#been thinking lately about a secondary whumper and whumpee being placed in their care#not true care. not intended to be. something like a handler being assigned a living weapon or whumper's friend being called in to 'pet-sit'#and they Do Not Want The Responsibility and think they're gonna be bored#until ☝️ they casually get touchy with whumpee - idly playing with their hair and stuff#and whumpee (normally very stoic and/or putting up a performance) reacts uncontrollably#leaning into the touch. chasing it#temporary whumper is like 👀 and ends up cupping their face experimentally#and whumpee doesn't obviously breaks character but a tear rolls from their eye#and whumper is like 👀👀. oh this is gonna be more fun than i thought.#thumbs away the tear and proceeds to ruthlessly manipulate whumpee 🫠
can i ask about "kiss"!!!!! :D - @whumpawaydarling
“Don’t be mean.” Alastair shoves him — more roughly than he had intended to. He doesn’t know where he finds the sudden strength. Atlas falls back onto the bed, hard, gasping slightly by the shock of it. It’s quick for his shock to morph into something else, something dangerous, a breathy laugh escaping past his lips. This was just what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Alastair feels sick.
Atlas gazes up into his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hair cascades down his shoulders, coiling around the crook of his neck, past his collarbone. His bangs fall in front of his eyes, tickling at his skin. “It doesn’t have to be mean.” He says, voice low. The little hairs on the back of Alastair’s neck stand pin straight. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
He nudges at his chest with his knee, toeing between his thighs, spreading them open. His heel digs into his crotch, to the warmth spreading there. He smirks, cocking his head to the side. He’s whispering now, toying with him. “Is that a no?”
the original tweet being translated from russian may provide some helpful context as to why OP is fantasizing about being able to be publicly affectionate with a partner. sex is an important part of lesbianism for many people (including myself!); i also think approaching harmless posts like this with sympathy for the context is more thoughtful and considerate than jumping to a snappy comeback. my heart aches for OP and i hope they are able to find happiness in an often unkind world.
I do not want / to inspire pity so much as revulsion, I want people to despair / like I despaired when I couldn’t run, could barely walk, each stair / a newly unwrapped razor against muscle -> Actually we should say that Cassandra screams outside of language. The scream is to gash the fabric of normal life, to rend it into strange tatters. -> Right here this pain this cut this chill this bruise this pull this fracture this shiver this ache this strain this stinging this burn this scar this fever this tremble this split this blister this lump this weep this pounding this crack this scrape this chip this sprain this flutter this stitch this rasp this damage this flush this break this swell this catch this murmur this weakness this failure this tremor this clot right here I feel it. I speak it. -> Scream when your life is threatened. Form a noise so true that your tormentor recognizes it as a voice that lives in his own throat. -> Once, when I was in a glut of pain, / I said to a friend, / Just take an hour and imagine / this is happening to you. / She looked straight ahead / and said, I don’t want to.
Maria Gray, “[Years of pelvic floor therapy]”
Selby Wynn Schwartz, After Sappho
Amy Meissner, “The Acquisition of Language”
Jenny Holzer, “Inflammatory Essays,” [no title] / “Shriek when the pain hits...”
Ellen Bass, “Experiment in Empathy”
caretaker helping whumpee shower after an assault. especially a violent one, where there's so much evidence on whumpee's skin. the vulnerability of having their clothes off, of letting caretaker help them wash, fingers brushing over bruises while blood and other fluids rinse down the drain. it's terrifying for both of them because neither have really processed what's going on, and there's not really anywhere to find much comfort in the situation because whumpee can only be certain caretaker won't try to hurt them too when it's all over.
that type of scene, whumpee being helped by caretaker to shower or bathe after being raped, is one of my top favourite hyper-specific scenes in whump. by FAR. there's so many things i love about it.
the touching, the bare skin on skin contact, especially so close to when that kind of touching was used to horrifically violate them. the feeling of hands on their body, flinching, feeling nauseated and scared, but then remembering who this is, and that they're safe. that someone is caring for them. and wanting to press into the touch. it's like their whole body is an exposed nerve and this... this gentle, caring touch is somehow reaching that wound in their heart, through the trembling vulnerability of their bare skin. but they're still not totally sure, you know? their body keeps... forgetting where they are. they can't hold onto any of it.
the trust, the closeness. the rawness of what's happened, of what caretaker is seeing, the rawness of the way they're touching, caring for whumpee. washing away fluids... that always gets me. caretaker kneeling beside whumpee while whumpee stands, steadying themself with a hand on caretaker's shoulder. gently brushing hands over bruised, abused thighs, making sure nothing of whumper is left.
whumpee is too out of it even for shame. all that's there is fear and the moments that the safety, the care can break through.
(Content: nsfwhump, past abuse, implied C-PTSD, hypersexual whumpee, living weapon whumpee, whumper/whumpee, dubcon - questionable BDSM practices, bondage, whipping, semi-explicit NSFW, references to substance abuse)
What would make it better?
What would make it better?
Is he angry enough to kill me?
With the collar off, Delta could feel all kinds of things. Learning to live without it had been the hard part. Now, if he stayed very still and paid close attention, he could focus enough to feel his own blood pulsing through his veins. Without even trying very hard, from a good distance away, he could feel Paris’s heart beating out of his chest.
These were old woods. Sequoias. If you looked closely enough, you could see where the shrapnel had split the bark all those years ago. You could imagine the bodies buried beneath the earth. It was such an apocalyptic thought. Delta’s hair brushed against the ground.
“How.” Delta’s chest filled slowly, and then deflated. His breath was forming soft clouds of fog in front of his face. “How do you want to do this?”
Paris was dressed warmly, in protective layers. Someone else’s coat. Someone else was taking care of him. He wouldn’t have dressed himself with quite so much consideration. He never gave his own health that much thought.
All his thought was occupied with something else now, anyway. He kept his vision on the forest floor, at the point of a stick. He was drawing symbols in the snow.
“I can just go when you tell me to,” Paris offered.
“You mean it?” Delta eyed him. “I won’t have to provoke you this time?”
“Do you want to provoke me?”
Delta shrugged, twirling his long hair between his fingers. He nodded. His bottom lip was raw from how he’d been gnawing at it, partly illuminated with that cerulean underglow of his skin.
“It didn’t take much before,” Delta admitted. “You were so easy to irritate. I didn’t even have to try. I mean, I wasn’t trying.”
“…I like to think it’s harder now,” Paris said. “Being off the pills helped a lot with that. I mean, you can judge for yourself, but I can’t remember getting…angry like that in a while. And I wouldn’t want to do that with you either way.”
“Alright.” That was agreeable enough. It was sensible. But it was incongruent with Delta’s image of him, and so it made the scene harder to imagine.
He sat up, looking at Paris cautiously. “But. For the scene. If we’re pretending. If you want to do this. Would you feel better if I gave you a reason?”
“I’m… not sure. No, forget it. I don’t need a reason.” Paris had barely hesitated.
Of course you don’t.
“Whatever you want, then,” Delta agreed.
“What about you?” Paris asked. “Are you going to fight back?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he hummed. He saw the concern pass over Paris’s expression, and he corrected himself.
“You’ll know if I want you to stop,” Delta reassured him. His eyes glowed, exemplary. “If I want it to stop, it won’t be much of a fight.”
“I was more worried about you going limp,” Paris said.
He hadn’t been worried about it before. But Delta took it as a good sign here, if a mildly humiliating factor to consider. That was a reasonable thing to worry about.
“lI’ll try not to,” he resolved. “You can ask if you get nervous. If I stop responding, you should stop.”
“Obviously.”
Delta nodded. They seemed to be mostly on the same page. Paris was more worried about this going wrong than he was. But Delta had already taken much worse from him, without any ability to tap out if he hit his limit. As far as he was concerned, this was going to be much safer than virtually any other time Paris had hit him.
The safest thing would be not to do it at all. But where was the fun in that? What about what he wanted?
“Alright,” Delta undid the braid from his hair, letting it fall about his shoulders, down his back. It was jet black, and he knew how striking it looked against the snow. His hand moved to the zipper of his jacket, and he removed the outer layers of protection. “I’m ready when you are.”
~
The attack was not abrupt; Paris resisted scaring him with it, which was probably for the best. Delta didn’t lose his bearings at any point. But it was forceful, and quite direct once it began.
Paris was pinning him down in the snow, straddling his waist. It was absolutely effortless, even now. He couldn’t have physically resisted if he wanted to. Delta had made zero efforts to gain strength after his rescue. If anything, he kept himself weak on purpose. It was just as easy for Paris to shift both wrists in the trap of one hand, while the other gripped at Delta’s jaw. Holding his head in place. Inspecting him.
He saw the slap coming — not even visually, but from anticipation of his body, from years of guessing attack patterns — but it still stung. Delta gave a muted whimper, did not even get out a “What was that for?” — any answer hardly mattered, but it came soon enough.
“You’re- going to do what I tell you,” Paris stumbled over his words there for a second. In a real beating, this was where’d he would have been scolding him. But without even an imagined offense to punish, he was struggling to justify himself. Still, Delta was compliant, and did not hold this against him. “You understand?”
Delta nodded, felt himself growing hard. Paris probably felt it too, from how he was positioned, but had the grace not to break character yet.
Another slap, and Delta corrected himself: “Yes, sir.”
The snow could’ve been melting around them for all the heat they were generating.
Paris produced the handcuffs, showing them off briefly: military grade, imperial gold. Delta had seen thousands like them before; it wasn’t even his first time seeing this pair. They’d been Kali’s. But they were going on him now. Right now, before he could even fight.
The pressure eased off his waist and reappeared at his shoulder as he was turned over, forced face down into the snow. One golden manacle went around his right wrist. His left wrist remained pinned in place as his right arm was forced to bend behind his back. Then, both arms pinned against the small of his own back, the cuffs locking in place. Pressure on his waist again, on his thighs.
In an act that was surely overkill, Delta felt a second pair of cuffs being chained to his ankles as well.
There was a hand squeezing the back of his neck, forcing his face even further into the snow. The other gripped at the sharp handle of his hipbone.
“You secure?” Paris asked. His voice was mock politeness. “Try and get away. I dare you.”
Delta almost shook his head. His inclination was never to resist authority. If this was for real, he realized with a start, he didn’t think he could bring himself to fight. This was the furthest thing from real. Paris was fumbling with the waistline of Delta’s pants; he could feel the start of an erection poking into him. Delta twisted a little, a pretty weak attempt to move, and he didn’t know who he was indulging more with it. The grip on his hips was too steady for him to get far, and he got a few sharp swats to the ass for the trouble. Paris had managed to get Delta’s pants down by his mid-thigh, and he wondered if he was really just going to fuck him then and there. He could feel Paris more clearly behind him; he was definitely ready to, if he so chose.
But the grip by his neck tightened instead, and Delta stayed immobile.
“You understand who’s in charge now?” he asked. Delta nodded, mutely. He got swatted in the thigh again, harder this time. “Is it you?”
“No, sir,” Delta muttered, muffled into the snow.
The grip relaxed in all areas. Guilt settled on the surface for a second; sometimes you could cut through Paris’s guilt with a knife. He wasn’t fucking him on the spot, it seemed, so Delta worried he might not want to fuck him at all.
“Up,” Paris said. “March.”
Then, they had spent all that time getting out here.
Delta stumbled to his feet, and stumbled even further on the forced march up to the house. It’d have been hard even without the cuffs, but as it was it was nearly impossible. Paris kept a grip on his upper arm; it was the only thing that stopped him from outright falling.
In the house, he was made to kneel. He hardly needed to be told to do so, it came as natural as anything. Down. Paris fastened the cuffs chains down to a loop in the floor, making sure he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to.
The position was immediately exposing. It kept his wrists bound behind him, and taut enough to put pressure on his shoulders. It stretched the muscles out, and was painful in a good way. But it removed his ability to even curl inwards if he wanted to, the ability to shield himself, the ability to even scramble back. Not that he would. Delta half-expected Paris to kick him, but he didn’t. It seemed like he wasn’t going for cheap shots anymore.
He gripped Delta by the hair instead, tight but not yet painful. Enough to bend him how he wanted, still.
“Stay.”
This was a command he could obey. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice either way. Delta butted his head gently into Paris’s hand as it was pulling away. He felt the pulse for a second, as strong as ever.
No more touch, then. Just the gradual numbing of his legs tucked beneath him. No sight except for the floorboards. Delta kept his head bowed just like he used to. He listened for movement. He worried Paris had just left the room, maybe even left the building. Everyone was always moving all the time. Everyone was always leaving things behind. But where was anyone going?
What could you be doing that’s more important than me right now?
Nothing, obviously. The show was transparent. The waiting was the point. Delta kept his head bowed and took it.
Waiting for Paris to take pity on him was always a stupid game. Back when he’d had sense, he knew better than to depend on it.
But he did come back, eventually. Paris bent down to the ground in front of him. He slid Delta’s jacket away from his shoulders, bunching the fabric down by his chained wrists. Delta initially followed the movement with his eyes, until Paris gripped his chin, tilting his gaze up to meet his. This made Delta recoil, just a little bit. There was an analytic detachment in that gaze, an almost performative contempt.
His words didn’t match it: “Are you still good?” Paris asked quietly. “Is this what you wanted?”
Delta nodded, as best he could with the grip on his face.
“Good.” Paris patted his cheek a little sharply, with overt condescension. It was still sore from where it’d been slapped earlier.
His hands were cold. They moved by Delta’s waist abruptly, and he jumped from the shock of it against his warm skin. He knew his instinct would have been to push them away had he been able. The chains rattled a little from how he’d jerked in place. Paris kept going. He traced his fingers along the sensitive gills by Delta’s ribs, and Delta made a soft, nervous whine in response. The touch receded, but the cold didn’t. Paris slid Delta’s shirt up and over his head.
It was loose enough to make the notion relatively smooth, though they still bunched up by the handcuffs. It didn’t matter. His torso and arms were still bare, which was the important part. Delta had definitely grown more sensitive to being exposed like this the longer he’d been out of captivity. Electricity prickled against his skin. Paris was drawing out every part of this process, which wasn’t like him. He allowed Delta to absorb the feeling before moving on.
“Ropes go on next. Be good.”
He would be. He stayed still as Paris undid one of his manacles. The left wrist stayed chained to the floor. Thought the right wrist was unbound, it was not any more free. Paris kept a tight grip on it. He slid the fabric off of it, and immediately replaced it with rope. The rope encircled Delta’s wrist, and then looped up to a hook in the ceiling. Delta remained kneeling. The rope was not so taut as to cause discomfort, but it did force his arm up over his head. This was somehow more vulnerable than having them just bound behind him. The process was repeated on the left wrist, and then the two of them were tied to one another as well.
The slack in the rope disappeared; it tightened enough to force him upright. Delta rose clumsily, needing to be steadied before he could stand on his own. Paris was gentler than he needed to be. Delta still stopped breathing as his pants and boxers were removed, exposing the rest of his body to the cold air.
It was just the shock. He’d learned to be comfortable in his body, but he felt it betrayed him. Neither his body nor his brain had ever really endeavored to protect him. It felt like a wild thing. He was glad for the restraints. With the way it’d been acting lately, he didn’t know what he might’ve done otherwise. He pulled at the rope, as an experiment. Because he could. It didn’t afford him an inch. A new length was already being tied around his ankles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paris folding his clothes before putting them aside, which was an almost sweet detail. Delta focused most of his energy on breathing normally. This situation was out of his control already. That was what he’d wanted. Wasn’t that what he wanted? The fear felt odd and hollow in his chest. Warmth was spreading upwards into his body. He visualized the temperature gradient in his head, the differential equations that made up the heat map. It brought him peace. He was very close to blissed out, if he let himself be.
Footsteps traced behind him. His hair was gathered up from his shoulders and pulled firmly back. Delta exhaled in acknowledgment.
“I have your attention?” Paris still had showmanship, at the end of the day. Delta nodded slightly, trying not to put more pressure on his hair.
“Mm,” he affirmed. He could already feel the strain in his arms. He was shaking, slightly.
“Delta,” Paris said. “Do you think you deserve this?”
It went straight through him. He got lightheaded, and confused.
“For…for what?” He managed around the haze.
“You know what,” Paris said.
He was tracing his fingers over the vertebrae of Delta’s spine. It was a vivid sensation, not wholly unpleasant. Delta did know, somewhat. He had a guess.
“It’s up to you.”
The flogger came down hard against his shoulderblade, any gentle touch retreating. Then again, on the other side.
“It’s up to you, sir.” Paris hissed. “And it’s happening anyway. The least you could do is to talk to me about it.”
He was serious. He really wanted him to stay present. Delta reeled from the shock of having been struck before he could do anything else.
“Um,” he stammered. “I…don’t know. I know I would’ve been punished for it, if anyone knew. But not like this. You wouldn’t have whipped me for it, would you? This wouldn’t have been enough for you...”
Delta murmured towards the end, and turned his head to bump against his own tense shoulder for comfort.
He flinched as the flogger came down again, lower, but he didn’t make a sound. He only let himself whimper when it came down five more times after that.
Paris’s hand soothed over the welts, briefly.
Delta elaborated: “I would’ve been hung.”
Tracing the shoulderblade, Paris agreed: “Yeah, probably.”
“Do you think I deserve it?” Delta asked. “Sir.”
“You want the hot answer, or the real answer?”
“Hot.”
He squeaked quietly as the flogger struck him again and again, just barely falling into a rhythm before Paris paused again.
“I think you deserve something for the fucking attitude you’ve had lately.”
The rhythm picked up again.
Delta suspected that might’ve been his real answer, too. Attitude was one thing. A difference in affect was something they could both handle. They was no need to drive the blade in deeper than that.
Paris could if he wanted to. Delta had practically handed him the weapon.
Further down, Delta was blooming like a blue flame. His anatomy acted like a half-conscious thing, a separate animal. He tried to generate friction between his legs to stimulate it. In an act so bold and intrusive that he genuinely had not expected it, Paris dug his nails into Delta’s thigh, urging them apart.
“Hey.” He scolded. “Not yet. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this.”
The fucking liar. Delta could almost hear the smile in his voice. But for his part, he felt totally humorless. It was all overwhelm, instead. Just need.
“Please,” Delta begged. “Please. I can’t- I want-“
Paris’s hand moved from his thigh to his bulge, and he realized he didn’t want that either.
“Not like this. Please, sir. Let me down, I don’t-“
He was freaking out. Something about the rope, about not even being able to see him-
Paris’s hand retreated entirely. He made a shushing sound, like trying to calm a frightened animal.
“Hey, hey. Use your words. What’s wrong?”
It worked. The retreat of stimulus helped to calm him down some, head clear enough to put a name to what had happened. As conscious thought caught up with the unconscious discomfort, Delta blushed, biting hard into his cheek. He said: “…I don’t want you to use your hand.”
Paris huffed lightly, a little amused. Less panicked than he’d been a moment ago. In sync again.
“What do you want, then?” Paris prodded him with the end of the flogger.
Delta tried to rub his thighs together again, and got them struck with the leather as a response. He whined. He’d thought he was being discreet about it.
“I want you to fuck me,” he admitted, still at a whine. “Please. For real, not like you’re just doing a chore. …Like you’re just tending a machine.”
His shoulders hurt. Paris was hitting lighter than Delta knew he was capable of, but it’d been consistent enough that he felt real tenderness to the abused skin.
The flogger struck out at his ass, which felt more like a humiliation than anything else. Delta squeaked lightly.
“We’re still at the punishment part,” Paris reminded him sharply. “Give me one good reason I should do anything you want right now. You’re not in any position to be making demands.”
He brushed his fingers through Delta’s hair, gathering it away from his face.
“Please?” Delta begged. It took so much effort not to disobey, not to just call the whole thing off to attend to the heat on his own. He was that needy. But he didn’t want to ruin this. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it worth it.”
He could. He was good enough at it. He was pleading very sincerely.
Paris tsked. Delta recognized the sensation through his nerve ends. He felt the jointed fingers absently working small braids into his hair. It made him docile in return. Something as soft and deep as a purr resonated in his throat.
“How about this?” Paris’s voice was harsher, atavistic. He matched his own tenor. Could he just turn it on like a switch? “You take the rest of it — the twenty lashes I intended to give you — and you take it without squirming or trying to get yourself off before you’re allowed to. Then, I’ll give you the chance to apologize, and to make it up to me…”
Why had he ever acted like this was hard for him? Cruelty came so easy to him. He slipped right back into it, like a pair of boots he’d broken in. Everyone knew what he was capable of.
“…If you do all of that well, and I’m satisfied after…I will consider fucking you the way you want me to. Otherwise, you’re not cumming at all, and you can just stay chained up here by yourself until it’s all out of your system.”
He was definitely smirking. Delta could tell without even looking at him. He inhaled shakily in response.
“I can do that,” he agreed.
A soft huff. Paris kissed his shoulder. “Atta boy,” he muttered in familiar tones. Not for the first time. But the first in a while.
“Count.”
~
Twenty was nothing. The surprising thing was that he even wanted to hear his voice. Delta’s pain tolerance was not what it used to be, but his composure held steady enough throughout. Heat collected at the surface of his skin, about the ridge of his spine. The difficulty thing was to resist what he was physically capable of, to resist giving into temptation — that was what he was unpracticed in. For whole years, anything like it pushed far below the threshold of detection. With all the power he had now, he could’ve taken anything he wanted.
…Paris didn’t even have to want it, really. The controls were precise enough. Maybe even enough to simulate blood flow. Definitely enough to trap his jaw shut.
Twenty. A desperate, involuntary whine escaped him, more from impatience than pain. Paris soothed it over, dropping the implement.
“Shh, shh. Easy. Good job. You did good.”
Twenty plus hits, taken without complaint, though he’d later realize No complaining had not even been a stipulation. It was probably better for his nervous system if he didn’t keep quiet anymore.
Paris’s hands were already up by the ropes that held Delta’s wrists.
“Go wait by the bed.”
The release of tension almost dropped him flat to the floor, but Paris caught him before he could collapse. He was unbound from the fixtures, but his wrists and ankles weren’t untied from one another. More than that, Paris took the time to rechain his wrists behind him, rather than in front. He took this new condition without protest and shuffled over to the bed. He dropped to a kneel beside it, on instinct. The need still twisted inside him. He bit down the urge to bite the mattress, rather than the mattress itself. Little electric shocks.
Paris came down to sit soon enough. Inside, he’d already stripped a lot of his winter clothes off, so that only a t-shirt and the lightest layer of his sweatpants remained. He wasn’t treating this with the formality it deserved, or for the authority he was supposed to be projecting, but when had he ever? It didn’t matter. Paris prodded him with the end of his boot.
“You’re gonna make it up to me? Yeah?”
Delta’s breathing had returned to something close to normal. He took deep, slow breaths. He needed to. He couldn’t resist: “Are you going to let me?”
Paris twisted his fist into Delta’s hair, yanking it to draw him closer: “What did we just say about the fucking attitude?”
“What attitude?” Delta looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. “I want to help.”
Despite the obvious smarminess of it, for one reason or another it worked to disarm him. The grip in his hair relaxed until it was just petting.
“Lucky you’re cute,” Paris muttered. “You need help, don’t you?”
He did, on a technical level. He watched the pink blush spread along Paris’s face as he untied the knot of his waistband. He was always more shy in the flesh than he was in any of Delta’s fantasies.
There was a healthy hesitation. Quieter, he added: “Just, like, shock me if you need to stop. No biting.”
“Yes, sir.” Delta blushed in return. He watched Paris undress himself. It was a somewhat unpracticed motion. Delta wondered if he was just used to other people doing it for him.
Then, Delta had done it for him. Even back then. He remembered the late nights aboard the quiet ship. In a nervous heat, Paris had soaked through the thin under layers of his clothing. When he’d been sick or feverish, the clothes hadn’t allowed his skin to breathe. When he was too drunk or too injured, the number of buttons just proved too much for him. Delta had picked up the slack for him. He’d been so willing to. He was so, so willing to now.
Without self consciousness, he opened his mouth, extending his tongue. It triggered a quick sequence of memories. He avoided all but the good ones, the ones after the rescue. When he’d wanted it. He tried to focus on technique instead. He pulled his lip in over his sharp teeth to keep from scraping the delicate skin.
Paris made a kind of strangled noise, entirely involuntary, and all Delta could think about was how sensitive he was. How easy this all could have been if he allowed himself to feel it. That was the mission tonight, then. The objective had changed at some point, become more than his own gratification. Paris deserved something nice for going along with it.
~
He was allowed on the bed.
He’d kept his end of the deal. It was absolutely remarkable the way he’d restrained himself. Without even being touched, he could’ve easily came just from providing the service. He probably could’ve come just from the whipping. The fact he’d endured both without release was nothing short of a miracle. He hoped Paris appreciated that.
“I hope you know how hard that was for me,” he decided to say aloud.
It almost killed the mood entirely; Paris’s expression read a momentary confusion, and of course he was thinking of other things he’d made hard for Delta.
“Mm,” he agreed. Paris was visibly tired. He’d already gotten off, and this was taking a toll on him in every dimension it could. Physically, emotionally, mentally. He was a very good sport.
Delta gave him a little shock for encouragement.
“Ow,” Paris flinched.
He wasn’t punished for it, or even scolded. Delta immediately felt bad. It did not do much to bring Paris’s energy up, and he suddenly remembered that Paris was actually disabled, and couldn’t really help it.
“Sorry,” he apologized, meaning it. His wrists were still chained behind him. Paris brushed the hair from his face for him, helped him to sit somewhat upright.
He kissed him. Delta leaned into, eager, touched. It was still so surreal this was happening at all. His sense, overwhelmingly, was that he shouldn’t have been doing this. Everyone had said the same, but it was odd to come to the same conclusion for himself. There was something strange about letting the fantasy and reality intersect like this. That didn’t mean that wasn’t enjoying it. He was enjoying it immensely. But above him, it felt the same as the moment he’d called for rescue. It felt the same as being held under the water of the bathtub. Things had changed because they had to. Nothing would ever be the same.
It was for the better. It had to be for the better.
“I love you,” Delta said quietly. The oxytocin was going straight to his head.
“Delta…” Paris said, a little chiding. A little pitying. He kissed him again, then retreated, moving down his body.
“I won’t make you beg for it. Just tell me what you want. I want it to be nice for you. You earned it.”
Delta nodded his agreement quietly, not trusting himself to speak. He felt pressure building up behind his eyes. If he wasn’t careful, the strength of his emotion in that moment could’ve blown the whole house apart. Maybe the whole planet.
When he came, he swore that somewhere overhead, he could hear stars exploding.
(Content: nsfwhump, past abuse, implied C-PTSD, hypersexual whumpee, living weapon whumpee, whumper/whumpee, dubcon - questionable BDSM practices, bondage, whipping, semi-explicit NSFW, references to substance abuse)
What would make it better?
What would make it better?
Is he angry enough to kill me?
With the collar off, Delta could feel all kinds of things. Learning to live without it had been the hard part. Now, if he stayed very still and paid close attention, he could focus enough to feel his own blood pulsing through his veins. Without even trying very hard, from a good distance away, he could feel Paris’s heart beating out of his chest.
These were old woods. Sequoias. If you looked closely enough, you could see where the shrapnel had split the bark all those years ago. You could imagine the bodies buried beneath the earth. It was such an apocalyptic thought. Delta’s hair brushed against the ground.
“How.” Delta’s chest filled slowly, and then deflated. His breath was forming soft clouds of fog in front of his face. “How do you want to do this?”
Paris was dressed warmly, in protective layers. Someone else’s coat. Someone else was taking care of him. He wouldn’t have dressed himself with quite so much consideration. He never gave his own health that much thought.
All his thought was occupied with something else now, anyway. He kept his vision on the forest floor, at the point of a stick. He was drawing symbols in the snow.
“I can just go when you tell me to,” Paris offered.
“You mean it?” Delta eyed him. “I won’t have to provoke you this time?”
“Do you want to provoke me?”
Delta shrugged, twirling his long hair between his fingers. He nodded. His bottom lip was raw from how he’d been gnawing at it, partly illuminated with that cerulean underglow of his skin.
“It didn’t take much before,” Delta admitted. “You were so easy to irritate. I didn’t even have to try. I mean, I wasn’t trying.”
“…I like to think it’s harder now,” Paris said. “Being off the pills helped a lot with that. I mean, you can judge for yourself, but I can’t remember getting…angry like that in a while. And I wouldn’t want to do that with you either way.”
“Alright.” That was agreeable enough. It was sensible. But it was incongruent with Delta’s image of him, and so it made the scene harder to imagine.
He sat up, looking at Paris cautiously. “But. For the scene. If we’re pretending. If you want to do this. Would you feel better if I gave you a reason?”
“I’m… not sure. No, forget it. I don’t need a reason.” Paris had barely hesitated.
Of course you don’t.
“Whatever you want, then,” Delta agreed.
“What about you?” Paris asked. “Are you going to fight back?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he hummed. He saw the concern pass over Paris’s expression, and he corrected himself.
“You’ll know if I want you to stop,” Delta reassured him. His eyes glowed, exemplary. “If I want it to stop, it won’t be much of a fight.”
“I was more worried about you going limp,” Paris said.
He hadn’t been worried about it before. But Delta took it as a good sign here, if a mildly humiliating factor to consider. That was a reasonable thing to worry about.
“lI’ll try not to,” he resolved. “You can ask if you get nervous. If I stop responding, you should stop.”
“Obviously.”
Delta nodded. They seemed to be mostly on the same page. Paris was more worried about this going wrong than he was. But Delta had already taken much worse from him, without any ability to tap out if he hit his limit. As far as he was concerned, this was going to be much safer than virtually any other time Paris had hit him.
The safest thing would be not to do it at all. But where was the fun in that? What about what he wanted?
“Alright,” Delta undid the braid from his hair, letting it fall about his shoulders, down his back. It was jet black, and he knew how striking it looked against the snow. His hand moved to the zipper of his jacket, and he removed the outer layers of protection. “I’m ready when you are.”
~
The attack was not abrupt; Paris resisted scaring him with it, which was probably for the best. Delta didn’t lose his bearings at any point. But it was forceful, and quite direct once it began.
Paris was pinning him down in the snow, straddling his waist. It was absolutely effortless, even now. He couldn’t have physically resisted if he wanted to. Delta had made zero efforts to gain strength after his rescue. If anything, he kept himself weak on purpose. It was just as easy for Paris to shift both wrists in the trap of one hand, while the other gripped at Delta’s jaw. Holding his head in place. Inspecting him.
He saw the slap coming — not even visually, but from anticipation of his body, from years of guessing attack patterns — but it still stung. Delta gave a muted whimper, did not even get out a “What was that for?” — any answer hardly mattered, but it came soon enough.
“You’re- going to do what I tell you,” Paris stumbled over his words there for a second. In a real beating, this was where’d he would have been scolding him. But without even an imagined offense to punish, he was struggling to justify himself. Still, Delta was compliant, and did not hold this against him. “You understand?”
Delta nodded, felt himself growing hard. Paris probably felt it too, from how he was positioned, but had the grace not to break character yet.
Another slap, and Delta corrected himself: “Yes, sir.”
The snow could’ve been melting around them for all the heat they were generating.
Paris produced the handcuffs, showing them off briefly: military grade, imperial gold. Delta had seen thousands like them before; it wasn’t even his first time seeing this pair. They’d been Kali’s. But they were going on him now. Right now, before he could even fight.
The pressure eased off his waist and reappeared at his shoulder as he was turned over, forced face down into the snow. One golden manacle went around his right wrist. His left wrist remained pinned in place as his right arm was forced to bend behind his back. Then, both arms pinned against the small of his own back, the cuffs locking in place. Pressure on his waist again, on his thighs.
In an act that was surely overkill, Delta felt a second pair of cuffs being chained to his ankles as well.
There was a hand squeezing the back of his neck, forcing his face even further into the snow. The other gripped at the sharp handle of his hipbone.
“You secure?” Paris asked. His voice was mock politeness. “Try and get away. I dare you.”
Delta almost shook his head. His inclination was never to resist authority. If this was for real, he realized with a start, he didn’t think he could bring himself to fight. This was the furthest thing from real. Paris was fumbling with the waistline of Delta’s pants; he could feel the start of an erection poking into him. Delta twisted a little, a pretty weak attempt to move, and he didn’t know who he was indulging more with it. The grip on his hips was too steady for him to get far, and he got a few sharp swats to the ass for the trouble. Paris had managed to get Delta’s pants down by his mid-thigh, and he wondered if he was really just going to fuck him then and there. He could feel Paris more clearly behind him; he was definitely ready to, if he so chose.
But the grip by his neck tightened instead, and Delta stayed immobile.
“You understand who’s in charge now?” he asked. Delta nodded, mutely. He got swatted in the thigh again, harder this time. “Is it you?”
“No, sir,” Delta muttered, muffled into the snow.
The grip relaxed in all areas. Guilt settled on the surface for a second; sometimes you could cut through Paris’s guilt with a knife. He wasn’t fucking him on the spot, it seemed, so Delta worried he might not want to fuck him at all.
“Up,” Paris said. “March.”
Then, they had spent all that time getting out here.
Delta stumbled to his feet, and stumbled even further on the forced march up to the house. It’d have been hard even without the cuffs, but as it was it was nearly impossible. Paris kept a grip on his upper arm; it was the only thing that stopped him from outright falling.
In the house, he was made to kneel. He hardly needed to be told to do so, it came as natural as anything. Down. Paris fastened the cuffs chains down to a loop in the floor, making sure he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to.
The position was immediately exposing. It kept his wrists bound behind him, and taut enough to put pressure on his shoulders. It stretched the muscles out, and was painful in a good way. But it removed his ability to even curl inwards if he wanted to, the ability to shield himself, the ability to even scramble back. Not that he would. Delta half-expected Paris to kick him, but he didn’t. It seemed like he wasn’t going for cheap shots anymore.
He gripped Delta by the hair instead, tight but not yet painful. Enough to bend him how he wanted, still.
“Stay.”
This was a command he could obey. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice either way. Delta butted his head gently into Paris’s hand as it was pulling away. He felt the pulse for a second, as strong as ever.
No more touch, then. Just the gradual numbing of his legs tucked beneath him. No sight except for the floorboards. Delta kept his head bowed just like he used to. He listened for movement. He worried Paris had just left the room, maybe even left the building. Everyone was always moving all the time. Everyone was always leaving things behind. But where was anyone going?
What could you be doing that’s more important than me right now?
Nothing, obviously. The show was transparent. The waiting was the point. Delta kept his head bowed and took it.
Waiting for Paris to take pity on him was always a stupid game. Back when he’d had sense, he knew better than to depend on it.
But he did come back, eventually. Paris bent down to the ground in front of him. He slid Delta’s jacket away from his shoulders, bunching the fabric down by his chained wrists. Delta initially followed the movement with his eyes, until Paris gripped his chin, tilting his gaze up to meet his. This made Delta recoil, just a little bit. There was an analytic detachment in that gaze, an almost performative contempt.
His words didn’t match it: “Are you still good?” Paris asked quietly. “Is this what you wanted?”
Delta nodded, as best he could with the grip on his face.
“Good.” Paris patted his cheek a little sharply, with overt condescension. It was still sore from where it’d been slapped earlier.
His hands were cold. They moved by Delta’s waist abruptly, and he jumped from the shock of it against his warm skin. He knew his instinct would have been to push them away had he been able. The chains rattled a little from how he’d jerked in place. Paris kept going. He traced his fingers along the sensitive gills by Delta’s ribs, and Delta made a soft, nervous whine in response. The touch receded, but the cold didn’t. Paris slid Delta’s shirt up and over his head.
It was loose enough to make the notion relatively smooth, though they still bunched up by the handcuffs. It didn’t matter. His torso and arms were still bare, which was the important part. Delta had definitely grown more sensitive to being exposed like this the longer he’d been out of captivity. Electricity prickled against his skin. Paris was drawing out every part of this process, which wasn’t like him. He allowed Delta to absorb the feeling before moving on.
“Ropes go on next. Be good.”
He would be. He stayed still as Paris undid one of his manacles. The left wrist stayed chained to the floor. Thought the right wrist was unbound, it was not any more free. Paris kept a tight grip on it. He slid the fabric off of it, and immediately replaced it with rope. The rope encircled Delta’s wrist, and then looped up to a hook in the ceiling. Delta remained kneeling. The rope was not so taut as to cause discomfort, but it did force his arm up over his head. This was somehow more vulnerable than having them just bound behind him. The process was repeated on the left wrist, and then the two of them were tied to one another as well.
The slack in the rope disappeared; it tightened enough to force him upright. Delta rose clumsily, needing to be steadied before he could stand on his own. Paris was gentler than he needed to be. Delta still stopped breathing as his pants and boxers were removed, exposing the rest of his body to the cold air.
It was just the shock. He’d learned to be comfortable in his body, but he felt it betrayed him. Neither his body nor his brain had ever really endeavored to protect him. It felt like a wild thing. He was glad for the restraints. With the way it’d been acting lately, he didn’t know what he might’ve done otherwise. He pulled at the rope, as an experiment. Because he could. It didn’t afford him an inch. A new length was already being tied around his ankles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paris folding his clothes before putting them aside, which was an almost sweet detail. Delta focused most of his energy on breathing normally. This situation was out of his control already. That was what he’d wanted. Wasn’t that what he wanted? The fear felt odd and hollow in his chest. Warmth was spreading upwards into his body. He visualized the temperature gradient in his head, the differential equations that made up the heat map. It brought him peace. He was very close to blissed out, if he let himself be.
Footsteps traced behind him. His hair was gathered up from his shoulders and pulled firmly back. Delta exhaled in acknowledgment.
“I have your attention?” Paris still had showmanship, at the end of the day. Delta nodded slightly, trying not to put more pressure on his hair.
“Mm,” he affirmed. He could already feel the strain in his arms. He was shaking, slightly.
“Delta,” Paris said. “Do you think you deserve this?”
It went straight through him. He got lightheaded, and confused.
“For…for what?” He managed around the haze.
“You know what,” Paris said.
He was tracing his fingers over the vertebrae of Delta’s spine. It was a vivid sensation, not wholly unpleasant. Delta did know, somewhat. He had a guess.
“It’s up to you.”
The flogger came down hard against his shoulderblade, any gentle touch retreating. Then again, on the other side.
“It’s up to you, sir.” Paris hissed. “And it’s happening anyway. The least you could do is to talk to me about it.”
He was serious. He really wanted him to stay present. Delta reeled from the shock of having been struck before he could do anything else.
“Um,” he stammered. “I…don’t know. I know I would’ve been punished for it, if anyone knew. But not like this. You wouldn’t have whipped me for it, would you? This wouldn’t have been enough for you...”
Delta murmured towards the end, and turned his head to bump against his own tense shoulder for comfort.
He flinched as the flogger came down again, lower, but he didn’t make a sound. He only let himself whimper when it came down five more times after that.
Paris’s hand soothed over the welts, briefly.
Delta elaborated: “I would’ve been hung.”
Tracing the shoulderblade, Paris agreed: “Yeah, probably.”
“Do you think I deserve it?” Delta asked. “Sir.”
“You want the hot answer, or the real answer?”
“Hot.”
He squeaked quietly as the flogger struck him again and again, just barely falling into a rhythm before Paris paused again.
“I think you deserve something for the fucking attitude you’ve had lately.”
The rhythm picked up again.
Delta suspected that might’ve been his real answer, too. Attitude was one thing. A difference in affect was something they could both handle. They was no need to drive the blade in deeper than that.
Paris could if he wanted to. Delta had practically handed him the weapon.
Further down, Delta was blooming like a blue flame. His anatomy acted like a half-conscious thing, a separate animal. He tried to generate friction between his legs to stimulate it. In an act so bold and intrusive that he genuinely had not expected it, Paris dug his nails into Delta’s thigh, urging them apart.
“Hey.” He scolded. “Not yet. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this.”
The fucking liar. Delta could almost hear the smile in his voice. But for his part, he felt totally humorless. It was all overwhelm, instead. Just need.
“Please,” Delta begged. “Please. I can’t- I want-“
Paris’s hand moved from his thigh to his bulge, and he realized he didn’t want that either.
“Not like this. Please, sir. Let me down, I don’t-“
He was freaking out. Something about the rope, about not even being able to see him-
Paris’s hand retreated entirely. He made a shushing sound, like trying to calm a frightened animal.
“Hey, hey. Use your words. What’s wrong?”
It worked. The retreat of stimulus helped to calm him down some, head clear enough to put a name to what had happened. As conscious thought caught up with the unconscious discomfort, Delta blushed, biting hard into his cheek. He said: “…I don’t want you to use your hand.”
Paris huffed lightly, a little amused. Less panicked than he’d been a moment ago. In sync again.
“What do you want, then?” Paris prodded him with the end of the flogger.
Delta tried to rub his thighs together again, and got them struck with the leather as a response. He whined. He’d thought he was being discreet about it.
“I want you to fuck me,” he admitted, still at a whine. “Please. For real, not like you’re just doing a chore. …Like you’re just tending a machine.”
His shoulders hurt. Paris was hitting lighter than Delta knew he was capable of, but it’d been consistent enough that he felt real tenderness to the abused skin.
The flogger struck out at his ass, which felt more like a humiliation than anything else. Delta squeaked lightly.
“We’re still at the punishment part,” Paris reminded him sharply. “Give me one good reason I should do anything you want right now. You’re not in any position to be making demands.”
He brushed his fingers through Delta’s hair, gathering it away from his face.
“Please?” Delta begged. It took so much effort not to disobey, not to just call the whole thing off to attend to the heat on his own. He was that needy. But he didn’t want to ruin this. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it worth it.”
He could. He was good enough at it. He was pleading very sincerely.
Paris tsked. Delta recognized the sensation through his nerve ends. He felt the jointed fingers absently working small braids into his hair. It made him docile in return. Something as soft and deep as a purr resonated in his throat.
“How about this?” Paris’s voice was harsher, atavistic. He matched his own tenor. Could he just turn it on like a switch? “You take the rest of it — the twenty lashes I intended to give you — and you take it without squirming or trying to get yourself off before you’re allowed to. Then, I’ll give you the chance to apologize, and to make it up to me…”
Why had he ever acted like this was hard for him? Cruelty came so easy to him. He slipped right back into it, like a pair of boots he’d broken in. Everyone knew what he was capable of.
“…If you do all of that well, and I’m satisfied after…I will consider fucking you the way you want me to. Otherwise, you’re not cumming at all, and you can just stay chained up here by yourself until it’s all out of your system.”
He was definitely smirking. Delta could tell without even looking at him. He inhaled shakily in response.
“I can do that,” he agreed.
A soft huff. Paris kissed his shoulder. “Atta boy,” he muttered in familiar tones. Not for the first time. But the first in a while.
“Count.”
~
Twenty was nothing. The surprising thing was that he even wanted to hear his voice. Delta’s pain tolerance was not what it used to be, but his composure held steady enough throughout. Heat collected at the surface of his skin, about the ridge of his spine. The difficulty thing was to resist what he was physically capable of, to resist giving into temptation — that was what he was unpracticed in. For whole years, anything like it pushed far below the threshold of detection. With all the power he had now, he could’ve taken anything he wanted.
…Paris didn’t even have to want it, really. The controls were precise enough. Maybe even enough to simulate blood flow. Definitely enough to trap his jaw shut.
Twenty. A desperate, involuntary whine escaped him, more from impatience than pain. Paris soothed it over, dropping the implement.
“Shh, shh. Easy. Good job. You did good.”
Twenty plus hits, taken without complaint, though he’d later realize No complaining had not even been a stipulation. It was probably better for his nervous system if he didn’t keep quiet anymore.
Paris’s hands were already up by the ropes that held Delta’s wrists.
“Go wait by the bed.”
The release of tension almost dropped him flat to the floor, but Paris caught him before he could collapse. He was unbound from the fixtures, but his wrists and ankles weren’t untied from one another. More than that, Paris took the time to rechain his wrists behind him, rather than in front. He took this new condition without protest and shuffled over to the bed. He dropped to a kneel beside it, on instinct. The need still twisted inside him. He bit down the urge to bite the mattress, rather than the mattress itself. Little electric shocks.
Paris came down to sit soon enough. Inside, he’d already stripped a lot of his winter clothes off, so that only a t-shirt and the lightest layer of his sweatpants remained. He wasn’t treating this with the formality it deserved, or for the authority he was supposed to be projecting, but when had he ever? It didn’t matter. Paris prodded him with the end of his boot.
“You’re gonna make it up to me? Yeah?”
Delta’s breathing had returned to something close to normal. He took deep, slow breaths. He needed to. He couldn’t resist: “Are you going to let me?”
Paris twisted his fist into Delta’s hair, yanking it to draw him closer: “What did we just say about the fucking attitude?”
“What attitude?” Delta looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. “I want to help.”
Despite the obvious smarminess of it, for one reason or another it worked to disarm him. The grip in his hair relaxed until it was just petting.
“Lucky you’re cute,” Paris muttered. “You need help, don’t you?”
He did, on a technical level. He watched the pink blush spread along Paris’s face as he untied the knot of his waistband. He was always more shy in the flesh than he was in any of Delta’s fantasies.
There was a healthy hesitation. Quieter, he added: “Just, like, shock me if you need to stop. No biting.”
“Yes, sir.” Delta blushed in return. He watched Paris undress himself. It was a somewhat unpracticed motion. Delta wondered if he was just used to other people doing it for him.
Then, Delta had done it for him. Even back then. He remembered the late nights aboard the quiet ship. In a nervous heat, Paris had soaked through the thin under layers of his clothing. When he’d been sick or feverish, the clothes hadn’t allowed his skin to breathe. When he was too drunk or too injured, the number of buttons just proved too much for him. Delta had picked up the slack for him. He’d been so willing to. He was so, so willing to now.
Without self consciousness, he opened his mouth, extending his tongue. It triggered a quick sequence of memories. He avoided all but the good ones, the ones after the rescue. When he’d wanted it. He tried to focus on technique instead. He pulled his lip in over his sharp teeth to keep from scraping the delicate skin.
Paris made a kind of strangled noise, entirely involuntary, and all Delta could think about was how sensitive he was. How easy this all could have been if he allowed himself to feel it. That was the mission tonight, then. The objective had changed at some point, become more than his own gratification. Paris deserved something nice for going along with it.
~
He was allowed on the bed.
He’d kept his end of the deal. It was absolutely remarkable the way he’d restrained himself. Without even being touched, he could’ve easily came just from providing the service. He probably could’ve come just from the whipping. The fact he’d endured both without release was nothing short of a miracle. He hoped Paris appreciated that.
“I hope you know how hard that was for me,” he decided to say aloud.
It almost killed the mood entirely; Paris’s expression read a momentary confusion, and of course he was thinking of other things he’d made hard for Delta.
“Mm,” he agreed. Paris was visibly tired. He’d already gotten off, and this was taking a toll on him in every dimension it could. Physically, emotionally, mentally. He was a very good sport.
Delta gave him a little shock for encouragement.
“Ow,” Paris flinched.
He wasn’t punished for it, or even scolded. Delta immediately felt bad. It did not do much to bring Paris’s energy up, and he suddenly remembered that Paris was actually disabled, and couldn’t really help it.
“Sorry,” he apologized, meaning it. His wrists were still chained behind him. Paris brushed the hair from his face for him, helped him to sit somewhat upright.
He kissed him. Delta leaned into, eager, touched. It was still so surreal this was happening at all. His sense, overwhelmingly, was that he shouldn’t have been doing this. Everyone had said the same, but it was odd to come to the same conclusion for himself. There was something strange about letting the fantasy and reality intersect like this. That didn’t mean that wasn’t enjoying it. He was enjoying it immensely. But above him, it felt the same as the moment he’d called for rescue. It felt the same as being held under the water of the bathtub. Things had changed because they had to. Nothing would ever be the same.
It was for the better. It had to be for the better.
“I love you,” Delta said quietly. The oxytocin was going straight to his head.
“Delta…” Paris said, a little chiding. A little pitying. He kissed him again, then retreated, moving down his body.
“I won’t make you beg for it. Just tell me what you want. I want it to be nice for you. You earned it.”
Delta nodded his agreement quietly, not trusting himself to speak. He felt pressure building up behind his eyes. If he wasn’t careful, the strength of his emotion in that moment could’ve blown the whole house apart. Maybe the whole planet.
When he came, he swore that somewhere overhead, he could hear stars exploding.
after spending a lot of time on horror pages its interesting how young men will often have this defense against fear of any feminine-looking monster which is "im going to try and fuck her". i think theres something very deranged and misogynist about that but also very classical: people will sexualize/fetishize their fears in order to take power away from them or to give themselves more control over it in the context of "play".
i also think this is interesting in the context of the succubus/feminine horror in general, where monstrous women will use their sexuality as a way to ensnare men and exert power over them.
i can just see a scenario in fiction where both parties think theyre taking advantage of the other and using sex to empower themselves. does it cancel out?
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