Written for Whumpmas in July, Day 15, @whumpmasinjuly-archive. Thank you so much to the great @angst-after-dark for their characters Dami and Thane and the very existence of Angel.
[Angel Masterpost]
Angel gets a break.
Content / warnings: BBU, mention of caning, multiple whumpees, a dash of conditioning. And a bit of comfort.
Angel was cold. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be aware of that, if it actually was true. If she'd just forgotten what it meant to be warm.
There were reminders of it, though, like whispered promises of a concept too great for her to understand. Sir. Sir was warm. Sir's hands, roaming her body, Sir's lips on her skin, Sir's breath on her ear, when he reminded her what she was for.
She craved for these moments, for his breath, his kisses, his touch, his warmth.
They never lasted.
The cold hit ever more brutally after he was gone.
Angel pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around herself, where she lay alone on the carpet of the playroom. She'd been good enough to be allowed on the carpet, Sir had said. She knew she should be grateful for it. She knew it was wrong to glance up to the shape of the large bed next to her. She did it anyway, with a strange sense of longing.
She could almost feel its silky sheets, the soft mattress, the way her body would sink into it.
It wasn't for her. It never was. She didn't deserve it.
She deserved the carpet. She deserved the cold biting at her from every angle.
Shivering, Angel reached for the golden collar around her neck, ran cold fingers over it, over the only piece of clothing she was allowed
She didn't allow herself to let her stiff fingers follow the links of the chain to the bed's footboard. The bed was out of reach. As was all warmth. As was her Sir's love.
Behind her, the lock of the door clicked open. Quietly. She froze. Quietly meant, not Sir. It meant Damiel.
Angel curled up, as much as her freezing muscles let her, shielding herself from them.
"'M not here to hurt you," they mumbled.
Angel didn't believe them.
The traces of their cane, crisscrossing her back, started stinging all over again, as they stepped up next to her with soft steps.
"Please," she whispered.
She didn't even know what she was begging for. Please, take me to him. Please, don't let him hurt me. Please, leave me alone. Please, I'm cold.
They remained silent. Something light was spread over her shoulders. A blanket, she realized. Light, yet warm.
She sobbed. Warm. Instinctively, she reached for it, pulled it tightly around her.
"I'm not-," she whispered, her fingers digging deep into the fabric. "I'm not good. I... I don't deserve it. Sir doesn't -"
"Sir says you can have it," Damiel cut her off. "Don't fret." Their hand rested on her shoulder for a brief moment, tugging the blanket up, radiating warmth. "Warm up. Rest."
Angel's hand wandered up towards theirs.
Damiel pulled back, before she could touch them. "Rest," they repeated. And then, almost too quiet to hear, they added, "You'll need it."
---
-
Tag list: @whumplr-reader @there-will-always-be-blood @whimpers-and-whumpers @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @risk606
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i dug out my still unnamed post apoc oc for this again! whatever this is
His whole body is numb. He knows it must be hot, too hot, but the feeling doesn't reach his brain. Sitting in the long dried out grass, leaning against a cracked wooden staircase leading to the porch of the house he'd been staying in, he closes his eyes and waits. For the end, for a change, for nothing, he doesn't know, nor does he really care.
Distantly he feels his hair sticking to his forehead and the heat stinging his skin, his thoughts a blur. He barely hears the voices closing in, doesn't make out anything they're saying. Are they talking to him?
He'd half opened his eyes again but his vision had almost grayed out, black spots appearing on the edges.
Then, hands grab his upper arms and lift him up. He doesn't resist, but his strength seems to have completely disappeared, so he just lets it happen. He feels himself getting dragged up the stairs and into the house where the sudden drop in temperature clears up his mind slightly. Forcing his head to turn and try to figure out what’s happening, he can see two people holding him upright on either side. He tries to ask who they are, but only manages a weak cough.
They move him to what he now recognizes as the kitchen and slowly let him down on the cool tiles, propped against the counter. His senses seem to be coming back to him, one by one, which also gets him to notice the pounding headache building up.
“You need to drink.” The voice is much closer now and he looks up to see a dark haired woman crouching in front of him, holding a plastic water bottle in her gloved hand. He reaches to grab it, the movement weak, but just enough to bring the bottle to his mouth, and even though the water isn’t cold by any means, it feels as if he’s drinking straight from some mountain spring.
He leaves half, enough clarity having come back to his mind that he remembers the state of the world, and puts the bottle on the floor next to him. He moves his eyes back to the woman who’s still there, now sitting cross legged.
“You should probably stay inside for a bit,” she states, brows furrowed. “And maybe find something for your skin, it’s not looking too healthy.”
“Yeah,” he croaks out and winces at his dry throat. “Thanks.”
She smiles lightly. “Just sit for a bit. And drink that water, we have some more. Let’s talk about this later."
So yeah, I'm falling behind, I promise I'll finish all the writing prompts eventually! Maybe not by the end of July though.
Also WARNING: This one doesn't have any explicit material but there's referenced past non-con and really strong non-con vibes through the whole thing, so be careful, take care of yourselves, and mind the content warnings. If I'm missing anything in the content warnings please let me know!
CW: BBU and associated content, death threats, reference to past murder, non-consensual undressing (not explicit but sexual), s*x or die situation, strong but non-explicit non-con content, referenced past non-con, alcohol and drug usage, gun presence/implied violence
Hope that's everyone on the taglist, if I've forgotten anyone or you'd like to be added/removed let me know!
Tinsel's fork scraped the plate absently, as he moved the little piles of rice around, the red curry pooling like blood below. When he had come home, Master had ignored the layout on the kitchen table entirely.
"Go ahead and eat," he had said, hoisting his dark duffle bag over his shoulder, "When you're done come up to my room."
Looking back down at his plate, Tinsel couldn't stop the words from ringing in his ears. His room. One week. Before he was put down. Tinsel couldn't even look at what he'd cooked, much less eat. After doing his absolute best for a week it just wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough. It wasn't a surprise, it shouldn't hurt, he grit his teeth. The weight in his chest ached with the inevitability of it all.
And still, he cleaned slowly, doing the dishes by hand, portioning out the leftovers into single serving sizes, anything to look busy if Master came looking for him. Not yet, he couldn't go just yet, it had gone dark a few hours ago, and when Tinsel gingerly dried the last pan the clock said it was past midnight.
That long? Tinsel looked over his shoulder. He'd hadn't meant to take so long, Master would think he was avoiding it and he wasn't, not really, he was just scared and--Tinsel covered his mouth with his hand. Master had said he liked quick kills, but what if Tinsel needed to be punished now that he'd tried to avoid it?
Hitching, Tinsel's breath began sucking faster behind his hand as he struggled unsuccessfully to control it. There was nothing for it, he had to go now, apologize, beg, not that it would do any good. His legs wouldn't move and his hand fell back on the counter to support him.
It was a struggle to walk down the hall, to face the warm cabin door. Resting his head against it for a moment, Tinsel allowed himself to breathe before knocking. His knuckles barely grazed the wood, for a moment he was worried he'd been too quiet. When the door squeaked open a crack, Master leaned heavily against the doorframe.
"Hmm?" Master grunted.
"I, the kitchen's clean," Tinsel said, "Master."
"Oh, right. I've got to kill you too," Master leaned his head into his forearm and groaned. The door swung open and Tinsel was ushered in.
"What'd you end up bringing?" Master said.
"Sorry, Master?"
"From the kitchen," Master said, "You like knives, I was expecting one of those."
Tinsel stared back. He hadn't realized he was supposed to bring the weapon himself, he was so stupid. Master was still leaned against the doorway, hair hanging disheveled around his shoulders, button-down half undone.
"S-sorry," Tinsel said, "Sorry, I didn't,"
When his eyes landed on the toppled whiskey bottle Tinsel fell silent. The smell too, the whole room, so that's why Master was acting odd. He hardly seemed the same person who came home a few hours earlier. Master's whole demeanor was too casual, Tinsel recognized the fog drifting behind his smile. Without realizing Tinsel had taken a step back, hands shaking. The party, before he was returned, it had that same smell, rainbow lights blinding him as everyone around screamed and laughed and--"
"Ah well," Master said, "It was too much to expect this to be interesting. Bare hands it is then,"
He drew his pistol and deposited it on the side table, approaching Tinsel with surprisingly steady steps. When Master took hold of his shoulders, Tinsel whimpered, but let himself be turned around until one hand held his chin and the other gripped his hair in a fist.
"Usually I'd strangle," Master mumbled, it sounded as if he were talking to himself more than anyone. "But you're bones are so small I might be able to snap the neck, if I get the right angle. Paralyze at least. That'd make the strangling easier,"
Tinsel's breath was heaving, tears running hot down his cheeks. Behind him Masters body pressed close, almost leaning against him.
"You can hear me, right?" Master said, breath warm against Tinsel's ear. Tinsel squeaked in affirmation when the grip on his hair tightened.
"Then," Master's nose was against his ear now. "Why aren't you fighting back? You could at least struggle a little,"
Tinsel tried to speak but couldn't, the only thing that came out was a suppressed sob.
"You're an idiot," Master said, and then came the kiss at Tinsel's jaw. "Still adorable when you cry though."
Adorable? Tinsel didn't have time to take in the compliment when another kiss came lower on his neck, the weight pressed against him from behind growing as Master leaned in. The hands on his head fell to his chest, tugging and pulling the buttons free. Tinsel was breathing so fast it could hardly be called breathing. Master was drunk. He'd probably fall asleep afterward. In the morning would he remember why Tinsel was still alive?
If Tinsel was good, maybe Master would keep him.
Tinsel winced as the shirt was pulled off his shoulders, trying to hold in another sob. Good, he had to be good, he had to be--adorable. He tried to stifle the whimper when he was folded over the bed and buried his face in the comforter. It would hurt but he could do it again, like before, the smell and the dark, and when he heard the belt coming undone behind him--
Stop, stop, please, stop, no, no, stop. . .
"What was that?" Master said, and Tinsel bit the blanket. Had he said it out loud? His legs were shaking so badly he would have crumpled if it weren't for the bed. No, he couldn't have said it out loud, he wanted this, he wanted to live, trying to make them stop never changed anything anyway.
He'd screamed it at the party. Over and over, until he couldn't speak, until he couldn't beg. He'd listened quietly as they'd talked to customer service the next morning, complaining about his performance, negotiating for a replacement. He'd tried to tell the case agent dragging him back that he hadn't been trained for that, but his throat was sore and hoarse and it didn't matter anyway, because he was a pet who should never have tried to tell his Masters what to do.
The warm body, lean and firm with muscle pressed against him as Master leaned over to find his ear again.
"What was that you said?"
"I can't, I can't," Tinsel whispered. Master had to feel the frail frame shaking itself to pieces underneath him. "I want to be good but, I, I,"
Master let out a long sigh.
"And I'd ordered a romantic too. They couldn't even get that right."
He started laughing quietly and pulled back, and Tinsel cried, waiting for the last of his breath to be stolen from his body. Tinsel gasped and--he was scooped up, Master was picking him up, only they both lost balance and fell on the bed unceremoniously. Master tucked his head in Tinsel's shoulder and groaned. They laid there for a moment before Tinsel realized Master really wasn't going to do anything but snuggle against his arm. He'd--had he actually stopped?
"My first one was barehanded," Master finally mumbled, "First paid hit, I should say."
Tinsel watched the dark ceiling and tried to catch his breath.
"Not much bigger than you. But now I always try to strangle from behind. Hate seeing the eyes,"
Tinsel didn't know what he was supposed to say, so he didn't say anything at all.
"Look at that," Master said, trying to prop himself up, "I don't think I can stand."
"A-are you sure you've just been drinking?" Tinsel said quietly.
"Uhh," Master's head hung again and he was laughing, "Pretty sure, sure I'm not. Wasn't. Didn't just drink."
"What did you take?" Tinsel caught him as he tipped back onto him. "Do I, should I call someone,"
"Absolutely not," Master said, "They'd kill me if they found me this high. You know,"
Master went serious and a little limper.
"I'm so dizzy. The whole place is, rocking. Like a ship. You might be able to beat me to the, the table."
"Master?" Tinsel said.
"The gun."
TInsel swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Y-you want me to bring it to you?"
Master buried his head in Tinsel's chest, and Tinsel couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.
"You're so innocent aren't you? Dumb as bricks," He jabbed Tinsel with his finger to punctuate the words. "Dumb. As. Bricks. I'm trying to kill you."
"Yes, Master," Tinsel said. Master slapped him across the face so sloppily it didn't even sting.
"So fight back, idiot. There's a loaded gun on the table ten feet away and, woah," Master's head fell forward a little. "And you're never gonna stand a chance against me unless I'm this out of it."
Tinsel raised his hand to steady Master's head which was beginning to hang like a baby's, when Master nuzzled into the touch.
"You're so soft," He said, "And warm. So warm."
The room was only lit by moonlight from one large window, but it was enough to make out Master's piercing look.
"I forgot I had to kill you, you know. After the whiskey. Or maybe--I think I did remember, maybe that's why I took the pills. Bad call, didn't expect it to--I haven't passed out in a few years, wouldn't that be embarrassing,"
"Are you okay?" Tinsel said, "Can I get you anything, or,"
"What'd I just tell you!" He was angry, but it fizzled out as his eyes fluttered shut, a wry smile on his lips. "But you don't know how to use a gun, do you? Hmm, okay. So you beat me to the side table, take the, take it with you to the kitchen. There's no way I can catch you on the stairs, they might even break my neck for you."
He rolled over out of Tinsel's arms and let his head fall back.
"Kitchen. Ha, you can use a knife after all. Still, hand to hand and I'm expecting you It'll be interesting,"
"I--" Tinsel was interrupted by the brrring of Master's cell phone from the side table.
"Oh no, no no," Master groaned, "They'll kill me if I don't pick up and. . .I don't suppose you'd be a dear and grab that for me would you?"
His glassy eyes were flat like he wasn't quite sure who he was talking to anymore. Tinsel wiggled free and walked to the desk on legs shaking as bad as the vibrating phone. Master was right, there was no way Master would be able to catch him if he ran. And he'd be busy with the phone, the number was blocked but it must be someone important, to have Master's number.
Bzzzzzz, it buzzed again impatiently, and next to it sat the handgun. Tinsel reached out his hand and glanced over his shoulder, Master was still sprawled on the bed, helpless. Or was he?
Was this some kind of test?
Master had stopped when Tinsel had--
Balling his hands in his hair, Tinsel allowed himself a groan before snatching up the phone and running back to the bed, praying that he'd passed whatever game Master was trying to play.
@whumpmasinjuly Day 15: creation prompt - "Stop."
Bungou Stray Dogs wip where Chuuya happens to be able to see ghosts… and has been visited by the ghost of Dazai’s closest friend, Oda. Chuuya had grown up thinking Dazai had believed his stories of seeing ghosts, but he’s about to find out differently…
“So Dazai, you know I can see ghosts right? Well, Oda has a message for you.”
Dazai stiffened briefly, his fingers clenching on the railing, before relaxing. It was almost unnoticeable. The breeze from the rooftop ruffled his hair. "That’s not very funny, Chuuuya~!“ He said in a sing song voice.
Chuuya frowned. "Yeah, I know it sounds pretty ridiculous coming out of nowhere like that, but it’s true. He wanted me to tell you-”
“Chuuuya, I think you should drop it.” Dazai’s voice had lost some of its playful tone, and rung with a hidden warning.
“Tch. Quit being so stubborn and just listen to me.”
Dazai turned and slammed his hand against the wall next to Chuuya’s head, startling him. “Did you hear what I just said.” His voice was cold.
“Hah?” Chuuya frowned. “Did you hear what I just said? Oda said this was important, and I don’t have time to play around with you, I-”
Dazai took Chuuya’s collar and shoved him up against the wall, then dragged him over to the railing. “Nice joke, Chuuya, but unfortunately, I’m not in the mood for jokes.” He held Chuuya precariously close to tilting over the lip of the building.
"What the fuck is your problem?” Chuuya clutched at Dazai’s arm. “I’m not joking, Oda said that-”
Chuuya’s breath left him in a rush as Dazai’s fist hammered into his stomach. He doubled over in shock and pain but didn’t have time to retort before Dazai hauled him back up by his collar and drove his fist into Chuuya’s face, the momentum tilting him and carrying him over the side of the railing. For a brief, heart stopping moment, Chuuya was in free fall before his Ability could kick in.
When he finally righted himself and flew back up, he heard the click of a gun being cocked. He faced down the barrel at Dazai. This wasn’t new for Chuuya, even from Dazai, but somehow, in this case, Chuuya felt a tremble run through him. The coldness in Dazai’s eyes was something he reserved –the OLD Dazai reserved – solely for truly special enemies. Chuuya had never had it turned on him.
“Well, Chuuya, using my past against me, that’s low, even for you. Don’t you think this childhood game has gone on long enough? I know you can stop a bullet, so I won’t even bother.” Dazai tilted his hand and the gun clattered to the ground. "But believe me when I say I won’t be lenient twice.“ Chuuya shivered at the tone of his words as Dazai turned on his heel and walked away.
cw: very brief reference to captivity/exposure to elements, but otherwise this is more like bittersweet fluff. references this one-shot I wrote before, but you don’t need to read that to read this
---
The clouds roll in quickly, bright sunshine replacing pouring rain faster than she can process. The air cools as the oppressive humidity of the day finally breaks, and in the distance, thunder rumbles. A perfect summer storm.
Elyse welcomes it, tilting her head up slightly to allow the rain to kiss her face. She should head back to the house soon, she knows, but she can’t help but take this moment of peace. A space to catch her breath and let the summer rains wash over her.
She hears the splash of a footstep in a puddle, and opens her eyes to see Felicia making her way down the path towards her. Elyse extends out a hand in invitation, an open palm for Felicia to take if she so chooses. It has to be her choice.
Felicia does take it, and the two stand hand-in-hand for a silent moment. Elyse glances sideways at Felicia, watching the rain run rivulets down her freckled face, her hair clinging to her neck in damp clumps. Felicia glances over and catches her eye, and her mouth quirks into a smile.
“I just...I love the smell of a summer rain,” she says, inhaling deeply. She presses closer to Elyse, who squeezes her hand and lets the comment sit for a moment. Sensing that there’s something more Felicia wants to say.
After another heartbeat, Felicia speaks again, her voice softer this time. “He locked me outside overnight during a storm like this, once.”
Elyse manages to contain her wince at Felicia’s casual admission, yet another horror her love was forced to experience while she stood by and did nothing. There was nothing I could do, she tells herself, but she can never fully make herself believe it.
She instead says, “Do you...want to talk about it?” It’s difficult for Elyse, finding this balance. Giving Felicia the space to talk about the things she went through, without forcing her to relive painful memories before she’s ready.
Felicia stops walking for a minute, taking both of Elyse’s hands in her own. “No, I’m okay, actually,” she says, her voice slowly strengthening as she thinks it over. “I can just...enjoy this rain here, now.” Elyse can’t help but notice the raindrops gathered on her eyelashes, misting stray strands of hair.
“It’s different now,” Felicia says. “I can go back inside whenever I want.” She winds her fingers through Elyse’s and draws her close, and Elyse tilts her head into the gentle kiss, the pair embracing warmly in the summer storm.
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
CW: captivity, prisoner of war, exposed to the elements, abandoned
Titan Guard tag list: @nightly-whump, @whumped-cream (let me know if you’d like to be added!)
@whumpmasinjuly
The storm raged above Alekoran's head, rain pouring down in buckets endlessly as he tried to shield himself from the oncoming raindrops in the corner of the hole he was in. The slick metal walls made it impossible to find any dry spot, and the rain was so heavy that it didn't slant from the force of the wind blowing above him. Water ran off the side of the leveled ground above, and he was thankful this place was designed with a drain in place. With rain like this, he wondered how long it would take for the hole to fill up and drown him.
Thunder boomed loudly and Alekoran flinched, covering his ears as he shivered on the ground. He never felt so cold before, even though it had to be the middle of summer. His clothes were sopping wet, and his hair was so drenched that it clung to his face and eyes. He was glad they gave him some food before the storm started. It would've gotten soaking wet, or they might not have bothered to give him any. Days had gone by since they left him in here after he still refused to tell the Diçians anything. The hot days with barely any clouds in the sky, the dark chilly nights with nothing but his clothes to keep him warm, all felt like luxury compared to stay out here, exposed to the harshest elements of the wet season.
Lightning flashed and thunder struck again. It was deafening. The storm right above him, he could barely hear his own voice as he screamed for help, desperate for anyone to hear him and take him inside. Even being left out here this long was going to make him deathly sick. But he figured they'd want him sick and cold as opposed to dead. He still wouldn't give the Diçians anything, but he knew that they wouldn't risk him dying and possibly losing information. They would want to keep him alive, right?
Lightning appeared right alongside the thunder again and Alekoran curled into a ball. His voice tired from screaming, he cried to himself, raindrops running over his eyes and nose. Maybe they would leave him out here to die, wet and cold and utterly alone. The rain didn't seem to let up, never giving him a break from his torment. He could feel the cold settling deep in his bones just as he saw two dark figures standing above him at the edge of the pit.
Imagine your character getting caught in a storm. At sea, their ship at the mercy of raging winds and frothing waves. On land, desperately seeking shelter from the rain or the snow or the hail. In the air, praying their plane doesn’t get struck by the next bolt of lightning.
Maybe your OTP ends up snowed in sheltering in a Canadian sugar shack together. Maybe there’s only one bed!!
Or maybe the storm is metaphorical. A brewing revolution, change on the horizon. Or something more personal, a gentle soul pushed too far, tipped past their snapping point.
Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to tag us @whumpmasinjuly and #whumpmasinjuly when you do!
