I don’t believe in DNIs, but this blog’s content is mostly SFW (if violence and gore can be considered safe for work, lmao). The occasional nsfwhump will be tagged as such.
About me: Zipper (they/them), 20s, aro-ace
I take writing commissions! Find my commission sheet here!
My writing tag is #zipwrites. My current-ish projects are The Ol’ Ball and Chain, The New Roux, and On the Wing. Everything I post is some form of rough draft. Some go through more variations than others.
Archive of my writing: thezipperzone.blogspot.com
More about me n’ my blog under the cut!
Likes: lab whump, medical whump, hero and villain whump, dehumanization, kidnapping, captivity, pet whump.
Squicks: nsfw, cannibalism (please don’t ask me about these things)
My archived (unfinished, no longer being updated) whump series are The Animal I’ve Become, The Apprentice, Roux & Ambrose, and Box Bastards.
I usually tag trigger warnings with the “tw” after the content (ex: “blood tw”), or with the word “whump” after it (ex: “medical whump). I trigger tag my writing more than reblogs; you can expect to see/read gore and violence here, though, and if that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to unfollow or block me.
Feel free to send me asks or talk to me about whump stuff! Especially lab whump!
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
giving all my favorite characters enormous trust issues and then forcing them into being vulnerable in front of whoever in their life is the closest to being considered a "friend". make them fearfully reveal something about themself and tremble while waiting for how the other person responds (and fully expect to be ridiculed or dismissed)
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), effects of alcohol, vaguely incestuous implications (no actual incest, they are unrelated), brief implication of past CSA, sexual themes, argument between whumpees
port & sonny have a discussion about what happened.
♤♢♧♡♧♢♤
Sonny knew that Port was not going to mention the fact that he knew Sonny was tipsy, but Sonny knew that he knew, and Sonny had a feeling that Port knew that Sonny knew that Port knew, too.
All Port said to him was: “Are you feeling okay?”
“Better,” Sonny said. “Better.” When he closed his eyes, he had the sense he was spinning atop the bed like a skipping record.
“Good,” said Port’s voice beside him.
By the time Sonny and Rida had gotten their fill of fresh air and returned inside, they found the living room vacated. Both Tal and Port had retired to bed. When Sonny pushed open the door to his room, he found Port laying flat on his back, without a blanket, fingers intertwined over his chest. Sonny might have thought he was praying had his eyes not been wide open and glazed over, pointed at the ceiling fan.
He was still in the same position now, not having moved an inch in the time it took Sonny to change into nightclothes, turn out the light, and crawl into bed beside him.
“You’re like a brother to me,” Port said, unprompted.
Oh. There it was.
Over the course of the night, with the aid of whiskey, Sonny had successfully pushed from his mind what he remembered of that interaction up until just now, and would have been perfectly happy to leave it unaddressed. It took every modicum of his control to prevent his face from morphing in a way that might reveal some particular emotion. The mask didn’t matter, however, because when he opened his eyes Port was still not looking at him.
“I love you,” he said by way of response. It was not what he had intended to come out of his mouth, even if it was the truth.
Port finally shifted, no longer stone, twisting and pushing himself up onto his elbow. Sonny thought his brown eyes were beautiful, even in the dark, in a way that made him want to simultaneously shy away from the eye contact and keep staring into them forever. There was a furrow between Port’s pale brows. “I love you, too,” he said.
There was no hesitation in his words. For some reason Sonny was surprised by how unflinchingly he said it, even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it from him— but never so blatantly, never face-to-face like this. Only ever in the dead of night, Port’s lips pressed to his hair or near his ear, whispered in soft or scary moments. He’d figured Port might find it difficult to say in any other context.
“Okay,” Sonny said.
Port sat up fully and interlaced his fingers in his lap. One of his thumbs brushed over the other, running along the fingernail. Sonny could not see too well from this angle or in the darkness, but he knew from every past sneaking glance at Port’s nimble hands that the nail was warped, like dented sheet metal or the rippling surface of a pond.
“I’ve been thinking about the files,” Port said.
It took Sonny a moment to realize what he was referring to, with the sudden non-sequitur. Those redacted documents. Port hadn’t seemed very interested at all two days ago. At this point, Sonny was done with them, too. “What about them?”
“I think… I get why you wanna know more about who you are.”
Sonny shook his head minutely, listening to the soft scratching sound of his hair rubbing against the cotton pillowcase. “I don’t care anymore,” Sonny said. “I decided I don’t want to know.”
Port stopped rubbing at his thumbnail. “Really? Why?”
Sonny turned his face away, frustrated. He had not intended to continue thinking about this at all, let alone put it to words for Port’s benefit. Sonny cursed his stupid fucking immune system and his own self and every single circumstance that had led up to this moment. “Yesterday…” he said through his teeth, “…in the bathroom, it brought up some shit I don’t really wanna think about. I don’t wanna look back at all, including anything in those files. I’m done with all of it.”
When Sonny turned back, Port was looking slightly pained, some discomforted emotion pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were very still, aimed at some spot on the blanket, as he looked for words to say. “Did… did you know who I was?” he asked.
Fucking embarrassing. Sonny pressed his palm to his forehead, fingers in his bangs, and groaned. “Forget it happened.”
“Did you?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.” He felt a little fuzzy right now, like he might dissolve into the bedsheets.
Port rubbed at the back of his neck, over the delicate collar. “Y’know, family… has been on my mind, lately,” he said haltingly. “And I just feel like I should tell you… You’re family to me.” The look he was giving Sonny was something a little wide-eyed, a frightened sort of sincerity.
Sonny didn’t want to look at it. He brought his other hand to his face and pressed both palms to his eyes, scoffing. “Do you always have to talk around things like this?” The pressure had stars exploding behind his eyelids. “Just say what you really wanna say.”
Quiet. Darkness. “Did you mean to, uh, lick me?”
Sonny nearly laughed. Only Port would word it like that.
It was something he’d wanted to do many times before, in moments tantalizingly close to Port’s bare skin, restrained only by his sense. When he was sick, he’d had none. Right now, Sonny thought he might still have none. And even though he hadn’t really known whose neck he was pressing his tongue to at the time, it did not matter. It was not the real question Port was trying to ask. “Yes,” he said.
Port did not respond to that. Sonny told himself he would simply lay in the silence and force Port to say something if he truly wanted to talk it out. He wondered if Port was mulling over his words right now, eyes still and focused in the way they were whenever he was calculating a response, trying to decide on a way to let him down easy. He could not help but imagine the way Port might be looking at him— as he hid behind his hands in a way that now seemed pathetic rather than resolute— perhaps with pity or apprehension or disgust.
His resolve for silence did not last even a minute. “I’m not your little brother,” Sonny said, even if it sometimes felt that way and he didn’t always hate it. “I feel like you put me in this box. You put me in this box and you refuse to see me any other way. And you think I’m, like, incompetent and… and immature.” The words were spilling out of his mouth.
“I—“ Port sounded weak. “I just don’t know where this is coming from.”
Sonny injected as much incredulity into his voice as he could manage. “You had no idea?”
Port’s voice was suddenly a little bolder, words a little quicker. “I mean, do you really think that would be good for us? Really?”
Sonny was brave enough to pull his hands away and open his eyes. He set his jaw and fixed Port with a look he hoped came across as angry rather than ashamed, swallowing hard, fearing the bob of his throat was too obvious. Port’s look in return was something akin to wariness, nervous wrinkles under his eyes. “I don’t think you actually want me like that, Sonny.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me what I want.”
“I’m all you had, and you’re all I had, for— what— eight months? I’ve been the only person around for you to… to put those feelings on.”
“For god’s sake, stop talking.”
“You’re just starved for—“
“Shut up!”
“—for that sort of stuff. You’re a romantic sort of person…” Port had started to drawl out his words, and his eyes could not stick to a single spot for more than a few seconds, rolling all over the room— landing everywhere except on Sonny. “…and I think you’re misinterpreting your love for me.”
Sonny could feel the heat rising to his face and sweeping over his entire body like a fiery alcohol flush. He burned. He could imagine too well the thought going through Port’s head: This stupid child doesn’t know what he wants. Sonny remembered they were not alone in the house and had the restraint not to raise his voice. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed.
Port’s eyes steadied, looking down at him, and Sonny realized it was ridiculous to be laying flat on his back having this conversation. He sat up, rising to Port’s level.
“I’m not trying to put words in your mouth,” Port said, shrinking away. “I just…”
He did not care for whatever stupid explanation Port would try to give. “Why did you even bring this up in the first place?” he asked, throwing his hands up. “What are you getting out of it? Do you get hard to the thought of humiliating me?”
Something cracked in Port’s expression, then. Sonny could not stop himself from continuing.
“You want me to answer your question? No, I don’t think it would be a good thing for us. Which is why I’ve never fucking brought it up before!” His hands balled into fists. “I was sick, man. I wasn’t thinking when I did it. And if you’re really as oblivious as you say you are, you never, ever would’ve known, because I was never going to bring it up.”
Port just stared at him, mouth shut.
“Are you happy we’re talking about this? Is this making you feel better? Is this conversation productive to you?”
Port’s wide eyes dropped to his lap at the same time his hand rose to his temple. He looked heavy in every limb of his body. “I… thought it would fester,” he said quietly.
“You’re the one who was making it awkward,” Sonny snapped. “You refused to look at me.”
Port’s eyes squeezed shut, pained. The skin of his forehead dimpled as he pressed his fingers there. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and despite himself Sonny found some of his frustration melting away at the sad sight before him. “I’m sorry,” Port repeated. “I was nervous. And I— I scared you real bad. I really messed up. I’m just… awful,” he finished weakly.
This switch in his demeanor— the evaporation of all that condescending self-superiority— really took the wind out of Sonny's sails. He no longer wanted to shout at him or insult him until he broke and admitted to the ways he was hurting him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny asked.
Port stared blankly into his lap. “I’m a terrible person, Sonny. I just lie to you and upset you.” His words had a flat affect to them, like he was reading from a script. Like it was something he’d gone over in his head so much he had lost all the emotion behind it. “I’m even doing it now. I… I deserve…” he trailed off.
His admittance of his faults was not at all satisfying, nor did it ring as true as Sonny had expected it to. “Stop,” he said. He felt bad, and at the same time, he was angry at Port for making him feel bad.
“Sometimes I wish we never met, for your sake.” Port’s voice was quiet. “You’d be happier.”
That sent a stake straight through his heart. “Jesus. Stop it. This is—“ hurting me. No. That was not the right thing to say to him right now. “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re the most important person in the world to me.”
Port was silent for a moment. “I feel the same,” he replied. His eyes lifted, hesitatingly, to meet Sonny’s. In all their guilt, they were still beautiful.
Sonny had told himself he wouldn’t try anything. He had told himself he would not try to take whatever his feelings were for Port any further. But, of course, leave it to himself to get sick and drunk and stupid and smash open the bottle he had worked so hard to stuff everything inside. “Is it really so impossible for you to see me that way?” he asked, against all better judgement.
Port’s eyes dimmed a little, brows ever-so-slightly lowering on his forehead. “Still hoping?”
“…I’m drunk.”
“I know.”
“I just… can’t help but wonder what it would be like,” Sonny admitted quietly.
Port tilted his head almost imperceptibly, face turning a little contemplative.
Sonny did not want to be subject to whatever was going through his mind. He laid back down, head on the soft pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced, though he did not pull the covers up and did not close his eyes. His lidded gaze ran along the blades of the ceiling fan.
Port was unmoving for some time. Perhaps a few minutes passed where he simply sat there, Sonny sensing his stare.
Then he shifted. The mattress beneath Sonny dipped lower as Port’s weight moved closer to him, two points of depression joining into one. Sonny could feel his own eyes going wide and bewildered as Port’s arm carefully and deliberately swung over him, hand landing by his other side. Sonny glanced to his lean forearm, then up to his face. It hovered above him, expression unreadable. His wavy hair hung down from his forehead and over his ears.
The last time someone had leered over him like this, he’d been choked to unconsciousness. The memory rose to his mind unbidden and unwelcome, but Port did not seem so sinister. In fact, Sonny had imagined being in this position so many times it was downright surreal. He could not be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Port’s face dropped lower. Sonny stopped breathing. He blinked at Port’s upturned nose, almost afraid to look him in the eye. He could smell the mint off him, feel his soft breath. Port was so close that Sonny could count each freckle on his cheek, if he wanted. There was the scantest layer of air between their faces, and Sonny would only have to lift a few inches, and then their lips would be touching.
So that’s what he did. Port met him halfway. And then they were kissing.
...If it could even be called that. It was little more than a chaste, dry press, closed mouth to closed mouth. Port’s eyes were shut. Sonny observed his pale eyelashes, and the slightest twitch in his eyelid, and then Port was pulling away. It had lasted maybe a single second.
Port’s face was still quite close, brow furrowed. They stared at each other for a moment. Sonny felt like a weight was pressing his chest into the bed and at the same time like he might simply float away, or just spin forever and ever the same way he did when he closed his eyes.
It had been too quick. He’d lifted his head on such instinct and suffered such shock that he had not had the chance to savor the moment. He needed to try it again. He gently placed his hands on either side of Port’s head, over his stick-out ears and soft hair, and pulled him back in.
Sonny tried to really focus on the feeling of Port’s warm mouth against his, focus on the heat radiating off his skin and the sheer sensation of what it was like to have this man leaned over him with his palms pressing into the mattress on either side of him.
It was not as he'd pictured this moment. Despite how many times he had imagined Port like this, and in ways more illicit than this, it suddenly felt too vulgar to try anything more. In all of his prevailing chasteness, and his still unmoving lips, Sonny could not bring himself to try and coax Port's mouth open or let his hands wander anywhere else. Something about it would feel corruptive.
He loosened his grip on Port’s face and gently pushed his head away to signal that he was done. Port straightened his arms so that he was no longer so close to Sonny’s face. Brow still knit, his eyes fluttered open. They were intensely pensive.
“Did that satisfy you?” Port asked, after a moment.
“Why did you do that?” Sonny asked. It was a genuine question.
“I wanted to see if…” His eyes slid away as he trailed off, aborting the thought. His head hung lower from his shoulders and he shook it side to side, hair swaying gently. “I don’t know.”
A non-answer. Absurdly, Sonny found himself endeared by such a Port-like response, even as it pained him.
“Did it feel right to you?” Port asked.
Sonny hesitated, even as he knew his answer immediately. “No.”
“Okay,” Port said, with some sense of finality. "There you have it.”
He removed himself from Sonny’s space and sat back so that he was no longer on his hands and knees. His expression was difficult to read. Sonny felt bruised.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Port muttered.
It had been so much more alluring in fantasy, without all these strange strings attached. Sonny wondered if they might be better off if this had never happened at all. It was too fresh to tell. Would it really have rotted within him? Would he have been haunted by the question: What could have been, had I tried?
“No, it’s okay,” Sonny said, even though he still had not decided if it was the truth or not. “I think it was a good experiment.” Maybe this confirmation of his doubts would allow him to forget about it for good. “So can we move on from this, now? No more hang-ups?”
There was the subtle bob of Port’s head. The noncommittal response was not satisfying to him. “I’m serious,” Sonny said. “I don’t want you to kill yourself feeling guilty about it. And don’t feel guilty about what happened yesterday, either. I want us to go back to how we were. Before…” He swept his hand through the air. At everything. “…all this.” He was pleading.
Port nodded more deeply. “That would be nice.”
Sonny did not like that answer, but he simply lifted his arms to interlace his fingers behind his head and inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air. He pinched his elbows inwards so they covered his ears and acted like blinders, imagining what it would be like to squeeze so hard that his eyeballs popped out of his skull. He exhaled. A sigh.
He shifted his legs under the blanket and pulled it up to his collarbone. “I’m actually going to go to sleep now,” he said, still spinning. But he knew he would not sleep. He would lie awake and replay the moment over and over again behind his eyelids, even as it sickened him.
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
I like it when the moments between whumpee and whumper aren't all bad. Yes there's abuse (of all sorts) but they can also go out together, have dinners and jokes and 'normal' moments between each other. Waking up eating breakfast together and knowing the others routines. It makes the whump a lot more realistic in a way and humanises their dynamic into something a lot of people may be familiar with. Especially if its in a domestic setting (like them living together). Something that happened gradually rather than a kidnapping or something sudden for example.
(This is especially good when paired with really extreme abuse/whump that's jarring compared to their otherwise 'normal' lifestyle)
It also is a mind fuck for the whumpee because they do have all these nice moments and whumper isn't all that bad, so maybe going through all they did is worth it in the end, rather than destroying what they have?
getting characters into world-endingly intense codependent queerplatonic relationships is literally what life is all about. it is literally what we were put here on this earth to do
You were born to be a sacrifice. When you first exited your mothers womb the oracles decided that would be your fate. They tattooed your hands and forehead so everyone would know.
When you turn twenty, they'll take you to the church, and they'll set you on fire. And then when your body is burned they'll give your ashes for the angels, and the angels and saints will be proud, and bless your community and family with great riches. Or at least that's what they say.
When you were young it didn't seem to mean anything that you were born to die young. Nobody cared, they just saw you as another kid. But it was always there. Adults would ask other kids what they wanted to be when they grew up, but they'd ask you what you would do once you were a ruler in the court of heaven. They'd tell other kids about marriage and sex and having children, but for you that would just be for other people, you'd die a virgin.
And at a certain age, you were removed from school. Because they said you wouldn't need it. That you shouldn't be wasting your time on such things. And you didn't understand, but you understood that all your freinds were upset that they wouldn't see you anymore. Not as much at least. And people talked about you so much differently from then on. You weren't complimented as strong, or as smart, or as ambitious, you were pretty, and pure, and brave, and dutiful. And everyone talked about how proud they were of you, how wonderful it was that you were going to die for them.
They were so nice to you. They gave you so many gifts and jewelry. You got to spend all day inside playing video games, and you got the best toys and got to go to movies and plays when you wanted to. Soldiers in power armor would bow when they saw you, and robots and cyborgs would turn off their lights. And you sat at a special place in church, and the clothing you wore was diffrent then everyone else's. And people talked about how wonderful you were, and how pretty you were, and how much they loved having you when they knew you wouldn't be on this world for long. And they were so proud of you when they showed you the platinum clothing you would wear on the day of your sacrifice. And you didn't understand why but all of the compliments sounded sad.
As you grew older things changed. The other children went through puberty, but you didn't, they gave you surgery to prevent it, ans told you how pure you were for not producing blood or seed. And you were old enough to understand that you would die, that you would burn, and it would hurt, and that nobody really knew for sure what happened after peopled died. And you saw a sacrifice, and saw the pain they were in, and there weren't any angels, there were only priests watching and chanting, and the smell of burning skin.
Your parents and family started to care much more how you behave. To make sure you're polite. To make sure you're a good sacrifice, who the angels will like. And meanwhile while all your other freinds are going to college, and talking about becoming artists, or starship pilots, or scientists, you know you'll only ever have one ending. But still, everyone loves you, and you don't have responsibilities, but still sometimes you think about how much diffrent life would be if you were born differently.
You've started meeting people who've left the faith, or people who didn't grow up in it, people who believe in diffrent religions or in no religion at all. And your heaven seems less and less certain every day. According to imperial law you're allowed to be sacrificed, but if you choose not to they can't force you. But if you choose not to you can never be a part of your faith again, and your family will be disappointed in you forever. All your family and community, everyone who you ever knew, will consider you a failure, a coward doomed to hell for not going through with what the cosmos planned for you. And all that pride and joy they felt about your fate would be replaced with anger that you never became what they were so happy and proud about you being. You don't think you believe in heaven anymore, but you still might choose to die, if it means they're proud... it's what you're raised to do, you don't know who you'll be if you choose to leave.
Better choose fast darling, it's only a few months away now. You don't want them to be upset.
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
“if you love this character then you must make her happy in your fics, right?” wrong. the horror. suffering. internal hemorrhage. hospital. immediately
im sorry but i couldnt disagree more. if having fun with your characters diminishes the 'quality' of your work then maybe thats not a bad thing. im glad youre having fun with your ocs
I feel like this is written by someone who doesn't understand the character driven approach.
I would have agreed years ago, but it's not necessarily like that!
You play with your OC, explore, interrogate them. You figure out their goals. Themes will come organically.
You don't have to force a theme, you can look at your story and your character arc and the dynamics that they have with others and the world. Then, once you recognize the theme, you can get more finnicky and tweak things to make it cleaner and more effective and all that. It's not wrong to start from character!
yeah the OOP was just being an asshole in that post. i think it's not inaccurate to say that endlessly developing your OCs vs. writing a ready-to-publish story are two very different skillsets, but they're not mutually exclusive either, and some writers don't have the goal of being published anyway.
the character driven approach is wonderful for some writers, myself included! i swear, if i was forced to begin every story process with themes and "goals" (not even sure what OOP meant by that) before i even had a single character, i would be miserable and never finish a single story.
(also, the idea that your story will be Morally And Objectively Good if you have a vague, nebulous theme before sitting down to write but not like. a premise? a plot? a decent grasp on how to write prose? is laughable.)
TL;DR: that person's just mad because they're not having any fun.
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
Whumpee has only ever experienced sex as a painful, violent assault, so when they're hanging out with some friends and hear one of them tease someone they're gossiping about for apparently crying during sex, Whumpee is confused. Who wouldn't cry? It hurts. But when Whumpee says this to the group, suddenly they are the confused ones because "That's not normal Whumpee. What the fuck kinda sex have you been having?"
one the others is smirking, raising an eyebrow like they think it's a joke - like whumpee is doing some kinky stuff and playing innocent about it. but friend doesn't think that's it. whumpee's face isn't full of mischief or innuendo. they just look... uncomfortable and confused. it hurts, they'd said. about sex. sex hurts. who wouldn't cry?
like that was normal. like they had experience, and that experience involved pain. enough pain to cry.
"why are you looking at me like that?" whumpee asks. they seem embarrassed, like they regret saying anything. "does nobody talk about that part? we were talking about sex before, why are you... stop looking at me like that!"
"what do you mean it hurts?" friend asks. they wave the others quiet. they're not helping. if whumpee thinks they're being judged, this is just going to get worse. "do you mean like-"
"i mean every time i've had sex it's been painful and horrible and i've just gritted my teeth and got through it! and now you're all looking at me like i'm crazy, and it-"
"you're not crazy," friend says. they feel bad for interrupting, but whumpee was starting to breathe quick and shallow. "i just- we're worried. it's not- unless people talk about it first, and they want that, it's not supposed to hurt. if it hurts. you should talk to the person you're sleeping with so you can figure out how to make it better, so they can touch you how you want."
whumpee laughs. it's sudden and sharp. "how i want? that's not how it works. if it was about what i wanted, it wouldn't happen at all."
a cold chill of realization sweeps through the small group all at once.
