themes of ocd and anxiety, some noncon (never explicit. really only heavily implied). listed chronologically. (ongoing)
other - Adler, The Despair of Silence
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Something something vamp!Max dehumanizing bloodbag!Carlo mmmmm yum!
Nightfall
This is as close to the mark as I could come up with while keeping Maxim in character. (I could probably pull it off better w a character like Erik)
Maxim is traveling with Carlo and wants to blend in to avoid trouble
~
It was with a poorly repressed shudder that Carlo realized there was not another human on board the train.
Dimly lit and sparsely attended, the only passengers were the same thing as his master. They glanced at him in turn as he and Maxim boarded, basilisk eyes flashing in their hard faces at the scent of the blood beneath Carlo’s skin, at the presence of a mortal heartbeat.
Maxim sent a strange message into Carlo’s mind with their imperfect telepathy. Carlo was not skilled enough at it to hear words in these messages, but he thought he understood the outlines of this one. It was something like be careful, or maybe be good. He swallowed sharp discomfort and dropped his eyes away from the other vampires in the car.
The train pulled away from the station with a strained lurch. Carlo steadied himself by grabbing the only thing near him, which happened to be Maxim’s arm. But Maxim pulled away, made a sharp tsch sound at him with his tongue. Carlo flinched in surprise.
Like a misbehaving pet.
A vampire watched him as he followed his master, deeply chastised, to the seats opposite him. Carlo intuited he should wait for Maxim to sit down before he followed suit. He could still feel the stranger’s gaze but did not return it. Maxim leaned down to whisper to him, brow furrowed as if about to reprimand him more.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed near Carlo’s ear, barely loud enough for even him to hear even at that range. “I’m going to treat you the way these vampires expect a bloodbag to be treated. Follow my lead no matter what.”
Carlo closed his eyes and nodded that he understood. He guessed several of the vampires had turned their heads in interest to watch him receive his reprimand.
“Do not speak unless I tell you to,” Maxim continued. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t even look at me unless I tell you to.” He pulled back and took Carlo’s chin in his chilly iron grip, jerking his face upward to look into his.
Even though he was in on the charade, Carlo’s heart galloped in his chest at Maxim’s brusque and unusual behavior. He kept his eyes closed. He had not been told to look at his master.
“Good,” Maxim said, just loud now enough to be overheard if a vampire was inclined to overhear. He took a rough fistful of Carlo’s hair and shoved his head back down dismissively.
Carlo stared fixedly at his feet. A pair of vampires to his left struck up a continuation to an earlier conversation in a language he could not hope to name.
Maxim sent him another telepathic message. This one had not even the barest shape of words. Yet it felt distinctly like being stroked gently at the base of his neck. He let the vampire’s apologetic affection drape over him like a cloak, careful to keep his body still and his expression unchanged.
He could only hope he’d be left alone, and not make any more mistakes.
Someone tell me my ocd isn't real
Easily one of my favorite Whump tropes is Whumpee being held down by two or more people, resulting in them being forced into witnessing or experiencing the terror of helplessness as they can do nothing but thrash and beg.
“You have been rude and disrespectful to the other employees. We have been over this. If you are upset, take it out on the company stress toy. That’s why we have it in the first place.”
Whumper starts to protest. "But I'm in the middle of---"
"No buts!" Their boss takes them by the shoulders and steers them away from their desk. "You're obviously too stressed to work with the team right now. Take 5, and come back when you've taken out all that unhealthy agression, m'kay?"
Whumper's eye twitches. Their boss's condescension isn't helping their "unhealthy aggression." They relent, however, and travel down the hall to an out-of-the-way portion of the building.
They stand in front of the repurposed supply closet. For a moment, they consider not going in, and simply letting the silence in the quieter part of the building calm them down instead. Soon, though, the distant sound of their coworkers' incessant chattering echoes down the hall, and their anger is stirred up again. They grip the doorknob tightly and whip the closet door open.
The stress toy is curled up in the corner of the dark room. It sits up straight as the light streams in, blinking sleep from its eyes.
"Napping at two in the afternoon?" Whumper strolls into the room, one hand in their pocket, the other slowly closing the door behind them. "I wish that could be me."
The stress toy squirms away from them, pressing its back into the cold concrete wall, already stained with its own dried blood from previous sessions.
"Let's get some light in here." Whumper pulls the cord attached to the lightbulb, illuminating the closet in sickly yellow hues. They lean down to inspect the stress toy. It's looking a little worse for wear, with some bruises and cuts still fresh on its skin. Its mouth is duct taped shut, and its hands and feet are tied.
Whumper wrinkles their nose. "My boss did most of this, didn't he? He's such a sadist. At least you're still wearing clothes."
The stress toy's eyes dart between Whumper and the shelf of tools beside them.
"He's actually the one who sent me here. He can't wrap his dense head around the fact that not everybody relieves stress like he does." Whumper taps their fingers on the shelf, perusing its contents, letting their gaze linger on each item, as if they can't decide what to pick. There's a crowbar, a knife, a pack of needles...
The stress toy lets out a small whimper.
"Oh, sorry, did you have something to say?" Whumper leans down and rips the duct tape off of its mouth in one swift and calculated motion. It yelps, sucking in a breath through its clenched teeth. "There you go. What's up?"
The stress toy pants for a second, before simply saying: "You don't have to."
Its voice is ragged and weary. No doubt it's been strained many times from screaming.
Whumper's gaze softens. They finally settle on their tool of choice: a sharpie. They take it off the shelf and sit down on the floor. "I know. Come here."
The stress toy awkwardly shuffles forward, keeping their head down. Whumper takes their wrist, uncaps the sharpie, and starts to draw on their forearm.
"I can be quite forgetful when I'm angry. Sometimes I forget really important things. Like locking the door behind me."
It glances up at Whumper, a tiny glimmer of hope crossing its face.
"And I also forget how to get around this place. That's why I always doodle maps on everything. It's almost subconscious, now."
Whumper capped the sharpie, stood up, and checked their watch. "It's almost been five minutes. I'll have to go back, soon."
"Thank you," the stress toy whispered, looking at the map drawn on their arm in awe.
Whumper looked at them with pity. "Don't be thanking me." They grabbed the crowbar from the shelf. "I still have to dispel suspicion."
It's eyes widened.
"Sorry," Whumper said, raising the crowbar above their head. "Boss's orders."
.
Whumper scrubbed the blood off their hands in the bathroom. It had been a little longer than five minutes. Hopefully their boss wouldn't be too mad.
They turned off the water and looked at themselves in the mirror.
Maybe their boss was right.
That had felt good.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The House Call (part 2)
<PREVIOUS
A much longer followup to the little teaser I posted a lil bit ago.
WARNINGS: BBU-adjacent, semi-explicit medical procedure, only mildly researched field medicine
Sebastian gives Jaime a scarf to cover the band of metal affixed around his throat, and a medical mask that will, in addition to its actual hygienic purposes, obscure the bottom half of his face. It’s the best he can do, he supposes.
This work is sort of a game of Russian Roulette sometimes, where everyone shows up hoping the other person has an empty chamber. People are vetted as best they can be in such an underground operation, but it’s not impossible that someone untrustworthy slips through the cracks. It’s why real names are never used and why Sebastian is taking any additional risks when it comes to potentially identifying Jaime to the wrong person.
The patient is a man who looks to be older than both Jaime and Sebastian, and with his age comes a well-earned wariness. He shrinks back when they enter the hotel room. (People rarely feel safe enough to offer up their own homes for these meetings).
The man who opens the door for them—who presumably set up the arrangement—looks so much like the man perched on the end of the bed that Sebastian does a double take.
“He’s my brother,” the man offers. “My twin.”
Sebastian has a lot of questions, but not enough gall to ask them out loud.
There’s no way this man is the holder of his own brother’s contract; family members aren’t allowed. And the patient on the bed is very plainly still trapped in the system, judging by the collar fastened around his neck. Is his brother actively trying to get him out? Is tonight the first step on the road to escape? Or does he have an arrangement with the person who does hold his contract? Seems unlikely but not impossible, but regardless, it’s none of Sebastian’s business. He’s here to offer medical care, and when he gets a better look at the man on the bed, he can see that he obviously needs it.
There’s currently a towel—once white, now stained a deep red—wrapped tightly around his forearm.
Sebastian crosses the room slowly, aware of how the man stiffens as he draws closer. When he reaches him, he drops to one knee, putting himself below eye level.
“Hi,” he says. He has to actively stop himself from continuing the thought with an introduction, with asking his patient’s name in return. “I understand you have a pretty nasty cut on your arm. Do you mind if I take a look? I’m not going to do anything right now except look, I promise.”
The man’s eyes shift quickly from Sebastian’s to his brother’s, taking a brief detour to where Jaime still hovers near the door.
“It’s okay,” the brother tells him softly. “They’re here to help you, M—” He catches himself before he lets the name—whatever it is—slip.
The man on the bed returns his gaze to Sebastian and lets out a slow, trembling breath. He gives the barest of nods and relinquishes the tight grip he has on the towel, holding his injured arm out like a sacrifice.
Sebastian tries not to think too much of it when the man turns his head sharply away at the sight of the medical gloves he pulls from his bag. It’s hard to ignore the small, subdued flinches at every squeak and stretch of nitrile.
He is quick and efficient as he rolls back the blood-soaked cloth, careful not to let his fingers brush skin. The cut is deep. He knew it would be; the kind of people who have connections to this network don’t call on them unless they’re absolutely desperate.
“It needs stitches." Sebastian makes sure to speak directly to his patient, looking him in the eye rather than the person who brought him here. “I have a local anesthetic with me. Two injections, given the length of the cut—just here and here. Then you won’t be able to feel a single stitch after.”
The man’s eyes move to his arm, tracking the length of the cut.
“It’s up to you,” Sebastian says. “Everything we do here is ultimately up to you, okay? I can give you my honest medical opinion, and I can answer any questions you have as best I can.” He waits until he has the man’s eyes again before continuing. “I can tell you that, without suturing, this cut will keep reopening and your risk of infection increases. I can also tell you that the injections will hurt far less and be far faster than being stitched up without the anesthetic. But it’s your call.”
When the man speaks for the first time, his voice is rough and raspy. “You’ll… You’ll wait until it’s numb? Before you start?”
Sebastian’s teeth grind from the effort it takes to keep his face neutral.
“Yes,” he promises. “Absolutely. After a few minutes we will test it, and we won’t start until you tell me it’s okay.”
The man looks once more to his brother before he nods his assent. “Okay.”
Sebastian drops into work mode, relieved to have a clear plan ahead of him now. So much of this work feels like helplessly swimming upstream, but this particular thing is something he knows how to fix.
“Let’s get set up on a stable surface,” Sebastian says, standing up. “I brought disinfectant with me so we can make this as sterile as we can, under the circumstances.”
Jaime, to his surprise, is moving before Sebastian even finishes the thought. He makes eye contact with Sebastian and points toward the hotel desk pushed against the far wall.
“That’s perfect.” Sebastian nods, inappropriately pleased with Jaime’s quickness. “Let’s pull it over here. You can stay on the bed,” he tells his patient, “and I’ll take the chair on the opposite side. That will give me the best positioning, I think.”
Jaime helps him drag the desk across the carpet, careful not to bump the patient’s knees as they settle it in front of him.
When Sebastian pulls a container of disposable wipes from his bag, Jaime holds out his hand. Sebastian blinks, then hands them wordlessly over.
Jaime is quick but thorough, wiping down the full surface of the desk as Sebastian gathers the rest of his materials. He unpackages and lays down a sterile prep mat, pulls out a syringe and a vial, then unrolls his suture kit. He doesn’t miss the way his patient’s breath hitches and he looks away from the gleaming steel.
“These tools have been thoroughly disinfected ahead of time,” Sebastian says, mostly to distract his patient from his anxiety. “But we’ll do another alcohol pass before we get started.”
This time, Sebastian takes the initiative to invite Jaime into the fold. He holds out the box of gloves and a couple of alcohol wipes, and he sees in his eyes that he and Jaime are similar in this regard: much more at ease with a clear directive on what comes next.
As Jaime diligently cleans his forceps and suture scissors, Sebastian settles into the rolling desk chair across from his patient and changes into a new set of gloves.
“I’m going to start by wiping down the injection site for the local anesthetic,” he narrates, ripping open another alcohol wipe. “Can I touch you? Just with this pad, nothing sharp.”
He nods again, eyes squeezed shut.
The room is pungent with antiseptic, and he can’t miss the effect it has both on his patient and on Jaime. Jaime is keeping his reactions under wraps, but Sebastian knows him so well by now—and isn’t that a quiet revelation?—that he can recognize the tightness around his eyes.
“I’m going to inject the anesthetic now. Two quick pinches, and then you’ll start to feel your arm go numb pretty quickly. You ready?”
His patient lets out a slow, controlled breath. Sebastian shoots a quick look toward the man’s brother, wondering if he should suggest coming over to hold his hand, to offer some kind of comfort. But he doesn’t know either of these men, doesn’t know their relationship at all. Currently, the brother is pale as a ghost with his back against the opposite wall, watching with one hand pressed over his mouth.
Sebastian wishes he could find a window of opportunity to get his patient alone and ask the question—how did this happen? Did someone do this to you? Did the person who brought you here do this to you? But what could he do with the answer, realistically, should it be the one he fears?
Don’t focus on that. Focus on what you can fix.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Sebastian nudges gently.
“I’m… I’m ready.”
***
After a terse, quiet ten minutes, Sebastian double, triple, quadruple checks that his patient’s arm is fully numb. He reassures him twice that he can and should be completely honest about whether or not he still has any sensation, that they can wait a little longer if they need to. When his answer doesn’t change, Sebastian gets to work.
Unfortunately, even with the anesthetic, his patient is trembling so badly that it’s getting hard to keep his lines clean. Sebastian rests one hand on the man’s elbow to stabilize him, hopefully light enough that it won’t read as restraint.
Sebastian tries to keep his head down and stay focused on his work. He’s certain this man just wants this to be over, and Sebastian isn’t keen on dragging it out either, but when the man’s ragged breathing increases to a concerning rate, he has to make the offer anyway.
“Do you need a break?”
The frantic breathing pauses altogether for a couple of seconds, as if the man has been caught in his fear and is holding his breath, awaiting punishment.
“It’s okay to say yes.”
The words startle Sebastian, because it was exactly what he was going to say, but they come instead from Jaime’s mouth.
Sebastian looks over at him. Jaime is looking intently at the patient, and Sebastian realizes it’s the first time he’s spoken aloud since they entered the room. With his mask still in place, his voice is slightly muffled, but unmistakably kind.
“This isn’t like how it is there,” Jaime says. “I promise. He isn’t like those doctors. You’re allowed to tell him to stop, and he will listen.”
At this, Jaime meets Sebastian’s eyes—only for a fleeting second—before his attention is back on the patient. Sebastian lets himself stare a few seconds longer. He can’t help it.
Maybe it helps that the mask obscures the thin line of his mouth, or that the collar around his neck is still hidden by the borrowed scarf. But the Jaime he’s looking at now seems more confident, more certain, than he’s ever seen. There is absolute conviction, Sebastian realizes, behind the words he’s saying.
In that moment, Sebastian realizes he’s getting a glimpse of the person behind the walls that the system has forced Jaime to build around himself, and he doesn’t want to look away.
“Do you?” Jaime asks the man. “Want to stop for a minute?”
The man is looking up at Jaime through pleading, bloodshot eyes, his jaw trembling with the effort of keeping his mouth shut. Jaime casts another quick glance at Sebastian before stepping decisively forward and reaching for his scarf. He unwinds it from around his neck as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside the man, careful not to jostle him. Sebastian’s chest lurches but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as realization dawns in his patient’s eyes, his entire expression shifting to one of shock, and then… something like relief.
“I don’t need a break,” he says.
Jaime takes this without question, just nods once, then wordlessly offers his hand. The man only takes a moment to consider, then takes it, firm and desperate. As the two of them hold hands, the man screws his eyes shut and turns his head toward Jaime’s shoulder, not quite making contact, but taking shelter in him nonetheless.
Jaime looks at Sebastian and gives a single nod.
Sebastian gets back to work.
***
Jaime waits until they’re shut away in Sebastian’s car—parked a couple of precautionary blocks away from the hotel—before he speaks.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to take off the scarf.”
Sebastian looks over at him. The scarf is back around his neck now, re-secured before they ever stepped out of the hotel room, but the mask is gone, leaving only the faint pink indents on the bridge of his nose.
Sebastian notes, with more than a little pride, that his statement was not phrased as an apology.
Good.
“It was your call to make, and you made it,” Sebastian says. “I’m not upset with you.”
Jaime is quiet for a moment. “I know,” he says finally. “Thank you. For helping him. He’s probably not lucky about a lot of things, but he was lucky to have you.”
There’s something in those words that Sebastian doesn’t let himself examine too closely, but they soften the air in the car anyway.
“And thank you for letting me come with you.”
“You were right.” Sebastian shrugs. “You were helpful. You made a really shitty situation a little less shitty for someone.”
“I guess I have some experience in that area. From the opposite side of the desk.”
Sebastian starts the car and begins maneuvering his way out of a bad parallel parking job, grateful for something to do with his hands so that he doesn’t do something stupid like lean across the middle console and pull Jaime into his arms.
They’re halfway home when Jaime clears his throat. “We made a pretty good team, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees. “We did.”
***
TAG LIST:
@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascalineÂ
@anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagainÂ
@thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingameÂ
@skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-worldÂ
@inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whumpÂ
@the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort Â
@termsnconditions-apply  @cyborg0109  @whumplr-reader  @pinkraindropsfell  @whatwhumpcomments
@honeycollectswhump @light-me-on-pyre @handsinmotion @alexmundaythrufriday @scoundrelwithboba
@starsick1979 @b0rgid@whumps-and-bumps @bilightningwhumper @technicallydeliciousdeer
@taterswhump @shit-people-probably-didnt-say @roblingoblin285 @hellodecisionparalysis @shinmich
@anonfromcanada @morning-star-whump
joey reveals some of his trauma and doesn't have a great understanding of it
written at 9pm and not proofread so go read the tags at the bottom if you're a little confused (i am also a little confused)
CW/TW: pet whumpee with slight existential crisis, (nongraphic) mention of involuntary body modfications (piercings, finger and ear amputations, 'debarking'), whumpee is slightly drunk
kinda references these two pieces
---
Marla had made mulled wine that evening. The year before she had been in Germany for part of the holidays and had developed an appreciation for the spicy drink. The taste was a little strong for Joey's palate, but he enjoyed the burst of heat as the liquid hit his tongue, and drank from his mug in small sips. The kitchen smelled warm and inviting. In the sink were two empty mugs; Joey still had his. He was presently seated at the bottom of the staircase in the hallway, mug cradled between his hands with his second helping of wine while he watched Aaron and Marla get ready for their date night.
He was a little bit tired from the day (The Fellowship of the Ring, a walk in the neighborhood, shakshouka on the kitchen island for lunch, and Marla's attempt at teaching him Crazy Eights) and a little bit buzzed from the drink. His inhibitions were altogether pleasantly lowered. He was dimly aware of this fact and it did nothing to pull him back down to earth again. Here he was, warm, comfortable, a little sleepy, full and sated, a treat between his hands and in the same room as his favourite people. He idly wondered if this feeling was happiness, or if it was just the alcohol that made him feel this way.
"We're going to be late, Marla. The reservation is at seven," Aaron said, sounding only slightly resigned as he held up Marla's midnight blue coat for her. He was already wearing his own, complete with the burgundy scarf Marla had helped Joey pick out and order for him for Christmas a few weeks ago.
Marla didn't pause her rifling through the drawer of the console table. "I know that, but I can't find my earrings-"
"What do they look like?"
That made her pause and look back at Aaron over her shoulder.
"If I don't know where they are, then you're not going to find them," she said, as if it was the plainest fact in the world. Maybe it was, Joey wondered. Aaron had thought he'd misplaced his tie one morning, only to find that it never left the drawer in the first place. The memory made Joey smile. He had seen Aaron exit his bedroom that morning, sans tie, but back then he had been to scared to bring it up. Instead, he had resigned to watch Aaron hurry back and forth between the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom until he finally found the rolled up strip of silk.
Right now, the though of not being brave enough to talk to Aaron seemed silly. That version of him felt far away, as if he was looking at him through water, light and noise distorted.
"Come on, I can help you look at least," Aaron said, as he not-so-descreetly glanced at his wristwatch. Marla closed her eyes for a brief second before turning to face him.
"Fine. They're little hoops, but wide at the bottom. Gold."
Aaron blinked and then cleared his throat. "What does that mean?" he asked, and Joey couldn't help but smile into his mug.
"Really? They're hoops." She moved her finger in a circular motion in the air. "There's no other way to explain it."
"Golden hoops," Aaron muttered, clueless, and Marla lifted her hand to her face.
"You can borrow mine."
The words slipped out of Joey before he could stop them.
joey reveals some of his trauma and doesn't have a great understanding of it
written at 9pm and not proofread so go read the tags at the bottom if you're a little confused (i am also a little confused)
CW/TW: pet whumpee with slight existential crisis, (nongraphic) mention of involuntary body modfications (piercings, finger and ear amputations, 'debarking'), whumpee is slightly drunk
kinda references these two pieces
---
Marla had made mulled wine that evening. The year before she had been in Germany for part of the holidays and had developed an appreciation for the spicy drink. The taste was a little strong for Joey's palate, but he enjoyed the burst of heat as the liquid hit his tongue, and drank from his mug in small sips. The kitchen smelled warm and inviting. In the sink were two empty mugs; Joey still had his. He was presently seated at the bottom of the staircase in the hallway, mug cradled between his hands with his second helping of wine while he watched Aaron and Marla get ready for their date night.
He was a little bit tired from the day (The Fellowship of the Ring, a walk in the neighborhood, shakshouka on the kitchen island for lunch, and Marla's attempt at teaching him Crazy Eights) and a little bit buzzed from the drink. His inhibitions were altogether pleasantly lowered. He was dimly aware of this fact and it did nothing to pull him back down to earth again. Here he was, warm, comfortable, a little sleepy, full and sated, a treat between his hands and in the same room as his favourite people. He idly wondered if this feeling was happiness, or if it was just the alcohol that made him feel this way.
"We're going to be late, Marla. The reservation is at seven," Aaron said, sounding only slightly resigned as he held up Marla's midnight blue coat for her. He was already wearing his own, complete with the burgundy scarf Marla had helped Joey pick out and order for him for Christmas a few weeks ago.
Marla didn't pause her rifling through the drawer of the console table. "I know that, but I can't find my earrings-"
"What do they look like?"
That made her pause and look back at Aaron over her shoulder.
"If I don't know where they are, then you're not going to find them," she said, as if it was the plainest fact in the world. Maybe it was, Joey wondered. Aaron had thought he'd misplaced his tie one morning, only to find that it never left the drawer in the first place. The memory made Joey smile. He had seen Aaron exit his bedroom that morning, sans tie, but back then he had been to scared to bring it up. Instead, he had resigned to watch Aaron hurry back and forth between the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom until he finally found the rolled up strip of silk.
Right now, the though of not being brave enough to talk to Aaron seemed silly. That version of him felt far away, as if he was looking at him through water, light and noise distorted.
"Come on, I can help you look at least," Aaron said, as he not-so-descreetly glanced at his wristwatch. Marla closed her eyes for a brief second before turning to face him.
"Fine. They're little hoops, but wide at the bottom. Gold."
Aaron blinked and then cleared his throat. "What does that mean?" he asked, and Joey couldn't help but smile into his mug.
"Really? They're hoops." She moved her finger in a circular motion in the air. "There's no other way to explain it."
"Golden hoops," Aaron muttered, clueless, and Marla lifted her hand to her face.
"You can borrow mine."
The words slipped out of Joey before he could stop them.
Sad drunken Whumpee
A bit of a mirror post to sad drunken Whumper. Implied noncon but nothing graphic.
Whumper gets Whumpee drunk to take advantage of them. It works wonders. Whumpee lets Whumper do whatever they want in their confused drunken state. So nice and compliant.
Afterwards Whumper and Whumpee are cuddling on the couch together. It's forced, of course, but Whumpee hadn't fought back at all. They are laying limp against Whumber, staring ahead with glazed eyes. Whumber is playing with Whumpee's hair and rubbing soothing circles on Whumpee's arm. Normally Whumpee tenses up at Whumper's touch, but right now they are completely relaxed.
Whumper decides they should do this more often.
Suddenly Whumpee's shoulders are softly shaking. They are crying. Big tears rolling down their face. They sniffle into Whumper's chest as Whumper pulls them closer.
"Shhhh," Wumper whispers gently, "shhhh, it's okay. It's okay. I got you."
Whumpee let's themselves be comforted, even gripping at Whumper's shirt like they need something to hold onto. They can't help it. The feelings just come out. They are so scared, and so sad, and so alone, and so drunk.
Whumper cradles them in their arms and keeps whispering comforting words as Whumpee sobs.
"I....I...," whumpee hiccups.
A few more sobs override the words that want to come out.
"I hate you," they suddenly wail out.
Whumper goes stiff for a second. Whumpee has never said that before.
"I hate you..ou so mu...uch," Whumpee sobs as they pull themselves closer into Whumper's arms.
Whumper tightens their hold, but not aggressively. "I know darling. I know." Their hand goes to Whumpee's face, softly brushing the strands of hair behind their ears. Whumpee's cries escalate.
"I hate you so so much."
"Shhh," Whumper sooths. "It's okay. I'm here."
All their touches are soft. Whumpers finger caresses over a bruise, not firm enough to hurt, but firm enough to be noticeable.
Whumpee let's out another big sob. They are trembling now. Trembling and crying and holding on to Whumper for dear life, desperately for comfort.
"I hate you."
They just keep repeating it.
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."
Whumper gently rocks Whumpee back and forth as their victim completely falls apart in their lap.
"It's okay. It's all okay."
In Whumper's head, punishments for tomorrow start brewing.
I need to be weirder
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
corruption of the body
solitaire masterlist: arc i / arc ii ♤ prev
content:Â pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), discussion of slavery, mention of dead parent, thoughts of violence, implication of past child abuse, philosophy...!
port makes a realization or two.
♤♢♧♡♧♢♤
Port was suffering déjà vu so intense it bordered on nausea. There they were again— the flashes. He was brought back to a time he could not identify: Before. Before, before, before. He could not stop thinking about before. He pressed his hand to his forehead in hopes the cool pressure might ease the ache pulsing behind his temples.
“Are you okay?” Beau asked.Â
He opened his eyes, which by now had adjusted to the dark. It actually helped, a little. The memory, false or not, had been triggered by the familiar smell of the food. Beau’s shadowed face was not so nostalgic.
“Yes,” Port said. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Here.” Beau had slid the straw through the lid of Port’s drink with a squeak of plastic, and now he was holding the cup out to him. Port was strangely moved by the way Beau had carefully torn only half the wrapper off, so that the paper was still covering the mouth of the straw. He was beyond concern for germs, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.
Destroyer (Vol.II) - Lock
(Content: living weapon whumpee, past child abuse, referenced physical abuse, angst, conditioned whumpee)
~
katkittykat: imagine its the wrong house
nodiving: lmfaoooooo
~
The neighborhood was dark, dark, dark this time of night, only a thin winding string of streetlights to distinguish it from the encroaching wilderness. Nevertheless, it was a neighborhood, and that gained the ship more proximity to society than it’d had for most of its life. The little imperial suburb was dead quiet as Delta entered.Â
He’d left Lorelai a little ways behind, half-awake in her ship to keep watch. They both had business, but these missions came one at a time. She didn’t want to leave him, and he didn’t want to be left. Still, there was no accounting for just how lonely Delta felt as he walked through the thinning tree-line, just beyond the backyards.Â
The target stood out just as lightless as the others had been. A quick pulse flared out, searching for bodies, any signs of life — but all the readings came up as birds and as insects, little teeming things. The house was empty. No. Small motions. The feeling of water running, comforting even as a phantom sensation against his sixth sense.Â
A fish tank.
the vocabulary of loss is the dictionary
She wanted to see him off, but he had said goodbyes gave him "the wibbles". When she had frowned at the word, he added, "You know, the feeling a tightrope walker feels when they're about to step out on the rope, but they have a feeling something is going to go wrong?"
<< Main Masterlist << Signal War
Purgatory ▸ F is for Functional ▸ Something Stupid ▸ Cold Spray ▸ Unlaced ▸ Charmed
Charmed
The sound of running water fills her tiny room. Mish strips out of her damp, blood-streaked uniform and dumps it into her sink, tearing open two uniform decontamination packs and squeezing them over the blood-streaked fabric.
As the basin fills up, she zips open the bag Riko's clothes are in and starts pulling out the sodden fabric. His undershirt, dribbled with gore all the way down the front, is cut crookedly down the middle and over the shoulders. His uniform trousers are scissored up each leg. Even his boxer briefs have been cut through.
They are an eye-searing, electric blue.
"The brighter, the luckier," he had explained, when he'd dropped an orange pair of briefs on the way back from the laundry level. "Don't laugh, this pair saved me from a blast. I woke up with my teammates trying to loot my body."
That pair had been so violently orange, they might have been radioactive.
None of the clothes she's pulled from the bag are salvageable.
Of course they aren't. She hadn't expected them to be, but she feels a twinge of grief looking at them, imagining the medics pulling the shredded fabric out from under him.
There is a bright purple stain seeping from the side pocket of the trousers.
It's the candy from the vending machine after the emergency room shift, bleeding a scaldingly bright purple dye from being subjected to all that water.
She stares at the sugared mush in her hand. It feels like weeks ago when she picked up the cheerful little pack off the floor and handed it to Riko.
Mish is pretty sure the purple is going to stain her skin.
She wipes her hand off on the ruined fabric and looks to see if there's anything else in the bag.
One final item. A single sock.
She pulls it out.
It is whole.
Just a small nick on the elastic edge, like someone had been about to shear through the sock, then changed their mind and pulled it off instead.
Mish stares at it, her fingertip grazing the interrupted fabric.
She feels inordinately grateful.
She looks up at the ceiling. It has nothing to do with the way her eyes are filling.
Her hand comes up to wipe her eyes. But then she remembers her purple-stained fingers and stops just in time. Instead, pushes her hand back down to her thigh, and examines the ceiling stain next to the light panel.
When her eyes stop threatening to spill over, she gathers the other matching sock, the one she had brought up with her from the showers, and puts them both in the sink with her soaking uniform.
She turns off the white noise of the running water.
"Okay," she says, to the empty room, standing there in her underwear, her hand purpled with cheap food dye.
"Let's go."
+++++++++++++++++++
Wern is surprised to see her when she turns up at the emergency room in a fresh uniform, her damp hair tied back in a braid.
"Mish!" he exclaims, spotting her at the bio-waste bin, where she's dropping off the bag containing Riko's ruined clothes. "What are you doing coming back here?"
Mish gestures behind the nurse's station. "I think Riko left his vest back here. I thought I'd look."
Wern's face changes. "Oh shit, yeah, Riko. Is he okay?"
Mish shrugs. Facility news travels like an airborne pathogen. She wouldn't be surprised if the whole facility knows by now.
She crouches to look under the counter, curling her fingers around the edge for balance. "I don't know. They had to put him in a pod."
Her head is ducked under the counter, but she hears him let out a sympathetic hiss.
There it is. The vest. Someone has shoved a crate of documents in front of it. She can barely see the edge of an olive green shoulder sticking out behind the box. Mish's hand closes around it and pulls.
Wern leans against the counter. "How about you? I heard you were the one who found him."
The vest snags on the crate.
Mish thinks about how she missed all the signs that had been right there; how she forgot to be a nurse when Riko started seizing. The way her voice stuttered when she tried to communicate what was happening.
She yanks hard.
The vest is finally in the light. The camera lens glints up at her from where it's strapped onto the shoulder.
"Getting shit done while I wait for news," she says.
"Okay," he says. Wern presses his fingertips over her knuckles, then releases the pressure.
He doesn't say anything meaningless like ask her to stay positive, or assure her that Riko will be alright. There's no need for platitudes among people in their profession.
She stands up, the vest in her grip.
He smiles, his gaze on her hand. "Whoa, what's that?"
Mish glances at her neon purple fingers against the drab olive of Riko's vest.
"Food dye," she says. "Really stubborn. Wouldn't come off with regular soap."
"Oh, you know what," Wern says. "There's that surgical soap at the disinfection station down by the medbay at A16. I swear that stuff erases freckles."
Mish shifts the vest to her other hand and studies the purple hue on her fingers. It's darker in the seams of her nails and the creases of her knuckles.
"I think I'll leave it," she says. "Might turn out to be lucky."
+++++++++++++++++++
In hindsight, Mish should have paused before she breached the camera password.
She did it without thought. The flimsy protection protocol gave way easily.
Now, she stares at a video playback of Riko on the day he'd shipped out on his field assignment, and her chest constricts. He looks so... normal.
She hears Riko's voice, too close to the camera; "-- let me just make sure the camera battery is still--"
It's one of those all-perspective cameras, so his face is distorted and comically wide in the footage. She can see he's still in the Facility here, and in fact, she's there too, her head ridiculously large and her feet tiny in the distance.
She always forgets how he's taller than her. She so often feels bigger than him.
Mish taps on the option for the footage to split-screen. Her face and his, side by side.
Her voice speaking over his; "When are you back? This is such a last minute--"
His finger obscuring the lens as he taps it. "Yup it's fine, these things last forev--"
The footage freezes, indicating the recording had cut out.
Mish remembers the day. The abrupt assignment. Him in his room, pulling out field gear that hadn't seen the outside of his locker for months.
She wanted to see him off, but he had said goodbyes gave him "the wibbles". When she had frowned at the word, he added, "You know, the feeling a tightrope walker feels when they're about to step out on the rope, but they have a feeling something is going to go wrong?"
She'd rolled her eyes. "There's no such word."
Long fingers, wiggling dismissively at her. "You wouldn't know," he had said airily. "It's a circus thing."
The last time she'd seen him was when they'd walked together down the main corridor. He turned left to go up to the transport bay, and she turned right toward the medical wing.
She was trying her best not to say goodbye. She had promised she wouldn't. So as they approached the crowded juncture where they would split, all she had said was, "I'll water your plant, don't worry."
And his face had taken on such an abruptly guilty look that she raised her hand automatically to smack him, because of course he had forgotten all about the plant.
"Ow," he said, clutching his bicep, and then they were at the junction, and he was stepping away from her, swept up by the stream of people.
She had turned as well, her body automatically orienting toward the medical wing, as if this was any other day, as if she would see him later at lunch--
She couldn't.
She couldn't do it.
She stopped in her tracks and turned back to face him, her mouth already open-- but he had beaten her to it. He was already facing her, walking backward down the corridor to the transport bay elevators.
He jabbed a finger in her direction. "I knew it!" he yelled. "Weak!"
"Come on, let me do it, it feels weird!" she had yelled back.
"Don't! You said you wouldn't!"
Someone bumped into Riko. He didn't let it interrupt his backward trajectory.
People in the corridor milled between them as the distance grew, obscuring their view of each other.
"Come on, Mish, be strong!"
He'll be fine, she had told herself. He was fine before you ever met him.
He's a clown. He always lands on his feet. No wait. That's cats.
She had to say something. She had to.
The crowd opened up for a brief moment between them and she saw him. He was almost at the elevator.
"Riko!" she yelled.
"No Mish, don't!" His voice went up an octave. He clutched his hands dramatically into his hair, like an overwrought vid performer.
She took a deep breath.
"What colour is your underwear?" she shouted.
She saw his face go still, the cringe drop from it. And then he smiled so wide his eyes squeezed almost shut.
"Pink!" His screech cut through the noise. People whipped around to look at him. Several nurses and even a couple of doctors caught a flash of his neon-pink underwear when Riko cheerfully yanked the waistband of his uniform trousers down over his hip to show her.
The pink was so obnoxiously loud that it crossed the distance between them and jabbed her in the eyes.
Mish saw one doctor turn with a jerk and blink rapidly like he'd been sprayed in the face with chemicals.
"Ow," she saw him mouth.
And then the elevator doors closed, Riko trying to throw her the middle fing--
Mish stood there by herself in the crowded corridor, a laugh burbling up, imagining Riko showing his middle finger to closed elevator doors.
"Fucking clown," she said, the corners of her mouth tilted up.
++++++++++++++++
The screen shows Riko's still frozen face, mid-blink on one half of the screen.
She gazes at his image; the insouciant smirk, the lack of shadows and hollows on his face, the spark in his eyes.
She puts a tag on the timeline, marking it "Subject before field deployment".
Her own visage is on the other half of the video, partially obscured by Riko's fingertip covering the lens, her one visible eyebrow fixed in a look of... What had it been? Annoyance? Worry?
Had she somehow known something would happen?
The next clip is days long. The camera had been left running pretty much the entire duration of his outfield deployment.
The AI flashes text on the screen: "Tag significant events as chapters on timeline?"
She taps "yes", and the timeline populates with chapter markers.
Whatever happened to Riko, or whatever he did to himself… the evidence is going to be in there.
And she is going to find it.
<< Main Masterlist << Signal War
Purgatory ▸ F is for Functional ▸ Something Stupid ▸ Cold Spray ▸ Unlaced ▸ Charmed
Author's note: Felt like this was a strange, liminal chapter. But every time I tried to shorten, delete or merge it with another, Riko and Mish screeched "NOOO" and insisted it had to exist. I am literally just doing whatever my blorbos instruct. There is no free will. I am sorry. Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@new-deerslayer // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky // @pumpkin-spice-whump /// @hot-rangers-in-chains /// @genuineformality /// @whumpy-daydreams (Deep, deep inhale. Aaaah.)
Yeah I just think Whumper should pull Whumpee's hair to pull their head back and expose their throat
Just saying
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Btw I have a book coming out on October 24! It's YA but I feel it can appeal to all audiences :)
It follows three Wyoming teenagers struggling to find a cure and save each other when multiple dirty nuclear bombs are detonated across the United States, including Cheyenne, Wyoming. It's got roadtrips, found family, religious imagery, and plenty of whump ! I'll post the link to pre-orders when they go live but for more updates you can check out my Insta @/savannawilliamsbooks <3
