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#dehumanization

Takes place during Lee’s first captivity. 

tw; non-con touching, non-con kissing, implied noncon, dehumanization, conditioning, intimate/creepy whumper, pet whump 

“I have something for you.” 

Lee looked up from where he hung suspended from the ceiling face up, a ring gag stretching his mouth open and his arms bound to his sides. 

Lee watched the man warily, despite Leon’s jovial nature, as he approached his captive. 

The ring gag was unbuckled first, Lee’s jaw sore and slack from its prolonged use. Leon let him down from the ropes suspending him next, catching him once long-numb legs failed and he collapsed forward, boneless. 

Leon undid the ropes tying his arms to his sides next, and pins and needles spread everywhere as blood rushed back to all of Lee’s extremities. He cringed at the uncomfortable feeling, forcing his jaw closed with another wince. 

“There we are,” Leon cooed, cradling the boy against his chest, massaging Lee’s jaw with the other hand, “there we go, darling.” 

Confusion danced over Lee’s face, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes spoke distrust. 

“You’ve been so good for me, songbird,” Leon murmured, “that’s why I have a present for you.” 

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Ancient Aliens is so racist that it’s hard to see their other points. Which is fair. It’s kind of hard to keep on listening after they say Stand and Deliver is impossible science fiction lies because everyone knows Mexicans can’t count.

But, I want to draw attention to the other things they relentlessly cover.

1. All aspects of all stories are true, because imagination is not a real thing.

2. Pareidolia is especially not a real thing.

3. Females (or “women,” as main stream scientists call them) have no part in the history of humanity. They basically don’t exist.

4. The Nazis knew everything.

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Day 21: Fascination Gone Wrong

For @amonthofwhump‘s Water Whump May, where I write a part of this story every day according to the prompt. Wrote this prompt while falling asleep in a car, got home, and was surprised by how decent it was. huh.

Tag list: @spiffythespook, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @insanitywishes, @whumpingonarainyday, @burtlederp

Content warnings: brief dehumanization, a sorta creepy whumper pov narration bit, also known as Welcome To Hugh’s True Stupid Bitch Awakening

The pain didn’t register in his brain when the trap finally came off of his leg, and neither did the sensation of open bleeding, but he did feel the vertigo as he was lifted from the ground and placed up on his feet. 

It didn’t even register to him that they were trying to force him back with them until he took his first step.

He stumbled, legs shaking under his weight. He heard voices, felt hands on him, removing the chain that kept his wrist cuffs connected, but he couldn’t see straight until a stinging slap flew across his face. Llyr’s head whipped to the side, eyes flying open at the sudden pain that faded to a numb ache as he stared at his rescuers. 

It was the first time he’d properly acknowledged them since they’d gotten there. 

“Hugh… Ray… you, the…” His eyes flitted around until they caught on Ray. On the cloak around its shoulders. His heart sank deep into his chest, and he felt the dark pain of betrayal edge into his soul. Or, not betrayal, he assured himself, because he hadn’t trusted it before. Even the kindest seeming humans would have turned on him eventually, so why did it hurt so much to see it forcing him back to that hell?

Something desperate and animalistic twisted in his face, and Llyr launched himself at it, arms outstretched and fingers curled in like claws.

Ray hardly caught itself when he fell into it, but one more push against it was enough to topple the pair to the ground. Llyr was a menace, weaker, sore arms struggling against Ray’s defenses and clawing at everything he could reach to weaken the other. Scratches crossed its face, its neck, and anywhere unprotected by the now mud-soaked cloak as he reached for it over and over again, only to be blocked by glancing blows.

“Llyr, Llyr stop! I can explain, please-!”

He grew desperate, clawing a deep gash across Ray’s face, narrowly missing his right eye and drawing a startled yelp from the man.

Behind them, Hugh watched on with a fascinated grin, lost in the thrill of the moment as his former captain groaned and cried out in pain, becoming more and more distressed by the frantic and animalistic attacks of the man on top of him. He flashed pleading eyes upwards, met Hugh’s, and set him ablaze. The unthinking desperation made his knees weak and instilled him with a feeling he’d never felt before, burning through his chest. Adrenaline surged in his veins at the sheer power he held over a man who had once been his superior.

He could stop this at any time, but it would be so easy to let it keep going. See just how far Llyr would go, if he would tear Ray to shreds if left unchecked, or eventually break down crying over the man’s broken body. But not now. Not yet. He had a job to do before he could explore this any further.

Llyr was so close to unfastening the cloak before hands looped under his arms and pulled him up from behind. 

“That’s enough, you little bitch!” Hugh growled, but its lips were drawn back in a gleeful smile as it dragged him away. It threw Llyr face first into the mud as Ray stood on shaking legs behind them, and stomped on his injured leg to keep him down. Llyr screamed, nearly drowning out Hugh’s next words in his agony. 

“As much as I love seeing the old captain get beat up, you’re not the one who’s gonna put him in his place.” It punctuated its words with kicks, a disturbing satisfaction becoming more evident the longer it had Llyr screaming under its control. 

“Give- give it back!” he panted, “‘s not yours, you don’ understand!”

“You can have it later after you get back and take your punishment for running off,” it said, and he struggled harder. He nearly forgot his hands were still shackled behind him until he tried to get up again and only dug his chin further into the mud without his hands’ support. 

“Just- just l-leave me…” he forced the words out, weaker than he’d meant them to be. “Can’t go back, can’t get hurt again, rather die here than do that just to- to get to the sea.”

“I don’t care what you think. Now either you get up and walk back by yourself or I’ll drag you the whole way. Simple as that,” Hugh smiled, looking down its nose at him. He tried to get up, pushing with clumsy arms and legs that refused to obey.

“For crying out loud, just carry him Hugh,” Ray sighed, rubbing at the scratches, now a stark red against its dark skin. 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, prisoner. That kid- that wild fucking animal just mauled you, so it’s gonna stay down in the mud where it belongs.” 

The words swam and clashed in Llyr’s head. A wild animal. That wasn’t him, that wasn’t right. These humans, they were the wild ones. The inferior ones. He shouldn’t be getting dragged around and tortured and ensnared by their tactics, that wasn’t right but none of this was right-

“Let me carry him, then. I-“

“And let the both of you run off again? No chance,” it said, bending down and swiftly grasping Llyr’s good ankle. “Grab the other one, Raymond.”

“I won’t.”

Hugh rolled its eyes, reaching to its belt and drawing a dagger. “If you haven’t forgotten our agreement, then I’m sure you will.”

They traded brief, burning looks, then with a shuddering sigh, Ray walked to the other side of Llyr and gingerly took hold of his bad leg. He struggled then, even the slightest pressure against the swollen wounds proving to be agonizing. Ray realized, then, why that was its side to pull.

Hugh sheathed its dagger and started back towards the beach, following the compass in one hand while dragging Llyr’s leg with the other. Ray had both hands there, trying to support his ankle while not pressing into the punctures arching across his calf. But with how slick the area was from blood and mud, its grip kept slipping and earning it a scolding from Hugh.

Llyr spent the majority of the journey with his face in the underbrush, dragging against its muddy leaves, trampled by feet walking just in front of him. For the first few minutes, he struggled. He pleaded to be let go, crying as he clawed at the ground, reaching for anything that could hold him in place. A stem, a root, a hand dug into the muddy ground itself, but everything was too slick to get any hold on and merely left him coated in more filth.

As they walked, he felt his shirt rise up and tear, exposing him to the splintering wood, razor sharp leaves, and sickening wetness of everything below. He felt them scratch at his fragile skin, at the old bandages that needed to be changed, and the gash in his side that he needed to heal faster.

By the time they made it back to the ship, he was a sobbing, shaking mess, hardly even recognizable from the person he’d run away as.

Next part

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Tag Team!

@haro-whumps @grizzlie70 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @iaminamoodymoodtoday @kawaiiloverofanimu @burtlederp @untilthepainstarts @my-whumpy-little-heart @moose-teeth @pepperonyscience @faewhump @saphemme @slaintetowhump @whump-tr0pes @spookyboywhump @finder-of-rings


TWs.  Ok, so we have wrist and ankle restraints, we have muscles spasming, we have Callum so exhausted that he thinks he might be dying, we have water sprayed in the face, we have creepy Hayden and we have bruising and hair dragging.  I think that might be all!

This got longer than I expected so there’s going to be a third part too!


The open door taunted him, just like it had done on the first day that he had arrived at Master Hayden’s house.  So near yet so far.  Callum hiccuped a sob into the back of his muzzle, damp and cold with his own spit.  It was too tight, put on without any care and buckled up firmly, all caught up in his hair, pulling and aching.  The corners of his mouth had split the moment that it had been applied.  They twinged like paper cuts every time he moved his head.  Every time he moved his mouth, his lips, his tongue.  It made him whimper quietly.

Tears traced down his face.

They always did.

He could hear his Master moving about in the house, his thoughts immediately tracking along a forbidden and huge surge of jealousy.  Of deep deep desire to have that sort of freedom and a flare of bright white hatred that he didn’t.  Hatred towards Master Hayden for taking him and keeping him and hurting him.  He rode the upwards curve of the slope of his shame until it peaked, the wave too high, too overwhelmed.  Gravity did what it always did best and pulled it down in a crashing mess of shame and the need to be made better.  To have those awful awful disobedient thoughts taken from him by whatever means would do it the quickest.  The most painfully.  Make the lesson stick this time so that he wouldn’t be a slow and stupid wretch ever again.  If he could give Master Hayden control of every last one of his thoughts then he would do.  He would do so willingly. 

His back twitched of it’s own accord, sending a shuddering spike of pain from his back all the way down to his toes.  He groaned at the feel of it, arching away from it on an instinct that could go no further than the span of the cuffs around his wrists behind his back, attahced to those at his ankles.  He needed to have learnt.  He needed to do better this time.  A gift was something that could be taken away and replaced with soemthing much worse.  He winced around the pain in his mouth, in his legs and his arms and his back.  In every taut and pulled muscle.  Twisting, Callum inched another aching and throbbing couple of centimetres in the direction of the door, sobbing as it appeared to get him no closer than he had been.  Pain for the sake of nothing.  Of no ground gained.

What a horrid game his Master was playing this time.  What twisted treatment.  Callum could not keep track of his thoughts, he couldn’t keep them in line anymore.  They were swinging wildly from ingratitude to gratitude, from shame to desperation.  It was too much for him to keep up with because it wouldn’t let him settle on any one thing.  They slipped and slid until he was too lost in them to know one from the other.  Too much. 

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What a pretty collar Master Hayden picked out for Callum!  How lucky is he that his Master got him something to match his green eyes.  And it even locks.  Master Hayden thinks of everything.

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OohohHhhHHh!! Them’s some yummy whumperflies, Nonnie, thank you for sharing! I just love all the implications of this. Are they drugged? Do they need to be fitted for a miniature muzzle so they don’t bite? Do their shoulders dislocate from the pressure of hanging from them all evening? Does the whumper even notice when it happens, or when (if) they pass out after? 

Follow-up question - do they suffocate before they’re allowed down? 

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CW: Stress torture, emotional manipulation, creepy whumper, internalized abliesm, some outright ableism - actually this torture method is actually pretty fucking ableist in and of itself, whump of a minor (character is 17), noncon touching - not sexual

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

“A little longer, darlin’. Just… a little longer.”

The metronome on Sir’s desk click-click-click-clicks, a constant even ticking as the little wand swipe back and forth, and Baldur stares at it with his entire body quivering to look do think about literally anything else.

The reed mat under his knees digs in, little flashes of pain that he tries desperately to focus on because it’s something else, a different thought, something that isn’t click-click-click-click-click-click-click-

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s never allowed to know what the time limit is, only told if he made it or he didn’t. He kneels in Position Two, hands laid out with fingers spread across his own thighs, resting against the soft fabric of his pants and they twitch constantly, they want to move he wants to move so badly.

He can’t move.

If he moves he loses the game, and the game has high stakes tonight, he can’t lose the game.

The games are always rigged for him to lose, but Baldur has been working so hard to learn how to be still and he knows, he just knows he’s going to win this time, whether Sir wants him to or not.

The rebellious little thought terrifies him, he sends that train right off a cliff into the dark pool of the person that might have been there once before the drugs and the white room and not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping-

His knees ache, his legs below the knee have gone numb from kneeling for so long, his mind is racing in horrible anxious circles of click click click-

is that a bird outside the window

not allowed to look that way look at the metronome

click click click

click

Sir had a bad interview today that’s why the game is happening they asked questions he couldn’t answer so he has to be punished

Click click click

because journalists keep asking questions

click

too many questions

Someone is laughing out in the hall maybe Miss Nancy it sounds like her laugh she laughs sometimes a nicer laugh

Click click

pay attention

don’t look away

pay attention pay attention focus be good be still focus focus focus

FOCUS

The more he thinks about focusing, the harder it is to do. Everything else crowds in until he would almost beg for the pill, now, if it meant he could play the game better, if it meant his mind would stop this constant swirl he can’t quiet down.

He wants to rock, just a little - just to get a second of thought out into the motion of muscles instead - and when Sir looks briefly down at the newspaper and holds it up before his face, Baldur hitches in a breath and rocks his body forward and back, soundlessly as he can be. He keeps his eyes locked on the metronome, full of tears, scared of what happens if he’s caught but he doesn’t move something he’s going to lose his mind-

He stops just before Sir looks up.

Baldur’s heart freezes along with his body, staring up into Sir’s eyes, the hint of a smile on his face no giveaway as to his feelings. Sir likes it when Baldur loses the games. He is always smiling when they play. There are little crinkles at the corners, wrinkles growing bit by bit, and Sir says that they’re a sign of a life well-lived because they mean that Sir has always been full of laughter and the laugh from outside the hall comes again and Baldur’s breath comes heavier, harder.

He has to move he has to move he has to move he can’t move.

“The metronome, darlin’,” Sir reminds him, gently. His oil-slick smooth voice and smile a balm, they mean safe, but the game is nearly over and Baldur has very nearly lost. He jerks his eyes back to the metronome, the maddening, boring click click click click click

Please let me stop, he mouths the words but doesn’t dare say them. This isn’t a game where he has to beg. Sir hasn’t said so, anyway, but he’s going to lose his mind, he can’t do this he can’t he’s going to lose he can’t can’t can’t can’t-

“You’re so close, beautiful boy,” Sir soothes without looking up from his paper this time, underlining something. The interview must have been terrible, for the game to take so long. Some kind of scandal about a Senate seat, Baldur barely understands what any of it means because he’s not meant to, he is supposed to be pretty and empty and calm and still, so still, even as his knees ache and he can’t feel his toes and he’s going to, to go insane, to go crazy if he isn’t allowed to move.

Tears sting at his eyes, heat behind them, awful little whimpers he can’t push back building in his throat. 

Click click click click click click

cheep-cheep sings a bird

don’t move don’t move

stillness is better than what you do

silence is better than stammering

remember the rules

the rules keep you safe

the rules keep you still

still is safe being still is safe be still be still be still

click click

miss nancy’s voice in the hallway and a man talking back is it someone who knows he exists or not if he screamed right now would they both ignore him or would someone want to know who was the boy behind the locked office door who is the boy

click

who is he

he doesn’t know

he’s baldur and a number but what was he before that was there a before that was there a

cheep cheep cheep

sing

click click click

if you don’t get glasses but you need them do you think that tree leaves are just one big blob of leaf or do you still know they’re separate if you’re too small to reach the tree and

click

what are the books in Sir’s study what do they say

click click

are there books about boys like him do people write books about box boys are there books

click

has he ever read a book?

He can’t do it anymore. Baldur jerks forward, bending himself nearly entirely in half, and lets out a hoarse cry of frustration as he just can’t be still any longer, beating his hands in fists against his thighs.

Sir looks up from his paper, mildly surprised, his smile widening slightly on his handsome made-for-TV face.

“Oh, no, darlin’,” He says, with a hint of sympathy edging the amusement in his voice. “You broke, hm?”

Baldur nods, miserably. “I, I, I’m sorry,” He whispers, and the tears bubble up and he digs his fingernails into his thighs through his pants until it hurts, letting out a choked-off sob. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t do it, I-I-I, I, I can’t, Sir, I can’t be still for so long, I’m so sorry-”

“Oh, beautiful boy.” Sir clicks his tongue, almost in time with the metronome, and reaches over to turn it off. The clicking goes mercifully silent but it’s no better because now he’s in trouble, he’s lost the game. “You had less than thirty seconds to go, and you lost. How sad.” He lays down the newspaper and stands, walking around his desk to crouch just to Baldur’s side. “Less than thirty seconds, can you believe you held out so long only to lose in the last thirty seconds, Baldur, darlin’?” 

Baldur looks up, tear-streaked face with wide green eyes, and Sir reaches out to cup the side of his face in his palm. Baldur leans into the touch heavily, shuddering.

He was so close.

How could he have lost when he was so so close to winning?

He pushes himself forwards to wrap his arms around his Sir, to find comfort in his scent and the soft rich fabrics of his clothing, only to have Sir chuckle and push him back and away. “No, no, darlin’, I won’t have you tryin’ to manipulate me.” Sir stands, leaving Baldur bereft and untouched, and he turns, watching Sir walk away.

“I, I, I wasn’t manipulating-”

I just need you to remind me that I’m yours, that I’m safe, that you care

“Hush.” Sir snaps his fingers and Baldur’s words cut off mid-sentence. “I know exactly what you’re doing, trying to get out of punishment by bein’ cuddly, hm? Oh, I know you, darlin’. I know what you do to fix things.” There’s a heavy judgement to his words, and Baldur shrinks into himself, feeling the first tingles of pain as blood rushes back to his feet, turning his eyes back to the ground. 

but this is all he is, all he knows how to do

Had he been trying to manipulate? He’d just wanted comfort, but-… but Sir knows him better than anyone else, Sir would know… 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, to the floor. “I’m, I’m sorry, sorry for, for, for trying to manipulate you-”

He had just wanted comfort but maybe he was wrong, maybe he had been the wrong person, the one trying to be manipulative and Sir would know better than he would, Sir would know… 

Sir hears him, though. A moment later his hand rests on Baldur’s head, carding through the strawberry blond strands, rubbing the softness between his fingers. “It’s not your fault. You can only be what y’are, hm? True of us all. We can only be what we were made for, and that’s all you are, isn’t it, beautiful boy?”

Baldur doesn’t speak. Only nods, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Well. You’ve lost our little game for today.” Sir pets him a moment longer and then moves back to sit in his padded desk chair, a deep brown leather and wood that Baldur loves to curl up in and nap when Sir is gone on long days. “Too bad. I was really rooting for you, darlin’. But that’s all right.”

He snaps his fingers and Baldur moves immediately, shifting around the desk to sit beside him, breathing fast at the tingles and static of pain in his feet and legs, rubbing at them with his hands to try to get the blood flowing faster. 

“Just think, Baldur,” Sir says, almost idly, as he picks the newspaper up again. “Just thirty more seconds of focus and you couldn’t do it. How disappointing.”

He chuckles, snaps the paper open. He doesn’t see the devastation on Baldur’s face, but he doesn’t have to. He knows it’s there. 

“That means no sleep for you tonight, doesn’t it?”

Baldur is silent, staring towards the window, wistfully listening to the cheep-cheep-cheep outside.

He knows not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping. The bone-deep exhaustion and the way his brain melts apart underneath it is something he knows deeper than memory, better than his own thoughts.

Thirty seconds.

“Well, in the end, my sweet boy,” Sir says from behind the paper. “What matters is that you tried your best, hm? That’s all I can really ask of you. But perhaps you can try a little harder when we play again tomorrow.”

Baldur closes his eyes so no more tears will escape.

“Now, beautiful boy.” Sir’s hand rests on the top of his head again. “Let’s try to be still while I finish my paper, hm? No moving. No talking. Stillness-”

“-is better than, than what I do,” Baldur whispers, despair nearly overwhelming him. He forces himself, with every molecule of strength left inside him, to be very, very still.

Again.

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Casually dehumanizing while not being necessarily cruel is exactly it. And oooh, if AU Max didn’t respect Carlo’s privacy like Real Max does, he’d see all his scars right off. 😭

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@badthingshappenbingo

Fun fact about this one: I have a bad habit of whumping myself just to make sure the feeling as accurate, so I periced my own ears for this :)

i am such a Dumbass

Read It On AO3

Read tags for content warnings please,,

- - - 

At one point, a long time ago, in a passing conversation, Ethan said how he never wanted to get a piercing. He saw little girls getting their ears pierced in the mall and cringed at the thought. He knew it was irrational, that there were more painful things, and that it probably didn’t even hurt that much, but it still freaked him out.

But unfortunately for him, one of Dollface’s favorite things was exploiting people’s fears.

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CW; mentions of neglect and eye trauma, as well as mental trauma, slight manhandling, and disassociation. Some vague dehumanization and mentions of being in an army as well.

Word count; 971.


Day Eight

Seventh Sunfall of the Wolf Moon

The boy still hasn’t spoken.

Physically, he is healing very nicely, though slower than I would’ve liked. Eye injuries are… tricky to handle, especially when they’re as severe as this one. It’s likely that he will never see from his right eye again, and it’s been a miracle that I haven’t had to remove it entirely. He’s also been building up weight nicely; he no longer appears to be on Death’s door.

Mentally, well…

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So I was going to write a couple paragraphs of submissive, sleep deprived Cain and instead 1317 words of Cain Whump happened. I hope this hits the spot though!!

 So if anybody else wanted some Owned Cain, here you go.

TW: Pet whump, dehumanization, slightly creepy (unnamed) Whumper

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Okay I get the urge behind it, I do it too sometimes, but I want to do better and I am so serious when I say:

Stop dehumanizing people you think are evil. Stop calling them monsters and beasts and animals and the anti-christ because do you know what that says?

It says they are only acting on their nature, that they don’t have human agency. If that is true, then how can we hold them accountable for their actions?

These are humans making terrible, selfish choices. They have free will and they are using it to harm others. Make them responsible.

May 10th, 2020, 11:45am PST

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“Honey, you don’t have to do this!”

“No, I’ve made my choice. I want you and the kids to have a good life. They’ll only be missing their daddy for a few years or so.” The man in the suit and tie didn’t say anything as Mitchell signed his name on the final page of the document. He looked the whole document over one final time, making sure Mitchell didn’t miss anything.

“You will see the money in your bank account by the end of the day today,” the man said to Mitchell’s wife. “Mitchell, follow me.” The man gulped as he followed the man in a suit and tie outside. He was expecting something worse, but instead, he was allowed to sit in the passenger seat of a Tesla. The man drove, and he continued to drive for quite some time. Mitchell was getting a bit more anxious, but he knew that it wasn’t permanent. The website said he was going to become an “object”, whatever that meant. It didn’t go into much detail, but Mitchell was more concerned about clearing his debt and having a nice amount of money in his bank account when he came back.

The car finally stopped in front of a farmhouse. It seemed to be in good condition, with no peeling paint and a level deck. Mitchell was ordered to get out of the car. A woman in a button-down, skirt, and gloves walked through the front door. “Hi! I reckon you’re Mitchell! It’s nice to have you here for your objectification.”

“Uh, thanks,” Mitchell replied.

“And I see you brought no bags, just like you were ordered to. Let’s come inside and get the process started.” Mitchell wasn’t sure what to expect when he walked inside. In the kitchen, bustling about, were some other men. Or, at least, Mitchell thought they were men. They were dressed head to toe in rubber suits. They had no distinguishing features at all.

“Um, what’s up with these guys?” Mitchell asked.

“Oh, they’ve gone through the objectification process. Beneath those suits are some defects in the genitals, so we couldn’t take the normal approach with them. But they’re excellent servants. None of them talk back.”

“Wait, so I’ll become one of them!?” Mitchel asked, turning around.

“I keep telling them to update the site! Yes, Mitchell, you’ll become one of them. And if you do leave, well, there’s a clause in your contract we can activate. And it will be so much worse than your objectification. So let’s get started.” Mitchell stopped walking and turned to face the woman. “First things first, objects in training don’t wear clothes. It does not need to be covered.”

“It!?” Mitchell asked. “But I’m still a human male!”

“Not for long. Your training begins now. Strip,” she barked, and Mitchell did as he was told. He covered his cock and balls with his hands after he dropped his underwear. “Follow me.” Mitchell followed the woman down a flight of stairs. He was expecting to end up in a basement, but instead the two of them walked down the hallway. They stopped walking when they reached a wide open room, filled with a bunch of equipment, ranging from medical supplies to BDSM sex toys. “This is where your training will take place. We are under the barn right now.”

Mitchell looked around. As he did, the woman grabbed a mask from one of the many shelves in the room. She placed it over Mitchell’s head. “The objectification process begins now. You are now officially no longer a he, but an it.” Mitchell looked at himself in one of the many mirrored walls in the room. The mask covered his face, but left his mouth and eyes exposed. The woman then guided him over to the wall. There was a dildo attached to it, perfectly level with Mitchell’s own mouth.

“I’m not gay,” Mitchell said.

“It does not speak unless it is spoken to directly. It will have to suck the dildo off for thirty minutes longer. Is that clear, object?”

“Um, yes?”

“Yes, what? Another fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Mitchell didn’t want to suck on the cock, but he had no choice. He opened his mouth wide and made an o-shape with his mouth. The woman helped to push his face all the way to the balls of the dildo. This went on for another hour, Mitchell training to suck a dick. By the time the hour was open, he was actually pretty good at it, barely using any teeth and able to deep-throat it for a couple seconds at a time.

“It will now practice with dildos in its ass,” the woman said. Mitchell gulped as the woman picked out a dildo for him to sit on. He and his wife had never experimented with pegging before. Fuck, Mitchell didn’t even like to stick his own finger up there! He was hoping the woman would pick a small dildo to start with, but she grabbed one that was about as big as her arm. She stuck it firmly to the ground, and pointed at Mitchell to sit on it.

To continue reading about Mitchell’s descent into become an object, become my Patron! You get access to complete versions of hot stories, like this one, and NSFW pictures and videos to go along with them! In addition, $5 and above patrons get private and personalized stories monthly!

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Frathouse Boxboy: Cam and Zee- Kiss

content warning: dubcon kissing, intimate whumper (sort of, no whump happens here though) dehumanization, the brothers making Z2 behave like a dog, cam’s internalized homophobia. 

*****

Zee is warm, a pleasant weight against his arm. He’s canted towards him, even though now he has to turn his neck to ninety degrees to watch the laptop screen. He does so like a cat, following movement, just a little out of focus. Trying to read causes him to scrunch his eyes shut and whimper, so he avoids it, zoning out just enough that it won’t hurt him to look at the screen.

“How is that even comfortable?” Cam asks, clicking the answer to number 75 on the quiz. C. His own eyes are getting heavy, but the assignment is due at midnight, ten minutes from now. 

Z2 makes a non committal sound in reply, cheek pressed against Cam’s shoulder. He’s heat-seeking, hungry for a friendly touch. 

Zee understands the world as hostile or soft, existing for him only in extreme or another.  If he can get a soft touch, a kind word, he can convince himself which one he’s currently in. He needs allies and tries his best to make them, though some of the brothers are impossible to please.

 He was extra grateful tonight to be extracted from them. Cam took pity on him, pulled him from their bored ranks before they did anything worse than make him drink out of the “doggie dish” and walk around on all fours so they could laugh and take videos on their phones. They’ve done it before, plenty of times, mock-barking at him and “teaching” him tricks with the campus newspaper rolled tight in their fists. Roll over, Z2. Sit, stay. Paw. No, other paw! Bad boy. Thwack. 

“Alright.” He’d said, patting his leg to Call Z2 over. “This way, Lassie, training time’s over.” The boys had laughed as Z made his way to Cam’s side on all fours, because no one told him he could get up and walk like a person yet. 

No one argued with him, told him to leave Z2 with them. Cam knows if he behaves like he is in charge, most of the time it goes unchallenged. It hadn’t taken him long after pledging to discover the trick he’d been using for years worked here, too. 

He pulls the scrollbar to the bottom to see how many questions are left on the quiz. 90 total. He sighs, scrolling back up to number 76. 

“What… what’s wrong?”

Cam smirks, going to the next question. Zee only asks because he’s concerned Cam’s impatient sigh was about him. His insecurity is so obvious sometimes it hurts. Did I do something wrong? 

“Nothing.” Cam assures him. “You’re good, relax.”

“…Cam?”

Shh. Give me five minutes.”

Zee cringes, whole body tensing.

“Dude this is due in like two seconds and I gotta get it done. Tell me after.” He adds, trying to soften his tone. He doesn’t need Zee to get all weird tonight. He’s tired, and he’s got an eight AM class tomorrow. Numbers 77 through 82 are a breeze, right from the chapter. Zee barely breathes against him as he finishes, hits submit with a minute to spare. 

“Okay. What’s up?”

Zee is more hesitant now, even after the tiny reprimand. “Nothing. Sorry.”

Cam closes his laptop, sets it to the side. “Nothing, huh?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you.” He looks up with big eyes. There’s a softness about him, despite everything. Even the little flashes of anger that Cam sees don’t stay, they melt away into this. 

Cam could tie Z2 over his  desk and take his blowtorch lighter to him and he’d still be apologizing deliriously later, seeking approval. He’d looked so comically sincere earlier on his knees for Paul and Tyler and Michael, holding his hands at his chest how they showed him, a mock puppy dog in his collar and basketball shorts. Zee knows all too well there’s nothing stopping any of them but each other— Lord of the Flies and this is their island. 

He begs Cam to drop it with his eyes, the weariness of all his I’m sorrys in a look.

“Alright, don’t tell me, then.”

Zee looks as if he’s been slapped.

“But you don’t need to be so scared, okay?” Cam adds, dropping his voice as if someone might possibly hear. “Not when it’s just us.”

Zee’s eyes widen at that, hopeful. Is this what Alex sees? He wonders what Alex says to him in private, if Zee snuggles up to him so unselfconsciously, too.

 Cam swallows, dropping his eyes over Z’s mouth, his auburn hair grown back out over his ears, his forehead. He gets why Amber likes him, why she asked to keep him for a weekend. He imagines Zee with a pile of sorority girls around him like fawning mermaids, touching and cooing, how flustered he must’ve gotten. 

Deciding to lean in is like jumping from a ledge into freezing water. He hesitates, and halfway down he can’t believe he’s done it. 

Zee’s mouth is soft, softer than he thought it would be, like a girl’s. He whimpers softly into Cam’s mouth and Cam almost pulls away until Zee kisses back, the barest hint of pressure. It was a noise of pleasure, Cam realizes, bringing his hand up between them slowly  so not to spook him. He slides his fingers over Zee’s jaw, cups his smooth skin in his hand to better kiss him, to feel how real he is, how human and boy and… Zee.

He pulls away an inch, looking down his own nose at Z’s face, tilted up so willingly. He’d imagined this before, some faceless guy in the dark somewhere at a party, bruising and breathless with rough hands in hair, raking over clothes, the scrape of teeth, an insistent tongue. 

This was something else entirely. Tender. A different sort of hunger. Cam has the sudden sharp urge to shove Z away, to find the cruelest words he can and hurl them at him, to protect himself from whatever bridge he’s crossing, whatever place is being stamped into his passport there’s no coming back from. 

But Zee is sitting perfectly still, waiting, eyes lidded and heavy. His lips are parted, full and kissed-pink. He’s…trusting. Willing. Leaning his face into Cam’s palm. Cam leans in again instead and presses their lips together with the utmost gentleness. Zee’s sweet as before, pliant. 

Cam shifts his weight against his pillow and brings his other hand to Zee’s face, holding both his cheeks. The sound their lips make when they part is strangely alluring to him, tantalizing in a way he’d never even thought about before when kissing girls. He’d always kissed them as long as they’d wanted, even after it got boring. It made them more likely to go along with it when he slipped a hand between them and gave their breast a gentle, kneading squeeze, or started to undo the button on their jeans. But this, this was enough. Despite the way the rest of his body was quickly becoming interested, this was overwhelming in itself. 

 He pulls away to get a look at Zee and for a moment a flash of fear crosses his face, like he knows he’s in trouble, that this is Not Normal.

Cam just smiles gently til the other boy’s face relaxes, mirroring him.

 “Here.” He mutters, still feeling a little heady. He unlocks Zee’s collar, lets the weight of it drop into his hands. The circle of skin on Zee’s neck looks sore, chafed. His eyes flutter in relief and Cam sets the heavy leather collar on the bedside table.

He misreads, moves to crawl onto the floor beside Cam’s bed like usual. Cam catches his elbow, not missing the sharp inhale of fear.

“Stay. It’s cold tonight.”

Zee’s face is filled with thinly veiled longing, but Cam can sense the fear right behind it, like static between stations. Was the kiss a sign of intent?

“I’m not gonna do anything. I promise.”

Zee crawls gingerly back up, gets under Cam’s covers beside him. That’s twice Zee trusted him tonight, and all for what? For saving him from his brothers, for letting him sleep in a bed instead of the floor?

 He turns out the light, staring up at the darkness. The world hasn’t ended. No one even knows what they’ve done, what he’s done. It just tingles in his stomach, his fingertips. Zee’s breathing evens out and slows almost immediately, but it takes Cam another hour to find sleep. 

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Kefi: Why?

CW: Fantasy racism of sorts, normalized hostility, dehumanizing language

Universe belongs to @wildfaewhump! <3

Note: Kefi was originally referred to as male/he/him when I first started writing with them, but they/them pronouns feel like they fit better, so that’s what I’ll be referring to them with from this point :)

Masterlist

“You got a problem?”

Kefi stopped where they were rummaging through flowers, looking up curiously.  There was a tall man standing across from them, leaning against the booth and staring.  They tilted their head curiously, observing the scar on his lip and his strange, hostile demeanor.

“I asked you a question, fae.”

“Um, I have no problem..I’m sorry?”  They didn’t quite understand what the man was asking them.

“Why are you putting your filthy magic all over these innocent people’s wares then?  You think we’re dumb?”

They retracted their hands carefully from where they were elbow deep in the flowers, wings folding as they shrank back, trying to make themselves smaller.  They hated that they didn’t have their hair to hide behind anymore, to let curtain in front of their eyes to hide how nervous they were.  Matelia had “fixed it up” for them, trimmed up the sloppily cropped hair the attackers had left behind.  She’s insisted it would grow back, that it would all be ok.. But they still missed it.

Keep reading

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i’ve seen some people talking about black peoples portrayals in media, and how a lot of times the humanity of said person is taken out for aesthetic. i was wondering if having a black character with static instead of eyes would rub the wrong way with people? it’s not important to the story and i could probably change it to something else- but i’m just not sure if it would matter or not, since i do think it looks cool.

Black Alien character with static for eyes

Concealing the eyes of Black character gives me a feeling of disconnect. Particularly if no one else has their eyes concealed. The character having static for eyes gives me the same vibes.

Now, this isn’t referring to blind or visually-impaired folks in any way, but rather a creator who makes a conscious choice to cover Black character’s eyes for aesthetic purposes, or to make them feel “cool and mysterious.”

image

Image above: The character Garnet from Steven Universe. Eyes are concealed by large sunglasses.

Example in Media

Garnet from Steven Universe is an example of this. I’m not sure if they’re candidly a Black character (another topic, but not for this post!), but this character reads as Black coded. Their eyes are almost always covered and from what I could read (spoiler?) it’s to hide a third eye. 

There’s no medical reason for it that I can find, and the writers could’ve used other methods to hide it (bangs, a visor, scarf, makeup, magic?! Just saying) I might be missing context with this character but I think the example still stands.

Black Extraterrestrial 

  • See our tags on Black Aliens & Fantasy Race
  • Non-human PoC are fine in itself, particularly if you have human Characters of Color & PoC aren’t the only non-humans.
  • Make sure that is true for the specific races. (i.e. It won’t due to have human & alien Indian characters, but only Alien Black characters. Consider gender and orientation too.)
  • Those three humans you have in this story might make the static eye thing not as big a deal too, but do consider it food for thought. 

Other Black readers, feel free to share your thoughts! How do you feel about a Black character (alien) with static for eyes?

~Mod Colette

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