apollo/polly - 20 - any pronouns - writing mostly captivity & intimate whump (not nsfw) - if you send me prompts or requests i'll love you forever - sideblog
hi! i'm polly, short for apollo, any pronouns. i write whump and i'm very silly. my favourite thing is captivity whump and also whumpers who are just. strange in a fucked up little way.
i always love to receive asks or messages, and the only thing that really squicks me is nsfwhump. other than that expect to see pretty much anything and let me know if you need something warned for!
tags, masterlists, and other stuff under the cut <3
my tags
polly's postings - misc tag where i'm silly
polly's prose - my writing!
asks - people send me stuff!
my masterlists
athazagoraphobia
general content: kidnapping, murder, a lot of physical violence, multiple whumpers, creepy/intimate whumper, lady whumper
things end | people change
misc writing
general content: whumper turned whumpee, (lady) whumpee turned (bad) caretaker, vampire whumper/whumpee, lady whump, dehumanisation, captivity, torture, abuse
delicate
general content: institutionalised pet whump, carewhump, blurred line between whumpee and caretaker, addiction, chronic & mental illness, past threat of noncon (never happened but it's relevant)
asking (short story) - sidekick and villain (short story) - the god of isonmore (discontinued idea)
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maybe ‘all dolled up’ for conditioned whumpee’s bingo card?
thank you if you choose to!
[masterlist]
CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, burning (mentioned)
Today must be the special day, and the Ashtray is vibrating with excitement. This is what all his previous existence has been leading up to. He was made for this.
Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs.
Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special.
A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.
They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.
He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner.
When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself.
For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order.
Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“
Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined.
His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion.
At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.
His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for.
When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled.
His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.
She finds none. Of course.
Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug.
Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain.
His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him.
It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for.
Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?
Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,
@whumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump
@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump
@saffitaffi, @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl, @thatbigbrownbird
let me know if you want to be added or removed :)
Computer, show me characters gaining weight as a sign of their improving mental state. Show me characters learning to love their body as they learn to love themselves. Show me characters no longer punishing themselves for something that isn’t their fault. Computer. Computer do you hear me.
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.
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hi everyone, perhaps you've seen the posts about my budgie saga before. unfortunately yesterday i found out devastating news. maus (my baby budgie) is terminally ill and likely only has a few weeks left. what started out as slight concerns for her breathing suddenly turned into her liver being both damaged and so oversized that it constricts her breathing. she is not in any pain currently but sadly it is only a matter of time before her liver fully stops working.
while we have moved her to palliative care, i am determined to give any treatment i can, to give her a bit more time and keep her comfortable.
i hate to be doing this, but as a full-time student her vet bills are a lot for me. if anyone has any money to spare, i'd really appreciate the help!!
Vincent doesn't object to Lyfelde's behaviour. Even as Lyfelde's hand snakes into his hair. There's a power that Lyfelde always feels when doing this, watching someone shape themselves to his will.
GO COMMISSION @whump-blog RIGHT NOW!!!!!!! they are SO lovely to work with and LOOK at how gorgeous their art is!!!
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
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Vincent doesn't object to Lyfelde's behaviour. Even as Lyfelde's hand snakes into his hair. There's a power that Lyfelde always feels when doing this, watching someone shape themselves to his will.
GO COMMISSION @whump-blog RIGHT NOW!!!!!!! they are SO lovely to work with and LOOK at how gorgeous their art is!!!
When Whumpee saw Caretaker’s blood-soaked hands and clothes, they didn’t question it. When Caretaker cupped their face with those same hands, cradling them and pressing a kiss to their forehead, they didn’t flinch. They leaned into it, closing their eyes and ignoring how sticky the blood was on their skin.
“I took care of them,” Caretaker whispered. Whumpee hummed in response. “You’ll never have to be afraid anymore.”
“Thank you,” they breathed, enjoying the way Caretaker brushed their thumb across their cheek.
“I told you, didn’t I? Anything for my beloved.”
Whumpee lifted a hand and gently placed it over Caretaker’s bloody one, nuzzling into their palm. “Should I run you a bath?”
Something is off today. Ashtray can feel it in his bones —not that it’s his purpose to make a judgement about the situation. He is only supposed to please his Mistress.
Kneeling next to her, his golden collar connected to a leash held loosely in her hand. It’s picturesque, her beautifully manicured fingers tapping against the shining metal in something he can only hope is not annoyance.
There is no visitor today, a surprise given the collar, but he is still on his best behaviour. Mistress is only watching the TV, decorated in a golden antique frame to be hidden at will. Only his beloved Mistress could come up with such a perfect concept, combining her intricate style with the comfort of modern invention. He hopes her servants appreciate the design when they clean it.
Mistress doesn’t seem to care much for it today though, just instead making a sound he’d never dare compare to a growl. Nevertheless, it makes him shiver. He can’t seem to stop, ever since she marked her own artwork —rightfully so!—, but he does his best to keep them under control. Barely visible to the eye, only noticeable when he is touched.
And nowadays he rarely is.
Suddenly, she tucks at the chain, beckoning him closer. She blows her smoke into his face, drowning him out in the cloud, his eyes stinging. Finally, something familiar.
Instead of extinguishing her still-lit cigarette, she pushes his chin with a single, slender finger until he leans back, the posture tugging at his many scars.
As gracefully as possible, almost sensually, Ashtray lets his head fall back too, light blond hair spilling over his face, getting caught in his long eyelashes, his eyes closed.
Suddenly, her nails trace the letters over his heart and they are sharp almost like—
like knives.
Sharp, honed, new blades, with the single purpose of splitting Ashtray’s flesh with ease.
Prolonged cutting he doesn’t dare call cruel, white lighting and red rivers.
He is right there. All over again.
It’s like his body reacts before he can, caught in a memory he should be grateful for if he wasn’t somehow broken.
The body flinches back, from his Mistress's holy touch.
For a moment, everything is silent.
Ashtray stares at the ceiling, a horrible feeling of knowing washing over him. Whatever his Mistress did, rightfully, he never flinched.
In the next second, his head snaps to the side, the loud bang of his Mistress slapping him echoing through the room.
Mistress is screaming at him, for the first time. He has never failed her before, not like this. And he can’t even comprehend her words.
Whatever she is telling him is lost to his mind that he never quite understood. He only knows he is inferior in a way even an ashtray shouldn’t be, and he can do nothing to remedy that.
Tears pool in his eyes, as the servants drag him away from his still-shouting Mistress. When did he get so useless?
When did his beautiful porcelain conditioning crack?
Would I do absolutely anything for Peter? Yes I love the guy so much and I was thinking about him and rereading delicate and. I love him your honor I’m stealing him and giving him headpats 😭
YESSSS peter ily peter. he will get written about soon i prommy. he just needs to be loved!!
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
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Henry has been in Paris for a week now. Vincent watches, sometimes. He knows his brother's heartbeat better than he knew his own, knows his gait and the lightness of his steps. Vincent could find Henry anywhere.
Henry can't find him. Henry has been looking for him, he's overheard the conversations. Guilt gnaws at his dead heart.
There's always the temptation to approach. Vincent ignores it, as hard as it is. No matter what Vincent believes, what Lyfelde tells him, Henry would be disgusted at what his little brother has become, Vincent knows that. That was a different man's life, one that he can never go back to.
Vincent slips back into the shadows.
He's disgusting. He should be ashamed. He should be arrogant, shouldn't he? No matter how sinful what he's become is, he's powerful. He's better than he could ever be.
But not to Henry. Henry never cared what he was, as long as he was happy. Would he care now?
Don't be stupid, of course he would.
Vincent slaps himself, the crack audible as he hits too hard. He needs to stop thinking about his brother. What good will that do him?
"Mr Lyfelde?" Vincent calls as he enters the house.
"Mm?" Lyfelde appears in the doorway of the kitchen after a moment. "Vincent, dear. You were gone for a while."
"Just... needed some fresh air." Vincent tentatively steps forward, then without a word rests his head on Lyfelde's shoulder.
"Are you quite alright?" Lyfelde asks, bringing a hand up to rub Vincent's shoulder.
No, he isn't alright. He needs his brother, he needs to be small again, needs to be held, needs to be home.
This isn't home. Nowhere is home like the fireplace in the drawing room and the scratching of Henry's pen, even if there is no place for him there anymore.