If you want a particular name to call me by here, use Ribbon. or whatever else idc
straw page: https://ribbonwire.straw.page
This is a whump side blog. If you don't like stories where violent things are done to undeserving people, then you can leave.
If you are not mature enough to engage with these things, do not interact with this blog. If you are under 18, don’t talk to me and don’t follow me.
My writing and art is NOT a reflection of my morals IRL.
I keep on looking for this mindlessly reenacting fictional scenarios island that some people seem so concerned about but it doesn't exist.
I will be focusing on Spamton whump scenarios but I may get into other characters. lol jk. I am not sure that will everrr happen.
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As I post, I'll add a list of content warnings and blockable tags if you don't want to see something.
cw noncon
cw dubcon
prostitution
unsafe kink
financial abuse
domestic abuse
whump
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Things I don't like and won't engage with are explicit stories with underaged characters and rpf or anything that too closely resembles real people. What other people do isn't my business but don't send that stuff to me.
hiii im the anon that asked if should make a sideblog: i made one! it's @ukespamton :3 i havent posted anything on there but hopefully ill post some thoughts and maybe some doodles
ive been wanting to make a spam torture sideblog to make posts/rb some but im not sure.. do you think i should make one?
absolutely you should make one and if you do I will shout you out and encourage people to follow you and comment on your art and posts and recommend you to others who might become your friend
https://archiveofourown.org/works/88738746/chapters/235470646
maybe this will not be your cup of tea since is BG Era Spamton and its kinda vannila. But this is going to be a multi chap fic of emotional whump and it has lots of dub con. Spamton being both the abuser and the victim. Kinda inspired by ITWV, kinda sorta. I hope you like it
Hey thanks for sharing I’ll check it out.. I am always in favor of more noncon and dubcon getting made every day. I hope my followers who enjoy this stuff check it out
Hello strawpage anon. Well for my thoughts on a transfem Spamton interpretation. I think it can go two main ways.
one, you can take his relatively overt transmasc coding, and “genderbend” the story, and make her transition from nonbinary/masculine to feminine, as her narrative arc.. (maybe the mannequin dress would be a suit in this au?)
alternatively, I think you could read her canon self’s performance and expression of masculinity as like an overcorrection in the other direction, to try & hide and suppress her feminine identity.. which is something I know some trans people do before figuring themselves out
either way, I think interpreting Spamton as transfem adds this interesting extra level to or potential for victimization.. transfems are extra vulnerable to misogyny and have fewer protections against it.. miserable idea I just had but imagine that the benefactor detransitions her as part of her punishment.. idk.!!
you should tell me your transfem Spamton interpretation ideas
Prev. I guarantee you that you can make it disturbingly soft & romantic… it’s actually such a devastating combo I’ve found, to have an exploitative & violating reader-insert who, if you ignored the fact that it was unwilling, would actually be a really wonderful partner… lalala…
& well… a lot of the early fandom x reader fics… I’m not sure how much of a choice he’d get with the person he’s depending on for housing & food
also BASED BASED BASED about the. Putting your whole hand in his mouth.. I have a fic of that actually. I wonder if you’ve seen it… pried jaws praying hands..
Do you think there’s the possibility of spamton mentally regressing/age regressing(?) due to trauma?Especially considering the type of trauma he’s experienced.
hmm I could see it for sure… I kind of don’t think that darkners have childhoods unless relevant to the object or character (ex: lancer) .. I think they spawn fully formed at whatever age..
However!!! I don’t think this would prevent the possibility of age regression or mental regression and might even make it scarier and more confusing
it’s especially cutes with Spamton because no shot that he isn’t some kind of plural or dissociative… so I can see him having childlike or younger parts/headmates.. lala I wonder when it would show up.. I don’t know a lot about how age regression works or any scenarios.. if you have ideas you can send them in
Prev. I guarantee you that you can make it disturbingly soft & romantic… it’s actually such a devastating combo I’ve found, to have an exploitative & violating reader-insert who, if you ignored the fact that it was unwilling, would actually be a really wonderful partner… lalala…
& well… a lot of the early fandom x reader fics… I’m not sure how much of a choice he’d get with the person he’s depending on for housing & food
also BASED BASED BASED about the. Putting your whole hand in his mouth.. I have a fic of that actually. I wonder if you’ve seen it… pried jaws praying hands..
Did I say that I want to buy him? Because, uh. Yeah. I imagine Spamton would kick up a fuss if you just wanted to do things for him. What's the catch? Etc. And so I think often about paying for him. My rent-a-boyfriend...
THE FOLLOWING IS A DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, NONCON, HURT/NO COMFORT, SPAMCEST 2.2K WORDS FANFIC BETWEEN BSE SPAMTON AND CURRENT-ERA SPAMTON
IF NON-CON IS NOT YOUR CUP OF TEA, PLEASE BLOCK THE TAG "#noncon" OR "#cw noncon". THANK YOU.
btw i don't plan on posting more non-con/dub-con stuff anytime soon (i'm not much a creator of that genre), and if it happens, it will be, again, properly tagged. thank you.
this fic was written thanks to @ribbonwire 's wonderful support. thank you, and i hope you enjoy your read!
big shot era spamton is addressed as "big shot", and current-era spamton as "lil spam".
content warning: wound fucking, blood play, non-con, hate sex, emeto (vomit), unconscious, mentions of mold and rot
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
big shot has a negative split on lil spam because he is the physical embodiment of his very worst fears, his worst nightmare come true. and he just. cannot. accept. that.
when forced to face lil spam—his own fate—something snaps in him, and big shot dissociates.
in an unstoppable, ice-cold anger, he forces lil spam on his (their?) bed, and ties him tightly to the headboard.
he just wants him to shut up. to shut the fuck up. to pay the price of existing. a disgusting puppet pretending to be him, a fucking mockery of his likeness, has no right to exist. he'll prove to that freak that he's nothing more than an object.
big shot removes lil spam's clothes, as he thrashes and shouts for his younger self to let him go, his panic growing deep with each piece of clothing removed—by the time he's entirely naked, lil spam is shaking, voice and static-filled tears crying out.
to stop him from moving around, big shot sits on lil spam's hips, pining his down to the mattress. it hurts. his joints are dilapidated, especially his hip joints, who suffered the most from his legs being forced open so many times since his puppetification. it hurts him sitting down, or walking, and now, when someone sits on him.
to say that big shot is not at least curious about this future body of his would be lying—he'd never seen anyone exactly like that in both cyber world and tv world. he runs his finger along the seams, the joints, the lower jaw. really, it's quite fascinating. if it wasn't so old and rugged, he'd almost think of it as a pretty doll.
his curiosity runs deeper—big shot grabs one shoulder by the ball joint, his other hand on lil spam's chest, pushing him down against the bed, and in one strong pull, he tears off an arm.
it doesn't bleed, it looks like what you'd expect a doll arm to look like, with the inner framework barely poking out of the darkness filling the smaller body.
now, big shot would be able to admire the lifeless beauty beneath him if it wasn't for the screeches of pain coming from this repulsive... thing.
no matter how hard he may slap lil spam, punch him, strangle it, it just. doesn't. shut. up.
it even had the gall to call for its little angel for help.
suddenly, an idea pops into his head. if strangling it didn't affect its ability to scream—of course, why didn't he realise sooner—it's because it comes from a voice box, not vocal cords like a normal darkner.
big shot gets up, without a word, and leaves the bedroom. lil spam holds his breath, expecting the worst and not letting his guard down.
when the door clicks shut once again, big shot settles back on the puppet hips, his expression totally changed from earlier. before, it was a cold, stone face, examining meticulously his prey, but now, a warm, obviously-fake smile spread up and closed his eyes.
in a soft voice, he asks where the voice box is located, as he takes out and unsheathes a cardboard cutter—its blade reflecting the too-bright ceiling light.
the room drops silent. no. no no no. no anything but this—big shot grabs lil spam by the cheeks, forcing its glasses to meet his eyes. he repeats his question, his award-winning smile not faltering, and adds that, if he refuses to cooperate, he'll just have to search for it himself.... and oh, wouldn't it be a shame if he opened this pretty little doll again and again and couldn't find it on his first, or second, or third try?
forced to comply, in a shaky breath, lil spam reveals it's in the middle of his chest. he resigned. he has to. the only thing on his mind is survival. he can't do anything, he just has to stay conscious, to take what he's given and survive, like every other times before.
the cold metal punctures the middle of his chest, and beads of dark blood color the blade. every muscles and joints in the puppet body are tense, and the only sound in the room is the fabric of big shot's sleeve as he moves the cutter downward, to create a deep long cut.
lil spam cries, but only his eyes—his voice has gone silent, as if he was trying to hide where his box is, as if he wouldn't find it if he were just quiet enough.
big shot is surprised this body could even bleed—when treated like the puppet it is, by removing a limb, it didn't react this way—yet, when treated as a person, it bled. how curious.
big shot delicately widens the wound, fingers tainted in dark crimson.
it's your fault, he says. if you knew how to shut up—he digs his fingers deeper and the wounds wider—if you knew how to obey. we. wouldn't. be. here. [capiche?!], he barks.
the dealmakers give a vacant stare—glassy glasses with no eyes in sight, drowned in dry tears tracing down red, beaten cheeks and jaw.
one hand leaves the wound to caress the puppet's cheek, the thick blood leaving dark smudges where the thumb gently rocks left and right. big shot smiles, a bittersweetness present in the curve of his lips, he looks at lil spam and tells him, with deafening genuineness: what did i expect? i know i never learned how to obey.
lil spam doesn't respond. he doesn't move. doesn't speak. has it finally learned its place?
no. he's simply not there anymore. his body is here. but his mind is empty. he is a spectator of his own demise, even if he wanted, he could not move an inch—his entire body feels as disconnected and unresponsive as his torn away arm. he feels the pain. it's the only thing he is sure of feeling this instant.
he wanted to find help, comfort, camaraderie in himself, in his younger self, a version of himself still capable of providing, of bringing love and friendship to the table, he had hope, spamton had so much hope that the only person who could truly understand his woes and help him out of this hell was himself—and yet. and yet. look where it got you.
pathetic.
his mind is brought back, away from the self-loath, just barely conscious enough—though still very far from his body; a third-person camera—to feel one hand holding his chest open and the other jamming against his insides to find his voice.
the fingers are messy, they don't hold any consideration for the bleeding darkness they're exploring—a very different treatment to the chirurgical cut afflicted to the white shell of this vessel.
it doesn't take long until they get ahold of the voice box and rip it out of the chest in one swift pull.
blood flies with speed against the wall and bed, but it doesn't really matter now.
another sharp pain—sharper than the ever-present ache everywhere and the pounding in his head—makes lil spam squirm.
big shot grinds again against the puppet's hips, and he hushes a moan—his cock has been very neglected so far and it's begging for attention.
the small voice box in one hand, the other still on the cut's opening, he indulges himself in this once in a life time pleasure.
you're making such a mess, he teases, fingers dancing on the lips of the wound. at its base, he inserts his middle finger, and slowly pumps it in and out, going further each time, until his entire finger slides in. it's gonna be a pain to clean the sheets, he adds, as all his toying with the open puppet has led to blood rolling down onto the bed covers. his middle finger curls against the insides, and the puppet jolts, its back tries to arch and his hips to rise, but big shot's weight prevents it from moving a inch. you're almost cute enough to be forgiven, he smiles.
he grinds again, and again, against the off-white doll—the seams, zipper and button in front of the stretched, bulging pants scrape the fragile paint around the pelvis. big shot's breathing turns into pants and low whimpers.
another finger is added to the carved hole. it's revulsing—he's at the verge of vomiting—he can't even bear to look at what's being done to his body. before his body could adapt to the forced pressure, a thumb joined the other two finger.
the humping was becoming more frantic with every stroke.
from inside the trembling puppet, a small chunk of bloody darkness—which has a texture that could only be described as the moist inside of a loaf of bread, maybe a tad more compact—was ripped from the rest, and forced outside the body.
it's spongy—big shot presses it between his fingers and it drips a thick clot, which drops on the scrawny stomach, and leaves a small spreading crimson stain along its surface.
it smells rotten, like rotten glass, with the added fragrance of iron. he admits he is very curious about the taste, but he'd be damned if he put this wretched substance any closer to his mouth. so instead, and the idea goes straight to his throbbing, needy cock, he offers it to the puppet.
tell me how it tastes, he asks. and make every word count, i don't ever wanna hear your damn voice after that, he demands, as he squeezes the fragile square box in his hand.
no reaction. does he have to do everything himself here?
big shot forces its lower jaw open—with a force that surely unhinged it in its carelessness—and places the moist sponge-like bite where a tongue would normally be in a normal darkner mouth, and slams its agape mouth shut.
the reaction is immediate: a convulsion of his entire body as he turns his head to spit and cough the horrid thing that came out of his insides—he gags and continues coughing hard, until the content of his stomach burns through his throat and shoots out in waves in front of him.
big shot couldn't care less about his carpet getting ruined by putrid vomit, or the disgusting sounds coming from the little box, no, his focus is entirely devoted to the way the puppet's stomach contracts with each gag—he can see how the insides move up and compresses everything in the chest through the open window in its skin. in a frantic rush, powered by an irrational lust, he digs with his free hand into the flesh, and feels the contractions giving resistance to his grabbling.
no matter if the stomach has been emptied by now, lil spam gags again, and cries, and shakes. he's inconsolable.
that's it, he exclaims, you've asked for it. big shot unbuckles his belt and open his pants, he fishes his hard cock beneath his underwear, dark bloodied stains over his pristine white skin. his head spins a little, and butterflies rush in his stomach as he moves to press his tip at the entrance of the hole his fingers carved open.
he carefully pushes himself in, and moans loudly, his breath shaky. it's warm, and oddly comfortable—the insides are pulsating in a rhythmic pattern, but big shot is too out of his mind to bother noticing anything of the sort. he slams his hips against the puppet chest, and pumps again and again, using the open flesh as nothing more than a fleshlight.
thankfully, in a bizarre kind of way, lil spam's conscious is barely holding on. everything is a blur, his body feels numb, the slaps of their collective flesh sounds very distant, and his voice box being away from his body for so long makes him unable to utter a sound, losing his connection to it. no call for help, no begging, no cry, not. a. sound.
and yet, it isn't enough for big shot. he doesn't just want to shut it up—no, he never wants to hear its voice ever again.
his limit is fast approaching, all the sensations too intense and too good, so he pulls out, crimson cock in hand, still pumping, and sits back down on the rugged, naked hips.
i'm not sure any of our angels could [f1] your little [beating heart] with this, he says in between pants and low moans, and he is right.
big shot's back arches and his legs tense—he cums directly against the speaker of the little voice box, ropes of cum entering into every little hole. surely, that can't do it good, right?
this is the last thing spamton saw before passing out—his string of consciousness could not handle the gut-wrenching distress the myriad of questions caused him.
will he be able to use his voice box again? can he even repair it? can he even afford to repair it? will his younger self throw it out, or put it back in? will the cum rot? will it develop mold inside? not mold—no anything but mold—please, please, anything but mold—he can't—he won't—he—he—
reblogging is sooo important in deltaruined spaces
since most people censor the characters name and don't tag them, it makes it impossible for people actively looking for a specific kink with a specific character to find anything, or even find the kink blogs in the first place
that's why reblog is important, if nobody reblogs the kink art, it never gets shared around and never reaches its target audience
we need to keep building a tight web between kink blogs to support each other
Spamton torture 5ever @ribbonwire - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
