#cw forced caretaking

[whump-in-the-closet]

Hear me out, I’m pretty sure we all heard of hypnotist whumper, but hypnotist caretaker? Yeah, thats it.

TYPE SHIT

Whumpee begged. For the first time in weeks, they begged. They were home, they were safe, they-- alarm bells went off in their head-- they were not safe.

"Please, Caretaker!" They forced themselves under the table, the carpet scratching at their knees and the confined space suddenly constricting. Their pleading was a whisper, low and caught in their throat, "Please, please--"

Caretaker's shoes stopped at the table. He sighed. In a soft voice, as if talking to a cornered animal, he said, "You need to take your medication, Whumpee. You're...you're not well."

"No."

"Let me help, Whumpee."

Whumpee remained where they were. "I thought I could trust you--" their words were broken off by a coughing fit, leaving their head ringing and everything swimming swimming swimming...

Caretaker crouched down.

Through the blurring, Whumpee could make out his dark eyes, pitted with exhaustion and faintly annoyed. In Caretaker's calloused hand was a bright orange bottle. Whumpee's name was on the label.

Whumpee shrank back.

Caretaker sighed again. "Whumpee, look at me."

Whumpee didn't notice him drawing a small pocket watch out of his faded jeans.

Their vision flailed outwards, fracturing, like a piece of starfish broken off.

Tick, tock

Caretaker started to swing their pocket watch back and forth, the clock hands steady inside the white case.

Tick, tock, tick--

Time slowed into a strange, honey-like state. Everything blurred away, except the pocket watch and the ticking hands.

Whumpee's panic faded, worked into the batter of time and starry vision. Whumpee didn't really feel anything--

just faintly quiet

tick

A city night quiet, with neon laughter and buzzing lights

"That's it, look at the watch,"

tock

A country road quiet, with Whumpee in the trunk of the car and the duct tape suffocating.

"Here are your meds. Take them."

tick

tock

A basement quiet, with concrete walls and deafening grey all around...the pressure building into silence.

"I'm sorry."

[i-eat-worlds]

Whumpee who refuses to eat and so is forcefully entubed so they don't die and it's traumatic enough on its own that they agree to eat but now they *really* mistrust and hate caretaker.

oooo yesss nonny

Caretaker softly apologizing as they tie whumpee down, while whumpee tries to bite and scratch at them.

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: Chapter III- First Scry

Wednesday- 9:45 AM EST

CW: human trafficking, forced labor, whumpee with powers, (using the powers make him sick.) Emeto, headache, shivering, fever. Hurt/comfort

Max pulled an extra desk chair from a conference room and cleared space on the far left side of his desk. Carlo sat on the other side of it, facing him, elbows on the wood. The yellow bruising on his face faded a little bit every day.

He’d let Max wrap some gauze around his chafed wrists just to protect them from rubbing against his clothes while they healed from the handcuffs. Ingrid had watched, her hand going to her mouth in sympathy when Carlo had flinched and then apologized for flinching.

This morning he watched Max with big, expectant eyes. There was a flinching quickness to the way he responded to questions and direct requests that made Max feel guilty. He’d already told the boy he wasn’t going to hurt him, and he felt like a broken record. All he could do now was make good on that promise, and let Carlo grow used to him in his own time.

Alex Clair called him yesterday about the precogs. Max could hear him opening his car door, hear the chiming of the vehicle until he closed it.

“So, get this. I sent my precog down to the little bunker thing they made for them last night. Coz I thought it’d be weird as fuck to take him home, I don’t know.”

“And?”

“Big mistake. They don’t have shit for them. The heats not working. Beds are… deflated air mattresses on a cement floor. A wet cement floor. It looks like a dungeon. Oh and there’s one bathroom, just a toilet and a sink that doesn’t work, no shower or anything. It’s literally the old janitors closet down there they stopped using in 2009, I swear to God.”

“Spent all that money on them, didn’t even build them a decent set of bunk beds. There’s only five of them, too.” He was glad he hadn’t sent his Carlo down there. “The heat really isn’t working?”

“No, dude. I could see my breath. Zee— my Precog, that’s what we’re calling him— half froze to death. They’re already cold all the time. Or, he is anyway.”

“Mine too, yeah. I noticed that.”

“Right! Don’t even consider it if you haven’t already. Just take ‘em home. Do I get a tax credit for this? Is he a dependent?”

Max had laughed dryly. “Have you tried to work with him yet?”

“Nah, I felt so bad about last night I took PTO and took him home. I just went to the store for some soup.”

“I’m going to try and ease into it tomorrow morning with mine.”

Alex sighed heavily. “Let me know how it goes. I’m gonna give Zee another day.”

When they hung up, he had wondered if Blake and Elle’s assignments were as lucky as Alex’s.

-

“So like I said, I don’t know how any of this works,” Max prefaced.

“You’re gonna be teaching me as much as I’m teaching you. Cissy said we’re going to have some training for how to help you do your best work, but it’s not til next week.”

Carlo nodded. He was wearing a jacket over a hoodie even in the office, always so cold. Before they left the house, Max gave him a thick pair of socks, corduroy pants with a belt to keep them on his underfed frame.

“Rather than jump right into it, how about we practice with something easy?”

He swallowed, squirming a little in his chair. “Okay. Like what?”

“I’m holding a pen cap in my fist. It’s a certain color and you’re gonna tell me what you think that color it is. Is that okay?”

The precog seemed to relax. It wasn’t a trick. It was truly something easy. He seemed almost excited. “Okay.”

“So how can I help you? What would tip you off to the color pen cap I’m holding?”

“Do you know the color of the pen cap?”

“I do.”

Carlo looked from Max’s eyes to his closed fist on the desk.

“It’s orange,” he said, lying his chin down on the edge of the desk and grinning up at him.

Max laughed. “You're that confident?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Max opened his fist to reveal an orange pen cap. “Way too easy for you, huh?”

The precog was eager to please him. Pleased that he’d outsmarted him so easily. This was child’s play for him.

“How about something harder? I’m going to give you some email threads to read. I’ll also pull up a few images of the people in those emails. One is me, obviously, but I’ll show you the rest of them.”

“What are you trying to find out?”

Max sipped his coffee. “It’s kind of convoluted. Because I’m not sure. I want to determine anything I can about what these people are going to do regarding our account with them. I have a bad feeling they’re working with another organization, or at least talking about it. It’s a big account for me. If I know what they’re going to do before they do it… maybe I can keep them.”

Carlo’s eyes drifted Max’s computer screen.“Ok. Sometimes… uhm…”

“Go ahead. Sometimes what?”

“Well. Sometimes I can get little things wrong. Not a lot,” he hurried, like Max would be angry. “But little details sometimes. I — I might mix up a number, or a name. Or a date. I can usually tell if something’s a hundred percent. But I just wanted you to… to know that.”

“Okay. Thank you. You can just tell me how sure you are. I don’t want you to feel pressured, or afraid. There’s no…”

The boy watched him carefully as he chose his words.

“…There’s no repercussions for getting something wrong. Who can say their work is an exact science? Very few. Certainly not this line of work. I make mistakes all the time. I want you to remember I’m not going to hurt you. Or be angry with you. No matter what.”

Carlo’s chest rose and fell a little faster. He seemed to be carefully considering what this meant for him.

“Do you like to work alone, or does it matter?”

“No, I—you should stay here. I might say something important and forget.”

“Are you ready?”

Carlo read the emails twice, several long threads back and forth between Max and the execs of the account he serviced.

“Okay,” he said when he was done. Max pulled up a minimized tab on another monitor, website and LinkedIn photos of two of the people from the threads.

He looked at them in turn, reading the names underneath to know who was who.

“Uhm…” he winced as if pained by a sudden headache. “Can I…”

“What do you need?”

“Could I hear her voice?” he pointed to one of the pictures.

“Sure. I’ll probably catch her voicemail but if not I’ll just make some shit up about why I called.”

He pulled her number up on his cellphone, hit speakerphone. Carlo leaned closer to him. Three rings and voicemail.

Carlo closed his eyes to listen. He gripped the edge of the desk, as if to steady himself. After a moment, his eyes seemed to roll back in his head before he went very still and pale.

Max didn’t know if he should touch him. “You okay?” he asked with no response.

The precog stayed that way for a full ten seconds, closing his eyes. Suddenly the stiffness went out of his spine and he began to choke and cough violently.

Max laid a hand on his back. “You alright?”

He managed to get the coughing under control only to begin shaking all over. He looked like he might be sick. Max leaned over the desk to touch him but hesitated. “Can I touch you?”

The precog nodded. Max felt his forehead, his bruised cheek. He was clammy.

“Can you talk to me?”

Carlo fumbled for a pen and a pad of yellow sticky notes. Max let him go, and he scribbled a shaky Alias—150k.

Max read it upside down. “Okay…good. That’s good. You okay, sweetheart?”

Finally, Carlo nodded. He was shaking too hard to speak. He lunged for the trash can, grabbing it in both hands just in time to retch violently into it. Max almost out a hand on his back but left him alone.

His retching got weaker and subsided. He spit into the trash can, coughing weakly.

“Is this normal?”

He nodded again, eyes fluttering closed. “Sorry.” He sank down against the wall to the floor, holding his hands over his forehead and squinting like he had a terrible migraine. “... I’m sorry.” His voice wavered.

“Shh, you’re good. What do you need? Here…” he went to his mini fridge in the corner and pulled out a sugary pink lemonade bottle. He twisted off the cap and held it to Carlos' mouth for him.

“Can you sip for me?”

He did, spilling a little with his shaking. He mopped it up quickly with the sleeve of the hoodie Max had given him.

“I didn’t know it was gonna do this to you. You’re shaking.”

Carlo took another sip of lemonade. “M’ok,” he said, but winced and screwed his eyes shit against some pain.

“It’s your head?”

He whimpered. He started shaking his right leg, taping his toe against the gray office carpet to manage the pain.

Max ran a hand through his hair, turning to look outside at the drizzly morning traffic below without really seeing it. You did this to him. He was fine. You asked him to do this.

He turned back, watching as Carlo set his head back against the wall and breathed very carefully, as if moving too much would bring back the pain in his head. He shuddered, shivering.

Max draped his coat over the boys legs. “Does it do this to you every time?”

“Sometimes I… sometimes I pass out. But that’s when I get the best stuff.”

His office phone rang. He ignored it.

“And they expect us to do this every day? Knowing it’s going to do this to you? Jus to help our fucking… B2B sales?”

“It was worse with the stocks,” Carlo offered as if he was the one who should make Max feel better, and not the other way around. He was pale, and his face had broken out in a sweat.

Max tilted his head, inviting further explanation. This was the first confirmation Carlo had given about his past.

“I would transpose numbers a lot. Not-not a lot. Sometimes. And it makes a really big difference. Or, I would get a percentage right but mess up whether it was plus or minus that percentage. That could be a huge mistake.”

“And what happened when you made a mistake?”

“Just depends on how bad I messed up,” he said softly.

Max tried to imagine backhanding this eager, timid precog for an honest mistake. He couldn’t.

“What do you think Alias 150 means?”

Max sighed, turning to the sticky note. “Alias is the name of a competitor of ours. They’re not as big as us but they’re hungry. I think you just told me who is bidding to take over my account and what annual rate they pitched. 150 thousand.”

Carlo’s eyes brightened in his pale, sweaty face. “Can you do anything with that?”

Max couldn't help it— he reached out and squeezed the precog’s bony knee. “Yeah, I can offer to do it for 130.”

The boy beamed, looking a bit fevered. “You called me something earlier. A minute ago.”

“…I did?”

He picked at the label on the plastic lemonade bottle. He could go from eager to shy to distrusting, back to shy. “Something nice.”

“Oh. Sweetheart? I guess I did. You scared me with the coughing fit. It just… slipped. I’m sorry.”

“No, I…”

Max busied himself with his email inbox, scrolling through what he’d missed in the last half hour. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he whispered. “It was nice.”

“Oh. He took his glasses out of their case to clean them on his shirt. “Okay.”

The Scry Taglist:

@whumpsday @distinctlywhumpthing @pumpkin-spice-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @tidalwhump

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 8

YOU CHOSE: OPEN THE DOORS- CONTINUE WITH CHASE.

Your decisions allow buried memories to resurface. This is overwhelming for your character, and his mind suffers from the weight of it all.

cws: flashbacks, dehumanization, non human whumper, whumper is also caretaker, electric shock, force feeding, eye trauma, mentions of a seizure, sick whumpee, mentions of hypnosis. lmk if i should add more!

. . .

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

Chase's head feels like it could explode. Too many sounds, too many colors, too many voices and commands and knives and soft touches and- and-

Pseudo hushes him, raking fingers through the puppet's hair. "Pink, dolly, take a deep breath."

But Pink isn't there. Chase falls into the hands of his monster, and finds himself in a new place. Somewhere deep inside his head.

. . .

Cellar.

"Please, p- please!! I can't do it, please!"

"Shhh. It's just a pop quiz, Pink. You'll do just fine."

Chase's arms are chained behind him, with ankles cuffed to both legs of the chair. Hot tears pour down his cheeks, soaking into clothes that are already soaked with blood. He shivers, freezing in the cellar air, terrified of what he sees in front of him.

Just a few feet away, Pseudo holds a stun gun. He sits in a foldable chair, relaxed and comfortable in his position of power here. He owns Pink, and that's a wonderful feeling.

"Tell me your name," he says.

"Pink!" Chase doesn't hesitate in saying it. He may as well be saying please. "It's Pink, Pink, I'm P- Pink!"

"Good," Pseudo praises. "Now tell me your age."

"T- twenty seven..!"

"Mhm. And how about-" Pseudo covers his eyes with his free hand, "the color of my eyes?"

"Brown!"

"Very good!"

Pseudo returns to his original position, with both hands placed leisurely on the stun gun.

"Now, last question, dolly. If you get it right, I'll put this away, hm?"

Chase nods, eager and afraid in the same shaking breath.

"What time is it?"

The puppet freezes. There are no clocks and no windows to tell the time in here. He wasn't told when they got down here, and he wouldn't know how much has passed. It all feels like an eternity of pain and blood.

He trembles, searching his mind for answers. What time was breakfast? How long did it take to clean the kitchen? When was lunch? How long did washing the sheets take? It isn't dinner time yet, is it??

"N- nn-" Chase begins to panic. His breath halts in his chest and he has to shake the terror off himself, like a puppy emerging from falling into a swimming pool.

"Can I have a h- hint??"

Pseudo sighhhhhss, lulling his head to the left, the right, the left, up straight again..

"Mmm.... it was about 4:30 when we came down here."

"A- and how long have we been down here??"

Pseudo chuckles at him, his stupid doll. "That's not a hint, dolly, that's just the answer."

A breath escapes the puppet's mouth. "R- right," he says, defeated. "Okay..."

Think, think, think.

He rocks back and forth, clawing at his mind to provide the answer. How long has it been? How long does it feel like? What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?????

"Um, u- um..."

"Come now, Pink. We don't have all evening."

A soft sob bubbles out from his neck. There's no way he's getting this right.

"Is- i- is it... i- is it um.... s- six- no, no, seven, is it seven?"

"Let's see.."

Pseudo pulls his phone out from his pocket, and flips it open.

He stares at the clock, and Chase stares at his monster. Pseudo lets the tension hang in the air, drinking in the sounds of his puppet's pounding heart.

"Is it seven??? I- hh??"

The monster shuts the phone with a click, and places it back inside his pocket.

"Six fifty- three."

He raises the gun, pointing at Chase's shoulder.

"N- no, no!! No!! I was so close, please!! Please Pseudo!! Plea--!"

Chase's words are cut short. He wails, tensing and then falling limp as the pain takes over his entire body.

. . .

Kitchen.

"Open up."

Chase's mouth stays glued shut. Each hand curls a fist into his sweatpants, a desperate attempt at keeping them down. Any minute now, he swears, he's going to take that stupid spoon and shove it down Pseudo's throat.

In his reply, Chase only shakes his head.

"Oh, come now, don't be difficult. You haven't eaten since yesterday."

When he speaks, Chase keeps his teeth clamped together. "I'll eat if I can feed myself."

"Nooo, you'll eat if I tell you to. Now open up.."

He presents the spoon to Chase's mouth, gently tapping the food against his bottom lip. The puppet finally accepts, opens his jaw, and spits it in the monster's face.

For a moment, they only look at eachother. Chase knows what he did is bad. He knows he'll be punished, but he doesn't care. He's going to be hurt anyway, right?

Still, this hurt could've been avoided.

Pseudo's hand comes around to slap the toy hard across the face. It's enough to almost send him reeling out of the chair, gripping onto the table and stomping the floor as not to go flying to the ground. Before he can bring his own hands to cup the sting across his cheek, Pseudo grabs the collar of his shirt, and yanks him to the floor.

Chase yelps, losing his breath as Pseudo climbs on top to straddle him. He hunches over the doll like an animal, a feral spark running around inside his pupils. Chase feels so small beneath him, like a worm under a bird's claw, ready to be swallowed whole.

The spoon comes to meet Chase's lower eyelid, still hot from the food that was so rudely spat back out. Pseudo presses the spoon down, ever so slightly, and Chase feels his eye shift in its socket.

"Do you need to learn your table manners again, pet?"

The puppet's hands clamp around his monster's wrist. "Get off!!"

Pseudo does not relent. He presses the spoon down further, causing the puppet to start seeing double, triple, a black spot where his eye contacts the top of the socket.

"You should answer me, you know. I could do some terrible things to you."

He presses further, and Chase digs his nails into Pseudo's skin. He feels as though his eye could pop right out of his head.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!"

"That isn't an answer."

More pressure. More pain. Chase feels air in places he shouldn't.

"Ah! No!!! Nono I don't, I don't, I'm sorry!"

"You don't what, Pink? Show me you understand."

"I--!" Pink digs his nails deeper into his monster's wrist. "I don't-- I don't need to learn table manners, I'm sorry! Nh- please!"

"Good," Pseudo croons, and slowly, slowly, releases the pressure on his puppet's eye. He lets a few moments pass before reaching a hand to caress Pink's face, thumb stroking gentle across the cheekbone that was hit. The doll shrinks away, closing his eyes.

"I want you to prove it, now, Pink. Otherwise..." the spoon draws a line, following the curve of Chase's eye socket. He speaks soft, higher pitched, like talking to a child. A puppy, a worm under his claw. "Do you understand?"

"Y- yes, Pseudo.."

"Good.."

Pseudo moves off, and Chase climbs back in his chair. He holds his eye and stinging cheek in his hand before Pseudo swats it away, reminding him table manners include no hands above the waist.

Pseudo sets himself down, too, and presents the food to Chase's mouth once more.

"Open up."

Chase opens his mouth. Food is placed inside, but he doesn't chew.

"....Eat."

The puppet obeys, avoiding his monster's eyes throughout the rest of the meal.

. . .

Home.

The house is happy.

Chase cradles his daughter on the couch, running soft hands through waving blond hair. A cartoon drones on in the background, capturing the little girl's attention completely.

She giggles at the characters, and Chase's heart swells with love.

"They're silly," she comments, turning her head to her father. A wide smile takes her face over, with one missing tooth to top it off.

"Yeah, they are silly, aren't they?"

He smiles down at her, and plants a kiss on her forehead. A small hand reaches up to tap the end of his nose.

Chase smiles wider. He is so full of love he can barely stand it.

. . .

Somewhere in Denmark.

Somewhere far away. Somewhere, where old love and safety and sanity aren't a guarantee. Somewhere deep inside his head, Chase is pulled up, up into reality.

He feels like he's trapped underwater, and Pseudo is the one to drag him out. Up, up, up, through swamps and moss and dirt, through water that's thick as clotted blood. His eyes droop, his bones fall limp, Chase cannot breathe with the pressure in his chest. The water tastes of soap, and a sourness that makes his teeth chatter.

He wants to sink again, into memories good and bad. Wants to be anywhere but here. Anywhere, somewhere, somewhere deep inside his head.

Chase groans, a migraine holding him hostage. The lights are too bright, even behind closed eyelids. His blanket is so warm. Is he comfortable? Too tired to tell.

He opens his lazy eyes, seeing his small attic room surround him. He feels sick. Horrible. Tears wet his eyes but he doesn't remember why.

Beside him, Pseudo watches him rest. The puppet startles when he sees his monster, and he tries desperately to sit up. He can only claw the sheets.

Pseudo tilts his head as the puppet shoves himself into the wall. The blanket provides a shield of false protection, and he holds on as if life depends on it.

"You had some scary nightmares, huh?"

Chase only stares.

"Mh. Well, you slept for a while. You even had a seizure."

The puppet's brows furrow. "Really?" he croaks.

"Mhm. Does your head hurt?"

Chase nods. Pseudo reaches out his hand, slow and steady. Even so, the puppet shrinks away, closing his eyes as if expecting to be slapped or clawed or scratched.

But the monster is gentle, brushing away pink hair to feel the doll's forehead. The coolness of his hand is comforting. Chase can't help but relax a little in his touch.

"You still have a fever..." Pseudo runs his hand over the puppet's hair, petting softly. "... Are you hungry?"

"No.."

"Liar."

"I don't wanna eat."

"It'll make you feel better."

"Will it?"

Pseudo gives a soft smile. He helps the doll sit up, gently hushing him as he whimpers and whines about his head swimming, his muscles hurting, ow, Pseudo, please-

"Shhhhh. It's okay, Pink.."

On the end table, a bowl of warm soup waits to be eaten. The monster takes a spoonful, blows, and presents it to Chase's hesitant mouth.

"Come now... eat. You'll feel better."

The puppet frowns, and accepts. Bite after bite, it feels warm and heavy in his stomach, warm and heavy and delicious. Pseudo was right. He does feel better.

They wash it down with cool water, and Chase breathes a sigh of relief at the taste. He may still feel sick and afraid, but he's not thirsty, not hungry, and not cold, and that's more than enough right now.

Pseudo pushes the empty dishes aside, and returns his hands to playing with Pink's hair. The puppet sinks into the feeling, sleepiness pulling down his weight. He feels comfortable. Sick, but comfortable.

"You've been anxious lately," Pseudo says gently. "You're trying to get back into a headspace that's not good for you."

Chase opens his eyes.

"I hate to see you suffer like that, Pink. It breaks my heart."

"I don't wanna be your toy.."

Pseudo sighs, stroking the doll's cheek with his thumb. Sweet thing.

"I need to run to the store again. I forgot my sugar."

"I- I can't, I don't wanna-"

"No, shhh. You're staying in bed."

Chase relaxes again, falling victim to the gentle touches of his monster.

"Can I trust you to rest?"

The puppet nods. He's too sick to get up anyway. Everything hurts, especially his head.

"Good doll.. I'll be back soon."

He plants one gentle kiss on Chase's forehead, and leaves him to rest alone.

. . .

As the minutes pass, the puppet finds himself unable to sleep. His head hurts, his body aches, oh, God, he feels horrible. He almost wishes Pseudo hypnotized him before he left.

While he lays there, Chase begins to wonder. He heard the door close, but no keys, and no starting car. It's no secret that Pseudo can travel long distances without transport, as part of his magic allows him to do so. Could he have left the car keys?

"No, no, don't think like that," Chase says allowed. He runs his hands over his face, and tries to get comfortable again. But the thought plagues him.

Did he leave the car keys?

Even if he won't escape, he could still check, right? Then at least he knows, and he can get some sleep. Yes, yes, he'll just check and see..

Chase drags himself up, groaning as a dizziness swirls the entire room around. A chill takes over him as well, and he reaches for the smaller blanket on the bed to wrap around his shoulders. God, he feels like shit.

Eventually he makes his way out of his room, leaning against walls and railings as not to go tumbling to the ground. Walking is a chore, and his feet ache with every step. Pins and needles climb up his legs like leeches, and he finds himself in pain with every. Single. Step.

Down the stairs, into the living room.

The car keys hang on the wall by door.

Chase freezes. He can only stare.

[undead-potatoes]

Not loving this increasingly weird behavior in fandom where they'll look at a female character behaving in certain ways and go "ooooh that's so hashtag girlboss, feminism wins uwu", but then you look deeper into it and she's actually just behaving out of fear or deep rooted trauma

[gremlingottoosilly]

The only thing you want to do is... [Price x fem!Reader]

Price broke his hand on the last mission. Fortunately for him, his caretaker is just as adorable as she is eager to help him in every way.

CW and tags: Legal age gap, power imbalance, daddy kink, pervert!Price, obsessive!Price, coercion into sex, handjob (m!receiving)

Word count: 3246

This work on AO3

You’re such a sunshine, it hurts. 

John Price never considered himself to be a good man. He did what he had to do to protect his country, to ensure that big bad terrorists are kept at bay, and foreign militaries are ending up where they belong – somewhere in the ditch, with reports stating KIA an anonymous bullet drugged out of their skulls. 

His job was just that – a job, something that had to be done because he knew that someone else, someone worse, would gladly take his place in case of retirement. The captain can be considered a fucking angel compared to some people he is working with – no one would ever dare call him evil when people like Graves still exist out there, hunting for innocents. 

But you’re so fucking sweet to him, he simply can’t handle it. 

When his arm got injured, and he was forced to get on leave for at least a month – he tried to argue for something less, but Lasswell silently pointed out that he hadn’t had a break in the past five years, and she would kick him out of his own Task Force if he’d continue to refuse – he got assigned a caretaker by Kate recommendation. 

John was fully expecting some old lady, probably a retired officer or field medic. Maybe some burly man with too much time on his hands and the ability to give really nice massages under flights of bullets. Perhaps, worst case scenario, he would be assigned an actual; nurse that wouldn’t buy any of his shit – that amount of whiskey he drinks is prescribed by his therapist, smoking cigars in the apartment is a nice form of relaxation, and he actually doesn’t need help and can go in service back again less than in two weeks. 

But, the Captain got wee ol’ you, all nice and warm, and adorable, and too fucking young to have anything to do with his apartment. 

You’re nice, warm, fresh out of college, where you got some recommendations about rehabilitating veterans back into normal lives. Probably was writing a Thesis about something as dumb as “Healing PTSD through flower crowns and little touches”. You chirp your way into his heart and refuse to go out – just like Kate promised to him, you really didn’t allow him to do anything on his own. 

God, it was infuriating – how much he wanted to simply grab your shoulders and kiss you. Or kick you out and find someone else to take care of him, someone boring, someone of appropriate age. Without dumb, bright eyes and cute smiles, without enthusiasm, that can only be seen in unpaid interns and college graduates who still believe that the world is fair and nice. 

You cook his dinners and clean up his apartment – as small as it is, never having a family or any other reason to make it even slightly bigger – and you do this with such a wide smile on your face it actually makes Price question basically everything he knows about young ladies doing charity work. You must be paid triple because you fold his underwear in neat little cubes and refuse to accept his help. Always chirped something about his hand like he can’t kill a man with his teeth only. 

— I can fold my own pants, love. 

He presses his body against the doorframe of the small bathroom – looks at your ass so shamelessly bent over the washing machine. You’re folding his dried clothes, and he can only pray that you aren’t slowly resenting him for being such a disgusting old man. He knew he looked good for his age, 37 years in this world molded him into something that many young women would consider hot – even though his beard is unkept and his hair grew a bit longer since he couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it, and his dominant hand is broken. 

— We don’t want to sprain your hand even more, right? — Everythin’ is alright with my bloody hand…

— Lady Lasswell said I shouldn’t listen to you like this, sir. Sorry. 

— Little minx. 

— Me or Lady Lasswell? 

John looks at you, so eager and cheerful, and he just wants to…he can’t, of course, he stops himself before he even forms the thought because it’s dirty and you don’t deserve this, and your shy smile as you laugh softly and push the last of the laundry in the neat pile on the washing machine. 

You look too eager to please, and he has an idea – the one he will never act upon. Maybe will entertain himself later, stroking himself in some abandoned base deep in the snowy tundra, trying to remember your warmth as if a sinner like him can even comprehend your light. 

God, you got him so bad, he starts thinking about good ol’ Jesus again. You really are a side to behold, aren’t ya. 

He looks at you again – you’re so easy to please. You cook for him, the smell of home cooking that he almost forgot, all the ingredients you invited yourself to buy when he left his card for you. You didn’t think it was weird, not a single mischievous bone in your body – if anything, he was casually prompting you to go and buy yourself something nice, something as compensation for all the trouble you endured for him. 

Instead, you went out of your way to cook for him, to make him tea like he wanted it – without sugar, but with a small amount of milk poured into a cup that is probably the most expensive thing in this whole place except for his weapons. 

The problem is – John Price doesn’t really like it when people are taking care of him. Not because he is shy or insecure, god forbid, but because he knows that if a pretty young thing like you is going to show him kindness, he will take a fucking mile and make you run from him as fast as you can. He has desires, he has needs, something that pretty good girls like you should know nothing about. 

You’re so eager to please that you’ll probably jerk him off if he were to whine about his arm being broken and his inability to get himself off because of it. Which, in turn, gives him an…idea. 

Price was never a good person – he isn’t the worst guy either. He sees your reactions, that adorable heat of your face when he brushes his knuckles over your cheek in an affectionate manner. How you are biting your lips every time you have to fold his underwear, when you cook for him, and he presses his body against yours, rocking his hips just gently enough to not make his arousal obvious. John knows you like him in more ways than just one – he doubts that such a lovegirl like you would ever agree to take care of a grumpy military man like him. 

He wonders where your father is – probably out of the picture if his precious daughter is almost crying from a desire to please a guy like him. He wonders if you have a boyfriend or if you’re seeing someone else – if you’re a virgin or you already had a series of disappointing sessions with blokes that have no idea how to behave with an angel like you. 

Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be taking care of a SAS captain – did your superiors forget to tell you just how girl-hungry men like him are? That he didn’t even bother to find a wife, and the loneliness of a single life will make him fucking explode if a girl as pretty as you were in the vicinity of that perverted old dog. You must be stupid – or so insanely naive, it’s not even funny. 

He licks his lips, staring at you again. He is certainly isn’t a good guy – not the worst either, but it’s up for debate. He wants to hold you close and say all of those pretty good things he knows you want to hear. He also wants to push you as close to him as possible and just fuck that pretty girl until you’re begging for him to make you his wife. He’d always laugh at the thought of other military commanders and higher rank soldiers having sugar babies – especially the mercs and their fucking inability to keep a girl who isn’t tied to their paychecks. But now…he might just pay for your adorable pout and eagerness. 

Might make a call to that one masked arsehole and ask how the hell he keeps his questionably young wife around without breaking her legs. Visibly, at least. 

— Sir? Planet calls for Captain Price. 

You giggle when you are waving your hand around him. Shit – looks like he zoned out for a hot minute, leaving you free to stare at his face, the fantom red spreading across his skin as if he is actually embarrassed to be caught like this. He isn’t, of course, he is stronger than some girl trying to get a rise out of him. He thinks he is stronger, at least. 

You wave your hand in front of his face again, and the insects are kicking in – captain grabs your hand, not even caring that his supposed helplessness stems from the fact his dominant hand is still broken. He has no problems keeping you in place with just his left hand – and you almost look scared when you understand that you literally can’t move. 

Your innocent smile turns into a pathetic whimper when he squeezes you even more. Bruises, no doubt, are starting to form already – well, it should be your fault. Good girls are usually smarter than teasing an old dog like him, even if you’re trying to play innocence. He knows what you are. 

His future special girl that is. A wife, if he plays his cards right…and the captain was always good at poker. 

— Shite, love. Sorry. 

His smile mirrors yours – an innocent display like he didn’t almost break your wrist in his hold. He is still squeezing your hand, but not he slowly presses his lips against your knuckles – thin, dry lips gently caressing your skin in a gesture that you should never accept from a guy who kills people as a job. Who saves people, too – but a good guy with a gun is barely an upgrade from a bad one. 

He kisses your fingers and finds heaven in the feeling of your soft skin against his lips. You are certainly embarrassed, and this is exactly what he wants – an old pervert trying to get in the pants of a cute girl who just wants to take care of him without any strings attached. He just has to make this whale thing complicated, isn’t he? 

— It’s okay, sir. Just thought I lost you for a second. 

— Not a chance. 

Your smile looks a tad bit mischievous – that is, or he is simply hallucinating from painkillers he is forced to drink every morning because you refuse to let him feel pain even though he is used to it. You are acting like he is a soft doll made out of pink ribbons and soft plushes, not a seasoned soldier with his own thoughts and ideas about what he can do about your desire to please him. He might just use your eagerness – his cock has been pitching for too long without female attention, and he usually doesn’t indulge in shitty one-night stands in some sketchy pubs, but he can make an exception for now. For you. 

You smile awkwardly, still trying to get your hand out of his grasp. Little minx, teasing him like he can’t just push you on this exact washing machine and fuck you like a slut you are. Poor girl, you probably don’t even know what kind of thoughts he has in his head – even though your eyes tell him something your lips cannot articulate. 

John acts on his instincts, and they usually don’t deceive him. 

— If you want to help so badly, I can think of another way. 

— Is that so, sir? You’re going to get him in so much shit with Lasswell, he doesn’t even know how he is going to get out of it after fucking her best little protege. Would have to marry you – like it’s not his end goal, like he doesn’t want to make your care for him a tad bit more permanent. He has done so many good things for humanity, why can’t he be a bit selfish and get himself a little something to make this place feel more like home? 

He thinks of a pretty thing like you, heavy with his kids, cooking something nice and hearty in his house – not this crappy apartment, of course, he’d buy you something in the countryside, away from terrorists and public squares, with good schools and greenery all around. 

You lick your lips and tilt your head to the side. He is daydreaming again. 

— If you want to make me relax so badly, love, there is something I need help with…

Beating around the bush like this isn’t in his character – but he knows that you’re a good girl, maybe way too good and proper. He can’t just shove his dick in your hand, it would be too unpolite. 

He has to prepare you, it’s a slow sniper mission where he needs to approach you as gently and quietly as possible – he still holds your hand in his, a phantom of his lips tucked away on the softness of your skin. 

Then he places his hand on his growing erection – as awkwardly as he can operate with only using his left arm as a helper. 

Price might not be the master of espionage, but he also didn’t get his rank for not being able to do cover missions under pressuring circumstances and lie in the faces of people who trust him. Not be the best person, of course, but he gives you a choice. You have all the power now – even with his weapons safely stashed in his bedroom, he knows he won’t ever try to force you. He won’t have to. 

— Help your captain, eh? 

You’re embarrassed, shy, scared even – your hands are trembling, fingers tracing the outline of his cock with morbid curiosity he never thought he’d find this adorable. You don’t stop and don’t try to fight him – like a little animal, nervous and terrified somewhat, you’re slowly indulging yourself in something that you actually shouldn’t. 

He lets go of your hand and allows you to continue on your own – like a good girl, you only nod and slowly duck your palm in his boxers. He’d say that the way he is rock-solid just from looking at your ass and pouting on your face is weak, but he can afford to be a bit pathetic after so many weeks without the ability to jerk off. With your watchful gaze, he just couldn’t find it in his heart – or the only remaining working hand – to do something to help with his raging crush on this adorable social worker who comes to help him. 

John is many things – a war hero, war criminal, the captain, and the butcher of many who may deem his actions irredeemable. He made peace with not being the poster good guy and often dirtying his hands just to keep the world clean – and he knows that, in the end, he deserves a pretty young thing to jerk him off while he kisses your hairline and whispers sweet nothing with that beautiful accent of his. 

— This is not very… appropriate, sir.

— Bullocks, love. You’re helpin’, that’s why you’re here. 

 You’re nervous when your hand, squeezing his shaft firmly, goes up and down on his cock. You’re trying to find the rhythm in his quiet grunts and little moans, not having too much experience with pleasuring men who you like this much. It’s fear of disappointing him that makes you go wild, that approving gaze of his every time you press your soft fingers against the head of his cock and squeeze a little. 

He is throbbing in your palm, pre-cum leaking on the small of your fingers – naturally, you lick it as slowly as possible, not breaking the eye contact. 

Price moans. 

— Bloody hell, luv…so good for daddy. 

The name makes your ears burn, the desire growing in your stomach – you fight the urge to drop on your knees and take him fully in your mouth. This isn’t what he wants, you think, so you just continue to squeeze him more, making sure he is satisfied with every little movement your hand makes. You lick your lips and continue, feeble attempts at containing the rhythm with shaky fingers. 

— I just wanted to help you with your life, not…this. 

He chuckles, unharmed hand presses on the small of your back to fix you in place. You lick your lips, understanding that he is not going to let you go this easily – you don’t want to behave like this, of course, it’s against the terms of your contract and your agreement to help him without feelings attached, but he moans so deeply for you, hips are buckling to fuck the firmness of your hand like he is ready to use your moist, prepared pussy. 

God, what are you even thinking about? 

You don’t know if you should be doing this, but the captain is not letting you go – and you can’t even do anything against his wishes, can you? 

— We really shouldn’t be doing this. 

— Quiet. I’ll help you out after my hand is healed, eh? — This isn’t what I’m talking about, sir. 

— Now, let’s not use that here. I’m sir in the field, not here. 

He is manipulating you as hard as he can – he can feel the tension in your eyes and the way you’re squeezing his cock, and he wants nothing more but to simply push you harder, make you fall apart in his hold like a precious porcelain vase. You’re sensitive and shy, just perfect for a bastard like him – his only regret is that the dumb cast on his right hand won’t really allow him to relax to have sex with you properly. 

He will pay you back later – on your back, on your knees, on your tummy, moaning his name as he plunges his seed deep into you. It was about time he’d settle down with a pretty wife of his own – he can afford you, certainly. 

— I can’t call you daddy, it’s embarrassing…

Your shy words are what send him over the edge. John Price was never a good guy to begin with, but your little pleas are enough to make him cum – and it’s certainly one of the biggest sins he has ever committed. Cute girl like you shouldn’t be so embarrassed about jerking him off, but here you are. 

Your hands are covered in cum as he continues to release his seed, only sad because he wasn’t able to breed you properly – that’s the agenda for the time when he finally is freed from this dumb cast. Might just ask Lasswell for extended leave. 

— You’ll just have to get used to this, love. Not letting you go after this. 

You can only whimper when he kisses you – possessive and tender at the same time. A silent promise of making you his dumb little wife. 

[bahablastplz]

SKZ as types of doms

Pairings: OT8 x Reader CW: Straight up smut, degredation, use of ‘slut’, p in v sex, etc.

Bang Chan - Daddy/Sadist

I know everybody sees Chan as a daddy dom and I genuinely agree with this 

He would genuinely get off on your neediness and how bad you want him, and he would really feed off of being in control

He would be a sadist in the sense that he loves getting you overly worked up, drinking up all of your moans and whines for him 

He loves watching you have tears in your eyes, begging for him on the verge of your orgasms

He would be so cocky about it too 

“Hmm? Tell me what you want, baby. Go ahead, use your words.”

“Daddy please,” you cry out for him. “Need you so bad. Please–” “You want to cum on my cock, baby?” He coos at you, teasing your clit with his thumb. You’re pliant for him, worked up from hours of teasing and edging. “Look at my girl, so needy and desperate.” You cry out for him as he finally gives you what you’d been asking for, delivering with a mixture of praise and degradation. 

“Feel so good… fuck, such a needy slut for me. Go on, tell me who’s making you feel this good, then maybe I’ll let you cum, yeah?”

He would also be *so* into the aftercare part of things. He’s such a natural caretaker, it’s in his bones. 

He would give you so much praise and reassurance after, as well as cuddles. He would be SO into skinship, especially if he was rough with you. 

“You’re mine. You know that, right? I love you so much.” 

Lee Know - Brat tamer  

One thing about your relationship with Lee Know is that you really like pushing the limits with him, seeing how far you can go or how much you can push him until he reaches his limits 

It provides a thrill for both of you, like a cat and mouse game. 

He really likes having the control over you, both of you knowing that when you go too far, he will be the one to put you back in your place 

When he tries to give you a warning, it’s through a sharp glare, silent exchanges, or a small smirk or shake of his head 

If you continue to act up, he says things like, “You’re playing with fire,” or “You know what you’re getting yourself into.” Sometimes he says it with a strong grip on your thigh, eyes staring straight ahead and lips pursed together so you don’t know how much it’s bothering him. 

“I gave you three chances, doll, and you still decided to act up. You know the rules, but you just had to go and act like a needy slut, didn’t you?” He spits his words with a tight grip in your hair, right at your scalp with eyes that bore into yours, giving you no room to run from his punishment. “On the bed, now. Ass up. You’re going to take what I give you. Are we clear?” 

Loves punishing you just as much as you love to be punished 

His favorite thing would be spanking you, with his bare hands or with a paddle, having you count them out for him. He’s just happy he gets a view of your ass, and when he’s done with you it’s pretty shades of red and purple, and he smirks because *he did that to you*

Changbin - Pleasure dom (Soft dom) 

Changbin would be the type of dom who wouldn’t ever be able to really follow through with his threats. 

He sort of just expects you to be good for him and follow his rules and you do. 

“Fuck, you’ve been teasing me all day, baby,” he says with a grunt. “So bad. I should, fuck… I should really punish you.” His words hold no force behind it, and you can tell by the way that his lips are already on your neck or the way that his hands dig into your hips that he’s just as needy as you are. 

“Gonna make you feel so good… Gonna split you open on my cock, babe.” 

The most he does in terms of punishment is heavily overstimulates you, but it’s because he literally thrives off of seeing you come apart for him. He LOVES giving more than receiving, which means he’ll have you come apart for him several times… on his tongue, his thighs, his abs, his fingers… far before he even thinks about fucking you into oblivion 

He loves it when your brain turns to mush and you’re babbling, spewing nonsense about how he just makes you feel so good and you’re all his 

He loves teasing you and making you use your words while he’s cock-deep inside of you, stilling until he gets what he wants out of you. The more vocal you are, the more you get rewarded and he watches you fall apart 

He will always hold out his orgasm for yours, fucking you through it for as long as you need… And usually the sight of you cumming all over his cock does it for him. 

Hyunjin - Rope top 

Hyunjin almost sees having sex with you as a form of art in and of itself 

He would totally be into different rope arts and accessories, loving the way that they look on your skin 

He would spend so much time just getting you ready for the act and be so gentle about it, the way his fingers trace across your skin as he secures the rope and ties the knots, giving it a gentle tug and analyzing it to make sure it’s to both of your likings 

You would be so worked up before you even started doing anything 

His favorite part about restricting you is that you are utterly helpless, forced to take what he has to give 

He would be *so* attentive, he would know your body and just what buttons to hit more than you know 

“You’re doing so good for me, love. You look so pretty all tied up for me,” he says. His fingers glide over your skin, rubbing against your nipples in circles and watching your face contort in pleasure as he gives them a slight tug. You arch your back as far as the restraints allow, and he smiles at how you get so breathless and needy for him. 

He would talk and coax you through your orgasms, so sickly sweet and stroking your thighs or your arms as you shake around him 

He knows your limits better than you do and he gives you *just* what you can take each time. 

“There you go. Look at you. You did such a great job taking it. Come on baby, you can do another. Just one more.” 

Han - Pleasure dom 

Han would get so so turned on by any noises you make 

Like, he would beg to eat you out and this man would be able to spend hours between your thighs, and he would be so desperate for it too 

“Please, baby, let me taste your pretty pussy, please. Squeeze your thighs around my head, just like that, yeah…” 

He will ask you to sit on his face and if you actually let him, this man is a goner 

You know he’s really enjoying it by the sounds *he* makes when you finally let go and put your full pressure onto him, grinding onto his face and using him like a toy… 

If you look you would see he’s bucking his hips up into the air, so happy that he’s the one that’s making you feel like this. He will totally make you cum at least four times until you’re sensitive and overstimulated 

“You can do one more, can’t you? Yeah, you can… You’re so good for me, so pretty for me, baby. Let me make you cum on my cock just once, please. I promise it’ll feel good.” 

His hands would be all over your body, knowing exactly which spots bring the breathiest moans out of you. As he fucks into you hard and desperate with reckless abandon, he’s somehow still working you up and turning your pain into pleasure

Felix - Soft dom 

Felix would be a soft dom in the sense that he loves teasing you, getting you absolutely flustered

“You want me to touch you?” He asks, mocking innocence. “But I am touching you. Or are you wanting more? Go on, use your words.” 

He would go insane on the praise with you, loving your little moans and vocalizations and he would just have to let you know 

“You sound so pretty for me. You can be loud, tell me, am I making you feel good?” 

This man loves it when you ride him, bouncing on his cock desperately as your hands run through his hair and on his chest, but he loves the intimacy of it because he can see your face and see how good you’re feeling… and so that he can get a good grip on your tits, running his fingers softly over your nipples to provide that extra stimulation, watching as your movements start to get sporadic 

“Shit, you’re doing such a good job riding me, baby. Making me feel so good. You getting tired? Here, let me help. Shhhh jagiya, I got you.” 

He would snap his hips up into you and the sounds would just be lewd, the sound of wet skin on skin and your moans and his soft pants 

Like this, his hands underneath your thighs and you hoisted up, you can’t move so you’re just forced to take what he has to give

He’s so attuned to your body that you don’t have to warn him when you’re close, he can tell by the way you’re squeezing him and your breathing hitches, so he just coaxes you right through it 

“You got it, there you go, fuck, clenching around me so good. You were made to take me. You did such a good job angel. I’m so close, you can take it. You’re being so good for me.” 

Seungmin - Service/Reaction-seeking sadist 

Once Seungmin finds that you’re into pain, it’s over for you 

I think he would start out with a hand around your throat, lightly, barely squeezing, but seeing the way that you react to this brings out a different beast in him 

This man would love seeing you cry for him 

Anything he can do to get a reaction out of you is what he gets off on, and even more so if you try to act like what he’s doing isn’t affecting you; he likes to play with you and whine you up until you snap, needy, desperate and crying for him 

“You like it when I choke you? No? Then why are you smiling, jagiya? Should I squeeze tighter, just to see?” 

This man would *love* edging you. You’re on the brink of an orgasm and still trying to act like he’s not affecting you? Watch him rip that away from you. He’ll do it again and again until you’re writhing and begging for him, tears streaming down your face. You both love it though, it’s just a game to see how long it takes to get you to break. 

“Are you done pretending? If you could stop being such a brat and just beg for it like the needy slut you are, you’ll get what you want,” he coos. And you do, pent up after being denied an orgasm for the fifth or sixth time? You’ve lost track. And he’s mean and slow with it too, teasing your entrance with his tip and watching you try to buck your hips into him, desperate for friction. When he finally sinks into you he wipes your tears away once, waiting for you to look into his eyes with your watery ones before he fucks you deep and hard like you crave. 

I.N. - Primal/Sadist 

Innie would be so desperate for you that he almost doesn’t realize at first just how rough he can be 

We’re talking biting, scratching…   

He would fuck you from behind with a hand wound tightly in your hair, pulling you up against him. All sorts of noises would come out of his mouth that sound like grunts and low moans. A hand grabs tightly at your hip, fingernails slightly embedded in your skin as he ruts himself into you hard, over and over. Hips smack against hips and skin smacks against skin. 

He loves marking you. Something about seeing you covered in hickeys and bruises that he perfectly created on your skin drives him crazy. 

“So pretty f’me,” he says as he sucks a particularly dark bruise into your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Love seeing you like this, letting everybody know that you’re all mine.” 

If you cry for him in pleasure he gets off on that–his brain literally short circuits. Especially if you tell him how good he’s making you feel. 

He’s making you feel so good that you’re crying? He can’t even comprehend but he knows he wants to do it again. 

“Fuck, fuck…” he says. “You feel so good.” His hips smack into yours hard and he’s chasing his own pleasure, not caring about silencing his noises. If your higher-pitched moans get mixed in with his it drives him nuts, and he would do anything to get you to keep making those pretty sounds for him. As he’s about to cum he bites into your shoulder, not hard but enough to leave a mark, and when you moan from underneath him that’s all it takes for him to come undone. 

Masterlist Recs

[diejager]

The writing where reader died, what happens if they were revived as a wraith like Ghost? There's probs going to have a lot of fluff and a small angst here and there. But I mostly wanna read your writings!! It's cus' I can't get enough, and kept rereading it all the time

Cw: pain, death, turning, cannibalism, implied torture, implied blood and gore, angst, fluff, hunger, tell me if I missed any. We’re going to forget how you previously died, cuz @bluegiragi gave us more info about wraiths and I just love where the comic is going.

What a cruel joke, irony hitting him in the face the same way his abrupt shift hurt him, an apathetic slap to the face that left him bloody and in shock the way he left Roba on his dying breath. Simon didn’t know what was crueler, the knowledge that you were tortured and buried alive, left to die alone for the sins of his own making and the wrath of another, or that you were left to die a slow and excruciating death after being beaten half to death, expected to lose your resolve solely on the fact that you were a medic, and turned into the monster he was.

Neither your captor nor death had been merciful, much less the reaper, a collector of wandering souls and lost ghosts, waiting their turn to cross the river with a small token for the afterlife. Be it Hermes, the messenger and the carrier of souls, Thanatos the reaper and collector, Anubis - or Inpu, however people called him - the guide, Ankou the shadow, Sgàthach the warrior, or Freyja and Fólkvangr; you weren’t granted the soft embrace of a calm death, but the cruel rejection of it, forced back into life and abandoned by sweet sleep.

He remembered his own, the painful pull of his back, the crazed smoke that filled his mind with a thirst for blood and revenge, the crack and ugly break of his bode, reshaping his body and organs dyed dark, dying and pained. He remembered well the pain of it like it was yesterday, having to crawl out of the shallow grave on his own and discover the carnage he left behind, stained in his and Price’s blood. He was reborn.

And so were you, crying and sobbing, your skin scarred beyond thinking and mind in shambles of broken faith and abandoned affection. He knew first hand how it felt, the burn and agony of it, the hunger and ache that plagued you like an undying pestilence, darker than the one that ripped through Europe in the fourteenth century and more devastating than the Justinian’s. He’d been too late, too slow to help you through the first ripple of shock and fear once you’d quenched your thirst, staunching it like you would a wound. He let you fester in your sorrow and hunger, left you without a guide or caretaker until you ravaged the area, leaving only blood and rubble in your devastation. 

But he’s here now, picking you up from the mess you found yourself in, a storm of smoke and thick black that you hid yourself in, to hide the monster you had become. He might not be proud of who he’s become - much like you - but he grew into it, lived his life as one, and he would be here to help you through the process of it. Where he wished he had a helping hand, you would have his. He would help you with your hunger, the famine that grew the more you left it alone, filling your being with bodies he’d gather up for you to absorb. He would teach you how to control the smoke - the sinews of your being, the consistence of it forming your figure - and build from it, stopping yourself from phasing to and from it, staying as a physical manifestation of it rather than darkness itself. 

Where he felt lost and confused, alone and wishing for a swift end, you wouldn’t, he made sure to stay, to be the pillar of support for you whenever you crashed, his body covering yours to stop you from vanishing in a fit of tears. Where he spent time hating himself, demeaning the cannibalism he became, you wouldn’t, he’d rather send himself to hell than let you think you were the lowest of the low, a human eating another. And where he was cruel to himself when death had renounced him, you wouldn’t, he’d whisper the sweetest words, praises, compliments, affection and guidance, he would make sure you wouldn’t drown alone like he did years ago. He loved you too much to let that happen.

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[jordanstrophe]

CW: Kidnapped, restrained, gasoline, threat of immolating, ransom

The scent of gasoline was overwhelming.

"You don't- You don't have to do th-this," Whumpee choked. They were forced to their knees, hands bound to a latch on the floor. Their heart pounded, not able to see what whumper was doing behind them.

"Now now, let's not be that way." Whumper poured liquid over whumpee's head as they practically shouted as the cold ran down their spine. They had to hold their breath as the smell of gas and oil was suffocating.

"I know you don't deserve this." Whumper said, pouring out the last drop. "But if your caretaker brings me what I've asked for, you'll be just fine. You'll go free, and after a shower and change of clothes, this will alllll be over." They carelessly tossed the can to the side as whumpee flinched at the noise.

"All of th- this.... F-fo-for wh- a -at" Whumpee choked out their own words.

"Hey hey hey, don't pass out on me. Shhhh, deep breaths. I want you awake when caretaker comes. It helps with the persuasion, especially if you're crying and all." They pinched at a strand of whumpee's hair and felt gasoline seep between their fingers.

They sat next to them and cupped their jaw, making them face the door. Whumpee's heart nearly stopped beating when they heard a gentle *flick* of a lighter being ignited overhead.

"They'll be here any second now." Whumper whispered in their ear.

"Let's hope for your sake that's the case, anyway."

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May

@themerrywhumpofmay

May 12th- "Time flies when you're having fun."

[Thumbtack | Panic attack | Ballroom]

***

(tw: caretaker turned whumpee, lady whump, panic attack, creepy whumper, forced to dance)

Caretaker watched quietly as Whumper spun Whumpee in a circle. Chandelier light fell across Whumpee’s face, throwing glittering gold across their teeth and hair. 

Caretaker sat in the corner of the ballroom, gripping her glass with a white-knuckle grip. Shadows hid the hatred written in every line of her face. It was inscribed into her stiff posture and clenched jaw. She dared not intervene, but it looks could kill, Whumper would be a corpse.

Whumper did as Whumper pleased, and that was that.

Whumper pulled Whumpee close, whispering something into their ear.

Whumpee paled, looking like they might be suddenly sick all over Whumper’s suit. They managed a nod and Whumper smiled.

Caretaker barely resisted the urge to smash her glass against the table. What a shitshow this was. She didn't want to watch this.

The music, grand and achingly deep, echoed across the room. More couples joined Whumper and Whumpee and laughter melded in clear tones with the orchestra. 

Caretaker stayed in the shadows, watching. 

Spinning clothes and gloved hands and glinting gold all washed by her in a single blur. Caretaker pressed her hands into her eyes, trying to stop the burning. 

Scarlet burning. A burning that reached past her eyes and could not be stopped. 

She had told Whumpee to run. She had told them not to trust Whumper. Did they listen? Did the idiot listen?

No. No they did not.

The burning reached into her mind, digging into her skull with knives for hands. It became a voice, cutting deeper than the knives.

Pounding, digging, clawing. 

A dozen different voices. 

You messed this up. You could have saved them. But you didn't.

Caretaker was having trouble breathing. She was breathing too fast and too hard to be able to think. 

Coward.

Why was the music so loud? It reached a fever-pitch and Caretaker clamped sweaty hands over her ears, trying to block the noise.

Stop, stop, stop–

The weight of a thousand wrongs crushed her, hanging on her shoulders and smiling as they choked her.

Her pointed earrings dug into the palms of her hands and she pushed on them harder.

Couldn’t breathe. 

Caretaker couldn’t block out the music and she couldn’t block out the voices and still behind her eyes, Whumper and Whumpee were dancing. 

Spinning, whirling, laughing. 

You failure. 

Whumpee would have told her to take deep breaths. Well, Whumpee wasn’t there. Whumpee was dancing across that polished floor. Leather jacket against smooth stone and laughing without showing any teeth. Terrified out of their fucking mind.

Caretaker did not take deep breaths. 

What she needed, desperately, was a cigarette. Right now. Fight fire with fire. She would burn away the scarlet pain with bright ash and dark smoke. But she would never be able to burn away the image of Whumpee trying not to cry as Whumper danced with them.

Never. 

Breathing came easier at the thought of a cigarette. In a moment she would stand up and the world wouldn’t spin and the voices would shut up. In a moment– 

“Caretaker?” Whumper’s voice sounded like it came from the end of a long tunnel. “Are you alright?” 

Caretaker lifted her hands from her ears, carefully wiping the sweat off on her pants. She glanced at Whumpee on Whumper’s arms.

They made a point of staring at the ground. But they couldn't completely hide the bruises under their eyes.

Was that concern or mockery in Whumper’s voice? Caretaker couldn’t tell.  

Whumper followed Caretaker’s gaze and smiled down at Whumpee. "I think we should have one last dance together."

To Caretaker they said, “I’ll be back to continue this conversation. Time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose.”

Caretaker has to bite down on her tongue to keep from answering Whumper’s condensation with biting sarcasm.

Caretaker didn’t wait for the song to end, but stood and left the ballroom with shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes. 

She couldn’t watch this.

[iicheeze]

Genshin SAGAU except Reader is a lore fanatic

cw: lore dump, archon quest spoilers, side quest spoilers, etc

“ guys did u know that the Sea Ganoderma is actually souls of children who died young trapped and is forced to spend generations absorbing elements from the sand and sea as the form of punishment?? ” “ what the fuck your grace. ” Tighnari muttered.

“yelan, i know where u got ur jacket. ” “ o- oh, really, Your Grace? ” Yelan stuttered, sweat dropping. “ Yeah, i know u stole it from a Fatui Harbinger that was supposed to be a gift for the Tsaritsa and made some 'adjustments' to make it fit your style. ” you stated with a smirk, while yelan tries to hold in her cries because you rlly are a Divine Being, knowing everything about Teyvat.

Archon quest spoilers down ahead

“ Guys, I have a theory that the upside down Statue of the Seven and city the Traveler and Paimon saw are actually the correct way and that proves it because when I took a walk at Spiral Abyss when I went down I expected it to be pitch black but instead I'm met with the galaxy sky and a moon and possibly, Khaenri 'ah and Enkanomiya are the ones that are actually in the surface, while Teyvat is underground and yknow what? Scaramouche is RIGHT. The stars are fake the sky is fake everything is fake as we know of HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ” your maniacal laughter echoed through the Akademiya as many Researchers are baffled by this amount of information

“ Alhaitham, do you have a second? ” “ Of course, Your grace. What is it? ” “ Are you the Scarlet King ” “ ........ excuse me ”

“ WELL i noticed that the color of your eyes matches the Scarlet King's eyes, and your boots matches the color of the buildings of the Scarlet King's Civilization. A blue gem appeared when the Scarlet King sacrificed himself and it kinda looked like the gems at your back. And when you do your burst it looks REALLY similar to the Primal Constructs’ attacks, and the Primal Constructs are what's left of the Scarlet King's civilization. And at your chest it looks like it has the wings of an eagle, and your name literally means young eagle. What does this have to do with the Scarlet King? Well, at the Dunes I've ventured, I've seen murals and a figure with a bird head and it could possibly be the Scarlet King but it strangely reminded me of you!!! Plus, you know how to use the devices made by the Scarlet King, whereas the books and researchers at the Akademiya shows no information on how to properly use them. Pretty suspicious...... ”

and then theres alhaitham sweating his balls off on how the hell did you get that information.

“ guys, did you know that when Enkanomiya was plunged deep into the ocean, they created a fake sun called Helios to survive, right??? But actually, the nobles wanted more power. They wanted a puppet or ruler that they could easily control or manipulate. And WHO WOULD MAKE A GOOD CANDIDATE??? THAT'S RIGHT! A CHILD. AND THUS, BEGIN THE REIGN OF THE SUNCHILDREN. They were young and ignorant, obviously easy to be deceived and lied to. They were manipulated to commit heinous deeds. The first Sunchild was deceived to imprisoning his role model for life, aka isolated from everyone. The sunchildren were DESPISED by their own people, EVEN THE CARETAKERS ARENT ALLOWED TO SPEAK TO THEM. Knowing that the Sunchildren could realize that they were being manipulated, the nobles then introduced Rite of Solar Return. Now what the hell is a Rite of Solar Return??? Basically, when a Sunchild hits a certain age, they will be taken into the inner sanctum of Helios. The artificial Sun's high temperature could AND WOULD incinerate them alive!!!!! AND SOMEHOW, SOME HAVE SIMILARITIES WITH OUR CURRENT ARCHONS!!! Orupeusu had a talent for the lyre, aka the Anemo Archon. Risutaiosu made lifelike sculptures, like the Electro Archon. And Isumenasu would roam his country, AND EVEN HAD A SPEAR LIKE THE GEO ARCHON AT HIS GRAVE!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA I AM A GENIUS ”

the fact that people would still listen to your rants about Teyvat but still be concerned about your mental health is hilarious

if you werent the Divine Being of All, they would've locked you up where no one can find you, you know

Dottore would like you tho

so that's good

[yaksha-lover]

cw: yandere, stalking, imprisonment

Malleus is locked in the castle - a mild territory dispute nearby, but his grandmother insisted he stay inside for the duration - when he sees you for the first time.

When you’ve spent as long as he has staring out the tall stained glass windows of his chambers, you learn to recognize the faces which roam your garden.

You are new.

He doesn’t think too much about you at first. Your novelty is the only thing that stands out to him; he doesn’t even think to ask Lilia where you’ve come from. Surely, you will be gone soon enough and his inquiry will have been pointless. Time proves him wrong.

Over the next few days, Malleus finds time between his magic and history lessons to watch you wander across the greenery. Perhaps you wouldn’t put in it such terms, you are working after all, but the fae can’t help but see it in that light.

He’s jealous, in a way. Perhaps that’s why you’ve captured his attention. He’s the one with wings, and yet, you are more free than he will ever be.

His grandmother- all his ancestors would surely scoff if they knew the heir to the Draconia kingdom was jealous of a human gardener.

That’s another thing he’s noticed from watching you. You’re human.

If your features weren’t enough to give it away, he’d also overheard Sebek complaining to Lilia about having more humans around the castle. His guardian had replied something about this being the exact reason he’d hired you, and then Lilia walked too far away for Malleus to hear any more of his explanation.

Even once he’s allowed to travel beyond the stifling stone walls of the castle, Malleus chooses not to approach you. It’s become part of his daily routine to watch you go about your caretaking of the bushes and the flowers; he would loathe to disrupt your genuine behaviour by making it known someone was watching you.

His eyes search for you as soon as he peers out his window. It’s second nature, an unconscious habit that’s begun to take hold in him.

As he watches you tend to the roses, Malleus can’t help but wonder how you would look dressed in an expensive silk of the same dashing red instead of your usual brown corduroy uniform. He’s sure you’ve never even dreamed of wearing fabric so expensive.

He thinks it would suit you. You might not have the look of the typical nobles he interacts with, but he certainly believes you have your own charm.

That’s another reason he’s become…interested in you. You’re so far removed from his own world, from any of them who sing his praises or whisper worries behind his back.

Of course you must know of him, but Malleus doesn’t know what you think of him. That, in of itself, is tantalizing and terrifying.

Malleus watches you until the sun sets upon the grounds and you’re forced to retire to your lodging at the corner of the property.

He falls asleep wondering what you dream about.

This habit of his goes on longer than it probably should. Although time doesn’t mean much to him, Malleus knows a couple months would be a significant amount of time to a human.

What would you think if you knew the crown prince was watching you day after day? Would you be flattered? Afraid?

Part of him knows it’s not right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to pull himself away from the window.

He feels as though he knows you.

He knows that tulips are your favourite by the way you take your time when trimming the stems, going much slower than he knows you’re capable of just to spend a little longer taking in their smell.

He knows your favourite foods, having watched what you bring for lunch. On the days his grandmother is too busy to dine with him, he prefers to take his food in his chambers, so that he can eat with you.

He knows that you love to read, your breaks spent sat by yourself with a novel instead of with the other staff. He finds himself reading alongside you sometimes, picking up the same book he noticed you had with you. It’s almost as though you’re truly doing it together.

It’s during one of these breaks that Malleus notices someone talking to you, interrupting your reading.

A blond man kneels down beside you, clearly trying to start a conversation with you. You smile politely as you look up at him from your place under the tree, book face-down on your thigh.

You’re too far for even his superior hearing to catch your words.

He doesn’t miss your giggle at the man’s chatter.

Malleus lets go of the document he’s holding. He’s accidentally crushed it in his grip.

-

You and the other staff have been on edge since Edric got fired. It seemed so random - one day, he was managing the grounds and chatting with you about your novel, and the next he was gone.

The crown always had a good reputation as an employer - it was one of the many things that drew you to the castle. There was gossip about Edric after he left, rumours about things he’d done to deserve getting fired. You didn’t want to believe it; he was the only one kind enough to try and befriend you after the others had all but shunned you for being human.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

There was nothing much you could do but continue your work as usual.

A couple days later, one of the castle guards approaches the garden while you’re working. Everyone pauses their tasks with held breath as the man walks past everyone and stops in front of you.

You can feel the stares of your fellow staff burrowing into your back; you’re next and they know it. Despite the fact that they’re probably happy to finally get rid of you, you catch a glimmer of sympathy in some of their eyes.

Silver has been friendly in passing before, but this time his face is serious as he speaks to you: “Please come with me, MC. The crown requests your presence.”

The walk is long and tortuous - you’re no longer afraid of being fired, more like getting struck down by lightning. You trust Silver, but you know his kindness ends where his duty begins.

You’re not taken to the throne room or in front of the queen like you expect.

You’re taken to the chambers of the prince.

Malleus Draconia sits cross-legged at the head of the wooden table in his room. There’s two steaming teacups, one sitting in front of him and the other at the opposite end of the table.

You’ve seen glimpses of him here and there around the kingdom, but this is the first time you’ve been able to take a good look at him. His presence is more intimidating than you’d even imagined, his tall stature and broad shoulders making him seem imposing even if you didn’t know his magical capabilities.

He smiles when he sees you, but his expression looks wrong. It makes something in your gut twist.

You don’t smile back.

“Thank you, Silver,” he says, his tone steady and revealing nothing. “Please, leave us.”

You want to beg him to stay, but he nods at his prince and does as he’s told, shutting the door and trapping you in.

Malleus motions for you to sit at the single empty chair.

“Please,” he says. “I’ve had them brew some tea for us to share.”

“…Thanks.”

“Do you like the centrepiece? I picked it out just for you.”

A glass vase full of fresh cut pink tulips sits in the centre of the table, on top of a dainty, white lace place mat.

“Yes…thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear.” He leans slightly forward across the table. “I want to make you happy, MC.”

“No offence, your majesty-”

“No need to be formal with me, my dear.” He continues to smile. The grin unsettles you further; as though he’s attempting to lull you into a false sense of safety, just waiting to sink his teeth into you.

“Why am I here? Why did you…set all of this up?”

“You’re here because you’re my beloved. I’ve watched you for months, you know.” Your stomach drops. “I wanted to stay away, to leave you be. I know now I was wrong. I should’ve brought you here much, much sooner, my love.”

“Watched? What do you mean? Why-” Your voice rises as you become more panicked.

The thorny vines growing around your wrists and tying you to the chair stop you from standing up.

You never even noticed them begin to bloom.

“Shh, there’s no need to have a tantrum. It’s all okay, MC. I know you will need time, but soon you’ll fall for me, as I have you. We belong together.” He stands from his chair, walking over to your side and placing his hand on your forearm as he kneels beside you.

“Please let me go,” you whisper, wetness pouring down your cheeks, despite how you try to hold in your tears.

His expression darkens as his grip on your wrist tightens to a level of discomfort. “We all have a role to play in the kingdom. It’s treasonous to not play yours.” He tilts up your chin to face him. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to end up like that little friend of yours, would you?”

[sufrimientilia]

whumpy jail thoughts…

obvious cw

Whumpee in jail for a long stint and playing it cool, everything breezy. like this is exactly where they belong

Whumpee framed for a crime or unjustly imprisoned. Caretaker fighting relentlessly to get them out

Forced confessions that are obviously forced. bruises and hollow features, glazed eyes and mechanical words

Whumpee and Caretaker sitting together in a cubicle, separated by glass, voices cracked and hollow between old hand phones

Whumpee fiddling with the metal cord, nervous or embarrassed or traumatized, so shell-shocked by their situation

Whumpee taken off protective custody when they should definitely be on it

“Are you sure everything is okay?” everything is very obviously not okay

new bruises or injuries every time Caretaker visits

After legal efforts Caretaker finally gets visitation. Whumpee getting wheeled in, so beaten by guards and inmates alike they can’t even stand

Whumpee so mercilessly fucked up they can’t even track the conversation, and the guards hold Whumpee’s head up and act like everything is normal as Caretaker cries and pleads behind the glass

Caretaker advocating in vain to do something about Whumpee’s condition. the guards never care

“Prisoner is in infirmary. No visitation.”

“Prisoner denies visitation.” Caretaker never knows if it’s what Whumpee wants or just what the guards say

Caretaker increasingly desperate to see Whumpee. Coming to visit day after day or yelling at the visitation clerk and finally getting kicked out

Whumpee looking so small and frail, hunched over and handcuffed to a silver metal table

Whumpee nothing like their former self, washed out in bright orange or dull beige colors

Whumpee still so intimidating and dangerous shacked from wrists to ankles. Always flanked by guards with rifles, tension so heavy with the very real paranoia he’ll just snap

bruises and abrasions and flakes of red caked around wrists, purple and jagged and ugly

Whumpee in solitude. Alone day after day, stuck with their own thoughts and forced to sit in silence, talk to the walls, stare at nothing but grey and grey and grey. Hearing voices and arguing with themself and spiraling with every thought they didn’t want to confront

Whumpee pacing back and forth until every inch of the cell is memorized and written into their core

Whumpee stuck with a cellmate so vicious, so abrasive, so overwhelming. Not a single moment to himself without violence or discomfort

Guards who are dirty, crooked, corrupt. turning the cameras every time batons are raised or ignoring the violent rackets in the yard and the screams between prison bars late at night

Inmates who run the place, beating Whumpee to make a point, establishing their place as top dog through force and blood and fear

Prison fights, so dirty and rabid. rusty shivs, getting outnumbered, guards who either take too long or tase and beat everyone into submission

Whumpees who can barely eat, barely sleep. Never given the option or just so damn wired up and on edge all the time with damn good reason

Whumpee is always looking forwards to visitation day. anything is a threat to take it away

Forced to be a snitch. threatened by fellow inmates, threatened by the guards, absolutely no one Whumpee can trust

Conversations with Caretaker are heavily monitored. words always loaded and coded, unable to touch and barely able to talk

Visiting Whumpee in the infirmary. Wrists cuffed to the bed, not enough pain relief, obviously neglected

Whumpee shackled to the bed and no one bothering to feed them, food sitting just out of reach

Caretaker promising to get them out of here. Whumpee knows they can't do anything

Whumpee is forced to adapt, be a part of the system. prison only makes them worse and they become even more violent than before

prison riots that put the place on lockdown. Caretaker denied visitation, not being told if Whumpee was involved or is okay

Whumpee getting addicted to whatever drugs get smuggled in. getting forced into doing them or just desperate for an escape or actual pain relief

Caretaker only being able to witness Whumpee's decline in brief increments days or weeks apart. like snapshot after snapshot of worsening abuse they can do nothing about

Whumpees finally getting out and given the same folded clothes they wore when they first got to this place. none of it fits right anymore

[pigeonpeach]

Arlecchino’s Husbandry

Cw: Fem reader, implied nsfw, manipulation, motherhood. Lesbians.

Summary: You were hired to take care of the younger orphans but ended up becoming a mother-figure to them and also winning the heart of their father figure

Edit: i did this without proofread so sorry for any mistakes

To say childcare is easy is a lie. Even in the House of Hearth where their children are disciplined to become the perfect soldiers and agents are they still difficult at times. You were hired as a caretaker. Meant only to help with the domestic side of things, cleaning, laundry, bathing, and emotional stuff. The last part wasn’t in your job description but something you took upon yourself. You may not be a mother yourself, but maternal instincts were triggered when you saw the two twins added into the orphanage. Lynette and Lyney, the youngest currently were such adorable and loving children. It broke your heart to think how they must’ve ended up here. And Lynette especially, her avoidance and clear uncomfortable behaviors around older males painted a unpleasant picture that tugged at your heart strings. All the kids here had tragic stories to tell, but many had stopped crying for their mothers or simply stopped crying at all. You knew you couldn’t spoil them so you decided to take small steps. You read them bedtime stories first. You explained it to your colleagues as helping them learn to read early on so they wouldnt get the wrong idea. You picked pleasant stories. The children were a bit confused at first but they grew to love it. And overtime, you. You became a source of protection in their eyes. If a kid felt bullied by others they ran to you because you would hold them sweetly and whisper assurances. You were still good at disciplining them yes, but you werent as harsh as the others they’d known.

Lynette especially took fondness to you. You didn’t force her to hug or any physical affection, you offered her sweets as rewards and to help her feel more calm. She took a liking to you clearly, as in her free time she and her brother would follow you around asking if you needed help. It became routine that tje children themselves would help your chores when they had free time. They prepared the clotheslines and washed their dishes,they wanted to make your job easy so they’d stay. You were quite proud of this, tje kids clearly adored you. Although you were worried what the Knave would assume or think if she saw how soft you were to them.

But You didn’t know that when she did catch sight of her that her gaze softened. Arlecchino had never craved for love or affection in years, but seeing you sat on a rocking chair with her children gathered around made her infatuated with you. You had such a soft presence, one that could melt ice cold hearts and dry tears. Your softness actually helped the children be more loyal unbeknownst to you. They wanted to make you proud and protect the home you fostered. Her affections however were noticed by the kids. Especially when she heard one referring to you as “mother”. If she was their father and you their mother, then you would be hers wouldn’t you? That idea wasn’t unpleasant but rather addictive. So she decided to become more acquainted with you. She praised you for your efforts and even offered assistance.

For the children they became even more attached, you bought a more fatherly side to their father. They noticed she became less agitated or more calm around you. So they wanted you stay, they wanted you to marry her actually so you could legally be their mother as well. With Arlecchino’s guidance they told flattering tales of their father, how much she seemed to like you. How perfectly you two would be.

Apart of you was hesitant. Arlecchino is a harbinger afterall. And you are only a low lying underling who has no combat skills whatsoever. But the way she raises your palm to her lips to greet you, the way she calls you into her office very often to just spend time with you, how she buys you your favorite teas or coffees, your favorite foods or treats, its started to make you flustered. She’s grown more bold the less resistance you show, she sometimes plays with your hair making you blush, sometimes her nails trace gently over your skin. But her eyes, although unhuman, they hold such devotion and adoration that it’s addictive. How can one not fall in love when they look at you with such a look?

So you accepted her proposal, to be her wife. To be the mother of her many children. Something celebrated within the house of Hearth. Your job did change, you had more authority as a manager of sorts rather than a domestic servant. You still spent time with the kids however. You still let them sit in your lap or nap on you. But now when Alrecchino comes back from missions or meetings she immediately heads to you to greet you. Her devotion hasn’t stopped or changed. She holds you close and presses her head to your neck as she inhales your scent. Leaving a kiss on your collar and a shiver down your spine. Her hands trace your body just to feel your soft unmarked skin. And when she gives a certain look you know you’ll struggle to get out of bed the next day. Alrecchino is a devoted woman after all. She may not be the best father ever but she is certainly a good and devoted lover.

[lorelune]

hell is a hound without a chain

|| blade x gn!reader || M || yandere wolf hybrid blade || wc: 3.8k  || ao3 ||

A bite is quite a burden.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: folds hands man ... hybrid blade is sure something. i chewed on this au for a minute because truly hybrid blade is such a flavor. a toothy one. enjoy loves!!

CW: dark content, hybrid AU, wolf hybrid blade, yandere blade, reader is not a hybrid, biting, claiming bites, caretaking, victim blaming, injured reader, references to reader drinking casually

You ache.

Your neck hurts.

It’s hurt for the past few days, and you imagine it will continue to hurt for the next several weeks, considering that Blade is not allowing you to heal in any meaningful capacity.

You sit on the bathroom counter, a bit teary-eyed, with Blade standing between your legs. A scented candle sputters on a small shift. Blade’s tail swishes. Annoyed. Ears twitching and jaw locked. There’s a first aid kit open beside you and it's running low on gauze and antibiotic ointment.

You sniffle as Blade pats at the wound on your neck. He’s being… gentle. For him anyway. The contact and disinfectant still sting and you hiss at the sensation and jerk away.  

Blade stills.  

"I’ll bind you again." His hand cups your jaw— too tightly. "Would you like to force my hand?"

"No, n-not really.” You sound pathetic. You want to cry. You probably will. "It hurts. I'm sorry."

Blade sighs but doesn't press you. He trades the disinfectant for a slather of ointment and prepares a gauze pad. The piece he cuts is larger than normal. It’s the size of his palm. You suppress the urge to feel for the wound on your neck and check its size and depth. You haven't gotten a good look at it yet. Judging by the red stain soaking down the front of your shirt, it’s a worse wound than normal. 

Blade has made it a routine to freshen the bite mark on your neck at least once a week. He always sinks his teeth into the same spot while other, less severe marks decorate your throat and shoulders (and chest and stomach and thighs, but those are easier to dismiss.) The mark he worries the most, the one that you know he associates with some animalistic claim, is on your side, broken flesh splitting where your neck meets your shoulder.

...

You first... 'earned' it after leaving Blade to his own devices for a weekend. 

It was just a beach trip with a few friends. Kafka encouraged it— you needed to stretch your legs. ‘Bladie’ as she so affectionately referred to your hybrid, was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was doing so long before you came into the picture and formally offered your home up to him. Besides, he’d had several months to settle into your home, hadn’t he? Kafka goaded you into accepting a “well-deserved” break. Himeko seemed... hesitant about the arrangement at the time. She warned that hybrids can get a bit prickly about being left alone, even if they are independent. 

("They tend to hold grudges.")

The trip was a mistake. 

It had been a lovely weekend. Kafka had thrown her card down for a beachside cabana at a resort. Drinking sweet fruity cocktails, lounging in the sun, and generally relaxing. It was... nice to be out and not worried about Blade. He knew where you were. He had a phone with an internet connection that he knew he could use, and he didn't bother to contact you. You figured he was enjoying the break from his typical vigilance. Perhaps he was enjoying not having an owner to stalk around and guard.

You were wrong. Wildly.

The moment you arrived home (you hadn't even set your bags down—), Blade was on you. Pressed into your own door, he growled and spat that you smelled “wrong”. You asked him what he meant— you nervously joked you could take a quick shower and make dinner. Whatever he wanted. Your voice had trembled, and your breath had started coming too quickly. 

His gaze pierced you a moment later, a growl ripping from his mouth, lips curling back. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the way he grabbed your jaw, jerked your head to the side, and buried his teeth in your neck. He covered your mouth with his palm when you screamed. Muffled any shout or cry for help. You knew Blade was strong, but you hadn't ever realized how strong. You were immobilized between him and his teeth and the door.

By the time he withdrew and lapped at the wound he'd made, you were sobbing, scrambling to get away, run, shut yourself in your room, and try to figure out how the fuck to handle this situation—   but Blade hadn't let you far. He cleaned the wound first with his tongue, then a damp rag, then dressed it properly as has become routine. He carried you to bed and curled around you. Arms locked around your waist, legs tangled. It would’ve been sweet if he was your lover.

(But, he is not. He is a wolf you foolishly allowed into your home.)

The reality of your situation began to sink in then. Slowly. Bit by bit. 

Blade freshens the bite about once a week, give or take. If he's feeling antsy, it's less. If you're more compliant, more tethered to home, or dare to take him in public with you, he leaves it alone. Allows it to almost heal before digging his canines into the rapidly thickening layers of scar tissue.

It's awful of him, but you don’t think he'll ever stop now that he's intent on marking you. You had been stupid to think of yourself as anything other than a claim to him, hadn't you?

A few tears drip down your cheeks as Blade secures the dressings. He dabs them away with the side of his finger, careful not to scratch you with his blackened claws. He brackets you in on your sides. He tips his forehead against yours and deflates.

"Bed," he says. It's something akin to a request. He'll take you there, anyway, but being given a warning feels like a luxury.

"Okay." Your voice is quiet. Scratchy from shrieking against his palm less than an hour before.

Blade scoops you up and ferries you to bed. He pauses to throw an extra blanket onto his... nest (even if it's on your bed). It’s a quilt he favors, worn through but soft. His preference for it would be endearing under different circumstances. 

He runs a hand through your hair, trailing his touch down to the wet collar of your shirt, “You need to change. You’re dirty.”

As is routine, he pulls your shirt off as you squirm. You lightly shove at his chest, if only to make yourself feel better. Resist a little for your own pride, despite knowing it’s useless. Your modesty doesn’t matter to Blade (not if it’s just him and you in the room. He’s permitted himself to your skin in the most non-traditional ways.) Regardless, you aren’t bare for long. He replaces your shirt with his own. It’s warm and too big. His frame is almost inhuman, and it gapes around your shoulders.

Blade cajoles you to the headboard and lets you fuss a bit along the way. He sits behind 

you and settles you between his thighs. The knit blanket is pulled over your lap and his arms wind around your waist, unyielding. Locking you there. Blade tucks his face into your neck on the... less injured side. He scents you there with a half-there growl. 

You rub at your puffy eyes. Your chest hurts.

"You need to rest." Blade tells you. He tells you this often. He's more in tune with your physical state than you are these days, so you appreciate the reminders. You feel half out of your body. 

"... Oh yeah?" you laugh, voice wobbly. "I should, huh? Don't I need to make dinner?"

"Unnecessary." Blade replies. He squeezes you. "You need to rest, first. I will prepare a meal."

"... Sure." Blade doesn’t do particularly well in the kitchen. "I can rest, then cook, okay? If you can wait that long? Otherwise, I can cook then rest later too—"

Then Blade really growls. It’s the kind that you feel between your ribs and makes you go stiff. His mouth opens, too hot against the fragile skin near your neck, and the points of his canines rest. Idle. You start to shake. 

"You will rest." Blade tells you. "I... went too harshly on you. You are weak. You need to rest. I will cook so you do not need to. I cannot guarantee that it will be any good, but you should not be on your feet."

You laugh. something rotten curls in your belly.

There’s care in the way that Blade speaks about you. He rarely speaks in such a forward way— it’s hard for him. You can hear how he struggles between certain words. How the sentences are harder for him to construct. The sentiment of care is not easy for him. This makes sense— as he is a wolf that has you in his jaws. There is not care in slaughter. An animal’s claim is just that. A claim. Baseless. Primal. A twitch that follows an instinct, maybe. 

Hearing him say things that could be kind makes you want to vomit.

You dig your nails into Blade's forearms. His hold constricts.

"Why would you care?" You snap. "Don't act like you give a shit about my wellbeing, as if you didn't just take a fucking chunk out of me."

It's the wrong thing to say. You know this. It’s better to not anger him. But it's hard to care when you’re this tired and worn down. Self-preservation is an afterthought. You feel spiteful, terrified tears burn your eyes. You wait for a wolf’s violence as Blade tenses and goes still behind you.

Preparing for the kill, you presume.

Instead, however, his mouth closes, and soft lips press into your throat. No teeth. No apparent ire. No mouthy attitude. And he stays quiet. Somehow drags you closer into the solid, warm line of his front. He is solid, maybe a little softer than when he first moved in with you. 

"My mark on you is protection, even if you do not realize it." Blade tells you. You figured as much, but it doesn't justify it. "Anyone who smells or sees you knows that you are claimed."

"Yeah, so everyone knows I've got some bully of a wolf at home, ready to tear my throat out?"

(You've read his file, you know he's capable of it.)

"I wouldn't." Blade's voice grates, low and angry. “I... I wouldn't. Not to you."

"If you say so."

"I mean it." He punctuates it with a kiss. He's half-hard against your lower back and you swallow. "I... I do not know how else to convey to you that you are cared for. That you are mine."

(You’re not sure you believe him. There are other, crueler ways he could. On your more anxiety-ridden nights, you’re grateful that Blade’s touch hasn’t strayed there. Never. He hasn’t ever touched you like that, with that part of him. Anything below your neckline is all teeth and tongue. Violence is his language of physicality, you've found. Pleasure he seems foreign to.)

"I'm yours?" You dig your nails in and his tail slaps the bed. good. You'll bear the consequences later. Best to get it all out of your system. "When did I agree to this?"

Blade thinks, for a moment. You doubt he'll be able to find when you did agree because you haven't.

"You allowed me into your home. Bed. I wear a collar with your name on it when I must leave this place." Blade tells you. His hand cups your chin, turning your face toward his, and his nails tease over your cheeks. "What did you think all of that meant?"

Your stomach drops. 

"... A kindness?"

“An offering." He corrects. He noses into your jaw, scenting again. His touch drifts under your soft shirt, resting over your tummy. "One that was accepted."

"Oh."

It hits you. All of it. Awareness is like being dunked in ice water, suffocating on it, and throwing it back up. Kafka had once warned you that hybrids think so differently from humans. You figured the differences would be... obvious. Easy to sort through.

You were, once again, so wrong.

You want to tell Blade that that's not what you meant. That you opened your home and heart because he was a beaten down stray who clearly needed a home— one where he was the only one of his kind. Where he had the attention he needed to thrive, and the space to do so too. That you signed your name on the necessary paperwork not as a proposition but as a gesture of care. 

In the same moment, you realize that even if you do tell all of this to Blade, it wouldn’t matter. This misunderstanding has been steeping for months beyond your control. You feel stupid. Foolish. So naive it hurts. There’s a bite mark dug into the flesh of your neck that will never really scar. If Blade can help it, it will never fully heal. You’ll bear it bloody... forever. 

“You smell wrong.” Blade huffs against your neck. He squeezes over your hips, rubbing little circles into the soft flesh.

Can he smell when you’re upset?

Probably. Blade always got particularly cagey when you would return home from the rare trip into the office. You were always exhausted, on edge, and overstimulated from a full day of endless everything. Blade would follow you around on those days, never letting you out of his sight. He’d wrap you up in blankets from his bed. Shove you in his clothes. Hand-fed you in his lap despite the fact his hands were too big and arthritic. 

Was that care? 

(So, so clearly.)

You don't realize you're on the verge of tears until you open your mouth to speak and nothing comes out but a wounded, awful cry. Like you're the pained animal and not Blade. 

"Hush." Blade tells you. He smooths your shirt— his shirt over your front, over your chest in a way that makes your breath hitch and squirm uncomfortably. He’s burning hot against your back. "You are safe. You can rest now."

Is that care?

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes. They’re angry, tired, and sad all at once. You try to suck them down the best you can.

Blade pulls you at you, sinking you into the sheets. He spoons you, flush against your back, hot and soft in all the ways that matter. You bury your face into your pillow when he runs a soothing, clawed hand up and down the back of your neck.

For a moment, you consider your options. It’s immediately overwhelming. Defeating. 

You know that there is nothing you can do about your position. You could rear up, slap Blade, and scramble for the door. There are organizations. Sections of government that handle situations like this. You might be able to get to your phone. At least text someone that things have gotten out of hand.

You also know that Blade would not allow this. He'd not allow you out of bed, let alone this room. He'd have you pinned, belly to the bed with a hand dug into your hair to brace you there. He'd let you squirm and kick and scream. He'd bruise you in return— leave his own marks. another set of molted hickeys across your shoulders.

He'd probably push at the freshly bloodied claim on your neck too. Never mind that he just patched you up. 

It's hopeless, and the knowledge hits you so hard that you feel winded. You scramble against the bed to grab onto the sheets, and you cry. It’s in your chest. You sob and cry so hard it hurts. The sounds you are making are ugly and broken. The feeling between your eyes is burgeoning into an acidic headache, and your mouth is somehow dry even as you get spit on the soft sheets. 

Despair is not beautiful. It’s toxic and infecting. 

Despite this, Blade does not move away. He is steadfast, and curls overtop of you. He hushes you with his simple, curt words and a low rumble in his chest that's hard to identify. It soothes something in your hindbrain you wish you could kill. His lips press into your hair. His touch is solid, bruising, but not maiming

Violence... shouldn't be comforting.

And yet— yet it is. When the tears come slower, and morph into hiccups as you desperately try and catch your breath, Blade... helps, you realize. His mane of hair spills over your face, like a curtain to darken the room. His hand slips to your front, under your shirt once more so it's his palm against the clammy skin of your chest.

"Breathe." He tells you. It's a command. "Like this."

His hand strokes up and down, in time with his own slow, deep breaths. There's the terrifying edge of his claws, blackened and sharpened, but they never cut in enough to gore. Only enough to remind you that they’re sharp— to maim, to protect— (what’s the difference to a wolf like him?) You're drained, and you can only follow his lead, sucking in breaths that become more steady with each one.

There's nothing left in you by the time you settle. You're wrung out, emptied and so tired. It's clarifying, maybe. As Blade pets you into sleep, you shakily bring a hand to press over the covered, weeping wound in your neck. A full moon of teeth marks. Even the light touch aches.

Blade nips at your hand, nosing it away. 

(How terrible, really. To be cared for by a beast who believes love and violence are one in the same. How terribly idiotic of you to not notice. How... cruel of Kafka for never connecting the dots for you. You’re sure she must’ve taken note, at some point, of Blade’s claim on you and its implications. She was once in your position, but knowing her own disposition, Blade never took her like he’s taken you.)

(Himeko probably noticed as well. But, she’s the type to only step in if she thinks she can make a difference. She has her own self-preservation in mind, and you can respect that. Mostly. Perhaps she saw Blade’s claim taking shape and realized that a Wolf’s bite is not something she had the claws to interfere with. She has her own hybrids to take care of. You ignored her words of caution in the beginning when she first offered them.)

(It’s hard to fault her.)

(And how can you fault Blade for his instincts? Perhaps you were too kind. You lacked caution— self-preservation— whatever you wish to call it. You put your own soft throat in the line of Blade’s bite. In retrospect, it’s frighteningly clear. It guts you. Over and over. The only thing that tethers you is Blade’s touch and breath against your neck. A reminder.)

(A reminder that you are his to tug and push and pull as he pleases. That he’ll leave bite marks where he desires, never to gore, but to show that you’re... protected.)

Isn’t there something alluring about that? 

It makes you shake all over again. It makes you muffle a fresh sob into your pillow and you beat your fists against the mattress. Blade lets out a growly word or two you can’t make out as he pins your wrists to the mattress.

It makes sense, now, why Blade always wanted to accompany you out on errands, if only to growl and bark at anyone who looked at you too long. You had thought he was just poorly socialized (partially true) — but he was snapping at strangers to make sure no one even thought of looking at you for too long. Let alone touch. Pursue. 

You have a hazy memory of a night at the cocktail bar. Kafka had asked you to come alone— ‘girls night’ again. Blade had given you the cold shoulder when you told him sheepishly that you’d be leaving him at home. Whatever alcohol dulls the memory, but you can recall Blade had thrown you over his shoulder the moment you had come home. You swayed and slurred your words and Blade looked ready to gut you. He threw you in bed, tore off the pretty dress that he had said was “far too revealing” and shoved you into one of his sleepshirts without listening to a single one of your protests. Your fighting and punching didn’t deter him— it didn’t make him any more aggravated. 

(“You’re stupid.” Blade had told you, roughly wiping a soft cloth over your face. Makeup smears on the fabric. “Why are you out in the dark? How did you get home?”

“... You’re silly. I took a cab.” You tell him with a frown. You bat at his ears and Blade grabs your arms with such force you’re scared they’ll break. 

“You’re reckless.” Blade had growled in your ear. “Do you know what you invite when you’re in this state?” 

“... A hangover?” 

Blade had stared at you, fuming. The next moment, his teeth were embedded in your neck and a pillow was shoved over your face as you wailed. Your vision swam as he pulled away, lips and chin smeared red. 

Blood stains his teeth as he drags you up by the collar, and spits— “Do you know how many men would eat you alive like this?”)

You realize now that there was an implicit— “And I’m not there to keep it from happening.”

There’s comfort in it. You feel disgusting, but the roiling behind your eyes is cut by how warm Blade is behind you. That he’s good at patching the wound on your neck, and attentive when you let him be. 

If you really can't escape Blade and your mutual incidental claim... maybe it could be okay. There’s some assurance that Blade will not gore you, only tenderly hurt for the sake of some instinct you will never feel, but are coming to understand. He is honest too. His words are solid. He is too straightforward to mince his words. They are never a riddle. There's safety in being underneath him as you are now. 

There's safety in him. You almost cry again. He'll hurt you but never rend apart into pulp as you know he could. He'll sink his teeth in but as a claim. His slaughter is accompanied by care— for you. Slaughter inflicted on others is instinctual violence born from different baser needs. It hits you, like a blow to the chest, that whatever brutality he could inflict on you, is only a fraction of what he would inflict for you.

"Oh," you say, so softly, as you realize. You feel foolish all over again. 

Blade makes a contented sound against your nape. Mouthing at you. His palm is settled at the base of your throat. "Your kind can be so slow. Now rest."

You laugh, blurting it out into your buttery sheets. There are specks of blood dotting the cream fabric, new and old. Fresh and faded. 

You'll have to restock your first-aid kit.

[8myass]

.. caretaker .. pairing. mark lee x female reader genre. fluff pov. second person (you, yours, yourself, etc.) (‘y/n’ usage) synopsis. mark just wants to take care of you like you take care of him. wc. 0.9k cw. best friend!mark tw. teeth-rottenly cute, pet name (‘babe’), cuddling, socially awkward mark, mentions kissing a/n. soft mark y'all omg

Mark was the sweetest, most sincere person you’ve ever met. He had a heart of gold and always put you above others, even when the two of you were just simple acquaintances. You quickly became best friends, though. Friends turning to some sort of situationship, neither of you really knew what your relationship was turning into at that point, but you both loved every moment of it and savored each other's company. 

However, the poor boy always managed to get himself in hot water when it came to your shared conversations. He would say things that came out the wrong way, not at all how he meant it, but because he lacks knowledge of social cues, he doesn’t understand what he said wrong. You were a teacher for him and his awkwardness in relationships, whether that be romantic or platonic. 

He loved you for that, for helping him become a better version of himself, a version of himself that he loved as well. If it were anyone else, you would’ve left him by now, left him in the dark to handle his problems alone, wondering what he did wrong to leave you hating him. But you didn’t, you’re still by his side taking care of him, helping him, keeping him on his two unstable feet. You were his lifeline, really. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have been able to comprehend why he’d been in so much shit with his past relationships before over simple things he’s said.

He still messes up sometimes, saying things that make you question the true meaning and whether or not he was being rude or just ignorant, but you always correct your mindset and tell yourself that’s just Mark. And it is, but you love him. You love his silly, stupid self. You’ve loved him for quite some time now and he loves you even more than you could ever love him in return. He just sucks at proving that to you. You were too intimidating when it came to romance, he never knew how to approach the situation. He was predictable to you, so he would always try to be unpredictable, but that always failed because it was so predictable of him, you expected it.

But one day, you came down with a cold. You were supposed to meet him later on that day, but you were too ill to get out of bed that morning, let alone make it to your car to drive a few miles out of your way to stuff down food that you undoubtedly would throw up the moment you got home. You decided to call him and cancel your plans, explaining the scenario to him. You were apologetic, which led to him becoming sympathetic. 

By the time you had hung up the phone, he was already knocking on your front door, letting himself in and running you a warm bath, heating up some soup, and pouring you some cold medicine to force it down your throat when you refused to take it yourself. You were so happy to have him here helping you that you didn’t even fight him when he helped you change into a comfy pair of pajamas and laid you down in bed, covering you up with layers of blankets to make sure your shivering was contained enough for you to actually get some sleep.

“Thank you, Mark,” you whimper, throat too sore to speak to your fullest extent of happiness. You wanted to jump up out of bed and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug and kissing his pretty lips, just as you always did when you were too excited to contain yourself. You hated how weak you felt, you were making your sickness seem so dramatic, you being nothing but an inconvenience for Mark right now, you’re sure he has some other, more important, things he could be doing instead of taking care of a twenty-year-old who is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “You really don’t have to stay, you’ve done enough for me. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? To let you know if I feel better.”

“I’m not leaving you, Y/n,” he frowned, leaning down to press his soft palm against your forehead, moving your bangs off your skin, gentle eyes meeting your shaky ones, “I will never leave you, don’t worry about that. I’m here for you no matter what. That’s what friends are for.” Friends. That was a hard sentence for Mark to get out. Friends… that’s not what you were, that’s not what either of you wanted to be.

“You’re so sweet, I don’t deserve you,” you pouted, wiggling around under your blankets to make room next to you for Mark to lay down, “Lay with me then. Hold me.”

“Gladly,” he slipped under the blankets alongside you, wrapping his arms loosely around you to pull you against his body, head pressed firmly into his chest. “This might sound weird, but I like it when you’re sick.”

“Why’s that?” you chuckled, knowing he didn’t quite mean it the way that came out. He was still working on his word placements, you understood that.

“Because then you let me take care of you,” he laughed in turn, brushing his fingers through your hair as a comforting hand trailed along your spine. You hummed in response, not making another sound as you slowly drifted off to sleep. “Now get some rest, babe. Feel better in the morning.”