#lady whump mentioned | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gottawhump · 1 year

Text

Strays

Carlisle

CW/TW: BBU/WRU, homelessness, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, food insecurity/starvation/hunger.

“No, Carlisle. We don’t take home strays.”

“But, Mom!” He turns his head up at her, trying his best wide-eyed wanting. “Please!”

He’s been feeding the Pet in the alley for the last two weeks, bringing him sandwiches, cookies, and juice whenever he can. At first, the Pet hid from him and only took the food after Carlisle left. Now he takes the food from his hands, his own often shaking, and thanks him with grateful downcast eyes.

Pets need homes. The boy knows this. He’s seen commercials by WRU, and read stories about the travails of lost Pets eventually reunited with their families. The Pets in his own home have told him how happy they are there, how frightened they’d be without a home to shelter them and owners to guide them.

This one is scared and hungry and hurt, and the boy wants to help.

“Please, Mom?”

She sighs. The Pet cringes and tries to make himself look smaller. “Show me your wrists.”

The stray Pet obeys, turning his wrists upward, showing the barcode. His mother takes out her phone and snaps a picture of it. “I’m sorry, Carlisle. We don’t need another Platonic.”

Her tone doesn’t allow further argument, or he would point out how many things they have that they don’t need, but they want.

Dejected, he goes home with his mother.

The next time he visits the alley, the Pet is gone.

“My son wants to adopt a Pet,” she says a few weeks later, at the shelter. “Domestic or Platonic, and a healthy one.”

Carlisle peeks through the doors separating the Guard Dogs and the Romantics, fascinated. They have more visible scars than the others, and he wonders how they got them.

But he turns back to look at the selection the shelter attendant led them to. All of them kneel, and smile, and their eyes flick from him to his mother and back again. They’re afraid, too. Of the shelter? It frightens him too, with its concrete floors and fenced kennels. Or of him and his mother?

Don’t they know he just wants to give them a safe home?

He wants to take them all home, but he can only choose one.

He chooses the thinnest, the most frightened, with a scar cut across his face. His mother frowns, but allows it.

When they are home, and alone, he asks the new Pet, “What’s your name?”

It’s years later, and his parents have died, leaving him the only heir to the Black fortune. He asks the cook to pack him a basket of lunch things.

He goes back to the alley.

He takes out a sandwich and a bottle of water. He sits down on the ground, not caring about the dirt and grease getting on his tailored clothes. He holds out the food and drink, waiting.

There’s a new stray in the alley, a girl with tangled hair and not enough clothes. Romantic, he suspects. She hasn’t come close enough yet for him to see her barcode. Maybe today she will.

She peers out at him from behind a garbage can. She will run if he approaches her, so he just sits, holding still, holding out the food. Come on, he thinks, it’s for you.

He will leave it for her if she doesn’t come out.

It’s a lot like catching a stray cat, he knows. You have to earn their trust, in small, steady ways. But it’s harder, too.

She finally comes out and approaches him. She reaches for the food, then stops herself. She drops to her knees, in the graceful sensual way of the Romantics, and holds out her own hands. Now they are on an equal level, and he puts the food and water into her hands.

Softly, he says, “My name is Carlisle. What’s yours?”

Tagging @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine

#pet whump #bbu/wru #lady whump mentioned #Carlisle black #old friends #homelessness #hunger #institutionalized slavery

62 notes · View notes

cepheusgalaxy · 2 months

Text

I think we need to torture more girls

#whump #lady whump #like #violence mention tw

137 notes · View notes

whumpyourdamnpears · 5 months

Text

the suppression of lady whump has really got me going tonight

like, it’s fine not to like lady whump. it’s fine to be triggered by lady whump and wanting to avoid it. it’s all fine and good. but the fact that there had to be (presumably!! since this is a niche community) a considerable amount of people in the community so against it that somehow it got to tumblr’s team and blacklisted as a tag? now that’s some nonsense

correct me if I’m wrong about how tumblr works in terms of the staff finding content that’s considered inappropriate, but I’m pretty sure it works based on what is being reported to them, and if lady whump managed to make it onto their list of hidden tags, we can assume that lady whump content has been mass reported to ever garner the attention of the staff

it’s a shame, really. it’s a shame to be someone who finds catharsis in whump against women and be unable to find content for it due to tumblr and the community’s fuckery, especially if you don’t have mutuals who write or reblog whumpy woman content

let people whump their women, tumblr

#this isn’t even to mention how some of y’all act when lady whump is getting its flowers #this is a community-wide problem and tbh I’m really sick of it #anyways #love me a lady in pain ❤️❤️#whump #whumplr #lady whump

104 notes · View notes

little-peril-stories · 2 months

Text

🌈 ROYGBIV Tag Game

Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt.

I wasn't tagged in this. But I wanted to do it. :) so I’m posting it for my bday. Happy birthday to me 🎉🍰🌈

open tag ✨

RED - The Court of Rogues

I’m standing now, drawing a blade down her perfect skin, watching redness well up where the knife slices into her flesh.

ORANGE - The Prince of Thieves

Gusting wind, stronger than before, kicks up a tornado of leaves, recently fallen and vibrant against the slowly dying grass. I watch them swirl, frantically at first and then lazily, like orange and yellow snowflakes, until they fall and coat the ground again.

YELLOW - The Queen of Lies

Of course it was worth it, the thief told the voice, even though there was nobody in the world who would believe him if he said those words out loud. But he had gifted Hatchett a bloody nose when he tried to run, and that was something. There was still an ugly bruise on the constable’s ugly face, yellow like rancid butter, and the thief seized a tiny piece of glee and satisfaction every time he saw it.

GREEN - The Queen of Lies

Hazel eyes, red-rimmed and heavy-lidded and watery and glazed, locked onto hers, and Breanna’s heart shuddered and stopped. What a peculiar colour were those eyes—a mix of green and gold, staring at her from a dirt-streaked face dusted with freckles. As his eyes closed again and his head fell forward, a shock of red-brown hair tumbled over his face, and she could see nothing but the sickening crimson canvas of his back.

BLUE - The Court of Rogues

It’s the sunset over the lake, painted in blues and purples and reds and pinks and oranges, forming a gentle gradient of looming night to the sun’s farewell glow. Deep greens for the trees along the shore, laden with leaves in the height of summer. The very rocks, it seems, upon which we now sit.

INDIGO DARK BLUE - The Prince of Thieves

A ragged breath catches in my chest. They’re dragging someone in. A girl—a girl? Good god, it’s her—that girl. They’re leading her down the corridor, the pale cotton of her dress blinding against the dark blue of their uniforms as she stumbles along.

VIOLET - The Prince of Thieves

I never had much chance to go walking around in the woods, but the more I imagine it, the more he seems to belong in the picture. He walks easily, unhurried and unhurt, reaching curious hands to brush the bark of an oak, the silk of a fern, the blush of a violet. Intact clothes, unspoiled by blood and grime, skin clean and free of a single bruise. I bet that hair practically glows red when the sun hits it just right. Especially in the light of sunset, when the sky turns to pink and orange flame.

#tag game #roygbiv tag game #mention of:#lady whump #tw blood #open tag

26 notes · View notes

whumpshaped · 7 months

Note

sunshine for the bingo? :]

BINGO. also technically this is the second time but the first was so tiny it doesnt count. after this

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, accidental whump, burns, past trauma, lady whumper, flashbacks, conditioned whumpee, death talk and corpses

Helle knew they would have to let go of Beck and begin cleaning up at some point. The entire place was wrecked, and it hurt their heart to know they'd just managed to do a bit of tidying up a week or so prior. Wasted effort.

They glanced towards the bodies and the blood seeping into the carpet, and they just knew all of it was soaked, both the fabric and the wood below. Was it ruined now? Were they going to have to call someone to redo the entire floor? Surely not. Surely, it could be salvaged...

They groaned in frustration. Okay. They just had to start.

"Will you actually stay in my bedroom this time if I bring you back?" they asked gently, already scooping Beck up before he could've answered.

"I'm sorry for leaving," he muttered. "I got so... so worried."

"Yes, yes, because I am wholly incapable of defending myself. What would I do without the help of a runt?" They pushed the door open and carried him inside, then took a calming breath. "Never do it again, yes? I will not praise you for disobeying me, if that is what you were hoping for."

Beck looked up at them with teary eyes. "I don't– I don't want praise, I was just... I was hoping maybe you'd... you'd forgive me for it, if I ended up being useful..."

"I do forgive you. But I need you to promise you will never do such a thing again."

He slowly nodded, his expression full of guilt and the pain of rejection. He must've felt so heroic in that moment when the stake had hit him, knowing he'd likely saved their life, and now here they were, scolding him for it. But they didn't need to encourage something as stupid as heroism. Self-sacrifice. What good did that ever do? Beck was way too willing to get himself killed, and with his abilities, it'd become a reality sooner than later if they were to indulge him.

"I promise, Master. I'm sorry."

"Good." They walked over to their closet and picked out a shirt, then tore off a strip of fabric. Then another. Then one more. They didn't want to go and get the actual bandages until all the windows were covered up again, and they didn't want Beck completely soaking the bed until then either. This seemed like a reasonable compromise, and something that would hold him over until he healed. They had too many shirts anyway.

He looked more than grateful to be patched up by them, mumbling thank yous all the way through. "I can help with cleaning," he said eagerly. "Once– once it doesn't hurt as much–"

"I am counting on that. Your family made a mess of this place."

He winced. "I'm sorry. I'll... I'll come help as soon as I can, Master."

Annoying. So annoying. So many little glass shards to pick up. So many corpses to throw into a pile by the front door. So many layers of clothing to put on so they wouldn't get burned. They could've waited for nightfall, sure, but they didn't want to spend their night doing this.

Helle huffed as they tried to put another ripped off curtain rod back in place, securing it with regular nails and a hammer. They didn't own a fucking drill, they never thought they'd need it. And this was the easier part, too. Hanging up the curtains themselves was a major pain in the ass, and they were not looking forward to it.

They went window by window, holding at least three nails in their mouth at all times. They were so immersed in their work that they didn't even hear as the bedroom door opened and closed, nor the soft patter of feet drawing nearer and nearer.

"The bleeding stopped," Beck announced sheepishly, almost startling them enough to fall off the ladder; but instead they ended up letting go of the half-secured curtain to steady themself, letting in the last rays of the evening sun as it swung to the side.

Beck let out a bloodcurdling scream as the light hit his sensitive body, and Helle jumped off the ladder without thinking to pull him into the shadows. "What on earth is wrong with you?" they snapped, desperate to cover up their horror and nausea with righteous anger. "Your only job for the night was to stay away from goddamn trouble! Is that really so difficult?"

The poor thing was crying and whimpering from the pain, his hands, neck, and face burnt and twitchy. Helle was pretty sure he couldn't even see with his eyes having gotten such a direct hit — he was probably blind for the moment.

"I– I'm sorry– I'm sorry–"

"Oh, be quiet." They wanted to strangle him. They wanted to throw him against the wall and hear his ribs crack. They really wished their stupid, idiotic, overzealous, overexcited puppy of a vampire servant could've resisted the urge to throw himself in harm's way for just two seconds. "What did I tell you? What the hell did I tell you? I told you to stay in the goddamn bedroom."

Beck whined, so pitiful that Helle couldn't stand it. They shoved his burnt body further into the darker parts of the room, letting him stumble and fall when he failed to find a single thing to hold onto. Not that it would've helped, given how ruined his hands were. "I'm sorry," he repeated brokenly, staring at nothing with those stupid doe eyes of his. "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry–"

"Quiet."

He flinched and curled in on himself, sobbing, making it impossible not to draw a comparison to when...

"I apologise!" they cried for the hundredth time, body covered in lashes and fresh burns. They couldn't stop trying every time the lady pulled them away from that terrifying, poisonous patch of sunshine in the hallway, whenever they got a moment of reprieve and they weren't just screaming incoherently. "Please, forgive me–"

She pushed them forward again, plunging most of their upper body into the light to sizzle and melt like wax.

Beck tried to weep as quietly as he could, afraid of being punished further than he'd already punished himself by accident. They shook their head a little, dispelling the memory.

"I shall draw you a cold bath after I have finished the work," they said coldly. "Do try to writhe as little as possible; burned skin cracks and tears quite easily."

@whumpprentice @starliight-whump

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump @d-cs @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @tauntedoctopuses @blueyellow8green @typewrittenfangs @whumpsoda @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @auroragehenna @whumpedydump

#at my beck and call #whump #whump writing #helle #beckett #vampire whumper #vampire whumpee #accidental whump #burns #past trauma #lady whumper #flashbacks #conditioned whumpee #death mention

70 notes · View notes

whumpy-wyrms · 5 months

Text

HIII @toyybox I’M THE ONE WHO MADE UR GIFT FOR THE @seasons-beatings EVENT!!!! :D

i drew the scene from Spiderwebs chapter 2 Firecracker :) ALSO i’ve been wanting to draw the vivisection scene since i first read it, but i’m terrible at drawing gore.. soo maybe another time! >:) this was so much fun to draw and i’m happy the event gave me an excuse to draw more Spiderwebs fanart because that’s such an AMAZING series!! anyway i’m happy you like it, i had a lot of fun making it :D

#and OF COURSE i had to put a spiderweb in there >:)#🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️#whump art #my art #blood #immortal whumpee #kidnapping #kidnap whump #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whumpee #whumper #lady whumper #gun tw #tw gun #death #death mention #whumpy wyrms art

28 notes · View notes

steelandblood · 28 days

Note

How about “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

@plasmodiumpyrexia thank you so much for the ask and I'm so sorry for taking so so long😅 I hope the 2.7K words were worth the wait!

@pleasestaywithmedarling thank you so much for showing interest! I hope I didn't disappoint

Honest Conversations

Bruises on the neck can mean very different things.

Contents: female whumpee, discussion of SA (elaborated in tags, nothing graphic though)

Characters

Calina was overjoyed to finally be reunited with her childhood friend, but it seemed like she was the only one who was happy with Adan's presence. Thancur at least did not mind him, but also paid him no mind. Calina hoped he might enjoy having another guy around and find some common ground, but they did not seem to have much in common at all.

At least it was better then the other women. Mirwen was hostile and suspicious, going so far as to threaten Adan and describe in alarmingly graphic detail the things she would do to him should he ever dare to hurt Calina. Sure, it was somewhat touching that apparently Mirwen was so fiercely protective of her, but Calina could definitely go without threats of dismemberment towards her boyfriend. Even worse, Rauna, mimicking the older half-elf's attitude, was outright mean and rude, often joking at Adan's expanse.

When they finally returned to the town it was well past sunset and they were all quite exhausted, but Calina was absolutely not too tired to finally enjoy some private time with Adan.

After a whispered promise to meet tonight outside the inn, they parted, each going to their room. She knew Adan would have no trouble. Even if Thancur would notice him getting out, he would not care. Calina though would have to sneak out. It's not that any of the other women could stop her, but they would certainly have their opinions about her spending the night in Adan's company, and Calina knew they would not keep those opinions to themselves. Not wanting to deal with Rauna's judgement and Mirwen's disappointment, Calina laid in bed, impatiently waiting until the other women were soundly asleep. Mirwen, who stayed on watch the entire night ever since Adan joined them, was completely exhausted and was out the moment her head touched the pillow. Rauna however of course had to go through all her nightly prayers first. At least it was not a full moon, then Rauna would have stayed up all night praying. But finally she fell asleep as well and Calina could sneak out of the room. Both half elfs ware light sleeper, but Calina's footsteps were lighter, and she successfully got out completely unnoticed. Not wasting a second more she quickly and quietly made her way to where Adan was already waiting for her, just like they used to do in their teenage years.

Sneaking back in was just as easy, though her heart was still beating loud in her ears from the excitement. Calina lay in her bed unable to sleep, giddy just as she was after their first kiss.

When the first ray of dawn shined through the window, giving Calina an excuse to start her day, she quietly snuck into the washroom while her companions were only just stirring awake. There, looking in the mirror she discovered an unpleasant surprise. Adan's passionate kisses left her with an unfortunate parting gift of blossoming dark bruises showing vividly on the pale skin of her neck.

She played with her hair, hoping to arrange it just so to hide the evidence, until Rauna's insistent knocking forced her to deem her efforts good enough. Calina busied herself with getting dressed, making sure to find a shirt with a high enough collar, and she was sure she had managed to get away undiscovered with last night's escapade when Rauna's teasing voice came from behind her.

"Hey Calina? What are those bruises on your neck?"

Calina could feel Mirwen's eyes on her, judging her, and only hoped she would be nice enough to not say anything, but Mirwen was rarely nice.

"Rauna, get dressed, go get Thancur and eat breakfast. We'll join later." Mirwen ordered in a voice that left no room for argument.

The moment the door closed behind Rauna, Mirwen's entire demeanour changed. She looked at Calina with big sad eyes and motioned for her to sit next to her on the bed. Confused and surprised Calina followed her.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" She asked cautiously, her voice thick with emotion, almost reaching for Calina's hand, "I would be the last one to judge." she let out a sad chuckle.

Whatever Calina expected, this was not it. Mirwen never hid her disapproval of her and Adan's relationship, so upon seeing the evidence of last nights, Calina expected disappointment, judgement, even anger, but Mirwen looked almost heartbroken.

"Mirwen what is this about?"

"You spent the night with Adan, didn't you. The bruise on your neck..." Mirwen sounded like she was fighting tears, "He strangled you, didn't he?"

"What? No!" The idea was ludicrous, but Mirwen seemed completely serious, "Why would you think something like that? We just had some fun last night."

To Calina's farther surprise, Mirwen, who never initiated physical contact unless she was healing, grasped her hand, not strong enough to hurt, but firm enough to prevent Calina from getting away.

"I'm sorry, but I need you to be honest about what happened, it's for your own good." Mirwen apologized and cast zone of truth around them.

"Please Calina, tell me the truth about what happened last night. I only want to protect you."

"I am telling you the truth, we just fooled around last night, we didn't even, go all the way, you know..."

"And the bruise on your neck?" Mirwen now looked as confused as Calina felt.

"Just from kisses, he was enthusiastic, and I bruise easily.” Calina confessed bashfully, “There is nothing more to it, he didn't hurt me, I promise.”

"You are telling the truth, you have to be." Mirwen looked at her bewildered and then released her hand as if burned, lowering her gaze in shame. "That's... that's good, that he didn't hurt you. I'm so sorry..." She moved to make a quick escape, but now it was Calina's turn to grab her hand to make her stay. Mirwen flinched at the touch, but didn't fight it, and set back down. Calina hated to do this, but she had to know what made Mirwen jump to the worst possible conclusion. Was it just her regular paranoia, or was there something more going on.

"What made you think Adan hurt me?" The annoyance in her mind now replaced with concern in her voice. "Did..." She didn't want to even think about this possibility, but she had to ask, "did he do anything to you?"

"No, he didn't... It... it was years ago". Mirwen mumbled, avoiding looking her in the eyes.

Calina did not need to ask to know what "it" was, it was the thing every woman was warned about, but was never supposed to mention.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you." Her own words sounded empty to Calina. She meant them of course, but her sorry was just as useless on face of what Mirwen went through.

Mirwen looked up at her fearfully. "It doesn't mat- it does-" she quickly gave up as the spell stopped any attempt at lying, "P-please don't te-t-tell anyone..." She asked, no, begged quietly. It was so wrong, Mirwen did not beg.

"I won't, of course I won't. But you know the others wouldn't judge you, right?" Calina was rumbling, but she felt she had to say something to fill the silence, do something to make it better. "It was something that was done to you, it's not your fault. They wouldn't think less of you, I don't." Calina stopped to draw a breath and saw that her words had the opposite effect.

"Don't say that!" Mirwen protested, "You can't mean it, please don't say that!"

Calina did not know what she said wrong, but she rumbled on, hoping to fix her mistake and not make the situation worse.

"I do mean it. You know I can't lie right now Mirwen, so I have to be telling the truth, you know that."

This was not how it was supposed to go. Mirwen was supposed to except her genuine but in the end useless sympathies, after which they would awkwardly move on, to never mention the topic again. She wasn't supposed to argue.

"But you don't know the truth!" Mirwen shouted, her voice painfully shrill, "It's too disgusting and wrong." She added in a small voice.

No, Calina did not know, and though a tiny, morbidly curious part of her wanted to ask, the other, more sensible, or perhaps selfish, part of her knew that she would rather stay blissfully ignorant. Because in the end the details did not matter.

"Mirwen, whatever horrible things he did to you, it doesn't change anything. He chose to do it to you, you didn't want that and it says absolutely nothing about you."

Mirwen shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut in a fruitless attempt to hide her tears.

"You don't get it! It was my father!" She blurted out and immediately clasped a hand over her mouth.

That was not what Calina expected to hear. She didn't want to believe such a thing was even possible, let alone happened to her friend. To Mirwen, who was always the strong one, who laughed at the face of death and could strike fear into the hearts of well armed men with a single look. Such things are not supposed to happen, but it was true, and it happened, and now Calina could not get out of her mind the image of a little golden-haired girl, tears staining her pale freckled face, with big dark finger shaped bruises around her tiny neck.

Mirwen stared at Calina with wide terrified eyes, and at that moment she looked far too much like the girl in Calina's mind.

"That's... That horrible. I'm so sorry."

Mirwen snatched her hand away from Calina's and backed away, as if only now realizing what she had said. "Fuck, shit I shouldn't have said this, I'm sorry, please pretend I didn't say anything." She was clearly panicking, and Calina was at a loss as to how to handle the situation.

"Mirwen, it's okay, calm-" Calina was cut off before she could finish.

"No, it's not! It's too late, I can see the way you're looking at me now. I don't even know what's worse, the pity or the disgust." With every word her voice was becoming more breathless and hysterical. Her entire body was trembling, and she was barely holding herself together, digging her short, broken nails as deep as possible into her arms. "I don't know why I even told you, I'm sorry, I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut and now I ruined everything. I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do to fix it, please tell me what I can do, I'm sorry..." Her desperate rumbling turned into unintelligible sobs.

Calina did not know how to fix this either. Selfishly she also wanted to pretend that that the last few minutes did not happen. Because Mirwen was right, she did pity her. And how could she not, now that she could not stop imagining all the horrible things that were done to her, that her own father did to her, now that she could see that underneath all the armor, behind all the rage and violence, was a scared little girl who was desperate to never be hurt again.

Calina wished Rauna was here, the two were much closer, and though their circumstances were vastly different, at least Rauna knew what it was like to grow up without good parents. What did Calina know? She grew up in a mansion, both her parents were alive and well and loved her very much, she never knew any real hardship or fear. Even now, when she was regularly fighting deadly monsters, she always had Mirwen who took all the hits, and Rauna who could heal all the wounds. Even death was only a slightly expensive inconvenience.

What comfort and understanding could Calina offer when this was so incomprehensibly foreign to her.

With every moment ‏that she hesitated, her guilt grew, but her mind remained blank of ideas, until she could no longer bare the sight of Mirwen crying and the awkward almost silence of her quiet sobs.

Knowing nothing she could say would likely help, Calina took a different approach.

"Can I hug you?"

Mirwen stopped crying and then slowly looked up at Calina in bewilderment. After a long moment Mirwen gave a single nod.

Calina carefully reached to hug her, still half expecting her to protest or even shove her away, but Mirwen stayed frozen in place and allowed Calina to wrap her arms around her.

She could feel Mirwen holding her breath, until she let out a shaky gasp and broke down sobbing, burying her face Calina's shoulder.

Calina let her cry, patiently stroking her hair, trying not to notice how soft and nice it was, or how she could definitely feel Mirwen's muscles through the thin linen shirt. She didn't know how long they stayed like that, but eventually Mirwen stopped crying, and after few deep ragged breaths she awkwardly backed away from Calina.

"Calina," She looked up at her, blinking away tears, "I'm- I'm sorry, I-" her voice was hoarse and tired, "Thank you." She sounded so genuine that Calina didn't know if she wanted to cry, or yell at Mirwen and shake some sense into her. Because nothing she did warranted this, because she did basically nothing.

"It's nothing." She said instead.

Mirwen shook her head but didn't protest.

"Can we now please pretend all of this never happened, and never mention it again?"

"Of course. You're okay?"

"I'm fine." Mirwen did not sound very convicted, and enough time has past for the spell to end, but Calina did mot push it. They both had enough truths for today.

"You should join the others for breakfast."

"You're not coming?" Calina asked.

"Looking like that? No thanks." With tearstained cheeks and red puffy eyes, Mirwen obviously looked like she has been crying, of course she couldn't allow anyone to see her like that. "I'd rather save what little dignity I have left. It's fine, really, go ahead. And you can tell your boy toy that he is safe, for now."

#whump #lady whump #female whumpee #emotional whump #trauma reveal #mentions of sa csa and incest #truth spell #This story beat my ass but I beat it in the end #It was so hard writing from the other perspective #I don't know how it is #Is it edited? no #will I regret it later? probably #but I finished writing it and I want to publish it already #it took me long enough as it is #please be nice in your comments I'm sensitive #my wriring

11 notes · View notes

shes-some-other-where · 6 days

Text

June of Doom 6, 13, 22

Broken Promise | Sacrifice | Poison | Bedridden

<<< previous | next >>>

Contains: royalty whump, lady whump, death, murder, blood, fantasy drug/potion

WC: 840

A bitter magic, a curse

Your time is running out, he said. To plead her case. To save her brother . . . if not herself.

Her last chance to ensure that one of them lived on. Even if what she was about to do would result in something that, for her brother, would be hardly a life at all.

“It stops the visions! He’s a seer!” she shrieked. “He sees things! Terrible things, future, past, present! Everything he sees, it’s true, or it comes to pass!”

A bitter magic, a curse: it tormented him, stole his slumber every night, showed him things that dulled his bright eyes, greyed his burnished skin, tattered a spirit that had once been indomitable.

The usurper prince burst into a laugh, and the princess drooped. He didn’t believe her.

“A seer, you say.”

Or—perhaps, he did.

“What a pity,” he said. “What a gift! And yet so useless if it’s being suppressed.” He lifted the bottle of the sleeping draught, reading the label with a sneer, then let it fall to the ground and shatter. Glittering knives of brown glass skittered across the floor. “Perhaps if he’d been less of a weakling, if he’d been strong enough to face his own magic, he might have seen us coming.”

But he hadn’t, and her family was dead. Soon she would be, too. But perhaps one of them didn’t have to be.

“Spare him,” she whispered. “His gift . . .”

His curse.

“Perhaps it will be of use to you.” The words were slimy and sour on her tongue, like a broken promise, like poison.

Coward, traitor, backstabber, snake.

“Indeed,” said the invader. “And yet while he lives, so too does a threat to my future throne.”

“Please,” she said. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Don’t kill him.”

The prince was silent. He studied her coolly, as one might observe a beast in a cage, with curiosity and some measure of disgust. Perhaps, she thought desperately, even pity. “You’ll grovel for the life of this lily-livered brother of yours, whose abilities could have saved you all?”

She nodded.

“And not for yourself?”

Herself? She had no magic, no gift to offer. She was a middle heir, a princess, lovely and demure and with no skills to speak of.

No words, pretty or not, would prevent the usurper’s steel from piercing her throat.

She dared a glance at her sleeping brother. He had not stirred.

“On your knees,” the invader prince commanded suddenly.

The soldier let go and shoved her down, sending pain keeling through her legs as her kneecaps cracked against the bloodstained floorboards. The pale silk of her nightgown, paper-thin and gossamer-sheer, offered no cushioning. She cried out at the lightning bolts of pain that bit into her skin, shredded and pierced by bits of broken glass. New blood mingled with the sanguine footprints on the floor: hers.

“Beg for him,” said the invader. “And beg for yourself. He offers me magic and knowledge which I would otherwise lack. But what of you?”

When she closed her mouth, listening to her own quiet, whimpering breaths, he ordered, “Do it, or I shall end your life and his.”

“Please,” she whispered. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Please let him live. He can use his gift to—to help you. To give you an advantage . . .”

An advantage. In what? In conquering other kingdoms, usurping other thrones? Orchestrating other massacres, and spilling the blood of countless more innocents?

She was despicable.

“Use his gift as you see fit,” she said, digging her fingernails into her knees. The pinpricks of pain stung, but did she deserve any less for selling out her own brother while he lay unwitting mere steps away? “But you must spare his life.”

The usurper prince lifted his sword, wielding it slowly and deftly until it grazed the bottom of her chin. She could not prevent herself from shaking wildly, nor stop her muscles from tilting her face up of their own accord to avoid the blade’s sharp edge.

His eyes bored into hers.

“And you, little princess?”

“And I will do whatever it takes to save him,” she said. “If you promise not to kill him, I’ll do anything you want.”

Her brother wouldn’t want this, she knew—he would never ask such a thing of her, nor would he want the life she was hurling him into. He would be furious. Hurt. Betrayed.

Yet the words were out, and they could not be taken back, and the invader prince was looking at her with that calculating gaze once more, and she knew no matter what happened next, she had lost either way.

“Bind her,” he said, “but keep her alive.” He paused, passing a shrewd glare to the body on the bed, while the soldiers wrenched her arms behind her and tied her wrists together. “And the brother, too. We’ll see if these pretty words mean anything at all.” He turned back to the princess, now a prisoner, whose quiet sobs echoed through the room. “Let’s see how much use the two of you can be.”

June of Doom Masterlist

<<< previous | next >>>

@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

16 notes · View notes

agitowarrioroftheforest · 2 months

Text

Origin Spirits of the Past is so fun because it has this short king who goes into battle in a bdsm crop top binder with matching arm cuffs that powerful forest fae put him in. When he stands next to anyone it’s obvious how tiny he is.

This includes basically the whole cast: the tall armored knight/soldier lady, the villain, his best friend’s dad, his town’s mayor, the other main character who he has a crush on who is a girl taller than him.

And then that same twink throws a several-car-sized boulder over his head, rips a tank in half with his bare hands, chases down an armored train, busts out of a jail cell with plant body horror, and deflects a missile shell like 5 times his size. He’s also bulletproof.

Also for fun, it does the opposite of “girl in revealing outfit, guy in street clothes” bit and genuinely I want more of whatever this is:

#origin: spirits of the past #agito #giniro no kami no agito #origin spirits of the past #he’s so tiny!!!!! I’m going to explode #also he is the victim of whump scenarios on a regular basis #included one instance of Agito manhandling from before he became enhanced but shhh #more tiny superpowered twinks with slutty outfits next to a whole cast of characters wearing practical outfits please and thank you #genuinely though. him being shorter than Toola is still really cool to be because short boys in media are usually made fun of #especially if they have anything gnc going on #did I mention the tall armored lady is the tallest person in the cast!!??#this is who I drew as a catboy for the boop event

12 notes · View notes

gottawhump · 1 year

Text

Runaways

Carlisle

CW/TW: pet whump, hand whump, BBU/WRU, sickness, death mention, escaping.

He is still in the first numbing haze of grief when the first runaway comes to his house.

If he hadn’t gone to the kitchen to get a snack because he couldn’t sleep, he might have missed him. There’s a strange Pet trying to eat soup there, the hand holding the spoon shaking, the other hand burned and blistered.

Carlisle’s barely registered this before the Pet drops the spoon, drops to his knees.

“Please. Please don’t send me back. I can-I can work, I’ll be useful. Please, sir.”

He can’t. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. Infection, probably. Left untreated, the strange Pet might lose the hand. Or worse.

But a Domestic will proclaim they can work with their dying breath, he’s learned.

And he is so tired of people dying.

“It’s all right,” he says. “You can stay.”

He’s not sure how, but he’s going to make it happen.

It’s harder, after he’s turned his house into a Sanctuary. He thought it would be easier, but it’s harder.

He doesn’t report the runaway right away. He takes a few days, to let her rest and heal. A few days, to consider all his options.

He doesn’t see any.

He makes the call to WRU.

A white retrieval van pulls up in his driveway within the hour. Black suited handlers take her out of his house. He sees the betrayal in the runaway’s eyes.

When it’s over, he sees betrayal in his own people’s eyes.

Some of them leave, after that. Some of the legal surrenders in his care, some of his surviving household. One at a time, the others looking the other way while they slip away.

“I did what I had to do,” he tells Ellis. “Otherwise I’d lose everyone.”

“I know. But sending someone back to WRU—it makes you less safe, Carlisle. It makes this place less safe, to us.” Ellis’ fingers touch his collar, still mourning black, fall away. Us.

The next time, the next runaway in his house, he makes a different call.

He’s had the number since college, never expecting to use it. He isn’r a pet libber. He runs a Sanctuary, not a safehouse.

He doesn’t even know if anyone will answer, if this will work. Part of his mind is scrabbling for alternatives, if it doesn’t. He can alter his ownership records, claim this one is one of his missing. He could try an outright purchase, though he doesn’t know the runaway’s owner.

He could try…He could try…

“Hello?”

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue

#pet whump #bbu/wru #hand whump #sickness #death mention #lady whump mentioned #Carlisle #old friends

40 notes · View notes

pigeonwhumps · 5 months

Text

Memorial

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @ghost-whump @whump-tr0pes @rainbowsandwhumperflies @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Gemma and Joseph attend a memorial for the victims of the boarding schools for powered kids.

Joseph and Pat belong to @i-eat-worlds

2.1k

CWs: past death and loss, grief, past minor whump, implication of past alcohol addiction, past institutional whump, intrusive journalists, past blackmail

Gemma leans against the back wall of the small room and breathes out a long, slow breath. She needs to keep it together. She can’t blast holes in the building without her goggles.

Not that she would. There’s innocents here.

But seriously. ‘Thoughts and prayers’ are not going to erase the fucking torture she went through at that place they called a school. Nor are they going to bring back the people she’s lost. And she cannot stand to be around people who either think that or are callously pretending it’s true for another second.

She desperately wants a proper drink. But that would be a stupidly bad idea.

She hears the sound of movement from just outside the room and tenses. If that's a journalist, looking for innocent victims to use as fodder for their puff pieces about memorials and thoughts and prayers and oh, aren't the politicians sorry, and they're trying so hard, she's going to…

Well. She's not sure what she'll do. But it won't be pretty.

Fortunately for everyone, the man who stumbles in looks nothing like a journalist. No press pass for starters. Red eyes, tripping over his own feet, he looks far too upset for that.

He stops dead upon noticing Gemma, a few steps after entering. He's white with brown hair, dressed in INSUPA formalwear that she's sure would've been less unkempt earlier. He narrows his eyes.

“Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she retorts. Just because he doesn't look like a journalist doesn't mean she's going to risk it.

“Joseph. No, wait, I… oh, fuck it.”

“Who are you here under?”

“INSUPA. You?”

“HAL.” Even after retirement, they still managed to drag her into this. “Fuck them.”

Joseph continues to stare. “Who’re you?”

“Gemma. Formerly Solar Flare, formerly a student of one of those fucking schools.”

“Fuck.”

That about sums it up, Gemma thinks.

“What about you? Why are you here? I assume you're not INSUPA’s official representative.”

“Whatever gave it away?” says Joseph dryly. Gemma snorts. “I… I'm not sure. Pat… she died. Six years ago. And she wouldn't have… but I don't know. INSUPA told me about it, I thought I should, but this place is just… what right do they have, to stand there and proclaim that the government is sorry, when the schools were partially run by them and they never would've shut if it wasn't for campaigners? What right do they have to talk about reparations and mourning when they killed people? Fuck!”

Gemma slides down the wall, clenching her fists. She needs to keep her anger inside. There's no training rooms or punching bag and she doesn't want to blind anyone by losing control.

But, damn.

She looks up at Joseph. “Pat. Tell me about her.”

Joseph sinks down and leans back against the opposite wall, closing his eyes. “She was brilliant. So alive. She was 17 when her school closed and she came to us, and she… she was amazing. Traumatised to hell, too. She was so young, y’know? She was so… you know. You must. Apologetic. Polite. Hurt. But she was incredible.” Tears are streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn't bother wiping them away. Maybe he knows there's not much point. “But her powers were dangerous. To herself most of all. And she pushed and INSUPA pushed and she… she had four years of freedom before INSUPA’s greed took her away.”

Gemma does a quick calculation. “21?”

“21,” Joseph confirms. “21 and she died because INSUPA wouldn't pull her out despite the knowledge that her next powers usage would likely be her last, because I couldn't save her, because nobody in authority cared enough about her, only her powers. She never got a childhood, she never got to be a teenager, her life was just getting started, and then she died and it's something no-one should've ever let happen. I should've done more.”

And, well. If Gemma knows about anything it's misplaced guilt. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Maybe not entirely. But she was my responsibility.”

“No. You did the best you could, I'm certain of it. It's the fault of the assholes who locked her up for seven– six years and then still never stopped using her. That's not you. I don't know how they even dare show their faces tonight.”

Joseph wipes his nose and looks at her blankly. “Because they're assholes. Assholes who have no shame.”

“Bet they think the schools should've stayed open too.”

“Some of them definitely do. Which is why I can't stay down there, because one more second around that counsellor who we know is working with the Costellos on that anonymous campaign to put more regulations in and fuck up more kids’ lives and I will be in prison for murder.” Gemma stares at him and he shrugs. “I have a friend monitoring the campaign. Just in case. They found out a few things.”

“We could blow up the building?” Gemma suggests. Joseph snorts wetly but she isn't joking. She could do it, she's sure.

“Maybe not. Maybe we leave the killing for another day.”

Gemma nods, barely able to see Joseph through her tears. Maybe.

“I should go back downstairs,” he croaks. “I should– oh, god, I need a drink.”

“Stay,” says Gemma, voice wet but calmer than she feels. “Fuck those assholes. They don't deserve any of your time.”

And Joseph doesn't move. Gemma can't see now but she doesn't need to to plot the brutal, bloody death of all the staff from her school and everyone else who's ever hurt someone she loves.

She doesn't know how long it is before she finishes that. There's a lot of them. But she breaks out of grieving for the scared and confused newly-enrolled 11-year-old inside her and the 21-year-old who died just as she was starting to become free and the childhood of the 14-year-old on the streets who'd had to hide so carefully to avoid being forcibly re-enrolled instead of being a teenager and Lian's dad –

Well, she breaks out of grieving all of them at once to Joseph's voice.

“I need to go. I can't stand it. This building, this memorial. I… I said I'd pop my head in, and I have. I can't stay for the unveiling. I don't want marble, or whatever the fuck that memorial is, I want Pat back.”

Gemma nods. She understands the sentiment. She'd rather have her childhood and her friends back than a memorial. They've apparently collaborated with ex-students for it, but that doesn't mean it's any good. She knows what the officials’ actions are worth. How much they actually listen.

“You have somewhere safe to go tonight?”

Joseph nods. “Aa– a friend, he's rented an apartment for a few nights. Get away from INSUPA for a bit.”

“Good.”

“What about you?”

She takes a shaky breath. “Staying with family. Let's get out of here.”

“Front entrance. The back's quieter but I'm not skulking out like I've done something wrong by actually grieving.”

“Okay. Okay.”

She lets Joseph pull her up and they head towards the sound of voices and clinking glasses. Typical politicians, schmoozing and networking during a damn memorial. She glances at Joseph and sees he's wearing the same disgusted look she imagines is on her own face right now.

For a moment, the sounds of glasses and obvious drinking remind her of her younger days, and– but she didn't drink it by the glass, did she? She drank it by the bottle, and–

No. No. She's been sober 22 years, she won't be derailed now.

They reach the door to the busy main hall and Gemma takes a deep breath.

“Ready?”

Joseph clenches his fists.

“Ready.”

And they head out into the crowd.

It's not that loud, but there's too many people. They're almost immediately identified, correctly, as some of those who lost people, probably due to their unkempt clothes and red-rimmed, puffy eyes. No-one here but survivors and relations (blood or otherwise) would look so upset. Maybe they should've taken a few seconds to tidy themselves up but she hadn't even thought about it. They're accosted from all sides, and somewhere in the midst of fending off politicians and journalists and the city’s ‘great and good’ she loses track of Joseph.

She stops, scanning the room. Where… ah. Over there. Attempting to fend off a journalist. But she can't get to him.

“Excuse me.” Gemma spins around, realising that in her search for Joseph she completely missed someone approaching. “Oh. Apologies for startling you. I just wanted to say sorry for your loss.”

Gemma looks the woman up and down scornfully. Well put-together, face set in a professionally upset expression, red and gold lanyard just like–

She squints at the ID card (why the fuck is the woman even still wearing it? It's not like a press pass) and her blood boils. She recognises that name, and even if she didn't she knows the logo, spent years working under its name. Fuck, no.

“HAL management, yeah?” The woman nods. “You found out that my friend's son was predisposed towards developing elemental powers and blackmailed him into going undercover in exchange for not getting his son sent to one of those fucking schools for having ‘dangerously unstable powers' as soon as he was old enough. You got him killed. More than that, you knew those schools were shitholes or you wouldn't have threatened him with one. So fuck you and your crocodile tears. Get the fuck away from me and don't come near me ever again or so help me.”

She takes one last, satisfied look at the woman's dumbstruck face and spins around, heading towards Joseph. She gets within earshot just in time to hear him say, “...and that's not a question you should ever be asking. Fuck you, you don't get to pry and find out who I've lost when you clearly don't care about the victims, you're just a predatory leech out for gossip, now get that camera and microphone out of my face.”

Gemma, unsticking her feet from the floor after listening to that satisfying answer, grabs Joseph's arm and tugs him towards the exit, barging past people as she goes.

“Come on. Let's just go. Before we get into any actual fights.”

They seem to have caused a bit of a scene, and people are hurriedly moving out of their way now. She drops Joseph's arm as soon as they get outside.

There's a bright flash from opposite the building. Joseph curses under his breath.

“More journalists.”

Gemma flips them off with both hands.

“I know where we can go,” mutters Joseph. “There's an alleyway to the side of the building, leading around the back. We can get to the surrounding roads from there.”

Gemma nods and follows him, the two of them walking briskly until he turns sharply into an alley, and then around another corner, and then onto a busy street. Her vision’s blurred with tears.

Fuck all of this. This isn't the memorial her friends would've wanted. It isn't much of a memorial at all, just a smokescreen to fool the public into thinking they care. Fuck all of them.

He stops, suddenly. “No-one will pay attention to us here. Trust me. Are you alright?” He pauses. “Stupid question. As alright as you can be.”

Gemma nods. “The woman… she blackmailed my friend and got him killed. That's all. It's…”

She doesn't know what to say, how to finish, but Joseph nods, like he understands anyway. “Reporter asked about who I'd lost. Like that's okay to ask, like I wasn't clearly distraught, like I'd ever spill the details of Pat’s life. They all just want juicy stories. It's disgusting.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, eyes glistening. “Still. At least it's all over for now, right? All the public shit anyway.”

She gives him as much of a smile as she can manage, not answering directly. They'll both be in deep shit for tonight, especially Joseph. He still works for INSUPA, he's wearing their uniform.

She guesses Joseph knows that though. So she goes with something else instead.

“My friends and I, we have a memorial garden. Well. Memorial allotment. If you ever want to plant something, or just sit there… let me know.”

Joseph nods, then clears his throat. “Thank you. I should… I need to… good luck.”

“And you.”

Gemma watches as he walks off into the night, shoulders hunched, definitely not in a straight line. He'll be okay.

And she needs to go back to her family. Aisling, Luiza. Her parents. People who she won't leave alone tonight, and who won't leave her. It's time to mourn away from prying eyes.

#whump #whump writing #immortal cannon fodder #gemma oc #joseph not my oc #hero whump #hero whumpee #multiple whumpees #lady whump #lil tidbit for those of you who remember phoenixs surname #i appear to be going for the challenge 'dont write a fic featuring joseph without mentioning pat'#pat 😭😭😭#phoenixs parents make me so angry sometimes

14 notes · View notes

comfort-questing · 8 months

Text

alt. drugging

"what did you do to her?"

their voice was an anguished whisper, raindrops still running off the edge of their unshed cloak, as they crouched down next to the motionless form limp on the tent floor. she still wore her long gray mage robes, stained with mud and ash from the battlefield, and her gloved hands lay open and empty at her sides.

"a little something to calm her down, and maybe help with the pain. spell recoil's nasty stuff when you're dealing with this scale of power." the healer knelt next to them both, reaching out to gently lift her head and slide a folded blanket underneath. "you say she lost control of her vertex of the rune?"

"yeah. we're all - so tired. I guess at least she... gets to sleep now." they rubbed at their eyes with the heel of one hand, shadows beneath their eyes agreeing with their words. "but - are you sure? she looks..."

the healer thumbed one of her eyelids back carefully, frowning at the blown pupil beneath. there was no response, not even a blink when they let go.

"you haven't seen this kind of thing before, have you? just out of magic school?"

"not just out. but - "

"I gave her three doses of the stuff before she stopped screaming. quite a trick when I was sitting on her hands at the same time to keep her from clawing her skin raw. trust me - this is better."

they hunched over, hand hovering above her forehead, finally lowering to stroke her tangled hair back. when they spoke again, their voice was small.

"when she wakes - will she still - "

"time's the only cure for recoil. time, and rest, and - sleep. but it should be better than it was." the healer stood up, then, and tossed another blanket down from the stack by the side of the tent. "put this on her. she should sleep for a few hours. and - there's more blankets, if you want one too."

after a moment, they nodded, slowly.

the healer chuckled low in their throat. "wise choice."

#whump #hurt comfort #lady whump #tw self harm mention #sort of but let's tag it #whumptober 2023 #whumptober alt prompt

20 notes · View notes

rainbowsandwhumperflies · 5 months

Text

The Winged Servant - 2

cws: royal whump, winged whumpee, manipulation, threats of punishment, whumpee is super conditioned, female whumper, male whumpee, lmk if i missed any!

masterlist

I knocked on Her Majesty’s door and entered as soon as I heard “Come in,” careful not to let any of her food get out of place while I held the tray in one hand. Most of it wasn’t difficult, just the grapes—I’d only ever had problems with the grapes, because they were the only food item in Her Majesty’s breakfast that would roll around with any movement. Luckily, everything stayed in place as the tray passed from hand to hand as I closed the door softly behind me.

“You’re late.”

Fuck. Was I late? I hadn’t noticed, but the edges of my memory were fuzzy this morning, it was early, I-

I hadn’t bowed. That was something I was supposed to do every time I was in the presence of Her Majesty. I really was performing horribly this morning. I could fix this. I could fix this. I knew how to fix things like this. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” I told her, dropping to my knees and leaning forward. My wings were sore, but the sooner I perfected my behavior the sooner they would rest, so I pushed them forward and out until I could freeze in the picturesque bow that Her Majesty liked me to be in.

“Don’t mumble to me.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” I repeated, enunciating this time. She was right; it was disrespectful not to speak as clearly as possible to her. “I was awoken earlier than I’m used to, but I shouldn’t have taken so long to get here. It won’t happen again.”

“Christ, Onyx, now you’re trying to pin the blame of your incompetence on waking up early? That’s a pathetic excuse, and besides, you’re my servant. You’re supposed to be able to do the things I need you to. Do I need to remind you of that?”

I would not shake. I would not shake, it made me look pathetic and it would make her breakfast move around on the tray. She hated when it did that, and I didn’t think I could stand her being mad at me for another thing right now, no matter how deserved.

“I have places to be,” she told me as she pulled the tray of food out of my hands, and I released the breath I’d been holding. “Do not think that you’re off the hook for this morning, but I don’t have time for this right now. We'll revisit this tonight. Understand?”

I nodded, standing back up. Maybe if I did everything else right today I could get back in her good graces. I’d still have to be punished for being late, of course—that was deserved and I needed it to become better—but I still did hate it when Her Majesty was angry with me.

At least I managed to keep my mouth shut and keep myself from digging myself into deeper holes throughout the rest of the morning. My only job right now was to dress Her Majesty in the red dress that was currently laid on the bed. I breathed shallowly as I laced up the back, trying to keep my stomach from rumbling simply from the smell of her toast as she ate it. She didn’t usually finish the toast, and her scraps were mine as long as no one else walked in, but not if I couldn’t just be good for the rest of the morning.

“I have an important meeting today,” Her Majesty told me as I clasped her necklace from behind her. “You are not to interrupt under any circumstances, unless I call you. My career depends on this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She sighed again, turning around to face me. “You’re much more trouble than you’re worth, you know. You’re lucky I take care of you like this, especially on days like today where you barely have to do anything. Just your regular cleaning and cooking.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I am lucky, I am very grateful, thank you.”

The ghost of a smile played out across her lips. “Good. You should be. Now start cleaning my room, and don’t leave my bed sheets all wrinkly like last time." She swept out of the room, and I was left alone again.

She’d left half of a piece of toast on the breakfast tray, along with almost all of her grapes. Our strawberry jam was running out, but the sugary-sweet taste alone made me practically melt into the floor while I ate the toast.

Her Majesty the queen was fully within her rights to eat every scrap of her breakfast, or to not finish it but not give the scraps to me. That would be fine of her, and I would still be grateful for everything she did for me. I understood that my place as a servant was permanently below her.

God, though. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for a steady supply of the strawberry jam.

taglist: @kaleidoscope-of-thoughts (lmk if you'd like to be added/removed)

#this was so unnecessarily difficult to edit #i despise editing. but anyway #the winged servant #onyx tag #lucia tag #rainbow's whump #rainbow's ocs #royal whump #non human whumpee #onyx's wings actually do get mentioned here when he's bowing. i might draw something to convey what he looks like there. we'll see #whump #whump writing #female whumper #male whumpee #i was honestly gonna go with gentleman whumpee for a bit there to go with lady whumper because it'd be funny #but tbh onyx cannot be called a gentleman at this point in the story. he is a servant that's his only purpose in life haha :)#first person pov

13 notes · View notes

actress4him · 1 year

Text

June of Doom 2023

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Day 9 - “I should have listened to you.” | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke

Contains: lady whump with male whumper, captivity, restraints, beating, stress position, mild blood, implied starvation, head trauma, hair pulling, death mention, broken ribs, dislocation mention, brief dog and master imagery

There isn’t much to see in the basement. Lainey inspects every concrete block, every crack in the foundation, every plank on the steps, every lock on the door, and finds absolutely nothing useful. It still feels better than just sitting around, though. Not that she’s blaming Isa for sitting, she can’t even help it with that chain around her neck. That thing makes Lainey want to punch something every time she thinks of it. But she also has a feeling Isa wouldn’t be helping her look even if she could get up and move.

It doesn’t take long for the man to return. She’s just come back down the stairs from checking out the door when the locks start to slide open, so she spins around and plants her feet, glaring up at their captor, trying to ignore the way her heart is suddenly threatening to break through her ribcage.

He’s not much to look at, either. Just an unattractive, scraggly bearded man, like someone you might see loitering outside a gas station and walk quickly past on your way inside. For good reason, apparently.

“Have you come to let me go?” she demands as he starts down the stairs. “To let us both go?”

He scowls back at her. “I see you haven’t yet learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut.”

“You think I’m going to listen to you? Some low-life who gets his kicks from kidnapping and chaining up young women?” He’s getting closer, and part of her wants to back away, but her pride and anger won’t let her. “I bet you’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you? Probably never had any friends at all. Is this the only way you can get anyone to hang around you? Locking them in your basement?”

She sees the swinging fist coming, but can’t get out of its path. It smashes into her face with a force that sends her over backwards, head cracking against the wall as she hits the ground. Her vision cuts out, then comes back swirling and spinning. There’s something bitter and metallic pouring over her lips. It takes far too long for her to realize that it’s blood.

As she sits there, stunned and in pain, the man advances. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her up off the floor, dragging her toward the center of the room. Her feet stumble clumsily after him.

“I told you to shut up. You’ll figure out I mean what I say sooner or later.”

He throws her down, and she just barely keeps her head from smacking concrete again. Her arm isn’t so lucky, unable to move from its restrained position and getting crushed between her body and the floor.

For an instant, she sees Isa, sitting directly in front of the assault. She has her head turned to the side, staring off at some unknown point, face blank.

Then a boot is buried in her stomach. Lainey doubles over, coughing and gasping for air that seems to have vanished. The man doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath, though. He keeps kicking, pounding the toe of his boot into her ribs and back and legs over and over and over again. She curls up as best she can, trying instinctively to protect her organs, but all she can do otherwise is lie there and groan and sob.

It seems to last forever. Part of her thinks she actually might die right then and there. But then the kicks stop. He reaches down and grabs her by her bound wrist, pulling her backwards across the floor. She moans again as her shoulders bear the brunt of the pressure and as every sore part of her is jostled.

He drops her again, and a chain rattles behind her. A moment later her wrists are being pulled upward once more, but this time the chain sounds accompany it, and this time it doesn’t stop. They keep being dragged up toward the ceiling until she’s forced to move, scrambling with leaden limbs to get her feet underneath her and stand. The chain seems to be hooked to the ziptie around her wrists. She can’t straighten her back or lift her head, shoulders wrenched as far backwards as they’ll go and wrists stuck up high.

And that’s how he leaves her. He doesn’t say another word, just walks off, footsteps echoing through the nearly empty room. She cranes her head to the side to see him pick something up off the stairs before disappearing up them.

She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Before now, the worst pain she could remember was a broken arm from her highschool softball days, but between her throbbing head, her burning shoulders, and the fiery pain that shoots through her ribs every time she breathes, this is way worse.

“That was my food.”

She tries to look over at Isa but can’t get her head to lift that high. “Wh-...what?”

Isa’s voice grows a little louder, a bit higher pitched. “He was coming down to bring me food and water, and probably unchain me, and you screwed it all up disrespecting him like I warned you not to.”

Lainey scoffs, hardly believing her ears. “Do you…do you realize…you sound like a dog right now? Waiting for your…master to feed and water and unchain you?” She winces at the increased pain in her ribs that talking creates, trying to shift her position. “And…I’m the one who just got…beaten up so…pardon me if I’m not overly concerned about your food.”

“And whose fault is that?” It comes out practically a growl, the most emotion she’s heard out of her so far. “I told you not to make him mad. I told you it would get you hurt. I’ve been here for five years, remember? I’ve tried it all before. I’ve figured out how to survive. But if you don’t want to listen to me, fine. Refuse to save yourself any pain. Learn everything the hard way, like I did. Just…can you at least leave me out of it?” Her voice wavers at the end, going quiet again. “I haven’t eaten in days, because he was gone to get you. And the two bottles of water he left me ran out hours ago.”

Isa sounds like she’s about to cry, and Lainey finds her own throat tightening in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to rob Isa of her first food in days. She wants to help her, not cause her more trouble. But she’s being an idiot, isn’t she? The woman’s right, she’s managed to survive for five years, and it’s stupid for Lainey not to listen to her advice, no matter how much it makes her skin crawl to think of sucking up to that man.

“I’m sorry.” She tries again to look at her, and manages to catch at least a glimpse of her face. “I should have…I should have listened to you. You’re right, it’s…my own fault that I got hurt. And I didn’t think about…you suffering from it.” She pauses, breathing through the pain and thinking about her response. “I can’t…promise that I’ll do exactly what you want. I’m not good…at holding my tongue. But, uh…I’ll try.”

There’s silence for a long time. It’s a struggle for Lainey not to find some way to fill it, despite her painful position.

“I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have,” Isa murmurs finally. “And I’m…honestly terrified that you’re gonna make things even worse. Keeping on his good side is so tentative. I just want to keep things as…easy as possible. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Lainey breathes. “I, um…I get it.” She considers her next words carefully before deciding to take the leap and say them. “Hey, do you…still have the water bottles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you roll one over to me?”

“They’re empty.”

“I know, just…just do it if you can.” She can hear movement and the slight crackle of thin plastic. A few seconds later an empty bottle rolls to a stop several inches from her foot. “Hey, nice shot. Lemme just…” Very carefully, grimacing with each movement, she steps on the heel of first one sneaker, then the other, removing them and kicking them behind her. Then she strategically uses her toes to pull off one sock, too. Isa mutters warnings about dislocating her shoulders here and there, but Lainey is determined to make this work.

Stretching out the bare foot, she drags the water bottle closer. “It’s still got drops of water left in it, so if I focus, I can…” She lays her foot across the bottle and closes her eyes. This is much easier to do with her hands, but the foot will have to do in a pinch like this. It takes almost a full minute of concentration, but eventually the droplets start to grow, dripping down into the bottle. The process gets faster as it goes, until there’s water swirling all through the bottle, filling it.

“There we go.” Satisfied with her work, Lainey takes careful aim and shoves the bottle back in Isa’s direction. “I can’t make you food, but…I can at least do that.”

“Water magic.” The plastic crinkles in Isa’s hand again.

“Yep. I’m…not very skilled at it, but…expanding water that’s already there…isn’t so hard.”

There’s no answer for a moment, but it sounds like Isa is taking a drink. “Thank you,” she says softly when she’s done.

“Yeah,” Lainey replies, equally as soft. “No problem.”

39 notes · View notes

shes-some-other-where · 9 days

Text

June of Doom Day 3, Day 6, Day 13, & Day 22

<<< previous | next >>>

Contains: royalty whump, lady whump, death, murder, blood, fantasy drug/potion

WC: 765

What savagery is this?

The night the royal family fell to ruin

“Well, well, well.” Soldiers surged inside. “I knew there was another prince that needed killing, hiding somewhere, but it looks like my work is done for me.” The invader scoffed as he approached, leaving crimson footsteps on the floor. “What did you do, princess? Poison him so he wouldn’t have to taste defeat at my hands, too?”

She flung herself in front of her brother’s prone form, keenly aware of how the hulking warriors, approaching with their blades drawn, dwarfed her puny frame.

She watched the swords, not the faces. The invader believed her brother was dead already; perhaps that would be what saved him. Sinking their weapons into his flesh while he lay senseless and vulnerable would be a pointless endeavour. What honour was there in slaying a corpse already going cold?

Their folly, however, would do little to save her.

“Leave me to grieve my brother,” she said. “Then . . .”

Then, what?

“Then do as you will,” she choked.

She raised her gaze, unable to disguise her quivering lip and quaking limbs, just in time to see the invader’s mouth curl upwards.

Had he not been drenched in the blood of her family, courtiers, servants, and soldiers, she might have found him striking: sandy hair, sleek with sweat, pushed back from his glistening forehead. Eyes like silvery slits—eyes of moonlight—watched her, glimmering with bloodlust, alight with the spiteful pleasure he took in seeing her tremble.

“As I will, hmm?” He seemed to ponder these words, letting silence creep over them both save for the drip, drip, drip of blood splattering to the floor from the soldiers’ blades. She flinched with each soft sound. Suddenly, the handsomeness of his face vanished, leaving behind only the red splotches on his armour, the flecks of gore across what little exposed skin she could see.

“My lord,” said one soldier, pointing to her brother’s chest. It rose and fell evenly as he lay, undisturbed, in his unnatural slumber. “He lives.”

The invader’s smile widened. “The little princess is a little liar.” Without pausing for a breath, he ordered his soldiers, “Kill him.”

“No!” As the nearest soldier raised his sword, she hurled her body atop her brother’s. “No! Wait! Please. Please. You can’t. He’s sick. He’s ill. You can’t.”

“Of course I can,” said the invader calmly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Where’s your honour?” she cried, grappling fruitlessly to cling to her brother’s motionless limbs as a soldier clamped onto her arms and wrenched her away. “Butchering an unconscious man? What kind of savagery is this?”

Scathing laughter swelled around them, hot breath and blood mingling in the air, tightening around her like cords and chains.

“Pretty words for a pretty thing,” said the invader. “No perfervid pleas will save you, however. Still, I’ll afford you once last choice. Shall I slit your throat first so you don’t have to watch, or would you like to attend the former crown prince’s last breaths with blood still flowing through your veins?”

When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and gestured to his soldiers with a single wave of his hand: Do it now.

The princess screamed.

“Wait!”

Looking more entertained than irritated, perhaps knowing that her shrieks would only delay the inevitable and that his victory was at hand, the invader held up his hand again. Halt.

“Look at the bottle,” she gasped. “Just—just look!”

“It’s a trick,” said the soldier who held her, wrenching her head back and gliding a blade over the skin of her throat. She felt it split, felt the heat of blood oozing toward her collarbone like scarlet honey. “Hold your tongue, girl.”

But the invader merely watched, impassive, as she whimpered and struggled to escape the bite of his soldier’s blade, to no avail. Neither fear nor suspicion marred the blood-flecked features of his face; he seemed, of all things, curious—and, of course, still cruelly amused.

“Tell me what’s in the bottle,” he said lightly. “You may speak.”

He, a brute and a usurper, giving her, a princess, a woman of royal blood, leave to speak. She jerked involuntarily against the soldier’s hold, and the man yanked her head back again.

“Say it, then,” the soldier hissed. “Do as your prince commands.”

Not my prince.

But she choked out, “It’s a sleeping potion. Dreamless sleep. He needs it. Do you know why?”

What a traitor she was. Her brother would never forgive her.

The invader prince lifted his eyebrows. “Speak quickly, princess, before my curiosity depletes. Your time is running out.”

June of Doom Masterlist

<<< previous | next >>>

@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

11 notes · View notes

clairelsonao3 · 8 months

Text

Aveline

TW: Slavery, technically lady whump and minor whump (this is a flashback to when the POV character was 14, but there's no physical whump at all), dehumanization, drug addiction, mild references to and suggestions of past and present noncon touching, mild flirting/attraction/romantic feelings (it's a teenage crush, basically), light angst, some emotional hurt/comfort I guess. It's quite tame all in all.

This is a companion piece and prequel to my ongoing original whumpy romance story, Good Slaves Never Break the Rules. But it stands on its own, I think, so you can still read it even if the main story isn't your thing.

This was originally intended to be part of Whumptober but ended up not fitting. I guess you could call it a sneak peek at No. 30, and an experiment in posting a full piece of my writing on Tumblr for the first time (please let me know what I fucked up in terms of formatting, etc). 😅

And for those familiar with GSNBTR, a glimpse of a couple of secondary characters you might recognize, including one never before seen in person.

Ever since she was sold when she was four to pay her father's debts, back before her name had been replaced by the number engraved on the chain on her wrist, she'd been told no one need ask permission of her anymore. She was property now, an object to be touched, displayed, prodded, and paraded as others saw fit. Even Master Phillips, one of the "good ones," if that were possible, would lightly flick her hair or tilt her chin admiringly to show her off to guests. She hardly felt it anymore, or so she told herself.

But she must have felt it. Because if she didn't, she wouldn't have noticed that Master Ethan was different. Miss Louisa's older brother was always a perfect gentleman. A rare breed, and a dangerous one. The kind that got a slave girl believing in all the stupid fairy tales she was supposed to have outgrown. She still remembered that one Saturday, home and behaving himself after his first rehab stint, when he'd offered to help her paint one of the downstairs bathrooms in matcha green, just because he "liked painting," so he claimed, then spent the afternoon trying to make her giggle with jokes that fell just short of wildly inappropriate. She expected an ass grab any second, because in her world, that was the natural progression of things like this.

Instead, she got: "Hey, can you turn around for a second?"

She did.

He had a splash of green paint in his loose chestnut curls, the ones that spilled over his forehead and bounced when he shook his head. He reached out one long, tanned arm hesitatingly. "You have — can I — "

She'd blinked uncomprehendingly into his gray eyes, until she'd realized he was asking her a question. Asking for permission. Permission to touch her. Dazed, she nodded, and he brushed a finger over her face slowly and meticulously as if wiping something away.

"There. Much better," he said, nodding with finality as he turned to help her gather up the trays, brushes, and rollers and wash them all off in the utility sink. It was only later when she looked in the mirror as she was cleaning herself up that she realized he'd drawn stars on both her cheeks in matcha-green paint.

He'd stayed scarce after that, relapsed soon after, and now she hadn't seen him in six months. She didn't think anyone in his family had. So much for the fairy tales.

Except late at night in the narrow cot in her windowless room, she still repeated her name in a soft, slow voice, wondering what it would be like to hear it in his.

Aveline.

#tw: slavery #slavery #mentions of noncon #lady whump #whump #slavefic #tw: addiction #tw: drugs #noncon touching #my writing #gsnbtr #whump story #slavery whump #emotional hurt/comfort #emotional h/c #emotional whump #addiction #minor whump

19 notes · View notes