and-other-savory-things
whump and junk
Pax | he/she/they | 20s | I post mostly whump, as well as other nsfw I like | nsfw tagged | main: bookwormzia
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Warning: Begging, [implied] torture.
"P-please," Whumpee whispered, one arm wrapped around themselves while they struggled to breathe. They watched as Whumper got closer to them, holding out their whip to the side as if preparing to use it at any moment. "J-just give me a few seconds. Please. I won't try and stop you, I just need- need to catch my breath."
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thinking about the finding. oh yes the bruise-littered skin and rubbed-raw wrists and red-rimmed eyes, oh yes the shallow, pained breaths and semi-consciousness, in and out for the pain, but more acutely: the finding. the 'you are safe now' as well as the 'how do i touch you without hurting you'. the 'i'm here, and i'm sorry that i'm late'. you know
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a lot of whump presupposes captivity, but personally i’ve been really interested in what you might call part time whump? its where whumpee and whumper both have their own life, they don’t even see each other that often, but when they do there is this unspoken contract for submission. i think the contrast between whumpee’s daily life and the nights they spend kneeling beside someone makes the cruelty feel a lot sharper. i think there’s a lot of potential here.
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i made a whump wheel
want to beat up a character but don't know how you wanna do it? same here, friend. behold, the whump wheel! it currently has 60 different prompts/tropes on it and is ready for use! 🎉 i...love this thing. it is wonderful for writing exercises. (if you wanna know what's on it before using it, take a peak at the screenshot below)
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Living weapon whumpee that is actually treated like a weapon.
After their conditioning they don't get hurt anymore. After all, you wouldn't mistreat a precious weapon that does anything you say, and that you've worked too hard on make, right?
They get dressed in the most expensive silks while not in use, caged in a special cell just for them.
But still, they don't get to forget their place.
They are grabbed, and shown off in front of strangers to show their strength. Treated like a luxury object.
After all, under all that luxury there's nothing but a weapon. The owner can choose to treat their property however they want.
It's not like that thing can feel, after all.
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"Caretaker, I'm f-fine. It's only a little cut. I can..." Whumpee wobbled, losing their grip on the wall they were leaning on. "... I can fix it myself."
Caretaker was already opening the medical kit, rummaging around for some scissors to cut through Whumpee's shirt. "No, you're not 'fine!' You're covered in blood! Now sit down, or I'll make you."
"I never said it was... All my blood..." Whumpee mumbled, as they slid down the wall into a sitting position on the floor.
Caretaker knelt in front of them, peeling back the sticky, reddened fabric to expose the wound on Whumpee's chest. Their jaw tensed. Somehow, it was even worse than they thought. They'd be lucky if it wasn't already infected. How long had Whumpee been hiding the damn thing?
"It's not that bad, I pro---mmph!" Whumpee's eyes widened as Caretaker stuffed a roll of gauze into their mouth.
Caretaker shot Whumpee a pointed glare and set to work trying to stem the bleeding. "Shut it. I don't want another word out of you unless it's an explanation."
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Photo
Hostage Situation
[ID: an animated gif of a drawing that glitches. The drawing shows three people in Preservation uniform; Ratthi closest to the camera, barely visible, Mensah standing in full view with her arms crossed, and Gurathin with his hands on a table, all seen from behind. They are standing in front of a large screen displaying a well manicured hand belonging to a person in a crisp shirt, who is holding Murderbot’s head from behind and pulling its shirt down to reveal a Company logo and a thin collar. The transmission glitches, casting light across the watching humans. /end ID]
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I need to hurt this construct or else I start feeling bad and getting sick
[ID: digital drawing of Murderbot sitting on a couch in a cozy living room. Yellow light shines into the room through large windows, outside the windows is a lot of green, pleasant foliage. Mb is bruised, with open wounds and cuts on its face and legs. It’s wearing a tank top and shorts, its right arm is in a sling, its left leg splinted. It wears a see through cone around its neck. /end ID]
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10H is calling Murderbot to me
I know the original expression looked more annoyed than dead but I got carried away x) also I picked the spongebob palette bc the name was funny
[ID: a digital drawing in blue and yellow. Murderbot lies on its stomach, in armor, but its helmet is broken. It’s bleeding a lot from multiple head wounds, the blood drips off its face and runs along the ground into little cracks in the floor. It has an empty expression on its face, the eyes are messed up. The blood is in yellow tones, the rest of the drawing in blue shades. The background is dark. /end ID
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I would love if you did the comfort unit (I don’t think it’s ever given a name) from artificial condition. I love it so much with the existential crisis color palette if that inspires you. Thank you and I love your art!
Dear anon! Here you go, ComfortUnit just having a good time by itself, chillin. Thank you for this lovely request! Have a nice day :3
[ID: a greyscale drawing of ComfortUnit, a slender and elegant construct, curled up in a basket chair. It has its knees drawn to its chest and is looking to the side, smiling gently. It has braided hair done up in two small buns on top of its head, and blue markings all over its body and face emphasising its constructness. /end ID]
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Saw the cyborg vampire illustration and simply had to imagine Murderbot as a scary fucked up robot vampire
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Some body horror I did for last year’s @murderbotzine
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Whumpee slips a note into a stranger’s palm, hoping they’ll understand the cry for help hastily scribbled on the scrap of paper.
But the stranger only smirks and hands the note to Whumper. “You should watch them a little closer.”
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a character type i'm really into is the ex-something - exile, obviously, but also anyone who used to have a role that was also an identity and now does not: ex-mage, ex-assassin, ex-monarch --
it's about loss of identity and recreation of identity; it's about how being an ex-something is impossible because the ghost of what you were haunts what you are now; it's about reshaping the way you see the world and yourself in the world.
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I saw on one of your asks talking about if Cato drank something and now all I want is to see Tipsy Carlo and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for days. That’s all thanks lol.
Me too, anon!
***
Max gets home early on Friday. He brought no work home with him, so he is in a particularly good mood. Hanging his coat in the foyer, he hears music and laughter coming from down the hall.
Leaning in the doorframe of his kitchen, he watches with a grin and crossed arms as Cissy gets Carlo to dance with her. She spins closer as the music swells. They’ve done this once or twice, he can tell, as Carlo wraps his arm around her waist and dips her backwards. She shrieks in delight and bares the column of her throat at the bottom of the dip. He pulls her back up and she spins on the tile, knees flashing as her skirt whirls. Carlo sees Max and his smile falters, stepping back a fraction.
Cissy looks over her shoulder. “Hey,” she says, breathless. “It’s the boss man. You know Max isn’t half bad, Carlo, let him give you a spin.”
Max huffs a laugh. “When did we ever dance, Cissy?”
Cecelia raises her eyebrows. “Christmas party? 2016? I’m offended.”
“Ah.” Max shakes his head in apology. “It’s not you, I think I’d just had a few drinks by that point.”
Cissy tucks her bobbed hair back into place. “Me too. More’n a few, I think. Hey speaking of— I’ve got cider on.” She gestures to a pot on the stove, simmering and smelling sweetly like apples and cloves. “If you’ve got the bourbon….”
Max pushes off the doorframe, goes to put a hand on the back of Carlo’s neck. He’s still standing there with his hands hanging by his side and eyes cast nervously to the floor like they’ve been caught at something illicit. Max’s gentle squeeze is a hello, you’re not in trouble, the language they speak wordlessly. He tightens and then settles under the touch, shoulders relaxing, eyes lifting.
“Boubon’s in the pantry.”
Cissy pours them three generous shots, ladling the hot spiced cider on top. She hands a steaming mug to Max and one to Carlo, who holds it in front of him like it might bite him.
“Cheers, boys.” She says softly.
Max raises his glass at hers. Carlo seems lost to the custom but when they drink, he takes the cue and raises his own to his lips.
“Ever had bourbon?” Max asks.
He shakes his head. “I’ve had champagne.”
For a moment it seems like he’ll elaborate but decides against it, takes another sip instead. He probably doesn’t want to tell a story that features Holstrom, and Max can’t say he blames him.
“This’ll taste better anyway. Warm you right up.”
Carlo smiles at that, at the affection in Max’s tone. Cissy’s cheek dimples above a knowing grin. They chat about her last trip to Boston while they drink, until she checks the time on her phone and sighs.
“Alright. Traffic is backing up as we speak. I better get going.”
Max stands to get her coat, holds it so she can slip her arms in.
She kisses Carlo on the cheek. “See you Monday, baby. It’s supposed to storm.” She turns to Max. “We prepped enough food you two could outlast a siege in here, so don’t skimp on seconds.”
***
In the kitchen, he pours himself another drink, turns down the music.
“‘Nother round?” He asks Carlo.
In ten minutes Carlo is even more flushed, cheeks so pink they look like they’ve been pinched. His eyes are dark and bright, and he’s told Max the plot of the last novel he read.
“And then I got the sequel, and it wasn’t even the same story.”
“No. What?”
Carlo gestures ‘what can you do’ with the sweep of one hand. Max has to feign a cough to keep from laughing. Is this what Cissy sees? His shoulders are loose, his posture less skitish. He puts his chin on his hands cutely. “Some other story. Different characters.”
“So you never found out what happened to the writer guy? Or the detective?”
“Nope. Poof. Gone forever.” Carlo takes another enthusiastic sip from his mug.
“Easy,” Max says gently. “It’ll sneak right up on you.”
Carlo’s too busy pulling up his online shopping cart to hear. He tilts the phone screen at Max. “See, this one. This is the last one, it just came out. Maybe the end is in there. I’ll have to just see.”
“So, better buy it.” Max points to the purchase button. “It’ll take two days to ship.”
“Sir... I bought… “ He shakes his head. “I bought two on Monday.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Is there a book-purchasing quota I wasn’t aware of?”
Carlo blinks at him.
Max laughs, feeling equal parts awful and amused at Carlo’s cider buzz. “Buy it.”
Carlo looks at him strangely, burning right through the haze over his eyes.
He hops off his stool to fling his arms around Max’s neck. Max has to take a step back to regain his balance, wrapping Carlo in his arms.
“Hey... what’s this?” He asks into Carlo’s hair. “Are you good, honey? You feel alright?”
The boy in his arms nods, gives a content little sigh. “M’ just…” He hesitates before picking a word. “...Warm.”
Max laughs, holds him even tighter. “Good. We’ll keep you warm all the time then, like a little prince.”
Carlo nuzzles his face into his shoulder, pressing against Max like he wants to climb him, be held in his lap. Max tries to placate him by rubbing his hand over his back in circles.
“Oughtta ply you with booze more often.” He jokes, giving those dark curls a chaste kiss.
“Yes, Sir..Anything.”
Max knows the difference is that Carlo isn’t kidding at all.
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Can’t shake off the idea of Whumper comforting Whumpee after they hurt them, telling them sweet things like “it’s okay” and “it’s over” and “you did so good.” And Whumpee being so confused and scared that they lean into it, accept it, because at this point it’s the only source of comfort they’re going to get.
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