#noncon touch

[painsandconfusion]

Forced Comfort

Because who doesn't like a little bit of intimate whumper vibes?

[Prompt Masterpost]

Whumpee wrapped up in a blanket. The soft fabric hides the fact that their hands are still bound behind their back.

Gentle fingers brushing the hair from Whumpee’s face - carefully peeling it back through the sheen of sweat that’s left.

“Shhh…you’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you anymore..”

Kissing tears from the corners of Whumpee’s eyes.

Whumper keeping Whumpee sedated between sessions to 'help them cope'.

“Hold still- hold still or I’ll start again.”

Pinning a squirming Whumpee in an embrace. Grip tightening the more they struggle. 

Whumpee being so tired. So so so very tired. They can’t help but lean into the gentle touch. 

Whumper ignoring every shiver and twitch that accompanies the gentle pets they give their broken toy.

“Nnnnono-sst…d-on’ t ouchme-!”

Whumpee thrashing to the point of hyperventilation as Whumper wraps them up in blankets. The panic in their eyes ever so slowly fading as they realize they’re not being hurt anymore.

Whumpee desperately not trying to lean into it or accept the comfort. They don’t want it from them - don’t want to melt into the hands that ripped screams from them just a few minute before. But they need something. And Whumper knows it.

“Look at you. Pathetic little thing~”

Shoving Whumpee into a bath to trigger some kind of calming response. Whumpee just thinks they’re going to be drowned. …….maybe they will be. Just a little bit.

Whumper combing a hand through Whumpee’s hair - soft and rhythmic and sweet - as they carve into Whumpee.

“Shhh..just focus on me. Don’t look at  it- just look at me. Listen to my voice. You’re doing so good, little one.”

Kisses peppering over Whumpee’s cheeks, lips, forehead, brows, jaw, etc as their face puckers up, trying to twist away. 

A hug that looks gentle until you notice Whumper’s hand fisted in Whumpee’s hair. Keeping them exactly in place.

“Don’ don t t-ouch me- STOP-”

Drugging Whumpee to ‘help with the nerves’. Watching their panicked sobs slowly peter out into nothing as they stare miserably at their captor. 

“Make the most of this. We start again in the morning.”

[Prompt Masterpost]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35 @scribbelle)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

#torture #blood #forced comfort #intimate whumper #noncon touch #noncon kiss #drugging #prompt list #whump prompts #whump tropes #whump #conditioned whumpee #conditioning #good old stockholm syndrome sets in

[ashintheairlikesnow]

All We Have Is Each Other

CW: Intimate whumper, captivity, defiant whumpee, biting, creepy whumper, obsessive whumper, noncon kiss, vague noncon references, drugging. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 1: Duel

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

Takes place during Jax’s second captivity. As always, Jax is used with oversight and permission from @comfy-whumpee)

-

Savvie rolls dice every time she uses the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to grind up one of her collections of pills and mix it into Jax’s drink.

She’s always gambling with the drugs. The first part of the game is seeing whether he’ll drink it before he realizes there’s something in it. If she doesn’t mix it well enough, he’ll see the cloudy bits floating around in the glass and look at her with terrible sad eyes. Sometimes she can’t take it. She just takes the drink right back out of his hand and pours it out, makes him a new one. 

Other the other hand, sometimes his sad voice and sad eyes piss her off worse than anything else could, and she just tips it up until he chokes and makes him finish it anyway. Or shocks him, pressing the button to the remote and watching his muscles lock up, knowing he’ll look sweeter once he’s fighting the way his muscles jerk afterward, the unconscious twitches he can’t quite get rid of as the aftermath works its way through him. 

Sometimes he even looks scared. Those nights are some of her favorites. Savvie never loves Jax as much as she does when he is scared of her. 

But... she can’t keep him scared all the time. What kind of marriage would they have if she did that? No, the drinks aren’t to scare him, they’re just to make… to make things easier. And she doesn’t always do it! She doesn’t always drug him, but it’s enough that he never trusts her. She knows that. He doesn’t… trust easily. 

That’s okay. 

Their relationship got off to a rough start, that’s all, what with Jax starting off as one of the staff, bought and paid for. Plus, Jax’s dad convinced him Savvie was evil, once upon a time when he ran away from her. Taught him to hate her. She had to have her uncle fly all the way to England to bring Jax back, and it’s taking years to undo all the damage that stupid old man did. 

That’s okay. He’s getting better, he’s definitely getting better. He is. He has to be getting better. 

Still… he’s not an easy man to be married to. Not with having to keep an eye on the remote to his shock collar so he can’t take it off and try to run away again, not with the way he watches her sometimes like he wants to dunk her head into the toilet and hold it there until she drowns. Putting stuff in his drink just lets Savvie be able to relax. 

She doesn’t have to worry about what he might do when he’s so high he can’t do much of anything. Besides, it’s only like one out of every ten nights, sometimes twenty, sometimes she even goes for a month or two without doing it. 

She really doesn’t even want to. If he would just learn to be happy without it, she wouldn’t have to keep drugging him, would she? If he’d just stop being so difficult about being her husband… but that isn’t fair. He can’t be any better than he is, not really. Jax just… isn’t wired that way.

So she has to help him a little, to make it so he can have nights when he can’t stay mad at her. Or at least nights when his anger isn’t able to simmer in there behind his eyes while he says Yes, Miss Savvie or No, Miss Savvie like there’s a gun to his head. 

Still. Trying to give him these evenings where both of them just relax… it’s always a gamble. 

Even if he drinks whatever she makes without realizing it’s spiked, he doesn’t always react the same way. If she’s lucky - if her dice rolls well - the drugs make Jax… softer. He’ll lean against her when some of his strength slides away, not seek out touch but loathe it less. Those are the nights she can coax a sound out of him that isn’t clipped or tense. She still thinks about the night she gave him a back rub and he genuinely fell asleep sitting on the floor between her knees, his head drifting until it rested on her leg, the knots of tension slowly loosening beneath her kneading hands until she got distracted by the movie and forgot what she was doing. 

Sometimes he smiles, when he’s blurry and unfocused. Smiles, enough to show teeth even… God, sometimes he even laughs at some of Savvie’s jokes. It’s rare, but it happens. She loves those nights the best. Those are the nights that their marriage almost feels normal… if she just ignores the dilated pupils and the way he can’t stand up on his own. 

Sometimes he gets so foggy he can’t stop laughing, which is irritating but at least adorable to watch and take videos of to make him look at later on the next day when he sobers up again. Sometimes the side effects make him too scared to smile, his eyes darting nervously everywhere watching the movements of shadows he swears are watching him. She… tries not to give him those pills anymore.

The nights tend to end with her telling him to take off his shirt so she can enjoy the view, or even his pants, too. She usually waits on that, though, because it doesn’t matter how good the drugs are - he always hesitates when it comes to taking off his pants, as soon as his fingers touch the boxers with their oddly rolled waistband. 

It reminds him he doesn’t want to be here. Makes his addled mind come back to the collar he wears around his neck, to the reality of the life they’re living, the marriage Savvie has built all by herself whether he wanted to or not.

And he… he didn’t want to. 

So normally she waits on the getting naked bit until they’re in the bedroom and what he wants matters so much less that neither of them think about it any longer. The drugs, at least, make it harder for him to slow her down in there. 

Savvie tries not to think about that, because she doesn’t remember it that way. She likes the nights best where he doesn’t even try to fight, just lets her pull him upstairs and she gets to bury her hands in his hair and tell him what to do and have him, languid and loose-limbed, follow every command without the tension and misery he usually carries into their bed. 

She doesn’t always roll well. 

Sometimes, she rolls snake eyes… and she gets this, instead.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jax groans, words slurring around the edges, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He pushes clumsily away from her, nearly falling off the couch before he manages to catch himself. “For… f’r fuck’s sake, Savvie, what the fuck.”

His wedding ring glints, light from the TV bouncing off the deceptively plain platinum band. She’s hit all over again with a wave of love for him, for the life she’s built after he was brought back home to be hers forever, just like he always should have been. She’d been an idiot not to see it, not until he was gone and she spent years in prison dreaming about getting him back. 

“Fuck’s sake what?” She asks, voice light, smiling at him and poking him in the shoulder where they sit on the couch. 

He doesn’t slap her hand away, but she sees him look at her and… he wants to. His expression is dark. The light is bouncing off his hazel eyes, too, giving them a strange sheen of white that wipes out the color, obscures even his dilated pupils slowly taking over the iris. “What the fuck was it?”

“What was what?”

“What the fuck did you give me?” He goes to push himself to standing only to have his knees buckle beneath him, crashing him to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands. Savvie’s mouth waters, and she swallows, trying to ignore the flutter of fascinated interest in watching his fingernails scrape the rug as he tries to steady himself. “What the fuck is it, Savvie?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She answers, without changing her own tone, leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs. Her hair falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. “It’s not anything that could hurt you.”

This time, he doesn't say Miss Savvie or try out the sad eyes. Instead, he looks away. She can nearly hear his teeth grinding. “Yeah, but once I’m all fucked up, you will.”

“Don’t be rude,” Savvie chides him, but she doesn’t move. He looks good, on his hands and knees on the floor. Well, he looks good all the time, really, but he looks even better on his hands and knees. She knows the physique he’s built with the workout routine she makes him do, knows the muscles there hidden beneath the green sweater and jeans he’s wearing. “You’ve been stressed all week. I’m just trying to help-”

“Fucking shit, the hell you are!” He manages to sit back on his knees, then collapses back until his back hits the edge of the couch cushions, upright through sheer force of will and a bit of good luck. His hands lay limp at his sides, now. When he turns to look at her, his eyes don’t focus quite right - but the fury in them is clear.

Well.

Tonight’s not going to be the best night for them, then, she supposes. She feels the edge of a headache starting up, and sighs, looking mournfully at the movie she’d pulled up for them to watch. Another night, then. A night when the gamble pays off and doesn’t backfire. A night when he can’t remember how to be angry at her.

“Fine,” She says, heavily. “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help me.”Her own voice changes - drops almost a full octave from her usual carefully constructed diction and sweetness to something sharper. “I’m making tonight easier on me. Making you less… less-” She can't think of a good way to end the sentence, so she just lets it hang there between them. 

Jax snorts, looking away again. His head keeps lolling forward until his chin nearly touches his chest before he jerks it back again. “Yeah, I fucking know,” He manages, but his slurring is getting worse. “Shit f’r brains.”

Savvie sniffs, but the fake tears aren't coming as easily as they usually do. She probably accidentally gave him too much again. It’s just sometimes so hard to remember exactly how much the dose is supposed to be…

“I don’t enjoy you being cruel to me any more than you enjoy it when I do it to you, you know,” She says, suddenly… so tired. She spends so much time and effort creating a marriage herself out of a man her uncle bought for her once and abducted for her the second time, and she’s doing this all on her own - no one helps her, not really. And Jax never gives up.

She’d been sure he’d start to settle in and understand by now, but he just… he just doesn’t. And she’s so tired. Her fingers toy with the little black remote to his shock collar. Maybe she should just… just give up on having a good night and punish him for the cursing until he just bites off his stupid tongue. 

No, wait. 

She likes what he does with his tongue, when she gives the order. He’s so good with it now. Maybe… maybe just a small shock. Just to remind him he's hers. She takes a deep breath. “Jax… get on your-”

“On m’knees f’r discipline?” He starts laughing before she can finish, cutting her off, letting his head fall totally back against the arm of the couch until he’s staring at the ceiling. He sounds wild, almost like an animal. Her quiet watchful husband is feral, and Savvie resolves never to give him the pill she gave him tonight ever again. “Yeah, fucking… fuckin’ do it. Second I don’t play along, there y’go. Bzzzt.” He cackles, a cracked bark of laughter she’s never heard him make before. “Shut me up so you don’t hear me say it.”

Savvie’s heart twists. “Say what?”

The laughter dies in him as suddenly as it appeared. He turns his head, or tries to - it mostly just falls to one side until he’s looking at her. Their eyes meet, his all black pupil and hers with nearly no pupil at all. “How much I fucking hate your fucking guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” She says it firmly, as if he’s being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, Jax. You don’t hate me at all.”

She takes a deep breath. Married couples have fights, even ugly ones sometimes, and they work it out-

“Yeah. I… I really do.” Disgusted, that’s the tone in his voice. Disgusted with her. “I do. I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The look he gives her is such a blatant are you a complete fucking moron that she can hear his voice even though he doesn’t say a word. 

“No, hold on.” She waves one hand, dismissing her own question. His eyes briefly follow the movements of her fingers, distracted by whatever the drugs make him see there. Trails of light, maybe. It’s probably beautiful. “Hold on. I know why-”

“Do you?” His question is sharp, snapped, even as his every muscle can barely tense enough to move. “Do you fuckin’ really?”

“Yes. I do.” Savvie’s too tired to talk him in a circle tonight. She’s just… too exhausted by her bad gamble, bringing neither the snuggly Jax or the scared one, but this angry, vengeful animal instead.

Her headache is getting worse. 

She grabs her glass of wine off the coffee table and chugs it so fast a little drip escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She has to wipe it away, wincing at the… at the idea of how that looks. Her mother would have had a fit about it. If she hadn’t died years ago. “Because I had you kidnapped.” 

Jax is silent, for a beat. He squints at her. “Fuck… what’d you say? Might be hearin’ shit.” 

She laughs, softly. Not her usual laughter, crafted to fill up a room and put all eyes on her. This laugh is barely there, but far more genuine. “No. You're not hallucinating, that shouldn't happen with what I gave you tonight.”

“Oh, good, not this fucking drugging, then, jussss-” His head falls too far to one side and he forces it back up, groaning. “Jusss… others.”

“Only one of the pills does that. And you were cute when you thought there were monsters in the bathroom.” She gets that flat stare from him again and this time she can't hold eye contact, looking down and away, still fiddling with the remote to his collar. “I just. I do know what I did, Jax.”

“Yeah, I fucking know you know-”

“I had you kidnapped.” She takes a deep breath. It feels oddly good to say, like a scene in a movie confessing to a priest. A foul-mouthed priest she’s been sleeping with for over a year. The thought makes her smile, just a little. “My uncle had people watching you, and when I was ready, he knew where you’d be and he abducted you for me. I know that. I know that you’d run, if you could. I’d take your collar off right now if I thought you’d stay without wearing it.”

Jax is silent for so long she briefly wonders if he's flat out forgotten how to talk. Then he shrugs - or tries to, his arms don't quite follow his commands. “You’d find somethin’ else, some other reason for shit ‘round my neck. You fuckin’ like it.”

For the first time, she doesn't deny it. “I do.” She laughs at the way he looks almost comically surprised, unable to keep his usual closed-off expressions in place with the drug coursing through his veins. “What? Can't a girl have a kink?”

“Sure fuckin’ can, but you… you don' have a kink, you got… goddamn victims.”

“... I… yeah. But it-... that's not my point. It isn't about the collar, Jax. Your wedding ring does it for me, too. I could barely wait to get you home after we signed the marriage certificate.”

The glare is back. His hatred is blistering her skin. She watches him try to stand, making it nearly upright before he falls back down again with a heavy thump. 

Her mouth twitches. “You want help, sweetie?”

“Ffffuck you.” 

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking so nicely.” She giggles at her own joke. 

He mumbles something she can't quite hear, trying to stand one more time but quickly giving up. He makes it onto the couch, at least. Savvie stands, turning to grab his ankles, shifting so he’s lying on his back, head and feet each cushioned by the arms of the comfortable, overstuffed couch. He struggles weakly, and it's hard work, but she gets him where she wants him. She barely breathes, taking in his chest rising and falling under his sweater, how his inhales are coming more sharply. 

She can't help herself. 

Savvie climbs on top of him, like she’s done a hundred times. She straddles him, sitting on his hips and leaning down to kiss his neck, nosing under his jaw. At first, his head tips back in resignation - but then he curses and pushes at her weakly instead. “Don’t.”

She grabs his wrists and shoves them above his head. He’s so weak, the drugs have taken all that muscle and made them… useless at holding her off. There’s a shiver of excitement down her spine. “Uh-uh, sweetie. You’re the one who said to fuck you, remember?”

She feels a thrill at saying fuck, like she’s still a kid sneaking swears in her room when her parents won’t overhear. 

“Don't,” He groans. “Sav-... Savvie, stop. G’t off me. I hate you.”

“I know.” She smiles down at him. His eyes meet hers, tired and bleary. Furious and almost resigned. “I know you hate me, Jax… but I love you.”

She leans down, her hair a waterfall curtain, blocking them both off from the world. She can smell the cologne she buys for him, blended with her own pricey perfume. His wrists jerk against her grip and she digs her nails in until he grunts in pain and the skin gives beneath. 

“Savvie,” he whispers. 

“Sssshhh.” She lets go with one hand, shifting both his wrists to her other one, and presses a finger against his lips. “I love you so much,” She whispers. “And I don't need you to love me back, sweetie, I don’t. I just need you to lie for me.”

 She kisses him, then, pressing her lips firmly to his. For half a second, his mouth is slack and unresisting even as his body shudders with disgust. He’s warm, his skin burning up beneath her. Her mouth moves against his, trying to get him to answer her, to open up.

His lips gently part. For a brief moment, Savvie feels the rush of victory.

Then he bites.

Pain blooms in a sudden flare as his teeth bury themselves into her lower lip and he jerks his head to the side, sensitive skin tearing.

“Shit!” Savvie jerks backwards, staring down at him wide-eyed. She can taste her own blood in her mouth. It’s smeared on his lips and his teeth like badly-done lipstick as he gives her a smile that's really a snarl. “Oh my God, Jax-... how dare you-”

“Fuck you! Don't fucking touch me!” He gets his arms more or less under his own control and shoves her off of him. She crashes into the coffee table, the legs giving out, tumbling her to the floor. Pain spikes hot and demanding along her hip where she hits the hard angle of the corner and she finds herself the one lying on the floor, while Jax slowly sits up, wiping blood off his lips. 

Her blood. 

Savvie pulls her fingers from her mouth and gasps. There’s a smear of red, bright and vibrant, the unmistakable sense of blood trickling down over her chin. She tongues at the wound, then winces as the pain flares bright, like he’s bitten her all over again. She considers tears - looks at the loathing in his eyes, the absolute rage written in the lines of his face - and then decides they’re wasted on him tonight. Instead, she just shakes her head. “That hurt.”

“Good. Don' like bein’ the one fucking bleeding for once, huh?” His eyes drift closed. He struggles to open them again, to keep his eyes on her. “Shit feelin’, isn't it?” 

“God.” She swallows. Blood on her tongue is making her feel nauseous and she gets to her feet carefully. Her mouth and hip throb. She’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, going to ache so much. “You’re awful sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He hasn't bothered to try and get the red off his teeth. “I know. So… so fffffuckin’ get rid of me, then.”

Savvie snorts, limping a little as she moves to pick up the spilled wine bottle from the floor. She could shock him now - that’s what she would usually do. Or call Isaac and have him carted off to spend another month locked in the kennels with the dogs. He… probably doesn’t care about that, though. Anything to get away from her. Anything is better than her, to him.

“Get rid of you?” She drinks the last swallow in the bottle, washing blood down her throat with the wine. “Then what, Jax? I should just… live here alone, without you, for the rest of my life?”

“Fucking-... yes, or go fucking die. I don't fucking care.” The flush of hot anger bleeds away, his voice softening a little. “I don't… don' care, Savvie. I don’t care about you.”

“No. You do.” She feels a burst of desperation to make him understand. “You hate me, right? That’s caring about me, still.”

“Savvie-”

“No. I love you. You are mine, and I am keeping you. This is love, Jax. What I feel for you is true love.” 

He shakes his head, swaying a little where he sits. He tries to push her away again as she takes him by the arm but his burst of energy seems to have used him up. He lets her, in the end, get him onto his feet. She leads him on his unsteady legs out of the room, and he stumbles along with her. 

“S'not love,” He mumbles. She keeps an arm around his waist to help him balance. “Fucking… fuck you. Let me leave, Savvie.”

He doesn't have the strength to push her away, not anymore. He has to use her to stay up as they take the stairs one at a time, although after three or four he jerks away again and uses the railing, leaning heavily against it as he drags himself upwards, inch by inch, step by step. 

She lets him pull away, watching his determination to not need her, how badly he doesn’t even want her. There’s a canyon inside of her, something dark and deep that hurts so much worse than her hip or her torn open lower lip, threatening to claw its way out as she watches the man she has forced to play the role of her husband do anything he can to avoid her touch. 

Her jaw sets. “It is. It is love, and you know what? It’s all the love you’re going to get. Ever. No one else will ever love you.” Savvie’s voice stays low. “You’re not… you’re not lovable, Jax, but I don’t care, I love you anyway. Nobody else would. No one is ever going to even want to love you but me.”

He slumps. The fight’s all gone out of him, for now. Her gamble failed tonight and Jax is buckling under the weight of what runs through his veins, the heavy expectations in her eyes and her smile and her devotion. 

“Fuck,” is all he says, barely a whisper under his breath.

Savvie sighs, touching her fingers to her lip again. The bleeding has slowed but there’s still a spot of red. “Goes both ways, though, I think.”

He doesn't look at her. “What?”

“This… how much you hate me… how I had to kidnap you, and put that thing on your neck to keep you here, how you wish you were anywhere but here with me… you know, I, I get it.”

He has to stop at the landing and lean over, resting his forehead against the wall. 

She lays a hand on his back, leaning over to speak right against his ear. “I get that your hate is all the love I’m going to get, too, Jax. Nobody else will ever love me, either.” 

Her throat feels tight, and she can’t tell if she really feels the twisting nerves in her stomach, the sense of dread, or if it’s part of her act for Jax. Sometimes even Savvie isn’t sure when she means the things she says. Sometimes, even worse, she really does.

“All we’re ever going to have is each other.”

He doesn’t answer her. But when she takes his arm in her hand, he allows himself to be dragged along towards her bedroom. The fight might be gone, but so is the feeling. There’s nothing in his eyes that shows he even heard her.

That’s okay. She can be honest, in the dark, in the middle of the night, knowing that he’s too drugged to remember anything she said when he wakes up again. She’ll lie to herself again by morning. So will he.

She just needs him to lie. 

-

@whumpyourdamnpears consider this my evil savvie gift to you

#whump #amonthofwhump #amow tropeathon day 1 #duel #intimate whumper #obsessive whumper #creepy whumper #noncon touch #noncon kissing #noncon references #sadistic whumper #drugging tw #drugged whumpee #jax #comfy-whumpee #captivity #defiant whumpee #whumpee fights back #amow tropeathon2024 #day1

[oddsconvert]

TW: pet whump, captivity, intimate whumper, non/dubcon touching, dehumanisation

The pets head lolls back against it's owners chest, it's heart beating ten to the dozen, almost bursting through their ribcage. Whumper lets out a low hum, nuzzling the tip of their nose into the dip of the pets collarbone, arms hooked tight around it's belly.

"You're the best drunk purchase I've ever made."

#bad small drabble 🫶 #but this was on my mind #pet whump #captivity #intimate whumper #noncon touch #dubcon touch #whump #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr #whump blog #whumpee #whumper #whump drabbles #whump snippet #whump thoughts #whump prompt

[hold-him-down]

A prompt: Ivan has Leo strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

tw: forced to fight, electrocution, restraints, nonsexual nudity, noncon touch

notes: somewhere early in ivan days

Strung Up

“It’s different from the collar,” Ivan says, somewhere just outside of Leo’s line of sight. He tries to crane his neck, to twist his body, to get eyes on what's to come. He can't pinpoint what exactly it will be, but he knows it won't be good. He's been in this room for what could be hours, what feels like hours, his wrists bound tightly above his head, his body hanging.

From above the door, the red light promises as much.

He isn't made to wait long. Without warning, Ivan materializes in front of him, his fingers digging into Leo's chin to lift his head.

“You know it fucking frustrates me that you make me take these measures, Leo,” he says, peering up at him through narrowed eyes. 

Leo can feel himself shaking, with every movement sending shooting pain through his shoulders. He doesn’t look away, though.

He can’t, however, form the words he knows he needs to form. The, 'I’m sorry, sir,' that he knows Ivan craves. His throat is raw, and even if he wanted to say it, he doesn't think any sound would come. He can't apologize, and he can't promise it won't happen again, because he's not sorry, and it will, he thinks. It will happen again, and again, and again. Because something in him is broken, and he's almost positive he won't make his way out of this contract, and at night, when that becomes its most obvious, his resolve gets stronger and stronger.

He's drawn back to the moment by an unexpected blow and his vision swims, and almost mercifully his head drops, and the world goes dark.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

“Come back to me,” Ivan is saying, almost lovingly. And then, as Leo forces his eyes open, Ivan says, “There you are.”

Leo's stomach turns over, and the inescapable pain momentarily overcomes him. Through dried, cracked lips, Leo whispers a nearly-silent, “Please,” and Ivan steps back.

It’s in that moment that Leo sees the long, almost definitely electrified baton, come toward his stomach, and a moment later, the world is engulfed in a fiery pain that consumes every part of him.

He can’t quite tell when Ivan stops, but he knows that it happens, because eventually he becomes aware of parts of himself. The screams that pull from deep within his chest, sending fresh flames through his already raw throat. Each thrash against the restraints that lights his shoulders ablaze. The sweat that drips from his hair, down his face and neck, onto somewhere below him.

“Easy, easy,” Ivan is saying, his voice close. “Take a breath, Leo,” he whispers. Leo sucks in as much air as he can, and Ivan laughs softly, his lips touching Leo’s forehead. “My boy,” he says, pulling back enough to see his whole face. "You are doing fine."

He’s distantly aware that it’s no longer just Ivan and him in the room, but further back, a man stands next to Ivan’s doctor.

Ivan is speaking to the man, who walks over to Leo with a hunger in his eyes.

He’s young, maybe no older than Leo himself. He rolls the sleeves up on his crisp white shirt and puts his hand out. Leo flinches as the man makes contact, first cupping the back of his neck, then running the same hand down his chest.

He holds Leo’s gaze for a moment then smiles, taking a step back.

“You think more?” Ivan asks, and the man nods.

Ivan looks at Leo then, and says, “You lost him a shit ton of money tonight.” Ivan sucks in a sharp breath, and continues, “Granted, it was fucking stupid to bet on you, wasn’t it? You are not ready for all that. Yet.”

Leo swallows, steeling himself against the pain that he knows is coming.

“I have been brainstorming with some of my guests, what to do with you.” He clicks his tongue. “A consolation prize would be interesting, I think. We have to keep the clientele happy, don’t we?” This part, he says softly; a secret between the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally chokes out, his voice teetering on the edge of desperation.

“You say that a lot,” Ivan whispers back, with bite behind the words. He retreats and hands the tool to the other man, winking at Leo as he does. “Enjoy your time with him,” Ivan says, louder now, more a message to Leo than to anyone else. “I don’t prefer to share my boys in this way, but sometimes, it is justified.” Ivan gives Leo a once-over and Leo wonders, briefly, what he sees. How bruised he’s become, just in the two weeks he’s spent here. How thin he is, how desperate for any kind of reprieve. If he can see how he shakes, if he knows how bad it hurts. He blinks slowly, on the edge of losing consciousness and simply drifting away. He knows Ivan won’t allow it. If he knows nothing else, of that much he’s sure. Breaths come harder and slower, and he hears, distantly, “If you feel that he is dying, send Mikhail a text message. He is prepared to deal with it.”

Through heavy, salt-burned eyes, Leo watches Ivan retreat, and the doctor follows. Without warning, the man turns to him, and as instantly as a thought of mercy crosses his mind, it vanishes, and the world is once more engulfed in flames.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

When Leo awakens, he’s being carried through the maze-like halls of the basement. He tries to lift his head, to give some indication that he’s conscious, but no part of his body will cooperate. He doesn’t have the strength to hope that the man carrying him is not the same man who did this to him; he doesn’t have the strength to hope for anything.

“It’s alright,” he hears, but the sounds are warbled, the voice unfamiliar. “Almost there.”

He’s carried into one of the bathrooms and placed carefully into the shower stall. Through blurred vision, he can see that the light is yellow, and he lets himself drift away.

He's distantly aware of time passing, of being moved, of being spoken not to, but about. When he opens his eyes again, it's another worker, familiar only to him in passing, who leans over him, washing away the evidence of what was done. Leo begins the agonizing process of trying to speak, but before he can, the man says, “Don’t.” He moves the rag down Leo’s side, his touch light but not light enough to avoid reigniting the dulling pain. Leo flinches.

“Sorry,” the man says, his voice devoid of any real emotion. “Petrov won’t tolerate camaraderie.” The worker repositions Leo, rinsing away more blood and exposing more of the damage to his body. “I’d be lying if I said I knew what exactly he wanted me to do to you here.” Leo isn’t sure if the man is talking to him or not, so he stays silent. “Mikhail, the doctor, will see you once you’re cleaned up,” he continues. “You’re Leo, right?”

Leo urges himself to focus on the man, nodding.

“I’m Dante,” he says. There's silence as the worker, Dante, continues dutifully washing Leo's wrecked body. Several minutes pass in this way, before Dante says, “I’ve been here for almost two years." Dante keeps his eyes off of Leo's face, but keeps speaking. "I saw your fight tonight, if that’s what you want to call it.” He pushes Leo forward, letting the water flow down his back. Leo cries out softly, the pain in his ribs electric, and squeezes his hands into fists.

There's another silence as Leo catches his breath, longer this time.

“My best guess is Petrov wants me to talk sense into you,” Dante eventually continues, running the rag down Leo’s spine. Leo hisses in a breath, automatically pulling away. Dante pauses in his movements, briefly this time, before taking some unspoken signal that Leo is ready to continue. He moves to sit back on his heels, taking Leo’s hands in his. He turns them over, running soap over each finger, under each nail, and rinsing away all remaining evidence.

“You can’t survive this way,” he finally says, his tone colder now. “Being under a contract like this… it could kill you. He’s killed more than a few workers since I’ve been here, but he always finds a way to get new contracts. You don’t have to fight every night, but when you do… you have to at least try... or, if not try, pretend. Even if you have no intention of winning. Even if you have full intention of sticking it to him. If you want to survive, you have to figure out what you're okay with.”

Leo nods. Dante drops his hands, standing abruptly.

“He’ll make you fight again tomorrow,” Dante says. “The doctor will tell him not to, but he won’t care. He’ll do it over and over until he thinks you’ve figured things out.”

“What if I don’t–” Leo chokes out, swallowing back a new wave of agony. “If I don’t figure things out?” He closes his eyes in a desperate bid to compartmentalize the pain.

“If you don’t tomorrow, you will the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that, maybe. There’s no long term opt-out. There’s only participate, or go through this, night after night, until you do.”

Dante opens the door, then turns to look back at Leo. “We’re not friends now, we’re not coworkers, and we’re not allies. I am doing what I can to survive, and if you get in the way of that, if it comes down to my safety versus yours, I’ll choose mine.” His face, and his voice, soften almost imperceptibly, as he says, “Just pretend. That's all he wants right now."

He leaves then, letting the door close behind him.

#the fighter #peachy and i sent each other this prompt after we watched that movie #forced to fight #nonsexual nudity #noncon touch #torture

[flowersarefreetherapy]

“I don’t belong to you! I have a master and they’re gonna be really mad if you touch me!”

- sara / @justplainwhump

CW: Noncon touch, noncon kiss, sexually degrading language, begging, pet whump, creepy/intimate whumper

“I don’t belong to, to, to you! I have a master and he’s gonna be, be really mad if you, you, you touch me!” 

The man laughs. Star can’t breathe, the hallway twisting around him. Where is Daniel? Where is his master? Why did he think he could go step out of the party alone? That was stupid, so stupid, of course it was stupid, he’s nothing but a stupid whore, he knows that. 

“Don’t play dumb with me,” the man mutters, his fingers tracing down Star’s face. “Look at you. You’re a good fuck, aren’t you. I know how they train you little sluts. Will do anything I say, right?”

“No,” Star breathes. “No. No! You can’t, my, my, my master won’t allow you.”

The man’s hand slams into the wall next to his head. Star flinches, cowering back against the wall, the wainscoting digging into his back. Hot breath ghosts across his cheek and he swallows back a sob. Pull on the mask, smile like he’s been trained to, behave the way he does for Theodore. The man is right. He is trained to behave for everyone. This is what he’s supposed to do. 

“You smell good,” the man breathes. Star whimpers as he licks his neck, tongue tracing the edge of his jaw. “And you taste even better.”

“Please,” Star whispers. “Please, sir …..”

“Oh, I like that. Say that again, whore.”

Star tries to hold onto his original anger, but it slips between his fingers like grains of sand. Tears burn his eyes. He’s going to cry. What would Daniel do? 

He would fight them. He would be annoying. He doesn’t follow the training. 

. . . But he isn’t loved. If you obey, then you’ll be loved. 

“Please, sir,” he whispers. 

“Good slut.” The man grabs his jaw. “I don’t care what your master thinks. You’re too cute to let go.”

He kisses him, pushing him back against the wall. Star whimpers and brings his hand up to push the man away. If Theodore finds them, he’ll be so unhappy and there’s that specific look he’ll give Star and his heart breaks just at the thought of his master being disappointed. 

“Don’t try that,” the man growls. “Don’t fight back, whore. I know you want this. Now, on your knees.”

Star nods, dropping to his knees with practiced ease. Tears roll down his eyes and his hands shake. He pretends he’s back in his small bedroom, with carpet under his knees, not the hard wood of the hallway. It’s Daniel’s fingers in his hair, playing softly with his curls instead of pulling. It’s Daniel’s soft voice praising him instead of the man’s sharp words. It’s everything he could have if he was stronger, if he had fought back, if he was a fighter like Daniel. 

I’m not a fighter. This is what I was designed for. This is what I’m good for. 

For a moment, the words are enough to calm his racing heart. The mantra is familiar and calming. After all, it’s what everyone has always told him. 

Why would they ever be wrong? 

#emotional whump #intimate whumper #noncon touch #noncon kiss #sexually degrading language #begging #pet whump #answered asks #star my beloved #thank you!!

[honeycollectswhump]

The Main Attraction

[masterlist]

oh look the guy that was supposed to be a one-off character is back <3 you can blame @whumpcloud for influencing me so much and also forcing me to give him a recovery arc (eventually...)

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, cigarette burns, sexual harassement / non-con touch (not explicitly sexual)

Mistress has visitors over, Ashtray knows. He can tell from the waves of noises spilling through the cracks of the closed door. They will get a house tour, as usual, through his Mistress’ extravagant rooms, adorned by only the finest decor. His mistress likes to make a show out of it, heightening the suspense of beauty until they’d reach the final room, the one where she displays her most beautiful possessions. 

Ashtray is so, so lucky to be counted as one of those.

Today, he is strung up by his wrists with golden chains, his torso bare and exposed, tangling in the middle of the room. Of course, Mistress hasn’t explicitly stated that he is the main attraction, and surely Ashtray is never the main anything, but he knows he was expensive and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the reason behind his placement.

If his Mistress were here, it would be different but left alone like this, Ashtray can’t help but focus on the pain. It disappears whenever she is near, floating away as if carried by a cloud. 

But she isn’t, so without anything to dampen the pain, Ashtray can feel his shoulders scream against the strain. The many round scars that litter his arms stretch and pull into a somewhat oval shape. It burns, in an almost nonsensical way. Ashtray knows what true burns feel like, yet his mind supplies no better term. 

Objects shouldn’t feel pain, Ashtray has been taught over and over and over. Still, some part of him feels like that should be a lie, even though an object like him has no right to discern between truth and untruth. Of course, he feels pain; denying that seems silly, he must because that's what he was made for, that’s part of what made his price so high. 

Distantly, he can hear the footsteps getting louder and louder, until finally, the big door is opened and his beloved Mistress steps inside. Ashtray isn’t allowed to look up, not unless he has been used, but he knows how this goes. There is a gasp as the visitor takes in the beauty of the hall, gold and jewels shimmering everywhere. And in the middle–

In the middle there is Ashtray.

He keeps his gaze dutifully turned downwards, even as the stranger approaches. He talks with Ashtray’s Mistress in a rough and scratchy voice that seems to swallow each vowel. It's not worth mentioning, compared to the clear and articulated gentleness of his Mistress. 

The stranger lifts Ashtray's head to meet his eyes, his index finger and thumb hard against Ashtray’s chin. Ashtray unfocuses his vision, makes sure he is carefully empty. He doesn’t need to hide any curiosity when he is just an object. 

He doesn’t need to understand the words to know they are talking about him. The man lets go of Ashtray's chin, instead opting to run his hand through Ashtray’s soft hair, curling golden locks around his coarse fingers. Ashtray doesn’t have to suppress a shiver, he doesn’t, as the man rests the other hand on his hip and then calculatedly starts to slip lower. 

He is just an Ashtray. The man knows that, right?

Eventually, his Mistress clears her throat and the man lets go. Even though the touch has disappeared, Ashtray can feel the hands stick to his skin like goo, leaving marks on him only he can see.

He’s supposed to be clean and pure and pretty, each mark a proof of how Good he is. But somehow he feels dirty. Ruined. 

The conversation passes by him without making a dent in his consciousness, even as the first cigarettes are lit and the familiar smell of smoke fills the room. His Mistress elegantly grabs one of the chains, pulling Ashtray closer to herself with a sort of purr that would normally fill him with ecstasy. Not even her pressing her cigarette end against his rib makes him stir.

Only when the man turns towards Ashtray does he snap to attention. He feels hyperaware of every fibre on his body as the man’s eyes scan over him. 

Ashtray freezes, his entire being tense and rigid, as the knowledge pools over him that he can’t run, he can’t escape and that thought makes everything worse. 

Escape??

Ashtrays don’t run away, they don’t escape, they don’t even think about it. Ashtray can’t remember ever having such thoughts with his Mistress before. But he knows for certain that this makes him Bad. He needs punishment and he needs it right now.

He bites his tongue until the stinging pain joins the aching waves rolling over him and the thought of escape is buried deep down with all the other Bad thoughts Ashtray sometimes has but never admits. 

Without sitting up, the man takes his cigarette and presses it into Ashtray’s pelvic region, letting it sizzle away at the skin. Something crawls under his skin like worms and Ashtray has to fight to stay unmoving. 

He has to be a Good Boy. He needs to be a Good Boy. But somehow this strange man is taking all of his training and ripping it to shreds and Ashtray can do nothing but watch as his very being frays at the seams.

Muffled, as if through cotton, he hears his Mistress giggle, but the sound doesn’t lift his pain, doesn’t make him pure again as it should. Instead, it makes Ashtray want to scream 

He was made for her! For his Mistress! Not this stranger man with his ugly voice and rough, uncaring hands and touches that make the butterflies in his stomach turn into maggots. 

The man kisses his cheek, kisses a single tear escaping Ashtray’s eye, rolling down his face and betraying his silent act. He doesn’t need words to convey it.

You are even prettier when you cry.

#he's our guy now <3 #fun fact! this was actually not the direction this “drabble” was supposed to go in #ashtray just took over. and this happened <3 #the original idea will be written later on... hopefully #ashtray/skye (oc) #honey's writing #The Ashtray #ashtray whumpee #human furniture #furniture whump #object whumpee #object whump #burns #chains #stress position #noncon touch #cigarette burns #pet whump #pet whumpee #conditioned whumpee #dehumanization #whumpee and whumper #lady whumper #multiple whumpers #whump writing #whump drabble

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 2

Read Part 1 here

CWs: whumper POV, kidnapping, mind control, gaslighting, belting/whipping with a belt, restraints, noncon touch

It only took ten minutes for the shouting to start. Gianna sat placidly on her couch and listened to the muffled curses coming from upstairs. It turned out that Shelby was very creative when pissed off; Gianna was excited to hear what they’d come up with under real duress.

Still, she didn’t rush it—she wanted to make sure her influence was well and truly out of Shelby’s system before she got started. She enjoyed the ebb and flow of their shouts for a while before she finally slipped her silk gloves back on, gathered her supplies, and headed upstairs.

At the sound of her approach, the shouts in the guest bathroom abruptly went quiet—only to explode when she opened the door. “What the fuck?!” Shelby demanded, twisting around as best they could in their restraints. With their hands cuffed to the towel bar, they had to crane their neck in order to face her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Gianna hummed as she deposited her supplies on the counter next to the sink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” they hissed. The handcuffs rattled against the bar as they gestured. “What the fuck is this?”

It was so tempting to take off her gloves and soothe them again, but at the same time, her body thrummed with excitement at their anger. She could definitely get used to this—their defiant scowl, the hint of fear in their eyes … “We’re just having a little fun, that’s all.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Besides, I don’t remember forcing you to be here.”

She stepped back just in time to avoid their lunge, and the cuffs rattled and scraped against the towel bar. “I don’t want to be here!” they shouted. “I don’t know what the fuck you did to me, but—”

“How could I have done anything to you?” she asked innocently, hands clasped behind her back. “You didn’t even take the drink I offered you. You agreed to come here, didn’t you?”

Uncertainty flashed in their eyes, but it was quickly replaced by rage. “I agreed to spend the night, not—whatever this is.” They swallowed as they spotted the supplies on the counter. They took a deep, measured breath. “Just—just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Now turn around.”

They backed up against the wall, still facing her with their arms twisted awkwardly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picked up the kitchen scissors from the counter. “Turn around, or this is going to hurt much more than necessary.”

Their eyes widened, their breaths becoming shallow. “You wouldn’t—”

Without warning, she jabbed the scissors into their arm. They yelped and sucked in a breath. She smiled as she leaned forward. “I said, turn around, beautiful.”

Slowly, they complied, taking shaky breaths as they gripped the bar in front of them. In a way, Gianna did find it beautiful: the way their shoulders trembled, their knuckles turning white, their head bowing in anticipation. The bathroom mirror hung just across from them, so even with their back turned, she could see their eyes wrinkling around the edges as they squeezed them shut.

She snipped the scissors, delighting in the way Shelby flinched at the noise. “Now, stay still,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t want to cut you.”

She teased the blade against their exposed lower back before slicing up their thin, skimpy shirt. As they realized what was happening, they let out a gasp, but they stayed still, stiff and trembling. Gianna smiled; they were a quick learner.

Just for fun, she ran the scissors down the dip of their spine. This time, they flinched, arching their back away. “Careful,” Gianna murmured. She drew the scissors away and admired the expanse of their back, a blank canvas. Reverently, she ran her gloved hand over their bare skin.

They jerked away, pressing into the wall. For a moment, it startled her; she was used to being leaned into, not pulled away from. “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!” Shelby snapped.

She just smiled. By the end of this, they’d be begging for her touch. She put down the scissors and picked up the belt, folding it over. “Well, if you really don’t want me touching you …”

They caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, and the blood drained from their face. “No. No, no, no—”

“Just relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The hard smack of leather against skin startled her, but the cry it drew from their lips was divine. She paused to admire the mark across their shoulder blade. Their muscles rippled as they panted, squeezing the bar tight. “Don’t—”

She hit them again, and again, and again. Power rushed through her—a more raw, exhilarating kind of power than anything her persuasion could give her. By the seventh strike, Shelby was crying. By the twelfth, their legs shook with the effort of keeping upright. Every whine and whimper and cut-off plea gave her chills; it was absolutely gorgeous.

Still, she couldn’t have fun forever, not if she wanted to keep her toy. She stopped precisely after the fifteenth strike, resting the belt in her hand. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over the welts on Shelby’s back. Gianna couldn’t help it; she put down the belt and ran her hand over their shoulder blades. They cried out, trembling as they arched away.

A thrill ran through her, and she grinned. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m about to make this so much better.” She pulled off her gloves and laid them on the counter.

Shelby cowered away. “Don’t.” Their voice was thick with tears. “Don’t touch me.” They flinched as her hand reached for their shoulder.

As soon as her skin made contact, they went limp—knees thudding against the ground, wrists yanking painfully upwards. A pitiful moan escaped their lips as their big, teary eyes gazed up at her.

A surprised laugh burst from her lips; she hadn’t expected it to work quite that well. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” They nodded eagerly, distressed and desperately leaning into her touch. She cupped their face with her other hand, and they melted against her, eyes slipping shut as she thumbed tears from their cheek. “Oh, you poor thing.” She laughed again, feeling giddy. The rude, defiant person she’d met back at the club was nowhere to be found. Shelby was like putty in her hands.

She let go long enough to unlock the handcuffs, and Shelby whined the whole time, as if they’d rather stay locked up for an eternity if it meant she’d never let them go. Their arms fell limply to their sides, and they winced at the pain, their chafed wrists twitching. The remains of their skimpy top slid down their arms, and they didn’t even seem to notice, still chasing Gianna’s touch. She grabbed the spare t-shirt off the counter and helped them into it. Each brush of her fingers against their skin made them sigh.

Seeing them like this was intoxicating. Of course, Gianna was used to people adoring her, wanting to be near her, but this was something else entirely. Shelby followed her movements like a moth drawn to a flame, desperate for her touch. It was incredible; she could easily get addicted to this.

“Come on, sweet thing, time for bed.” She helped them to their feet, and they clung to her side all the way to the bed. They flopped down like a ragdoll on top of the covers, head lolling on the pillow. God, they were just helpless—maybe she should have held her powers back a little … She caressed their cheek, restraining the flow of her powers as she did so. “God, you’re so stupid like this,” she murmured

To her surprise, there was a flicker of something in their eyes, a downward twitch of their mouth. “’M not …” They shook their head, then paused, as if worried Gianna would disapprove.

“Oh, of course not, beautiful.” She smiled as she climbed onto the bed next to them, sitting up against the headboard. She kept petting their hair. “You’re just so good for me.”

Again, there was that twitch in their face, like they were struggling to form a scowl. Their cheek nuzzled into her palm, muffling their words. “Fuck off.”

Gianna’s eyebrows shot up, and she paused in her caresses. “What did you just say to me, love?” she asked, wondering if she could get them to say it again—wondering how far her powers really extended into their psyche.

They sighed against her skin as their hands balled into fists. “I said, fuck off.”

And yet they curled closer to her, their cheek pressed into her hand. A slow grin spread across Gianna’s face. “Interesting,” she murmured. “Tell me, what does this feel like for you? If you have the capacity to explain, that is.”

Their eyes narrowed, and they finally seemed to break out of their stupor. “Asshole.”

She started petting their hair again, and their eyes fluttered shut with a sigh. “Answer my question, sweet thing.”

They exhaled deeply. “It’s like drugs,” they finally mumbled. A pause. “It’s better than drugs. No pain, just … bliss.”

She hummed thoughtfully. Few people knew about her powers, so she didn’t get many opportunities to experiment like this. “So when I take my hand away …”

She dragged her long, manicured fingernails across their back. “Fuck!” They recoiled, shuddering. “Stop!” As soon as she touched their forehead, they went limp again, swearing under their breath.

“Interesting.” She scratched their scalp absently. She never knew her powers could have a pain relieving effect … This could be interesting—in the future, of course. For now, her little toy needed a break. “You’ve been very good, pet.”

“I’m not—” They shivered with pleasure, leaning into her touch, their voice a low growl. “I’m not your pet. I’m gonna call the fucking cops on you.”

Gianna just hummed doubtfully. “And you really think they’ll believe you? You came here willingly. I didn’t force you to do anything.”

They lifted their head, starting to pull away. “You handcuffed me in your bathroom!”

She grabbed their hair and dragged their head back down against her leg. “You let me do that, pet.” She added just a smidge more persuasion as she massaged her fingers against their scalp. “You could leave, if you wanted to, but you’re lying here with me. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” They didn’t budge an inch.

“You have such a hard time getting along with people, don’t you?” She kept her tone light, but from the way they flinched, she could tell she’d hit a nerve. “But it’s so nice that you’ve warmed up to me like this. Now you have someone aside from that awful sister of yours.”

Her persuasion didn’t linger for long after an encounter. In the long-term, she couldn’t convince someone of something they didn’t already believe. But if Shelby already believed they were unlikeable, if they felt deep down that no one would take their side in this … Well, if they thought that, then it wasn’t Gianna’s fault, was it?

Shelby shifted against her leg, but they didn’t respond. Gianna kept running her fingers through their hair. Their bangs were fried from bleach; maybe at some point she could help with their hair. After all, she couldn’t have her toy looking like they didn’t take care of themself. But that was a problem for later. “Well, you’ve had a long night,” she murmured. “Get some sleep, beautiful.”

They shook their head. “Don’t want to …” A yawn slipped out, and their eyelids drooped. Before long, their breathing grew deep and even. Gianna smiled and kept petting them, dreaming about what else she might do with her new plaything.

~

Tag list: @whumpshaped @paperprinxe @suspicious-whumping-egg @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @toyybox @mommymarichatfurever @cardboardarsonist

#whump writing #whump #mind control whump #kidnapping whump #whumper pov #restrained #noncon touch #kidnapping tw #whipping tw #belting tw #gaslighting tw #zipwrites #oc: gianna jennings #oc: shelby #i had so much fun with this you have no idea #gave myself whumperflies #currently i don't have any other plans for these two but i'm open to suggestions! #they're so fun >:)

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

Whumptober No. 2: “They don't care about you.”

TW: emotional abuse, nonconsensual touch, lice, creepy whumper, implied pet whumpee

Whumper ran their fingers through Whumpee's lice infested hair, none too gentle as they undid matted tangles.

Whumpee wished for nothing more than the privacy of their home, and affection from someone they truly cared for.

"What are you thinking about, my darling?"

"H- Home." Whumpee blinked away their tears. "My family."

"They don't care about you," Whumper cooed, still playing with Whumpee's hair. "I'm the only one who loves you. Surely you know that by now."

Whumpee's legs burned from the hours spent kneeling by Whumper's side, phantom flames racing through their flesh, red hot and blinding.

"Yes ma'am."

Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @whumpsday @whumpshaped @heavenlyeden

#Abraham original: Hot off the press #Whumptober2023 #Whumptober day 2 #They don't care about you #Whump #Creepy whumper #Pet whumpee #Noncon touch #Whump drabble

[painsandconfusion]

Hey there Sand. Gonna level with ya, I'm in a bad headspace right now and I probably will be for the next several days. I was hoping I could get some of your writing as a distraction. Maybe a yandere whumper that drugs and restrains their darling whumpee?? Or whatever you wanna do really, and if you'd rather not, that's okay too! Love your writing <3

I could use a little of this too. Today has been hhhhhhhh-

I wrote this in ten minutes and didn't proofread, sooooo enjoy!

.

Don't Fight It

(tw: drugging, yandere whumper, kidnapping, creepy/intimate whumper, noncon touch/kiss (nothing explicit))

[Drabble Masterpost]

“..what….did y-..” Whumpee blinked hard, staring around the room. Trying to clear..th…to clear the….ffog-? Fog.

“Shhh…” Whumper’s warm hand pulled a squeaking whine from Whumpee’s throat as they pulled them closer. “It’s just some medicine- It’s alright, love…”

Whumpee squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Whumper’s grip and off the couch. “Mmnnnoo-”

“Yes.” Their captor reeled them back in, dragging Whumpee against their chest and wrapping their arms snug around their captive. It’s just to help you sleep, love - I know you’ve been so on edge lately..” 

Whumpee whimpered as Whumper’s nose nuzzled in against the side of their neck. “Don’t fight it.” They pressed a soft kiss to Whumpee’s throat.

Whumpee squirmed, eyes burning as they squeezed shut, twisting away. “Pl-ease d-”

“SHH-” Fingers once gentle bruised in against their arm and waist.

Whumpee locked in place, breath catching and trembling in their lungs. 

Frozen.

“Mm..” Whumper nuzzled a kiss into their hair, grip softening into gentle warmth again. “Better.”

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

#creepy whumper #intimate whumper #yandere #yandere whumper #noncon touch #noncon kiss #drugging #kidnapping #sand asks #request #whump #whump scene #whump drabble #just a little blurb for you cuz i have SOOOOOO much writing for work today #this was a nice lil break tho #I FORGOT THE RESTRAINTS #GOLDANGIT #eh i can pt 2 later or something

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🧤 Invasive/Uncomfortable exam for Rafael

CW: BBU, medical whump, medical setting, dubcon touching (nonsexual), discussions of dubcon/noncon, BBU, pet whump

-

"What seems to be the nature of the problem?" The doctor isn't asking him. No one ever asks Rafael questions - he's just a pet, after all, barely human.

A human-shaped sex toy. Like a vibrator that needs to be fed three times a day. He hums, a sound like a flat vibration, and then smiles, a little dreamily, at the internal joke.

Everyone ignores him.

"Someone went rough on him last night," Boscoe says with a shrug. His master's favorite and highest-level servant, paid a small fortune to handle these sorts of things in his absence, pretending that it wasn't him who went so rough, that he isn't the reason Rafael is here right now.

Rafael slept alone in the big bed last night, once Boscoe was done with him, and he barely slept at all. The ache still throbbing and spiking through his lower half has as much to do with that as the loneliness.

The clinician looks at Boscoe with eyebrows raised above her glasses, waits a beat, and then primpts, "Any more detail than that?"

"Nope." Boscoe shrugs again, gives a half-cocked grin. "Sorry, I'm just the household manager. Mr. and Mrs. Isbell went on vacation in Europe."

They had kissed him, each of them, and then left him lying in the bed, trying not to cry. Boscoe had come in an hour later, and told him to make noise, as much as he wanted.

So he did.

He never tells his masters about Boscoe hurting him when they're gone, because only with Boscoe is Rafael ever allowed to scream.

"Fine." The doctor looks Rafael over, without distaste or judgement but with absolutely no feeling at all. It's almost nice, to have someone who doesn't need to tell him he's pretty, or that he looks like a good slut, or any of the things the people around his masters seem to believe are compliments. "All right, you, lay down on your back for me and just scoot those hips right to the edge."

"Yes, ma'am," He responds, laying back on the padded exam table easily, even allowing his back to arch with graceful, perfectly feigned thoughtless seduction as he slips his heels into the leather stirrups and moves his arms slowly over his head, shifting until his ass nearly hangs off the edge.

"Good boy," The doctor says absently. Rafael shivers a little with pleasure at the praise, keeping his eyes closed and biting down on his lower lip. It's a trained reaction, one that's thoughtless by now, but it's never really instinct.

The nurse, an older woman, doesn't even look at him as she takes her place at the end of the table. The doctor grunts as she puts on blue latex gloves and smears clear lubricant on her fingers. "Hold steady, pet. This might cause some discomfort."

Rafael wants to ask her if there is anything you can do to him that doesn't.

He keeps his mouth shut, though.

Boscoe is still watching him with his arms crossed where he stands against the wall. Rafael chances only the slightest glance, looking away when he sees Boscoe's eyes trailing over the welts left along Rafael's ribs from the night before, the bite marks so deep they've bruised in the shape of teeth on one hip.

"His owner signed off on the use of his body?" The doctor asks as she slides the first finger inside. Rafael bites his lower lip harder to keep himself quiet, because it doesn't feel uncomfortable - it stings, torn skin protesting yet another invasion.

"Yes," Boscoe lies easily. Then, to add a kernel of truth, "They often allow their friends or business partners to use him."

Not their employees, though, but that's never stopped Boscoe. And Rafael knows how to keep secrets, knows how to trade his silence in front of the masters for the ability to weep when they're gone.

One finger becomes two, then three, the pain rising, and Rafael can't hold back the softest whimper no matter how hard he tries. "Ma'am-... Ma'am, I-"

"Sssshhh," The doctor shushes him harshly, and Rafael swallows back any thin, weak protest against her touch he might have been able to manage. "I know. I can tell this is hurting you."

She doesn't stop, though. She gets a small silver tool out, rubs it over in the same lubricant, and then forces that inside, too.

When Rafael cries out, the nurse slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle him, glaring down at him at his vision blurs with tears. His chest heaves, panting with the need for this to stop, to stop hurting, just to give him a minute to prepare himself for it.

But no one listens to him.

It's not like he's a person, anyway.

#rafael is no one's saint #bbu #wru #pet whump #noncon touch #nonsexual touch #dubcon #medical whump

[hold-him-down]

can we see a snippet of a shower scene from derek's time in prison?

just one shower, any shower, pls

did not proofread, cannot be tagging folks, this was supposed to be a super quick little ask game thing but it got away from me a little bit

cw: noncon shower , noncon touch , noncon nudity , prison setting

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Derek hadn’t showered in days. When they finally came for him, it had been nine, he thought. He had tried, initially. Every day when it was his unit’s turn, when the guards banged on the cell door and shouted words that were incomprehensible to him, but understood by the others, he had followed suit. 

He had wrapped his arms around his stomach and kept his eyes on the wall and, even then, even when he made himself as small and invisible as he could, people noticed him. He learned quickly that the showers were not a place he wanted to be.

After those first couple weeks, he stopped going all together. At first, no one seemed to care. They could find other ways to torment him, and they did, so his suffering wasn’t worth the fight of dragging him through the prison and depositing him into the cement box full of rusty shower heads and blood-stained drains.

Today, though, after everyone left the cell, a guard hovered in the doorway. Derek shrunk back into the corner of the room, his corner, now, where he had carved out a place to sleep, to eat, to sometimes read or draw. It was partitioned off by the bottoms of two adjacent beds, and although that made his corner small, it gave him the illusion of safety. 

Sometimes.

The guard narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Derek’s sliver of the cell, and barked a drawn out command in Turkish. They all knew he didn’t understand, and at this point, they usually didn’t bother speaking to him at all. He looked down at his hands, waiting for whatever came next.

When two additional guards closed in on him, he didn’t look up. He watched his fingers work together, watched as his own limbs started to shake, while heavy footfalls, hushed conversation, scoffs and laughter, came nearer and nearer and eventually, as calloused hands gripped into his shoulders, hauling him up.

The guards turned their commands toward him, over and over, louder and louder, and with each word, Derek retreated further inside of himself until his eyes closed, his mind singularly focused on surviving this– whatever this would become. The crack of knuckles across his cheekbone brought him back momentarily, long enough to get his footing and then lose it, long enough to see men, rows and rows of men inside of their cages, watching as his body was dragged through the long corridor. 

He didn’t fight as his clothes were ripped off of him, or as he was shoved under one of the showers. He felt the burn of tears behind closed eyelids, and he crumpled to the floor, but he didn’t fight.

One of the guards, one who had taken a particular interest in him, spoke quickly to another; their fingers dug into his wrists as they lifted him, and still, he didn’t fight. When they turned the water on, the frigid stream instantly laying its own assault on him, he cowed, and something close to a whimper escaped him.

All three guards laughed, and the two released their hold on his wrists, shoving him once more into the wall.

“You stink,” one of them said, pushing a bar of soap into his hands. Derek shook as he accepted the silent cue, and as quickly as he could, ran the bar over himself. He was painfully aware of their eyes tracking every movement, but the freezing water, the days of too little food and too little sleep, the beatings and the laughter and the tears and cold, made it hard for him to care. He finished quickly, too quickly, and the guard closed the distance between them, took the soap from his hand, and vigorously scrubbed every inch of Derek’s trembling form.

Derek wasn’t sure when he had started crying, but the heat of the tears that slid down his cheeks drew his attention to the fact, and he closed his eyes, and he slid to the floor as the water was finally turned off.

He was left like that, that day, on the cement floor, shivering, with no towel, and no clothes, and not a single soul in that prison who had any intention of helping him. 

#derek's back #noncon shower #noncon nudity #noncon touch #prison whump

[flowersarefreetherapy]

at a crowded party

CW: Angst, noncon kiss, pet whump, noncon touch, implied noncon

Daniel watches her approach. The fashionable dark green dress clings to every curve of her body and the light reflects off the diamond necklace decorating her plunging neckline. Her dark hair falls over one shoulder, several curls wrapping up to her jawline. A shudder slips down his spine at the determination in her eyes. 

Her cheekbones look like Star’s. 

“Hello, darling,” she cooes, running one hand over his shoulder. “You look so bored standing here all alone. Did Theodore get bored of such a handsome toy?”

“I am here to serve, ma’am,” he whispers. Her touch burns across his skin. Everything in him screams to run away. Flirting with women is so much harder, even with his training. It feels like forcing each word out past a brick lodged in his throat. 

“Of course you are. Theodore really does have an eye for beauty. Both you and your bonded are absolute dolls.”

“This is quite a nice event,” Daniel says, trying to pull the conversation away from Star. 

She laughs. “Oh, aren't you a flatterer. I know your kind isn’t supposed to care. Rather like talking to my old husband in that regard. But thank you. This is my favorite event to plan and I do love having everyone here, especially when they bring such attractive boys with them.”

Daniel smiles. He doesn’t know what else to say. Something in her words bothers him, but his brain refuses to focus. Playing along makes his master happy. It’s what he is made for. It’s all he’s good for. He knows this. Fighting back achieves nothing.

“Come on, darling, let me show you around,” the woman says, looping her arm through Daniel’s. 

He forces a smile as they walk through the room, the woman introducing him to dozens of people whose names and faces he forgets as soon as they move on. Her hand moves from his arm to his back to resting low on his back, fingers dipping under his waistband. Daniel swallows hard and forces the smile to remain on his face. 

Where is Star? 

Star sits at their master’s feet, head tipped up as his master runs fingers through his curls. Daniel shudders at the sight and glances at the men talking with his master. All their attention is on Star. Hungry and predatory. 

“Pay attention, darling.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” Daniel whispers. He steps closer to her, fighting to pay attention to whatever conversation is happening around him. Star has the same training as he does. He can handle himself. 

The conversation continues. The woman’s hand cups his ass, her body pressed against his. Daniel plasters a smile on his face. Her fingers are cold, not warm like his master’s soothing touch, as they slip past his waistband. Daniel stiffens but doesn’t pull away. He never pulls away. He’s too well trained, no matter how much nausea churns in his stomach. 

“Come on,” she whispers, lips brushing against the side of his neck. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private.”

A shudder runs down Daniel’s spine. He nods, following her from the main room. The hair on the back of his neck stands up when he glances at his master. He nods, gripping Star’s curls a little tighter, a silent threat. Daniel smiles, the smooth practiced one he is praised for, and moves to follow the woman. 

She pulls him into a dark room. Daniel blinks hard, willing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He can faintly see the outline of a small bed and a dresser. It’s all he manages before she pins him to the wall. Her lips press against his and he melts into the kiss. 

“Damn, you’re good,” she whispers, pulling away just a fraction. 

The praise blossoms warm in his chest. Of course he’s good. It’s what his master paid for, after all. Good, perfect, cute, silent, behaved. He is supposed to be all those things and more. 

So when she kisses him again, he leans into it. Letting her set the pace, ignoring his lungs screaming for air, laughing with her as she pushes him down onto the bed. It feels so good and so awful. His stomach churns with hatred and pleasure as she removes their clothes and another kiss, then hands across his body and her weight pressing down on him. 

She praises him for following orders, for listening, for the pleasure he brings her. The better he does, then the better they both feel and the better report she’ll give to his master. 

Good. Perfect. Behaved. 

Why would he ever be anything else?

#pet whump #angst #noncon kiss #noncon touch #implied noncon #daniel the protector #star my beloved #answered asks #marz actually talks