#But I figure Whumper would make the most sense seeing as the whumpee is just called Whumpee | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 2 years

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Whump Intro

Hi, hello!

Um, I’ve been avoiding this intro bc I am a shy awkward hermit that usually just lurks and likes stuff, but that doesn’t really work on Tumblr so here I am! Plus I wanted to use Whumptober to force myself into sharing my writing and figured it might be useful to introduce myself first.

You can call me starlit, or anna, or hey you, I don’t really care lol. She/her pronouns. I love reading fantasy & fantasy romance, writing, and playing RPG video games when I have the time (usually fantasy based-are we sensing a theme here? 😂)

Before we get to more about me nonsense-

Acknowledgements!

Shout out to @i-can-even-burn-salad

For beta reading for me and then being brave enough to share her stories with me. And for sucking me into Tumbler lol. And for talking to me all the time and making me laugh. And for being such a great person. <3

I love her writing and stories so much. Please, please, check her writing out. It's worth it, I promise! Bring tissues though!!

Best internet friend ever trophy, where is it? I need to send it… oh, there it is. Here you go, Elli! 🏆🎉💜

I haven't had the opportunity to check out many other blogs yet, bc someone has such an extensive back catalog 👀 😂 but tagged below is the one I have read. I devoured Traces in one day because it was so good. Highly recommend!

Traces by @whumping-in-the-wings - Thanks for writing such a great story! Can't wait to see what happens next :)

(Obligatory disclaimer: heed the warnings. They are well-tagged.)

I've got my eye on several other blogs once I have a little more time. Hope ya'll like spam likes/reblogs/comments, bc I'm a bit enthusiastic 😂

Ok, back to me, I suppose. Under the cut 🤣

I tend to use emojis excessively, but don’t expect me to know the meaning of them beyond face-value expressions. I shamelessly claim elder millennial status as an excuse (which means I’m 18+, obviously).

I’m audhd (combo autistic/adhd), but I didn’t find that out until earlier this year, so I’m still very used to tiptoeing around people and holding myself back out of self-preservation. Working on that though, bc I’m tired of that shit.

Erm, also… fuck is my favorite word. If you don’t like foul language, I might not be a great fit for you.

I joined Tumblr about a month ago, so I am still learning and ask for your patience. (I will probably be learning for quite some time, tbh) If I’m doing something wrong, please let me know so I can fix it.

Asks are welcome, although not sure what you would ask me lol. With asks, keep in mind that I’m literal as fuck and context is everything :D

As is fairly common from what I’ve seen in this community, I’ve daydreamed whump for as long as I can remember, and it’s nice to:

1. know what to call it 🥲

2. find someplace where I don’t feel weird about getting it out of my head and putting it on digital paper. Well, not quite as weird haha.

I’m super nervous to post on here, but that’s what I’m here for, so… deep breaths 😶

Likes:

*Fantasy whump

Magic w/ consequences

Captivity

Torture/punishments

Restraints

Dub/non-con

Emotional whump/angst

Defiant whumpee

Breaking whumpee to the point of hopeless despair before building them back up again

Revenge against whumper

Creepy/intimate whumper

Named characters

Recovery arcs, bonus points for romance <3

Eventual Happy endings after copious amounts of suffering

I write what I like, btw. I have written explicit romance previously, but I’m not sure if I will here.

I will try to be diligent with my warnings, but as those are new for me as well, I may miss some. Please let me know if I do and I will fix it! (within reason, don't ask me to tag something like sadness. that's a typical emotion. extremes like depression, yes. sadness, no.)

* Disclaimer: I will only ever write fantasy. I prefer to read fantasy as well, but I have made exceptions when I get the tropes I want :D

Squicks:

I’m willing to try most anything once.

In general though, I tend to avoid cannibalism, major character death, hard-core conditioning, whumper redemptions, bad caretakers

I’m excited to join the community here and looking forward to participating in Whumptober! I have no idea how well I’ll keep up since I only decided to write for it 3 days before the event, but I’m willing to try 😅

Even if I can’t keep up during October's events, I do plan to finish the storyline and there will be a happy end :D

Fuck, this got long. Sorry!!!

See you all around! 💜

#whump intro #whump introduction #whump writing #whumpblr #whump #whump community #Nice to meet you all!#I can't believe I'm actually posting this and committing myself to something 😶#this is a rarity lol #don't ask me how long it took to actually click the post button #also don't ask how many times I read my own intro 😅

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ladyinsertnamehere · 2 years

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Roses and Thorns part 3

Special thanks to @magziemakeswhatever who wanted to be tagged in the next installment, along with everyone who liked or reblogged my last installments.

Fair warning: past intimate-pretty-creepy whumper, conditioned/obedient whumpee, whumpee tolerating physical contact and even asking for it even though they are struggling to tolerate (non-sexual dubcon? is that? is that the word?), mentions of blood, lacerations, bruises around the throat, and whumpee being emaciated and frail (in the context that this is what Damion thinks is “beautiful” and “perfect” the prick), fear of abandonment. Ask me to tag anything else.

It was just the two of them, sitting on the couch, watching the morning news turn to the weather forecast, Beatrice with her head in Darius's lap. Ardal was still asleep, having stayed awake most of the night before, because "Whatever that asshole has planned, I ain't givin' him the satisfaction of it." Darius didn't feel it was right to wake him now, since Ardal didn't really have any responsibilities or a job yet. Though of course, neither did Beatrice.

Her only responsibility then and there was to lazily lie her head on his thighs, letting him stroke her hair. Darius had put a lot of effort into brushing Beatrice's hair until it was soft and perfect to comb his fingers through, and Beatrice was going to let him admire his work. She stayed there, perfectly still and obedient, as Darius grazed her ear. She put everything she had into paying no mind to the way his fingers traced the back and side of her neck. This was fine. She was going to be a good pet, no matter what.

Darius glanced down at the clenched figure lying perfectly still in his lap. She seemed to be uncomfortable with what he was doing. Makes sense, he thought, she's probably not used to physical affection yet. He picked his hand up and moved it over to the couch cushion.

Why did he stop? Beatrice was confused. She looked up at him, his eyes facing straight forward at the tv. Had he gotten bored with her? Was she no longer his perfect pet? Was she going to be discarded, thrown away in a cardboard box on the street?

Darius heard a slight whimper from the person in his lap. He looked down to see the biggest, saddest eyes his own eyes had ever met. Concern made its way onto his face and softness into his voice: "What's wrong, sweetie?" Beatrice took his hand in her own and lay it back atop her head, eyes still pleading for more. A brief flash of confusion twisted Darius's face, before settling into a look of acceptance. "Alright, then," he said, going back to stroking her hair.

______________________

"Oh, my darling," Damion cooed, "my precious little angel."

Tris was lucky that it was so pretty covered in blood. The wounds had stopped bleeding now, but the evidence was still there - the laceration scars, the dried blood smeared all over the pet's back. The bruises around its throat brought out the color in its big doe eyes. Yes, there were perks to being pretty - it meant that in between the lashings, Damion would cradle you in his arms and tell you how gorgeous you looked.

The pet's hair was silky soft, in spite of how tangled it was. Damion just tugged at the knots, hoping to unfurl them into a cascading waterfall of hair so blonde it looked silver. Its face was soft, like the plush of a baby's toy. Its eyelashes flitted as a smile curled on its lips. Its body was so frail and slender that Damion could practically see its lungs in its ribs. This pet truly was a sight to behold.

But Damion had been thinking, is this pet lonely? Does this pet worry when I'm out? Wouldn't it be lovely if it had a friend?

The doorbell rang, and Damion shuffled the pet's head out of his lap. Tris seemed to have been suddenly and rudely awoken by this. Why did he stop? Had he gotten bored with it? Was it no longer his perfect pet? The pet vaguely heard whisperings about a new member of the family, are you sure you can care for it? It's a boy one, and he's willing to do whatever it takes.

Tris sighed. The pet knew it was disposable and replaceable. It just hadn't expected to last this long.

#whump writing #obedient whumpee #conditioned whumpee #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #misunderstanding caretaker #caretaker new master #wonderful idea: give your weatures A B A N D O N M E N T. I S S U E S.#sorry you only get a tiny bit of ardal lore. like two of the thinnest slices of bread surrounding your angst sandwich. and the bread is like #'fuck ya life. bing bong!' /ref

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doomdaysdecays · 3 years

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your nsfw is so good omg.....if you’re taking requests, can we have more multiple whumper stuff?

CW: VERY explicit objectifying language, explicit noncon, two whumpers, dehumanization, it as a pronoun, quite heavy so please stay safe

“You wanna try them on?”

“Nothing I’d love more right now.”

Whumpee cowered anxiously at Whumper’s feet as the two men spoke. They knew Whumper 2, and he was horrible. Horrible, horrible. The thought of pleasing him left a bitter taste on their tongue.

“Whumpee.” Bloodshot eyes met Whumper’s darkened ones. From the corner of their eye, Whumper 2’s grin flashed brightly. Whumper snapped his fingers, and they forced themselves up and on their feet.

Obeying the second part of the unspoken command, Whumpee wriggled out of the oversized top and let their shorts drop around bruised ankles. No hesitation. Their body was everyone’s to view when Whumper demanded it.

Whumper 2 began touching them, testing out the sounds they would make, all the ways he could make them flinch. “It’s pretty. Very pretty. How do you recommend using it?”

“Delicious mouth,” Whumper said, “sweet tongue. Will barely resist when you go deep.”

“Mmh, I figured. Those lips look enticing. What else?”

Whumper casually joined the man’s invasive touching, feeling them up from behind. Whumpee felt the familiar press and prod and clung to the touch they were used to.

“What else, let’s see... Their hands are nice and soft, very warm too, practically made to stroke cock. Out of all their little perks though, I’ve got to admit there’s a clear winner.”

Whumper’s hand came down onto them hard to spank them mostly for show before turning them around for Whumper 2’s viewing. “The sweetest little ass. A pleasure to look at and tighter than their throat.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

The two men exchanged smug looks over Whumpee’s head and suddenly they felt very small.

–

Whumpee’s senses failed them as they were pulled and pushed, poked and tugged at. The imminent horror had them frozen up like a deer in headlights, matching the doe eyes they gave Whumper over their shoulder when his hands gripped firmly around their hips. “Whumper 2 is going to get a little taste of you, yes?”

“Please,” a dull voice murmured, Whumpee had forgotten what it was like to hear themselves speak. “Please.”

“You taught it to beg for cock, too?” Whumper 2 gave a ringing laugh. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Mhm.” Whumper dug his nails in until they could barely hold back a cry. Shut the fuck up. “That’s exactly what I did.”

Contrary to expectation, Whumper’s grip softened reassuringly as he guided Whumpee down onto the other man. “Nice and slow, little one, let the nice sir feel you well.”

The sharp exhale of equal parts pain and surprise was inevitable – Whumpee didn’t know what they’d expected, but now they weren’t even sure they could take him.

“H-Holy fuck.” Whumper 2 bucked up and into them, watching himself being buried between darkly bruised thighs, littered with circular burn marks that told a tale of their own. Whumpee’s helpless expression twisted with pain above him elicited a broad smile.

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest fucking cock sleeve,” he drawled, moaning when Whumper pushed them all the way onto him by their shoulders. “God fuck, that’s good.”

Whumpee moaned, rather out of habit than pleasure as Whumper 2’s hands replaced Whumper’s on their hips. He let them rest there, and Whumpee almost felt like they could do this when suddenly his fingertips pressed in hard enough to bruise, and his hips jerked up with wanton intensity. Whumpee cried out the most pathetic moan they’d ever heard.

From themselves, anyway.

Whumper 2 moaned lowly, feeling himself buried to the hilt inside the quivering toy.

“Feels nice?” Whumper said dutifully, fingers carding through Whumpee’s hair.

“Nice? Are you kidding? This thing is fucking heavenly.” He groaned, Whumpee tightening around him in fearful anticipation. “Ah, God yes. It knows exactly what it’s doing, doesn’t it?”

Whumpee practically felt Whumper’s eyes boring into the back of their head. “I’d hope so.”

Moan after moan slipped from Whumpee as the man rocked into them, leaving them no choice but to steady themselves with their hands on top of his chest.

“Touchy, are we?” Whumper 2 pulled them in for a sloppy kiss and Whumpee cringed, he wasn’t necessarily bad at it but Whumper was a far more skilled kisser.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the latter said softly, ruffling Whumpee’s hair one more time as they moaned and panted with Whumper 2’s rhythm. “Just don’t overstrain them, you see they’re rather petite.”

“Yeah yeah, it’ll be- ah, fine.” Whumper 2 gave a half hearted thrust as the door clickd shut behind Whumper. Whumpee’s heart hammered relentlessly.

Just when they began to let themselves believe that the man’s thrusts had become shallower, they were flipped over and pinned down by the body on top of them. Whumpee mewled.

“Shhh, shh.” Whumper 2 guided himself back inside of them, panting into their ear. “Screw what he says. I know just how to do you.”

And all while Whumpee screamed, they knew Whumper was out there pretending not to hear it.

tags: @neutron-stars-blog @whump-time-babey @w-whump @yet-another-heathen @tsoa-enthusiast @happy-whumper @freefallingup13 @mascmasochist @wildlywhumping

[addition/removal via ask. thank you!]

#thank you anon🖤#whump #nsfwhump #whump writing #whump drabble #whump scenarios #multiple whumpers #whumpee #whump scenario #dehumanization #nsft #nsfk #whump.txt

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jordanstrophe · 3 years

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A Cinnamon Bun too Pure for this World, part 1

((Will change title later, probably never though.)) CW: Whump, Kidnapping, heavily conditioned whumpee, possessive whumper, Whumpee trying to stay with Whumper (I have a ton planned for this, but if I don’t give them names, then I don’t have to say they’re OC’s) They are 100% OCs and they are getting names

Masterlist

Caretaker leaned against their desk with their palm propping their chin up. Another slow day at the hotel, per usual. They perked up when two people walked in, one hiding skittishly behind the other while wearing a baggy sweater, that was obviously way too big for them. Odd, since it was a humid sunny day today. The other looked already done with the day before it even started.

“Hi! Here to book a room?” Caretaker asked, instantly switching from their bored expression to a pleasant one.

“Yeah, one room, single bed.” They said, tossing a large stack of fresh bills on the counter.

“I’m so sorry, but we can’t accept cash. And only one room... Correct?” Caretaker asked, tilting their head to the side to try and get a look at Whumpee, who had their head pressed against Whumper’s back with one eye peeking out.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Whumper grumbled, annoyingly shoving the cash back into their bag. After they paid, Caretaker gave them the key and they were gone without another word, Whumpee trailing right behind them like a little duckling. Caretaker shook their head as they continued back to work.

Caretaker noticed a single dollar bill on the floor that must have been from that odd pair... They hardly had anything to do, so might as well make use of their time and do something good. They went upstairs to their room and as soon as they raised their fist to knock, they heard a loud banging sound.

“I told you to shut up and sit down! I should never have to ask you twice!”

“I-I’m...I’m sorry...”

“Sorry? You’re sorry, huh? I thought I trained you better than that. Into the back room, now~.”

Caretaker had heard enough as they slammed their fists into the door. The room instantly went deathly silent as not even movement could be heard. Caretaker knocked again as hesitant footsteps approached, unlocking the door.

Whumper opened it just a crack as they made eye contact with them with a single eye.

“Is there a problem?” Whumper asked, their voice calm, almost soothing.

Caretaker raised an eyebrow as they tried to get a better look in the room, as Whumper inched the door closed even more. “Can I talk to the other one who was here with you please?” Caretaker asked, matching their calm tone. They figured they had a better chance of figuring out what was going on here if they lu Whumper into a false sense of security.

“They’re busy right now, sorry.” Whumper smiled, trying to shut the door and turn away. Caretaker’s hand shot out, slamming their fist on the door to stop it from closing. When Whumper turned around Caretaker’s face was mere inches from theirs.

“I’m terribly sorry, but it’s rather important. There was something wrong with booking.” Caretaker lied through their teeth while their eyes burned into theirs. Whumper sighed as they called Whumpee over, who shot like a bullet and plastered obedient to their side before Whumper could even finish their name.

Whumper came out into the hall with Whumpee looking nervous and confused as they didn’t even acknowledge Caretaker, only staring up at Whumper expectantly. Whumper nudged them to look at Caretaker, as the most Whumpee gave them was a quick glance.

“You’re okay, I just need to ask you something.” Caretaker gave them a warm smile. Whumper sighed as they grabbed Whumpee’s arm, forcing them to stand next to them, as they immediately cringed with distress. They finally looked up at Caretaker with a skittish expression as Caretaker could make out the red mark on Whumpee’s cheek. Had they been stuck?

“Are you okay?” Caretaker asked.

“Is that all you wanted to ask?!” Whumper shouted, grabbing Whumpee and pulling them back behind them. “What is wrong with you!? Banging on my door bothering me to ask such a stupid question? Just who do you think you are?! I want to speak to the manager!” Whumper hissed.

“I never said I wanted to ask you a question, I’m asking them.” Caretaker nodded at Whumpee, who clung to their coat.

“Sweetheart, nothing bad is going to happen no matter what you answer, okay? I’m here just for you.” They smiled.

Whumpee perked up and came out a little bit, opening their mouth to say something, then instantly shutting it as they slowly looked up a Whumper. Surely they will tell them what to say, right? They always told them what to say. But Whumper was being silent... Why were they being silent? They couldn’t do anything without them! They were completely hopeless and pathetic, Whumper obviously knew this!

They nudged Whumper’s arm, their eyes begging to be told what to do. They were just scared and wanted to only do what made Whumper happy.

Whumper let out a sigh. They knew Caretaker would get after them if they told Whumpee what to say, so they just had to let this stupid little thing figure it out themselves. They had done this enough they should know by now. Caretakers eyes narrowed. “It’s alright.” They finally shrugged. Whumper took a sigh of relief.

“I’ll just call the police and let them handle it.” Caretaker muttered.

“What.” Whumper’s eyes shot up as they looked stunned, scared even.

“Wait! That’s not necessary, hold on now! Whumpee dear!” Whumper called, grabbed their shoulders. “Go on and tell them, you’re fine, now. Aren’t you?” Whumper coaxed.

Whumpee’s eyes lit up as they were finally given instructions.

“I’m fine now! Aren't I?” They happily chirped at Caretaker, mimicking Whumper’s exact tone.

“I am not buying that.”

“Damn it!” Whumper hissed.

Caretaker pulled out their phone and began to dial 911, as Whumpers face twister in hatred. They slammed their shoulder into Caretaker's chest as they hit the floor, Whumpee jumped away and pressed their back against the wall with wide eyes.

Whumper is always right... Just let them do whatever they want... Whumper is always right.

Whumpee peaked their eyes open to see Caretaker coughing and gasping for air. Whumper stepped over their body to the phone on the floor and dug the heel into the glass as it crunched beneath their boot. Whumper lifted it with two fingers and dangled the shattered phone tauntingly in front of Caretaker’s face.

“Oops. I do apologize, but you won’t need that anymore. Whumpee!” Whumper barked, as they jolted. “Come now, dearest. We’re leaving.” They hissed, grabbing their arm and ripping them off the wall as they staggered behind them.

Whumper gasped when they were tackled from behind as Caretaker pinned them to the ground. They didn’t anticipate Caretaker to be stronger then them as they couldn’t push them off. They elbowed Caretaker again in the chest as they gasped, stunned for enough time for Whumper to slip out from underneath them and slam the emergency door open.

The fire alarm blared throughout the building, echoing through the halls. Caretaker wheezed as they struggled to their feet, Whumpee was kneeling on the ground with their hands covering their ears as they trembled with quiet whimpers and cries escaping their lips.

“Heey, hey, it’s okay now. Are you alright?” Caretaker asked, resting a hand on their shoulder as they flinched.

“Come on, we have to go.” Caretaker coaxed, trying to get them on their feet. They eventually had to wrap their arms around Whumpee’s chest and hoist them to their feet, keeping their arm wrapped around their back as they guided them downstairs to the main room.

Caretaker pulled out a chair and sat Whumpee down behind the main desk, who obediently did anything Caretaker nudged them to. Their expression was wide, frozen in fear as their eyes never focused on anything in particular, their hands still covering their ears. Caretaker used the office phone to call for help while turning the alarm off.

They crouched in front of Whumpee who still hadn’t moved their hands from their ears, as Caretaker rested their fingertips on Whumpee’s wrist to try and get them to lower their arms.

“Help is on the way, okay? You’re safe now.” Caretaker smiled. Whumpee only viscously shook their head no in response. Caretaker’s smile slowly faded as concern hit them.

Police came and Caretaker explained the situation. Whumpee sat with bent posture in the chair with their frightened eyes glued onto Caretaker.

A man sat next to Whumpee as they cringed lower. They asked Whumpee questions, but they just sat with their lips slightly parted with a lost expression. They didn’t understand why they were even talking to Whumpee, Whumper said no one cared about them. Only Whumper did...

The man sighed, “Is there any family we can call for you then?” He asked. Whumpee shook their head no as their expression went solemn. “Can you give me your phone number so we have a way to contact you?”

“I have a phone number?” Whumpee perked up, looking surprised with a head tilt. "... If you have one, then yes.” He muttered. Whumpee nervously glanced around, before locking eyes with Caretaker. ‘Wh-.. What’s my ph-phone number?” They asked, their fingers twirling rapidly in their lap. Caretaker looked at them with a puzzled look. “I-, I don’t know your phone number, do you remember it?” Caretaker asked.

“I only know Whumper’s phone number... Can... Can I call them p-please? They accidently left me here.” Whumpee murmured sadly, looking up at everyone with watering eyes. Everyone heart shattered for Whumpee right at that moment when they realized just how far the abuse must have gone.

“I-... I don’t think that’s going to happen, but we’ll gladly take their number.” He said, giving them a sad smile.

“What’s going to happen to them?” Caretaker asked with a hushed tone, watching Whumpee who struggled to write the number down “They said they didn’t have any family so they’ll just be sent off until we need them for more information. They’re an adult, so we can’t send them anywhere unless they say so.” He shrugged.

“They don’t have any family?!” Caretaker cried, their head whipping towards Whumpee.

“All they talked about was this Whumper... They keep asking when they’re coming back to pick them up.” He sighed.

“You-, you can’t just send them on the street then! They’re not safe, they’re not even stable!” Caretaker cried.

“We’re give them all the help we can give them, don’t worry.” He explained. Caretaker’s heart pounded in their chest. They already knew what they wanted to do, why were they still hesitating! If they didn’t say something now the guilt would burn at them for eternity.

“You can have my phone number in their place.” Caretaker sighed, pulling out a pen.

“Mmm?”

Caretaker ignored him and sat next to Whumpee.

“Hey sweetheart! How would you like to stay at my place for a little bit?”

To be continued...

(...because I’m tired)

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog @pyromilka @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments @milk-carton-whump @whumpasaurus101 @sillypizzazineoperator

o(^∀^*)o Thank you for reading!

#whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #caretaking #whump writing #conditioned whumpee #possessive whumper

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actress4him · 3 years

Text

Overexposure - Tears

(Prompt #30 for Summer of Whump)

Taglist: @inky-whump , @michelleswhumpyreblogs

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee (male whumper), captivity, creepy/intimate whumper, broken ribs, referenced stress positions, referenced sensory deprivation, referenced kidnapping, restraints, gag, locked in a closet

Another gallery exhibition.

Another evening gown, another diamond necklace.

Another night of smiles and laughter and glasses of champagne and a possessive grip on her waist while her legs threaten to buckle beneath her.

She almost thought that the people attending this party, these that wanted ‘raw and primitive’ photos, would look a bit more primitive themselves. But no, they’re indistinguishable from the last group, all sharp tuxedos and beautiful gowns and elegant socializing. The thought that there are so many people out there who like this kind of thing, who will pay so much money just to see these messed-up photos of her, makes her dizzy.

Though perhaps that’s just the lack of good food and sleep. Her mind isn’t processing well enough to tell the difference.

It never helps that she’s finally faced with the product of her torment, all over the walls and impossible for her to ignore.

A close-up of her face, bruises painting her cheeks, pupils blown wide and metal glinting across her throat.

An artistically angled shot taken from the floor up at her bent, straining body, shoulders contorted backwards and on the verge of dislocation.

Her figure huddled in a tiny ball in the shadows, face half-covered by a black blindfold and red headphones...so, he was taking pictures while she waited in that corner.

Every direction she turns brings back another, unwanted memory. Ellery wants to scream, to cover her ears and shut her eyes and make it all disappear. She’d even be happy going back to her tiny basement cell if it meant not having to see or hear any more of this party.

Throughout the evening she hears so many people complimenting Lucas on how ‘realistic’ the photos are, quizzing him on how on earth he manages to create such effects. Others seem less naïve, approaching him with knowing smirks and gleams in their eye, casting obvious glances up and down her body as if they still haven’t been satiated.

At the first exhibition she had been blown away by how so many people could be so blind. Now she’s beginning to wonder how many of them actually are.

All of it - the stress, the pain, the sorrow, the hunger and exhaustion - just keeps building, an unending pressure behind her eyes and underneath her ribs. She’s on the verge of either bursting into tears or exploding into tiny pieces when another man approaches them.

His hands are empty of champagne, unlike most, and instead of immediately turning on all the charm for Lucas, his brown eyes lock onto her with the smallest of smiles.

“You’re quite the beautiful model. May I know the name of the lady who made these intriguing portraits?”

“This is Sarah,” Lucas answers for her. It’s the name he’s given anyone who’s asked, though there haven’t been many. “And you are?”

“Henry Longmire.” As pretentious a name as any she’s heard tonight. The man seems to have to drag his gaze away from her in order to focus on Lucas. “It’s an honor to be able to meet both of you in person. I have to admit, I knew of your work for a long time, but it was only when Miss Sarah here became your muse that it truly caught my attention.” His eyes go straight back to her, his smile growing into something that she could almost label kind if she didn’t know better.

“Yes, she’s been rather popular. Glad to know you found something that strikes your fancy.”

“If I may...I’ve read some quotes from him online about his process, but I’m curious about yours. Your expressions in the photos seem so...genuine. How do you go about getting into the headspace for this kind of thing?”

For a long moment Ellery just stares at him, uncomprehending of the fact that he’s actually asking her a direct question. No one ever speaks to her at these events, they only speak of her and at her. It’s only when Lucas’ hand moves from her back to her arm, squeezing threateningly in the very spot where he knows her one long sleeve is covering up the still-healing knife wound, that she realizes she has to answer. She has to lie. She’s not sure if she can even speak without her voice trembling, much less come up with a convincing response.

Her lips part, brain reeling, and she lets the words slip out, hoping against hope that whatever she’s about to say won’t get her a beating later.

“It just...comes naturally.”

Lucas’ grip eases, and she wants to crumple with relief. But Henry Longmire isn’t done yet.

“How did you decide to get into this particular kind of modeling?”

Her mind goes completely blank. The last response wasn’t even particularly a lie, but this...how is she supposed to come up with a story for this on the spot? Lying was never her strong suit to start with, and now she’s working on night after night of sleep interrupted by pain and not having eaten since yesterday morning because Lucas, as usual, was ‘in the zone’ and forgot to feed her.

“I...i-it…”

“It wasn’t her idea.” The tight grip on her arm has returned, sending throbs of pain up to her shoulder. “She had never even modeled before, actually, if you can believe that!” Lucas laughs aloud at his own joke. “I first saw Sarah at the restaurant where she was working as a waitress, and I thought to myself, ‘This is the girl I need for this idea of mine.’ Because I had had this image in my mind for ages, and I was just waiting for the perfect model to come along. So I approached her, and asked her about it, and she was interested, and, well…” He waves a hand around the room. “As you can see, she’s a natural.”

The restaurant. Of course, how had she not realized before? All this time, she had wondered why me? Why and how did he pick me, of all people? And perhaps she still didn’t know why, but at least she now knew how. Suddenly she could picture him, sitting at a booth a few tables down from hers, nursing a coffee and just...staring. She’d laughed with the other girls that night about what a creep he was, but had then promptly forgotten he existed. Creeps happened all the time. He wasn’t anything special, or so she had thought.

The story he had told just now seemed to be essentially the truth, only there had been no ‘approaching’ or ‘interest’. Only hands grabbing her in the darkness of a parking lot, then nothingness, and waking up in a cell.

“Hm.” Henry nods, but he almost seems...skeptical? Except a second later he’s flashing a smile and all traces of whatever she saw are gone. “That’s quite interesting. So Miss Sarah, what’s it like for you? Do you ever, I don’t know, get scared of him, when he’s getting you ready for these photos?”

Why is he asking her this? Is he...does he...care? Does he know something is up? She wouldn’t dare to hope, not after last time, except there’s just something off about him, something different than all the other people they’ve spoken to. Lucas, unfortunately, seems to sense it, too. Not only has he gone back to squeezing her arm, but he’s stiff beside her, not at all liking the direction of these questions.

Questions. Oh, no, she has to answer another one. Another lie. Does she get scared of him? Well, no. Not really. She doesn’t get scared of him, she lives in a constant state of fear of what he’ll do to her next.

“No.” It’s all she can manage, not even a fake smile to go with it. But in the mindset of it not actually being a lie, her voice is steady.

“Of course not,” Lucas adds on, and his voice is as stiff as his body. “She knows I’d never actually hurt her. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe there is another guest waiting.”

“Of course.” Henry Longmire gives a respectful nod and backs away, but she’s fairly certain she’s not imagining the way that his gaze lingers on her, brow furrowed in...thought? concern? She tries to push it from her mind, tries not to let hope build.

The exhibition drags on, and she loses track of the man in the never-ending stream of clinking glasses and twittering laughter. She’s so, so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of being stared at, tired of, in turn, staring at herself being tortured. But most of all just tired.

When Lucas drags her across the room toward yet another group that he wants to speak to, her legs finally decide they’ve had enough of supporting her weight. She stumbles, only saved from hitting the floor by his other hand coming up and catching her around the middle, uncaring of the ribs that still haven’t healed and probably won’t as long as they keep getting abused like this.

Several of the people in the vicinity gasp, as if they’re actually concerned, as if they actually care if she gets hurt.

And it’s finally too much. Ellery can’t stop the sob anymore than she can keep from dropping all of her weight into Lucas’ arms, forcing him to lower her to the floor. Tears flood her cheeks, desperate to escape after an entire evening of being held back, and a small part of her has the presence to hope that they’ll wash away the makeup hiding her bruises. Maybe then, maybe finally someone will actually, really see her.

A small crowd has gathered, hovering over her, and the claustrophobia of it only serves to intensify her sobs. She just wants this to be over, wants to go home, but she knows, beyond the hitching breaths that bend her in half and send stabs of pain through her chest, that she’s only made things worse for herself. She can’t look at Lucas right now. She knows he has to be incredibly angry.

“It’s alright, folks, just give her some space. It seems our lovely model here has twisted her ankle.” Because of course he would have a lie ready for this. “You know how women are with their shoes. Can’t pick something practical.” As he laughs he slips off her shoe, the gold stiletto that he had made her put on.

A few guests titter with laughter, some offer coos of sympathy. Lucas stands and shoos them away. “Everyone please, continue enjoying yourselves. I’m going to take Sarah to get some ice for her ankle and a bit of rest, and I’ll return shortly.”

She wishes he would get her some ice, it sounds heavenly for her ribs about now. Somehow she doubts whatever he’s taking her to will be nearly as pleasant.

Scooping her up in his arms like he’s her Prince Charming, Lucas parades her across the room to much admiration. Somewhere just before they reach the door that leads further into the building, Ellery spots Henry Longmire again, and their eyes meet. Once again, she’s struck with the thought that maybe, just maybe, he sees her. He sees, if not what’s going on, at least that something isn’t right.

She can’t speak to him. She can’t even give him some kind of signal, not without Lucas seeing. But she tries her best to send a message with her eyes - help me, please - before they disappear into the back hallway.

“I don’t know what came over you, but that was unacceptable,” Lucas hisses as soon as they’re alone. He drops her feet unceremoniously, and she struggles to regain her footing while still being carted down the hall by her arm.

This place is unfamiliar to her other than the actual gallery hall, so when they stop in front of an innocuous door she has no idea what’s inside. Lucas pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door and revealing what seems to be a janitorial closet. Obviously he had stored some things here ahead of time, because the handcuffs that he reaches for don’t seem like they belong.

“You will stay right here,” he orders, wrenching her arms behind her back to cuff her, “and ‘ice your ankle’ until I come back for you.” He pulls something else off the same shelf, but she doesn’t get a glimpse of what it is before it’s pressing up against her lips. The angry look on his face warns her not to resist, to simply open her mouth and allow the knotted fabric to be slipped inside. He steps behind her, pulling the gag tight so that it cuts into her cheeks and yanking strands of her hair as he ties it.

Tears continue to slide down her cheeks, but they fall silently now.

“And if you kick, or scream, or generally make noise and try to get someone’s attention, your punishment tonight will be twice as bad.”

Shoving her forward, he slams the door shut and locks it again, leaving her to wait in the pitch darkness.

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

Note

If you’re still doing the ____ me ask game, could I request ‘haunt me’ with an actual ghost?❤️

Thank you so much for the ask! And yeah, I’m always doing whatever ask games I have posted ^^

This one got a little bit dark by my standards, but I’m hoping it’s not too bad compared to most whump. Still, heed the warnings!

For this ask game.

CW//Torture, knife torture, cauterization, restrained to a chair, ghosts, past murder, implied death by torture

Whumpee didn’t know what was worse-- the stinging, warm slice of the knife, or the burning, the heat, the paradoxical cold as their nerve endings were burnt away to nothing.

Of course, it wasn’t like they had time to think about it. They were too busy yowling.

The agonized shrieks tore themselves from their throat, only mercifully stopping when Whumper withdrew their knife. Even then, their yowls only turned to whimpering sobs-- the pain, making itself known, refusing to release them.

Whumper would have to slice their lips with their own weapon if they wanted their smile to grow any wider. It was with a soft chuckle that they turned, turned to the fireplace at their side, sticking their blade into its licking inferno. When they removed it, the blade had regained its terrible orange color.

Whumpee felt their breath quickening, even as the restraints tried to stop their chest from rising. The straps holding them to the chair were slick with sweat, slick with blood, slick with whatever was left of their dignity.

“Come on, look at me.” Their torturer crooned. “Your neck.”

“My neck?” Their vocal chords tightened. “N-no, please, please.”

Not their neck, the skin was so thin and...

No. The only effect of their begging was increasing the joy on Whumper’s face. The tip of the weapon, orange from heat, dug its way into their neck, just below their jawline, like a knife moving through hot butter. Whumpee was almost deaf to their own screams, all their attention instead drawn to the wounds, the slicing agony followed by the worse torture of immediate cauterization.

Why was this happening to them? Somewhere, in some world, they wailed. They felt to be floating, even as they were terribly present in the moment, thrashing and howling. A single thought overwhelmed their punished mind: It hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt oh god it hurt.

Something else.

The overwhelming agony, while still certainly present, was interrupted, ever so slightly, by a hand on their shoulder. It was so cold, almost enough so to counteract the shrieking heat carving its way through their neck.

Whumpee struggled to turn their head, to look, to see who had joined their torturer, but only succeeded in straining against the strap on their forehead.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to look at me.”

It was a quiet, wispy voice. Like the pain of the knife, it tore through all that which surrounded it.

No one had spoken to them like that in... how long had it been? Whumper would surely be furious that their punching bag was being comforted in such a manner, but the expression on their torturer’s face had not changed. Had they even heard?

“Close your eyes. Focus on my voice.”

“Who are-” The words were intermixed with howls.

“No, no, don’t talk. They’ll hear you.”

But...

Whumpee’s thoughts swirled with confusion, and, for the slightest moment, they felt almost to be free of their worldly pain.

“I’m right here. Just hear me, listen to my voice.” The voice continued. “I’m here to help, as much as I can.”

Here to help...

“I’m going to show myself now, okay? Don’t freak out.”

Don’t freak out, why would they-

Oh.

The figure was small, smaller than Whumper. The size difference was stark as they stood next to each other-- and yet Whumper did not turn their head.

Perhaps, it made sense as to why.

The stranger was not entirely... solid, for lack of a better term. The outline of their body, their facial features, their tattered clothes, glimmered in the brightest silver, while the rest of their body was filled in with a sparkling blue. A blue that was hardly there, the rest of the room clearly visible from behind.

“G-gho-” Whumpee’s words were swallowed by their own shrieks. They had almost forgotten they were screaming. Almost forgotten their agony.

“Don’t try to talk! Don’t let them notice. Just look at me, focus on my voice. I’m going to keep talking.”

As best as they could, Whumpee nodded.

“I know it hurts. I know it does. I know. But it’ll hurt less if you look at me.”

One of the figure’s silvery hands reached forth, placing their palm upon where Whumper carved their marks. The pain was still there, still terrible and still there, but the cold at least helped distract from it.

“You just need to look at me until they stop. They’re going to stop, I promise.”

“Y-your n-name-”

“Don’t talk! Do not talk.” The being scolded. “But... My name is Former Whumpee.”

Whumpee felt their stomach churn, threatening to force bile up their throat.

Whumper had always bragged that their last victim had never made it.

#ask game #whump #whumper #whump community

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writehardwhumpharder · 3 years

Text

Story Prompt/Request

@whatwasmyprevioususername

So I don’t know what this is exactly or where it fits into the Carson series but here it is. Prompt: whumper takes whumpee while the caretaker watches, powerless to stop them.

Carson cursed himself under his breath for being so stupid. He’d walked directly into a trap and not for the first time either. Although it was the first time he’d been dumb enough to bring Danny with him. Lulled into a false sense of security by the midday sun, Carson saw no reason not to do a little of his own investigating on the case he was working on. There was a new magician in town attracting a lot of attention with his pattern of killing other magicians, typically the stronger ones associated with some of the gangs in the inner city.

He and Daniel went back to the crime scene where one of the first bodies had been found. The apartment had long since been cleaned up of blood and evidence but it was still locked to the public. Carson ignored the police tape as he ducked under it to walk inside. The apartment had an older style to it with archways between rooms and a fireplace in the corner adjacent to the door. First, he looked around for visible clues left behind before doing what he really came there to do which was inspect the place for traces of magic.

“Nice place, well, except for that giant bloodstain on the floor,” Daniel commented casually as he stepped around the stained patch of carpet. He had insisted on coming as ‘another set of eyes’ but Carson suspected he was there out of curiosity. “See anything interesting?”

Carson took a moment to open up his magic senses so he could see the energy around him. To his surprise, he saw very little magic of any kind. In one corner of the room, he spotted purple tendrils of magic swirling around where a struggle had taken place but it could only belong to the victim, not the killer. His mind spun with questions. The police had seen the magician in action and confirmed the killer was no normal civilian. That’s why Carson was puzzled as to how someone with such strong magic would be able to get rid of all traces of himself.

“It doesn’t make any sense-” Carson started talking but something stopped him in his tracks. Daniel looked up when he suddenly trailed off and knew from the look on Carson’s face it was serious. A strange presence stirred in the room, catching his attention immediately. The feeling was so overwhelming it seemed to suck all the air out of his lungs at once. The magic was thick and nauseatingly wrong to Carson’s senses. Some part of him knew it was magic but if it was, it was a kind he had never encountered before and hoped to never encounter again.

“What’s wrong?” Danny asked.

“Shhh,” Carson stayed frozen in place, the hair on his arms sprang up with anticipation as he sensed another kind of presence, a physical one. The magician was close, and judging by the intensity of the magic, he knew there wasn’t time to run. Adrenaline flooded his veins and suddenly Carson was moving again. His eyes scanned the apartment, landing on a closet next to the bathroom. He opened the door and ushered Daniel inside. “Don’t make a sound, and whatever happens, don’t come out,” he told him.

Daniel’s brows pinched with worry and he opened his mouth to protest, “But what about you?”

“Promise me you’ll stay right here,” Carson commanded.

“But-”

“Promise!” He said, gritting his teeth, they didn’t have time to waste. With each passing second, Carson’s heart pounded faster and faster.

“I promise,” Daniel forced the words out. It hurt him more to say those words than he could ever describe but he knew he had no choice. As the closet door closed in front of him Daniel couldn’t shake the feeling that Carson’s request sounded eerily like a dying wish.

Slowly backing up into the middle of the room Carson tried to prepare himself for anything. He didn’t know where the magician might attack from or what he would attack with. Summoning up as much energy as he could, Carson raised his arms in front of his chest defensively.

A moment later, the door to the apartment slowly creaked open and in stepped, plain as day, a man about six feet tall wearing a dark coat, obscuring most of his figure. The move was so obvious and carefree that it gave Carson chills. He almost acted as if Carson wasn’t even there. Anyone watching the scene would think the magician was just an average guy returning from work after a long day, he didn’t seem at all like someone looking for a fight. Now that he was fully in the room the overwhelming stench of his magic had Carson wanting to crawl right out of his skin. It made him feel weak and sick to his stomach as his energy met the magician’s. While Carson’s magic was dark in nature this mysterious form of magic just felt empty to him. As the other magician looked him over it gave Carson enough time to identify what he was feeling. It wasn’t just empty magic, it was more like anti-magic…

Without thinking, Carson tried to end the fight before it could even begin. He used his strongest move, one he only uses in emergencies. And it got him… absolutely nowhere. Reaching out with his magic, Carson aimed to grab the man’s very soul but when his magic came in contact with the man’s aura of anti-magic it recoiled.

“That won’t work,” the magician said. His voice was deep but clear and each word had the power to cut through Carson like a knife. The magician didn’t just block Carson’s magic, he killed it. The loss of energy sent Carson to his knees and suddenly it was a struggle just to breathe. His magic was a living part of him so he felt it with every fiber of his being when it started to die inside him. The moment he knew he wasn’t going to make it through the fight his eyes flickered to the closet desperately. So far the magician had yet to notice Daniel there. It gave Carson a shred of hope.

“Why are you doing this?” Carson croaked.

“It’s my job to get rid of people like you,” the man answered honestly. “Your magic may be able to sway life and death but it can’t even begin to control what is and isn’t.” He wasn’t just talking about destroying something, he was talking about wiping it from existence.

Carson knew now that if he had any chance of fighting the guy he’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. With what little strength he had, Carson lunged toward the kitchen hoping to find some kind of weapon to defend himself with. The magician wasn’t going to make it that easy though and he caught up with Carson effortlessly.

A boot collided with the back of his leg, sending him tumbling into the cupboard. Pain raced through Carson’s back as he stared up at the man helplessly. Did he plan to kill him right then and there? Was he going to take his magic away? Was the dark power of death really not enough to protect him? The man simply stood there, looking down at Carson curiously. It was clear he wasn’t in any kind of rush. Attempting to crawl away was futile and yet he found himself doing it anyway.

“Go ahead, keep fighting,” he smirked. Carson knew the man was just humoring him as he watched him struggle just to drag his body back towards the living room where the front door was still wide open. It was right there. If he could just make it to…

Ice. That’s what it felt like. The pain now radiating through his back was similar to the pain you feel from holding your hand in ice water for too long. It was present and powerful and yet Carson could tell he wasn’t fully registering what had just happened. Because there was no ice, what cut through his back just now was actually a knife, maybe 5 inches long. The more Carson tried to wrap his mind around it the more he felt himself slipping. The wound flared white-hot every time he breathed. This injury wouldn’t be enough to kill him, most likely the magician just did it to keep him from running away. As his movements slowed to a stop, Carson knew he had succeeded at just that. He couldn’t pick himself up off the floor, he couldn’t move, couldn’t scream for help. The only thing he could do was turn his head to the side facing the closet door. With one cheek pressed against the dirty beige carpet, he stared at that door for as long as he could keep his eyes open. Daniel had kept his promise and stayed perfectly silent. Carson was actually proud of him. Even though his vision was darkening at an alarming speed and the sound of nearby sirens blended in with the ringing in his ears, Carson could let go knowing Daniel would be safe.

----

Daniel held his hands tightly over his mouth, urging himself to stay quiet. He wanted to scream and cry and hit something but all he could do was stand there and watch. Every muscle in his body flexed tight as he struggled to stay still. Tears streamed from his eyes as it all unfolded in front of him. He had texted their location to the police but beyond that, there was nothing he could do to help. The powerlessness welling up in his chest soured with anger. Whether it was toward the magician or himself he didn’t know. All he knew was that each time he wanted to open the closet door and put himself in front of Carson, he remembered the promise he made.

The sound of sirens faded in as the police got closer to the apartment building, but Daniel knew it was already too late. Blood soaked through Carson’s coat where the knife had gone in and slowly dripped to form a puddle underneath him. He wasn’t healing, why the hell wasn’t he healing?!

With the police closing in, the magician had no choice but to run, and to Daniel’s horror, he made sure to take Carson with him.

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whumblr · 3 years

Text

Scratches

Continuation: 1. We’re gonna have so much fun | 2. Return to sender | 3. Bits and pieces

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog

“Do you know why forty lashes are the max? In the Biblical sense?”

Whumpee just cast their eyes down. Yes, they knew and knowing that little titbit of information didn’t do much to get their hopes up.

“Forty,” Whumper continued, “forty lashes are the most a man can take. Apparently. Any more then that and he’ll die.”

His uncaring eyes flicked down to Whumpee.

“I think we can take the risk. Seeing as you want to die anyway.”

He walked over to the wall where several whips were kept on display. His hand lingered over the many options. He glanced back at the shaking figure, hummed softly to himself, and picked one.

“What do you think? 41? Or keep going until you’re dead?”

No answer.

“41 then. In your condition I’d be surprised if you can make it past thirty. I’m rooting for you, but I’m not gonna go easy. So, 41 unless you perish before that.”

Whumpee closed their eyes in resignation.

“Don’t pretend to have lost your tongue. We’ll hear your voice soon enough.” He unfurled the whip and regarded the stoic, silent figure.

“In fact, you should count.”

Whumpee rolled their eyes. They saw no reason to indulge the whims of a madman if they were going to die anyway. The movement was barely noticeable, but it didn’t escape the man with the whip.

He laughed.

“Oh. Oh dear. You seem to be under the impression that I can’t take more from you.”

He brought the handle of the whip to their chin and pushed up until those calm eyes met his. “If you insist on being silent, I think I can help you with that. Cut out your tongue.”

Whumpee’s eyes flashed lightly, their eyelashes fluttered, but they calmed themself and returned the steely gaze.

“And it would be a nice way to keep up with my new pen pals, wouldn’t you agree? With the capsule and the bullet, we should keep them informed of your... situation.”

Maintaining eye contact, and a calm facade, Whumpee shook their head.

“No?” Whumper mused. “Then count. That’s it. Don’t just nod at me. Say it.”

“Okay,” Whumpee croaked, their voice hoarse.

“Good choice. It would be nice if they could find you with both your honour and your corpse intact.”

Whumpee made no attempt to stifle their screams. Too tired, too broken already. The scream faded into a sobbed count: “One!” The only thing they tried was to curl in on themself to make sure they wouldn’t pull out the stitches from their bullet wound.

“Body intact,” Whumper tilted their head to the side and split open Whumpee’s back.

“Save a few scratches, of course.”

Continued here

#whump #whump whipping #whumpee wanting to die #captivity #creepy captor #threatened amputation #whumper with a penchant for amputation #something for the next drabble #which will probably be the last #my writing

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 13: Chemical Pneumonia

CW: Medical whump, sick whumpee, intimate whumpers, pet whump, dehumanization

Giovanni Rossi belongs to @slaintetowhump, and Ridley Lordin belongs to @moose-teeth. Both are used with permission.

“Vanni…” Ridley’s voice held an edge of something Connor had never heard before, and he struggled to focus on it, to define it, to give it a name. His hand on Connor’s forehead was cool and dry, and Connor’s skin was soaked in sweat where he lay on a cot in a room somewhere back behind the kitchen.

“I know,” Rossi said, sitting in a chair, staring off out a window, flicking at his thumbnail with his finger. Connor’s eyes moved that way, went unfocused, struggled to see Rossi with any clarity. The mob boss sat leaning forward, his suit rumbled and wrinkled, and something about that meant something. There was something in his face that Connor didn’t understand, either. Something new.

“Vanni, they thought he was you.”

“I know, Ridley!” Rossi never snapped at Ridley, but here it was, and Connor forced in a hitching, shaky inhale around the tremendous, inescapable weight pressing down on him, determined to keep breathing long enough to understand. “I know they did.”

“And they fucking poisoned him and then dumped him to fucking die-”

“I know!” The two men went silent for a second, Ridley staring with shock at Rossi and Rossi glaring furious towards the window without looking back.

Connor’s breath, rattling in his struggling lungs, was the only sound in the room beyond the soft beeping of a machine that Connor thought might be tracking… something. There were numbers on the machine, and it connected to something clipped onto his finger. The number went up, sometimes, or down, sometimes. There was an IV line with two bags dripping something into his arm, too. He couldn’t see the numbers, but they could. When the bags were low, or the numbers on the machine went down, they brought back the medic.

“Did they think he was you when they poisoned him? Were they trying to kill you?” Ridley’s voice was low, but it wasn’t angry, and Connor couldn’t understand why. Ridley’s fury should be burning through him, a wildfire that could kill Connor and Demetri if they weren’t careful. A cheerful destruction that would tame Ridley’s temper only by damaging whatever happened to be in his way. But… that wasn’t what Connor heard in his voice, the voice he loved most in the world.

Because he had to. Because he was trained to.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Rossi’s eyes narrowed a little, then he seemed to force himself to relax, all at once. His hair was mussed from running his hands back through it, a bit flopping over his forehead. “I’d guess-... more likely they meant to kill him for not being me.”

Connor had never seen Rossi look so… off before. He whined and pushed his head up into Ridley’s hand, his sweaty black hair against the cool dry palm of his master, and swallowed just to feel the safety of his collar around his throat. The straps of the clear mask currently covering his nose and mouth felt like the straps of a muzzle, for a second, and he almost welcomed the feeling.

I wouldn’t punish you with the muzzle if I didn’t want you to not have to wear it one day, kitten.

“Please-” Connor’s voice was weak, barely a hoarse whisper. Both men looked at him, at once, and Connor’s eyes traveled lazily from one to the other and back again.

“Sssshhh.” Ridley Lordin’s voice held tenderness, and nothing else, as he stroked over Connor’s hair, let his fingers run soothingly through it. It was terrifying, the lack of anger, that he was devoid of the maliciousness that Connor associated with being protected. “Sssshhh, kitten, you’re okay. It’ll be okay. The medic said we’ll know if you’re out of the woods soon, yeah? Just hold on for me and try to get some rest.”

I’m only supposed to rest when you say-

Connor tried to form new words, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate with his brain’s need to speak. All he could manage was a whistle.

The medic had been the one to listen to Connor’s lungs first, while Ridley and Rossi had stood to the side, after he’d been located dumped in front of Ridley’s company’s skyscraper. Connor didn’t remember that part. He’d woken up fighting for every hint of oxygen, already in a car speeding back to the house in the country, with Ridley’s hand in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades.

Then there had been nothing, again, for a while. Then something - the house, the little room they put Connor and Demetri in when they were too injured to go to the basement or in their masters’ bed.

He’d woken up, more or less. Connor’s eyes had managed to focus long enough to notice that Rossi stood in the doorway while Ridley and the medic looked him over. Rossi held the little bell that was normally hooked on Connor’s collar, rolling it between thumb and forefinger over and over again, muffling its gentle chime. Then Connor had had to close his eyes - keeping them open was too much work, too much effort.

The medic had listened to Connor’s breathing with the cool of the stethoscope against his front, and his back, and then they’d looked up at their employers, expression cool and carefully devoid of feeling. Have you ever heard a death rattle before?

No, Ridley said at the same time Rossi said, Couple of times.

Well, you’re hearing it now.

Ridley had reacted with something like surprise - Rossi hadn’t. Rossi, after all, knew what the sound meant before the medic ever said it out loud.

Connor’s bell had dropped to the floor, and Rossi stepped on it, swearing softly in Italian. The crunch of the metal being flattened under the weight of Rossi’s boot and his anger had been enough to make Connor flinch, and begin to cough and cough, forcing out air when he couldn’t breathe in.

The machine they’d already hooked up to him began to beep, high-pitched and fast, and there was swearing and movement, and Connor’s eyes didn’t open for a while. When they did, he had something strapped over his nose and mouth, and breathing was a little easier - and the machine was beeping softly, far more calmly, somewhere behind and to the left.

He’d come back to the medic saying, softly, someone stays in the room with him until he’s out of the woods, if you want him to live.

He’s mine, Ridley said, but there was a tremor to his usual certainty. I fucking want him to fucking live, Cain.

My husband’s pet isn’t going to die from this. Rossi’s accent was thicker, intruding into his usual unmoved cool.

Then I suggest you assign someone to sit here with him until he stops needing help to breathe. The medic never betrayed even the slightest tremble of anxiety in their calm, even voice.

How long is that going to take?

He’s coughing up blood and his lips are blue. I’ll do my best, but-

He better fucking live, Cain, if you want to fucking live. Ridley’s voice had been vicious, his rage threaded through with that strange feeling Connor couldn’t name.

Now the two of them both sat in the room with him, and Connor didn’t understand the looks on their faces. He didn’t understand the edge that came with their conversation. He couldn’t seem to get a hold on how they kept looking at him. Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t remember - he’d been going with Rossi to the fighting rings, and they’d stopped somewhere for breakfast, and someone had come up to Connor…

Most of that part was gone, a blur.

They’d worn masks, but one, who had torn his off when he realized it wasn’t Giovanni Rossi he’d kidnapped at all.

He’d been dumped in front of Ridley’s building shortly after, but not until they’d made him… what? Breathe something? Drink something? That part was lost, so much of it was lost, so much…

Connor must have dropped back out again. He opened his eyes and Ridley and Rossi were sitting together, not apart. Bleary black eyes traveled up over their faces. His breaths felt less like labor, and more natural. The mask was still strapped to his face, hissing cool oxygen into his throat, down into his lungs, to be soaked up and spread through his bloodstream. His heart had stopped pounding with desperate effort to spread what little breath he had.

His fingers twitched, and Connor moved on hand to grip into Ridley’s pants, thumb moving over the soft, expensive pinstripe.

Ridley looked up, and Connor stared, sure he must be hallucinating.

Were there shadows under Ridley’s eyes? Had he not been sleeping?

“Hey, kitten,” Ridley said, gently, and his hand was back in Connor’s hair. He relaxed into the touch, eyes fluttering closed and then open again. “You sound a little better, huh?”

“He does,” Rossi confirmed. He looked tired, too, and Connor’s eyebrows knitted together. There was a sense of golden light, pinkish-tinged, and he turned his head enough to see the window.

“M-morning…?” He managed, muffled by the oxygen mask, lips moving slowly.

“Yeah, buddy.” Ridley gave a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s morning. But Cain says you’re over the worst of it, so it’s uphill from here on out, kitten.”

“You… awake all night?” His voice was a whispery, raspy nothing-sound, and how they could hear him over the machine beep and the hiss of oxygen was beyond him, but they did.

Rossi snorted, but a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. “We were.”

“... both of you?”

“Both of us.” Rossi sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and then he laid his hand over Ridley’s, on Connor’s hair. Connor found himself trying, and failing, to purr. All he managed was a weak, broken rumble. “There he is. You’re going to feel better in no time, precious boy.”

“Then we’re going to figure out who did this, and we’ll fucking kill them,” Ridley said, and Connor saw a reassuring flare of his anger behind his comforting smile, and relaxed a little. If Ridley was angry at someone else, that was good. That was what… that was good.

“Why… up?”

Rossi laughed, but it was a dry, exhausted sound. “Because we were worried about you, Connor.”

Connor frowned, but their expressions, their conversations, Rossi’s boot crushing Connor’s bell under his heel, Ridley’s hand on his forehead and the sensation-memory of a kiss pressed between Connor’s eyes…

What he hadn’t understood was that they were worried about him.

They collared him, and kept him, and that collar - being owned - meant he was safe. Meant they would kill for him, because only they were allowed to hurt him. And after this… they would kill for him. To keep him safe.

To keep him safe, to be hurt only by them.

Connor breathed out, and his eyes closed again.

Safe.

As close to safe as he would ever be again… until they were tired of him.

@burtlederp @astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary

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deanofwhumpuniversity · 4 years

Text

Aurora Australis: Part 1

The beginning of Argos’ captivity

Content Warning: Mental/emotional whump, body horror/dismantling of a robot, mental confusion, diss@sociation, dehumanizing language (toward a non-human person, but still. Slightly creepy/intimate whumper, non-consensual touch, careless whumper, android whumpee. Tell me if I missed anything that I should warn for.

@whumpthisway and @redstainedsocks had a prompt that sorta falls into this, not exactly, maybe it’ll be up your alley anyway?

...

Rustle. Shuffle. Click-scrape. Peel-pop. Rustlerustlerustle

Awareness began to filter back in through the dark, sluggish in a way that was new and worrying. Argos knew he knew the sounds around him, but his mind refused to form them into a useful narrative, instead following each audible oddity like a cat after a laser. So he tried to focus on something other than sound, and realized he was being jostled; almost passively, as if the pressure on his arm was incidental and the goal had naught to do with him at all.

How had he gotten here? Where was here anyway? Why had he been powered down in the first place? He tried to access his info banks from just before the shutdown, but the most immediate data seemed corrupted. Argos began to rewind his sense memory; jolts of static pushed back against his consciousness, forcing him out of the playback again and again. Every burst of fuzziness muddied his thoughts and threatened to make him forget what he was attempting. He rerouted his processes, drawing his senses away from the manhandling of his frame and the white noise surrounding him, to focus on pushing through his damaged memory. Static with no ears to grate on or eyes to confuse, static that still rubbed his senses raw like nails on the chalkboard of his mind, and finally, finally, heavily distorted sensory input began to play back. He tried to place what he was seeing. Did he recall...trees? Was that a person?

“There we are!”

A peeling-tearing noise and an exclamation shook Argos from his search, expanding his senses back into his body, and the first thing he fully processed was that he did not know that voice. He began to boot up his eyes, wondering how addled his brain must be that he hadn’t thought to do so before. But in the same moment he knew that once he did, this unknown human would be able to tell he was awake. My visual display wasn’t designed for stealth. What a strange thought to have...

But as his faceplate lit up with scrolling green glyphs, the woman who came into focus wasn’t paying any attention to his expression, instead peering intently through a mounted magnifying glass, tinkering around in a bit of armor he recognized had once been plating his lower arm. It was familiar to him, a piece of him but no longer part of him. He searched his sensory map and found his arm. It was still his, still there. Seemed...in working order, but he didn’t try to move it. Not yet. The plate the human handled reverently was discolored on the outside, warped even. He was sure he knew what burn damage looked like, though he’d never seen it on himself before. This human must be here to fix him.

“Lim, come look at this!”

Someone approached from Argos’ other side. Left, his mind unhelpfully supplied. North? Upon realizing that he wasn’t sure, he began to cast about in his software again. Compass, magnetic direction, this should be ingrained, shouldn’t it? He’d always known where he was. Hadn’t he? He was even more concerned to realize that he simply didn’t remember whether or not he’d ever felt this lost before. He hoped not. He didn’t like it.

That train of thought came to a halt as the new figure came into focus. That one, he knew that one. How did he know that one? His visual field widened ever so slightly, and he saw he was in an open tent, flaps pinned back and sunlight streaming in. There were more tents, distant figures, and trees beyond. He felt an odd sense of familiarity, a technological deja-vu that meant somewhere in his visual databanks lay an image that would match up with this clearing. All he had to do was go through every moment, frame by frame, until he found it, and he would know where he was and hopefully, how he had gotten here.

But the new figure, the Lim human he presumed, was speaking, and for some reason Argos was so distracted with watching his movements that he barely caught the exchange. “-- be awake like this?” He was standing over Argos now, looking directly at his face, blue-grey eyes flicking back and forth slightly like he was trying to read the streams of vertical light that played across it. Argos found that thought strangely...endearing? That was new. He willed himself to display a disarming smile in the flickering lights for a moment, but the man simply furrowed his brow further.

The other human, the mechanic, started at this question and pushed the magnifying glass aside. She blinked up at Argos’ display as her eyes refocused, as though she was just now remembering the bit of armor she’d been examining had come from a whole body. Her momentary confusion was instantly replaced with a beaming smile, and instead of answering, she leaned in close to Argos’ faceplate. “Well look at you, all shiny and green! How long have you been up and running?” She was so close her eyes nearly crossed to watch the symbols of his display, and he had to consciously keep the data stream from speeding up along with his racing thoughts.

Personal space. Humans expect a meter of personal space from unknown persons, +.1 meter for every centimeter in height you have over them. Argos heard this admonishment in a lightly accented voice that he knew intrinsically, knew better than his own titanium bones, emanating from nowhere but simply existing in his mind, deeper than his hazy recent memory, too deep to be lost from data corruption or structural damage or whatever had happened to bring him to this circumstance.

He tried to shift back against the table, but he was already as flat as was possible, in a slumped and inhuman posture, apparently having been dead weight when he’d been laid down. He cringed internally, and realized he’d allowed the feeling to play across his face for just a moment before he schooled himself. The mechanic either didn’t notice the change, or didn’t understand it, and continued eyeing him with somewhat manic glee. He hoped if he answered her question perhaps she would move back to her stool.

“I…” He began to speak and both humans leaned back. The woman’s face was even more excited than before, somehow. But the man’s expression was one of...distaste? This worried Argos, though he wasn’t sure entirely why. He started again, “I don’t know. I don’t know what time it is...what day it is. My internal clock seems to have desynced.”

He was becoming more lucid by the moment, he knew that he was deeply damaged, both in hardware and in soft, but he had all the means at his disposal to get his bearings and make repairs. He cast about for a wireless signal, something he could use to sync with, to triangulate the time and place, and found a likely beacon on the periphery of his senses. He sent a signal to it, attempting to pair, but a sharp white jolt poured back into him. Not information, not data, but the absolute absence of it, a molten wipe that erased his request and cauterized his ability to send again. The readout on his faceplate devolved into static as his thoughts were overloaded and wiped clear of anything but pain, and his body arched in fits off the table as nonsense commands were sent to his synthetic muscles. He couldn’t remember words, or language, and he didn’t mean to try to speak, but a series of distressed metallic trills came from the speakers at the base of his throat.

It may have been a moment, or an hour, and he felt feverish as coolant rushed to prevent his processors from overheating. Even if he’d been able to trust his own internal clock, he couldn’t focus on anything but a litany of stop stop make it stop. He’d disconnected from the wireless beacon almost immediately but the feedback ran its course through his frame, down his arms and legs then doubling back to smolder in his core. Finally, gradually Argos felt his thoughts falling back into order, almost like waking from a reboot but not quite so drowsy, and not nearly so refreshing. Aftershocks of blank, dataless pain danced about his systems, and he felt his fingers twitching without his control. When he was able to focus his optics again, he saw the mechanic’s smile had become less childlike, more wolfish.

“That’ll be the wireless jammer, sorry I didn’t warn you, but we haven’t exactly had a chance to speak, have we?” She reached up, resting her hand just above the reflective plate that served Argos as a face, as though cupping his cheek from an inch away. He imagined he could still feel her touch, fingerprints on the glass, sinking through to tangle in the circuits underneath. He couldn’t help the jerking shudder at the thought, but felt some morbid relief that she would see it as another spasm of lingering pain. “I have it under control, thanks.” Her eyes didn’t move, though it was clear she wasn’t speaking to him.

“We should still restrain it. Physically.” Lim was still there, husky voice so neutral as to sound almost bored. This troubled Argos before he even had time to process the human’s words. “At least until you have it disassembled.”

#android whump #robot whump #mental whump #emotional whump #whump #missives from the dean #immortal whumpee #aurora australis #Reynan Lim #Zinnia Brown #argos

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haro-whumps · 4 years

Text

Box Boy Meeting Mama

(CW: slavery, dehumanization, creepy + intimate whumper, implied noncon, videorecording, possessive behaviors)

Tag list: @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr

Part 1

“Mama! Mama!” Ren called to the open front door, bouncing down the steps excitedly.

Their mother was a stunningly tall woman, with heavy brown hair that waved like a product model and a solid, masculine build. Her shoulders were broad, her wrists thick, and she had a jawline that could only be drawn using squares. Although her skin was free of wrinkle or blemish, she could never be described as youthful, her presence heavy and sharp in any room she entered. Her color palette was almost exclusively red, with some black and rare gold, and anytime someone told her that a woman of her size shouldn’t wear high heels, she bought herself a taller pair.

“Hello duckling,” she greeted with a bright smile, hugging her child, the only person in the world who would ever describe her as warm or loving.

“Soren!” they called over their shoulder, only half-stepping away from their mother, “Heel! Position 1!”

Soren had been told he’d be meeting Ren’s mama that morning, and had been dressed up for it, wearing what could only be called a toga and gold sandals that stretched up to his knees. He rushed to them and stood with his feet slightly parted, arms at his sides, spine straight.

“Oh there he is,” she said curiously, eyeing him over as though to judge if his presence lived up to the rumors. He stood close to Ren, nervous around the looming woman, with her sharp eyes and strong arms. Ren was his owner, so of course they could do whatever damage they wanted to him, but they knew that to a whumpee, their mama cut a much more intimidating figure. She could do as much damage with a closed fist as Ren might with a belt. Maybe more.

“You’re right, the short hair really isn’t suiting him,” she commented at length, lifting a lock of Soren’s hair, which now skimmed his shoulders. The products were doing their job. She tilted his chin and her eyes lingered on the birthmark. “But you are a cute little thing, aren’t you pet?”

“Thank you, um, m-ma’am?” he said hesitantly, body tense, and Ren giggled.

“Aw,” Ren’s mama said with a knowing click of her tongue. “Did you call my child ‘ma’am’ and get scolded for it?” she asked with a small chuckle shaking her impressive shoulders.

“Uh--um, well,” Soren stammered, which was too cute, so Ren took pity on him and kissed his pretty temple.

“He’s been perfect, lately; hasn’t messed up since, have you angel?”

“No, Exalted,” he said, obviously relieved that Ren had stepped in.

“Oh, Exalted!” Ren’s mama crooned, “I like that, that’s so classy!”

“Thanks!” Ren said cheerfully, beaming up at her. “The other option is ‘Honored One,’ which I think has a similar ring to it.”

“Good choices, good choices,” she agreed. “Well, off to Sunday brunch?”

“Mm!” Ren hummed. They gave Soren a quick kiss to his cheek, petting his hair in a smooth, swift gesture. “Behave yourself while I’m out, Soren. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Have, have fun,” Soren said, glancing between them and their mama, timid around her, but that was fine. If Soren wanted to see Ren as the only safe thing in all the world, that was a-okay by them.

They climbed into the passenger seat of their mama’s red luxury car, one of the smaller ones today, and arranged their skirts around their legs. Best part of skirts: Ren looked phenomenal in them and they showed off their calves. Worst part of skirts: maneuvering in them.

“He really is,” Mama murmured as she started the car with her thumbprint, “That’s your sweet little Soren.”

“I know!” Ren said with a laugh, “I can still hardly believe it sometimes!”

��Well, he seems healthy and whole, at least.”

“Mama! Of course he is!”

She snorted and pinched their cheek, eyes still on the road. “I didn’t say I ever thought you wouldn’t take care of him, dumpling. But you know how those whumpee-vendors can get, sometimes. Every couple of months, it seems like there’s some new scandal that everyone just needs to flood the news streams with.”

Ren sighed knowingly, very put upon. “It’s true. I mean, really, you’d think we’d be past the whole ‘Oh hey let’s lose our shit over this’ phase of whumpees, right? They knew the risks when they signed themselves over, and it’s not like they’re actually people anymore.”

Mama hummed. “Do we want to go for cheese and pasta or are we thinking seafood today?”

“I could go for somewhere with refried beans and pork, if you’re up for it,” Ren stated.

“Oo, fancy today.” Mama threw on her turn signal. “Guaca Maya’s always a safe bet.”

“So, did I not, express, to Soren, enough, that I loved him and liked taking care of him when we were younger? Like, why didn’t he come crawling back to me?”

“Duckling,” Mama crooned, like when they were acting just a little unreasonable about how life wasn’t fair.

“It’s been bothering me since I found him, Mama. I would have forgiven him! He had to have known that, right?”

“Honey, sometimes poor people just… behave in strange ways. They’re not rational.” She gave their thigh a sympathetic squeeze. “The more you try to make sense of them, the more frustrated you’ll get.”

Ren sighed and stroked their brow, probably messing up their eyebrows but ah, such was life. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter, I have him now,” they said, flaring out their fingers.

“And so cute, too; he’s so nervous!”

Ren giggled. “Oh, oh! Once we get seated I’ll show you; remember how I told you I was buying all those cameras?”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” she said, parking the car.

They were seated at one of the better tables, the waitress accidentally calling Mama “sir” before she noticed the mixup, and after they’d ordered their food Ren pulled out their phone and tapped through the application, searching for their boy.

“Ha, there he is,” Ren said, holding out the phone screen so Mama could look. “He really likes that balcony.”

“Good thing, too, his freckles are so pretty when they’re dense,” Mama commented, taking the phone in that way the previous generation had, instead of just looking while Ren held it. Soren was seated on a patio chair, plush but waterproof, and was dozing in the late morning sun.

“I’m glad I got him the two in one sunscreen and lotion,” Ren remarked, staring gleefully down at the screen, chin in their palm. Even though it would be fun to poke and prod at the burns, they thought privately. Such things were not meant to be shared with their mama; she would scold them for casual violence.

“You’re such a clever kid,” Mama said proudly, handing the phone back, “Always the most prepared out of all your peers, I don’t know where you got it from.”

“Statistically speaking, probably you,” Ren said, and they both laughed. Brunch went by pleasantly, the two of them catching up on the events of the week. Mama knew a good portion of Ren’s week, since they had kept on delightedly texting her throughout, but it was always fun to eat and chat. Mama enjoyed flaunting her wealth as much as Ren did, and tipped equal to the bill, then drove Ren home.

“Same time next week,” she said before they got out of the car, “But not the week after--”

“--because you’ll be overseas, so we’ll have to videochat,” Ren confirmed, leaning across the consol so she could kiss their cheek affectionately.

“You got it. Alright darling, have a good one.”

“Bye Mama!” Ren called brightly as they got out, and returned inside. Brunch with Mama always left them feeling pleased and calm, and knowing that they were returning to Soren left them positively bouncing, skirt flaring out around their knees. They went to the kitchen to put their leftovers in the fridge,

and their mood turned on a dime.

“What are you doing with those scissors!?” they bellowed, crossing the kitchen in an instant, catching him by the wrist so hard he dropped the blades, their nails pressing bleeding crescents into his skin.

“E-Exalted, I--”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” they yelled, slamming that fragile arm into the pantry door, grabbing him by the front of his toga and lifting, furious, spots swarming their vision.

“Nothing! Please!”

“The hell does nothing need scissors for?” they shouted, their face so close to his that spit flew onto it. “Do you seriously think you can just--”

“Thread! There’s a loose thread!” Soren wailed, free hand desperately pressed against Ren’s chest. They stopped, breathing hard, rage still curling in them but paused, just for a moment. Soren hiccupped on his little sobs and shakily moved his hand to point at the strap of his toga. “T-*hic* There’s a l-loose thread, Honored One,” he said, lifting it so they could see. Thin, unnoticed when the clothing was delivered, hardly even visible without someone pointing it out. “I, I was snipping it. I would never hurt you, Exalted, Ren, please, I would never, I’m not a fighter, I wouldn’t hurt you, please,” his fingers curled in the front of their blouse, “please, never, never. I wouldn’t, Honored One, please believe me, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.”

Ren released his wrist, their fingers trailing down his skin and leaving bloody marks. They took a deep breath, and let it out, releasing his toga and lifting their hands to his face, cupping his cheeks. “Oh, baby,” they murmured, trying to calm their heartbeat. “Oh Soren,” they said, pressing up against him, his back flush against the pantry door, their face pressed into his hair. His gorgeous hair, that he wasn’t going to cut. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. His first concern was that Ren thought he would hurt them, use the scissors to fight; cutting his hair was so far from his mind it never crossed it.

They stood there, pressed up against his quietly crying body, for an indeterminate amount of time. They pulled back when they were calm enough, and silently took the thread between their fingers. They leaned down and bit it, snapping it easily, and then kissed Soren’s birthmark.

“Go ahead and clean up the mess you made,” Ren said, glancing at their leftovers, which were now spilled across the kitchen tile. “I’ll go get some disinfectant for your wrist.”

“Thank you,” he said, high and quiet and Ren felt okay enough to smile at him. They kissed his pretty lips, thumbing at the tear tracks, half-dried, and left the kitchen. But not without first grabbing the scissors, taking the blades with them.

#whump #slavery #dehumanization #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #possessive behavior #videotaping #videorecording #pet #slave #lost temper #bbu #box boy #ren #soren #mama #mine #writing

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