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thelunastusco · 1 year

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syscourse and “but science SAYS--”

If there's one thing in syscourse we could convince people to accept, it'd be:

Requiring "scientific proof" of a subjective internal experience is more ableist, anti-science, and harmful than that experience could ever be.

Science isn't meant to be an ideological attack dog.

"What do you mean, TLC?"

Science falls into three branches: natural, social, formal. Natural = earth/space, biology, physics, etc. Social = psychology, history, etc. Formal = math, computers, etc. Applied sciences are things like medicine. Formal sciences aren't empirical.

Let's focus on natural and social sciences for now, since they do the empirical evidence thing. Natural science is about what you can see, taste, touch, hear, and put into a lab to study. It involves hypotheses, and being able to test them, retest, replicate results, etc.

This is why science doesn't really play with things like religion. It can't prove there is or isn't a god, because it can't-- at present-- put "god" into a lab and study them. It can however stick a human in a lab and see what the brain does when people pray!

Religion is a subjective internal experience, but science CAN test physical stuff like brains. Science can see what parts of the brain light up when you do, feel, or think XYZ. Science can't always tell you what that data MEANS... but it can get the data and move on to guesswork.

A hypothesis is a guess. Testing is what scientists do to see if it's right. If the data shows the guess might be correct, they retest and see if the data can be replicated. They then report findings. A visual:

If it can be replicated consistently, a hypothesis might become a theory. Or even a law! Here's another visual:

This is how we got the theory of evolution, the theory of relativity, Newton's first law of motion, etc. Because science took things that could be seen, tested it to death, and either made logical inferences from buttloads of evidence or actually observed the thing in action.

Social science is a bit more wiggly, but the same idea applies-- it's something that was seen and recorded (history) or that can be put in a lab (psychology) and studied. Let's focus on psychology, for reasons. :P Psychology, as a science, focuses on a few things.

What they can see on brain scan and blood work-- ruling out tumors, toxins, etc, or seeing how a brain reacts to XYZ, for example. What they can see in behavior-- if someone is agitated, catatonic, harming themselves, etc. What that person reports-- hearing things, losing time.

The first two things are physical stuff that can be seen, recorded, studied. The last? Nope. If someone claims to hear things, you can get a brain scan of what's going on when they hear things. But you can't say they are or aren't hearing things, because you're not in their head.

How does all this apply to plurality? We're in the hypothesis stage. Science hasn't "proven" much of anything about plurality. Yes, some systems have been put in a lab and studied as much as they could be studied, but there's a lot of data that is internal experiences--

And there's a lot of aspects that can't ethically be studied. For example, the concept that only trauma causes systems to form. It would be difficult to study for a lot of reasons, but ethics is a huge hurdle there. Traumatizing kids on purpose is usually frowned upon.

What CAN science do? They can take traumagenic and endogenic systems, and scan their brains during things like switching, or see what it looks like when parogenic systems focus on creating a system member, or compare all that to (self-proclaimed) singlets.

But science can't prove that a system didn't form the way the system claims it formed. Science can take down the system's history, and observe their brain and their behaviors, but they can't see what's going on inside the system's head and how or why they operate as they do.

The best science can do is "this system reports a history of no trauma, their brain scans are consistent to what we see with switching in other systems, and we can observe changes between system members"... for now, anyways.

None of what science currently has on plurality is enough to push any one idea past the hypothesis stage. Science can, and does, say that trauma is "usually associated" with disorders like DID and OSDD. But that's correlation, and--

Only in regards to systems who have, for some reason or another, ended up in a medial setting.

Science has yet to fully explore beyond plurality as it exists in medical settings, because there's been little reason or demand for it to do so. Why waste the money and time?

Thus, there's little "scientific proof" of nontraumagenic systems... not because they don't exist, but because the studies haven't been done yet. There's been no reason to study systems who, by and large, don't seek medical help for their plurality.

Requiring systems to "scientifically prove" their existence is absurd, at best. SCIENCE doesn't even require "scientific proof"-- all that is required is self reporting, because science accepts "yeah this is probably a thing" and that it's mostly outside science's wheelhouse.

Demanding "scientific proof" of a system's existence is ableist because it implies that only things that can be physically studied are "good enough" to "count". It implies self-reporting isn't good enough, and that internal experiences don't "count".

Demanding "scientific proof" is anti-science because it displays a serious lack of understanding in [1] what counts as scientific proof, [2] what can be scientifically proven, and [3] the entire scientific method. It's a fundamental ignorance of what science can and can't do.

Demanding "scientific proof" is harmful because it does nothing to help systems, the plural community, or singlets truly seeking to understand. It just sows division, hatred, misinformation... and does bigots' work for them. Not to mention the distress over being fakeclaimed.

And ultimately, it can be turned on "system exclusionists", too. Because guess what. There's little "scientific proof" ANY type of system exists. Again, most "proof" of systems existing at all is held together by self-reporting, duct tape, and tiny pool of good therapists.

Trauma-formed, not trauma-formed, y'all are in the same leaky boat heading towards sharp rocks. "Science proves" that systems are probably a thing, because systems SAY SO and because there are some funky brain scans showing SOMETHING going on that singlets don't usually have.

Science is supposed to be for examining the physical things we CAN study, and helping us understand the world around us. It is beautiful, but it has limits, too. Sometimes those limits shrink as science evolves, and gets better funding and better tools. Sometimes not.

Regardless, it doesn't exist and function as a weapon to be used against people who have something going on in their heads that science can't fully see or study-- and probably never fully will. Science isn't something to unleash on fellow systems as a "gotcha".

Especially considering the fact that NO SYSTEM is in any position to do so.

"Scientific proof" puts ALL systems of ALL origins in the same damn boat. And y'all can either start handing out lifejackets and start paddling, or sink.

Your call.

#syscourse cw #syscourse #actuallyplural #actuallymultiple #endogenic systems #plurality #information #pro endo #endo positive #sysmeds fuck off tbh #no science does not PROVE endogenic systems are 'impossible'#no science does not SUGGEST they're 'impossible'#science doesn't give a shit #science showed that in a TINY study on AFAB Europeans diagnosed with DID that they could predict with about 70% accuracy which had DID #that means NOTHING #not in the grand scheme of things #and there are studies being done with parogenic systems that will be very interesting #but as of right now there's NO science proving that ONLY trauma causes systems #like we cannot stress enough how fucking impossible that would be to study #the best they can do is 'well we tested nontraumagenic systems to see how they compare to traumagenic systems'#and to compare/contrast those studies #which still proves nothing beyond yeah it looks similar or no it doesn't look similar #WHICH STILL #PROVES NOTHING #a headache caused by a concussion will look different than a headache caused by dehydration #they'e both still gotdam headaches

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a-painful-ordeal · 8 months

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6. Impatient They Start, Fearful They End

CW: Flogging, fear of flogging, verbal abuse, attempts at compliance training, stress positions, fears of injury, references to beatings, begging.

The night is one of the longest Evan has ever experienced. Each minute passes at a painful crawl. Evan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying desperately to get his arms to feel comfortable as the blood drains from them. His feet ache. They feel like he’s spent the evening running across a kingdom. His calves ache from standing only on the balls of his feet. It takes a few more hours for his legs to begin to give out, as his entire body weight moves onto his, now very numb wrists.

Sleep makes endless attempts to claim him, only for the boy to be jarred awake by the sudden and sharp pull on his wrists and shoulders. The adrenaline fades and all he is left with is the sickly aroma of fear at what the morning might bring.

The night breaks, as it always does. The light shines through the curtains. It douses the room in a warm, orange light. A few more hours pass, before the Lord begins to stir.

Slowly, very slowly sleep manages to claim him. The boy’s eyes drift shut, just for a few moments as his body goes limp.

***

Cold water soaks his body, leaving Evan gasps and scrambling to stand properly. In front of him stands Lord Maynard. The man has a far too pleased expression on his face. Maynard holds an empty jug of water as it drips onto the floor. “Good morning.” He bids the boy cheerfully.

Evan quivers slightly after the unwelcome wake-up call. He stares back, unsure what to say, as his mind catches up with him.

“I said. Good. Morning.” Maynard repeats, his tone far harsher than before, as he moves to yank Evan’s head painfully to one side with the boy’s hair, waiting for an answer.

Evan gasps “G-good morning…” he quickly spits out, desperately praying for the man to fuck off and leave him alone.

Maynard smiles, releasing the boy’s hair “Good. You are learning.” He pats the boy’s cheek faux-lovingly, before walking to put the jug down on the table. “Now what do you say to me?”

Evan blinks. The fuck does he say?? Wait no. What would he want to hear? “Thank you… for teaching me about...” Fuck. He blanks. “Kneeling and being… polite?” He responds, trying to make it sound like he isn’t saying this through gritted teeth.

Maynard wanders back over with a smile and a pocketknife, as he cuts the cord, that suspended Evan from the bed, down.

Immediately Evan’s legs give. There’s a thud and a sharp intake of breath as his knees painfully hit the stone floor.

“Much better. I see you now know your place. Good boy.” Maynard praises, in a sickly, greasy manner, that leaves Evan feeling unclean. “Right. You are going to stay exactly there until I come back. And then you can face the consequences of your decisions yesterday. Understood?”

Evan’s stomach turns as he is reminded of the flogging. He speaks anyway, pushing through the fear. “Yes...My…Lord…”

Maynard nods, clearly pleased before turning on heel and leaving the room.

Evan kneels there. The exhaustion makes him more scared and the hunger for not eating since the night before burrows into him. The hunger makes his body tremble, and the nausea worse. He needs to eat something… before… they take him out and…

Evan quickly shifts his focus to the nearby fruit bowl on the table. He holds his breathing to make sure he can’t hear the bastard lord anymore. He then looks at the ground, making a mental note of where he’s knelt. The second tile, which is parallel to the cupboard. He shifts from his knees to his feet, stumbling slightly before dashing to the fruit bowl on the nearby table.

He grabs an apple, quickly sinking his teeth into it. It doesn’t take long for the boy to devour it, core, and all. He lets out a small sign as the hunger pangs begin to fade. He grabs a pear from the opposite side of the bowl and eats that too. It’s not quite enough to fill him but fuck it. And! Two things balance out the bowl as well. The apple’s absence is less noticeable. Maybe if he rearranges that bottom apple to there, the missing fruit is unnoticeable? Perfect!

Evan maneuvers the bottom apple to where the original was, making the pile look just as tall as it did before.

Evan takes a quick step back, focusing on his handiwork rather than on what is to come. He hears footsteps. That same methodical marching.

He moves back as fast as his legs will let him. It was the…. Second tile. Parallel to the cupboard that he was on before. The boy drops to his knees and catches his breath just as the door swings open again. He holds his breath and slowly exhales. His lungs demand more air, but Evan forces himself to hold it and breathe like normal. Smooth out his breathing. Good. Like that.

Wait. Shit. Evan’s brain catches up to his body, as the realization that he’s on the third tile, not the second hits. Shit.

Maynard looks at Evan for a moment, assessing whether the boy has moved.

He then shrugs and continues to move around his chambers.

Evan releases the breath and his body sinks in relief as the realization that ‘he got away with it’ hits. He kneels there. It’s okay. He’s fine. He pulled through… which means he can get away with more… right?

***

Midday moves to meet them, faster than Evan would like. He spends most of the hours in one position on his knees. Only moving to relieve himself, after asking his ‘master’ oh so nicely.

Finally, there’s a knock before the doors to the chambers open. Two guards stand there looking at their lord. “All the preparations are ready Sir.”

A ball of panic moves into Evan’s throat. He fights to keep his breathing normal and level. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to swallow that dread. It’s not going away.

The Lord stands from his paperwork at the table. “Excellent.” He clasps his hands together. “Take him to the square. I’ll be right with you.”

The two guards walk over and grab Evan by his shoulders. One seems a little rougher than the other. As it slowly dawns on Evan that this is the same guard that had beaten him the night before, he begins to struggle harder.

Evan is dragged to his feet by a vice-like grip and is marched through the manor until they reach a courtyard. The courtyard itself is lightly cobbled with a well to one side of it. There seem to be a few entrances to other parts of the house that Evan has yet to explore. Opposite the well is a set of wooden stocks and not too far away from there is an old wooden post with rusted metal manacles dangling from it.

Fresh terror begins to kick in.

Evan digs his heels into the cobblestone as best he can. But the strength of the guards is greater than him as he is forced forwards.

“Please… fuck. Please no… I’ll… I’ll do anything…!”

The guard from the night before, the bastard with the belt snorts “Should have thought about that before trying to run.”

Evan’s eyes are wide as he struggles to keep himself away from the restraints. His hands are shoved into the metal handholds. There’s a screech as the clasps are tightened. The pressure relinquishes from his shoulders.

Evan tries to look around to see what’s happening, but he only hears shuffling around him and chatter. The people are too far out of sight. He feels his breathing speed up.

His breath hitches as he feels a sharp point at the base of his neck. A sharp knife pokes into his flesh for a moment, holding just long enough for tears of panic and terror to form. The knife begins to cut slowly through the fabric of his shirt. The tearing of fibers against metal is the only sound he can focus on. The open fabric is then less than gently pulled to one side, exposing the flesh on the boy’s back.

Evan squirms to try and see what’s happening to no avail.

Someone calls something out and there’s chatter behind him as if a group of friends were just leaving a bar.

However, out of the corner of his eye, Evan notices the movement of green skin and hears nervous footsteps. Trygve. The orc moves quickly over to him, maybe on someone’s orders? Evan feels an attempt of a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder.

“I don’t have long…” the man squats next to him, with a mirrored look of empathetic fear. “Okay. Look at me.” He moves his hand as discreetly as possible to Evan’s forearm. “You are going to need breath, okay? Deep breaths. And here.” He pulls out a small chunk of leather.

Evan moves his head away, trying to smooth over the terror with disgust.

“Hey… hey. It’s… to bite down on… better this than… your tongue. I promise.”

“I-” Evan’s words are interrupted by someone shouting for Trygve. Evan nods quickly “Please…”

Trygve gives the boy a nod, leaning over and helping the leather bit into Evan’s mouth. The half-orc man gives Evan’s arm another light squeeze before dashing back to his master’s side.

Evan uses his tongue to maneuver the leather, grimacing at the taste, before clenching his jaw. He breathes slowly through his nose. Resisting the temptation to panic as he hears the commotion behind him, quietens to a hush like a crowd before the start of the theater performance. He swallows, as saliva pools into his mouth around the bit.

The silence is excruciating. There are footsteps, but Evan doesn’t dare turn his head around. Potentially losing an eye would make this so much worse…

The steps stop. Evan strains to hear what comes next. The sound of leather being flicked.

Fuck…

The leather whip is flicked and jostled a couple of times.

A sudden and horrific crack echoes next to Evan’s ear. He flinches, dropping his head, expecting pain… nothing. The laughter behind confirms that that was a purposeful miss.

Evan stares at the train of the post. Breathe. Maybe he can be one of those brave men he’s seen in the streets, who don’t make a sound? Yeah. That he’s not going to scream or give them the satisfaction of knowing they hur-

The next crack rings through the boy’s core as a stinging line is ripped through his flesh. All breath is knocked from him. His jaw muscles clench as he bites into the leather. 1.

He isn’t given time to catch his breath or reset as the leather torture implement rives its way through the skin on his back. His body arches and tries to move away from the burning, ripping sensation, but his hands are held firmly in place. The metal digs into his wrists as he tries desperately to wrench himself free. Rubbing against the already abused skin of his wrists. 2.

The next strike cleaves its way, sideways through the other welts. He cries out, dropping the bit from his mouth. Stop! Make it stop! 3.

Each new strike tears through his body. The rhythmic cracking draws screams from the boy until his throat is raw and his cheeks are sodden from tears. Any energy is drained from him by the sleepless night. His body slumps, only to twitch each time a strike rips its way through him. It doesn’t take long for him to lose count. The pain is the only thing he’s aware of.

He's finally grateful as a wave of unconsciousness takes him under, around his 15th lash.

-------

AN: Hey folks! Hope you enjoyed! I've been organizing my plans for this. Turns out that song lyrics give great whump inspiration! Who'd have thunk!?!

Anyway! If you wanna be notified do shout! I'll add you to the taglist!

Masterlist Next

Taglist:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump @ivycloak

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whump-in-the-closet · 11 months

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The Scarred Among the Mundane.

cw: medieval torture (pillory), stress positions, public humiliation, manhandling, mock execution (implied), magic whump, elf whumpee, forced to kneel

previous. masterlist. next

— —

The dawn is cold and wet and grey. And there is a fresh bruise in centre of the town square

Two guards stand on either side of a wooden T-shaped structure.

One sways on his feet, eyes drooping shut under his helm. Both are leaning on their spears for support.

A bird breaks the grey dawnlight with a diving swoop– a dart of black feathers and loud shrieking.

One of the guards straightens, cracking stiff bones with a sharp twist. “Lord.”

The other pushes back his helm to scratch the raw indents left in his temples. He mutters something unintelligible, walking over to the wooden carcass that is a pillory.

A limp body hangs from the structure. Hands are dead against the wood and face obscured by sandy dreadlocks, heavy boards fastened over the prisoner’s neck.

Shallow breathing is the only sign of life. Chains snake around the pillory as an extra measure of caution.

The guard yawns. Wiping his mouth, he kicks the prisoner as violently as he can. His boot leaves a smear of dirt and violet bruises on the figure’s side. “Rise and shine, elfboy.”

The first thing Finn is aware of is the ache in his neck and weighted numbness in his arms. His stomach turns, yesterday’s bread tasting like ash in his throat.

He tries to roll his shoulders, only to be met with wooden resistance.

That’s odd.

Behind him, someone laughs.

And it all comes back– the brilliant plan, the failed plan, the red-headed human and the freezing pain–

And now this strange, wooden device he’s trapped in.

Exhaustion turns to panic in a ripping heartbeat. He wants out of this.

Right now.

Right this instant.

He’s yanking at the holes his hands are trapped in, yanking and twisting and rubbing them raw and it’s not working.

“Let me out!”

More laughter. The sun rises higher, playing on his face and making him squint.

“This is…” Finn strains against the wooden boards– strains to find the right word. Dozens come to mind. Absurd. Unacceptable. Unbelievable. He finally settles on one, spitting it out with a bitter curl of his lip. “This is a mistake.” I’ll make you regret this.

Watch.

He thinks of the town square going up in flames, all scarlet and white-hot agony on the thatched roofs.

The guards stop laughing. One brings down the butt of his spear across Finn’s head.

Finn sets his jaw, a sudden and sharp roaring in his ears. Still he can hear the guards talking.

“You hear that? The bastard thinks he’s some powerful lord.”

Another flick of the spear that Finn can’t dodge. Wood fills his vision, cutting off his curse mid-sentence. Crack.

“As if he’s got longer than a day to live.”

Something wet and hot and sticky drips from Finn’s nose. He licks it away, but it leaves the taste of salt behind.

A deep-throated snarl rises up– bloodied and thick– “You will all burn.”

“For Christ’s sake, he’s feral.” There’s a shudder in the guard’s voice.

Finn bares his teeth, showing off the jagged edges. These humans had every right to be scared of him. Honestly, how dare they? Who did they think they were? And what did they mean by he didn’t have a day to live–

This train of thought is interrupted as the first few villagers start to trickle into the open clearing. Eyes flicker from the pillory to Finn to Finn’s pointed ears.

An entirely new emotion twists inside him. A vine crawling and wrapping and snapping his ribcage, leaving his heart beating on display.

Finn snarls and a few humans recoil. But a few of the braver ones step forward. And that's when Finn sees the basket of rotten fruit.

Bruised tomatoes.

Horrid pears and smashed apples.

Those last ones will hurt. As if his day can get any worse.

Finn redoubles his efforts to escape. “Let me out of this! Let me out!” He yanks and panics and tries not to scream.

The guards, predictably, do nothing. Finn decides he’ll set their houses on fire first.

Blood trickles down the wooden structure in thin lines, but scarlet rage is all Finn can see. Scarlet and the outlines of the first villagers bending down to pick up the fruit.

Eyes widening. A final, breathless curse. “Don’t you dare–”

The humans dare.

A tomato explodes directly in his face. Rotting red in his mouth and in his eyes and probably in his ears too.

He never wants to eat fruit again. An apple hits him in the mouth. A pear to the side of his head. The barrage comes faster and faster. The crowd grows, and with it, the amount of rotten fruit thrown.

Finn will never eat fruit again…

Midday does not bring much relief, though the basket is now empty and the crowd dispersed. Most of the basket’s contents are on Finn.

He keeps his eyes closed to the mass of humanity. The crowd swirls and tightens and laughs. Someone shouts out the prices of eggs.

Finn tries and fails to pretend that he doesn’t have a tomato slipping down the front of his shirt. There’s raw egg sticking to the inside of his ear.

He gags.

Then gags again.

“Damn it all,” he says.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rings. The clear tones echo harshly twelve times. Next to Finn, the guards snap awake. Before Finn has time to process what’s happening, a black bag has been thrown over his head.

Damn this specifically.

The boards around his neck and wrists are loosened, only for cold metal to take their place. His arms ache and then burn as the guards tighten the chains behind his back.

Finn curses the guards, and the Monarch, and every member of the crowd in rapid fire succession. Most of this is muffled by the hood, but Finn feels infinitely better.

“Where are you taking me?”

He’s pushed forward roughly. “Public execution.”

“You mean, I’ll be watching your public execution? Excellent.”

The butt of the spear. Again. “Your execution. You’re to be hanged.” This time, Finn stumbles, feet suddenly weighted.

“You deserve something worse,” adds the other guard. “But the Monarch says hang the elf, so we hang the elf.”

Finn stops walking.

The guards shove him forward. “Move it.”

But Finn’s legs have turned to wood. The word execution sounds like a sharpened knife. The drop of an axe, burying into flesh. The noose tightening.

The world spinning on and leaving Finn behind.

His last moments are to be spent with stuffy breathing and glints of sunlight through a hood?

A dead sound rips its way out of him. It tastes as black and vile as the word execution.

“Shut up,” says one of the guards.

Finn takes a long, dragging step. And then another. And then one more. He’s going to die with egg yolk dripping into his ear?

A scream builds up. Futile and hopeless.

Finn twists his arms out of the guards’ hands, stumbling away. He can’t get far. He knows this. But through the panic and the screaming, can’t sounds a lot like can.

The sound of hoofbeats seems to come from everywhere at once. Finn still tries to run, not caring in which direction he’s going.

And then his own body betrays him. He’s not entirely sure it’s his own body. A single word consumes it, while his mind watches with violet-tinged horror.

Kneel.

Finn drops to the ground. Inside, he’s screaming. He’s aware of voices beside him and hears the crinkling of paper, but he can’t make out the individual words.

Defeated sighs from the guards.

The hood is withdrawn. Finn’s stomach drops. “Damn you, specifically.”

The red-haired sorcerer smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She tucks the scroll away with a small shrug, keeping one hand on her horse’s bridle “You might regret that.”

“That’s my line.”

“Not anymore.”

Finn snaps at her, lips drawn back to his gums. “I’ll watch you burn and laugh.”

The sorcerer doesn’t seem too bothered by the idea. “You’re not too polite to your saviour, are you? I was expecting at least a ‘thank you’.” She glances at the guards. “Does that seem like too much to ask?”

Sullen silence.

“Say ‘thank you’, elf,” says the sorcerer.

Finn glares and says nothing. A long moment of silence. The crowd watches out of the corners of their eyes and pretends not to notice.

The sorcerer lifts her hand in a beckoning gesture. Speak. The words are ripped from Finn’s mouth, leaving the taste of copper behind.

“Thank you.”

“Hm…Your name, elf?”

Again, that ripping sensation. “Finn.” I’ll burn your house with you inside it.

The sorcerer’s hand drops. She mounts her horse, swaying slightly. The moment passes.

Digging through her satchel, she pulls out a rope and ties it into a noose. Throwing it to the guards, she says, “Allow me to take him out of your hands.”

Finn has never considered the idea of “a fate worse than death” before but he does now.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast (lmk if you want to be added/ removed!)

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quietly-by-myself · 2 years

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Kinda random but how about a painful massage for Sacha?

Thank you so much for the anon!! As you wish...

CW: slavery whump, conditioned whumpee, silent whumpee, bone relocation, creepy/intimate whumper, carewhumping, stress position, dubcon/noncon touching

===

"Come here, Sacha."

Sacha never knew what to expect when Master called him. He knew it would be painful, yes, but the tortures that Master put him through were different and unpredictable.

Like the night before, when Sacha had made a noise and earned himself hours of being hung in a horrible position forward by his neck, with his arms wrenched behind him.

"I took your punishment too far, Sacha. You were just whimpering. I should not have left you for that long. Let me help you."

Master was sitting in his leather chair, a glass of whisky on the table next to him. Sacha was sitting next to him on the floor.

Master motioned for Sacha to come up on the ottoman in front of the leather chair. Sacha hesitated. He was never allowed up on the furniture when Master took him upstairs. Even just allowing him upstairs showed some level of kindness Sacha was not normally afforded. It was a relief to be out of the basement, though he knew that it came with a hefty price tag. One he would have to pay now.

Sacha eventually obeyed. Master immediately put his hands on Sacha, feeling his shoulder. He massaged it surprisingly gently, but the digging caused Sacha pain like no other.

Eventually, Master moved onto his other shoulder, massaging the base of his neck, his shoulder blades, and his upper spine. All of it popped and cracked and stung with a horrible agony.

Sacha wanted to cry out, but whimpering was what had gotten him there in the first place.

"Your shoulders are dislocated. Subluxed. Whatever the word is. They're a bit out of place. I'll relocate them for you. Don't move and don't make a sound."

Sacha stiffened, ready to obey. Master put his hand on Sacha's arm and massaged gently, working the shoulder bone into place. The pressure in his arms gradually faded as Master continued the massage. His arms hurt less and his neck felt like it might've been able to support itself.

Even though every motion Master made into his muscles hurt, Sacha didn't care. He was being touched without Master intentionally causing him pain.

It was a relief he couldn't describe.

It was a mercy he didn't deserve.

===

Tags: @whumpsday, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @pigeonwhumps, @darkthingshappen, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @darlingwhump, @maracujatangerine, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @flowersarefreetherapy, @octopus-reactivated, @quietshae, @whump-blog, @inkkswhumpandstuff, @whumpycries, @whumpkinz

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copics-and-renegades · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023 Day 20: Card Games

Impending collapse.

---

Yeah, this one is just straightforward torture without any deeper meaning.

I realized that all kinds of straining, seemingly unnatural stress positions can be inspired by... looking up shots of Olympic gymnasts. You're welcome lmao. :'D

#whumptober2023 #no.20 #altprompt #card games #tales of symphonia #botta #fanart #torture cw #stress positions cw #restraints cw #blood cw #ink #whump

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whumpbump · 1 year

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Whumpril day 29

Continuation of Jay and Sam

Cw: implied torture and stress position

The Director stepped back and admired their handiwork. Jay was trussed like a turkey ready for roasting. They weren’t going anywhere. This had been the fifth time this week that they’d tried to escape and the Director decided to take matters into their own hands.

“Let’s see how you feel after a few hours like this.”

Slamming the door behind them, they left Jay tied in a stress position. A treatment reserved for ‘special cases’ of Whumpees not “ready” to accept the love of others quite yet.

A few hours later, the Director came back only to have Jay spit at their face. Displeased with this, the Director, through gritted teeth, gave one final threat: “if you don’t pull yourself together, you’re going to the farm.”

“Wh-what’s at the farm?”

“Hopefully, you never find out.”

At the private prison run by the Director’s friend, Sam was tossed into a cement room and hosed down. Choking on the water, Sam could only attempt to protect their vulnerable body from the high-pressure water. They were de-loused and given a jumpsuit to redress themselves in.

Sam had their first meal of a disgusting gruel dumped over them by a guard for asking what it was.

Their second meal was spit in by the chef for asking the same question. Sam stopped asking.

The Warden came to visit them personally so they could “become acquainted.”

“Sam! Hello. I’m the Warden of this facility. I think we both know why you’re here. I find it incredibly insulting that you undid so much good work and progress made by that poor soul. And worse, you’ve caused quite the headache for my drinking buddy. So I hope you can understand that I’m not necessarily interested in making sure you have a good stay.”

With exhausted eyes, Sam watched the Warden’s grandiose gesticulations as they shared their spoken word manifesto.

“… and finally, let me just say, welcome. I hope you learn your lesson, lest I need to send you to the Farm.”

“The Farm?”

“You look confused. That’s understandable. Don’t worry about the Farm unless you continue to cause problems. By the way. You needn’t know what’s in the slop we call food here. All you need to do is eat it.”

#whumpril 2023 #whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumpee #whumpblr #whump blog #whump ideas #whump #whumper #tw torture #cw torture #stress position

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voiceoffenrisulfr · 4 months

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Hail Hydra - Chapter Eight

Aleksi’s torture reaches its finale, and Bucky gets put in isolation. CW: Canon-typical violence, submission to save another, stress position, reluctant whimper, physiological distress, emotional distress, lashing. Prompts filled: ‘Stress Free (Stress Position)’, December 8th prompt, Dead Dove December; ‘Flashback’, December 8th Prompt, Hurtcember 2023; ‘Isolation’, December 8th prompt, Whumpcember; ‘Suspension’, Fandom-Free Bingo (Frosty Edition); ‘Caretaker Turned Whumper’, Fandom-Free Bingo (Frosty Edition).

Check it out on AO3 here, or read the first section below the KR with the board!

By the time the sound of fists on flesh ended, I was weeping profusely, and he was silent. His unresponsive body was dragged past me, blood pouring readily from his slack mouth and trailing from his evidently-broken nose. Breathe. Breathe… Please. But I saw no mist rise from his parted lips as he was heaved by me, leaving a familiar trail of red on white in his wake. The doctor stopped before me, squatting, and I raised my head as best I could. “You promised mercy.” He was quiet for a moment, humming through pursed lips as he cleaned off his glasses, wiping the blood splatters from the lenses. “He is alive. That is mercy. Creatures of your… Persuasion are immoral and illegal. We are told to dispatch such things from our ranks as quietly as possible.” “That’s disgusting,” I growled, teeth bared, but he didn’t even look up as he pressed his glasses back up his nose. “No. What you are – that is disgusting. A sign of fascism and degeneracy. You are lucky I do not eradicate you, too.” He reached forward, bloodstained fingers grasping my chin, and I winced. “But you are far too rare a specimen to let go so easily.” Snarling, I snapped at his hand as best I could, earning me a sharp backhand across my cheek that left my ears ringing. “Enough. We had a deal. I showed him mercy – but I am more than happy to take that back if you do not behave.” I clenched my jaw tightly, not trusting myself to speak, and he smiled. “You will spend the night out here, of course. You still require punishment.” He ran a hand through my hair, but I only stiffened, making no effort to move away and eliciting a pleased hum as he leant forward to whisper in my ear. “Good boy.”

@fandom-free-bingo @whumpcember @deaddovedec @hurtcember

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whumpinthepot · 1 year

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Remember folks, whumpees should never be kept strung upside down for long periods of time.

#whump #whump prompt #cw stress position #cw upside down #breezy’s post #i am so freaked out about this lol

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coulsonlives · 8 months

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Ah yes I love opening tumblr and seeing body weight discourse on a stock photo blog, very nice /s

#fuck me some of these people are something else #i silently agreed w the main post then someone commented w 'manifesting more fatness in people'#or whatever and then said 'people would be better off if they were fat'#'having lil fat deposits is good nobody should be rail thin'#i'm screaming like OFC FAT DEPOSITS ARE GOOD KAREN #BUT THERE IS A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HAVING HEALTHY DEPOSITS #AND DOZENS IF NOT HUNDREDS OF LBS OF FAT THAT AINT HEALTHY #I HATE HOW PPL CONFLATE THE LATTER WITH THE FORMER #I'M CHUBBY AND ITS TOXIC AND OFFENSIVE AS FUCK TO SAY THAT JUST STOP IT #I LITERALLY HAVE HEART ISSUES. BEING FAT STRESSES IT. YOU DONT 'WANT' TO BE FAT #AND BY FAT I ACTUALLY MEAN THE DEFINITION OF FAT NOT JUST 'LIL DEPOSITS'#big difference between not harassing fat people and going nuclear with the toxic positivity of 'let's make everyone fat bc it's better' bs #it hurts your joints it hurts your heart maybe it doesn't affect your cholesterol or some shit but there's ALWAYS damage #the 'healthy at every size' movement was NEVER supposed to mean 'you're still healthy at 400 lbs'#people are stupid fuck em #body shaming cw #negative cw #rant cw #tbd

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a-painful-ordeal · 9 months

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5. Satanic and Chained Up

Cw: Slavery, slapping, extremist ideology in a fantasy setting, whumper believes in the Divine Right Of Kings, religious justification of torture, stress position, threats of a flogging, description of a flogging that hasn’t occurred.

Note: whumper and whumpee’s religious stances do NOT reflect my own. This is an exploration of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’ and general extremist bullshit. Evan’s views also are me playing with how atheism can manifest in a world where the gods frequently interact with mortals. Lord Maynard is a paladin and this is a subversion of the usual stereotypes.

---

Evan’s heart races as he stands in a huge bedroom with a four-poster bed. The beauty and size dwarves him in comparison. Beautiful curtains hang from the wooden frame above the bed. To one corner of the room is an ornately painted screen to change behind. The screen stands next to a well-decorated wardrobe. In the other corner, sits a wooden table with a bowl of exotic fruits that Evan has never seen before. A fire sits not too far from the bed, glowing gently in the absence of its master.

Evan moves around the room, checking and double checking the windows for an exit. They are locked. Fuck. They are locked.

His anger and fear blend together. Why couldn’t he have just gone along with those guards and pretended. Maybe no one would have noticed. At least that way, he wouldn’t have gotten a thrashing and- whatever this is…

Deep breath in. And out. Calm. He tries to relax as an eternity passes. Waiting. Focus on something else. Anything else. What would he be doing now…? If he hadn’t been so stupid to think someone would genuinely try to help a street kid. He’d be… bickering with Meg maybe. Arguing about her dumb fictional crushes which he had never been able to relate to. Or maybe he’d be telling her to put another flea-ridden cat she found back where she found it, or so help him… it was always an empty threat. Meg enjoyed the bickering. And in all honesty, so did he. Or, maybe he’d be trying to wash her smelly unicorn toy. That thing was disgusting. M, would probably be hanging around watching, or taking Meg’s side. M had always been soft when it came to the little ones, letting things slide that she’d chastise him for with a grin now. She’d looked out for him like that once, too. A long time ago. But now she counts on him being able to help her look after all three of them. Counted. But she counted on him helping her look after all three of them of them. What would she do now?

Evan rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. No. He will see them again. This is not the end. He’ll get out of here…. Somehow…and move his way back to…. Wherever they were before. It’ll be fine. Or maybe they will rescue him? Find out what’s happened and come to save him.

The doors swing open, cutting off his train of thought, as the large, well-dressed figure of Lord Maynard enters. Evan finally gets a good look at him as the man strides into his chambers. He’s a human man, with well-kept black hair. He has large, broad shoulders and styled black hair. If Evan had seen him around the town, he might have assumed he was a merchant.

Maynard moves towards Evan, like a lion assessing an antelope. Evan swallows, exhaustion from earlier being chased away with a fresh bout of fear. He fights the urge to move back, instead, standing his ground. He raises his chin and puffs his chest out, swallowing back the pain from his beating.

“So. You must be the little slave who stole food and tried to escape?” the Lord asks. His tone is light, with a hint of danger to it.

Evan stays silent. His mouth begins to dry and the urge to back up begins to scream at him.

Maynard steps close. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His demands echoes around the room.

Evan feels his legs beginning to shake. Answer or not… this is a trap. Anything he says… he’s fucked.

Maynard walks forwards and strikes Evan. The rings on his hand scour two bloody lines across the cheek. The lines cut into the already yellow and blue cheek, which hasn’t fully recovered from earlier. “You will give me a response or I will have a finger taken off for your insolence.”

Evan’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels his throat begin to constrict. He feels all bravery leave him. “Y-” he coughs “Yes. I am.”

“You will address me as Sir or Master. Understood?”

“Yes… Sir…”

Maynard smiles “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Evan stays quiet. Unsure what he could say in response.

“Now. Let’s get one thing clear. I will not tolerate disobedience from scum. The gods have placed me on this world to protect the good people from devils like you. And if that causes me to have to whip the evil out of you, then so be it. I will be doing my duty.” Maynard says this with pride in his voice, like man who has achieved something grand.

“You will obey me. And you will learn the place that the gods have allocated to you. Understood?”

Evan blinks. He fights the urge to call this man absolutely fucking nuts. Best not to do that when trapped in a room with him. “Yes…Sir.”

“Good. Now. You will kneel when I enter a room. Understood?”

Evan blinks, taking a small step backwards. His body shouts to run whilst his brain pushes him to fight. A surge of resilient pride runs through him for a moment, just long enough for all sense to be lost. “No-”

What he said suddenly registers, and he wants to kick himself.

“No?” There is a quiet rage in Maynard’s voice.

“Wait, I mean-” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fear shoots through him. Just comply. Stay alive and live to fight another day.

Evan drops to his knees with a thud that causes him to wince. He stares at the ground. Let that be enough. Please.

“Don’t you dare say no to me.” The Lord growls “But no. By all means. If you don’t want to kneel. Don’t.”

He grabs Evan’s thin wrists in one hand, roughly pulling Evan to his feet and dragging the boy across the room to the four-poster bed. Evan’s wrists are shifted from Maynard’s left hand to his right hand as he grabs some cord that holds the bed-curtain together. He throws it over the wood at the top of the bed, before wrapping the other end, tightly around Evan’s wrists. Maynard then begins to wrench Evan’s weight up, until the boy is on his tiptoes.

“There. Now you don’t have to kneel. How does that feel? Boy? Better. I hope so.” Maynard spits, his voice full of righteous anger.

Evan’s wrists scream at him as the cord tightens, digging into his wrists. His jaw trembles slightly from the pain as the skin on his hip is stretched out. He lets out a small whine.

“I asked you a question. Does that feel better?”

Evan’s mind races. Yes? Or no? What does the man want to hear? Anything. Say what he wants. Fuck bravery and resilience. He wants to make it out of this in tact. Evan makes a split second decision. “No... Master.” His skin crawls at the word. The word fills him with a strange repulsive nausea but he continues. “I would… prefer to kneel…” There is a foul taste on his tongue as he finishes the sentence. He wants to swear and spit and shout… but so far, that had just gotten him hurt. Maybe this will work better? Do what Trygve said… keep his head down?

“That is a shame… you can kneel in the morning. Before I have you flogged for your little scene earlier.”

Evan blinks. That… didn’t work… wait. Flogging. What?

The boy’s shock is clearly evident on his face as Lord Maynard looks at him “You didn’t think that you wouldn’t be punished for your act of dissidence did you?” He shakes his head as he causally begins to the screen to undress for bed. There is the click as he undoes his belt. The sounds of fabric rubbing together.

Evan can see an arm stretch to grab a night shirt.

“You stole from me and injured my employee. Clearly, you deserve some punishment. Otherwise the gods wouldn’t have brought you into my hands. No. But don’t fear. I’m not unjust. The punishment will fit the crime. You stole from around twenty meals. And injured a guard. I’d say thirty lashes should suffice.”

Evan’s stomach drops. And heart races in his throat.

Maynard reappears. “You can stay there till the morning, I think. Until you realize that kneeling for me really isn’t that bad.” He moves a candle to his bedside table. And spends a couple of moments pulling the bed’s covers back, causally. As if there wasn’t someone else in the room. He then climbs into bed. “Thirty lashes. Unless you wake me up. If you make a sound I will make sure that they flay the skin from your back. Understood?”

Evan nods quickly, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

Evan’s face has gone pale during this speech. As the realization begins to set in. He’d seen floggings before. Thieves who’d gotten caught, or someone who’d started a fight. He’d seen ten lashes bring a grown man to tears as his skin was abused by knotted leather. Evan’s whole body trembles.

“Good. Much better.” With that, the Lord blows out the candle and nestles down in his bed. Curling up to sleep off the feast.

Evan stands there, hanging silently. His elven blood allows him perfect sight of the dark, grey room and the glowing embers from the fire. Despite the darkness that covers the room. His calves hurt as cramp sets in.

He blinks and hangs there. His wrists hurt as his hand’s circulation begins to go and the cord bites into his flesh.

Big tears begin to well in Evan’s eyes as he just wants to curl up and go home. Fuck why couldn’t he have stayed with Meg? Life had sucked in places before but this… this was worse. Why couldn’t he have decided not to meet those fucking men? Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

The prospect of a flogging makes his chest heave deeply in a sob. He wants to sniff. To shakily cry and scream openly but he doesn’t. He uses all his willpower to keep himself from sobbing. He will not dig himself a deeper hole. A deeper grave to lie in.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His knees hurt. Fuck. He tries to stretch out one leg to disperse the cramp, but that makes the other hurt more.

He wishes the morning would come sooner. And then wishes that this would last longer. Before his back gets torn open. Skin ripped from flesh. What kind of whip would be used? A bullwhip looks lethal, but what if this man preferred to use a sailor’s whip? Or maybe he would use one which is metal-tipped. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. Evan’s throat contracts slightly as his breathing increases.

Evan had seen the scars before. Of course he had. The only way to avoid a flogging if you were caught stealing or some other crime, was to pay. Gold will get you anywhere. The scars were ugly, and humiliating. They told the world what you have done and there was almost nothing that could undo that.

His legs tremble. He feels sick. Tears won’t stop falling. He silently inhales, allowing the shaky sobs to be as silent as possible. He hangs there, exhausted and terrified. Silently waiting and dreading the dawn.

-------

AN: Hopefully that was alright!! I decided to not put it through grammarly this time so hopefully the grammar and spelling isn't Wattpad levels of bad 🤣🤣

Again please do not mistake any of the characters beliefs for my own. I'm mostly just playing around in a DND setting. Lord Maynard would be a Paladin of Conquest and I'm playing with subverting paladins as a 'noble' class. If you want, feel free to guess Evan's class!

Masterlist Next

Taglist:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump @ivycloak

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quietly-by-myself · 2 years

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Shadow By My Fireplace - Chapter 8

Masterlist

Comments/commentary/feedback is always welcome! Thank you again for your support!

CW: slavery whump, electrocution, stress position, whipping, intimate/creepy whumper, silent whumpee, conditioned whumpee, voice whump, psychological abuse, discussion of consent for care/caretaking, scars, whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper, flashbacks/PTSD, self-blame, dislocated shoulder, references to branding

===

Sacha’s arms were brought above his head, pulling, pulling his weight above him until his arms were going to fall out of their sockets.His feet were just barely dangling above the ground. It was enough to make him want to scream in pain.

However, screaming was exactly what had landed him in that position.

A loud snap came from one of his shoulders. Pain exploded, like a small bomb had forced it out of place, spreading painful shrapnel in its place. Sacha let out a small whimper.

“What did I say, Sacha?”

Master was behind him.

Sacha shrank, pulling on his dislocated shoulder. He got the instinct to run at first, but it was quickly replaced with a paralyzing sort of fear. Sacha watched Master like a deer in the headlights as Master circled him like a vulture.

Master chuckled and tilted Sacha’s chin, admiring the bruises on his jaw and the hickies on his neck.

“You’re going to look so beautiful when I’m done with you.”

In his hand was a barbed whip. Sacha didn’t recognize it at first. Master typically used the cane, not a whip.

“Now, if you’re quiet, you might get some food tonight. Alright? Doesn’t that sound good?” Master had a wicked smile on his face as he moved around to Sacha’s back.

Sacha wanted to plead. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Something. He wanted to do something. Yet, all he could do was look on in fear. What choice did he have?

Sacha felt the pain of his flesh being torn open before he heard the crack of the whip. He couldn’t help himself - he screamed.

“What the fuck did I say about making noise, you piece of shit?”

Master circled around and grabbed Sacha’s jaw with bruising force. Sacha shrank back from Master’s touch, which only earned him another slap to the face, before the iron grip returned, stronger than before.

“I should gag you, but you have to learn to be silent.”

Master let go of Sacha and grabbed the remote out of his pocket. The electric shocks started. Sacha was helpless against them, thrashing, wrenching his dislocated shoulder further out of place. Tears quickly formed in his eyes.

Master slapped him again once the shocks were done. “I hope you remember your place.”

Sacha nodded frantically, but all it did was earn him another slap.

“You’re a slave. You don’t have opinions. You don’t respond. You’re to be quiet and obedient. I don’t give a shit about what you think. If I cared, I wouldn’t have bought you now, would I?”

Sacha forced himself to hold back sobs. He hated himself. He hated his situation. He hated that he couldn’t follow such simple orders.

I’m so stupid.

The whip was quick to crack on his back again. As it tore up his flesh, he remained perfectly silent, pliant, just as he was told. This was what he deserved, after all, for what he’d done.

What had he done, again?

—

In truth, Cyril didn’t buy just the materials for the bed when he was in town. He kept a small box in his closet of other things he’d bought for Shadow but wasn’t sure about. He wanted to respect Shadow. He didn’t want Shadow to feel infantilized by his care.

The line between respectful care and infantilizing seemed thin, even if Cyril knew he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was just anxious. Maybe the situation reminded him just enough of before to trigger his post-traumatic stress. Cyril didn’t know what had him so anxious, when care used to come so naturally, but he figured that it was an important line to be aware of.

One of the items in the box was a large bottle of scar cream. The pharmacist had certainly given him an odd look when he’d asked for an extra large bottle of it. Cyril would’ve normally cared an awful lot about the look, but he brushed it off. Shadow was more important than their gossip, wasn’t he?

Cyril didn’t know how to approach the topic with Shadow. The man didn’t really communicate with him. However, he saw the self-conscious way that Shadow always tried to cover his scars. Scar cream didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It might not get rid of the scars entirely, but it could help to reduce the angry look of them.

Part of Cyril felt that he was making the decision for Shadow. Shadow wouldn’t say no to anything. How could he know what Shadow wanted?

Cyril decided that if Shadow seemed happy about the scar cream, he would help the man apply it to the worst of his scars.

However, building the courage to ask was a different task. Cyril spent many hours in his garden thinking about how to ask Shadow without putting pressure if he didn’t want it. Eventually, Cyril decided to rip the bandaid off and deal with whatever happened. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t predict how Shadow would react.

“Shadow?”

Shadow snapped to attention from his place beside the fireplace. Cyril hated how Shadow always looked like he was hit when he paid attention to what he had to say.

“I- um.” Cyril wiped some of the sweat off of his forehead. “I bought scar cream for you in town. I don’t want to make that decision for you, but you cover your scars a lot and I thought that maybe reducing the look of them would help you.” Cyril swallowed a bit. “I know this cream. It’s really good stuff. It’ll definitely make them less noticeable, if that’s something you want.”

Shadow visually perked up, before he went back to the crumpled, sad mess in blankets on the floor. Cyril was beginning to realize that Shadow wasn’t just conditioned not to talk, but also to not show any emotions. The thought made him sick.

However, that perk was one of the biggest he’d seen from Shadow. He took that as Shadow genuinely wanting his scars to be reduced. Regardless, the scar cream wouldn’t do anything to him.

“I’ll go get it, okay? We can put it on after I shower.”

Again, Shadow was mostly motionless. However, as he turned to his bedroom to go shower, Cyril swore he might’ve seen a semblance of a smile on Shadow’s face.

—

The cream was cool against Sacha’s skin. It wasn’t slimy, just pleasantly cool, like a balm. Sacha felt himself relaxing a bit with his shirt off as Cyril applied the cream. Master had never done such a thing for him.

This… probably won’t be as bad.

I can bear this. I can bear whatever he does if I can be taken care of after.

Sacha felt some guilt at feeling that his Master had been bad to him. After all, he was a slave, there for another’s pleasure. How he was treated was of little consequence. He’d been an awful slave for Master.

However, with Cyril, he might’ve gotten something right. That gave Sacha hope, hope that he wouldn’t screw it all up like he had with Master. He knew he still deserved to pay in blood for the kindness Cyril showed him, but this kindness was so much more kind than the kindness Master had given him.

Everything changed when Cyril’s hand brushed over a particular scar on his hip bone.

Suddenly, Sacha was right back there with Master, back when he was a disobedient, bad slave.

Master was rubbing a bit of balm over his fresh brand. Sacha let out small curses each time Master hit a particularly deep part of the burn.

Master had been lenient then - not that Sacha didn’t pay for it later in blood. However, that night, right after his brand, he’d been allowed to speak.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. I know it hurts. I’m sorry that I had to do this. It’s for your own good, Sacha, baby.”

“Fuck you, Emery!”

“Be careful, Sacha. Just because I’m allowing you to talk right now doesn’t mean that you can squander my kindness.”

The memory brought tears to Sacha’s eyes. How could he have been so foolish back then? He knew he’d pay for it all later. Why hadn’t he just stayed silent? It was so much easier than talking, anyway.

Sacha hated his past self. He hadn’t understood his purpose, his place in the world. Regret filled him each time he looked back at the Sacha that shouted and cried and sang and talked.

What would Cyril do about the brand? Surely, he couldn’t stand another man’s mark on his slave. Sacha felt a panic attack forming in his chest. God, Cyril was going to cut it right out of him, wasn’t he? He was going to pay for allowing himself to be marked. He was going to pay for being allowed to relax. He was going to pay for the kindness, the bed, and the hot chocolate.

A big, heavy weight fell on his shoulders and covered and warmed his exposed back. Sacha felt Cyril’s arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug.

Sacha soon realized that the blanket covering him was heavy and navy blue. Cyril was hugging him and rocking him a bit.

“It’s okay, Shadow.”

Sacha looked up at him. He’d looked pathetic again, hadn’t he? He had stopped his new Master from carrying out another punishment.

Tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t hold back his sobs, but at least he could make them silent.

“Shhh, Shadow, you’re safe here.”

Sacha refused to believe it. He would never be safe. Safety wasn’t for slaves like him.

“It’s okay to cry. You were whimpering a lot.”

Sacha looked up at him, fear overwhelming him. Another panic attack formed in his chest. He’d made noise. He’d made noise. He wasn’t quiet. He was going to be punished.

“It’s okay, Shadow. I don’t mind you… whimpering. I do mind. I don’t like seeing you in pain. But I would never hurt you for that.”

Sacha knew they were all lies to get him to trust. Trust, only so his trust could be broken later. That was how people like Cyril liked their slaves, right? Trusting, then untrusting, then trusting again.

“Listen… none of this is a trick. You’re here to heal. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to make noise. Okay?”

Sacha was overwhelmed with the urge to obey.

Right. He wants me to be happy sometimes.

Will it hurt more when he betrays me?

Sacha melted in Cyril’s arms, under the weight of the blanket that was taking away his worries and calming his panic.

I should enjoy this while it lasts.

Sacha let out a few more broken sobs, allowing Cyril to hug him tighter. Yes, he would enjoy the comfort while it lasted. It was better than pain, after all.

===

Tags (always open!): @whumpsday, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @pigeonwhumps, @darkthingshappen, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @darlingwhump, @maracujatangerine, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

#shadow by my fireplace #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #conditioned whumpee #cw are above #silent whumpee #slavery whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #whump fic #whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper #whump community #electrocution whump #branding whump #stress position

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copics-and-renegades · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023 Day 26: Sometimes I Get So Tired, I Don't Even Know Myself

Woof.

---

Yeah, that's another one for the "senseless torture" category. Also very Dead Dove Do Not Eat for the dehumanization/humiliation/making-a-person-pose-as-an-animal aspect imo.

Yuan: Gearing up into full Rage, so angry he could kill someone with just his bare hands, all that's pounding in his mind is "Don't you dare hurt him when MY useless body inevitably fails us DAMN IT".

Botta: Acutely aware that it's actually YUAN who has the endless reserves of stamina, while he himself burns close to 10k calories a day just by existing in his body. :)

I guess it could still go either way. Botta is extremely motivated to not vomit and black out as his muscles burn through glucose like paper clippings - as he does if it comes to this, he's just VERY good at resource management and also hiding this little issue from people - but Yuan is defeatist, caught up in shame and self-loathing, and also desperately angry and therefore unfocused.

Yes, I've been giving this a lot of thought. :)

(Actually yes, this came from musings about their overall stamina and also the fact that Botta has a Glass Cannon thing going on, which must come with some physical drawbacks.)

#whumptober2023 #no.26 #lyric #tales of symphonia #yuan ka fai #botta #yuan x botta #fanart #dead dove do not eat #torture cw #humiliation cw #dehumanization cw #restraints cw #gags cw #stress positions cw #whump #ink #modern au

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imaginejolls · 6 months

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i am having a Time.

#mother tested positive for covid on monday but felt sickly last saturday #i also woke up with a cold that saturday but this whole work week i have tested negative #today i was so relieved. i was like. it's over. mum's better. i don't even have the cold anymore. it's passed #nope. father tested positive for covid this afternoon #so i get to be stressed for another whole week! great news. love it for me.#covid cw #jolly has thoughts and feelings #life tag

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midnightarcheress · 25 days

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stress-relief

husband!Simon helping his wife!reader with her stress <3 cw: nsfw. mdni. fem reader, masturbation, squirting, a lil overstim.

you shuffle through the bag to find the keys to your home, only to drop it the minute you raise it to unlock the door. great. it’s one of those days where everything goes wrong, and you want nothing more than to shut out the world and curl up in bed, silently praying for the next one to be better.

you pick up the keys from the doormat and swing open the door of your flat, hoping that the familiar scent flooding your lungs will help you ground yourself back to a more serene state. tossing your coat and bag aside, your gaze falls on the tall man quietly reading on the sofa, sweetly mouthing a “welcome back, love.” that you dismiss with a grunt, stomping your way to the bedroom.

‘uh-oh.’ Simon thinks, siren already buzzing and red light blinking in his brain, making him pull up to his feet at god-speed and quickly follow you to your shared room, being met with your clothes scattered around and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. he promptly puts away your discarded attire and sits on the edge of the bed, patiently waiting for you.

you stay in the shower for some good thirty minutes, allowing the water to wash away your stress as you massage your scalp. the weight finally falls from your shoulders and flows down the drain, leaving you alone with the tiredness that’s been brewing in your tense muscles since you stepped out of the house. with a long, weary sigh, you drape the towel around your body and walk out the bathroom, tiny droplets cascading from your hair to your chest, descending on the swell of your breasts and stirring your husband’s cock in his pants.

“gonna tell me wha’ got you so cranky, dove?” he asks with the slightest of teasing, knowing he’s staggering on the thin line of your temper.

“‘m sorry, jus’ a hard day.” you mutter sheepishly, turning to get some well-deserving comfy clothes on the dresser

“c’mere,” you barely have time to react before Simon pulls you by the wrist onto the bed, positioning your body between his legs as he rests on the headboard, “talk to me, lovie.”

his hands brush your arms delicately, fingers running up and down your skin as you start addressing the misfortunes of your day. how a jerk cut you off in traffic, how a client screamed at you on the phone after you explained it wasn’t possible to fulfill his request, how your long awaited sweet treat after lunch fell straight to the floor, how your mother called just to raise hell at you for not visiting enough, how your boss scolded you for a mistake that wasn’t even your fault.

“hm, she said tha’?” he murmurs, massaging the knots on your shoulders and slowly drifting his hands downwards, opening up the lightly damp towel that’s clinging to your frame as you ramble. his rough, calloused skin finds its way to your soft tits, gently kneading the fat while his lips plant small kisses all over your neck.

“i swear that woman’s out to get me, don't know how i haven’t been fired yet.”

“she knows tha’ place would fall apart without ya, doll. you’re the only one with a brain there,” he coos sweetly in your ear, fingers traveling down your stomach and reaching your mound, making your breath hitch in your throat. Simon smirks at your reaction, feeling your head tipping back to rest on his shoulder and your still wet hair soaking his shirt, “let me help you decompress, eh?”

you, too tired to resist the offer, let him spread your legs with ease, compliant to the touch of your loving husband. his middle finger smears the hasty arousal leaking from your cunt through your slit, softly caressing your folds as you melt into his arms. “so wet f’me, love.” he chuckles, slightly rubbing your clit as you hum.

his moves are tame, gradually pooling the warmth in your belly, taking his time to shape your tension until it’s the right moment to set you free. his finger toys with your entrance before sliding in, feeling the familiar walls of your cunt clenching around it, causing you to breathe heavily at just the beginning.

“you like tha’?” he whispers, introducing another finger on your tight hole as you turn to bury your face on his neck, mewling with pleasure and pain while he stretches you, digits hitting all the right spots. by the time he speeds up the thrusting, your moans are erratic, gasped, barely leaving your throat as you grasp his forearm in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, even with your brain reaching the fucked-out point by a simple touch.

his thumb lazily strokes your swollen nub as he continues to be knuckles-deep inside of your velvety walls, curling his fingers just enough to earn a squeal out of you. the coil on your lower stomach tightens, fibers threatening to snap at any second as Simon murmurs sugary praises in your ears whilst nipping the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, the love bite’s stings only intensifying the pleasure coursing through your bloodstream.

“Simon, ’m gonna-” you don’t even have the energy to complete your sentence before your juices flood on his hand, the god’s nectar gushing from your pussy and dripping from his wrist onto the long forgotten towel, as he bullies your clit to overstimulation. you cry out his name like a prayer, begging whatever higher power out in the universe to let you keep that sensation forever.

“looks like someone really needed tha’,” he laughs and you feel the deep rumbling from his chest on your naked back, only driving you closer to the edge as your legs convulse at the overwhelming thrill of your nervous system. your frantic moans echo in the room when Simon raises his free hand to your nipple, rolling the hardened tip between his thumb and index, painting twinkling stars in the ceiling, the scintillation being too much to keep your vision clear. “think ya got another one f’me, princess?”

he doesn’t wait for your answer; he knows how to treat his precious wife and can cite by heart the prescription to get you to sleep better than any pill would. tears prickle in the corner of your eyes when he starts again, just barely giving you time to recover from the near out-of-body experience.

his new rhythm is harsh, pulling your thighs - fully covered in slick and arousal - over his to keep you spread open, and fiercely pounding two digits inside you. you squirm and press yourself harder against his broad chest, babbling incoherently as he pumps his thick and scarred fingers somehow even deeper than before.

“Si, ‘s too much, i can’t-” you choke out, streams rolling down your cheeks as he builds another orgasm out of you. half-lidded eyes meet his hazel irises in a lustful gaze, pleading in agony for another release before your body gives out.

it doesn’t take much before a jolt of electricity tingle beneath your skin and makes you cum, getting you blissfully drunk by finger-fucking only while your peak ripple through your core. your hands sternly grip on the sheets under your limp body, the frenzy running its way through every corner of your being, clouding your vision and leaving you in a divine peaceful haze.

your limbs twitch slightly as you come down from your high, Simon holding you tight in his burly arms and pressing kisses on your pretty face. “you did so good, lovie,” he praises, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your belly, “could’ve given ya s’much more but your eyes are so droopy already,” his quiet laugh almost lull you to sleep right there and then, “feeling better?”

you nod, eyes tempting to close as the fatigue washes over you, weariness creeping up your mind after a hell of a day and a celestial end to it. “thank you, Si.” you mumble with nothing but affection in your voice, utterly elated by the sight of your devoted husband cradling you.

“anything for ya, my wife.”

just a little something i thought of while procrastinating my other works lol

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost imagine #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod smut #nyx writes ☾#midnightarcheress

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