# SEREN / ELLIE . ( he/she/it : genderqueer hard femme lesbian )
writer, artist, designer, character creator; lover of art, history, horror, folklore, and nature. dms & asks open 24/7!
HELLO, STRANGER! welcome to my whump - focused writing blog!
i'm relatively new member of this community, officially joining around may 2024 after many years of lurking. however, i have been creating and indulging in whump fiction for all of my life, without it becoming my primary creative focus on late 2022 after my discovery of lab whump.
despite the fact that i'm in several fandoms, i much prefer to focus on my original characters. if you'd like to learn more about them or the stories they're from, check out the website linked below! i aim to make my work writings as accessible as possible so they can be consumed and enjoyed by the community at large.
despite my decidedly edgy interests, i like to think I'm a pretty nice person! i love making new friends, so feel free to reach out whenever! please be aware that i do tend to reply slowly & go inactive for extended periods of time due to my variety of physiological conditions; i have autism, c-ptsd, avpd, and ocd, all of which effect how i interact with others. i am working toward stability, but it won't come overnight, so i ask for patience in the meantime!
THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN WRITTEN & ILLUSTRATIVE DEPICTIONS OF GORE, VIOLENCE, TORTURE, MEDICAL MALPRACTICE, CAPTIVITY, ABUSE, AND OTHER SIMILARLY DISTURBING THEMES. IF YOU BELIEVE ANY OF THIS MAY BE DISTRESSING TO YOU, PLEASE CLICK OFF MY BLOG NOW.
it should go without saying that i do not condone (nor do i intend to glorify or promote) any of this in real life. portrayal is not inherently endorsement. i trust you all to engage responsibility. I DO NOT WANT MINORS ON THIS BLOG. MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED.
FAVORED TROPES: torture, extreme violence & gore, captivity, kidnapping, sadistic whumpers, tough whumpees, lab whump, medical & psychiatric whump, conditioning & mindbreak, lady whump, nonhuman whump, trauma bonds, and so much more! i have very few squicks, so I dabble in pretty much everything.
DISLIKED TROPES: sickfics (especially ones that involve vomit), pregnancy, familial dynamics, live action media, anything involving children or animals. none of these are triggers except for the sickfic one; i have emetophobia and contamination ocd, so I prefer not to write or read about anything that may trigger that.
ALL OF MY OC INFORMATION IS STORED ON THIS WEBSITE! it includes basic information, references images, story summaries, and the likes. i tried to keep everything relatively simple and digestible. extended bios are stored on my toyhouse.
you are beyond welcome to submit requests for my ocs, ask me questions about them, ask me to roleplay, & pretty much anything else. the weirder and the more violent, the better! ♡
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I feel like everything I've written so far has been building up to this moment. Elodie (I can finally stop calling her by her stupid last name, christ alive) is too nice of a whumper for me sometimes. Phoenix is much more my style. I'll explain the purpose of her involvement later, I promise!
[ TAGS: @ghostingwings @screams-n-shackles @loonybun @doctorsawyer @stars-hide-our-fires @wlw-whump @galactic-worm @mxrr0rball -- go here if you'd like to be added to my tag list! ]
Better the devil you know than the devil you don't. Or so the saying goes, as far as Clare remembers it.
She's heard it all her life, from soldiers, captors, and survivors alike, yet she's never once been able to believe it. There is a strange mercy in faceless enemies and tactical cruelty; far worse is the slow, personal horror of betrayal, of realizing the knife is being held by someone you trusted.
In the sleepless night, Clare is lost to the pain in her neck, fingers clawing at the metal collar as she tries, again and again, to wrench it free. She knows now, with certainty, that this is worse; when she first woke up here, it had been easier to keep her captors abstract into faceless enemies she could survive out of spite alone. Now, all she can see is a face. Dr. Louviere's face. Every seemingly benign detail—the kind eyes, the solicitous smile—is burned into her consciousness, flashing behind her closed eyes, poisoning every thought she has. Fury and grief twist together in her chest, and all she can think is why? Why, why, why?
She doesn't even know where to start with her tangled mess of feelings. What she does know, however, is that she needs to get this fucking collar off.
She's tried everything. Grabbing, clawing, twisting, pulling, even hitting it in blind frustration. All she's accomplished is hurting herself; her neck is raw and burning, maybe even bloody. The earlier shock started it, sure, but she's made it worse herself. Every movement drags the prongs against old scars, sending fresh pain down her spine.
Prongs. It has fucking prongs! How could she have been dumb enough to believe it was anything but a shock collar? A health monitor, Louviere had said. What a fucking joke.
After several long, agonizing minutes of forcing her nails beneath the collar and into her own neck, she finally lets go with a gasping breath, folding forward onto the floor where she's kneeling. When did she start kneeling? After Louviere left her alone, she never really got back up. She knows her prosthetic works fine now—she's been kicking it viciously against the floor the entire time—but everything else has dissolved into a blur of hours spent sitting here, hurting, thinking of nothing else.
But she has to get up, she decides through the buzzing in her head. She has to find something else to attack the collar with.
Pain and fury have her wound so tight it feels like she might snap. She knows a break would help, but she refuses to take one. How could she rest, trapped like this? No, she needs to burn this energy off somehow. Gritting her teeth, she braces herself against the wall and drags her legs under her, forcing herself back to her feet in a clumsy, unsteady scramble.
Once she's upright, she searches her cell with desperate eyes, as if something new might appear if she looks hard enough. Alas, there's only what's always been there: the toilet, the sink, the bed—and, beside the bed, a stack of meal trays.
Her gaze lingers on them for a moment. The plastic is durable, but if broken, a shard might be thin enough to wedge into the collar's seams, to jimmy a latch. Is it a plausible plan? Fuck no. But she'll try just about anything at this point.
She starts toward the trays, but only makes it a few steps before a sound to her left pulls her up short. It's faint, barely there, and she almost dismisses it as another noise her isolated brain has invented to fill the silence, except it's too vivid.
A soft beep. A distinct click. The slow groan of metal hinges. She knows, instantly, that the door is opening.
Adrenaline surges through her as she spins to face the doorway. She expects to see Dr. Louviere, but instead—
"Down, girly."
It's spoken like a command meant for a dog, coming from the mouth of a stranger. She's tall and toned, black hair ragged around a pierced face, eyes dark like chips of obsidian. Unlike the doctor who came before her, this woman's uniform isn't medical at all; straps crisscross over armored plating, weapons rest easy at her hips, part of her silhouette like natural extensions of bone and muscle. And in her hand—small, almost delicate by comparison—is a familiar remote.
Clare's eyes must give her fear away, because the woman lets out a quiet, amused chuff. "You remember what this does, yeah?" She says, voice rough, unpolished, almost lazy. "Heard you don't handle the shocks so great."
She angles the remote forward; a wordless threat. "So unless you're feelin' brave in a real dumb way, you're gonna get on the ground for me. Now."
In any other situation, Clare would've ended this already. A flick of magic and this bitch would be on her back, staring up at death without Clare having moved an inch. But with the nullifier clamping down on her magic like a hand around her throat, she's left grasping at empty space.
She knows she can't win like this, and yet she can't bring herself to kneel. She remains upright, eyes locked on the stranger, fingers twitching at her sides, mind racing.
The woman clocks it immediately. She lifts the remote in a clearer warning, and Clare's body betrays her with a small flinch. "I see them little gears turnin'. Don't."
Don't, her internal voice repeats, but it's swallowed by the rage coursing through her veins. A small step forward, and the woman mirrors her with a step back. Clare sizes her up. She's certainly strong, but shorter, and less bulky. All that gear looks intimidating, but it's dead weight in a close fight. Clare's been throwing elbows in back alleys since she was a kid. Magic came later, a skill she took time to hone, but her fists? Those are still plenty deadly, nullifier be damned.
The thought barely has time to crystallize before her body cuts loose. In an instant, she's flying forward, lunging at the stranger like a rabid dog—
But before their bodies connect, agony detonates at her throat, and she's back on the ground.
Even as she screams and writhes in pain, she knows exactly what just happened. Her hands clutch the collar, feeling the spikes of voltage fizz under her fingers, shivering through her body, leaving her raw, bruised, broken, pissed off and helpless all at once.
As her senses come back, she hears the stranger laughing above her.
"Wow, you're dumb!" A swift kick to Clare's side drives the point home, pain lancing through her and making her gasp. "Bold, sure, but dumb."
She's a mess on the floor, gasping and choking on nothing, mouth tasting of copper. Her eyes won't stop watering. Her body won't move. But her voice, ruined as it is, still manages to find the words she needs: "Fuck… you…"
Another burst of laughter. "HAH! Wow. You weren't kidding, Elodie. She's got fight."
The pain eases just enough for Clare to catch the name. Elodie. Someone else is here.
"W—" A wet, ragged cough. "Who—?"
A hand twists into her scalp, grabbing a fistful of hair and hauling her upright. A strangled sound rips from her throat as her spine arches painfully, her vision swimming.
"Clare, was it?" The stranger's voice is right beside her ear now. "I've brought your little friend along. Dr. Louviere? You two know each other?"
Shoes enter Clare's field of vision. She drags her gaze upward, past the hem of a white coat, past familiar hands, to that soft, practiced face. Anger eclipses all other sensation, all other emotion. "You…"
"Just call her Elodie from now on. And you can call me—" She lets go of Clare's hair, letting her body crash to the ground. "—Phoenix."
Elodie and Phoenix. What kind of edgelord bullshit names are those? She's committing them to memory anyway, so she knows exactly who to come for when she gets out of here. Clare tries to push herself up on her one working arm, but it's grabbed instantly, along with her useless prosthetic, and twisted behind her back.
"AH- HEY!" she yells.
A sharp click. Cold bite into her wrists. Handcuffs.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Clare yells, despite herself. "L— Elodie! Talk to me! What the fuck is going on?! Why are you doing this?!"
"I-" She hears the beginnings of Elodie's soft voice, but Phoenix cuts her off.
"Don't even. We don't need to answer shit."
"Well, I want to," Elodie retorts, and Clare instantly registers how cold her voice sounds when she isn't acting. It makes her feel sick.
With a disgruntled sigh, Phoenix steps over Clare again, pulling her head up. Elodie kneels in front of her. That look on her face—so empty, stripped of the warmth she'd shown just days ago—makes Clare's anger flare hotter.
"There are a few reasons," Elodie begins. "None of them are going to sit well with you. But… simply put, I needed you to trust me. You wouldn't have let me get close otherwise. I had to know exactly what I was dealing with before… acting." She pauses, perhaps expecting a retort from Clare, but when none comes, she continues. "And you were going to be tortured regardless. At least I took the time to get to know you first. That has to count for something, yes?"
Clare just stares, beyond disbelief. In all her years, she has never heard a defense of violence this absurd.
"No, you fucking dumbass," she spits. "What part of getting to know someone makes it hurt any less when they're hurting you? Would you rather be, fucking, I dunno, beaten by someone pretending to be kind, or by a total asshole stranger?"
Elodie's expression dims. A tiny, petulant downturn of her mouth. She rises, brushes off her coat, and her voice goes cool. "If that's how you see it, then you'll likely prefer Phoenix's approach."
"Damn straight." Hands clamp onto Clare's shoulders, dragging Clare onto her knees as if she weighed nothing. It takes her a moment to register the impossibility of that action; there's no way Phoenix could have lifted her entire body just like that. What the hell was happening?
Only as she's pulled to her feet, without anyone even touching her, does she notice the wispy, shadowy shapes darting in and out of her vision, slithering over her skin.
"Are you kidding me?!" The words explode out of her. "You get to keep your magic?!"
Phoenix laughs again. Clare already feels herself getting sick of it. "Of course I do! I work here!"
Clare shakes her head. "If this is an anomalous containment whatever-the-shit facility, then you should be locked up, too!"
Phoenix pauses, stunned, eyes wide, mouth agape. She glances between Clare and Elodie, then turns to Elodie and bursts into laughter. "Oh my god! That's what you told her? You clever little devil!"
Elodie ducks her head, almost bashful. "It was off the cuff, but I thought it was fairly plausible."
The laughter continues, easy and warm, like they're sharing a drink. Like Clare isn't even in the room. Her blood goes very cold.
"Then… what's the truth? What is this place?"
Neither of them acknowledge her. Her heart starts hammering.
The laughter fades to silence, and Phoenix turns back to Clare, still catching her breath. "Anyway. Lets get you outta here, princess."
Clare tenses. "No, I'm not going—AH!"
The magic coiling around her jerks her forward, shoving her toward the door. Phoenix laughs again, cruel and teasing. "Oh, yes you are!" she mocks. "Move it! Elodie, you too."
Elodie jogs up in front of her, close enough for a punch if Clare's arms weren't suddenly fixed at her sides. She squirms, trying to break free, but knows, with sickening certainty, that it's useless. With the press of a keycard, the door sighs open, and Clare's body is marched through it without her consent.
The anger that had kept her alive slowly burns out, leaving a cold, hollow pit in her chest. She is helpless. The truth of it settles into her bones. She cannot break these bonds, cannot outrun her captors, cannot even imagine what they plan for her. She cycles obsessively through her limited options, each one spiraling back to the same suffocating dread.
The hallway stretches before her, black and endless. She feels so, so small inside it.
Welcome to my writing blog! I'm big on the following:
whump ✦ found family ✦ QPR ✦ resilient / competent protagonists ✦ creepy antagonists ✦ sci-fi ✦ institutional settings ✦ lab/medical settings ✦ military settings ✦ medics ✦ aro/ace characters who don’t know yet or are just finding out
Masterlists: Short Fics /// Signal War /// Team Alphabet /// Prompts + Tropes
🔸🔶 QUICK NAV 🔶🔸
🔶 Short Fics Masterlist - a degustation menu of short, snack-sized stories. Fic descriptions in the masterlist.
Or just dive in: Names for the Nameless /// "Put a little more energy into it." /// "Here you go." /// Accidental Scar Reveal /// Refusal /// The Stars, They Are Falling /// Override /// Erasure Part 1 â–¸ Part 2 â–¸ Part 3
🔶 Signal War Masterlist - Medic in a scifi, military setting falling into one whump narrative after another (ft. aroace main character, QPR, competent whumpee, creepy whumper)
Start here:
- begin with the opening arc,
- or jump into the deep end with the whump-centric path (streamlined, skips Whumper's obsessive build-up).
🔶 Team Alphabet Masterlist - team of rookie enforcers rescue a captive living weapon whumpee (ft. team dynamics, found family, military academy setting.)
Start here:
- the the origin story
- when whumpee is rescued.
🔶 Whump Prompts + Tropes Masterlist - a collection of my explorations on genre themes and ideas
Featured: Team Dynamics yes yes yes /// Resistance /// The Inadvertent Whumper /// The Procedural Whumper /// Competent Whumpees /// Snikt /// Drag Path
🔶 Medical Trivia (or Things to Give Your Whumpees) - just me being inappropriately over-enthusiastic about various injuries + body details for whump storytelling purposes
Lung Injuries /// Seizures /// Blood Tells A Story /// More Than One Brain /// Tears
i wanna start writing my july break bingo, but i am unsure where to start. if anyone has a specific prompt from that they'd like to see me fill, send it to my askbox? :3
is daystar labs a rp server? i’d be interested in joining :) havent done discord rp in a while but im slowy getting into a social media style roleplay rn
hi!! it is -- or was, rather; the ask that brought it up was referring to an old iteration of the server i owned like 2-ish years ago, but i'm making good progress on a revamp using the same plot! lab and medical whump are the focus (because it is a laboratory setting) but staff very in professionality and many of them are just sadists; it's a torture free for all.
anyway, i can put you on the pinglist i'm keeping for when i do open the server, if you'd like! depends heavily on when i can get my medication sorted out but hopefully HOPEFULLY this summer. because i yearn for roleplay
hi! this might be so weird lol but I just stumbled across this blog and I recognized you from your pfp because I used to be in the daystar labs discord server like... 2-3 years ago? so it was nice to see your ocs/writing again! again so sorry if this comes off as weird or creepy I just felt compelled to give a (metaphorical) passing wave...
hi there!! so sorry it's taken me like, forever to answer this. i go on hiatus from my socials every other month it feels like sob
this doesn't come off as weird at all!! it makes me really really happy, actually. i am still pretty embarrassed by how poorly that server was moderated and owned (at least by my standards; with what i know now, i would do things much different) but it relieves me a bit to know that it persists as a fond memory for some. it was a wonderful experience for the most part, and i am forever grateful to have shared a space with so many amazing writers!!
thank you for the ask!! i hope whatever roleplay/writing spaces you may be in today are treating you well <3
hello guys i am back. again. i want to torture my blorbos.
but on a real note, sorry for dipping again!! i sometimes lose motivation to write about my ocs completely :( and i am still struggling really bad with c-ptsd and my fuckass personality disorder that makes it impossible to socialize. i DO want to post more, because i do love this community and want to support others at least!! :D so hopefully we can be more consistent. maybe.
i'm also doing july break bingo, which is part of the reason i am back, so uh. thank u to those guys!!! i'll be posting my card soon :3
Three simple words that sound mostly harmless; perhaps connoting a minor annoyance. However, when they come from your whumpee - who never complains about their own health - the caretaker goes white with panic.
hi everyone!! i'm so sorry i've been gone for so long :( i had a terrible run in with covid and have been generally pretty demotivated and down in the dumps. however, i am back now!! yay!! yippee!!!
how are you all doing? anyone who sees this is welcome to reply; i hope everyone's had a good day today! i you haven't, i hope it gets better <3
â–· Summary;Â The producer is sure they're going to hit peak engagement
⚠️ content advisory: NSFWhump (sadomasochism), demon whumper, demon whumpee, shock collar, livestreamed whump, surgery, graphic depiction of gore
Fandom: Original |Â WRITING MASTERLIST
Word count: 2203
Notes: entry for @whumpgiftswap, a gift for @labtrauma !
The Starting Soon screen glows on thousands of monitors across hell. A black silhouette of Batsugun fills the frame; bat wings half-spread with curling ram horns. Elegant white text beneath it reads Batsugun’s Brilliance.
It is a busy weekend night and the chat is already abuzz.
when will it start?
Woohooo!
In the brightly lit studio, the octopus demon producer adjusts his headset with three of his tentacles, a satisfied grin spreading across his mouth. The viewer count is climbing fast. It reaches well into the high five figures and is still rising.
Traffic’s excellent tonight. We’re gonna hit peak engagement. I can feel it.
Red LIVE light flicks on and Batsugun steps into frame with slow, deliberate grace. The black latex miniskirt barely covers the top of her thighs, the smoky white fur of her underbelly peeking with every step. Two black X’s of pasties are plastered directly over her nipples, stark against the lighter fur. A heavy shock collar encircles her neck, its red indicator light already blinking.
Her long curly bangs fall over one eye, leaving the other to glow at the camera. She offers the audience her signature smile, “Evening, darlings.”
One cloven hoof clicks as she settles onto the metal examination table in the center of the set. Her bat wings fold neatly behind her, and her fluffy tail curls around her hip.
The octopus demon slithers into view beside her. He announces with energy, “Welcome back, friends and foes! First off, a huge thank you to our brand sponsor tonight: TenebrisTech. Their premium shock collars and restraint systems make nights like this possible. Make sure to check the link in chat if you want to bring a little piece of tonight home with you!”
Then he gives a theatrical wink, “As per the poll from our last stream… you beautiful beings voted overwhelmingly for exploratory surgery tonight.” He spreads several tentacles wide, “So that’s exactly what we’re doing. We’re going to uncover what’s never been uncovered before. No limits.”
Batsugun’s crimson eye half-lids in mild amusement. She tilts her head, letting her droopy ears flop slightly. A few chat messages explode with heart, fire, and goat emojis.
The octopus demon turns to her with a grin, “Ready, star?”
“Always,” she replies.
He reaches for the remote, “Let’s start gentle… or not so gentle. Testing the new collar.”
The first shock hits without warning. Crack!
Batsugun’s body jerks hard. Her back arches violently off the metal table, black-and-gray fur standing on end as electricity tears through her neck and spine. A raw, throaty cry rips from her throat. Her cloven hooves scrape against the table, legs kicking once before she forces them down again. Her bat wings flare open involuntarily, trembling.
She writhes, chest heaving, the black X’s on her nipples stretch with every labored breath. Yet even through the pain, her smile never fully leaves her face. When the shock finally cuts off, she lets out a shaky laugh.
“Nngh… That one had teeth,” she gasps, tongue flicking over her sharp red teeth. “I felt that all the way down to my hooves.”
The octopus demon chuckles, clearly pleased with the reaction, “Chat is loving it already. Look at those numbers spike.”
Batsugun’s fluffy tail lashes once, then curls tightly around her plush thigh. She is panting slightly, but her composure remains intact. Still, there is no hiding the faint flush under her smoky white muzzle fur, nor the way her body trembled with lingering aftershocks.
She looks straight into the camera, “Mmm… hurts so good, doesn’t it? You all like watching me squirm?” Her voice drops even lower, teasing, “Don’t worry, darlings. We’re just getting started.”
Then Batsugun gave the lens a lazy, provocative wink.
The octopus demon’s tentacles twitch with excitement, “That’s our girl. Chat, the real fun begins now.”
The octopus demon glances at the massive monitor displaying the live chat feed, tentacles twitching with glee. The messages are flooding in faster than the system can scroll.
The chat explodes:
Zoom in on her tits
ZOOM IN
SHE’S ENJOYING THIS IJBOL
painslut painslut painslut
That scream was perfect holy shit
Collar go brrrr
Her tail is doing that cute twitch thing again
More! Make her beg!!
The producer laughs, “Alright, alright, you thirsty bastards. Chat is very vocal tonight. They want a closer look.” He gestures with two tentacles toward the hovering camera drones. One immediately swoops in, tightening the frame on Batsugun’s chest, especially the black pasties X’s.
Batsugun notices the zoom instantly. She lets out a throaty chuckle, her droopy ears flicking as she arches her back just a little more, deliberately pushing her chest toward the lens, “You all want to see me closer? How greedy.”
Stronger shock rips through the collar without warning.
Crack!
Her entire body seizes. A guttural cry escapes her throat as electricity surges down her spine. Her bat wings snap open wide, trembling violently, while her cloven hooves kick against the metal table with a loud clack.
She writhes hard, hips lifting off the surface, tail lashing wildly from side to side. The black latex miniskirt rides up and exposes more of her smoky white underbelly fur.
For several long seconds she twists and gasps, teeth bared. Her eyes squeeze shut in agony and ecstasy, tangled into one. When the current finally dies, she collapses back onto the table, chest heaving, a thin string of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her nipples visibly hard beneath the pasties.
Batsugun is panting heavily now, but her smile creeps back onto her muzzle almost immediately. Her voice comes out breathy, “That one went straight to my wings. Felt like my bones were burning.” She licks her sharp teeth teasingly, “You happy now, chat? I’m all nice and warmed up.”
Chat goes feral:
PAINSLUT PAINSLUT
Look at her tail go
Do it again she’s soaked for this
lmao she’s actually enjoying it
Harder! Break her!
Sponsor needs to make that collar stronger
The octopus demon grins several tentacles waving excitedly, “You heard them, Batsugun. They’re calling you their favorite painslut tonight. Viewer count just broke six figures. Peak engagement, baby!”
Batsugun’s bat wings are still quivering as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. The motion makes her exposed underbelly flex, drawing even more eyes to the glistening trail between her legs. Her long curly bangs stick slightly to the sweat-damp fur on her forehead.
“Painslut, huh?” She tilts her head, giving the camera a provocative look. One clawed hand drifts up to lightly touch the shock collar, tracing the metal with a fingertip, “If you want me to beg so early, darlings, you’re going to have to earn it. Make it hurt pretty this time.”
Batsugun spreads her legs just a fraction on the table, hooves planted firmly, tail curling around one thigh. The movement displays her slick folds to the zooming cameras. Her voice turns velvety smooth despite the shock, “Come on, I can take it.”Â
Her mind spins. She can feel every eye on her. The old days feel like child’s play compared to this.
The octopus demon says, “You’re spoiling them tonight.”
Chat roars again:
GG BATSU!
Shock her tits next
She’s such a whore for the camera
Do the exploratory shit already I’m hard
Auugh more pain more pain more pain
Look how wet she is holy fuck
The octopus demon’s tentacles dance with excitement as he rolls a sleek metal tray of instruments closer to the examination table. The studio lights gleam off scalpels, retractors, and glistening hooks.
Batsugun lays on her back. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly from the earlier shocks. The heavy shock collar sits quiet for now, but her black latex miniskirt has been pushed up to her waist, leaving her smoky white underbelly fully exposed.
“Alright, degenerates,” the octopus demon announces. “Incision time. No anaesthetic tonight! You all voted for the real thing. Let’s see what our star is made of on the inside.”
Batsugun blinks. She tries to keep her smile, but it has grown strained. Her long curly bangs are damp with sweat. Her bat wings lay limp and half-spread beneath her.
Chat detonates:
ZOOM IN ON THE CUT
Incision incision incision
Show us everything
This is gunna b good
Her belly is so soft looking
DO IT DO IT DO IT
bellaaaay
The producer is clearly thrilled by the spike in chat activity, “You heard them, chat wants the close-up. Cameras, zoom in tight.”
Two camera drones swoop in obediently. One camera frames her underbelly from above, while the other slides in for an extreme close shot.
The octopus demon selects a long and wicked scalpel with one tentacle. Several others pin Batsugun’s arms and legs down against the cold metal table. A final pair of tentacles part the fur on her lower abdomen, exposing the pale skin beneath.
“Deep breath, darling,” he murmured, almost tenderly.
The blade sinks in. Batsugun’s body jerks violently the moment the steel parts her flesh. Scream tears from her throat. No anaesthetic. Cold metal slices through muscle and membrane. Her cloven hooves kick uselessly against the table as her back tries to arch. Her tail thrash even more wildly.
“Nngh—AAHH!!” The sound comes out broken, hoarse, and desperate. Her teeth clenched tight, crimson eyes wide with shock and pain.
The octopus demon works with all eight appendages in professional coordination. Two hold the incision open with retractors, others delicately peel back layers of tissue, while one carefully navigates deeper. Blood wells up dark and glossy under the studio lighting.
He mentions their sponsor again, "Look at how clean that incision is, thanks to the Tenebris X-23 scalpel. Use code BATSU10 for a discount on your own medical kits!"
Batsugun’s breathing turns into shallow, pained pants. Her droopy ears flatten against her head. She groans again, a low animalistic sound that exudes no sensuality.
Chat is losing its mind:
HOLY SHIT
Look at that color
TSKR
Her eyes are so gorgeous
This is peak
Donations pouring in!!
A bright notification pings across the screen. The octopus demon smiles as he glances at the donation ticker. “Thank you for the donation!” he called out cheerfully, waving one tentacle at the camera. “Big thanks to SpleenLover666! That’s going straight into the premium equipment fund. You’re helping make nights like this even better!”
He reaches deeper with two slick tentacles, carefully working around organs. There is no gentleness left in the motion. The tentacles squelch wetly as they push aside slippery loops of intestine. Batsugun’s body reacted instantly. Violent, full-body shudder rips through her as fresh, white-hot pain explodes deep inside her torso.
Batsugun chokes out. Her smoky white underbelly convulses visibly around the gaping wound.
Then, with a triumphant flourish, the octopus demon lifts something wet and glistening into the light—a dark and slick organ the size of a fist.
“Look at this beauty!” the producer announces proudly, holding Batsugun’s spleen up toward the closest camera. The organ pulses weakly in his grasp, still connected by thin strands of tissue. Blood drips onto the table. “Fresh from our morning star herself. Never been seen on stream before. Chat, you’re getting the exclusive tour tonight.”
Batsugun’s head lolls to the side. Her eyes are dazed, the glow dimmed by pain and blood loss. She can hear the donation alerts chiming nonstop now. Clink! Clink Clink!Â
The viewer count has shattered every previous record. So many eyes. Thousands upon thousands, all locked on her. On her body. On her insides.
As a former brothel worker, countless clients have seen every inch of her outside—every private part, every curve, every humiliating pose. And this was different. No one has ever seen her spleen. No one has ever watched her organs gleam under studio lights while she lies open and trembling.
A strange pride blooms amidst the agony. She wants it to end. She wants the burning, the sickening pull of exposed tissue, to just stop. The pain is no longer exciting. Even tiny movement of the producer’s tentacles sends anguish ripping through her abdomen.
But the chat… the donations… the hungry roar of thousands of voices all focused on her.
She groaned again, deep and miserable, hooves twitching weakly, “S-stop… please… it burns… everything hurts so much…” Her voice cracks, no longer the smooth sensual purr. Tears prick at the corner of her visible eye, but she doesn’t let them fall. No. She can’t let them see.
Still, beneath the pain, that old hunger stirs.
They’re all watching me. Only me. Breaking records because of me.
Her tail gives one feeble twitch. Bat wings flare wide and trembling uncontrollably against the blood-slick table. Sharp red teeth are bared in a grimace. Every breath sends fresh waves of burning pain radiating through her torn muscles and exposed organs. The open wound throbs violently, flesh twitching with every heartbeat
The octopus demon carefully set the spleen back into place for now, tentacles already moving to explore further, “Don’t tap out yet, Batsugun. Chat is eating this up. We’re making history tonight.”
Batsugun’s chest heaves with another pained groan. She wants it to stop. Gods below, she wants the burning to end, but the endless stream of donation pings and the roaring chat keeps her anchored.
Even as her body screams in protest, a tiny, delirious part of her whispers: eyes on me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: You have such interesting characters!! I really do hope I was able to do them and their dynamic justice <3 I had a lot of fun with this, and, again, I really do hope it isn't too OOC ^^
The suite is warm in a way that never quite feels natural, heat pressing into every surface until the air itself seems heavy with it, perfumed faintly with something expensive and cloying. Gold catches the low lamplight from every angle—fixtures, frames, the table he's setting—and he knows it'll make his eyes tired of he looks too long. He keeps his gaze down, focusing instead on the careful placement of glasses and silverware.
The outfit certainly doesn't help. It never does.
Silk clings to him uncomfortably, pale and soft and far too fine for someone like him, the sleeves cut to expose his arms, the collar sitting high against his throat. It's beautiful. That is the point. Midas likes beautiful things arranged just so, and Victor has long since learned that he is no exception. The fabric rustled and whispers with every slight movement; a constant reminder of how out-of-place he feels in it, how easily it could be soiled, ruined.
How easily he could be replaced.
He reaches for the decanter and nearly misses it. The motion stuttered halfway through, his fingers closing a fraction too late around the glass. It slips, tips, and he catches it again just before it can fall, breath catching sharply in his chest. For a moment he stands frozen, heart racing, waiting for a reprimand… but it never comes.
Behind him, Midas hasn't moved.
Victor forces himself to continue, slower now. The room tilts faintly, the edges of his vision softening, warping. He feels like he's drifting just out of his own body.
It had been like this all day—no, longer than that. So long, in fact, that he has allowed himself to grow used to it. A dull weakness settling into his limbs, a strange hollowness that no amount of food can touch, accompanied by a mounting feeling of sickness that is growing worse, and worse, and worse. He had tried to ignore it, to work through it the way he always did, but it is getting much harder to pretend it isn't there.
Shakily, he sets the glass down. The table swims out of focus, intricate shapes and metallic lusters blurring as one. Victor swallows, steadying himself with one hand braced lightly against the polished surface. His pulse throbs in his throat, quick and deafeningly loud in his ears, and beneath, he feels his body twisting and writhing and aching. His eyes droop, his mouth waters, his hands tremble, his thoughts scatter into something thin and frantic.
He needs…. he doesn't know what he needs. He just feels so—
"Continue."
Midas's voice cuts cleanly through the haze.
Victor straightens immediately. "Yes." The word comes out softer than he intended. He clears his throat, tries again, but the second attempt catches halfway, dissolving into a breath instead. He shakes his head and reaches for the last place setting, focusing on the simple task, on the repetition, on anything that might anchor him back into himself.
But of course, the silverware slips from his flimsy grasp. It clatters to the floor with a sharp ringing sound, loud enough to make Victor flinch.
He bends down quickly to retrieve it, but the motion sends the room lurching sideways. His vision narrows, black creeping in at the edges, and he has to catch himself on the table again just to stay upright. The silk against his body shifts against his sweat-soaked skin, cool and smooth, and for a disorienting second he was aware of everything at once: the heat, the light, the weight of Midas's attention, the unbearable weakness in his own body.
"I'm—" His voice fails him. He tries again, forcing the words out ungracefully. "I'm fine."
It's not convincing. He knows it's not convincing.
He tries to stand fully, to finish what he started, but his legs refuse to cooperate. The strength simply isn't there, for whatever bizarre, infuriating reason. The sick feeling inside him twists tighter, until it begins to feel painful, and the world dips violently beneath him.
The last thing he manages is a half-step backward, then his knees give out.
The impact isn't hard, not really, but it jars through him all the same, knocking what little breath he had left from his lungs. He catches himself on his hands and stays there for a moment, head bowed, waiting for the dizziness to pass… but it never does.
The room spins slowly around him, gold blurring into gold, light into light, until he can't tell where anything begins or ends . His body felt wrong, distant, like it didn't quite belong to him anymore.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears footsteps approaching. He can't bring himself to look up.
Suddenly, fingers brush against his chin, cool and firm, lifting his face away from the floor. He winces at the sudden movement, eyes squeezing shut against the brightness, but the hand on his jaw holds firm, forcing him to meet Midas' gaze.
For a moment, neither of them speak. Midas studies him with a quiet, assessing focus, as though Victor is a fragile possession, set out before him in a damaged state. There is no anger in it, no frustration, just a kind of distant consideration.
"You're unwell," he says at last.
Victor shakes his head weakly, the motion small in Midas' grasp. "I can—" He swallows. "I can finish."
"No." The refusal is soft, but absolute.
Midas' thumb shifts slightly against Victor's jaw, tilting his head just enough to expose the line of his throat. For a second, Victor's breath quickens, his chest tightening with an unplaceable mix of emotion, but whatever he braces for never comes.
Instead, the pressure at his chin eases.
Midas releases him only enough to move, one hand slipping away with deliberate calm. There's no hurry in it. His fingers dip briefly into his coat, the motion smooth and practiced, and when his hand returns there is a small blade caught between his slender fingers, intricate metalwork gleaming in the light.
The blade turns once, almost absent-mindedly, then Midas presses it to the inside of his own wrist. With one swift cut, the blade splits through the skin, and disappears back into his coat just as fast, before Victor even understands what had happened. Before his vision can focus on it, the smell blooms into the air around him, rich, metallic, and unmistakable: fresh blood, ark against pale skin, welling slowly along the line of the incision, gathering at the curve of Midas' wrist before slipping down.
"Drink," Midas says. "It will help."
The words settle into him with an odd certainty. Help. The hollow ache inside tightens sharply,something deep and desperate rising in response, overriding the faint, distant flicker of hesitation.
He doesn't recall ever deciding to lean forward, only that suddenly he is there, lips brushing against Midas's wrist, before warmth floods his throat.
It pours into his mouth like sweet honey, and the effect is near-instantaneous. The dizziness begins to recede, the spinning slows, the unbearable weakness in his limbs easing as something like strength is fed back into him. The clawing, stabbing, clenching, nauseating feeling in his gut is soothed, at long last.
Victor exhales shakily against Midas' skin, fingers curling weakly in the fabric at his knees as he drinks. Above him, Midas remains still and silent, holding him firmly with a hand at the back of his head. The steady pressure grounds Victor in a way that feels comforting. Too comforting, if he were to be honest with himself—which, right now, he is unwilling to do.
Then, abruptly, the lifeline is withdrawn. He gasps, lurching forward without meaning to. Blood drips down his face, warm and sticky, and he realizes it's staining the too-pretty outfit he wears, the silk darkening under the crimson.
"Do you feel better?" Midas' voice rings out above all else.
Victor watches as red seeps into the fabric, the color bleeding and spreading like wet ink on a page. Somewhere deep in his chest, he finds the tiniest flicker of relief. He nods. "Yes, Midas."
