#my guy does not want to be a whumper!

[painonthebrain]

Please Don’t

Masterlist

CWs: Captivity, angel whumpee, masc whumpee, carewhumper, masc whumper, stitches (mentioned)

Flint and Oath… talk things out.

Flint bends down over Oath’s sleeping form, curled in the blankets Flint gave him. His knees strain as he kneels, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.

He wants to try something different… since last time ended with blood. He’s sure it’ll be painless. After all, he just needs a loose feather. … Well, wants one. Same thing.

Flint reaches out, touching Oath’s wings cautiously. They’re soft yet sleek, and his fingers brush over Oath’s wingtips. His touch is almost reverent in a way, careful not to disturb the angel, yet curious, probing.

He tugs on a primary. It stays on, rooted in Oath's flesh.

No. He can’t take that one. It needs to be easy. Oath shouldn’t be able to feel anything.

He reaches out again, taking hold of another feather — and Oath startles, his wings snapping to his sides. Flint jerks back in surprise, and the feather comes off with the movement. He drops it, stabbing pain piercing his legs from the sudden movement while kneeling.

“Ah, oW—” Flint groans, shifting his weight so instead of being on his knees he’s sitting on the floor. He takes the feather back, picking it up off the ground and clutching it close to his chest.

Oath turns to look at him, his expression a mixture of groggy annoyance, coupled with the telltale look of someone fighting the nerves of being scared in the middle of their sleep. “What the hell are you doing?” He groans, eyes narrowing as they meet Flint’s.

When met with silence, he huffs. Then he spies the tawny brown feather between Flint’s fingers.

“So that’s what you wanted. Asshole. You could have at least woken me up and asked.”

“I didn’t —” Flint fumes, then sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “Even if I asked, you’d say no.”

Oath smiles tiredly, eyes narrowing. “Oh no, I’d say please don’t.” He tilts his head, giving Flint doe eyes, smile disappearing and clasping his hands together, a mockery of the perfect victim. He crawls to where Flint sits. “Please don’t! Please — please don’t!”

Flint chokes in response, eyes widening in horror. “Stop! Listen, I —”

“You’re so easy.” Oath cuts him off, killing the act. “You could have my feathers, if you didn’t take them.” He stresses the emphasis on the word ‘take,’ glaring at Flint.

“I didn’t mean to!—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Oath snaps, and Flint looks down, holding the feather closer.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“You better not.” Oath snaps.

The silence is thick. Flint opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He stares at Oath, who clutches his blanket and settles back in, turning away.

Oath scoffs. “You're lucky it wasn't a blood feather.”

“A what?”

“A feather with a vein or an artery in it. It bleeds when it's broken.”

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t —”

“Didn’t know?” Oath turns back, twisting his body to face Flint. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t need to know. Not like you have wings or anything.”

“Well, it’s nice to know,” Flint says, looking away.

“Yeah,” Oath huffs, eyes narrowing, “sure it is.” A beat passes between them and Flint finds himself staring at the floorboards. The worn wood, the grooves and gaps between boards, the patterns from the tree they came fr –

“Listen.” His thoughts come to a shuddering halt at the sound of Oath’s voice. “Don’t you think you seem awfully reserved for someone who's doing what you've been doing?

“What's your deal?”

Flint’s throat closes up. His gut feeling is to leave. “Nothing –”

Oath groans, getting up again, pushing his blankets away. Coming closer.

“No. It’s not ‘nothing.’ Clearly it’s not.

“… So let’s talk about it.” Anyone else saying that phrase would be kind and reassuring. Oath’s inflection is vindictive, tightly-strung and stilted.

“You've kept me in here as a prisoner –” he spits the word – “and all you've done is give me clumsy stitches and pull out a feather. It’s honestly pathetic.”

He’s made his way to Flint now, almost as close as he was before, and he sneers, leaning into Flint’s face. “You can’t make up your mind about who or what you want to be; you’re not kind, you’re not cruel. You’re a fucking coward.”

Flint struggles to form words.

“What the hell is so wrong to you about this? You're the one who took me away!”

“I — I don't know! C-Can’t I do shit without you prying?”

“Prying? About what? How you’re using my blood?” Oath snaps, jabbing a finger into Flint’s chest. Flint slaps his hand away, and Oath grabs his wrist, hard.

“It’s not like you can stop me from asking — because what’ll you do? Hurt me? Oh, no you won't! Because you're too scared! Is that what you really are? A frightened, lonely, washed-up loser who can’t even —”

Flint’s face flushes. “You — don’t — I’m none of those things!”

“Yes you are.” he hisses. “If you weren't, you wouldn’t act so dysfunctional. You’d pick a side. Hurt me or not.

“Because I’m just your ingredient supply, aren’t I?”

“No, I  —”

… Supply.

“I’ll back off. If that’s what you want from me.”

“You already do that all the time! I’m asking you to stay. Stay and answer my question directly.”

Flint grits his teeth. “God, okay! It’s my moral failings! I made my choice and I either have to double down or — I don’t know!”

“You feel bad?”

“Yes!” The admission is like a relief somehow. “Yes, I do!”

“Hm. That’s interesting. Yet if you really feel bad, why do you keep on doing what you’ve been doing?”

“This?” He holds the feather out. “No, that was an accident.”

“Touching my wings wasn’t.” There’s a visible tint to Oath’s cheeks when he makes that statement.

“It wasn’t.” Flint repeats. No use lying.

“You need to get your shit together.” Oath mutters.

“…I know. I’m sorry. I want to make it right.” Flint holds out the feather for Oath, and Oath stares at it lazily, uninterested.

“Really?” He asks, not taking it.

“Yes, really.”

Oath looks deep into Flint’s eyes. “Hm,” he says, noncommittal.

“‘Hm’ what?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.”

“You did wake me up a few minutes ago. Give me a second.” Oath turns over and lays back down, covering himself in the blankets. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut. 

Flint sits and waits, avoiding looking at Oath and instead examining his surroundings once more.

More silence.

He shifts, and his knees begin to ache, protesting the movement.

He examines the ceiling of his poorly put together home, eyes tracing the aged, water-stained surface. The beginnings of spiderwebs can be seen in the corners where ceiling meets wall, and Flint internally notes that he’ll have to clean them … or else he’ll feel like a slob. Somehow.

He leans back, laying on the floor.

He’s noticing how disorderly everything is, lazily drinking in every detail of his surroundings, twisting the feather between his fingers and growing more uncomfortable. How much is too much? Too much silence, too many things — when is the balance disrupted?

The pain has become worse. There are little nonexistent knives driven into his knees now. Stabbing over and over, working their blades into his cartilage, slicing his legs open.

He supposes he should do something about it.

But maybe he’d rather stay here. Lay next to his mistake, not risk the pain of standing up, just keep waiting and waiting and waiting for an answer.

He ignores the urge. He pulls himself up without wincing, using the nearby table for support.

“… I’m going to put this away,” he says to Oath, standing up straighter, hoping to elicit a response. His legs strain, burning as he trudges to where he keeps his ingredients, a kind of storage unit comprised of both shelves and drawers — and shoves the feather in a random drawer, eager to rid himself of it.

He returns to Oath, and finds that the angel is already asleep again. He laughs involuntarily. Taking ‘sleeping on it’ literally, isn’t he?

But what else did Flint expect after waking him up so suddenly?

His momentary smile fades.

He won’t wake him up again. He’ll just have to wait.

Flint slumps into his seat at his worktable, and despite the stress on his knees gone, they still ache, burning with pain. He groans, folding his arms on the table and sinking down into them, resting his forehead against them.

“Please don’t.”

Flint lets his head sink down, hitting the wooden surface.

“Fuck.”

[oohshinywhump]

Thinking about a first time Whumper x veteran Whumpee...

When they first meet:

"You don't seem nearly scared enough. This isn't your first time is it?" "You seem weirdly nervous. Is it yours?"

"Ugh! Out of everyone in the city I could kidnap I had to get stuck with someone else's leftovers!"

"You used to belong to so-and-so, didn't you? Ah! They're my idol! Oh! This is exciting. I get to study their masterpiece up close!"

"WHY AREN'T YOU SCARED OF ME?!!!"

"Oh. You've never done this before." "Stop judging me. I have a knife."

"How is it you know exactly what I like?" "You torturers are all the same." "You've done this before??"

"I won't kill you, but I need you to cooperate. I am new to this, just so you know." "Yup. I'm going to die."

"Mmmm, I love how you move when you're in pain." "Thanks! I've been practicing for years."

"Who taught you to scream like this?"

Whumpee helping Whumper figure out the basics:

"Why are you on your knees?" "Oh sorry. Do you not like that? The last guy liked me that way. I just assumed…" "No, no. It's a good idea. Keep doing that. I just… never thought of it."

"So, what are the rules?" "Rules?" "Yeah, dumbass. Your rules for me. Do you want me to call you sir? Master? Or can I keep calling you jackass?"

"Do you want me to put up a fight or should we skip straight to the submissive stage?" "Oh... uhhh... don't fight too much. I don't trust myself not to accidentally kill you." "Oh, yeah. Good point."

"What kind of scream do you like?" "There are kinds of screams?" "Yeah. The last guy liked it when I ugly-cried. But I'm pretty good a bloodcurdling and whimpering like a kicked puppy. I can try to stay quiet but I can't make promises there..." "Hmmm... try all of them. I'll tell you which I like best."

"You cleaned??" "Yeah? Was I not supposed to?" "I didn't know you could make captives do that?!" "For the record, I didn't do it because I'm scared of you - your arm gets tired after giving me like three lashes. I did it because I'm going to be spending a lot of time bleeding on this table and I doubt it occurred to you to disinfect it."

Whumpee teaching Whumper how to whump:

"Show me what they used to do to you."

Whumper studying the scars on Whumpees body to learn the best places to cut/stab.

"Oh no! A knife? How original!" /s

"If you stab me right there you'll kill me. You have to go one inch to the right. Yeah, right there-AHHHHHH! …yup. Right there."

"I'll make you a deal. Let me have a solid eight hours of sleep and I'll show you where to pinch the nerve that will paralyze my left arm."

"You can't leave me tied up like this!" "I can do what I want!" "Yes. Okay. True. But like, you've either got to tie my knees to my chest or let my feet touch the ground. Otherwise I'm going to asphyxiate."

Whumper having an inferiority complex:

"I CAN DO ANYTHING THEY COULD DAMMIT!" (They = Whumpee's former Whumper)

"WHUMPEE! YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!" *Whumpee trying not to laugh when Whumper fucks up something really basic.*

"You must think I'm so pathetic." "NOo! Of course not! You're doing amazing! Really you are! I'm so fucking scared of you right now. I promise."

"I'll never be as good as the person who hurt you before." "You'll get there! I promise. I was like his fifth victim - I'm your first. Be kind to yourself!"

"How the fuck did your former Whumper do it?" "Yeah... you're not getting that out of me..."

Whumper being paranoid that Whumpee is manipulating them. Even though they hold the power they feel like Whumpee has more control over the situation because they know more.

Also...

Whumpee knowing just how to manage Whumper. They instinctively know when to be a little defiant and when to do exactly as they are told. They know just the right tone of voice to speak in, and just how to move, scream, to keep Whumper as pleased as possible. The sooner Whumper is satisfied the sooner it will stop.

Whumpee pretending it hurts worse than it does, lying about which places/tortures hurt most, acting more sick or tired than they really are to get rest/food, acting more scared than they really are… It's not like Whumper could know better.

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 153

Whumpee was sure the "new whumper" poisoned them, or at least laced their drink with sleeping pills. The new whumper at least wanted them dead. Why else would they steal them away from the first guy, trap them in this small room, and keep them waiting in sweet anticipation?

Caretaker walked into whumpee's room, and asked, "Is there anything I can do to make you... less tense?"

Here they come again with these weird prompts and questions. What the hell does the new whumper want from them? They restrain me, drug me to keep me "calm", dress my wounds so they may have a blank canvas in the future.

"Whumpee? Respond to me please?"

[deckofaces]

Step Out of Line

Tw: whump, stabbing, blood, near death experience, dagger mention, Supervillain whumper, Hero whumpee, sadistic whumper (guys I swear it sounds bad but there is caretaking at the end)

@epiclamer I saw your plea in the gc for hero whumpee and villain caretaker. So I was inspired and wrote this, pls accept my offering

Hero groaned as they crashed hard into the concrete. They practically tasted it with how close their head came to smashing into it. Their open cuts and wounds screamed as they hit the floor. The rough concrete scraped against them, each second laying there felt like daggers poking their skin. 

Hero laid there dizzily, coughing for a few seconds. Was that blood that just came out of their mouth? Their vision started blurring together. They slowly looked up, two pairs of feet stood in front of them, who else joined the fight? 

They blinked a couple times at the figures, struggling to keep their head up. After another few seconds of this, the two pairs of feet merged into one. No one else joined the fight, it was just their vision lying to them. 

Hero shakily started to stand up, despite every part of their body just telling them to give up. They were a hero, they could not lay there in defeat. Supervillain stood in front of them and if they could just get one really good punch in, they might just be able to defeat them-

They felt their legs collapse out from under them, and Hero landed back on their stomach. The cool, rugged pavement greeted them once more. They could hear maniacal laughter echoing off the brick alleyway walls behind them. 

Hero breathed heavily, they pushed off the ground, oh they could see the dark red blood now. They slowly turned over to lay on their back so they could actually see. More laughing filled their ears, Supervillain crouched down next to their fallen form. 

Out of the corner of their eye, they could see something in the evil doer’s hand. Despite the darkness of the alley, Hero could see the almost blinding flash of metal. A dagger, their vision focused just enough to see the outline of a small blade. 

Their heartbeat raced, it must have been out of fear. Was Supervillain going to finish the job right there? They didn’t want to die that way. Dying to the filthy hands of Supervillain like so many others before them. Just add them to the list of fallen heroes. Hero would be just like the others, nothing special. 

Supervillain held an evil glint in their eye, grinning as they took pleasure in putting the blade directly in their face so Hero could see. “Given up yet Hero? It does not matter, you do not have a choice anyways. You will be dead in a minute.”

“N-no-“ Hero whimpered, oh so desperately trying to back away in their weakened state. 

Supervillain only cackled more, grabbing their feet and dragging them back over, which only made Hero cry out in pain. 

Without warning, they elicited a scream as Supervillain took their blade and stabbed Hero.

They couldn’t tell where, but the pain felt absolutely horrible. Another thing they knew is that they passed out soon after.

. . .

Hero stirred on something.. soft? Were they hallucinating the comfortable surface to escape the feeling of the wretched concrete? 

They opened their eyes but they were impaled by light, which confused them, wasn’t it still night time?

Hero took a minute to adjust to the light, blinking rapidly until it felt like the light no longer hurt them. They looked around the room, this clearly was not the alley, their mind had not been playing tricks on them either.

They were laying on a worn in couch, a soft blanket had been pulled all the way up to their chin. They looked under the blanket and saw bandages wrapped around their stomach, arms, and a cast on their leg. They also noticed bandages around their hands too when lifting the blanket. None of them felt too tight either, whoever did it must have taken great care.

The living room the couch sat in appeared to be small, but it was neat and tidy. They wonder what civilian rescued them, at least they hoped a civilian saved them and they were not with Supervillain. That would be so very cruel, they would rather have died on the pavement than see their face after they had given Hero a false sense of safety. 

While scanning their surroundings, their eyes drifted over to the doorway that led to the kitchen. Their eyes widened in shock. Standing there staring at them was not a civilian at all or Supervillain, it was Villain. And they were holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup?

Villain must of been bad news, they started to sit up and pull the blanket off them, but they stopped halfway through, hissing in pain. 

Villain rushed over and set the soup on the coffee table in front of the couch. They immediately pushed Hero to lay back down on the couch. “What are you thinking?? If you opened any of your wounds because of this- I swear to gods-“ They groaned thinking about it, shaking their head. 

Hero hesitated, they did not move or say anything. That only caused Villain to sigh as they gently helped them into sitting position. They grabbed the bowl of soup directly after, pulling a chair up to sit next to the couch Hero sat on. 

Hero looked at the soup with unease. They could not deny that it smelled absolutely delicious and their stomach had definitely been growling, but what if Villain put something in it? “Is that poisoned?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course not,” Villain scoffed. “You are in my home, I plan on taking care of you.”

Hero still looked at the bowl in their nemesis’s hands, unsure. Which in turn only drew out a long sigh from the villain.

“Why would I poison you after taking the time to bandage you up, if you haven’t noticed them already. Let me tell you that it took forever.” Villain gestured to Hero’s hand for reference. “I’m a villain, but if you think I’m cruel enough to bandage you all up just to kill you- I’m offended,” they rolled their eyes dramatically.

“Now watch, Hero.” They took a spoonful of the soup that they made and ate it. They swallowed and gave them an “I told you so” sort of expression. Hero looked sheepish after, letting out a small “oh.”

Villain hummed and held up another spoonful of the chicken noodle soup. “Open your mouth.”

Hero gave them a confused look again, “Are you going to try to feed me?”

Villain still held the utensil in front of the crime-stopper. “Yes,” they said simply.

“But that is embarrassing-! Please just let me feed myself,” Hero complained. They weren’t injured so much so that they could not eat the soup themself.

“Not as embarrassing as trying to challenge someone as powerful as Supervillain. I found you left for dead in that alleyway, and goodness knows you could have died if I didn’t save you. Now open up.” This time Villain did not sound like they were joking. They were stern, but they also held a touch of worry in their voice.

Hero lowered their gaze to the blanket on their lap out of shame and embarrassment. Villain had immediately shut down their complaints just with that explanation alone. 

“Why did you help me?” Hero asked quietly. “I’m a hero, I try to arrest you. This goes against what villains sort of well.. do.”

Villain let the spoon fall back into the bowl. They shook their head at Hero. “No, villains break rules and accepted norms dearest Hero, and saving you did just that. I did not step out of line if I was not following a line to begin with.”

Hero only stared at Villain. When they held the spoon up to them once again, this time they reluctantly opened their mouth and accepted the food. And consequently, Villain’s help.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Whumpuary 2024 Day 8

8. (Jan 15-16) Muffled Screams / Hostage / "You look awful" 

cw captive whumpee, hostage, bound/gagged, defiant whumpee, intimate whumper 

“Your screaming is really starting to get on my nerves.” 

Whumpee’s eyes narrowed into a poisonous glare. It was kind of cute, really—those big doe eyes shooting daggers at Whumper. As if there was anything they could do while tied to the chair. They made another angry, muffled noise behind the gag that sounded like it was supposed to be a sentence. 

“What was that?” Whumper teased, stopping in front of Whumpee and smirking down at them. “I can’t understand you, honey.” 

Their hostage screamed again, pulling uselessly at their restraints. This was fun already; Whumper wondered how much more fun it would be if the little spitfire could talk. 

They circled behind the chair and began untying the gag, shushing Whumpee when they flinched away. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet, anyway.” 

Whumpee jerked their head away as the scarf was pulled from their mouth. “Untie me right the fuck now!” they demanded. 

“Fiesty,” Whumper commented with amusement. They ruffled Whumpee’s hair before walking leisurely back in front of them. “You certainly are brave—or is it reckless, maybe? Don’t you know you’re my hostage?” 

“If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already,” they growled.  

“I don’t want to kill you. But there’s other ways for me to shut you up. Teach you to obey.” 

“I’m not afraid of you.” Still glaring, still struggling, but the poor thing looked exhausted. Whumper could see the tired look in their eyes, and the carefully guarded fear. Their clothes were dirty and rumpled, hair messy, and a bruise was forming on one of their forearms. 

Whumper raised an eyebrow. “You look awful.” 

The comment earned them an annoyed huff this time. “You just kidnapped me, how am I supposed to look?” 

“Listen,” Whumper said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose. “I’m just waiting on your guys to give me the money, okay? And then I'll let you go. So just chill the fuck out until then.” 

“Untie me.” 

“What, do you think I'm crazy?” Whumper asked. “No, you’re staying right there, safely restrained, until I'm done with you.” 

Those big, doe eyes looked up at Whumper, imploring now rather than defiant. “Please?” 

“I’m not falling for that.” 

“Worth a shot,” Whumpee said with a shrug. “Just so you know—as soon as I get free, I’m gonna kill you.” 

Whumper laughed. They placed their hands on Whumpee’s wrists and leaned over them, pressing a gentle kiss to their cheek despite Whumpee’s protest. With a grin, they murmured, “Oh honey, I can’t wait to see you try.” 

[whumpshaped]

u guys r so.. (affectionate) i cannot believe i got 5 requests for 2 prompts

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, dehumanisation (the whole chapter is just that, literally), conditioning, manipulation, just a lot of mind games really

"Don't you ever think that maybe this is extremely fucked up?" Beck asked suddenly, unable to pretend that any of this was normal for a single moment longer. It probably helped that Helle was in the living room, while he was slicing vegetables in the kitchen, so he could pretend he was safer than usual.

The noise from the living room stopped instantly at the question. He didn't know what Helle had been doing, but evidently, they weren't doing it anymore. No, instead they walked right over to the kitchen, all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"What is?" they asked from the door.

"I... all of it! I don't even know where to start, I, I am housing a vampire!" He turned to look at them, clutching the knife like his life depended on it. "Don't you– don't you ever think that this is all very– very cruel?"

"Well, I need to eat."

"No. No, that's not what you're doing. You're purposely tormenting me, making it more painful than it has to be–"

"Oh, I apologise. Should I perhaps go to the market, then, and pick up some 'ethically sourced' human blood?" They were only teasing, Beck reminded himself. There was no such market for blood. There wasn't. This wasn't a thing. "I should sell yours that way. You are free-range, are you not? Not tainted by any magic... that is rare. What else... well, you are not stress-free, but that can always change."

"None of this is ethical!" he snapped, way too defensive because of the joke about his blood being sold off. "Stop, stop being so nonchalant about it! This is my life! This is fucked up, you're ruining it, you're, you hurt me every single day–"

"What is the alternative?" they cut in calmly, but Beck could only give them a blank stare. Alternative? "What should I do instead? Starve? Or should I pluck out all those silly little thoughts about cruelty-free bloodletting from your head by use of magic? What do you suggest?"

Beck raised the knife, more and more terrified with each word. "N-no, don't, don't do that, do not do that–" A piece of onion fell from the blade to the floor with a little wet plop, possibly undermining his entire attempt at intimidating the vampire.

"That was very cruel to the onion, you know. Callous. How would you feel if I dropped you from the window right now?"

"I'm, I'm not a fucking piece of onion..." he said desperately, slowly realising that the more he made Helle talk about their opinions and feelings on humans, the more terrifying the situation got for him. "You... do you actually think it's the same principle..?"

"Similar in nature, certainly." They leaned against the door frame, surveying his expression with an easy smile. "Why? Is it unnerving to you, as the food source? But I presented you with two other avenues, you know."

"I, I don't want to be enthralled," he said quickly. "Please, I don't want that."

"What a coincidence! Me neither. That is why you are not enthralled. But unfortunately, I also do not wish to starve." They shrugged. "That means we will have to bite the bullet and continue in this cruel fashion, does it not? Or perhaps you just want me out of your life forever, not caring who else I might take for myself, because at least I am not being cruel to you. Is that it?"

"No, that's– that's not what I'm saying..."

"So what are you saying?"

"I... I don't know," he said quietly, lowering the knife. It was a blatant lie. In reality, he was thinking the exact thing Helle had pointed out. He just wanted them out of his house, out of his life, and out of his mind. He didn't think about others that he might put in danger. Honestly, he was probably keeping everyone in the area safe just by being Helle's long-term bloodbag... but why him? Why him?

"Does it scare you? To be selfish like that? Does it remind you of how you see me?"

"N-no, it's not even... it's not even close, it's not comparable..."

"Mmm, sure." They nodded towards the piece of onion on the floor. "This must be causing you immense distress if you can just leave that there. At any other time you would already be disinfecting."

"I just want you to be less cruel," he whispered, ignoring the taunt. "That's all. That's all I want. But you don't care, do you? You see nothing wrong with any of this."

Helle's smile widened, and Beck just knew they were about to say something that would break him further. "No. I do not. And you know why?" They walked into the kitchen and picked up the onion from the floor. "For the same reason you did not even care to pick this up. It does not matter to you. You do not stop to wonder whether it feels hurt, or whether you are being cruel by slicing it into pieces. You do not care if a piece falls, you do not care if you have to put it in the trash, it is absolutely inconsequential to you. Not worth a thought." They gently placed it on the counter, wiping their hand off on Beck's shirt. "So no, I do not usually think about whether it is 'fucked up' or 'cruel'. You are doing what you need to do to eat, and I am doing the same. If some parts of you fall along the way, well... let us hope there is someone there to pick them up."

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight

[montammil]

Forever Be Mine, part 4

Masterlist here!

CW: Yandere/creepy whumper, dubcon kissing(?), branding, manipulative behavior, tiiiiny bit nsfw

...

Sawyer leaned his head against Rowan's chest, giving in completely, too weak to move much at all anymore. Rowan carried him out of the basement and up the stairs to their bathroom. He set Sawyer down on the toilet seat and started filling up the tub with warm water. Once it was full enough, he picked him back up and placed him in the tub gently.

The water stung horribly against the wound on his side, making Sawyer's breath hitch in his throat. Rowan shushed him and grabbed a washcloth from the sink, wetting it and rubbing it over his body to clean him off.

"Don't worry, I'll bandage up your wound when we're done here," he assured him. "It'll heal up just fine, okay?"

Sawyer didn't respond, too exhausted to speak at the moment.

After wiping him down, Rowan reached into the water and began to soap up his skin and hair. He hummed softly while he worked, occasionally pausing to kiss his face or neck.

Sawyer didn't fight him anymore, just letting him do whatever he wanted and focusing on trying not to pass out, even if the thought was a little tempting.

When Rowan finished cleaning him off, he lifted him out of the tub and dried him with a fluffy towel. He laid Sawyer on his uninjured side on the bed and pressed a kiss over the burn mark on his skin.

"There we go," Rowan cooed as he rubbed aloe vera gel onto the wound. "Feels better now, doesn't it?"

Sawyer couldn't even respond, whimpering quietly when Rowan's fingers grazed over the tender area.

Rowan patted his back and moved away from him momentarily, only to return with gauze and medical tape. He applied the bandages to cover up the burn wound and held them down with a piece of tape on each end. After tying them securely in place, Rowan moved back towards Sawyer's face. He still smelled like blood, much to Sawyer's disgust. He traced along his jawline with one finger.

"Does it still hurt?" Rowan asked, stroking his cheek with a thumb. Sawyer nodded, unable to speak properly in his state. "I know," he sighed. "I hated having to punish you like that, but you gave me no choice."

He reached forward and pulled Sawyer closer to him, cradling him against his chest. Sawyer couldn't bring himself to fight back anymore. He just lay there limp and defeated, wishing he was anywhere but here.

He felt so humiliated by the situation he found himself in, by how much power Rowan held over him now. He couldn't even remember how many times Rowan had said "I love you" over the past few days, but it made him want to cry every time he heard it.

Tears rushed to his eyes as much as he so desperately tried to keep them down. Sawyer didn't want Rowan to see him like this, didn't want to give him the satisfaction of breaking him so easily. But at this point, he couldn't hold them back anymore. 

"Hey," Rowan whispered soothingly. "Hey, no no no no..." He pulled the smaller man into his lap and held him close while he cried into his shoulder. "Don't cry, honey." He stroked his hair tenderly and rubbed his back in slow circles. "Everything's okay now."

Sawyer shook his head. Nothing was okay anymore, nothing would ever be okay again. He could still feel the skewer digging into his flesh, could still hear the gunshots as Rowan killed him in cold blood. Could still feel the knife tearing through his shirt. It hurt so fucking bad and all he wanted was to go home. He was so dissociated he didn't even realize he was still completely naked until Rowan slid a pair of underwear onto him.

Rowan guided him down onto his side and tucked them both into bed, spooning Sawyer from behind and resting his chin on top of his head.

"It broke my heart having to do that to you," he mumbled. "I hate hurting you. But I had to do it to show you I am serious about this."

"Wasn't killing that guy enough?" Sawyer croaked.

He tightened his grip, causing a flash of pain to course through Sawyer's injured side. "If I let him live, he would've ruined everything," Rowan choked out. "I can't lose you, Sawyer." He pressed a kiss into his hair. "I can't live without you."

Sawyer didn't reply this time. He didn't know what he could even say to that without risking further punishment or worse. So instead he stayed quiet, letting Rowan hold him close and whisper sweet nothings into his ear until he drifted off to sleep.

...

When Sawyer woke up the next morning, Rowan was already awake beside him. He had propped himself up on an elbow and was staring down at him.

Sawyer glanced around the room and noticed a plate of food on the nightstand next to them, along with some pills and a glass of water. He had no idea how long it had been since he last ate or drank anything, but at this point, he didn't care either way.

"Here," Rowan said quietly, grabbing the pills off the table and handing them to him. "Take these."

The shorter man stared at the two pills in his palm. "What are they?"

Rowan smiled at him sweetly, "Just antibiotics."

Sawyer eyed him suspiciously. He didn't trust him, but with the pain in his side and the memories that would now haunt him for the rest of his life, he was in no place to argue. He reluctantly swallowed the pills and chased them down with a sip of water.

Rowan pecked his cheek before getting out of bed and stretching out his arms above his head. He returned to Sawyer with a piece of toast slathered with strawberry jam along with hash browns. Sawyer took the plate and set it on his lap. He ate slowly and tried to avoid eye contact with Rowan while doing so, who seemed to be watching his every move as always.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Sawyer glanced up at him through narrowed eyes.

"I'm just not hungry right now." He gave him a smile, "I know it's silly, but I like watching you eat. I like watching you do anything." Sawyer shuddered internally and averted his gaze downwards, focusing on his food instead of Rowan's eyes boring into him.

Sawyer wished he had any fight in him, but he just didn't. Hell, he didn't even have any compliance in him, either. He was always so good at putting on a charming smile and making people adore him with ease.

Now though? He couldn't muster up enough energy to fake something as simple as a smile. Rowan would surely notice if he tried anything at all though. And given how his luck had been going lately, he wasn't about to risk being tortured again anytime soon.

The idea of being tortured again made Sawyer's stomach lurch, so he put the plate back on the nightstand, unable to stomach more food.

Rowan frowned but said nothing about it. Instead, he draped an arm over him and leaned his head against his. Sawyer expected him to be happy about his compliance, but all he felt from Rowan was disappointment.

"What are you thinking about?" Rowan ran his fingers through his hair.

Sawyer flinched away from the touch automatically. "Nothing," he mumbled.

Rowan sighed heavily, "You can't lie to me."

Well apparently, he very well could. Sawyer almost chuckled at that irony. "I'm sorry," he blurted out before Rowan could do anything rash. "I'm just tired." He avoided his gaze but could feel it burning into him regardless.

He turned Sawyer's face towards him with a finger on his jaw and studied his expression for a few moments. Sawyer wasn't sure what he saw there, but Rowan finally let go of him and stood off the bed with a huff. "Fine then," he grunted as he stormed out of the bedroom.

Sawyer rolled his eyes at the petty behavior he was exhibiting. He was still recovering from being tortured only a few hours prior, and Rowan was being an immature child about him not indulging him in conversation.

He wouldn't have believed any of this was happening a week ago if someone told him this would be his future. Things had gone from him being a confident single man with a stable career to being the victim of a deranged stalker in the blink of an eye.

There were so many things that Sawyer wished he could've done differently. Maybe if he had just paid more attention to his surroundings, he wouldn't be in this mess right now.

The guilt weighed in his stomach like a ton of bricks.

An hour or so passed by, and Sawyer was still bored out of his mind. He hadn't heard a sound from Rowan since he stormed off earlier and wondered where he had gone to sulk away his childishness.

Out of curiosity, he stood to his feet and grabbed a shirt that he assumed was laid out for him, draping down to his knees. He ventured out of the room, careful not to make a sound in case Rowan was still sulking somewhere nearby.

Since the door wasn't unlocked, it was easy to assume that Rowan was still in the house somewhere. The question now was, where?

He stepped down the stairs, holding onto the railing tightly as he descended. Sawyer paused when he heard music coming from the kitchen. He tip-toed forward and peeked inside to see Rowan leaning against the counter while reading a newspaper. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail again and his reading glasses were on.

"Hello," Rowan greeted him without looking up.

Sawyer froze. "Hi," he mumbled back, moving into the room. He looked at the stove where a teapot was whistling loudly. Rowan turned off the burner and poured two cups of tea before sliding one to Sawyer. "Thank you," he murmured and took a sip.

It was earl grey again, and he preferred it over the other options Rowan had provided him with, though it brought him no pleasure knowing he had drugged him with the same thing in the past.

Rowan stared at him expectantly and motioned towards an empty chair. Sawyer hesitated for a moment before sitting down across from him at the table. He watched as Rowan returned to reading his newspaper, flipping through each page every minute or so.

It was hard not to stare at Rowan. He normally was so talkative and touchy with Sawyer, but now he just acted like he wasn't there.

Not that Sawyer liked his bubbly attitude. It was the most annoying thing he ever had to face.

But it was unnerving seeing him acting so cold. It made Sawyer feel small and insignificant. Like he wasn't worth Rowan's time at all. And if his own obsessed kidnapper thought that, then what did the outside world think? Did anyone even care that he was gone?

"Are you mad at me?" Sawyer asked softly.

Rowan only responded with an unamused hum.

Sawyer shrunk in on himself and continued drinking his tea silently. He had no idea what kind of mood Rowan was in right now and didn't want to upset him even more. He'd just need to find a different way out, even if it meant playing the long game. He could do that if it meant getting out alive in one piece.

"I'm not mad at you," Rowan spoke up finally. "I'm just... disappointed." He closed his newspaper and folded it neatly, placing his reading glasses on top of it. "I thought after everything we've been through together, you'd appreciate all I've done for you. I've done nothing but love you with everything I have, but you just..." His voice cracked, "You just take me for granted."

Was this bastard seriously about to cry? The same bastard who kidnapped him?

"I don't mean to," Sawyer rasped. "I'm sorry." He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to say more than what he knew Rowan wanted to hear from him.

Rowan wasn't stupid enough to fall for the fake apologies a second time, though. "Really?" He glared at him. "You're sorry?" Sawyer remained silent. "Then prove it to me. Show me you're sorry. I'm done taking your word for it."

Sawyer hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Kiss me." Right before Sawyer could say 'hell no!' Rowan added, "If you do, I'll take you outside for fresh air today." Sawyer only scoffed. "...and I won't tie you up when we're sleeping."

Fresh air did sound nice. And Rowan wouldn't tie him up at night? That was an even bigger incentive than getting fresh air.

The thought of finally being free from the ropes around his limbs did sound nice too, even if he didn't trust that Rowan would keep his promise. But he wasn't in a position to be picky, and maybe gaining his approval a second time would benefit him more.

Sawyer took a deep breath before standing up and walking around the table to stand in front of Rowan. The taller man looked down at him expectantly, waiting for him to make a move.

He stood on his toes and pressed his lips against Rowan's cheek before pulling away. 

Rowan tsked at him. "You call that a kiss?" Sawyer grumbled under his breath. "Kiss me properly."

He gulped down the knot in his throat and leaned forward, kissing him on the mouth this time. Rowan placed a hand on his waist, keeping him in place while his lips moved against his. Sawyer shuddered at the feeling of Rowan's tongue pressing into his mouth, making it difficult not to gag and pull away. But he forced himself to remain still and reciprocate until Rowan was satisfied enough.

After a few seconds, Rowan pulled away and smiled at him with half-lidded eyes. "That's more like it." He cupped Sawyer's cheek in his palm, rubbing his thumb across it gently. "See? You can be good."

Sawyer averted his gaze. "So are you going to let me out?"

"Of course, I'm a man of my word." He took Sawyer's hand in his own and stood up. "Let's get dressed."

Rowan led him upstairs to the bedroom and dug into the wardrobe for clothes. He pulled out a coat, turtleneck, and slacks, tossing them onto the bed for Sawyer to wear.

He changed without complaint, even if wearing Rowan's clothes made his skin crawl. Rowan smiled when he saw how Sawyer looked in his clothes and didn't say much, just dressing himself in a similar fashion.

He took Sawyer's hand and walked him downstairs, guiding him to the front door and unlocking it. Sawyer inhaled deeply, smelling the fresh air and feeling the breeze brush against his face.

It was freezing out, and the sun was hidden behind gray clouds above, threatening rain any minute.

Rowan grabbed an umbrella on his way out and Sawyer followed close behind as he locked up the cabin and led them down the pathway. The lake was quiet and empty save for a couple of birds flying overhead. Even though Sawyer wasn't particularly outdoorsy, the view was pretty damn gorgeous. He wished he could've come here under better circumstances.

They walked down the path in silence until they reached a gazebo by the water, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Rowan sat down on one of the benches and patted the empty space next to him.

Sawyer glanced around uneasily but obeyed, taking a seat beside him. He pulled his jacket closer to himself and rubbed his arms to warm himself up.

Rowan noticed this and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer to his body heat. He cringed and leaned away, but Rowan held firm onto him and rubbed his arm affectionately.

"Are you enjoying your fresh air?" Rowan asked, squeezing him tighter.

"Yeah," he responded. 

"Good." Rowan leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "I knew you would." Sawyer sighed and let Rowan hold him close without struggling or attempting to move away this time. He leaned his head against Rowan's shoulder and stared out over the water. "It's nice out here, isn't it?" Sawyer grunted in agreement. "Maybe next time, I'll take you out on the boat. I think that'd be romantic, don't you?"

Sawyer stiffened in his arms at the thought of being out on the water with nowhere to run to. But Rowan didn't seem to notice his reaction as he continued babbling on about how much fun they'd have together in the future. 

The sky was darkening overhead and a few drops of rain began to fall, causing Rowan to perk up.

He stood up from the bench and opened up his umbrella. Sawyer followed suit and stood beside him, shivering slightly in the cold air as Rowan held up the umbrella for both of them.

They walked back towards the house, stopping every once in a while for Rowan to point out a bird or interesting plant that caught his eye.

By the time they arrived back inside, Sawyer felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He excused himself to use the bathroom, needing a moment away from Rowan's constant attention.

He locked the door behind him and turned on the tap water, splashing his face with cool liquid. Sawyer glanced into the mirror and winced at his reflection.

His eyes were red from exhaustion and his skin was pale. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath his eyes, which looked even more dull than usual. It was hard to recognize himself like this.

There was a knock at the door, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Are you okay?" Rowan's voice was laced with worry.

"Yeah," Sawyer lied and wiped off his face with a towel. "Sorry." He unlocked the door and opened it to find Rowan standing there with concerned eyes. "Do you have to follow me everywhere I go?" Sawyer grumbled under his breath as he tried pushing past him.

Rowan stopped him in his tracks by placing a hand on his shoulder and gripping it tightly. "Yes," he hissed at him through gritted teeth, "because I need to make sure you don't run off again." Sawyer remained silent and allowed him to lead him back downstairs into the living room. "Sit down," Rowan demanded, pointing at the couch.

Sawyer plopped himself down on the soft cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched Rowan saunter to the kitchen and come back with more bandages in his hand.

He sat down beside him and reached over to remove the old bandages that were starting to fall off. 

This entire time Sawyer had been avoiding looking at them on purpose, but he was curious.

Rowan pulled up Sawyer's shirt and unwrapped the gauze around his waist, revealing a dark red burn mark that stretched across his lower abdomen.

At first, it was hard to tell what it said, but after a moment Sawyer realized that it spelled out 'R + S' inside a heart. He choked up at the sight of it and covered his mouth with a hand.

"What do you think?" Rowan asked hopefully as he grabbed ointment. "It looks nice, doesn't it?"

He couldn't respond. The horror was too overwhelming.

"Oh don't look at me like that," he chuckled, rubbing the salve onto his wound, "it'll heal perfectly fine, I promise." Sawyer didn't believe that at all, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. "I know it might not look pretty right now, but trust me, once it's healed up, it'll look amazing. We'll see each other's initials whenever we make love."

"We're never having sex," Sawyer muttered in disgust.

"You say that now..." He pressed a kiss over it, then applied a fresh set of bandages around Sawyer's torso. "I know you like dancing, so I bought a gramophone! I couldn't find the exact one you have, but it's still very nice."

Rowan removed a shellac record from its sleeve and placed it onto the gramophone.

A slow tune began playing, and he offered a hand to Sawyer, who hesitantly accepted it and stood up. Rowan wrapped an arm around his waist while Sawyer draped one on his shoulder, letting Rowan lead the dance.

He would have thought this was romantic if not for the fact that this was all an obsession from a psychopathic kidnapper.

"Do you know this song?" Rowan asked quietly while swaying them in rhythm to the music. 

Sadly, Rowan thought, because now it was ruined for him. "...Sweetheart, We Need Eachother... by Jack Payne," he mumbled. "1930."

"I'm impressed you know the date!"

"I love music."

"I know." Rowan's hand slipped lower, resting on Sawyer's hip. "I've never been the biggest fan of jazz or swing, but now that I think of you every time I hear it, it's my favorite genre." He chuckled and shrugged. "Though to be fair, I think about you 24/7. Every single second of every day." Sawyer couldn't help but shiver in discomfort at that sentiment. "Do you think about me too?"

It was impossible not to, considering it was impossible for Rowan to give him space for more than five minutes at a time. "A little bit," he replied half-heartedly.

Rowan beamed at him and dipped him backward. "Good," he purred, planting a kiss on his lips. "I want you to always think about me. About us. Nothing else matters." Sawyer glared. "Oh, do I still need to bargain with you to get a kiss?"

"I guess that depends on what else you can bargain." He didn't mean for it to come across as playful banter, but from the smirk on Rowan's face, he failed at that.

"Hmm... what would you like?"

Freedom was out of the question, even if Sawyer felt tempted to say that just to piss him off. "A pack of cigarettes?" Rowan's smile faded into a scowl. "Okay, fine. Uh... my phone?" He heavily doubted it'd work, but it was worth trying anyway.

Much to his surprise, Rowan nodded. "But only under the condition that this means I can kiss you whenever I like without a fight. No matter what."

Sawyer hated nothing more than kissing this creep, but it was only kissing, and then he could get his phone back. "Fine." He watched Rowan take off the record and sit on the couch, patting his lap. Sawyer took a deep breath and sat on his lap. Rowan cupped his cheeks and leaned forward to connect their lips. Sawyer shuddered but returned the kiss.

Rowan was a horrible kisser, which Sawyer suspected was because he didn't have much experience. Or maybe he was just bad at everything ever. Sawyer honestly couldn't care less; he just wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, Rowan was in no hurry. His lips were sloppy and clumsy as he moved them against his own.

Sawyer attempted to mimic his movements and found that they did work better together that way. Rowan was moaning into his mouth and gasping in between kisses.

He yelped when Rowan flipped their positions so he was straddling him, holding him against the couch, and grabbing his thigh to wrap around his waist.

Sawyer panted for air when Rowan finally pulled away from him to catch his breath. The taller man was flushed red and looked absolutely wrecked already from a single make-out session.

"Holy shit," Rowan breathed heavily. He was looking at him as if he had hung the moon and stars.

The shorter man's stomach twisted when he realized how hard he was against his leg. "Can I have my phone now?" 

Rowan blinked in confusion before remembering the deal they had made. He nodded and grabbed him by the hand, leading him outside, much to Sawyer's puzzlement. 

They stopped in front of a winterberry bush. Rowan retrieved a shovel from a nearby shed and began digging through the dirt.

When he had uncovered an object wrapped in plastic, he placed the shovel on the ground and lifted the object out of the hole. "Here." Rowan handed it over to him with a grin. "Sorry for the wait."

Sawyer examined it for a moment and peeled off the plastic to reveal the phone. His hopeful expression turned into anger very quickly as he looked over the device. He groaned in annoyance when he saw it was completely shattered to pieces. "You asshole! What the fuck is this?" Sawyer raised his voice, holding up the broken phone.

"What are you talking about? It's your phone."

"It's completely shattered! I can't even turn it on!"

"Oh, well that's also because I removed the battery."

Sawyer clenched his jaw in frustration. "Why the fuck did you even bother giving me a broken phone?"

Rowan was frowning, but Sawyer could see the smug smile tempting to make its way to his face. "You told me you wanted your phone. If you wanted a working phone, you should've specified that."

He was an idiot for thinking Rowan would've kept his end of the bargain. "Just--fucking whatever." He opened his mouth to yell at him more, but Rowan shut him up with a peck on the lips. Sawyer growled but knew he couldn't do anything about it.

Rowan had won, again.

[treehuggerthegreat]

something i really need to get off my chest even if i just post this privately is That i really dislike ‘caretakers’ in whump writing. or ‘whumper’ i feel like it makes a character (even if they’re just a hypothetical one) feel very 1 dimensional and it makes me so OKAY JUST HEAR ME OUT!!! whumpee i don’t mind much, it makes the prompt or what your talking about a little clearer. But it feels like it’s putting it into a box and making sort of roles which makes it feel less like a prompt and more like we’re in an omega verse fandom and i mean this really lovingly and affectionately and no hate to any of yall. I have a vast amount of characters and i write stories and books and I can say with out a shadow of a doubt, not ONE of them fall under ‘whumper’ or ‘caretaker’ because i develop them as their own individual character. Not even my antagonist are ‘whumpers’

So one of my main antagonists literally burns cigarettes on the MC and abuses the MC. Tries to kill her on her 18th birthday. Shes her mom, and the main character PHYSICALLY cannot leave that situation with out getting the authorities involved until she turns 18. Mom sounds like an ass, she beats ‘whumpee’ up! why would i NEVER call her a whumper? because she’s a whumpee by that logic. Her mom was extremely emotionally abusive, and half the time not fully there. Her shitty ass dad got murdered in front of her when she was just a kid. but Her mom isn’t a whumper either, because she too would be considered a whumpee. She was a world renowned flapper girl, everyone loved her. she LIVED for the fame and her face in newspapers. But behind the scenes she was actively ignoring her distant parents as they continued to try and marry her off. She was then forced into the marriage when she got pregnant with the guy (much so against her will which is why she killed him.) and ever since she’s been delusional and not fully there. It’s generational abuse.

more ramble under the cut + extra clarification on what I’m trying to say

okay but that’s just generational abuse right? There are other whumpers in the real world! Yeah i guess there’s sadists and serial killers, but like, there’s SOOOO much more guys.

I have a mini antagonist, he’s in highschool and he’s meant to be the toxic narcissistic ex of one of my characters. But he’s falling apart trying to get attention, he’s not fully aware of the damage he IS doing. Ass he may be but again behind the scenes he’s constantly fighting with his dad who refuses to do anything around the house and who is also transphobic (she’s bigender but i’ve been using he to make it less confusing right now) and now she has to take care of her little sister and act like a whole ass mom. As a sophomore. In high school. Not only that but her mom died, so she has to struggle with that. She’s just an annoying ass teenager, she doesn’t understand how to treat people or how she’s supposed to be handling what she’s dealing with. But getting attention and being liked at school? now that’s the shit. That’s like drugs for her. But to what lengths does she go to get that extra validation? He uses his boyfriend almost like an accessory. He’s not considerate of his feelings, and most likely doesn’t understand what a relationship is SUPPOSED to be.

Unless you’re making a sociopath character, which i LOVE a good sociopath character, you have to treat them like they also have humanity. Most of the time villains don’t just. Do shit to do it, they have some sort of background that lead up to this!!! And also even then with sociopaths they’re their own individual characters separate from the people they hurt!!! and also NONE of these are end all be alls and all characters must be developed this way!!!!

just my advice and stuff <3 i love all of you out there and i can understand why using certain roles and terms are the go to, and i’m not stopping you!!! i just really wanted to give my two cents so i can possibly help other writers!!!

[patchworkorphan]

Civilian x Crush kidnapped

TW: lady whump, lady whumpee, male whumpers, multiple whumpers, broken bones, kidnapping, kidnap whump, physical violence against a woman,

please be aware of the tags and don't engage if you don't like lady whump! Thank you :)

*~*~*~*~*

It was pouring out, Civilian realised with a groan, resting her forehead against the office window. “Another late night, Civilian?”

Civilian turned her head to see her crush stopped in the middle of the cubicle, his sweater draped over the crook of his elbow. He was just in his tee shirt that showed his defined arms.

That was just unfair, Civilian thought. Why does he have to have a nice face and body?

“Yeah. I’m trying to finish the report on the increase of Villain activity.”

Crush hummed with a nod and a pretty smile. “It seems we’re always the last two to leave,” said Crush.

“Probably because we have no lives,” Civilian said with a small laugh. Oh god she just said that. Out loud. To her crush. When he was probably gonna think she was a weird, boring loser now. Great. Perfect. And it started to rain heavier. Perfect. As if on cue.

To her utter surprise Crush laughed in reply, and not a forced laugh, like a proper, real one. Civilian could listen to that laugh all day.

“You don’t have to expose us like that, Civilian,” said Crush with a small shake of his head. He cleared his throat and then turned his body more towards Civilian. “Since we’re both workaholics and have no lives, how would you like to grab a drink with me?”

“Now?” Civilian asked, eyes going wide.

She looked like shit, and probably smelled like ink.

“Yeah. Now. Why not? I mean… like only if you want to…”

“Yeah, no. Now works,” said Civilian with a smile and Crush’s shoulders relaxed. Civilian quickly shut down her computer and started to gather her things before putting her jacket on and grabbing her crossbody bag before walking to Crush. He gestured towards the lifts and Civilian smiled and walked with him.

When they got into the lift, Crush pressed the ground floor button and the pair of them leaned against the back wall in silence.

Then they both tried to fill the silence at the same time.

“So what do—”

“This report you’re—”

Then they laughed and both said: “you go first.”

Civilian laughed again as a blush climbed Crush’s neck and coloured his cheeks pink. “I was asking,” Civilian continued. “What keeps you in so late every night?”

“Oh,” said Crush, then opened his mouth and a hesitant hum fell from his lips. His eyes almost nervous at Civilian’s question. “Okay, look. You can’t say it to anyone—”

“My lips are sealed,” said Civilian innocently, miming locking her mouth shut.

Crush smiled and leaned in closer to Civilian his voice dropping to a whisper, “you know the new guy? He covers politics…”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen him around,” said Civilian, eyes bright as she looked at Crush.

“Yeah. He is such a shit writer,” said Crush and Civilian let out a startled laugh. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I’m in late every night trying to fix it up and make it presentable.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Civilian with a grin. Crush laughed.

“No,” he agreed. “We must be very wicked.”

“Extremely,” said Civilian, then as the doors open, she looked straight ahead as she added, “I’m going to tell him what you said.”

“Ah no. You can’t do that! I’m supposed to be an unbiased editor.”

“Still,” Civilian teased. Crush grabbed Civilian’s arm, stopping her from going out into the cold wet night. Civilian looked at his hand then up at Crush as he pulled an umbrella from his bag. He stepped out first into the little roofed area and opened the umbrella, holding it high enough for them both to fit under.

Civilian said, “you’re so prepared.”

Crush shook his head. “I just listen to the weather after the news.”

“Then what surprise is left in life, Crush?”

Crush brought her to his local bar just down the road, The Public Domain. Crush told her that a lot of lawyers around the area come drink here too. Civilian smiled politely. Crush always had a good network of people that he trusted for his sources. It always seemed like a secret, and now that he was bringing Civilian here, it felt… well, like he was willing to share it with her.

The bar was buzzing with chatter and life. The smell of carpet dust and stale beer greeted their senses the moment they stepped into it. Crush held the door open with his foot, shaking the excess rain off the umbrella before closing it. He smiled slightly when he caught Civilian’s eye and nodded towards the bar. Civilian got the hint and walked up to it with him. The bar was quaint and bustling with patrons, chatting animatedly, laughter occasionally punctuating the conversations leaving a nice rhythmic lull to the pub.

The barman grinned when he saw Crush. “Another late night, Crush?”

Crush’s hand went to the nape of his neck and rubbed it bashfully, it endeared Civilian to him even more if that was possible.

“Yeah, you got me.”

“The usual?” the barman asked, and Crush smiled and said, “yes. A Guinness please and—” Crush said, looking back at Civilian. He leaned into the barman and held up two fingers. “Actually, two please.”

“Two Guinnesses,” said Crush again, and took out his wallet as did Civilian. Crush pushed her hand back and said: “put that away, I’m getting it. We’re here on my invitation.”

“Fine. I get the next round,” said Civilian.

Crush cocked an eyebrow at her. “So confident we’ll have another.”

“I’m just ensuring you know what you’re in for,” said Civilian with a wink. She thanked Crush for the drink, and they went to a small booth in the back. The conversation flowed easy, easier than Civilian flirting with him in the printer room. Or at the office offering to get Crush a coffee from the canteen because she was going anyway. It was better, more intimate.

The conversation got back to work on her third round of drinks and Crush’s smile was far better looking and almost irresistible. Civilian realised halfway through a story Crush was telling her of work that she could just reach over the table and crush her lips to his and all would be well.

His lips stopped moving, then turned up into a grin. “Civilian?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering when you got into current affairs?” Crush asked, his husky laugh making an appearance. Civilian blushed at being caught staring.

“Oh,” said Civilian, trying to think back to when she got interested in current events. “I mean… with all the Hero/ villain stories going around, and our paper not really being Pro or Anti Heroes I just wanted to start reporting the facts. As it happened, so people can witness the unbiased information, the before and after, and make up her own minds about it.”

“And?” Crush asked and Civilian let out a small laugh, lifting her hands in a shrug.

“And… Alice liked the idea and told me to handle the Hero–Villain side of things. It got a lot of positive feedback from our readers too.”

Crush leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. “But why were you interested in it to begin with?”

“I was reading about Hero and how good it is that we have them to help us and stop the Villains running around our city. Praising them to the brim, it was bordering on sycophantic…” Civilian trailed off, taking a sip of her Guinness. Crush smiled and reached over the table, wiping some of the foam off of Civilian’s upper lip with her thumb.

It was as if the world had frozen in that moment between them. Civilian’s heart stopped beating for a fleeting second that stretched into eternity. Crush retracted his hand and licked the foam from his thumb with a secretive smile.

Civilian’s face burned redder than cherries, her cheeks heating up. From all the drinking, Civilian told herself, not anything else. Not how hot Crush was, not at all… they barely noticed.

“And you didn’t like that?” Crush asked with his perfect knowing smile. He knew exactly what caused the blush covering Civilian’s face scarlet and continued on the conversation while they were distracted. As if he didn’t do anything at all.  

Oh no Civilian loved that, she wanted to get more foam on her lip just so he could wipe it off again.

What were they talking about again? Oh god, she was making it so obvious. Think Civilian! Oh yes, Heroes and Villains, oh god, she was making it so obvious. Play it cool, Civilian.  

SPEAK CIVILIAN! A voice screamed at her from the back of her mind, and she blushed again.

“No,” said Civilian, turning the clammy glass around in her hands. She continued thoughtfully, “I don’t like when things get shoved down my throat before I know what shit they’re shovelling. Turns out the Hero agency had donated a very generous sum to the publication and that’s why there was a sudden exposé on how good Heroes were.”

Crush sat back when Civilian stopped talking, a small hidden thing twinkling behind his smile. “What?” Civilian asked, cocking her brow.

“Nothing,” Crush said with his handsome smile.

“No what? What’s that smile for?”

“I just didn’t realise you were so passionate about Heroes and villains from reading your pieces. It’s… you’re very surprising, Civilian.”

Civilian bowed her head and Crush laughed, getting to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Civilian nodded, following Crush out of the booth then out the door to the pub. It had stopped raining. A sheen of water covering the streets the only remnant that it had ever rained. So, when water splashed on the pair of them from a passing car, they could do nothing but laugh.

That laugh got cut off as into a scream as something suddenly slammed into Crush. Civilian whirled a scream of horror in her throat. “Crush!”

Civilian was running after him, deeper into a side street, shoes splashing the puddles up her feet. At the bottom of the alley Civilian saw Crush engaged in a struggle with someone. Civilian pulled pepper spray from her bag and ran up on the pair.

Crush’s eyes found Civilian and widened as he yelled: “Civilian! No— ngh, run! Go!”

“Civilian, hmm?” Civilian turned on her heel, pepper spray aimed and ready at the newcomer, but her wrist was caught in the attacker’s hand, and he twisted it roughly. Civilian cried out, as her attacker twisted her wrist further and plucked the pepper spray from her hand with ease. Her only defence. “How lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Civilian’s eyes went hard, and she balled her hand into a fist. She found her centre in her feet, bending her knees slightly. Then twisted her whole body with the slap that she threw straight for the attacker’s cheek.

The attacker simply caught that wrist too, smiling down at her with a grin that exposed too many teeth. Civilian yanked her wrists down, trying to break free of his grip, but her attacker yanked her forward suddenly and Civilian stumbled, her balance thrown off. Her attacker spun her, so her back was to the attacker’s front, her arm twisted behind her back and pinned there. Then there was a gentle hand on her throat, holding her head up, and when Civilian tried to struggle the attacker lifted her captured arm higher and Civilian cried out.

“Crush. You might want to stop,” said the man holding Civilian. The scuffle came to a pause, Crush’s head lifting to see Civilian and whoever was holding her. His eyes narrowing at the person behind Civilian, but he stopped fighting, nonetheless. Then he got a punch to the face for good measure from his attacker.

“I think…” the man behind Civilian said, “we’re all going to go for a drive, hmm?”

“No,” said Civilian. They were in a public place. Her best weapon was her lungs. So, Civilian opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs for “Help! Help! Somebody help us! Police! Ple-”

The coolness of a blade biting into her neck cut her off. “Keep screaming, they’re so pretty… but I would hate for my knife to slip…”

“Okay. Right Hand,” Crush said, glancing between Civilian and Right hand behind Civilian. “I’ll go with you, just… just let Civilian go.”

A rumbling chuckle from behind Civilian sent a shiver ran down her spine. “Oh no, no, no, Crush. Civilian’s coming along to make sure you behave.”

Civilian’s blood went cold as she looked at Crush’s resolve shattering right in front of her eyes. She wanted to fight. She wanted Crush to fight. To try. To struggle to punch to do something…

“Henchmen take Crush, don’t worry. He won’t put up a fight,” Civilian was pushed forward, and she resisted. Her hand was twisted further up her back, and she winced as she was forced a stepped forward.

“Keep walking or I’ll break your arm, Civilian,” Right Hand said into Civilian’s ear. Civilian obeyed because what else could she do?

At the end of the alley there was a black car parked where they had come in. Which meant these guys had been following them… for how long? Right hand kept pushing Civilian forward and when they got to the car, he pushed Civilian into the backseat then slammed the door shut. They did the same to Crush on the other side and Civilian’s panicked eyes went to Crush who just whispered: “everything will be all right.”

“Why do I get the feeling you know these people?” Civilian whispered back. Her hand went to the door trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Child locked, no doubt. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is going on? Crush opened her mouth to reply when the two front doors opened and their attackers, Henchman and Right hand, got into the front of the car.

Henchman was in the driver’s seat and took off, while Right Hand turned in his seat and smiled at Civilian. She couldn’t really tell his features from here. It was too dark. Did he have blue eyes? Or brown? And his hair… she’d need to remember something concrete to tell the police when she get free.

If they get free.

“Sorry to interrupt your date, Civilian.”

“Go fuck yourself, Right Hand,” Civilian said in reply. Right hand just laughed and stared forward again.

“You got a keeper there, Crush. You tell her who you are? Or does the little reporter want to figure it out all by themselves?”

Civilian looked out her window, but it was all blacked out. She couldn’t even see her own reflection. Of course. Of fucking course.

Crush spoke next. “Right Hand, let Civilian go, okay? I’ll come willingly.”

“You’re coming willingly now, Crush.”

“For now,” Crush threatened, his voice taking on a completely different tone than Civilian was ever used to. Ever knew Crush was capable of.

“Put your claws back in,” said Right Hand dismissive. “We’re almost there now anyways. Besides… you wouldn’t risk putting poor Civilian in danger by trying to stop the car and be a hero now, would you?”

Civilian glanced at Crush from the corner of her eye, her heart hammering in her chest but he wouldn’t look at her. Civilian put her hand out, resting it on the middle seat. Crush put his hand in theirs, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing gently.

When the car stopped Henchman and Right Hand got out of the car. Civilian’s door opened first, and she was grabbed by the arm and pulled out. She looked into the face of Right Hand, who was still smiling down at her. She mustered up her best glare in return. Right Hand just pushed her in front of him again and told her to walk.

Civilian did just that, trying to take in everything around her. Figure out where they were but all she saw was a garage made of cinder bricks and concrete floors. Then a door opened to them, and Right Hand pushed her through. It just led to a larger room. A man stood at the opposite wall, his back to them as they entered. Right Hand’s grip tightened on Civilian’s arm when he felt Civilian almost stop.

“The prodigal son returns,” said Right Hand to the man ahead of them. Civilian looked over their shoulder, trying to find Crush, but a hand squeezed her cheeks and dragged their gaze to face forward again.

Crush spoke and Civilian’s head flooded with relief. He was still here. Civilian wasn’t alone. They were fine. He was fine.

“I’m not saying shit until you let Civilian go,” said Crush to the room. Then a grunt of pain and Civilian shot forward to help and was yanked back by her hair with a yelp.

The man finally turned to face the group and Civilian’s breath caught in her throat. That was Supervillain. That man was the Supervillain. Civilian and Crush were taken here to see Supervillain?! But then that means the person holding Civilian was… Right hand… Supervillain’s right hand. Civilian felt all the blood drain from her face as a small laugh sounded above her. Civilian took an involuntary step back, but just hit Right Hand’s chest.

“Oh, not so brave now, are we?” Right hand asked and Civilian couldn’t find it in herself to reply.

Supervillain approached them. Fine shoes clacking off concrete, echoing. Civilian didn’t dare breathe as Supervillain came closer and closer to her. Supervillain was taller than Civilian. Taller. Broader. Crueller. Instead of going to Crush he walked right up to Civilian and Right hand pushed her forward, letting go of her hair and arm.

Civilian felt very cold and exposed like this. She nearly missed Right Hand’s brutal hold on her. Supervillain looked down at her without a hint of an expression on his face. He looked almost alien. Cold.

Supervillain took Civilian’s hand in his and pulled it up as if to inspect it. Civilian let him. She hated herself for it, but Supervillain killed people, this wasn’t a time to be brave.

“You’ve been gone too long, Crush,” said Supervillain simply. His voice sent shivers down Civilian’s spine. Then Civilian was screaming, white hot pain burst behind her eyes as a resounding crack tore through her hand. Her legs went to jelly, and she wanted to be sick, but she just put her other hand out for support against the only other solid thing there: which happened to be Supervillain.

“LET HER GO! She has nothing to do with this!” Crush yelled. Distantly Civilian was aware of the scuffle behind her. That Crush was probably trying to get to her, but it didn’t matter because that wouldn’t stop the pain in her wrist from burning.

“Are you going to keep making demands, Crush? Because there are 206 bones in Civilian’s body, and I can break as many as you need to remind you of who has the power here.”

Civilian was shivering at the threat. Or the pain. She didn’t know.

“Please…” Crush again. “Please let them go.”

“No,” said Supervillain, and Civilian wanted to throw up. She wasn’t sober enough to deal with this shit. A hand on her chin tilted her head up to look Villain in the eye. “Just a hairline fracture, my dear. Nothing to worry about. Right hand?”

Civilian felt Right hand’s hand on her shoulder again and she nearly sagged against him. “If Crush decides to make any more demands break something else of her.”

“I won’t,” Crush said quickly, the words rushed out panicky and desperate. Then cleared his throat and said again: “I won’t, sir.”

“Good,” said Supervillain, eyes going between the two of his captives. “Let’s begin again then, shall we?”

[echo-goes-mmm]

Second-Hand Goods #1

Masterpost

Next

Warnings: death mentions, human trafficking, creepy whumper

Allen flipped the business card over and over in his hands. He watched his latest victim drip blood on the floor from the chair he was taped to.

“If you ever get bored of your playthings,” his mentor had said, “give this guy a call. He’ll buy them off you. They better be alive, though.”

Allen had been torturing his latest catch for a month, but he was getting tired of this one. There were only so many ways to scream, and his shrill voice was grating on his nerves. His begging was getting repetitive too.

Ordinarily he would just kill him and bury the body, but he was running out of space and disposing of evidence still made him nervous.

His catch whined behind the gag, his fingers twitching. He pulled against the duct tape, as if rubbing his wrists raw would have a different result than the last hundred times. 

He sighed and stood up from his makeshift chair.

“Calm down,” he muttered. His catch flinched. He probably hadn’t realized Allen was still there. 

He looked down at the card.

It was blank, except for a phone number scrawled in an elegant hand and a code word on the other side.

Allen left the warehouse and bought a burner from the nearest store in cash. He dialed the number. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, I uh, got this number from a friend of mine. I think I have something you might be interested in?”

The voice sighed. “Passcode?”

“Um. Kerosene?”

“Alright. Text me the address and I’ll see you there in a few hours.”

Well, that was easy.

He parked the car in his usual spot, and headed back to the warehouse. His victim was still there, of course.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.” The man whimpered, and Allen was pretty sure he was crying under the blindfold.

“Don’t worry,” he told him, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.” The man began to sob, and Allen grinned.

He sat back down on his orange crate and waited for his contact to arrive.

___________________

Emmett twisted in his restraints but it was no good. The tape wasn’t going to give, and the sticky chemicals burned and stung. 

Everything hurt so much. The burns had long since cooled, but they itched and tingled. His jaw ached from the knot of cloth in his mouth and the tape over his lips was infuriating. It was hard to breathe through his tears, but it seemed that was how his kidnapper wanted him.

Blood still dripped from his nose and from the slashes across his chest. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, his captor stopped on pure whims. He spent hours on the cattle prod, and Emmett was pretty sure his brain was fried by now.

“Calm down,” said a voice in his ear, and he jumped. Emmett thought he had left.

Footsteps echoed away from him, and Emmett slumped in relief. Finally, a break.

He hung his head and tried to doze. He hadn’t slept in so long, and he knew in his heart he would never see his bed again. 

Rest didn’t come to him, because not long after he left, his captor had returned.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.” 

Oh god, what did that mean?

“Don’t worry,” he went on, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.”

Emmett couldn’t help but cry. He was so tired, part of him wanted to die just so it would be all over. 

It must have been about an hour before he heard another person���s steps on the concrete. 

“So how does this work?” asked his captor.

“I will inspect your product and offer a price, obviously,” said a second voice.

“And if I don’t like your offer?”

“Then I’ll go, and you’ll call again in a couple days and accept it because I’m the only one who does this sort of thing. Unless you really want to dispose of your toys yourself.” Emmett shivered.

“Okay, okay. Get it over with, then.”

Footsteps came closer to him. A finger brushed over his chest, light enough it almost tickled. 

“Well?”

“Be patient,” said the stranger. He hummed in consideration. He suddenly grabbed Emmett’s chin, forcing his head up.

“Eye color?”

“Brown, but why does it matter?”

“It usually doesn’t,” said the man, tilting his head back and forth. “If the product has many small flaws, that can affect price. Eye color trends come and go, you know.”

“I don’t,” said his kidnapper. “I’m not exactly ‘plugged in’ to whatever your business is.”

The second man sighed. “If you want to get paid well, you should be.” He let his head fall.

Emmett’s heart leaped into his throat. What business?

The man tapped his temple. “Are you awake in there, my dear?” Emmett nodded.

“Excellent.” The hand ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Emmett nodded, but he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Obeying for more pain, or obeying to avoid it?

The stranger’s second hand suddenly rubbed at his crotch, and Emmett jumped. The stranger chuckled. Thank god his captor had left his jeans on.

“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you did use duct tape. It leaves a residue, and it’s incredibly annoying to scrub off. I knocked off two fifty for that.”

“Ya know what? Fine. Fifteen it is.”

There was some shuffling, and then Emmett felt a firm hand on his arm. 

“Don’t move, my dear. I’m going to cut you free from this wretched tape. But you’re going to be good for me, and not fight. Understand?”

Emmett nodded, because what choice did he have?

He heard a serrated knife work its way through the tape under the arms of the chair. The pressure lessened, and he flexed his fingers for the blood flow. The man, his new captor, picked up his wrist and plopped it down into his lap before working on the other one. Finally, both wrists were free, but the man wrapped rope around them instead. 

Emmett sat still and let the man do what he wanted. At least the rope was soft. The stranger tugged on the knot and seemed satisfied with it. 

“Good boy,” he cooed, “Let’s get that gag off of you. I bet that tape feels awful. No screaming, now.”

Emmett tilted his head up to show how cooperative he was.

I can be good, he thought. Just don’t hurt me.

The stranger ripped the tape off in one go, and the pain was practically nothing compared to everything else. The man pulled the cloth slowly out of his mouth.

“Could you hurry up?” asked his would-be-killer, “What do you even want with him, anyway?”

“You can leave if you want,” said the man, his sweet voice cold again. “I’ve already paid you. And it’s none of your business anymore.”

There was a huff, and footsteps echoed away.

“Looks like Mr. Grumpy left us alone,” said his new kidnapper, in his nicer voice. He finished working the knot of fabric out of his mouth. “I bet that feels better.” He reached to Emmett’s jaw, firmly rubbing the soreness out of his muscles.

“You’ve been good so far, so I'll use a much nicer gag for you.”

“I’ll be quiet, Sir,” gambled Emmett, voice hoarse. “Please.”

The man hummed. “So polite,” he praised, “but no. Now close your mouth.” There was a clink of metal, and a soft panel of leather was pushed to his lips. A strap split around his ear, around the back of his head, and clipped to the other side. A second strap clipped at the back of his head and came over, branching around his nose and clipped to the panel. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, and at least his jaw wouldn’t be forced open. But the panel was snug and secured in a way he didn’t like. He felt more like a muzzled animal than before.

“See? Much better.” He hauled Emmett to his feet, and pushed him along the floor. Soon they made it outside, and Emmett relished the feeling of sun on him. He heard a click of a remote, and the signature sound of a car trunk unlatching.

The man slowly pushed him forward, and his knees hit the bumper of a car. 

“Watch your head,” he said, guiding him to crawl into the trunk. 

At least he’s nice about it, he thought.

The trunk slammed closed, and the engine started.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[ashintheairlikesnow]

If you ever feel like writing a Drabble where Misha is on a date and gets broken up with please tag me, cause I’d love it 😈

CW: Whumper POV, sadistic whumper, Misha thinks a lot of violent things about basically everyone

-

A muscle in Misha's jaw twitches as his teeth meet, grinding together with the effort it takes to just... listen. He's wildly aware of the steak knife lying next to his right hand, convenient as can be, but probably nearly as dull as a bread knife.

"It's just... I kind of feel like you don't actually care," Michelle says, and looks at him with big, imploring eyes. He thinks about gouging them out and putting coins there, something Tyoma read to him once about paying for the ride to Hell. "Not, like, about me, but... well, yes, it feels like you don't care about anything, me included."

He nods, breathing carefully. "I don't think that's true," He says, and his voice stays mild, but the rage burns him up from the inside. It's the only thing he ever feels with any level of strength - every other emotion feels sort of faded by comparison, but anger... anger is bright and sharp and hot and good.

She raises her eyebrows, disbelieving, and then lets out a little laugh, picking up her fork to pick at her salad. "Okay, fine. Name one thing you even remotely care about more than yourself."

That's easy. Misha doesn't even hesitate. "My brother."

Her hand stills, a bit of lettuce dripping ranch dressing pierced right through, as if the vegetable bleeds white with green flecks. Misha's eyes flicker down to it, wondering if he could get a pitchfork all the way through a torso and try to recreate the image. When he looks back up at her face, the expression on her face is a strange one.

"... Yeah, okay," She says, speaking slowly. "But... like. You and your brother aren't... normal about each other."

"What does that mean?"

If she insults his Tyoma, he will slice her face to ribbons, even if the trail leads right to him. It'd be worth it, to show her ruined body to Tyoma and say, look, she said bad things about you, look how much I love you that I have ensured she can't say them again.

"I... I don't know, Mikhail." She says it almost like Michael in her stupid American accent, and he swallows down a correction. It isn't worth it. "I just mean... look, my brother's a couple years older than me. I know tons of people with brothers, and none of them spend as much time together as you guys do. And, like, he looks at me like I'm intruding on you two."

"Tyoma only wants to protect me," Misha lies, smooth like oil.

Tyoma wants to protect you from me.

"Right. But. Still, like, it's weird, right?"

Misha exhales, slowly. Tyoma always tells him to breathe away the anger before it takes over when he's in a place where people will see it. He tries, he really does try.

"I do not think so," He says, placing each word into the air, picturing them as stones he drops to weigh her down, drag her under the surface of the water. "We come from Russia when we are little, we have only each other for long time." His accent is thickening, he's dropping the unnecessary English words that used to drive him up the wall.

The other kids laughed because he forgot the 'a' or the 'the' in so many sentences, and sometimes he scratched them up or bit them, and then Tyoma taught him how to stop himself, how to breathe first.

"No, I get that-"

"Do you?"

She swallows, and she sees something in his face. He knows she does, because she sits up suddenly, her spine straightening. She's tense, now. He thinks about when she explained to him that she keeps her keys between her knuckles when she walks late at night out of her job at the mall, how she never wears her hair in a ponytail because that would make it easier to grab. All the little rules she lives by to keep herself safe. He hadn't been paying much attention, it had seemed like so many pointless little games.

"Yeah," She says, and her voice is a little husky, now. "Yeah, I do. You were all by yourselves when you moved here, I understand that. But, like... that was more than ten years ago. And dating you still feels like I'm dating you both, except that I kind of get the feeling that your brother isn't into the idea."

Misha hasn't ever considered it that way. He looks to the side, out into the eternal rain. Why his parents moved to this part of the country, where a drizzle is good weather and sun is a rarity, will never make sense to him. "I can see why you think this," He says, finally, and his voice is softer now. He can see Michelle relax.

It's her own fault, not realizing that predators are often quietest just before they strike.

"I like seeing you," He continues, and looks down at his own steak, half-eaten, so raw it might as well be bleeding on the plate. "I am sorry you do not want to see me any longer, but we can stay friends?"

"Yeah," She says, and he wonders if she's lying. Misha lies all the time, about everything, constantly. But he can never tell if other people are lying - mostly, he doesn't care. "Yeah, friends. Listen, I'm gonna-... if you're okay, I'm gonna go. Do you mind grabbing the check?"

She's leaving, he thinks, and making sure she's gone before he can follow her out.

It doesn't matter.

He knows where she lives, works, who her friends are...

Tyoma would tell him this would be too close, people would look at him. Likely suspect, unlike the strangers in bars he's never seen before. Unlike the women walking the streets with no one to report them missing. Tyoma is right, he's right, and so Misha pushes it down. Instead, he looks over Michelle's face, memorizing it as best he can.

"No problem," He replies, and pushes his chair out, standing up to offer her a hug. She looks unsettled, but unwilling to make a scene - she steps into the hug, and he reminds himself not to hold her tight enough to hurt. He breathes in her perfume.

"I will see you around," He says, voice kind and soft, unworried. Unbothered.

"Yeah," She mumbles as she breaks away from him. She grabs her purse and he watches her go. She has her phone in her hand and then to her ear before she disappears from the window, and he thinks about how she's probably calling someone so she'll be on the phone all the way to her car, in case he runs after her.

In case he gives chase.

Misha, though, just sits quietly back down and cuts another bite of his steak.

He will forget her in a week, or two or three, and find some other girl. He has no doubts he'll find someone new, there's always someone new. It's not like he cares about them, he just hates when they leave him.

But Tyoma will still be there.

He finishes every single bite of his own dinner and about a third of Michelle's remaining salad before he pays and leaves, walking out into the nighttime rain without even batting his eyes against the droplets that land on his lashes.

Even the anger is fading, now. No feeling stays in him for long, he flits from one to the next. Only the itch is permanent. Michelle can go - he doesn't need her, or even care about her very much. He just hates being refused.

He sits in the driver's seat and dials the only number he knows by heart.

"Allo," Tyoma says, sounding like he's been woken up out of a dead sleep. Misha grins, knowing he'll be all mussed up, hair in his eyes. "Mishka? Vse khorosho?"

"Yeah, is fine," He answers in English. "Michelle breaks up with me tonight."

"Oh." Tyoma hesitates, then asks, gently, "Are you okay?"

Misha's smile widens. If he can't feel enough for things to matter, Tyoma at least feels enough for both of them. It's cute, that he thinks Misha might be heartbroken. "Da. Is fine. I want to go out tonight, though, find someone."

Tyoma's silence is so long that Misha breaks it with laughter, shaking his head where he sits in his car.

"Not like that! Uspokoit'sya, Artyoshka. Just to meet girls. Do you have work?"

"Mmmf, no. My night off. I can go. I can... what time s'it?"

"Eight-thirty."

"Mishka..." Tyoma groans. Misha can see him collapsing back into bed, head against the pillow. "I sleep for only four hours!"

"I know. Mne zhal', Artyoshka," He isn't, he isn't sorry at all, "But I want to go out. You will come with? Yes? If I come home, you will go with me out tonight?"

If Tyoma says yes, he won't kill anyone tonight. If he says no, Misha will find someone who looks like Tyoma and kill them instead, take pictures, and show Tyoma what he's done by caring about a little sleep more than his own brother.

He's picturing, with delight, what it would be like to see Tyoma's eyes go so wide and scared of him, like the others do before they die. How handsome Tyoma would be bleeding. But all his big brother does is sigh heavily. "Da. I need to shower and dress. Come home?"

"I will." Misha sighs, feeling so much better already. Even just thinking about fixing the itch helps, a little. Even if he would never ever hurt his brother, sometimes thinking about it is just... fun. "Tyoma?"

"Da?"

"Thank you. You are a very good brother."

He hangs up before he hears if Tyoma says anything back. Tonight will be just for drinking, dancing, and maybe seeing if any girls will go into the filthy bar bathrooms with him, and he won't hurt anyone. He won't hurt anyone at all.

He can save that for later.

Especially if any of those girls like Tyoma more.

[letstalkwhump]

Let's Talk Whump

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community. I’m Malice and I’ll be your host. 

Joining us today is the fabulous @ashintheairlikesnow!

It’s great to have you here, Ash! Let’s kick this interview off with a fact or two about yourself!

Hi! I go by Ash, I am an ageless elder crone, and my life is built around the whims of an old dog and a very young cat. My primary hobby is reading, and I especially get lost in books on cults and new religious movements, World War I, and vampires.

What does whump mean to you? 

To me, whump is physical, mental, and emotional suffering. What causes that suffering can be any one of a number of things, and any of them might be what fascinates about the story. 

But it's whump when someone hurts.

And how did you find the whump community? What made you want to join?

I had gone through a tumultuous few months in 2019, including being laid off. I was reading and writing in-between frantically applying and interviewing for new jobs, and somewhere in there I stumbled back onto Tumblr after a long… long… hiatus. 

In August of 2019 I did a fanfiction writing challenge and the prompt for day 11 was 'whump'. A friend of mine had to explain to me what the word even meant, which is when I realized there was a whole subgenre dedicated to my favorite thing to write! After that, I started following some blogs with whump in their name and shortly after, took a chance on posting some writing, too. 

2019 you say, and yet I would affectionately swear you’ve been around the whump community forever! Do you think  your view on whump changed since you joined? 

Definitely! I was more timid when it came to what I would or wouldn't write out in detail early on. Eventually I gained confidence and started including things that delved into full horror, where before I wasn't sure how it would be received. 

I think I have come to appreciate a ton of tropes that didn't really speak to me or that I struggled with at first! Finding certain writers that really did a great job with them helped me get over that.

ANd now for the best bit; Let’s talk whump tropes! Do you have a few particular faves?

Noncon and recovery from it - one of my favorite things about whump isn't even the harm but the way a character recovers from it, and noncon can be a violation of physical self, identity, everything. So I enjoy the noncon but also watching someone rebuild themself afterward. 

Trauma recovery - on a related note. Most of my stories really focus heavily not on the worst of times, but in what comes after. How do you find yourself again when everything about you was erased? Or beaten, or broken? Resilience is essential in my work. 

BBU - I started writing at the beginning of the BBU taking off in early 2020 - I think my first Kauri piece was written in January 2020 actually. I love world building and dystopian fiction, so I never stop finding new awful details about the BBU to bring to the light. 

Creepy/intimate whumpers - Whumpers that get under your skin without necessarily treading into noncon territory. Think like @comfy-whumpee's Alistair, a master of overwhelming, awful affection and the power of control. Or @for-the-love-of-angst's Zever, a father-figure to OC Taron turned captor. 

Shades of gray - whumpees who weren't the good guys, but who have been forced to struggle and suffer. I like writing, and reading, imperfect people who are trying to make themselves better than they've been, or bad people who have their reasons who run into someone they can't get away from. 

Hype time! Do you have a few pieces of your favourite work that you’d like to share?

This is so hard! Oh my gosh. I need to think about this. 

Haunted - a Kauri piece. The way this one delves into the emptiness of Kauri from someone else's perspective… there are some metaphors in here I am really proud of. 

Blood, Freely Given - a vampire walks into a hospital. God, I love when I get the chance to work in a more horror-centered space. This one is lyrical and I love it.

I’m Here - a boy remembers everything he was made to forget. This was maybe the most intense thing I've written. It is disjointed and chaotic and I adore it.

Oh my god! I am obsessed with Blood, Given Freely’s vibes! Creepy but somehow tugging at my emotions- damn! Do you have a particular writing routine?

My best writing happens in a coffeeshop with a pastry and a latte on hand! I almost always sit down and put on a playlist based on whichever story, then write out a whole piece on two or three hours. Then I spend a day or two editing and cleaning up, then post. 

I used to try to write once or twice a week. Lately that's fallen off to every other week or even less. Life gets busy! But I still write when the mood strikes me. 

And do you find somethings are easier for you to write than others?

I am so so so bad at writing fight scenes or action. It's like pulling teeth! On the other hand, I am pretty good at dialogue, I think. The different voices of different characters come to me fairly easily. 

Can we get a peek behind the curtains and see what your currently working on?

I am half-heartedly trying to get started on a novel that I keep going back and forth on, involving a man looking for a vampire in 1926 upstate New York. But not for the reasons you think.

Actually, maybe exactly for those reasons.

I am definitely enjoying writing horror more often. My OC Finn Schneider's story is pure nightmare fuel, and I find myself thinking about him a lot. 

Do you have a joke or pun you would like to share to spread some smiles today?

When I was in high school, I decided to start telling bad jokes on purpose, as my "thing". To my credit, I kept it up for years. I had jokes I would tell at every party. They were all terrible.

I was surprised that people kept asking me to tell more.

Now I can't remember any of them. 

I mostly run screaming from puns. They are the real monsters here. 

Haha, puns seem to be very popular in the whump community, particularly in our urls! Would you care to share some writing advice with our readers?

My best advice has always been and will always be just to write often. Like any muscle, it gets stronger with exercise, like any skill you get better primarily through practice. Even if you doubt yourself, keep writing. You will look back and be shocked at how you improved even without realizing it over time. 

Try to set aside time to write. It doesn't have to be anything in particular, any one story. Write anything at all. 

Shout-out time for some of the wonderful people on here!

Oooooh it would be such a wildly long list. I will try! Okay, here are just a few:

@albino-whumpee who we recently lost created some incredible whump art from a very personal place. I miss them. 

@wildfaewhump @comfy-whumpee @whump-tr0pes @hackles-up @card-games-and-pain @whumpiary @sableflynn @redwingedwhump @whump-it @for-the-love-of-angst @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @winedark-whump @justplainwhump @just-horrible-things … gosh there are so many!

Finally, is there anything you'd like to add?

The whump community has been an incredible place to make my writing "home". I've met some pretty amazing people on this hellsite! May we all continue to enjoy the suffering of our silly little guys here together! 

Thank you for joining us, Ash. It was an absolute pleasure to have you on the show! 

And to all you fabulous folk at home, have a whump-derful day!

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Content: [Implied] Whumper-turned-whumpee, [mentioned] escape attempt, [implied] multiple whumpers, [implied] reluctant whumper.

"Do you really want to do this?" Whumpee asked quietly one evening. They pulled the blanket they'd been given further over themselves, watching as Whumper stared a little too intensely at the TV. "Outside of... when you're hurting me, you're always so kind. You make me all my favourite meals and take care of my wounds for me. You've never beaten me for fun or taken your anger out on me. Do you even enjoy the times you do hurt me?"

They recieved no response. Whumper looked angry now, but their fists were bunched up inside their hoodie pockets; noticeably shaking despite the fabric hiding them.

With a small tilt of their head, Whumpee shuffled a little closer and tugged at Whumper's arm. "You know... I've crafted my fair share of escape plans. I could get us out of here, and we can go back to our families."

"...I don't have one," Whumper mumbled. "I live with my mentor - the guy that brought you here."

Whumpee's expression fell again. "Oh. So... you've got nowhere to go? Does that mean we can't leave?"

"I don't deserve freedom after the things I've done," Whumper quietly protested. Their fingers bunched up more and they sucked in a sharp, irritable breath. "I'm trying to find a way to get you home safely, Whumpee."

"Whumper, you don't deserve-"

Whumper glared over at them. "No, be quiet. I don't want your sympathy. Just keep your head down until I figure something out, okay? Even if you leave without me knowing, he'll think I had something to do with it, so- so please just have a little more patience. I promise I'm working on something."

Begrudingly, Whumpee hung their head and sat back again. They just wanted to go home, but if Whumper could get them out without them getting blamed for it afterwards, it would be worth it.

Whumper was not a nasty person. They were clearly forced into doing this, and while they found it hard to feel sympathetic towards them, it meant a lot that they were trying to help them escape.

They curled up some more and let out a shaky sigh. "Okay."

[mellowwhumps]

oc introductions!

heyo! now that i’m finally done with june of doom (which was meant to serve as a basic version of this) here’s all my oc introductions! i cannot for the life of me make it sound interesting but hopefully my future content compensates for that…roles are listed from least to most!

this is also the official announcement that i will be participating in @/whump-kia ‘s whumperless whump event!!! or at least half of it because i don’t think i’ll finish in time (artfight once again remains my priority for july i fear….) i’ll still try though

i’ll make picrews or coloured references like literally any normal creator. someday. soon. (lies)

side note: their personalities do change a lot between AUs since yknow. choices influence actions so yeah!! same yet different love that…as another side not everything i tag as simply “AU'' is just the main one i usually use since that’s the most developed

i really recommend checking their toyhouses since it goes into a lot more detail :3

haley !! 

toyhouse

quotelist + more in elowen’s quotelist

roles: whumpee-whumper (ex), caretaker

my scrunkly scrimblo…in a way i’d describe him as half living weapon. why half you may ask? because for the first half of his life he was treated as a human and then abruptly in the second half it just. changed. no more nice words. conflict between his ‘home’ and a neighbouring kingdom peaks, war comes, everything ends, though i mostly don’t focus on the war part haha. this guy knows he’s meant to be wielded and used, but just how much of a weapon is he? 

personality wise, he’s not a talker. despite his generally serious demeanour, he’s a much nicer person to be with than the one who raised him, caring about others because he thinks the world should just be kinder, and maybe if he cares enough he can repent for it all.

for the most part he shifts personalities quite widely between aus…

——————

halcyon !!

toyhouse (unfinished)

roles: whumpee (ex), caretaker

from the aforementioned neighbouring kingdom! she serves the queen as the captain of the royal knights, yknow the drill, there’s war and they started it. she’s the type of person who believes in what’s right but also won’t hesitate to rethink if her beliefs are wrong. her story is mostly about dealing with all the hard stuff like Feelings and the Aftermath because nobody likes doing that ew.

she’s trying her best. i respect this behaviour

——————

elowen !!

toyhouse (but i only have it for his AU)

quotelist

roles: caretaker turned (reluctant) whumper mostly but no fixed role

the guy that took haley in yeah. he cares. a lot. but sometimes his job matters more. he’s mostly there to drive the plot and then he literally just. dies. but that’s not the end is it? he lives on in haley’s memories, forever an enigma. their relationship is so complicated i wouldn’t do it justice in a short introduction…he’s alive and well in the AU and very relevant though

yes his intentions are good. yes he’s coping with it in the only way he knows how. he does genuinely care. he unwavers in his belief that he wants to give everyone a better life, wants to help more people than he possibly ever could. unfortunately, every decision has its downsides.

——————

ria !!

toyhouse

roles: whumpee (mostly emotionally i swear)

look. okay. i get to use at least one child for my found family agenda. once again i focus on the aftermath rather than anything else so it's mostly emotional whump

rogue. gremlin. she bites (sometimes) (affectionately) but she’s just dealing with how she simply is. she’s like the glue holding it all together as best as she possibly can, because she can’t even come close to understanding how bad it all was and sometimes that’s just better. can and will go through the five stages of grief before admitting that she cares and actually isn’t as independent as she thinks she is.

——————

twelve !!

toyhouse

quotelist

roles: whumpee

verrill and them are from a completely different universe than above^^ (some of my ocs were previously from their home city though) 

honestly their story is just based off one of my favourite dystopian literatures but i change it up a little! sorry their quotelist paints them as such a romantic because i sourced most of them when i was obsessed with their crackship…anyway!! damn this guy (gender neutral) can hold so much trauma with photographic memory that’s literally out for war with them

i think the best way to describe them would be dull exterior colourful interior! they hold so much hope in them…no 1 hurt/comfort extraordinaire

——————

verrill !!

toyhouse

quotelist

roles: whumpee/caretaker, pretty balanced

he's an adult he just has chronic babyface from my artstyle rip

the catalyst and the end of it all…this guy has Problems and refuses to deal with them. first attempt at a morally grey character, i suppose? extremely loyal, extremely caring, but only if it’s in his preference. loves playing hero but hates playing hero. walking contradiction. he cannot be described in a few words. he simply cannot.

——————

roles of other characters that might be mentioned (once again, least to most):

mc/emmei: caretaker

naeri: whumpee (90% emotionally) but really just there to drive the story. may/may not use her

frances (not mine): caretaker, whumpee

cerilux (previously unnamed character no 2): (whumpee), caretaker

unnamed character: “caretaker”, whumper

——————

misc. 

+ more later? who knows

oc asks

BECAUSE I WAS TOO SHY TO ASK PEOPLE TO. ASK. SO I JUST DID NEARLY EVERYTHING (please look at this to find out more i spent so much time on this it’s kinda insane) (still unfinished with spontaneous updates because i do whatever i want)

——————

anddd that’s it!! thank you for scrolling!! may or may not be extra ocs or content added later on but for now this is my final cast; feel free to send in whatever, whenever! prompts questions musings anything really 💥 please i get so happy if it wasn’t obvious enough by me maxxing out reblog tag limits for things i love pleasepleasepl

[whumpshaped]

gosh, i’d love another severe separation anxiety drabble with caretaker + whumpee— anything your brain comes up with tbh i love your writing so much

the other separation anxiety drabble i wrote. these r not the same guys bc i didnt have any inspo for them but heres smth that sounded nice in my head

tw hybrid whumpee, separation anxiety, captivity, betrayal, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, choking

"This is the only way we'll ever get out of here. Do you understand that?" Caretaker resisted the urge to shake Whumpee by the shoulders as they said that, but just barely. Weeks of captivity had taken a toll on their mental stability and patience. They wanted out.

"No, n-no, there has to be another way, please–"

"If there was, I would take it. But there isn't."

Whumpee whined in the back of their throat, a sound that was nearly constant whenever the two of them got separated. Their ears and tail indicated clear distress, and the tears in their eyes just kept gathering until eventually they overflowed. "So stay! We can stay here! It's not that bad!"

"Whumpee–"

"I can't stay here alone! I can't, I can't do it, I can't do it without you!"

"I will come back for you immediately, I'll call help and–"

"No! No, no, no, either we get out together, or we don't! Please! Please don't leave me!"

"We can do it the other way around," Caretaker tried desperately. "I know how to get one person out! You can be the one to call for help, and I'll wait for you patiently–"

"I would never leave you!"

Caretaker let go of them and took a few deep breaths. Whumpee watched them intently, they could feel it. Both of them were desperate. Both of them were in a very bad way. They needed to do this.

"Whumpee, I'm sorry. If you're not willing to call for help, then I'll have to be the one to do it. I'm so sorry. I'll come back immediately–"

"Master!" Caretaker's eyes widened as Whumpee rushed over to the bars of their cell, screaming at the top of their lungs. "Master!"

They jumped up from where they were sitting, tackling Whumpee to the ground and trying to cover their mouth. They were almost successful, until Whumpee bit them. "Whumpee, what the fuck?"

"Master! Master!"

The door leading to the large basement soon opened, and several people ran down the stairs. Caretaker was now trying to protect Whumpee from a possible fight, but Whumpee wasn't even having any of that. They wriggled out of their grasp, pressing themself against the bars as much as they could, immediately going on a rant when they saw Whumper.

"Master, please, Caretaker is planning an escape, you can't let them escape, please, I just want to stay here with them, but they want to leave me behind, they want to escape!"

There were no words to describe the feeling of betrayal that washed over Caretaker's entire being. It was paralysing. They didn't even know what to say. They just stared at their friend — who they thought was their friend — in shock, unable to move a single muscle or react in any way.

"Calm down, calm down." Whumper grabbed their collar through the bars, choking them a little until they stopped barking nonsensical half-sentences. "Calm down. I'm very glad you decided to alert me, but you need to quiet down."

"Don't let them leave me," Whumpee rasped.

"Oh, I would never." They let go when Whumpee started to struggle and turn a little blue, letting them collapse onto the ground. Despite everything, Caretaker was by their side in an instant, making sure they were okay more out of habit than genuine care. "Unfortunately, that does mean dear Caretaker needs to be punished... But don't worry. I'll let you watch the whole thing, as a little reward."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[trope-appreciation-tuesdays]

My dearest Tumblr Friends,

I’ve been putting this off for far too long, so here goes.

I’m not sure how many of you may know this, but TAT has been around since 2017. 2017! Can you believe it? That’s five years. Five years, 260 weeks, and over 13,000 posts, to be exact, and I’ve been around for every single one of those 5 years, 260 weeks, and 13,000 posts.

I know the issues I went away for a bit to ponder are polarizing with many a strong opinion on all sides, but I think we can all agree that 5 years is a very long time. A lot can change in five years: a community, for one, and a blogger for sure. I am certainly not the same person I was 5 years ago, and I think that fact is starting to show. My personal squicks and triggers were beginning to interfere with my ability to run this event as the open and honest space it deserves to be.

That being said, it is with a heavy and yet relieved heart that I am announcing my retirement as the custodian/moderator of TAT.

I do want to make one thing perfectly clear to anyone who may feel this is not the right decision to make. Stepping down as moderator of TAT isn’t about me cowing to anon hate or the discourse in the community previous events generated. This is about me, the person who runs this blog, who is ready to hand the reins over to someone else after 5 years at the helm of an incredible project that was imagined up by a fellow whumper. An event that was entrusted to me 5 years ago and transformed into one of the longest running and, if I may be so bold, one of the most popular events in the community.

What it all boils down to is that I am ready to move on. I’m ready to focus on other things like my writing (I want to try my hand at writing a novel!) and gifmaking. I want to take a step back, hang up my spurs, tuck up beside the fire and enjoy the fruits of the community I’ve helped build. I want to retire.

One thing has become very clear to me over the course of the last year or so, and friends have even pointed this out to me on more than one occasion. I haven’t been happy running TAT for a while now. In the words of Marie Condo, it no longer sparks joy. I was canceling the event more and more and you guys deserve better. TAT deserves better. It deserves a moderator who is excited about tropes and who isn’t on the verge of a burn out. (And I am dangerously close to that precipice.) I want to be able to enjoy tropes again. I want to write them and read them for fun and comment on them, not because I have to, but because I want to. And so, I think my tenure as moderator has come to a natural close. I want to step aside on a high note, and 13,000 posts seems like a pretty good high note to me, don’t you think?

I think TAT has a lot of life in her yet and I don’t think it should go away just because I have made the decision to step down. I was thinking I could possibly rename the blog to archive the previous posts so that the TAT name could be reused and someone new could take over. I would only ask that it be made clear that I am no longer affiliated or providing input for the blog and the owner would be free to do with it what they will. If anyone is interested, please contact me over DM to discuss. The askbox will remain closed.

I know I said above that I’m dangerously close to a burn out, but that does not mean I haven’t enjoyed every single moment of running this blog. Or of interacting with the amazing members of this incredible community. I am going to miss seeing those 100+ asks in my askbox every week. I’m going to miss getting that first glimpse at the limitless creativity and infectious enthusiasm you all have for whump. This has been an incredible 5 years and I can’t thank you all enough for all the support, love, and understanding you’ve shown me over the years.

I will forever be grateful to you all for making TAT so incredibly special.

Yours in whump,

Marie