watsonbee

[watsonbee]

"I knew it was you."

(For the 5 word sentence request)

- @bilightningwhumper

"I knew it was you."

The words hung between them, suspended in the air. Whumpee tightened their grip on the knife.

"So why did you let me get close to you?" they asked.

Caretaker smiled. "Because I love you all the same. Do what you gotta do, sweetpea."

[watsonbee]

What’s the bees knee

Do bees have knees? Do bees sit in trees on their little knees while they sneeze from allergies?

[watsonbee]

I’m so sorry you’ve been struggling with motivation lately, I know how awful it can be trying to piece together even a bit of motivation and creative energy to write literally anything lol, plus the crushing pressure to make it amount to impossible standards is draining to say the least *_* but I truly do hope it gets better ♥️♥️

And I’m honestly not trying to blow smoke here but even if this creative rut last longer than expected I want you to know that you’re writing is fantastic.

I’m trying to think of some super poetic way to convey what I mean but all of your works are undoubtedly kick ass =] everything from the way you describe things, the ridiculous way you’re able to set a scene and atmosphere with words, to the characters themselves, is fully fleshed out and astonishing in such a real way. It’s hard to describe but your writing always feels like a decadent cake with all the fancy boops and bits on it but it’s also filling like a five course meal???? Idk if that makes sense??😭

I can tell from the way you hold your stories you really do love your characters (despite all the evil things you put them through /j) and even if you decide to post something in a few weeks to a few months, or even if you keep all your evil little writings (/j) in your drafts forever just never stop writing. You really do have a talent so don’t psych yourself out—don’t compare it to past or future or others’ writing—just write what you feel like.

I don’t mean to come barging in with this long ass post but this is something I’ve had to tell myself over and over again multiple times ^^^ your writing is worth being written no matter the time, place, or assumed quality. One of the many things that makes your writing amazing is because it’s distinctively you. Please don’t forget that.

Sincerely, a stranger from the internet (I don’t really do the whole interaction thing a lot so I hope this is all coherent and I used the tone tags correctly lol)

maybe ‘all dolled up’ for conditioned whumpee’s bingo card? thank you if you choose to!

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, burning (mentioned) Today must be the special day, and the Ashtray is vibrating with excitement. This is what all his previous existence has been leading up to. He was made for this.

Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs. 

Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special. 

A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.

They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.

He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner. 

When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself. 

For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order. 

Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“ 

Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined. 

His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion. 

At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.

His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for. 

When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled. 

His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.

She finds none. Of course. 

Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug. 

Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain. 

His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him. 

It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for. 

Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump @opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump @saffitaffi, @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl, @thatbigbrownbird let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[watsonbee]

dentist whumper. that is all.

[watsonbee]

(conditioned??) living weapon whose feelings towards whumper gravitate somewhere between "i'd burn the world for you" and "i'd kill you in an instant if you'd just let the leash slip"

[watsonbee]

Sorta like a hurt/ comfort where whumper hurts whumpee too much and they start dissasociating and stuff and whumper starts kinda regretting it and tries to bring them back?

(TW: blood, torture, beating, dissociation)

“You can’t keep those passwords locked away in your brain forever,” Whumper sneered. They circled Whumpee’s limp form on the ground and wiped blood off of their gloves. “My boss gets what he wants. No matter how stubborn you choose to be.”

Whumpee stared blankly ahead of them. They left their mind several moments ago. After hours of torture, even when Whumper got bored and just decided to use their fists, they couldn’t stand to be in their own body anymore.

“Hey.” Whumper nudged Whumpee with their foot, then kicked them sharply. They got no response besides a soft exhale. Grumbling, Whumper knelt down in front of Whumpee’s face and rolled them onto their back. They found a beating pulse, but their eyes looked lifeless and distant.

“Hey!” Whumper tried again, shaking them this time. “This isn’t how this works! You’re supposed to give up the info, just like all the other ones have!” They slapped Whumpee’s face and grimaced when they still got no reaction.

“Fuck…” Whumper sighed and ran a hand over their face, sitting on the ground and contemplating what to do next. They needed Whumpee conscious, or their boss would have their ass handed to them. They looked at Whumpee again, cringing at the plan formulating in their head.

They left the room and returned, dragging an old bedroll and a pillow from the supply closet and laying them out. They lifted Whumpee easily and placed them on it, making sure their head wasn’t at an awkward angle.

Whumper cleared their throat and leaned over Whumpee, who was still staring at the ceiling. “H…Hey. You,” they finally bit out. “You…it’s…okay. It’s…okay. I’m not hurting you. Right now,” they managed slowly.

Slowly but surely, Whumpee returned to themselves. They blinked and took in their surroundings, and flinched when they saw Whumper looming over them. Instinctively, Whumper raised their hands to show they weren’t still harming them.

“Just rest,” Whumper mumbled. “Just…yeah.” They sighed and stood up, pacing the room. Whumpee was too exhausted to refuse, and their eyes fluttered closed.

[watsonbee]

Chronic Pain

@medwhumpmay Day 13

Medwhump May Masterlist

content: torture, sadistic whumper, intimate/creepy whumper, unwanted touch, medical whump, drugging, immobilization

-

Face-down on the cold, hard table, the cool metal pressed against their skin, Whumpee laid unable to even twitch. To so much as open their eyes. The paralytic made sure of that, though they could still feel every stitch and bruise Whumper had inflicted on them with no sedative to accompany it.

If they could have, they would have jumped when Whumper’s hand landed light-as-a-feather on their back, his touch sickeningly gentle. If it had been anyone else, the contact could almost have been described as affectionate.

But it wasn’t anyone else. Whumpee was here, on the operating table, with him.

“They’re going to catch me soon,” Whumper murmured, his voice just as light as the touch that snaked its way down their spine, the little involuntary shivers that followed the only movement Whumpee was capable of. “We don’t have much longer together. I bet you’re happy about that, huh? You get to go back to your life.”

It was too good to be true. Contrary to Whumper’s words, a pit of dread yawned open in their gut. What was Whumper going to do to them if he was losing his chance? Mutilate them? Kill them?

“I’ve been thinking very hard about what to give you as a parting gift. Something to make up for the time we’ll miss together. And I think I’ve settled on the perfect thing.”

Whumper hugged them from behind, and Whumpee wanted to scream. They couldn’t, their jaw, tongue, and vocal chords all lax and immovable. Get off me. Don’t fucking touch me. Stop. Stop!

“Have you ever heard of chronic pain?” Whumper asked. He thankfully backed off, but now he was absentmindedly playing with a lock of Whumpee’s hair. “Of course, you can’t answer. I bet your pain seems pretty ‘chronic’ right now,” he laughed, “but that’s only because I keep inflicting it, over and over. After we’re parted, you’ll heal, and you and your body will forget all about me. But with chronic pain, it doesn’t go away. It just keeps on hurting and hurting and hurting, even after the wound’s all healed. It’s a little trick on the nerves.”

He leaned in close. “And every time you feel that pain, every hour of every day, that’ll be me, hurting you, even when we’re apart.”

Tears leaked out the corners of Whumpee’s eyes, the only outward sign they’d taken in Whumper’s words at all. No! You can’t do this to me! Stay away! Somebody help me!

“I’ll be very careful, Whumpee. I’ve done my research. Only the nerves, only that nice hurt, I won’t touch your functioning. You’ll walk away from this, but every step will hurt, and with every step, I’ll be there,” Whumper crooned. “That’s why I had to give you that paralytic, so you’d be nice and still for me. Though I do like you this way. Maybe I’ll keep feeding you those until they find us.”

The blade of a scalpel touched Whumpee at the spine.

“Now, let’s begin.”

-

Oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@all-hail-pigeons

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

@jumpywhumpywriter

@scoundrelwithboba

[watsonbee]

Hobby/interest ideas for your characters that I don't see enough in books - Part 2

Ant farming

Building models

Crayon collecting (think of the dandelion crayon girl)

Drying flowers

Exploring tide pools

Frogs

Gymnastics

Hallmark movies (the really cliché ones)

Ice skating

Juggling

Kazooing

Looking for beach glass

Monopoly

Night gazing

Oil painting (my OC does this)

Paint by number

Quarter collecting

Roller skating

Storm chasing

Telenovelas

Umbrellas

Vase painting/decorating

Warhammer (or a Warhammer-esque game)

Xerus (African ground squirrel)

Yarn collecting

Zip ties

Credit for ant farming, building models, drying flowers, exploring tide pools, gymnastics, kazooing, looking for beach glass, paint by number, quarter collecting, roller skating and storm chasing go to @invisiboom12

Link to Part 1

Feel free to request anything for me to write/headcannon/bullet point/other format <3

Please be aware that I will not write nsfw content, incestual content, or minor x adult content.

[watsonbee]

One of the most tragic things to ever happen in all of existence

I’ve come to the harrowing realisation that the only way to write my book is to write my book

I may never recover

[watsonbee]

It's the same

“I missed you, you know,” Caretaker said, beaming a smile and throwing an arm around Whumpee’s shoulders as they walked up to the tall office building together. “Doing these visits alone is just no fun. This is how it should be. You and me. Taking on the world.”

“Meeting a new client isn’t exactly taking on the world,” Whumpee said with a small scoff, but he also couldn’t help a broad smile. He had missed this, too. Or rather, had desperately needed it to get back into the rhythm of his old life. It had taken weeks of recovery before he was even allowed to set foot into the office and this was the first time he was thrust into his old life again. A sliver of how things used to be. He just had to hold on tight to this and prove to both himself and Caretaker that he was up to this. As before. Forget what had happened.

Caretaker untangled himself from him. And a hand smacked against his upper back.

The gesture was friendly, encouraging. But Whumpee couldn’t control his response. He almost skipped a step as his muscles paralysed for a second. His shoulder blades tensed and his breath stalled high in his throat before he could relax again.

Caretaker didn’t seem to notice, luckily. Or if he did, he overcompensated quickly, stepping away from Whumpee to give him some space and he entered the building first, holding the door open for him.

Whumpee shook it off. It’ll be fine. You and me. Me and him. Taking on the world. One step at the time. Slower than he’d liked, actually. He didn’t want baby steps. Working half days. Having his client list taken over by various coworkers because ‘well you were… away’. He just wanted to jump back into things. Needed to go back to this, a normal life.

They crossed the lobby, Caretaker leading him into the elevator as he’d been here before. Inside though, Whumpee could feel his gaze on him. He flashed a quick reassuring smile and looked him briefly in the eye. He’s fine. He’s been waiting for this. Don’t worry.

They were led to one of the meeting rooms where a jovial, tall man welcomed them enthusiastically.

Whumpee observed the banter between the man and Caretaker with a smile, the ‘How are you’s’, ‘Find the place okay?’.

When Caretaker turned to him and waved an open palm towards him as introduction, he took his cue. He brightly stepped forward to shake the man’s hand.

He got a firm handshake in reply. Nodded. Opened his mouth—

But before he could even utter a ‘good to meet you’ he completely froze up. Something washed over him and it felt like time stood still. Or rather, rewinded. His eyes went wide, his hand went limp in the man’s grasp. Fear rose up like bile, literally. He clamped a hand around his mouth, fingers trembling against his cheek, and he swallowed hard. But couldn’t force the ball of mingling fear and acid down.

“Excuse me—” he barely brought out. And he bolted from the room.

“Whum—” Caretaker stared after him, lips stuttering unvoiced questions and concerns, eyes shooting from the door, to his client and back. The man stood equally bewildered, his hand still half raised, lips parted in confusion.

Their eyes met for a second. “Excuse me,” Caretaker said, firmly, already taking a step towards the door and the man nodded before he even had to explain.

His panic rose with every step, with every glass meeting room that he passed that was empty. Had it been too soon? He wanted to believe Whumpee, wanted to believe that he was okay, but—No. Come on. He had to find him first. See what’s up.

He legged past the washrooms. Stopped. Took a step back. Added one plus one. And opened the door.

A retching sound greeted him as soon as he opened the door and relief washed over him. Immediately followed by fresh concern.

Whumpee stood over the sink, hands clamped around the edges, knuckles white, head down.

“What’s—What’s wrong? Are you okay?!”

Whumpee didn’t look up yet, just stared into the sink like there was a mirror at the bottom. “Yeah…” he started. “Yeah, I just…” He wiped at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look okay. But he did sound okay. Just a little shaken. Maybe even a little confused himself.

He took a shaky breath and straightened up. His face was pale and there were tears in the corners of his eyes. Before he turned to face Caretaker he quickly wiped them away. “It’s just… It’s the same.”

“What is?”

“His cologne,” Whumpee said, stronger now. “It’s the same.”

-

General tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @auroragehenna @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop @treasureguardingdragon @morning-star-whump

[watsonbee]

♡︎ Caretaker Guarding Whumpee's Body ♡︎

Caretaker guarding whumpee while they are...

Transformed into a statue

Frozen in ice

In a stasis pod

In hibernation

Under a sleeping spell

In a coma

A robot that's deactivated right now

Technically dead but going to be revived later

Caretaker has to look after the body even though whumpee is not able to help or cooperate at all, and isn't even there to appreciate it right now. It's an act of complete selflessness and reveres their body as an important vessel even when their consciousness is not present. It's also vulnerable. Caretaker may have to make medical decisions for whumpee or decide how to handle their business/other affairs while they are unconscious. They may worry about whether they're making choices that whumpee would want. They may have to take whumpee on a dangerous journey or leave them behind while searching for a cure.

Sometimes I feel torn about this trope, because it literally turns whumpee into an object, de-centering their suffering, as if what they're going through is most difficult for others. But illness really is that way sometimes! And when it's handled well, I think there's something beautiful about treating a person's body as something precious even when it's thankless.

[watsonbee]

Whumpee waking up in a hospital bed, only faintly recognizing the stranger at their bedside. They can tell they’re on drugs, but…they’re not in any pain, which they’re grateful for.

“What…?”

“Hey, there, I’m glad you’re awake,” they say, keeping their voice low. The lights are dim, too, Whumpee notices.

“Do you remember me? I got you out of there…”

“…Yeah, I remember. Little bit.”

“Good, that’s good. You fell asleep on us pretty fast, I was worried. I’m glad we found you when we did.”

They were…very nice, Whumpee thought. It was strange, foreign.

“Think you’re up to answering a few questions about…about what happened to you? I just wanna understand.”

Something in their soft, concerned eyes makes Whumpee feel safe—for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah, sure.”

[watsonbee]

CW: implied past non-con body modification (vocal cords), mute Whumpee, female defiant/ submissive Whumpee, male yandere whumper, intimate/ manipulative whumper, gory imagery and needles used descriptively, irritated wounds/paranoid itching, kinda unintentional? self harm, dub con/ non-con touch, non-con kissing, captivity, implied past drugging, Spectrophobia (phobia of mirrors/ one’s reflection)/ insecurities

Ok so this is my first time posting anything. Ever. So bear with me through any mistakes/ misspellings. But this is a little au I made starring two of my OC’s in which Cadence (our whumper) removes Saoirse’s (our whumpee) vocal cords during her captivity.

The click of rearranging dishes could be heard from the kitchen, ceramics shifting on dark wood counter tops while a pan sizzled on the hot stove.

Cadence moved from task to task almost frantically to the untrained eye. But after so many mornings of being trapped in this same chair Saoirse started to recognize the patterns, his own chaotic rhythm he moved to in his mind. His next step was just a correct guess to her.

She knew him. Just as he claimed to know her.

Needles pricked her neck in a sewn smile, it's teeth burned pearly behind the overlapping layers of flesh and blood.

Something akin to a syringe shot continuous liquid fire into her veins, coursing deeper as seconds fell from the clock, each an agonizing megaphone to the last.

Saoirse’s fingers twitched uncontrollably, balling into a fist with pursed lips as she tried to do the one thing above all else she was told not to do: Don't touch the stitches. Don't pick at them. Let it heal how it's supposed to.

Regrettably, she realized just how difficult that was proving to be since Cadence let her feel her fingertips again.

The scorching heat agitated her still hands now folded in her lap, twisting the fabric of her clothes so she wouldn't rip her skin off.

She took to flexing her neck instead. Turning her head this way and that to keep the sensation away. Not helping much.

Taking a glance at Cadence, still too preoccupied with whatever he was doing, she brought a hand up to rub the heal of her palm against the wound, miserably trying to keep her nails out of the situation.

It brought little relief; pain returning the second her hand slipped away.

No matter how much Saoirse pushed and poked around the scar nothing satisfied it. It still itched painfully. And it was spreading. Trailing down her arms into the joints of her knuckles. Creeping around her shoulder blades, ducking under the collar of her shirt and trailing down her back.

Saoirse's fingers curved into claws unconsciously, frenzied and scraping her her throat, only distantly remembering to avoid the wound.

It wasn't enough. Her mind wouldn't be satisfied—wouldn't be at ease until she'd torn the flesh apart. She wanted to feel the carnage in her nail beds. Wanted the digits to turn dark and sticky—wanted to tear its sealed jaw open and dig her nails into its gums and feel it bleed.

Hear it scream and beg her to stop like it must have when it was first ripped open.-Like she would've if she was conscious—if she'd been there to—

“Hey –stop that!” Hands roughly snatched both her wrist away from her throat, “You’ll rip the stitches out if you keep going like that!”

Gray eyes burrowed into hers. Brows furrowed, furious, and right beside her. Looming like an infuriated tyrant above her.

The smell of cooked food and smoke assaulted her eyes and nose instantly, almost making her gag.

Cadence switched to hold her wrist fast in one hand, the other cradling her neck, his thumb swiping over the graves she herself was responsible for as she winced from it.

His cherry-pursed lips parted with the click of his teeth, “I asked you not to do one simple thing, dammit”

Saoirse furrowed her brows angrily, balling up her bound fist and opening her mouth to spew insults when the sound of silence cut her off, chest quickly deflating with no voice to breathe her atrocious words into existence. Right.

So, wrenching her hands from the grasp of her captor, which made him tense expectantly with a step back, she picked up the marker and dry-erase board he’d given her and started scribbling. Showing it to him when she was done.

“Itches”

Squared shoulders relaxed as he read the board, rolling his eyes afterwards, “I took the bandages off because you said those itched.”

She cut him with and glare and he sighed, “Fine. Come on”

With that Cadence took her hand and guided her to the bathroom, taking a tube of cream from the mirror's cabinet, pulling a pre-placed chair across tile to stand in front of it, and motioned for her to sit.

She eyed him warily.

“You're hurt. I’m not letting you do this yourself.”

The discomfort she was in didn't give her much room to argue, so she, albeit reluctantly, sat down and let him tilt her chin up as he instructed her to stay still.

Saoirse stared at the ceiling while he worked. Diligently applying the ointment while she tried to hide the way she flinched and hissed from the stinging wounds; trying to ignore his whispered “comforts” and finally relaxing once the pain evened out. Knowing all he’d take from it was that he was the cause for her solace.

Once he was done he sat back and examined his work, tsking at the damage, “Now why would you to do this to yourself, baby? If you needed something you could've just told me. I don't want you making your injuries worse,” he said gently, reaching to ghost a thumb across her face.

Are you joking?! This is because of you!

The words died on her parted lips. Pushing his hand away with little effort.

He just shook his head as he sat the ointment on the sink, walking around her to stand behind her averted gaze, draping his palms on her shoulders.

“You can't keep going like this,” he continued, “Look at what you're doing to yourself.”

And she did. Not on purpose, she was more so trying to throw a disgusted look his way, but doing so she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Her brown hair was thrown all about her head, like there was no clear direction to it. And it was longer than the last time she'd seen, frail curls dusting bony shoulders in splotches of uncontrolled color, frayed on its ends cause she refused to let Cadence tend to it.

She looked at it from different angles in her mind, held a strand in her fingers that felt like brittle.

Gently touched her cheeks which were gaunt and dull, like cheap cardboard, making the rest of her look like a used paint palette rather than a person. Her lips were ashen, limbs scrawny.

Did she really look like that? No, that couldn't be her—it wasn't!

But if that wasn't her then she couldn't tell you what was. She couldn't remember what or how she looked like before. All she had was her reflection.

And a reflection can't lie. It's bound to you, forced to tell you the truths you can't admit to yourself, forced to mirror you exactly.

The phantom thing was at a loss for words as it gaped at its flesh self. It didn't cry or turn its head in shame. It couldn't. It just stared back at the clone before it. Confusion written in those same dead eyes, too.

If anything, the mirror had more life in it than whatever was beating inside that chest. Whatever was decaying inside that head.

Finally, the phantom reached for its neck. Thin fingers carefully pressing against the row of threaded teeth and torn skin, wincing each time, doing it again when it remembered its cursed flesh caused it such pain.

Wanting to apologize to the mirror.

Something came closer to the ghost in the mirror. Something that rested its chin on her shoulder like it owned it. Someone’s whose breath was warm on her cold skin.

“Do you see what you're doing to yourself, sweetheart?” It said to her reflection, “Do you see what you're doing to me every time I have to patch you back together?

You're too pretty to be hurting yourself like this.”

He kissed her shoulder and she opened her mouth to speak. Snapped it closed when pain laced her throat.

Stop it. Stop trying to speak! Stop trying to combat every word he says! That's what got you in this fucking mess in the first place!

Right.

Letting out a deep breath, Saoirse folded her hands in her lap tightly, and lowered her head towards the floor.

Behind her, she felt Cadence pout at her resignation, resting his head atop hers as his hands massaged her shoulders, “What's going on in that brain of yours? Hmm? Anything I can fix?” He asked, smirking on that last sentence.

Saoirse looked at his phantom instead, the one that looked so much more put together. So much more confident and happy.

Ignoring her ghost’s insistent eyes all together.

Her lips parted again—she snapped them close—folded her hand to resemble a mock puppet, only sideways, and brought it to her closed lips.

“Are you hungry?” He asked with creased eyebrows.

Saoirse nodded, making him smile, “Well let's get you something to eat, shall we?”

He took her hand again and together they left the bathroom and went back to the kitchen.

She didn't look back; neither did he. She didn't want to hear her ghost screaming at her.

But if she had, if she'd listened beyond her mind’s insecurities and the weaved whispers. If she'd looked past the portrait of what could be and what should. She would have noticed the grip around her phantom’s mouth.

The way she screamed and thrashed in her bonds tied to the chair. The tears boiling down her face. The blood gushing from the gash in her throat. The reflection of another with a harsh grip pinning her shoulder and whispering in her ear: Gunpowder shooting bullets into the mirror.

Seen the cruel smile as the thrashing slowed. As the screams gurgled to a stop. As her eyes slipped close in defeat.

She would've heard herself stop fighting.

[watsonbee]

maybe ‘all dolled up’ for conditioned whumpee’s bingo card? thank you if you choose to!

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, burning (mentioned) Today must be the special day, and the Ashtray is vibrating with excitement. This is what all his previous existence has been leading up to. He was made for this.

Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs. 

Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special. 

A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.

They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.

He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner. 

When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself. 

For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order. 

Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“ 

Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined. 

His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion. 

At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.

His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for. 

When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled. 

His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.

She finds none. Of course. 

Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug. 

Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain. 

His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him. 

It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for. 

Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?

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[watsonbee]

Fear is the source of suffering

Fear tropes that I love, war and captivity style

Content: noncon touch, restraints, death threat

The sense of self-preservation as a sword-point is pressed into victim's inner thigh (big artery there) and victim stills under the threat

Restrained positions that bare their chest and groin to whatever captor wants to do to them

The moment when victim stops struggling against the bonds, heart sinking, panting, exposed and helpless

Blindfolded victim hyperventilating when they hear footsteps approaching, and captor simply stays quiet, giving victim no clue what is about to happen

The uptick of breath as a hand traces up a restrained victim's thigh toward their crotch

Wide-eyed stare locked onto captor, who is advancing on them with a knife

Sudden violence. Slammed down onto the table by the back of their neck when a second ago they were just talking.

[watsonbee]

so sick and tired of people hating on lady whump. give me your lady whumpees slouching against a brick wall, drugged and dazed as they try to make their way home. give me girls covered in blood — whether it be their own or someone else’s. give me lady whumpees who thrash and scream and fight against their restraints. who spit poison at their captors. who cry and beg and plead and kick. i’m so goddamn tired of women in whump either always 1. being the whumper, or 2. being forced into these soft, docile stereotypes that prevent them from expressing anything but. give me more lady whumpees or give me death.