lindsay00000008

[lindsay00000008]

Doe Eyes. The bite of metal on your wrists, then the cool liberation of air. He cuts the duct tape, a sound like tearing bark, leaving your skin clammy and stripped raw. Your ankles next, the heavy bindings fall away, leaving red welts. Freedom, a sensation so sharp it hurts, a sudden rush of blood through veins long constricted. The Hunter’s shadow falls over you, a beast, long and spotted in the dappled light of the forest floor.

You don't look at him. Your large, doe eyes, accustomed to the dim understory, scan the dense wall of pines and ancient oaks. There is no argument to be made, no plea that hasn't already been rehearsed and discarded in the cold dark of your captivity. The moment is too precious, too fleeting. Every breath, every beat of your frantic heart, is a stolen second. Others have begged, have wasted their last hope on the empty echo of his mercy. You will not. You have heard stories of their vacant eyes, and the dull acceptance that settles over them like dust when mercy never comes.

He drops a crude map at your feet. It is thick, almost parchment, with worn lines you cannot yet decipher, and a bold, taunting red X. Freedom, perhaps. Or simply the edge of a new cage. He straightens, a quiet giant in the muted light, his scent — pine resin and worn leather — an unsettling presence. "Run," he says, his voice a low current beneath the rustle of leaves. "One chance."

The forest waits, a vast, indifferent cathedral of green and brown. Its silence is profound, broken only by the hum of unseen insects, the distant call of a bird. You stumble, your legs still stiff, struggling to remember how to carry you. But then the instinct, deep and primal, takes hold. The earth becomes a magnet beneath your bare feet, drawing you forward. You run.

The map, clutched in your hand, is a lifeline you'll access later. You stuff it into the pocket of your worn dress, letting your body lead, relying on the ancient wisdom of prey. You are a creature of shadow and swiftness, of silence and deep listening. Your big doe eyes, so valued by him, now serve their true purpose, to scan for escape, for a path, for any sign of a way out.

The first few minutes are a blur of adrenaline and fear. Branches whip at your face, tearing at your hair, scoring faint lines on your skin. The ground, uneven and treacherous, tests your balance. You dodge roots, leap over fallen logs, push through thickets of bushes, ignoring the sting of thorns. The forest is an immediate, overwhelming presence, and you are small within it, a tremor in its vastness. You run until your lungs burn, a sharp, metallic taste filling your mouth.

He is fair, or so he claims. He gives you this chance, this slender thread of hope. It isn't impossible, he's said, his eyes inscrutable. But you know the truth: he knows this forest intimately, every shadowed glade, every hidden stream, every winding path. You know nothing. You are a stranger in a land of ancient secrets, and he is its master. The knowledge settles like a stone in your gut, heavy and cold.

As the initial surge of terror begins to recede, replaced by a dull ache in your muscles, you force yourself to slow, to consult the map. It is even cruder than you've imagined, less a guide, more a child’s drawing. A squiggly line, a few illegible symbols, and that mocking X. It doesn't make sense. It twists back on itself, leads into impassable swamps, hints at cliffs where none should be. Or perhaps it is you, incapable of reading the nuances of such a place. Perhaps it is a test of your intelligence, not your speed. You curse The Hunter, and then yourself, for daring to believe in such a gift.

The sun climbs higher, filtering through the canopy in shifting patterns. The air grows humid, thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. Exhaustion begins to set in, a creeping numbness in your legs. You have to keep going. You imagine the other creatures he's captured, their soft bodies, their bewildered eyes, their hope slowly extinguished. You will not be like them. You cannot.

You push on, driven by a desperate, fading hope. You find a deer trail, a faint but distinct path left by those who came before, and follow it, your every sense alert. You listen for the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves that aren't your own. You smell the air for any foreign scent. But the forest holds its breath, offering only the rhythmic thrum of your own frantic pulse.

Hours blur into a single, aching effort. The sun begins its slow descent, the sky painted by laborious fae in hues of orange and violet. Your legs, those wobbly, delicate limbs, are screaming now. They threaten to buckle with every step. Thirst gnaws at your throat, and hunger twists in your empty stomach. You know he won't be far behind. He is letting you run, letting you exhaust yourself, letting you feel the full, bitter taste of hope before snatching it away.

You stumble into a clearing, a small, circular space where the grass is softer, untouched by the harsher undergrowth. A stream, clear and cold, trickles through its center. You fall to your knees, scooping water to your mouth, drinking deeply, desperately. The coolness is a fleeting balm, but it cannot erase the gnawing certainty that is settling in. This is a place of rest, a place to be found. A trap disguised as respite. Then, the chilling recognition: this is the X. His X.

As the last light bleeds from the sky, and the first stars prick the darkness, you hear it. Not a sound, exactly, but a shift in the air, a subtle vibration of the earth. The forest holds its breath. Then, a single crunch of leaves, just beyond the edge of the clearing.

Your head snaps up, your breath catching in your throat. Your big eyes, accustomed to the gloom, strain against the encroaching darkness. He is there. You feel his presence, heavy and absolute, like the approaching night. There is no escaping him, not truly. He is a force.

You freeze, your body humming with a strange mix of terror and resignation. There is no more running. Your legs have given out. The wobbly legs of a deer, born to flee, now simply stand, trembling, waiting.

A shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness of the trees. He steps into the clearing, moving with a silent, effortless grace that mocks your own ragged desperation. He is not rushing, not pursuing. He is simply arriving. His face is obscured by the dim light, but you feel the weight of his gaze, a quiet claim.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. The knowledge passes between you like a shared current: it is over. Your final chance, spent. The map, still crumpled in your pocket, feels like a cruel joke. Maybe it always was.

He moves towards you. Each step is a hammer blow against the last shards of your defiance. Your heart, which has thrummed so wildly, now seems to beat with a sedated, heavy finality. He reaches for you, and your instinct, honed by a lifetime of vulnerability, is to bolt, to scatter into the night. But you don't. Your legs are lead. Your will is broken.

His hand, when it finds your shoulder, is not violent. It is a weight, a certainty, that presses you down, not physically, but spiritually. The world narrows to that touch. It is ancient, possessive, a primal seal upon you. The heart in your chest, settles into a rhythm that is no longer your own.

He pulls you gently against him, and in that moment, the fight leaves you completely. It is not only defeat; it is an absorption. The soft curve of your back against his hard chest, the delicate arch of your neck beneath his jaw. You feel the raw essence of his claim, an inevitable melding. His lips brush your temple, a whisper of breath that steals the last vestiges of your autonomy. The forest, silent witness, seems to lean in, to welcome your surrender into his vast, indifferent embrace. This is not just a capture; it is an owning, a quiet, inexorable claiming of every quivering nerve, every fragile bone.

He scoops you into his arms then, with a strength that is both terrifyingly efficient and terribly gentle. Your head falls against his shoulder, your eyes closing, no longer searching, no longer hoping. The world swims away, dissolving into the thud of his steps, the scent of him, the knowledge that you are not running towards freedom, but are being carried towards your new home. Not a place, but a state of being.

You are his.

[lindsay00000008]

"Please."

The villain raised an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise look up from their desk. "You can walk out of that door any time, darling. I'm not stopping you."

"I'd come back. It wouldn't - I don't want to break our deal."

"You don't want the consequences of breaking our deal. You absolutely want to break it."

"People are dying," the hero snapped. "I can help."

"Mm, of course you can. You're a miracle on legs."

"I'm just suggesting a pause," the hero said. "A temporary change of terms. That's all."

"And I'm just saying no."

The hero stopped on the other side of the table, fingers digging into the fine wood in an effort to control their temper. They took a deep breath. Released. Another.

"I'm still yours," the hero said. "I'd still be yours."

"Always. But N-O spells no."

"I'm begging," the hero said, through gritted teeth.

"Is that what that is?" The villain finally deigned to glance up. Their eyes - a dark and stormy night for all bad things to happen in - did not match their light tone. The amused curve of their slight smile. "Gosh. Your standards are slipping. You're not even kneeling or anything."

"Would you say yes if I knelt?"

The villain's head tipped to one side. "No," they said, after a long moment. "But I'd sincerely appreciate the view. Perhaps it might even distract you from this latest bout of self-loathing."

"Screw you."

"But it's so much more fun when you do it, dear."

"This is serious!"

The villain scoffed and merely pointed a finger at the door, expectant and waiting.

The hero's jaw clenched hard enough to hurt but they didn't move.

"Mm," the villain said. "Are you kneeling or are we done here?"

The villain could have lied, they knew that. They could have pretended there was a chance that they'd say yes. They could have offered false hope, only to rip it away again once they'd had their fun.

In the grand terms of their arrangement, the villain had done absolutely nothing wrong. They were even, in their own particular way, being kind.

There was a bitter taste in the hero's mouth.

"It's bad out there," they said, voice cracking. "People need me. They could - maybe it could be fun. You've never played at saving the world, have you? We could do it together. Go together. It could be an experiment. A game."

"Perhaps," the villain shrugged. "But I don't think that would be very good for your mental health."

"This isn't very good for my mental health!"

The villain simply looked at them.

The hero could leave. They could end the deal at any time.

But, then, the villain would simply leave too. An apocalypse slipping free of its gilded cage. The horrors on the TV would seem mild compared to the fight to come.

"I could be back in an hour," the hero said. "You wouldn't even notice I was gone."

"And I could end the world by lunch time," the villain said. "You'd be dead before you had time to be too distressed. What's your point?"

"You really don't care what's happening out there?"

"No."

"You have to care."

"I don't."

"If you're worried I'd get hurt-"

"-I'm not. I'd slaughter anyone who tried to hurt you before they got the chance."

The hero's mouth dried. Their fingers flexed on the table. They wanted to scream. Fight. Throw things.

The villain leaned back in their chair and sighed, at whatever they read on the hero's face.

"You are saving the world, love," they said. "You're here. With me. Do I need to prove that I still have teeth?"

"No," the hero said. "I - no. Thank you."

The villain nodded, just once. "Good. Come here."

"It's okay. I - I'm okay."

"You're not. Come here."

Feeling foolish, and furious, and raw, the hero rounded the desk. The villain's arm wrapped around them, pulling them close. The grip was painfully tight, mercifully impossible to wriggle free from, and so the hero had to settle against them. They could hide the prickle of tears against the deceptively vulnerable line of the villain's neck.

They stayed like that until the hero could no longer hear the screaming beyond the window.

[lindsay00000008]

Paris Paloma’s Notre Dame, anything by Aidoneus but especially Persephone in the Garden, for me anything that has culty vibes like Sleep Token of course. I also love to listen to things like The Loom by Anilah while reading or writing whump (it’s what I put on repeat when I consumed manacled, outs you in a very dark culty mood)

hey do you guys want some whumpy song recommendations [frothing at the mouth, trembling, shaking, uncontrollable tremors through my hands that white-knuckled cling to the back of the chair, i am struggling to remain standing] i have some that I'm normal about,

[lindsay00000008]

Alright alright alright. Have some mer/pirate/sea-themed whump ideas to play with.

Pirate

Pirate crew who often takes hostages from other ships, be it fellow pirates or innocent sailors / fishermen. What they do with them well that's up to you.

Whumpee who is a reluctant part of the crew, treated as a scapegoat, only here because they're related to the captain or crew in some way.

High-ranking, respected crew member caretaker who helps try and secretly free / care for any taken hostages.

Pirate whumpee being forced by their crew mates to drink too much alcohol at a tavern to prove they're tough.

Pirates who are missing hands / legs / eyes / etc. and are just believed to be risk takers. However their "captian" is harming them on purpose as punishments.

Merfolk

Mer whumpee who is caught by a fisherman, whether by net or flesh-piercing hook. Taken to the butcher.

Mer whumpee who's forced to help fish or be punished.

Saltwater mer whumpee who is captured and kept in a freshwater tank. Museum or aquarium? Maybe some kind of temporary tank like they do with lobsters at fancy restaurants to show they're fresh—

Mer whumper who traps a human at the bottom of the ocean in some sunken building still filed with air.

Mer caretaker who helps a human who's stranded at sea.

General

Experienced sailor whumper who takes whumpee out to sea so they have no where to run to. Bonus points if whumpee is sea sick and scared of the ocean.

Rapid-fire round

Sea sickness.

Ropes used as restraints.

Tied to a pole as a storm approaches.

Thrown overboard then fished back out.

Forced to eat raw fish.

~ Whipping ~

[lindsay00000008]

as promised some braid ghosties! (+ my first exploratory sketches of ghost in the first one ++ the last one a slightly updated version)

[lindsay00000008]

Big fan of whump that has the threat of something worse in the background. Where, yes, we took you prisoner and you're in a cell but there's a worse hole in the bowels of the castle and you don't want to go there. Or yes, we're keeping you chained up but at least you have the freedom to move to the end of your chain, don't make us take that small freedom away.

A basement with worse torments nagging at the back of their mind the whole time; a tiny cage that their body remembers with long-held aches even when they're out of it again; a deterrent against fighting back that makes them doubt it's worth doing because they did it once and don't want to feel it again.

Anything that creeps steadily to the front of the mind when they wonder if it's worth being a nuisance, or not giving up what's asked. The terrible knowledge that this is bad, but that is worse, and the only way to shift the balance between this and that is pleasing those you don't want to please in the first place or facing the consequences. Such a thin and delicate line to tread, a mental presence that makes it hard to rest.

[lindsay00000008]

the CHEESY trope I'm guilty of enjoying is "I thought-" "You don't think- you obey." is it overdone? perhaps. but you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

[lindsay00000008]

He's about to rain down a million smooches

Thank you so much to @tacticallyunsoundjohnnyboy for commissioning me to draw my favourite husbands 🫶

[lindsay00000008]

i think 'I trust you with my life but not your own' as a trope is one of the ones that can always fuck me up no matter what

[lindsay00000008]

72 / 2.6k / final part of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, toxic polyamory, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances, kidnapping. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

mentions of violence, dismemberment, and death (to minor characters) in the epilogue.

...

You pull at the restraints around your wrists to no avail. Your rational brain moves your lips over fragments of incantations, searching for one that will bring them back under your control. You've lost your home and the few precious possessions you had tonight. You must have control. If you don't, you have nothing left. But your animal brain wants more. Wants to fuck until your legs collapse.

Ghost's rough hands drag your hips to the altar’s edge. The stone leeches warmth from your back as Price's shadow eclipses yours. His belt hits the ground with a heavy thud.

He steps between your legs and traces the hollow of your knee with his battle-scarred knuckles. His other hand drifts higher. He presses your clit with his thumb and begins circling it with unhurried precision. Your hips writhe despite yourself. Price smiles. "That's it. Use us. Feed us. Make us serve you."

That’s not what this feels like. Consumed by agonizing need, you try to press your hips further into his thumb. Your empty pussy throbs. It wants him inside.

Price grabs your thigh. "Open"

It's not a request. When you don't do as he says, he drags his hand higher and grips a handful of your inner thigh.

"Wider."

Then his cock presses against you. Breaches you. Your back arches off the forest floor as he slowly sheathes himself to the hilt. The second thrust steals your breath.

"Feed," he growls. “Make her come apart.”

Gaz's mouth seals over your nipple. Ghost's calloused fingers press against your lips. Soap runs his tongue up your neck and behind your ear, lapping up sweat. Their arcane aura drapes over you like a burial shroud. Suffocates you. Binds you tighter. No, not just them--something older and heavier that clings to these ruins.

"Come," Price murmurs. "Bare your weakness."

The henbane's fever grips your spine. You climax with a shattered cry, vision whiting out as he fucks you through it. He fucks like he fights: efficient, precise, no movement wasted. Then he pulls out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. He flips you onto your knees and elbows. "Again," he orders. "Arch."

He pushes into you from behind. You curve back into it, distantly aware of the gluttonous stares and catcalls your obvious need elicits from the others. You come again. Violently. Shamefully. Price's pace quickens.

"Again," he growls.

...

They take turns fucking you all night.

The empty eyes of the chapel's dead saints bear witness. Until the friction exhausts you, until the spiritual well from which you draw to cast and summon runs well and truly dry. Until your body is nothing but a hollow vessel, empty to your very pores, and that arcane shroud settled over you begins to seep under your skin. It molds to your raw need and fills you anew as if you’ve been offered as a sacrifice and then reborn in some ancient cult’s ceremony. It binds to you. Climbing vines and clusters of midnight purple hellebore blooms begin flowering to life, pushing through the ruined tile at the base of the altar.

Gaz’s fingers tangle in your hair to keep your head pulled back. The altar's marble digs into your knees. Then Soap is on his back beneath you, grinning as he guides your hips onto his cock. He rubs torturous circles into your clit as he fucks up into you. Then Ghost bends you over the altar and sinks his teeth into your shoulder as he takes you there, hard; the straining of the shackles rubs your wrists raw until Ghost tires of your pained huffs and rips the chains away from the walls altogether.

He grips the chains dangling from your still-shackled wrists with one hand and weaves the other into your hair. He cranes your head back to make you see Price observing it all from the pews.

"That's it, darling," Gaz purrs to you as Ghost's thrusts stutter, his cock pulsing. "Take every drop. Saints know you've earned it."

He drags you upright by your shackled wrists once Ghost finishes, and he presses your back to his chest. His fingers trace the sigil behind your ear--their claim as much as yours--as he pushes up into you from below.

Once Gaz finishes inside you again--you've lost count of how many loads you’ve taken--Price rises from the pews. He rests your trembling legs over his shoulders, your back flat against marble. His cock splits you deeper than before. He drives into you further and further until your exhausted voice cracks with another moan.

"Come," he growls.

"I can’t," you groan out. You're too exhausted to give him what he wants. "Nothing left."

Price's thrusts slow but don't stop. His hand wraps around your throat not to squeeze, but to feel the vibration of your strained whimpers. "Can't?" He leans down. "You bound demons to your body and starved them, witch. You don't get to abandon our covenant." His hips snap forward. He sheathes himself to the hilt again. Your walls flutter weakly around him. "You leashed our lives to yours. You asked for our protection. This" --he drags his thumb across your eyelid and through your wet lashes-- "is the mercy of that choice." Then he presses his palm on your sternum and splays his fingers wide between your breasts as if to capture your heart. "This belongs to us."

The others gather to watch. Ghost's fingers dig into your arms and holds them over your head as Price fucks you past the point of oversensitivity into a dazed, shuddering haze. When he finally spills inside you, he snarls your name like a curse against your throat. Soap weaves a hand into your hair and tilts your head forward to make you watch Price pull his cock out of you. It glistens with your excessive arousal.

Price rests his forearms against the marble on either side of you. He leans his forehead against your trembling stomach, takes a deep breath in, and lets it out with a rumble.

"Next time you run," he murmurs against your navel, "wear bells. We like to chase you."

Soap tosses a ratty fur over your shivering body. His calloused palm lingers on your thigh. Ghost's claw traces the shackle marks on your wrist. Then he tugs the fur higher to cover your breasts. Gaz chuckles at your utter collapse. "Imagine how tired she'll be when we assess her more comprehensively." 

Dawn bleeds through shattered stained glass. You've never felt such exhaustion in your life--physically, mentally, spiritually. Yet you drift off without fear. Your body is light and your mind is unencumbered by habitual worry. You fall asleep in moments, scarcely noticing what they're saying as they begin to discuss what to do with you.

Price buttons his coat. His gaze lingers on the vines strangling the altar--latent magic channeled through your worn body. What once clung to the walls now resides in you, whether you know it or not.

Price watches your chest rise and fall shallowly under the moth-eaten pelt. "We've made our point," he says. "Now let's discuss the lesson."

Soap drapes himself over the back of the frontmost pew with the ease of a supremely sated man. "Lesson's simple, Cap. Witch learned her place."

"Which is?"

"Beneath us. Always."

Price's thumb brushes your swollen lip. "Wrong." He stands and pulls a knife from his belt. "Her place is alive. Protected. Fruitful." The blade flashes as he cuts a lock of your hair. "You lot forget--she's not livestock. She's our wellspring."

Ghost rumbles. "She poisoned us."

"And we’ve punished her for it." Price tucks the hair into his pocket and tosses the knife aside. "But we don't ruin the well because we're thirsty. We renew it."

Ghost harrumphs. "She'll need a new nest," he mutters. He picks up the knife and begins honing it on the altar's edge. "Somewhere defensible."

"Aye, with thicker walls. And a bigger bed." Soap’s grin flashes red in the sunrise. "More efficient that way."

Gaz crouches beside you and examines the leaves unfurling near the crown of your head. "Won't matter. She'll bolt again. We need to break her proper next time. Chain her to the bed. Fuck the fight out day and night."

Vines curl up the altar near your feet. New buds swell rosy black in the dawn light.

Price plucks one and examines it. "Not so. Restrain the magic, not the witch, and she'll learn to crave the leash." Price crushes the small bloom in his palm. "Gaz, carry her. Ghost, scorch the trail. Soap--stop grinning and scout ahead. North."

"North, sir?"

"Old fort past the marshes. Walls steeped in old blood. The land's... sympathetic to us.” Price lifts you. Your head lolls against his shoulder. Your breath catches--a trapped sound, even in sleep.

Gaz inhales deeply. New arousal. "She's dreaming of us."

"Course she is." Soap licks the corner of his mouth like he wants to lick your cunt up and down again instead. "Gettin' used to her new life already."

…

You never return to the rubble where your house once stood. The villagers never see you again. But they hear whispers--fearful talk of a devil in the tempting shape of a woman, a nymph who weaves through the shadows of the deep woods, rarely seen. They tell tales of the curse that follows any man who watches her too closely and falls victim to her thrall--the way they disappear, swallowed whole by the forest. They tell tales of the beasts who haunt those woods. Crows. Hounds. Wildcats. Screech owls. Black hares.

Mothers hush their children with tales of the witch who walks with wolves, her shadow stretching long even at noon. Men whisper in taverns, ale sloshing as they lean close. Saw her by the blackthorn grove, skin glowing like a will-o'-the-wisp. Followed her 'til the crows' laughter drove me mad.

You tell those who draw close enough not to follow you. You tell them to turn back and leave those cursed woods. But the men stubborn enough to pursue a witch are men too stubborn to listen. They think they can save you.

So you don't hide. 

You let them glimpse you bathing in moonlit streams, your scars silvered by starlight. You let them hear your voice carried on the wind--come closer and lose your life, fool--as you braid hemlock into your hair. They never listen.

Ghost takes the first hunter. Drags him screaming into the bracken, bones crunching like kindling.

Soap claims the priest--peels him apart verse by verse, psalmbook pages stuffed down his throat.

Gaz plays with the lord's son for three days. He returns the boy's signet ring to his father's doorstep, severed finger inside still warm.

Price surveys the forest from your fortress’s highest tower. You stand still against his chest. His hands map the web of delicate silver chains that drape your bare hips. "They'll never stop coming," he tells you. His voice is low, soft, and callously teasing. "Not with the lure of such noble suffering."

The old fort's bones stand like teeth. Ivy blooms black under the moonlight and chokes its crumbling walls. You've learned its corridors--the way damp stone whispers of sieges long past, the drafty chambers where moss devours tapestries, the courtyard where Ghost weeds and burns your strange flora every new moon, lest it choke the forest’s natural growth.

They let you wander the battlements. Not alone, of course. Gaz shadows you as a lynx, dark eyes tracking your every step. Soap perches in crow form on the rusted portcullis, cawing taunts when you linger too near your prison’s gate. At night, Price presses your palm to the fort’s cold stones and makes you feel the old blood in its mortar--the violence sewn into its foundations, hungry for fresh sacrifice.

Your chambers smell of sex, henbane, and hellebore. The bed is a nest of furs and ancient grimoire pages. You kneel to relight the hearth and copper incense burner with a snap of your fingers. Soon enough, one of your familiars will collapse into your bed, boots propped up on your pillow to watch you until he’s ready to drag you into the furs and take you again.

Shackles hang from the canopy. They’re decorative now. Your familiars don't require them to keep you here. This--the bond, the feral devotion and the promises that underscore it--is stronger than iron.

Ghost fucks you against the armory wall, your legs hooked over his hips as he rams into you. He growls deep and low--no longer the tense, violent snarl of a starving beast, but a sound of possessive self-satisfaction. 

Soap takes you on the battlements, your hands bound with his belt as he bends you over the parapet. "Scream loud, rabbit. Let the woods hear who owns you."

Gaz's favorite game is the chase. He chases you through the halls and to the very threshold of the fortress, portcullis raised just enough to taunt you with room to escape, before dragging you back inside by the ankle, your scant robes dowsed with mud. "Almost had it that time, love. Maybe next century."

Price is different. He fucks you slowly in the war room, maps scattering as he bends you over the strategy table. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands as he whispers the same words you once used to bind them when you were still a trembling novice with a dagger to his throat.

The longer you stay, the more ivy drapes the crumbling stone. Your magic pulses in the walls. Ghost and Price watch you.

"She's getting stronger," Ghost says.

Price lights his pipe. "Aye. Best pray she stays tame."

Later, he watches you press your palm to the fort's oldest wall. The stones hum. Winter roses--false roses, lovely and toxic--turn their petals up to listen.

Price watches. "Still trying to domesticate us? Or survive us?"

You hum. The brambles curl toward his voice. "Same thing."

Carcasses of would-be heroes decorate the gates. Hellebore blooms from their eye sockets in warning. One midsummer night, a knight arrives. The holy symbols etched into his armor and sword are the same ones worn by the stone saints in that abandoned church where you once fled in a vain bid for sanctuary. That well of magic inside you recognizes the ancient blessing singing in his blood. He could help you. You could warn him, you realize as you meet him at the tree line. But you don't.

"Demon bride," he spits, blade raised. "The only freedom left for you is death."

Gaz's wildcat form takes him at the knees. Soap's raven plucks out an eye. Ghost's hound teeth rip out his Achilles tendon.

Price lets the man live.

You kneel beside his twitching body. You tilt his chin up with a bloodied hand. "Rest."

Hemlock sprouts between his teeth. The vines drag him underground. Your familiars watch from the shadows with dissatisfaction gleaming in their eyes.

Soap scoffs. "Again? Boring. You never keep our gifts."

You rise and absently wipe your bloody fingertips off on your robes. "Next time."

You return to your bedchambers. The furs on your bed pile higher and higher, soft and inviting. The shackles gather dust.

You dream of running.

You always wake up caged.

...

end <3

...

← part 4 / [part 5]

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[lindsay00000008]

I really like the idea of a mad scientist who performs deeply unethical procedures on a test subject (with dubious consent) but who gives the subject comfort and a bit of autonomy not because they feel bad, but because they know the subject needs it. A mad scientist who lets the subject keep a stuffed animal or other comfort item, who lets the subject pick out different patterns or colors for gowns and caps, who keeps the subject awake during operations but lets the subject pick out music to listen to through it all.

They’re a mad scientist, not a monster.

[lindsay00000008]

Locking out victim's arm behind their back against the wall

Content: joint straining, fear, noncon touch, begging

That extra twist after a joint is locked up, forcing out a strangled gasp of pain

"Ah! Wait--wait--"

That freeze as victim realizes the position they're trapped in

Aggressor taking that moment to slide a hand into victim's front pocket, just intimate enough to be able to play it off later while making victim squirm right now.

"I'm not resisting." Victim pants, feeling their folded wrist twitch in aggressor's hand. "I'm not re--Im not resisting, whumper, please!"

[lindsay00000008]

I’d like to think Simon’s girl is so shy. Simon was never much of a talker so go figure he dates a girl who is shy.

She talks to him in private and they have a wonderful connection. However, when they’re around anyone else she’s just shy.

Drinks with team? She’s wallowing into Simon’s side with blushed cheeks avoiding soaps million questions.

At the restaurant and they got her order wrong? Don’t worry, Simon’s got this.

Need to make a phone call? Just write it down love, he’s got it.

But in bed? “Let me hear you love” “what was that? You want me to stop?” And that is the last thing you want. “Come on lovie; can’t hear you”“Tell me what you want”

Simon never would’ve guessed you might be into inviting someone to the bedroom. But of course you’re still so shy. So when Simon’s holding you to his chest and John’s inside you, Simon’s whispering in your ear. “Tell him what you want” and suddenly you’re mouth is just a stream of words

[lindsay00000008]

Put your fucking knight on a leash it keeps trying to duel mine

[lindsay00000008]

[lindsay00000008]

My favorite part about whump is when a love interest is witness to the Whumpee’s mistreatment or misfortune (vulnerability). That can lead to some romantic situations or other kinds of intimacy.

I have a more heinous thing I like to call Smump, which is smut+whump. Not that I’ve seen literally anybody else use that tag. That would be like, scared-but-I-kinda-like-it, “person that I hate is undeniably sexy even when being mean to me and it kind of seems like they’re flirting at this point” kind of stuff. Or just smut + injuries. Or smut after a near death experience. Or stuff like sex pollen, and other dubious consent things where no one is really going to regret it but it still has elements of hurt comfort.

Idk if this is what you’re looking for, but there’s also plenty of stories out there where it’s unclear if the whumpee is brainwashed or what but they accept the treatment (pet whump particularly) or even love their whumper. Masochists exist too!

Sorry if this is a stupid question, but does there exist a version of whump that isn't angst? I'm wondering if there's a tag for whump related activities but done in a romantic and consensual way, if that makes sense?? I can't think what this would be called, if a tag exists at all

Oh now this is a fascinating question!

A lot of whump *is* written as romantic in its own way, between whumper and whumpee, and quite deliberately so!

But it's definitely harder to find consensual whump, and even more difficult to find whump that isn't angst, since a lot of people would argue that that's the crux of the genre.

I think outside of the whump community "consensual and romantic whump that isn't angst" would be called "bdsm" which is annoying because you're not going to be able to search tumblr for that.

Whump pals, any ideas for tags anon could look for?

[lindsay00000008]

Alpha!Simon: I don't need anyone

Omega!Y/N: Slaughtered any and all alpha's that pushed their luck. Their back yard is covered in bones

Simon: I stand corrected

He's scared and horny. They've killed so many. He respects that

His buddies are trying to smack some sense to him but it doesn't work. He's going to court this one and he's doing it scared but respectful

Embodiment of that one Cowboy Bebop meme that's just "I love the kind of woman who'll just actually kill me"

I’m crying, that’s him. Mark him down as scared AND horny, yeah, he’s going to do the most careful courting of his LIFE, just bringing gifts and lingering near the entrance because wow, the bones are polished so nicely, oh wow.

Omega!Reader watching him like a fucking predator, eyes glowing, grin wide and ready to tear his throat out.

Simon:

Simon: you hungry there, luv?

Omega!Rider: *low clicking purr of an alien creature, shifts a little closer to him*

Simon:

Simon: fuck, I’m gonna die. This is so good. You smell so good. But Jesus, I’m gonna die