#whump set up

[shy-raccoon]

The damsel in distress slowly starts getting more and more unstable from the unaddressed trauma of being frequently kidnapped. One day they completely snap and the villains start being found mysteriously murdered with increasing brutality.

[shywhumpauthor]

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

[defire]

Forest setting: whump in the woods

(army/scout, fantasy vibes)

Content: mild violence, restraints

Whumpee wakes up to a sword at their throat-- they close their eyes to just imagine this isn't happening for one more second

Getting dragged by the feet over sticks and stones, making gashes up whumpee's back and arms as they squirm and cry out

Whumpee getting tied to a tree and having to stay standing because there's thorns or obstacles at the bottom.

Trying to maintain their dignity by lifting their chin as they rest their head against the tree they're tied to

When that pose forces the bob of their throat as they swallow to be very visible (bonus: looking side to side to keep from crying)

A torch sparking and flickering as it's held a little too close to whumpee's face, whumpee pulling back as far as they can and squinting to protect their eyes

Tied up and bargaining "you look like you're having a little trouble with that fire. Sure would be nice if there was someone around that knew how to do that. Too bad the only ranger here is tied up."

Brigands. Whumpee gets caught, beaten up, manhandled, groped all over for valuables, left stripped and bloody in the woods

Army stuff--scouting and getting CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY (honestly this was my childhood favorite). That sinking feeling as whumpee's face mashes into pine needles under the knee of a soldier

Being up a tree hunting or hiding out, and whumpee's enemy camps below and instead of coming up after them, they start to chop the tree down. Cue a yelling match of "get down!" "Only if you promise my safety!" "Nope!" Chop.

Falling out of a tree and hitting the ground on their back, knocking the wind out of them (especially if then, they open their eyes to see they're surrounded by grinning enemies and just groan)

[whumpitisthen]

"Darling..."

They crouch in front of him, drawling his name like a melody, all sticky and sweet like honey. His back presses that much harder into the stone wall behind him.

"Do you want me to gouge your eyes out?"

The nonchalance of their delivery has his shaky lungs gasping for air.

"N-No..." — He doesn't, he doesn't, please don't.

"Then be a dear and keep those pretty things closed." — Their hand lands over his eyes, gently guiding his eyelids closed. — "Don't let me catch you sneaking a peek, okay?"

They smile still; he can feel their teeth grinning through the void enveloping him. He nods against their hand cupping his cheek as they watch him intently, swallowing down every word that claws at his throat to escape him in case they decide letting him keep his tongue should become a luxury too.

They give a couple light pats, then stand, purring, — "Good boy."

<3

Masterist

[letitbehurt]

Personally I love it when the whole team is captured, waiting for interrogation, and the first thing Whumper does is break the medic’s hands.

[pyrepostings]

Conditioned whumpee, whose caretaker is trying to convince xem it's ok to take off the collar now that whumper's gone.

Whumpee decides, in xeir head, that xey could explain to whumper if xey are recaptured that xey downgraded xeir collar because whumper wasn't there to give orders. See, xey still wore a collar, it's just made out of leather instead of gold. See, xey didn't think for a moment xey could be free.

And this way, Caretaker can be satisfied about aer "progress" in the meantime.

[arrival-layne]

mmmhh yes, the whump was strong in this archon quest. 👌

[hold-him-down]

Belleview Chapter Two (Part C): River

Notes: mostly low-level med whump

Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A), Chapter 2 (Part B)

TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Med Exam, References to Noncon, Noncon touch, Dubcon Medical Care, References to Human Experimentation

✥ ✥ ✥

River London proves, immediately, to be more of a challenge. 

River, in nearly poetic contrast to Felix, has been described as being filled with fiery hatred and anger and, reportedly, does little to hide this. Lincoln has prepared himself for the worst, but has his doubts about what he will find.

Still, it takes Lincoln a fair amount of hyping himself up before he pushes the door open, and when he does, he is met not by the enraged, violent man described over and over and over on paper, but a pale, skinny boy who doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, much less attack.

River sits on the floor, curled into the corner, his head resting against the tiled wall. His room is devoid of any items at all. Lincoln recalls accounts of daily disciplinary measures that have been taken over the past couple years, including the removal of his bed, his clothes, the bedside table, and all objects that can be used to act in defiance of the handlers. 

River’s file was… different, from anything Lincoln had expected to see in a place like this. Considered hostile by all the former handlers and medical staff at Belleview, River had made something of a name for himself in his persistent and unyielding defiance. Over and over, there were notes of aggression, there were incident reports, there were handlers with broken bones, with cuts or scrapes or bites. They were specific in their approach to River, using precautions in all interactions with him. Lincoln had read through the disciplinary notes and a slew of other documents warily, his stomach dropping further with each new file, and ultimately accepted that the likelihood of River being cooperative was slim. 

River’s arms are wrapped tightly around his legs, and Lincoln takes a moment to orient himself to as much of River’s physical condition as he can from this distance. River, like the rest of them, appears to be considerably underweight. He has fewer visible scars on his back, but there is bruising that peeks out from under the collar. His breaths are even enough, maybe a little shallow. He shifts, burying his head into the space between his knees and covers his ears. Alright, then.

Lincoln clears his throat but keeps his distance and crouches down to eye level. He stays aware of his exit because, while River doesn’t necessarily incite fear in his current state, his history of assaulting handlers has given Lincoln a healthy sense of caution. 

“River?” Lincoln tries. There is no response. “I’m Lincoln. Prescott,” he continues. The only obvious sign that he is being heard at all is River, not subtly, pressing the heels of his hands into his ears. So he launches into his speech, watching for any obvious signs of distress, although he finds none.

Clinically, River is in a much better position than Felix was, but Lincoln feels ill-prepared to address River’s condition. He swallows and stands, setting his phone, his keys, the tablet and folder on the floor by the door before making a slow approach. He has prepared himself for, at worst, aggression, but at the very best, a verbal undressing. He has a three-point list for today, and does not intend to push River beyond what he can handle. Step one is… to the extent that he can complete it, completed. Introduce himself. Get the information to River.

Step two: Get the collar off of him.

Lincoln points to his neck and says, as neutrally as he can, “Can I take the collar off?” 

River doesn’t respond, but he pulls his knees in tighter and lifts his head, his gaze burning into the wall. Once within arm’s reach of him, Lincoln sits back on his heels, showing River his hands.

“The clip has already been deactivated,” he says softly. “It is not anyone’s intent, nor is it legal, to reactivate it.” He notices a muscle in River’s jaw tighten but, given that River has been fairly passive so far, he continues carefully. “I need to find the physical release mechanism,” he explains as he points to River’s neck. “It’s located, I believe, on the opposite side as the… as the metal plates. I was asked to master this skill, if nothing else, over the last few weeks. It takes a little bit of finessing, but I promise it won’t hurt.” River does not outwardly acknowledge Lincoln has spoken, but his body language is as clear as it can be - he’s not comfortable with this, he does not want Lincoln near him. “I’ll go as quickly as I can,” Lincoln says, “but I will need to touch your neck, okay?”

River, unsurprisingly, does not offer an opinion one way or another, so Lincoln leans forward, keeping his movements as obvious as he can. The moment he’s within reach, though, River jerks away. 

“It’s alright,” Lincoln says. “I’m going to take it off. Then we’ll talk through what’s next.” In an instant, River goes rigid as he curls up tighter, and he holds his breath. In hindsight, Lincoln can see where he went wrong, but his focus is singularly on having any type of success with River that he doesn’t clock what’s about to happen until it’s too late. River does not look as Lincoln’s fingers experimentally brush against his skin, but he also does not immediately pull away. This close, Lincoln can feel the barely-contained tension in River’s muscles. He moves quickly to find the release, but not quickly enough, and within a split second, River throws his elbow back into Lincoln’s stomach with considerable force. The impact is both painful and unexpected, and, with murder in his eyes, River scrambles as far away as the small space will allow. 

It takes Lincoln a moment to catch his breath, and another to assess if he’s broken anything, but he hasn’t, and so he turns his attention back to River.

River’s hands move to his neck, partly cradling it and partly grasping the collar, and he’s about as small as he can get. He’s prepared for retaliation, steeling himself against the inevitable shock that he knows is coming.

“Ow,” Lincoln says as he rights himself. 

He takes a deep, experimental breath, and second guesses whether River did, in fact, break something, before he notices that River is… the anger is still there, but it’s overshadowed by how tightly he grips onto the band of the collar.

“Okay,” Lincoln says. “I may have had that coming.” He takes another breath, which aches less than the first, a good sign. “You can try it yourself?” He takes a step back. “There’s a small plastic piece at the back that you can push up, which will expose the connection point. If you push in on the raised side while sliding it down and to the left, it should free itself, okay?” 

Lincoln isn’t certain where his biggest error was, but from there, his three-point list goes up in flames. In an effort to reduce the likelihood of additional altercations, he doesn't immediately re-engage River, but rather keeps a distance, affording River enough personal space that he, god willing, does not feel threatened. For his part, River remains openly, but with a respectable stability, hostile. There's no chance that Lincoln will have success at getting his vitals, because that involves touching him, and it's been made, rather painfully, clear that that is currently off the table.

While it’s very clear that River is suffering, short of calling in support to restrain him so that Lincoln can get closer, there is no chance of Lincoln identifying the specific sources of that suffering beyond using his imagination (which, by Lincoln's own calculations, has already had more than enough play).

He tries his hand at questioning River from afar, and when that doesn’t work, he regroups again, and tries to just talk through the new circumstances.

He’s met with a soft but venomous, “Go fuck yourself,” when he tells him, eventually, that he only wants to help.

Lincoln spends nearly an hour with River, pushing him as much as he can, which is, unfortunately, not particularly far. Objectively, he admits that he may in fact have lost ground over the last hour. He certainly hasn't gained any. He changes his tactic once more, and, accepting for River’s refusal to cooperate, he settles into the far corner of River's room and leans against the wall, resigned by the fact that this has gone about as poorly as it could have gone, short of any serious bodily injury.

A soft knocking draws his attention away.

“We’re done triaging,” one of the volunteers– Doug Richmond, Lincoln corrects himself– says. “Dr. Francis asked me to find you.” Lincoln nods and stands, careful as he makes his way to the door to give River a wide berth.

Lincoln pauses near the exit and turns back. “Please try to eat,” he says gently. “We’ll have a bed ready for you in the next hour or so. You have free access to the bathroom if you’d like to take a shower. Volunteers will be in and out today getting you anything you need. Please,” he whispers. “River.”

At the mention of his name, River flinches, but his gaze doesn’t shift from the floor. 

“If you need anything, let me, or any of the volunteers, know, and you will have it.” Lincoln straightens his back, inhaling a slow, deep breath. “I just,” he starts, but falters, searching for the right words. The blame here, he knows, lies squarely on the shoulders of the people who have hurt him. There are no right words. Nothing makes this better. They can only move forward, in baby steps, and hope that it’s enough. “I just want to make sure you’re not in any pain.” His voice is low, but he knows that River hears him. “Anything beyond that, we can deal with when you are ready. If you are in any pain,” he says, the memory of River’s file feeling fresher by the minute. “Just… if you let me know, I can help. You do not need to suffer through this.”

River turns his head toward Lincoln, dark eyes burning with anger. He opens his mouth, and Lincoln thinks he might tell him anything, but instead, he whispers, “Leave me alone,” and buries his head once more.

Lincoln nods and makes a quiet exit, but leaves the door ajar. 

To Richmond, he says softly, “Get him set up with water and a few food options. If he'll let you, please get him a bed. If not, leave it alone for now. If he indicates he needs anything else, come find me.” He pauses, and they both stare at the half-open door. “Give him space, though,” Lincoln continues, his voice as low as he can make it. “He has a history of aggression toward handlers, and I don’t doubt he will apply the same strategies to us if threatened. He doesn’t need to speak or eat or get dressed or shower. The collar can stay on. Just try to…"

It is difficult to convey how deeply protective Lincoln suddenly feels of this boy who he has known for all of an hour and who, by all metrics, loathes him, while also not coming off as a completely sanctimonious prick. "Just be careful with him,” he finishes lamely, before glancing back at the door.

He knows this team, selected specifically for their ability to handle this, will approach River cautiously and will not back him into corners and will, ultimately, put his comfort above anything else. But still, as he forcibly turns away and walks down the corridor, he cannot shake the feeling of increasing sadness that winds its way through him.

✥ ✥ ✥

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@handsinmotion @whumps-and-bumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @alexmundaythrufriday @itsawhumpsideblog

[dreamofcamelot]

what do you mean this is a fan art I made while in the dentist waiting room and not a real piece one of their servants made on a parchment back in the 12th century

(meme under the cut)

[whumblr]

Can I please have a drabble where emery beats up zayne really bad (you can decide the reasoning for it) so he goes to jay for help

LOVE YOUR WRITING, IT IS AMAZING!!!

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

The gun crashed hard against his face and this time Zayne couldn’t contain the grunt of pain it forced out.

He clenched his teeth. Too late. The weakness had already slipped and it only spurred Emery on. Another smash of steel and Zayne fell back against the shoulders of the two men flanking him. 

"Every time I think you can't get any more worthless, you effectively find some way to prove me wrong," Emery said, voice calm but his face twisted in rage.

Zayne clenched his jaw, keeping his own rage in check and keeping his eyes down, focusing on the lapel of Emery’s suit jacket, pinpointing where he’d have to drive a knife in.

“Look at me,” Emery hissed and grabbed Zayne’s chin, forcing his head up.

Zayne panted lightly, shallow breaths passing between clenched teeth, biting back his groans, and he glared at his boss.

A sharp inhale, as if the man was readying for another rant. A short pause. Then the hand fell away. "Let go of him." And despite his best efforts, Zayne’s knees buckled under his full weight and he crumbled to the floor.

"Get out of my sight, Zayne." Emery turned his back on him and the two pawns stepped away. As quietly and as fast as he could, Zayne pushed himself to his feet, stood straight, and even with no one watching him, walked as calmly and as tall as his ribs allowed him out of the office. Until the door behind him fell closed.

He hissed out a breath. Pressed a hand to his ribs, let out a breathless swear. He forced himself forward, not succumbing to the urge to lean back against the door, and to drag himself from the office instead.

-

“What in the bloody hell happened to you?!”

Jay watched, astonished, as Zayne stumbled through the hallway, holding himself up with a hand on the wall whenever he could, nearly tumbling right over the threshold to the living room. He caught himself just in time, leaning heavily against the doorframe, arm cradling his ribs and he blew out a shuddery exhale before he spoke.

"Can I... Can I—ugh fuck—" He clenched his teeth, tightened the arm around his torso. "Can I borrow your first aid kit?”

Jay blinked, having expected something else. But if he wanted to do this by himself, fine by him. He waved towards the bathroom. “Help yourself. You know where it is.”

Zayne gave a short dismissive nod in thanks. One that didn’t deter Jay.

He followed but kept a safe distance; leaned in the door to the bedroom, arms crossed, watching through the open bathroom door how Zayne raised a shaky arm and got the first aid kit out. For Zayne to come here, in this state, showing his weakness… it must be really bad.

As Zayne lifted his shirt with one hand, Jay quite couldn’t see how bad; his back seemed uninjured. But he could see his muscles twitch with every wince, saw how Zayne shook so hard he fumbled everything he got his hands on. Heard him curse as he picked at the sticky part of a large plaster and tried to keep his shirt up at the same time. A trembling hand reached out to the bottle of disinfectant, missed, tipped it right off the sink and Zayne followed, lowering himself with one hand clamped around the sink, and it was like watching a man who was fifty years older.

Jesus, even I am handling this better when I’m alone, Jay couldn’t help but think. Then again, Emery wasn’t one to hold back, while Zayne did. He finally spoke up. "You know I have every right to just kick you out, right?"

"Yeah."

"And that I absolutely don't have to put up with this. I could poke at that goddamn broken nose of yours, laugh in your face and slam the door in it."

"Yeah," Zayne said again with a slight nod, and a long exhale as he stood straight again, holding himself up on the sink with both hands trying to get his elbows to stop trembling. Then, after a beat: "But you're not like that."

Jay froze. Made a face as if Zayne had just insulted him, then his shoulders relaxed in a sigh. No. No, he wasn't. He unfolded his arms and stepped into the bathroom.

"Give me that." He took the kit, threw everything back in – “You don’t need this,” he said, taking the roll of bandages from Zayne’s hand – snapped the kit shut, and pressed it against Zayne, pushing him backwards, out of the bathroom. Zayne followed along and Jay gently lowered him onto the bed.

"Take off your shirt."

Zayne hissed when he reached up to grab the neck of his t-shirt and faltered and Jay just sighed along with him. He gestured his palms up for Zayne to raise his arms far as he could, grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, careful not to snag on his elbows.

"Fuck me..." Jay muttered behind his teeth, shooting a look up at the ceiling. The things he was getting into... Purple streaks crept up over the side of Zayne’s ribs. Just above his navel was a large round bruise, barely a speck of skin colour left, as if they’d kept aiming for the same spot. While on the side of his abdomen, Jay could literally count the punches.

"I thought," he started as his eyes lingered over the deep purple bruises, "you said Emery was a weak prick who couldn't punch a staple through his files."

"Still true," Zayne groaned. "Which is why he likes to hold a gun or use his pawns as meat tenderizers first." He tilted his head. “Or both—Ow!” He winced and gave Jay an indignant look—Jay pulled away and held up his hands in a placating gesture. Zayne continued his rant.

“The man’s like a fucking toddler. Insisting that he too can help, so you give him a plastic hammer and let him wail on a few nails and he’s happy but it does fuckall.”

Jay hummed and brought up a cloth with disinfectant, pressed it gently to Zayne’s cheekbone. “I mean, he got you good here.”

“The gun got me.”

Jay again hummed an appeasing tone, like one would with a ranting toddler, and pressed a tube of arnica in Zayne’s hands. “Here, you can do this,” he said, and stood straight, holding up a finger in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture. He came back with a pack of frozen peas, wrapped it in a towel, and waited until Zayne had spread a copious amount of gel over his bruises. Zayne groaned, threw his head back and clenched his teeth as Jay pressed the towel against his ribs.

“Hold that,” Jay said, taking Zayne’s hand and pressing it over the bag so he could hold it himself. “Try to cool all those deep bruises.”

“How often you used this bag?”

“Let’s just say those peas aren’t for eating anymore.”

Zayne finally gave a smile. He let himself fall back onto the bed, only moving every few minutes to press his peas to another bruise. “Thank you,” he whispered, in such a low voice that he probably hoped Jay wouldn’t hear as he left the room. But he did.

-

The next morning, Jay puttered about in the kitchen, preparing a hearty breakfast. They could both use something a little filling.

As he set the table, he glanced at Zayne. He was sitting on the couch, watching the news. His hands were shaking, fingers digging into his knee, and it didn’t look like that full night of sleep had really helped.

"Does it still hurt?" Jay asked.

Zayne looked up, as if Jay's voice brought him back from somewhere far, far away and as if he didn’t quite grasp the meaning of the question. Well, given his injuries, not really hard to consider why.

Jay nodded at his hand. Zayne followed his gaze, lightly flexed his fingers and turned his hand as if surprised to see it shaking so much. With a twitch in its movements, he clenched it into fist, trying to hide the trembling. When that didn't work, he hid it behind his body. He looked at the tv again for a moment. "It does," he said, voice remarkably clear yet ever so fragile.

"Come then," Jay said. He turned the tv off, not even fully registering how the news anchors were shaking their head, lamenting the state of the justice system where violence in prisons just kept getting out of hand and why they’d even have guards if they just looked the other way when someone got shanked in the ribs thirty times. Jay put the remote back down and held out a hand to Zayne. "I've made you— I mean… there's breakfast."

Zayne meekly let Jay guide him to the table. For a moment, Jay thought he was going catatonic, just staring ahead, eyes dull. But when Jay placed a plate in front of him, he glanced up. Slowly, Jay saw the lights come back on as his eyes roamed over his favourites: scrambled eggs, toast, thick slices of bacon, a steaming cup of coffee. His jaw clenched for a second and Jay swore he saw his shoulders shudder. But then it passed and a smile, though a little forced, crept over his face as he picked up his fork.

“Thanks.”

-

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror

@susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime

@freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks

@hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion

@afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8

@itsmyworld98 @whumpifi @painless-and-colourful @withdrawingramen @lolrpop

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

Bodies 1x05

for Whumpuary no.11 Blood / "Just get it over with"

[woundlingus]

I need Sam Winchester ten inches deep in Gabriel sucking on his throat and making that guy whimper and moan because it’s so good and Sam gets a little power high from having an archangel fall apart under him and his eyes shimmer yellow with a long dormant power, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light dancing off the hazel of his eyes, and the last horrifying thought racing through Gabriel’s head before Sam makes him cum is Asmodeus

[whomeidontknowthem]

Eyes on me – an interactive whump story. Part 2.

Previous part. Masterpost. Next part.

Content warning: institutionalized slavery, imprisonment, dehumanizing language, it/its for an unhuman whumpee, pet whump.

"In folklore, any mythical, magical creature is commonly called 'fey'," they book that Lord Teelo had ordered after returning to the inn room said. "It is, of course, a wide misconception that is not accepted in any theory that has even an ounce of respect for itself. Fey is not just another way to say "magical", but a registered phenomenon different from a spirit, a magic-infused animal or a demon, and especially has nothing to do with tiny folk with wings, whose existence is widely refuted…"

It went on and on, an irritatingly salty response siting some previous debates and calling out authors the lord had never heard about. It could be entertaining in its own right – Lord Teelo was anything but impartial to loud grudges and decades old arguments – if not for his lack of experience with the topic rendering the details tedious and the fact that it wasn't idle interest that led him to seeking out the book.

The papers had been signed in half an hour, the impressive sum of money changing hands as the decision had been finalized at the spot. The arrangements had been made immediately after to transport the creature to the lord's summer house. It was to spend its last night at the auction house, and then, in the morning, they would ride – Lord Teelo in his usual carriage and his new property in an impressive cage – towards its new home.

The thrill of the purchase was sure to keep the lord awake, and he decided to spend the time on research. Learning about the kind of thing that came into his possession was paramount – after all, he didn't want it to die before its time because of his ignorance.

"Fey is defined by any reputable source as an otherworldly creature. It does not come with as many defined characteristics as an unsoundly educated person would believe: a creature from another dimension does not have to have wings and three pairs of limbs, though it is not out of the realm of possibility. A fey can look exactly as your regular cattle. The one thing that makes it fey is that it is not from the reality we live in."

The text wasn't very useful. In the two chapters Lord Teelo had managed before throwing the book into his bag and settling in bed, there was an infuriatingly little amount of actual, useful advice. The further he read, the more sure he was: he would have to figure things out by himself.

It was the thrill that came with owning the never before seen creature, one he wasn't even sure was from the same world, one, if it wasn't, that would catch the interest and desire for experiments by mages all over the world.

Now that he thought about it, maybe he should get into contact with a few. Their insight would be valuable either way – the lord was doubtful that the rainbow marks on the creature's skin could be the result of anything but magic, and magic tended to come with complications he wasn't confident he could deal with by himself.

Getting in contact with the sailors who caught the thing was a good idea, too. He'd already asked for the name of their ship and drafted a letter to a good old acquaintance in Froien. She would get the information to him in no time, even if he'll definitely have to show the creature to her afterwards. Keya, as he knew her, was curious beyond all else. Lord Teelo couldn't wait to see her face and the faces of his other acquaintances when they saw the kind of prize he'd gotten. The images of their amazement and barely hidden jealousy made him giddy with anticipation.

He wanted to make the most out of the day, and so was up and in the back garden of the auction house barely an hour after sunrise, despite the morning chill finding its way to his very bones through the layers of fabrics and furs he'd donned. A cart made into a cage with thick iron bars – provided with the purchase, of course, and with how much he'd paid Lord Teelo would be personally offended if it wasn't – was hurriedly readied and brought to the doors of the building.

The sounds of clattering and clinging and human voices burst through the open door before the creature was dragged out. It was the size of a northern wolf, bound and twisted and carried by two cautious servants. It craned its neck and bared its teeth through the muzzle, a wild animal, a scared one, and if not for the lines running down its skin and the weirdly human-like hands – with thumbs even if they were too long to actually be human – Lord Teelo would have taken it for nothing more than a dumb beast. Then it opened its mouth as wide as it could and let out a whole string of sounds – low and guttural and constantly repeating in patterns that made the lord think that it was trying – no, saying something in an unfamiliar, alien language.

He felt his pulse high in his throat, watching the creature as it was pushed inside the cage, chains around its limbs secured and the door locked behind. It kicked and threw itself against the metal only to settle back a moment later, too smart to waste energy on a fight it couldn't win.

And then, it noticed him.

Lord Teelo thought it recognized him – or maybe it was a wishful thinking fueled by the way it stilled and stared and then craned its neck to the side and forward, baring fangs in a display that was chilling even despite the binds. The unblinking yellow of its eyes pierced right through him.

He felt goosebumps creeping up his arms but refused to acknowledge it. He was safe, he reminded himself. It was tied up and helpless. No matter how it bared its teeth and tried to look scary, he was the master.

He stepped forward, lifting a hand up to place at the edge of the cart. The creature glanced at it, then continued staring. The lord smiled, "Hello there."

The creature growled and then said something. Lord Teelo continued soothingly, "No need to be so tense. We'll get to know each other -- you'll get used to me in no time."

In the light of the starting day, its skin didn't look like that startling black he saw in the dim cell. It was more grayish – still dark, though, and still unnatural. The pattern of colorful lines didn't look any less striking. His fingers ached to touch it, to feel if its skin was rough under his touch or as human-like as some of its features were. As the black short fur framing its face and ending in the middle of its back in a sort of haircut. Fey, Lord Teelo thought fervently. It had to be one. It was too strange in some ways and too familiar in others. It had to be a creature from another world. What other explanation could there be?

"Lord Teelo?" A voice came from his side and soon he was regrettably distracted, finishing the transaction and discussing the details. Servants pulled a thick piece of fabric covering the cage from view. Lord Teelo dismissed the pang of regret at their actions, reminding that he was going to have months worth of time to play around with the new toy.

He wondered what it'd be like. How it'd act. Would it be able to learn the human tongue, or prove to be too dumb for it?

He wondered where it would live. And – ah, this was an urgent question, was it not? He should send a letter to make sure it was all taken care of by the time he arrived.

Updates every 7-10 days (depending on how much time I have and how obvious the poll result is)

@isikedmyself878, @fraugustends, @otterfrost, @fuchstastisch, @3-2-whump, @the-lone-youth

Tell me to be tagged in the new parts!

[disenchanted2006]

HES winning the naked and covered in oil realistic panic attack off. HES the OG

[oddsconvert]

I've fallen down the YouTube rabbit hole of watching kidnappings for ransom in British TV shows/soaps......I must write something on this now......has occupied all my brain space

[lights-out-knives-out]

Happy 4/20

its days like these where you have to drug whumpees out of their mind. dope them up, give them every drug you have on hand. get them hiigh, then tourture them, come on itll be fun.