crystalquartzwhump

Call me quartz! She/her. I was an inactive lurker blog, but now I’m an active whump blog! Yay! Here you will find whump writing and art. NSFW. 18+ only. Dark themes.

[crystalquartzwhump]

Whump intro!!

Howdy! I go by Quartz, she/her are my pronouns, and I’m 23 yo. I’ve been a long time lurker in the whump community and I’m excited to interact with my favorite whump blogs @deluxewhump @wildfaewhump @endless-whump @ashintheairlikesnow @silvercrystalwhump @whump-only @redstainedsocks @whatiswhump @redwingedwhump (and many many more) and maybe introduce some OC’s and some stories! Also, definitely go check out those blogs!

I enjoy dark themes, and these are some of my favorite tropes:

• noncon/dubcon

• boxboy universe

• lab/medical whump

• captive whumpee

• defiant whumpee

• you get the vibes

[supfag-archives]

THE ROBERT PATTINSON PRINTER MICKEY 17 (2025)

[peachy-panic]

Could we ever have a little something of Jaime dealing with his mental state after his first time with Mr. Torley?

You absolutely can.

SIX MONTHS TO GO

This takes place pretty directly after this chapter (my first Do No Harm chapter ever posted!)

WARNINGS: This is one of my darkest, I think—be careful. Explicit aftermath of noncon, suicidal thoughts, BBU/systematic slavery, dehumanization.

Chapter under the cut:

Jaime lives and dies inside his own contained eternity before Mr. Torley’s movements finally still. 

When he rolls off of him—a graceless, callous departure that jostles Jaime’s lifeless form on the mattress—the air in the room feels colder than it did before. His instinct is to curl up against the chill of exposure, but he can’t make his muscles work. Would it even be allowed? 

You must always make yourself available, the mantra surfaces, but it’s faint and distant, like an echo across a dark lake. 

Jaime is not here. He cannot be here.

“I’m going to shower,” his Keeper says, pulling at his awareness. The bed springs groan under his shifting weight. Jaime flinches when a hand comes down on his thigh. “You can use the guest bathroom to wash up.”

The dismissal is cold. Even now, even after that, the tone sets off alarm bells. Appease. Obey. 

He forces himself to move, to sit up. It hurts. It hurts worse than expected, in ways he didn’t know his body was capable of hurting. Some flash of that pain must show on the surface, because Mr. Torley narrows his attention on him again.

“It won’t always hurt, just so you know,” he says, pulling on his robe. “Not like this. The first time is always the toughest.”

Jaime nods, dazed. 

Those words. The amusement. The sound of his voice. The mere fact that the man who has raped him is speaking to him at all feels like his skin is being filleted from his muscle. He wants to scream; the urge is so sudden and strong it takes him by surprise. He bites down on his cheek until copper warms his tongue.

He cannot make a sound.

Instinctively, Jaime wraps his arms over his naked stomach and curls forward, trying to cover as much of himself as possible. His keeper smiles at him, like they’re in on the same joke. 

“I was in a bit of a hurry, I’ll admit,” he says. “I’m not used to having to wait three days. But we have until Monday, now, before the boys get back. We can take our time.”

Jaime focuses all his concentration on a spot on the wall and tries very, very hard not to let the tears fall. When he is sure he has enough of a grip on his composure, he stands from the bed and plucks his discarded pants from a heap on the carpet. 

He has only stepped into the first leg when Mr. Torley chuckles. “Don’t bother,” he says, and it’s clearly not a suggestion. “You’re just going to take them off again. No point in being shy now.”

Grateful to be facing the opposite direction, Jaime squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.” He forces himself to pick up the pants instead. He clutches them tightly to his chest as he collects his shirt and turns for the doorway. There is a moment of hesitation. Even in his haste to put as much distance between himself and his Keeper, he waits for a proper dismissal. 

“Go.” Mr. Torley nods toward the door. “Clean yourself up, but come back here after. You will sleep in my bed on the weekends unless otherwise stated. Understood?”

There is no way to prepare himself for the inevitability of knowing that it will happen again. Likely soon. Likely often. 

Please don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. 

“Yes, sir.”

Six months. The reminder rings through his skull like a cracked bell as he makes his way, naked, through the hallway and the den. Six months under this contract. Six months of weekends in this man’s bed.

Jaime suddenly remembers hearing stories. Overheard whispered accounts of Companions who took their lives while under contract. For the first time, he has a clear view of that outlook, and the sudden clarity stuns him. 

Panic rocks into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His body goes from an empty husk to a live wire of adrenaline and fear in a heartbeat. He cannot fathom, cannot even allow himself to think about another hand on his skin, and the promise—the threat—of six more months. Of… of—

His mind retreats back to those very first days in the facility; when his entire world was narrowed to a single, locked room. His entire existence compressed into a series of unbearable moments he had to endure. He remembers the numbness that followed the fear like an old friend.  He knows now that he is capable of withstanding more than he thought possible. 

(But what if he doesn’t want to withstand this?)

Jaime blinks and opens his eyes to the pristine, white tile of the guest room shower. He doesn’t remember turning on the light or stepping over the lip of the tub. Warm water cascades over his face and down his chest, and he doesn’t remember turning the handle. It’s like his body is operating two steps ahead of him. He decided to accept it as a mercy. 

When he blinks again, blood is swirling in the water circling the drain, turning it a sickly pale pink. He can feel the slow, warm trickle down the back of his leg. He has to swallow through wave after wave of nausea, fighting to keep from puking up bile. 

Six months.

A jolt of pain shoots through him when he slides down the wet, tile wall. He has to shift onto his knees instead.

Six months. 

“It won’t always hurt.”

He knows it isn’t true. He knows the physical ache he feels now is not the pain that will follow him. 

Jaime spends an incalculable amount of time shaking apart on the shower floor before his training tugs at him. His Keeper told him to return to the bedroom. He doesn’t have time to unravel now. He has six more months to go, and a lifetime after that. 

--

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort @termsnconditions-apply @cyborg0109 @whumplr-reader

[hold-him-down]

🥶 Cold - Parker and Leo

Don't Do It Again

from this ask thing

cw: noncon touch, 18+. sexual content. institutionalized slavery setting, training piece, mindless suffering, etc.

notes: this isn't parker, but it is otto.

✥ ✥ ✥

“I’m sorry,” Leo says, voice barely a whisper, over and over as he trips over his feet. 

The handler, Otto Gray, has a sharp grip on his arm that is unyielding as he leads him down the dark hall, toward the bathroom. He dumps him unceremoniously into the shower stall, kicking the door shut behind him.

Automatically, Leo moves to stand, to move out of the way, when a loud, demanding, “Stay down,” is hurled his way.

This handler was assigned to him one month ago, shortly after he was cleared to begin training again. He’s seen him in various states of frustration, usually when Leo can’t or won’t do something to his standard, but he’s never seen him angry. Not like this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, louder, automatic, and hates himself for it. 

The handler’s jaw clenches, fury burns behind his eyes, and he doesn’t speak. Something about the blind, unexpected rage cows Leo, and he closes his eyes. Leo knows what’s coming without opening them, and a moment later, a cascade of ice cold water washes over him. 

He instinctively pushes away, out of the stream, but is caught easily, dragged back under the shower with an aggressive, “Fuck, Leo, stay still.”

He ducks his head between his knees then, wrapping his arms around them tightly, some misguided bid to protect himself. The pounding of the ice water on his head, on his back, brings a bone-deep ache that he can’t shake.

He doesn’t know he’s being spoken to until he feels the warmth of the handler’s hands on his sides, lifting his shirt. He forces himself to look at him, shivering violently, and lets his arms be pulled out of the sleeves.

“Calm down,” the handler says, but he’s still angry. Leo can see himself shaking, can feel his teeth chattering, so he doesn’t try to speak. Tattooed arms lift his shirt off his head and throw it to the side, and Handler Gray stands. Leo moves to push his head back between his knees– the icy water makes it hard to breathe, makes it hard to think.

“No,” the handler says. “Eyes on me.”

So Leo holds his gaze. He’s colder than he has ever been before, all the previously building warmth now completely dissipated. Eventually he feels himself starting to go numb, staring into the handler’s eyes.

Gray must see it, too, because he looks at his watch, closes his eyes, then throws a sidelong glance at the security camera and takes a step toward Leo.

“This isn’t over,” he says, kicking up the heat. It stings, but not as much as it should. Not as much as Leo expected it to. The handler crouches down in front of him, pushing his knees apart. The handler’s hand slides under the waistband of his pants, but Leo doesn’t pull back. He counts, in his head, to ten, then twenty, then thirty. 

He’s still shaking, but it’s not because of the cold. 

“Don’t do it again,” the handler says. Leo can feel his hand moving, but all traces of anything that even remotely resemble arousal have been replaced with cold dread. This handler won’t push it, he thinks.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He doesn't know anymore. If he means it or not. If he should be sorry or not.

“You can ask, any time,” the handler continues, moving his hand beneath the soaking fabric, ignoring the way Leo shrinks away. “But I swear to you, Leo–” Leo swallows, steeling himself against this feeling, as the handler’s voice lowers “–if you do this again, I’m not going to stop them. And things will get ugly. Uglier than you can possibly fucking imagine.”

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Delirium

Masterlist

Summary: (A handful of days after being saved but a fortnight before his escape.) The rest of the Boys have mixed feelings about the wrongly-accused spy's extended stay — to say nothing of their leader's preoccupation with him. "Unfortunately" before the matter can be resolved, their "guest" succumbs to a fever... Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, fever, sickfic, implied past noncon, vague mention of an infected wound, indentured servitude, skewed power dynamics, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper.

He rapped on the door softly with one knuckle. “Wyatt? Doc’s here.” No response. He wasn’t about to go in uninvited, not now. 

Three days ago, Theo had come home to a house divided. He’d been downriver only a few nights, making sure the right men would be on duty whenever their shipments passed through the port, but apparently he’d missed quite a drama. The beggar-revealed-enemy spy hunted, captured, and tortured for his crimes, only to be whisked away by Wyatt who believed his claims of innocence. They’d been holed up in his room ever since, leaving the rest of the house to stew in their wake.

Half thought the boy’s association with Keats was reason enough for punishment, even if they had been mistaken about his exact role. The rest cared more about Wyatt’s total absence, questioning if there was more going on than they fully realised. Of course, no one was taking any action aside from apparently whinging on about it from dusk til dawn. 

In some ways, it was amusing to Theo. 

They may play as a democracy but they’d all had a hand in dealing Wyatt the trump card. Their reasons were their own but universally, they all preferred Wyatt be the one to ultimately set things right. Whether he was the hero or the villain at the end of the day to achieve it, didn’t matter. The point was, he took care of it and none of them had to. 

You have to talk to him, they’d said.  From the moment Theo had returned, they’d all been at his heels. Make him see reason. As though Wyatt ever listened to anyone. The truth was the reverse: Theo was the one who listened, between the two of them. But from the outside, all the others saw was a closeness that made them think Theo had Wyatt’s ear. 

“In time,” Theo had told them all. In Wyatt’s own time, was what it would really be. 

And sure enough, on his second night home, he turned over in the wee hours of the morning to find Wyatt haunting his door. 

“Ah, come for confession?” Theo teased, pushing himself up. 

Wyatt chuckled, ghosting across the dark room to reappear in the moonlight coming through the window. “You should fuckin' hope not.” He flicked open the latch and leaned out, pulling in a deep breath like he hadn’t been getting enough air. “Grab a jacket,” was all he said before swinging a leg over the sill and disappearing into the night. 

Theo needed more than a fucking jacket, seeing as he’d just been sleeping, and seeing as it was bloody freezing outside in the middle of the damn night but eventually he heaved himself out onto the roof to join Wyatt. The slate tiles were cold beneath his hands and slick beneath his feet. In the daylight, they’d have spiderwebbing frost crosshatched over their surface, sparkling in the sun.

“Now that you’ve dragged me out of bed to risk falling to my death…” 

Wyatt snorted, producing a second cigarette. He lit it by the end of his and passed it to Theo.

He took a drag. And then a second, watching Wyatt’s profile and waiting for him to break the silence. “Well, it better be for something or I’m going back to bed. I slept fuck all at the port.”

“I know how you hate a moving bed.”

“Exactly, so out with it already. What’s gotten into you? This isn’t how you do things.”

“No. It’s not.” He wasn’t smoking anymore, instead staring at the lit cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke curl away, the shadowy rooftops beyond. He took another deep breath like something was stopping the air from reaching the bottom of his lungs. 

“What is it about this one?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Theo waited. 

Nothing but sullen silence. 

So, it was going to be like that. He bumped Wyatt’s shoulder with his. “Piss off, yes you do.” 

Wyatt sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. “It’s—it’s the way he looks at you, begging you to be different, to be everything.” He cleared his throat and took another pull from his cigarette. “He’s so…fragile, so good, so completely broken from cruelty. Yet somehow…”

“He’s trusting you to save him?”

“This is different,” Wyatt said, a little too quickly. 

“I don’t see how. One way or another you always play the rescuer.” 

“Well, then he’s different.”  

“All right. Apparently so.” He’d get nowhere with this, not if Wyatt couldn’t see it for himself. Maybe he was wrong anyway. He took a slow drag, waiting for Wyatt to do the same. “What about the rest of the boys? They’re not happy.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Are you? Alfred says they haven’t seen you since they brought the boy here, thinks you’re holding a grudge.”

“Maybe I am,” he grumbled. 

“If you are then you’re being a fool. There’s no need to choose him over the rest. Talk to them, they’ll come round.”

Wyatt said nothing. There was a tension in his shoulders mirroring that in his brow. Unrest in the house always weighed heaviest on him. 

“They all deserve to be given the chance.” 

Wyatt chuckled at having his own convictions parroted back at him. But he knew Theo believed them just as much as he did. They’d found many of them together, the runaways and cast-offs, thieves and beggars. Each had only needed one chance. “After all, isn’t that what this is about? August’s chance?”  

But Wyatt never found the opportunity because just a few hours later, before the sun had finished rising and the frost was still thick from the night, he sent Theo for the doctor. 

The very same who now cleared his throat as he stood behind Theo in the hallway, waiting. Theo raised his fist to knock again just as Wyatt pulled open the door. Wyatt raked a hand through his flaxen hair, looking more disheveled than he did after most rows. Theo raised his eyebrows. 

Wyatt ushered the doctor in wordlessly, taking a moment to meet Theo’s eyes with a grim expression before he followed. It was about as much a request to stay as he knew Wyatt capable of so he did, leaning against the doorframe to keep out of the way. The doctor sat on the desk chair beside the bed, leaving Wyatt to hover, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking anything but at ease.

His unrest was apparently not unfounded as the doctor wasn’t able to rouse August. Theo hadn’t yet met him properly. It was difficult to regard him as a young man, practically their peer from what Wyatt had said. One wouldn’t guess it by looking at him, especially not today. He was prone on the bed, swallowed by the pillows and bedcovers. His only colour came from the smattering of bruises across his face and the blueish-green of his veins crisscrossing the backs of his hands, which Theo could make out even across the room. 

“His fever is quite high,” Doc confirmed. “Any injuries?” 

Wyatt grunted in confirmation, sitting down on the bed. August whimpered as Wyatt lifted him to sit upright, though his eyes stayed closed. 

“I know it hurts,” he murmured, lips at the other boy’s ear. 

August was limp as a rag so Wyatt held him against his chest while the doctor inspected the healing lashes on his back. Wyatt’s thumb stroked the nape of his neck under his damp, tangled hair.

“These look relatively superficial. Anywhere else?” Doc was on payroll exactly because he was all business and no stupid questions. 

The boy whined again when he was replaced on the pillow, eyelids fluttering as he tossed his head to the side, chasing the hand that had just left him. Wyatt indulged him, smoothing the backs of his fingers across the boy’s cheek and shushing him until his breath calmed. 

He led the doctor through a full inspection, unbuttoning, uncovering, unwinding bandages. There were burns dotting his chest and upper arms, the undersides of his knees, the soles of his feet. 

 If Theo had been present that night, while this was going on, he wouldn’t have stayed. More likely would have appealed to Wyatt himself to put an end to it sooner. It wasn’t fair to submit someone to punishment just for doing their job. And if he was an indenture, it hadn’t even been his choice to begin with, poor soul. 

“No,” the doctor was saying. “Nothing I’ve seen is cause for a fever so high.”

The other boys liked to jest—in truth making light of their own uncertainty—that one couldn’t tell by looking if Wyatt was returning from a funeral or from winning at the track. Theo could admit that their leader played his hand close to his chest but he still had his tells, just like any of them. 

And Theo was looking right at it. 

Wyatt had no qualms spending double the resources just to eliminate the possibility that there might be an easier or more efficient means to their end. It wasn’t optimism or dumb luck but a thoroughness that meant going about things more thoughtfully, patiently. Sometimes there was an upper-level window always left unlocked that could save the spectacle of barging in the front, it just needed to be found first. 

So, Theo wasn’t surprised that Wyatt had saved the worst for last – and apparently it was just that. No sooner had he lifted the hem of his nightshirt than August’s eyes flew open and he kicked away. 

Wyatt had to lean away to avoid a heel to his face. 

The boy’s eyes were unfocused when he righted himself but he glared in Wyatt’s direction as he tried to catch his breath. 

Wyatt held up both hands in surrender. “It’s all right, lad. We’re trying to help. You’re unwell. The doctor is here to make you feel better.”

“No, please,” he begged hoarsely. Speaking sent him into a coughing fit. When it finally stopped, he had to lean into the wall, squeezing his eyes shut like he was fighting off unconsciousness. “Please, no more.” 

Theo frowned. Wyatt had failed to mention this particular piece of information though now it was clear that it was central to this puzzle.  

“Of course not. You’re safe from that here.” Wyatt reached for him but he recoiled. “Please, August, ‘tis only I.” 

August blinked at him looking confused and began shaking his head. “It hurts…”

“I know, lamb.” Theo had only heard such a gentle tone from Wyatt on a handful of occasions. He ought to look away but found he couldn’t. “Let me help you, please.” Wyatt kept his hand outstretched, waiting. 

The younger boy reached for him, fingers hesitating just shy of touching his hand. “Sir?” 

“Yes,” Wyatt said, as though it were distinguishing enough it could only mean him. “Come here, August. It’s all right.” 

They all waited, though August seemed unaware the others were even there. His eyes never left Wyatt’s. He finally gave him his hand and let himself be reeled in, collapsing into Wyatt’s arms with a whimper. 

Wyatt hushed him, soothing his whines until the boy went limp in his arms. He waited another moment before slowly lifting the too-big nightshirt that hung off his frame, passing it to Doc to hold out of the way while his fingers found the waistband of his—

August cried out, eyes flying open as he twisted in Wyatt’s arms. “Please, please. Master, I beg of you, no more. I can’t—” He tried to lash out, to get away but this time Wyatt held him fast. He yelped, struggles growing more urgent as he found himself trapped. 

Wyatt continued to shush him, expression betraying just how much he hated to use such force. He finally organised the boy in his arms at the right angle to pull away the last layer of fabric, revealing a wound the size of Theo’s whole hand. Just under the crest of his hipbone, so large it barely fit on his skinny side, the skin all around it bright and angry. Theo couldn’t look too closely at the rest, his stomach already starting to turn on him. 

“How long has it been like that?”

Wyatt didn’t answer. He was too occupied settling the younger boy now that he was covered again. And perhaps trying to recover what graces he had lost. His voice was too low to hear though his tenderness was plain as he brushed August’s hair from his face and cradled him in his arms. 

Theo wanted to reassure him that it was unlikely August would remember many details of this anyway, fevered as he was. 

“What can you do for him?” Wyatt finally asked once August had returned to some fevered semblance of rest. 

“I’ll need to clean away the infection. We can’t do it here, he needs to remain still. Else, I can administer chloroform.” 

“I’ve known people to die from that,” Wyatt snapped. Theo wondered if he was aware that he’d pulled August closer to his chest. “It’s not safe in the best cases, let alone when he can’t follow instruction.” 

Theo knew not of whom he spoke but from his tone could tell the matter was closed.   

“But I measure the—”

“I’ll not risk it.” Wyatt didn’t even spare him a second glance. 

“It won’t be pretty,” Doc warned. “We shall need at least two others to hold him down.”

The muscles in Wyatt’s jaw visibly tightened. He looked down at August, whose cheeks were now flushed after struggling. “But he’ll live?”

Theo could hear the guilt laced through his tone, see the weight of responsibility in the downturn of his expression. But he’d seen worse survived by worse off, and from what he could see, August had plenty going in his favour.

To be continued...

@whumpy-writings , @writer-reader-24 , @deluxewhump , @no-whump-on-main , @maracujatangerine , @painsandconfusion , @wolfeyedwitch , @briars7 , @gala1981 , @redwingedwhump , @whumpflash , @peachy-panic , @hold-him-down , @poeticagony , @annablogsposts , @fleur-alise , @melancholy-in-the-morning , @crystalquartzwhump , @magziemakeswhatever , @neverthelass

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Features Remy the park maintenance man from this piece right here.

CW: Kauri's Poor Life Choices, aftermath of violent dubcon, drug use, internalized slut-shaming/victim-blaming, PTSD

-

"Oh, no." Remy groans as he comes to a stop, looking with his heart making its way to his throat at the crumpled heap of half-naked man lying on his side with his back against a tree.

He knows that wild hair, a riot of black curls now caked in mud from the cold rain, clumped together, as soon as he sees it. He knows the backpack, too, zipper open and contents strewn across the ground. Some ziplock baggies with deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, travel-sized shampoo, clean underwear and a couple t-shirts soaking wet now too. Socks still balled up into pairs thrown everywhere like cotton flowers. Still wearing a shirt, pants down around his ankles, boxers inside out and weirdly bunched.

Emptied-out baggies and telltale colored pills, a rainbow on the ground. Not what they had wanted, he supposed. Maybe not the kind of shit they were into.

Remy takes a deep breath. Poor kid. He's told him a thousand times if he's told him once that sleeping out here would end badly.

He hadn't figured murder, but… can't really end more badly than that, can it?

He'd liked the kid, too.

He says 'kid', but definitely in his early twenties. Just... when you get to Remy's age, they all seem like kids if they're under forty.

He's digging through his cart to find his cell to call in the body when it makes a noise. Remy pauses, looking up. Dead bodies make sounds, didn't he see that in a TV show once? Gas escaping or something.

When the body rolls from its side to its back, he realizes he isn't looking at a body at all.

The kid yawns, then winces, rubbing at his face and leaving smears of mud behind. "Shit," He mutters, voice hoarse. There's a ring of red around his throat where hands had closed, darkening with every minute.

Remy waits a second, but he doesn't open his eyes. Finally, he clears his throat as loudly as he can without just sounding like he's coughing up a lung.

The kid jumps almost a foot in the air, sitting up and then crying out in pain, pressing a hand against his ribs on his right side. He turns to look over at Remy and his eyes are hazy, unfocused. Still high from the night before, Remy thinks. He's seen it before. Usually it doesn't mean anything except the kid being a little giggly, but this...

"Oh. Hey." The kid shifts gingerly, pulling his pants back up and buttoning them like some hungover college kid who slept in, not an injured victim in a park. "Sorry. Give me a sec to…" Those foggy eyes move over the mess around him, to the unzipped backpack.

Remy watches as the kid's eyes widen in panic. Like everything in his blood is washed away instantly, and he jolts into motion, on his hands and knees half-crawling to the backpack to pull up the flap. "No no no no no-"

Kauri Grant, something metallic and vaguely feminine says from within the bag. Keira remains in location, Polanski Park. The kid's - Kauri's - panic subsides with a rush of breath as he slumps, pulling the bag to himself and throwing his arms around it.

"Oh, fuck. I'm so sorry, Keira," He mutters. "You're okay, we're okay… I forgot to put you up, but we're okay… nobody hurt you, nobody took you, it's okay..."

"Kid?" Remy tries.

Kauri clearly forgot he was there.

He jumps again and turns to look at him, frozen in silence. Then the bright and brittle smile takes over and Remy almost shivers at the sight. Like a doll, the expression doesn't meet those foggy eyes. Perfect but fake. There's something terrified and terrifying in the way his mouth moves like it has a mind of its own. "Um. Hey. I'm… yeah. Sorry about the mess, Remy. Got a little… Overdid it a little last night." He tries for a laugh, but it clearly hurts too much.

"I can tell." Remy leaves his cart on the path and steps closer, picking up some balled-up white socks and tossing them into the open backpack. Then he picks up a second. "You get attacked? Need to see a doctor?"

"Me? Nah." Kauri's smile never fades, and Remy notices that he picks up the pills first, one by one. He swallows a little pinkish one dry, but the rest go back into the plastic baggie. "It looks bad, but I swear, just… overdid it during a hookup. That's all."

"Hookups don't usually leave you looking like a dead thing in the woods," Remy says, keeping his tone light, a little dry. His eyebrows raise.

"Oh… yeah. Well." Kauri's smile wobbles, but holds. "I mean… they told me to say how many I could take, I told them I like it rough... Guess they took that a little too literally, huh?"

Remy lets silence draw out between them while he keeps cleaning. He just isn't sure what to say.

So he goes on picking up socks like plucking the blooms off flowers.

Kauri shoves everything else into the backpack. Remy catches a flash of metal and plastic with two little red lights steadily watching from inside.

"Was about thirty seconds from calling the cops to report a dead body," He says, finally. "You look like a murder victim on television."

"Not dead, not me. I'm not that easy to kill." Kauri's voice is too bright, as deep as it is. Too forced. "Just easy to fuck, you know? Anyone anytime, they tell me. I tell them. Everyone tells everyone..." At Remy's answering expression, he winces. "Shouldn't say it like that to you. Sorry, I know you don't like-"

"Your time is your time. Now, seeing you sleeping in the grass after all that, all muddied and not one of them took care to be kind? I don't like that, that's true." Remy takes another breath. The air is sweet and fragrant with spring flowers in the trees.

Kauri's eyes stand out in a face streaked with mud and marked with bruises.

Remy sighs. "... There's a shower up at the parks offices down the path. Come on, I'll let you in, you can clean up, get some coffee. Might even have a doughnut or two left if Travis hasn't eaten them all."

"Fuckin' Travis," Kauri echoes, voice faint and thin. He gets to his feet, and they both pretend he isn't limping, that every step doesn't send pain shooting up within him after what happened the night before. "Man loves his doughnuts."

"He surely does. You safe, Kauri?"

"Never." Kauri tosses the word flippantly into the air, shrugging. Then wincing again. They walk, Kauri keeping one hand on Remy's cart to steady himself. He moves at a snail's pace, a painful shuffle.

"I meant are these guys going to come back around looking for you. Are they going to want to hurt you again?"

There's a long pause.

Kauri finally shakes his head, smile a little sad and rueful.

"No. They probably won't think about me again. Even if they do... Well. It wasn't so bad, right? Anything you walk away from..."

"I don't think that's what that saying means."

"It is, for me." Another pause. "Anything I walk away from, that means it's better than something where I couldn't."

"If you say so."

They walk on in silence, and Remy wonders what life this kid has lived that beaten half to death and left in the mud is better than what he left behind.

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @burtlederp @nonsensical-whump @whump-tr0pes @autophagay @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: Cam and Zee

Alex’s apartment. Saturday night.

CW: more unhinged cam, knife, cutting, physical altercation, gun mention, pinned/overpowered, jealousy/insecurity, suggestive remarks. “The house” here refers to the people who kept Zee captive before and used him for illegal scrying activities to make money.

-

Cameron wandered into the living room, swigging the last of the 2% milk from Alex’s fridge. “Hey. I need to ask you something.”

Zee pulled his knees up to his chest. He didn’t know how out of the ordinary this was, if he should be treating this guy like a guest or an intruder. Alex said he’d be home in just a half hour. How long ago had that been?

“How-how can I help you?”

“How can I help you?” Cameron mocked in an idiotic singsong voice. “What’re you, HR? I do want to ask you for your help with something, though.”

“I don’t know what I could possibly do for you.”

“Just a little something.” Cam dropped down beside him on Alex’s sofa. He was making himself right at home— as if he hadn’t just used a key copy Alex wasn’t aware existed to get in. Alex had said Cameron wouldn’t be back.

And the last time they’d been this close, he’d had a gun in his hand. His eyes dropped to Cam’s waistband, but he didn’t see anything.

“I need to know something for my own peace of mind. It doesn’t affect anything…. You know. With what you do.”

Zee paled. “What I do?”

Had Alex told him? He’d promised he wouldn’t say anything. He said he’d make something up to throw him off. Of course Zee knew Alex was beholden to his employer, that he couldn’t do much for him other than let him sleep in his spare room at night.

So why did the betrayal feel like he’d been hit with a truck?

“Right. I know all about that. Well, as much as I could find on the internet. I found a couple articles. The comment section is a shitshow. Alex told me some dumbass story, but I put two and two together. Don’t deny it, I can see the wheels in your head turning. Spare me.”

“Look, man. Whatever it is— I can’t help you.”

“I just wanna see one thing. One little thing in the very near future.”

“Not gonna happen. You don’t know anything about this. It’s— first of all, it’s illegal.”

“Only if one of us rats on us. Are you a rat? I’m not. And look, you do this one thing for me, and we can put that whole misunderstanding from the other night behind us.”

“Misunderstanding? You mean when you put a gun in my face?”

“You keep saying that. It wasn’t in your face. It wasn’t even loaded, by the way.”

“Oh. Thanks for telling me now,” Zee snapped. He went to stand up and Alex’s roommate pulled him back down by the back of his shirt. He grit his teeth. The fucking nerve on the guy. It was like he wanted Zee to know he didn’t think of him as a fully autonomous human being. He wanted to rub that in, in a ‘what you gonna do about it?’ kind of way, like a middle school bully.

“You must’ve been a real pleasure to have in class.” He tugged his shirt free of Cam’s grip.

“I just wanna see if Alex is gonna pay me back or not for my security deposit, like he said he would. And… if he’s sleeping with anyone. In the very near future.”

Zee turned to glare at him. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I can’t just… do you even realize the kind of trouble I could be in? Forget you. Me. I have a contract. If I break it….”

Cameron pulled a sad face and pulled a sleek knife out of his back pocket. He flicked it open with a practiced twitch of the wrist so it glinted in the soft light of the apartment.

“I’ll let you change your mind for free, this one time. But you’ve only got five seconds.”

Zee laughed at the absurdity of it. He shook his head and tried to get up again, more forcefully this time. Cam tried to grab his shirt again. It ripped as Zee twisted away, leaping over the back of the sofa. He slipped in stocking feet on the bare floor on the other side, scrambled up and ran to Alex’s bedroom, which he knew had a lock on the inside.

But Cameron was fast.

He was over the side of the sofa and right behind him. By the time Zee was trying to shut the bedroom door Cameron was shouldering into it. It caught Zee in the chin, knocking his head back so he stumbled.

Cameron ran into him like a football tackle, pinning him on his back on Alex’s bed. Before he could get his hands onto Cam’s neck to try and grapple him off, he had a sharp knee on his right bicep and the other wrist was wrestled to the bed by his head.

“Fucking— get off me!”

He thought about the way they used to treat him at the house, manhandling him into a dull submission he hated to even think about. He’d grown quiet eventually, a sullen, flinching version of himself who glared at people like a kicked dog.

He’d suffered near constant headaches from dehydration and been so preoccupied with getting food and water he would try to make them happy just to be given a reprieve from his thirst.

But he wasn’t outnumbered here. It was one to one with this one dude— though he was surprisingly strong and Zee was still weak from the poor conditions in transit.

“C’mon, princess. How’s it work? Would this help?”

Cool metal kissed the underside of his chin. He stopped struggling, terrified of a slip.

Jesus Christ. Would this guy actually kill him? Did he not know how much Zee was worth? How much Spartan Enterprises had paid for him for a year? He knew people would do worse for less when it comes to an ex-lover, especially if there was jealousy, which this guy seemed to have in spades.

“You slit my throat and you’re so fucked,” Zee whispered, chest heaving.

“Yikes. I’m not gonna slit your throat,” Cameron crooned. He dragged the knife slowly, lovingly, back to Zee’s ear, down the side of his neck. It traveled lower and then there was pressure as it sliced into his chest, an unpleasant tug before it broke skin and dragged a half an inch cut. “I’m just playing with you.”

Zee growled, scared to move. His arm was cramping under Cameron’s knee.

“How many will it take before you decide you wanna play nice with me?”

“I can’t just… see anything anytime. You really think that’s how it works? Are you that fucking stupid?”

“Tell me how it works then, cupcake.”

Zee sucked all the saliva in his mouth as best he could and spit into his freckled, smirking face. Cameron flinched and then laughed.

“Didn’t know you were into that. I guess if they gave you to Alex, it makes sense. You guys make out yet? Is that why you won’t tell me if he’s gonna sleep with anyone? Coz it’s you, you little freakshow?”

Cam cut him again and he screwed his eyes shut, more from fear and anger than pain. His heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline making the incisions feel like papercuts.

“Stop,” Zee breathed. “Okay. Okay. Stop cutting me, please. I’ll— I’ll try to help you.”

The knife paused, the pressure lifting from the blade. “What do you need?” Cam asked, suddenly serious.

“Uhm.” It was hard to think with warm blood tickling his chest, both his hands pinned back helplessly. “Something— something you’ve both touched a lot.”

They heard the front door open and froze, Zee looking up into Cams face and Cam looking down into his.

“Zee?” Alex called urgently from the kitchen. “Is Cam here? His cars outside.”

Cameron rolled his eyes. He sat back, wiping spit from his face with his sleeve. He folded the knife and slipped it back in his pocket, walked out like nothing happened.

Zee rolled off the side of the bed onto the floor with a thud, pressing back back against Alex's box spring. The adrenaline faded with every drum of his heart, leaving his chest stinging and hands shaking.

He lifted his fingers to the cuts and they came away smeared red.

He heard rasied voiced in the other room and wondered if maybe he wouldn't be better off in the basement of Spartan in a wet sleeping bag.

Yet as soon as he thought it, he hoped Alex would not come in here and suggest the very same thing.

-

The Scry taglist

@whumpsday @distinctlywhumpthing @pumpkin-spice-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @tidalwhump @pigeonwhumps @interdimensional-chaos @top-hat-aye @thecyrulik @boxenby @mylifeisonthebookshelf @inpainandsuffering @heartsherps @latenightcupsofcoffee

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: Cameron

CW: gun, noncon gunplay (so just threatening someone with a gun), precognition, sketchy nsfw references and threatening behavior, abdominal scar reveal is from noncon experimentation and research on precognitives, handcuff mentions, bdsm mentions

-

Zee’s new user fed him and let him use his shower. He put him in a spare room, true to his word. There were still some personal items in the room, but it was Alex’s apartment, after all. Maybe they were his.

The tshirt Aalex gave him was soft and worn thin, and smelled of dryer sheets. He fell asleep almost immediately in the firm twin bed with the window cracked, so cold winter air blew in a thin stream over his face, smelling like snow and metal.

He woke not long after, just past midnight with a sudden start and an awful realization that something — or someone — was in the room with him.

He sat upright in the bed, disoriented. His heart was pounding like a hammer in his chest - he could feel it up in his soft palate. Maybe he’d been dreaming. He had bad dreams sometimes. It was part of the gift, kind of like a side effect. Whenever he accidentally scried in his sleep it was often sour things he saw, picked up like an antenna from passersby, from planes overhead, from other sleeping people’s bad dreams seeping between floors of the building like carbon monoxide.

This was no dream. Standing at the side of the bed was a figure in the shadowed dark of the room, a clear outline of shoulders and head. Zee scrambled for the light and flicked it on, half expecting the apparition to disappear in the flood of orange cast over the walls.

It did not.

A tall young man was standing at the side of the bed. He tilted his head in the light, ashy brown hair falling softly over his temple. He was dressed in a white hoodie and black pants with a belt, black non slip shoes like people who worked in kitchens or hospitals.

“Who the fuck are you?” Zee asked in a trembling, accusatory voice.

The guy raised his eyebrows. He had green eyes and the bridge of his nose was sharp, a dusting of freckles across his cheeks. His bottom lip curved into a smile.

“Who am I?” he echoed softly, as if not to wake someone. Perhaps Alex in the other room. “Who are you?”

“I’m… uhm…”

The guy made an impatient face, clearly pained by Zee’s idiocy. “...Yeah?”

“I’m Alex’s guest.”

He snorted. “Is that what he’s calling it?”

To Zee’s dismay, this intruder sat on the side of the bed. “Tell me he didn’t fuck you and then kick you into the spare bed. That’s just sad, man. Pathetic, even. You should just Uber home, take the L and move on.”

“I—” Zee stammered. “No, it’s not…not like that.”

“It’s not?” The guy turned on the bed to face him more directly. “So what’re you, breaking and entering? Sleeping in my bed? Goldilocks, huh? Is it soft enough for you?”

It was actually kind of hard, to be totally honest. Still the best thing he’d slept on in months, but it could use one of those mattress covers or something.

Before Zee could decide to mouth off to this guy or try and placate him, the intruder reached his hand into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a sleek, black handled revolver. It caught a sliver of streetlight coming in between the blinds and glinted a steely silver blue.

Zee stared at the gun in the stranger’s broad, big-knuckled hand.

“This is a stand your ground state, you know.” The stranger smiled down at the gun, looked up to Zee. “You should know, if you’re running around breaking and entering and sleeping in people’s beds.”

“I’m not…well maybe I am in your bed, but I was invited here. A-Alex said he had a roommate. Said you didn’t live here anymore though. I swear.”

The guy wrinkled his nose and shrugged one broad, bony shoulder like that was up for debate.

“Can you please get that thing out of my face?

“What, this? It’s not in your face, baby, it’s right fuckin’ here. Look.” He nudged closer on the bed and Zee skittered back so his shoulder blades pressed into the wall. The bed was in a corner, and he had nowhere to go.

“That’s my shirt,” the stranger said. He had a playful deadpan to his words that made Zee deeply uneasy. Like this was all for a bit.

Zee looked down at his chest. The soft gray letters were faded from countless washes, the armpit had a small hole in it. “Sorry, man,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Your friend — Alex— gave it to me to sleep in. I don’t mean any trouble…”

“My name’s Cameron,” the boy said, still eyeing the shirt. “Cam.”

“Ok. Cameron. I’m Zee.”

“Z? Like the letter? What’s that short for?”

“Uh. Jamey.”

Cameron laughed under his breath. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Zee’s hip and Zee froze in fear, a paralyzing agent in his blood like when he could not run from an entity in a dream.

Slightly bloodshot green eyes lifted from the gun to Zee’s face, watching him with almost sensually parted lips, like this was arousing to him. He pushed the bottom of the shirt up with the nose of his gun, sliding it up Zee’s belly. He stopped when he saw the thick curves of scars there, dipping under the waistband of his pants.

“Hell of an appendectomy,” he muttered.

“Shark attack,” Zee replied sarcastically, though his voice was only a trembling rush of air.

Cameron huffed through his nose. He pushed the shirt all the way to Zee’s chest, letting the cold weight of the gun drag over his ribs, alongside his nipple. Please, please don’t be loaded, was his only thought, over and over. He swallowed and his throat clicked.

“Take it off,” Cameron said cooly. “I like that shirt.”

Hyper aware of the muzzle of the gun pointed up to his ribs and his heart, Zee slipped the old tshirt off his head and handed it to him. Cameron took it in a bundle in his free hand, bringing it to his nose to smell.

“Did I freak you out?”

Annoyed and terrified, Zee nodded. Yes, asshole. Happy?

“You two really didn’t fuck?”

“N-no. I’m… I’m from his work.”

“Like what, a friend? He’s bi, by the way. If you didn’t know, you do now. Whoops.”

“N-no. I’m… I’m a colleague.”

“So what the hell are you doing in my bed?”

Zee smelled the insecurity on him and decided to play on it. It was the single card he could think to play, and he needed something to shift the dynamic. “If he really didn't’ tell you… I don’t think it’s my place to.”

Cameron eyed him darkly. “Cute. Really cute.” He sighed sharply and pulled the gun back, tucked it into his waistband and covered it with the hoodie.

Zee felt like he might faint from relief.

“If you really want to get under his skin, I’ll fuck you. He’ll hate that. Drive him crazy.”

Zee stared at him. Was that a threat?

Cameron laughed like it had been a joke. Maybe it had been. Maybe he just sensed rejection and wanted to take control of the situation again.

“How’d you get those marks on your wrists?” He took a vape out of his pocket and hit it. The bottom of the cylinder glowed blue as he inhaled. “You playing rough? Al doesn’t usually get this rough.” He reached for one of Zee’s wrists and ignored when Zee recoiled. He pulled his tender wrist into his lap, turned it over.

“Real cuffs, huh. Is that your thing? Someone who will let you hurt yourself? You like knowing you can’t get your hands free no matter how bad you want to?”

“It’s not what you think. Really. At all.”

“What is it then? Enlighten me.”

Zee tried to pull his wrist back but Cameron held it fast, like he’d been ready for that.

“Let me go.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“You’re hurting me.”

Cameron clicked his tongue in false sympathy. “Something tells me you like that.”

“Are you staying here?” Zee changed the subject. “I’ll go sleep on the couch, then. It’s your bed.”

Cameron had something horrible to say, Zee could tell from the smirk on his face. But before he could say it the hall light clicked on. Cameron let go of Zee’s wrist just in time for Alex’s arrival in the open doorway.

Alex looked confused from sleep and above all, annoyed. Zee felt a twinge of guilt for having woken him, even though it was clearly his unhinged roommate’s fault.

He laid on top of the covers waiting for one of them to come back until eventually he just fell asleep like that, shitless and itching where the gunmetal had kissed his skin.

“Cam?” he asked. “Can I talk to you?”

Cameron winked at Zee and got up to go discuss whatever they were discussing outside, out of earshot.

Now that he was alone, all he could feel was that chilly gun metal tickling his ribcage. He scratched at the skin there as if to scrub it, but it did little to alleviate the sensation. He lay on his back with the light on for an hour, waiting to see if either of them were coming back.

He fell asleep that way, shirtless on top of the covers.

Taglist

@whumpsday @distinctlywhumpthing @pumpkin-spice-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @tidalwhump @pigeonwhumps @interdimensional-chaos @top-hat-aye @thecyrulik @boxenby @mylifeisonthebookshelf @inpainandsuffering @heartsherps

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: Alex & Zee

Alex Clair is another Account Exec whose breakout performance in the last year has earned him his very own Precog to increase revenue. This runs parallel to Max and Carlo meeting.

CW: whumpee with powers, precognition, dehumanization, power imbalance, human trafficking, touch starved, medical whump mentioned, physical abuse mentioned, I’ve created office whump lol

-

“Why don’t you like being called Jamey?”

Zee eyed his new user carefully. He thought he had a read on this guy, but he’d been so, so wrong before.

Keep reading

[deluxewhump]

The Scry IV: You’re Very Special

A little interlude: After his last user was arrested, there was a period of time Carlo was kept for observation before being sold to the highest bidder— Spartan Enterprises.

CW: tightly bound, IV’s, human trafficking, whumpee with powers, solitary confinement, drugging, noncon surgery, vivisection, brief death ideation, body horror, pain medication wearing off, paralyzing drugs, noncon sedation, lack of autonomy, med whump but like sci-fi very unethical med whump don’t look for accuracy here, stitches and scars, rough bathing

-

Carlo was Precognitive 5 now, on a fresh assignment and expected to perform.

Before, he’d been with a man called Erik Holstrom. Erik used him for some things that were high profile enough to land him on an Interpol watchlist. After Erik was arrested, Carlo was repossessed, first by SWAT in their shielded helmets, cartoonishly large guns across their chests. He was handled roughly by gloved hands, pushed into a van where he was bound tightly at the wrists and feet.

Keep reading

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: chapter II

CW: not a lot. tentative reassurance and comfort. building trust. series warnings for human trafficking, whumpee with exploited powers.

He decided he’d rather bring this Carlo boy home with him than leave him in the building overnight.

It wasn’t just that Ingrid asked to see him. It was a new and sudden sense of responsibility, even if its contours were rough and undefined. All day he felt a tug between the professional aloofness he usually liked to maintain at work and the desire to be a source of comfort for the precog boy they’d given him.

He was clearly abused before. By whom, for how long, and in what ways was not clear. The fact he was so concerned if this business was a fully legal venture or not made Max think for sure he was one of the repossessed precognitives that had been used in day trading and investments, or even the less subtle art of ripping off casinos and lotteries. Who needs risk management when you can see the future?

Keep reading

[deluxewhump]

The Scry: Chapter I

Spartan Enterprises - AE Max Kelly’s Office, Baltimore, Maryland. 9:15 AM EST

CW: human trafficking, whumpee with powers, forced labor, it as a pronoun, carewhumper, handcuffs, bruises, fear

Max moved into his current office three months ago when the previous occupant quit, mid-quarterly meeting in a full room of directors.

He liked the privacy of an actual office, though it was quiet sometimes. He could select his own music to play out of the ceiling speakers though, possibly the biggest improvement since leaving an open air cubicle.

And now he was getting a Christmas bonus.

“It’s open,” he called when a knock finally came on his office door at 9:15.

He was relieved to see a familiar blonde bob crack the door and peek her head through. Cecelia.

“Hey, Max? Got something for you.”

Keep reading

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🙈 🪢 for antoni pls?👀👀

CW: Implied noncon, burns, xenophobic language (brief), dehumanized whumpee, intimate/creepy/sadistic whumper, rope restraints, blindfolded

"Ropes a bit coarser than I thought it would be." The sound of his voice makes the ashtray jump, muscles twitching and jerking fruitlessly against the rope wrapped over and over around his body.

Tying his wrists down against his naked thighs, rubbing raw unmarked and scarred, burned skin alike. With the blindfold on, he can't quite guess where Mr. Davies will speak from next. He moves so quickly and with such terrible quiet.

"Ah, well. We cannot have everything just the way we like, can we?"

His voice is warm and rich and smooth, but the press of his fingertips over last night's newest burns makes the ashtray whimper around his gag, fighting hot tears. He aches, skin stinging where his scratches and burns are. His wrists ache, his knees throb as they slowly bruise against the immaculate wooden floor.

He keeps his spine straight, chin up, in position. Swallows back every sound he can just to feel his soft collar move, remind himself it will end.

It will end, and then it will never have happened.

There's a gentle, affectionate sigh. Then a hand through his hair, shorn so short that they simply graze over his scalp.

"Look at you," Mr. Davies whispers, his lilting English accent and whiskey voice a kind of heady contrast to the misery the ashtray lives in. "You'd be beautiful, still, Russki, if I hadn't made you so very unbecomingly ugly. Thank me for it."

"Th-... Thank-"

The feeling of Mr. Davies backhanding him sparks bright white behind his eyes, and he feels himself thump sideways to the floor before the pain can even begin to be felt. He coughs, and Mr. Davies hauls him back onto his knees.

They scream pain at pressing back into the floor, and he can't quite hold back a hitched sob this time.

Mr. Davies chuckles. "Let us try again. Thank me in your little rat tongue, Russki."

"But..." His lower lip feels overlarge, swelling with every second. He tongues at it and tastes copper, feels a split of heat in the sensitive skin. "I am n-not allowed-"

"I am giving you an order, pet."

His palm runs over the ashtray's head against, gently urging him to shuffle on his knees, fighting tears at the agonizing pain in his knees with every slight motion. His hands are fists, closed so tightly his nails dig half-moon craters in his palms.

"Spas... Spasibo," He whispers, and flinches instinctively.

Mr. Davies's laugh is as rich as his voice. Then the ashtray hears the flick of a lighter, and the smell of cloves and heavy smoke fills his nose when his master exhales directly into his face. He coughs, which only makes Mr. Davies laugh harder.

"Well, then. Let us enjoy your gratitude to the fullest, hm?"

A zipper, pulled down.

He knows the sound by heart, sickening and inevitable.

A hand pushing against the back of his head. Clove smoke up his nose and deep in his lungs. The feeling of his own heart pounding in slow-motion dread. The disgust so deep within him he barely remembers how to name the feeling.

He licks, when he feels it brush his cheek. He turns his head and uses his tongue. His busted lip splits more when he must open to take it into himself. He tastes blood, sweat and salt, the slow increase of bitterness. Veins pulse against his tongue.

This isn't happening.

Once it is over, it will not have happened.

He refuses to name the organ now pushing to his throat, cutting off his air. He refuses-

The cigarette presses against his back, just between his shoulder blades, and he cries out, muffled around-

Around-

Around it.

With the blindfold on, he can't see it coming. He has only the feel of the throb of heart and busted lip in time, the ache in his knees. The smell of cloves and musk and skin, of humiliation, despair, of what is happening and is not happening to him.

He has only the sound of Mr. Davies's warm laughter, his low velvet moans, and the way he forces the ashtray to take him further, deeper, to choke on him for longer.

And he has the bright sparkling agony of the burns, familiar as a kiss.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

'Cause I feel like being very mean to Vince.

💌 but with Owen~

CW: Implied noncon, drugged whumpee, restrained, obsessive whumper

Takes place during The Same Bed Arc, explicitly during the piece Nat

-

"Hey, baby."

Owen's voice is against his ear, his breath hot and smelling like french fries. Vince groans, shifting under the hand that presses against his neck, molding itself to the bruises already formed, darkening, sinking deeper.

"Wake up, Vince. Someone's here to see you."

Vince manages to force eyes crusted over with tears from salt and heavy with the pills Owen keeps feeding him open. He takes in the blur of Owen, and his mouth is slack when he is kissed.

"... Who?" He manages, but his voice is hoarse. He can barely remember how to speak.

"I'll show you. But first..." Owen frowns, looking up at the handcuffs twisted through the headboard. The restraints that keep Vince from even standing. Owen sighs. "You were struggling again, weren't you? You're fucking bleeding."

"... You," Vince mumbles. "I was bleeding... before you left. You... pulled."

Owen pauses, looking up at Vince's rubbed-raw wrists again. "I did?"

"Yeah... Yeah you did." His head tips back against the pillowcase. The world spins, lazily lingering circles that rotate slower than the earth does. He feels torn between the two motions, orbit around the sun and the spinning in his head. Which is stronger? His stomach flips as he realizes he can feel dried stickiness down his stomach and over his thighs when he moves them.

It's not blood, is it?

No...

No, the blood is on the sheets beneath him. Sheets as damp with sweat and tears as they are stained red.

"I guess that was me," Owen says, sounding a little stricken. "Well, damn. I didn't even get to enjoy that. Well, I'm sorry, Vince. Does look good on you, though... Hm."

He kissed Vince again, longer and lingering this time, following as Vince tries to shake his head and fails to escape the stealing of his breath.

Owen's hand presses to the side of his face, along his cheek, and his tongue is a terrible intrusion, it feels like it belongs to nothing and no one as it pushes into his mouth. Vince chokes on his sob.

"Sssshhh, it's okay. Sssshhh. I'll make you feel better, Vince I will." More kisses, down his neck, hot wet tongue lapping at bruises, stinging against cuts and scratches. Vince whines, barely conscious, when Owen's hand slips between his legs and grips him. He's soft. And he stays soft.

At first.

But god, his body wants so badly to feel something other than pain. And soon enough he feels himself start to harden.

"There we go... There we go. That's it... I'm so sorry, Vince." Owen's bright green eyes are focused on him, locked on his face. His hair is dirty. Vince feels a hysterical wish that he would take a fucking shower. Or let Vince take one.

"We'll go see our guests in a second. First, though... Come on, baby... There we go. God, you and Kauri, just two whores for me in the end, huh?"

His voice sounds so far away.

Vince closes his eyes, and tries to let his body do whatever Owen wants it to do while he chases the spinning inside his head.

[whatiswhump]

Max, the Science Experiment

“You’re not well, we are here to help you get better.”

They had taken him years ago. A few days after his thirteenth birthday. The uniform they had first put him in hung massive on his frame. They pretended like he wasn’t a kid, wasn’t even a human. He used to be timid, the quiet one at the back of class. Through tears and screams he learned to fight back. He learned to bear the sensation of a taser and the humiliation of punishment. For so many years, he was spoken to like he wasn’t even there, an object or animal. They told him he was sick. He agreed. If he hadn’t been before, they made him sick, they turned him into something feral. For eight years he had been kept in the white room, taken out only for medical treatment and torture, usually the same thing. He hadn’t read anything other than the odd glance at a medical chart in that time. Hadn’t had a real conversation, hadn’t seen the sun. Although sometimes they put him under some kind of lamp for vitamin D.

His body had changed and he grew into the uniform, horrible humiliating changes also occurred. Studied and recorded by the doctors. He used to wonder if he would ever escape but he doesn’t let himself have those kind of thoughts anymore. The same way he doesn’t think about his past life, his mom, his dad or his little sister. A few years in he realized he couldn’t hang on to that fantasy anymore. He sometimes wondered if that life had ever happened at all. Or maybe he made it up? It was too… too different to exist in the same world that this life did.

But one day something changed.

Someone addressed him by name.

“Max Groenfield?”

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[comfy-whumpee]

Tyler

Implied past abuse, homophobia and alcohol. BBU.

If you’re just here for the epistolary material, scroll to the end! Preceding piece: Everyone.

“See you later, Phil.”

The last person left the office. It was Friday night, and Roman had gone home with Dillon, Joel and Phil had finished up, and Tyler was left working late with Charlie on this stupid urgent Christmas thing. The world outside the windows was a dark void, speckled by street lights. The office was weirdly quiet without Roman washing up or pottering around tidying. Hell, if they stayed late enough the cleaner would show up.

Charlie had been quiet all week. Roman was fucking limping from his stress. They needed to make sure everything was sorted before they closed and all took the week off. Charlie didn’t want to be fixing shit while he was having Christmas with his girlfriend.

Tyler would probably go visit his mom. She got lonely at this time of year. Maybe he’d be able to take Ro, as well. Give him a proper holiday. Introduce him…

“Let’s stop there,” Charlie said, leaning back and running a hand through his flattened quiff, as if trying to coax more life into it. He always over-oiled his hair to keep it in shape. Shaking his hand now would feel greasy.

Tyler closed his notebook gladly, dropping his pen on top. Most of their clients wouldn’t be doing business during the festive period, but they also didn’t want the app to break. It was their first time closing the office for a week; last year they’d barely taken seven days off between them. Planning around the issue before it happened was how Charlie liked to do things, but it was a headache.

“I wanted to talk to you about Roman,” Charlie said.

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[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Redwood Psychiatric - Part 1

Note: This was going to be in two parts, but I thought it would make more sense to combine them and put them in one post. So if you've already read the 1st bit, please keep reading!

Also, Happy New Year! I wanted to kick off 2023 with some whump writing that I'm proud of.

CWs: sedation, medical restraints, medical gaslighting

"The psychiatric hospital stands tall with three story buildings, a sprawling lawn, and 6 foot fences enclosing the entire property." The figure narrated from the edge of the grounds. “In the moonlight, it’s an eerie sight to behold.”

He paused the recording temporarily to fiddle with the settings on the microphone, and snap another photo on his camera. ‘Low battery!’ warned the camera. 

“Damn..” He muttered under his breath. 

He turned back to look up at the building, and suddenly heard a twig snap behind him. He froze in place. It was just his mind playing tricks on him, he reasoned. He was alone. He didn’t speak again - just in case. The wind howled through the trees off in the distance. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. 

“Who’s there?” He breathed. 

No response. The woods stood silently swaying in the breeze. 

WHAM!

Something slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. The camera and recorder were sent flying, the air was shoved out of his lungs from the impact. He didn’t even get the chance to scream, before something sharp pricked his neck. The world dissolved into darkness.

:readmore:

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His eyes flew open to find that he was lying on a bed.

'It was just a dream, Rowan. Take a breath. You’re home. You’re safe.'

He looked around. Except, he wasn’t home. He was in a vast, empty room with pristine white walls and white linoleum flooring. Definitively not-home. 

'Where am I?'

The door cracked open. 

'Finally, someone to explain what’s going on,' Rowan thought. 

Three men stepped in. The first, a middle-aged, medium build man with small round glasses, a clean-shaven face and wearing a doctor’s coat. The other two were well built, tall, and wore white nurses’ scrubs. One had a scar below his left eye, with thick, dark curly hair on his head, and the other had blonde cropped hair and a mean-looking jaw. Blondie also had a nasty black eye.

These were not exactly the people Rowan was expecting. 

The doctor gestured for the two nurses to stand in front of the door, and then he slowly approached Rowan’s bed.

“Hello again. Glad to see you’re awake.” The man had a calm, quiet manner of speaking as he sat on the end of Rowan’s bed.

“Uh.. hi.” Rowan said slowly.

“Ah, I’m sorry.. one moment.” The doctor pulled a small penlight from the pocket of his coat, and shine it in each of Rowan’s eyes. “Hm..”

“Am I in hospital?” Rowan asked as the doctor put away the light.

The man glanced at the two in front of the door, before turning back to Rowan. “You don’t remember?” He asked, his cool tone giving nothing away. 

“No. I was.. what..” Rowan sighed, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember how he’d gotten in this room. 

Oh! The article!

“Well, I was conducting an.. article on a mental hospital.” He said, trying to mimic the doctor’s cool tone. Technically, he wasn’t lying. But he couldn’t let on the full truth, either.

“I see.”

“And then.. and then…”

'I can’t remember. What happened between the woods outside, and here?'

“Can you tell me your name?” The Doctor asked, pulling Rowan out of his thoughts.

“Rowan Murdock.”

“I see, Rowan..” The man glanced at the two nurses again.

“I’m a journalist for The Daily Press, maybe you’ve heard of me?”

The man looked back at Rowan. “Ah.”

“Look, am I in a hospital?” Rowan asked.

The man sighs softly. “What I’m about to say might be very hard to hear. I want you to stay calm, or those two orderlies will have to give me a hand, alright?” He asked, pointing with his chin at the two men in front of the door.

“Okay…” Rowan murmured. “Just, tell me.”

“Yes. You are in a hospital. But... Your name isn’t Rowan Murdock. It’s James Lawton. And you’re in a psychiatric hospital.”

Breathe, Rowan. Just breathe. Stay calm.

“But- that can’t be right. The last thing I remember was walking through the forest. On the outside of Redwood Psychiatric."

"Well, at least you remember the name of this place. You're a patient here - this is Redwood." The Doctor explained, gesturing around the room.

"But I'm not. That's what I'm trying to tell you! There's been some kind of mistake." Rowan pressed, fighting to keep his voice level. "My name is Rowan Murdock, and I'm a journalist. Not a crazy person."

"Listen, James. Take a deep breath. You're in good hands here. Of course you aren't crazy. That's a very outdated and harmful term. You just need help. There's nothing wrong with that." The Doctor placated. "And you've clearly lost your memory after the relapse caused by your escape attempt. So let me refresh your memory. My name is Doctor Morgan. You voluntarily placed yourself in the care of this hospital four months ago, after an increase in hallucinations, paranoia and violent behaviour. The most accurate diagnosis for your symptoms is schizophrenia. I'd like to continue working on your treatment with you, James."

"My name isn't James. If you found my camera, or looked in my-" he'd started to reach for his pant pocket as he spoke, only to realise that the clothes he had been wearing had been replaced by a thin white hospital gown. "-pocket… Well you must have, then. You'd have found my ID, with my name on it. Rowan Murdock."

"We didn't find any camera or ID, James."

"Stop calling me that."  Rowan protested.

"As your Doctor, it is not my place to play along with your hallucinations. I will only set back your recovery further."

"But I'm not your patient! You can't do this!" Rowan fought back tears.

"Take a deep breath, James. You voluntarily committed yourself to our care, meaning that you gave your permission to be here. We can even show you the paperwork if you like. We can keep you here for as long as we think necessary to treat you, because you legally gave us permission to do so." The Doctor tried in a soothing voice. "In a moment, Nurse Dean will bring your meds. You're going to take them for me, and you're going to calm down, okay?"

Rowan stared at the wall, refusing to meet the Doctor's gaze. A knock sounded at the door, and the two orderlies stepped aside to open the door. A man entered, wearing nurse's scrubs and carrying a tray with a dozen small wax paper cups, each with names printed on them. 

"Hello, James." The man said as he stepped up to the bed, handing the tray to the orderlies and picking up a cup with James Lawton on it. "Glad to see you're back with us. Here's your meds." He held the cup out to Rowan.

Rowan reached out and took it, holding up the small cup to inspect the half a dozen pills of different colours and sizes. "What are all of these for?"

“James, you might not remember, but I have told you this before - I can’t tell you, or any of the other patients’, that. You’d only try to avoid certain medications to avoid their effects.” Nurse Dean said firmly. He pushed the tablets closer to James. “Come on, take them. You know the drill, if you don’t take them, we have to inject the medication anyway. So you choose - easy way or hard way.”

Rowan stared into the cup for a moment longer, then slowly tipped the pills back into his mouth. And proceeded to subtly tuck them under his tongue. 

“Open wide.” Nurse Dean pulled out a tongue depressor, and used it to check in Rowan’s cheeks, and then lifted the patient’s tongue. When he found the tablets, he sighed. “James….” 

The nurse lifted the pills onto the wooden stick, then deposited them all at the back of his throat. Then, he placed his hand on Rowan’s throat and massaged firmly, forcing him to swallow the assortment of drugs. Rowan’s throat hurt from the large mass being shoved down his gullet all at once. He coughed, and the Doctor picked up a paper cup from the bedside table, and handed it to Rowan, who took it gratefully and swallowed several mouthfuls of water from the cup.

“I’m sorry. But that one’s on you.” Nurse Dean took back the tray of pill cups from the orderly, and turned to leave. “See you, James. Behave for Doctor Wilson.”

Rowan didn’t say a word as the nurse left, cataloguing the doctor’s name away - information that he was likely supposed to already have, but he didn’t want to add fuel to the Doctor’s claims that he had lost it. He balled the bedsheet in his fists for a few minutes in silence, until he realised Doctor Wilson was talking to him.

“-I’m very disappointed in you, James. You’re going to have to try better than that.” Doctor Wilson said, brow furrowed. 

“Ma nerm.. isen J-” Rowan stopped, realising his tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and words and syllables weren’t coming out properly. “Wh-”

The fluorescent lights were blurring above his head. He couldn’t hear, the world had been submerged in water. Where was he again? 

'The article. Something to do with the article. He said-'

'I didn’t-'

'Where am I?'

'Why is everything moving. It hurts.' 

'Let me sleep.'

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James lay on the hospital bed, his head lolling around. He was blinking furiously, trying to stay with it, but they’d put him on such a high dosage that his efforts were futile.

Doctor Wilson stood and pulled the blanket off of his patient. He then turned to the orderlies. “Move him to the maximum security padded room, and restrain him.”

“Yes, Doctor Wilson.” 

The two orderlies approached the semi-conscious patient, picking him up from underneath his armpits, and began dragging him down the hallway.

“Excellent.” Doctor Wilson stepped out the room and closed it behind him.

He walked down the hall of the hospital, following closely behind the orderlies with James. He stepped in front of them, and opened the door with his thumbprint so that they could enter. 

The orderlies placed James on a small, frameless bed against one padded wall. The young man looked tiny as he curled into himself on the mattress, wispy strands of his short caramel hair hanging in his eyes. The orderly with the scar reached under the bed and pulled up padded cuffs that had straps attached to them, with the other ends of the straps sewn into the mattress. As the orderlies and Doctor Wilson held James down and started placing his arms and legs in the restraints, the patient tried to pull away, but he was too weak in his drugged state. With ease, the three men restrained him to the bed. 

Doctor Wilson and the orderlies left the room, closing the door behind them. Doctor Wilson knew that there would be a problem when his patient woke up, but he or the other staff would be watching from the cameras inside the room. 

“Martin, I need you to destroy that camera and ID.” Doctor Wilson said to the curly-haired orderly.

“Yes sir.”

Tags: @whatiswhump and @jancameforthewhump