#phm#ryland grace#rocky the eridian#project hail mary spoilers
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old video japanese in gasmask with rebreather
someone DMme to tell where the original vid is.
Whump Prompt #4: Clothing
(tw: blood mention, capture, indirect nonsexual nudity mention, intimate whumper, bruising, whip marks, knife mention, nonsexual stripping, cane mention, gun mention, riding crop mention, choking/suffocation, organ damage, trauma lmk if I missed anything)
Whumpee's clothing being torn, blood-stained, in tatters, but Whumper doesn't care and doesn't give them anything new, even after weeks or months of Whumpee being in captivity
Caretaker never changing their clothes because they can barely function without Whumpee, they sleep at random times and just generally stop functioning, and a mutual friend finds them in bed, their clothes smell like sweat and grief and dirt, helping them shower and change into new clothes
Whumper choosing Whumpee's clothes, whether they be itchy, comfortable, revealing, tight, too thin, wrong for the climate, and Whumpee knows its either this or nothing
Whumpee having to wear lingerie Whumper picks out for them, and an intimate Whumper always commenting on how pretty it is
Whumpee being left in nothing but their underwear and a t-shirt by an intimate Whumper who enjoys the vulnerability of it
Whumpee (in more royal settings) wearing nothing but a slightly translucent silk robe with no belt for easy access that Whumper likes
for example. Whumper needing to see how Whumpee's wounds are healing, so they just pull the robe down Whumpee's back or expose their ribs, inspecting bruises or whip marks, completely ignoring Whumpee's exposure
it also makes Whumpee more vulnerable, because they aren't even dressed properly to manage an escape, they have no protection from the elements or from guards' weapons
Whumper dressing up their Whumpee in revealing silks and sitting them in their lap during a gala/banquet/event, treating them like a pet
Whumpee being left in their clothes for weeks, and they start to smell like sweat and dirt, which they hate. bonus points if whumpee was vain before, or super invested in their perfect appearance, now looking miserable and muddy and bloody
Whumper cutting away Whumpee's clothing with a knife, ordering them to stay still lest blood be drawn. A Whumpee thinking about how that was their favorite pair of jeans/t-shirt/bra/tank/sweatpants etc. before remembering that they're actually in danger and there's no time for this.
A Whumper ordering Whumpee to stand still and strip for inspection. Whumpee peeling off layer by layer with shaking hands, hoping Whumper will tell them to stop, until they're removing their underwear and Whumper still hasn't said stop. they're flushing with shame, trying to cover themselves, but Whumper slaps their hands away
Whumper inspecting Whumpee by walking around in a small circle and prodding at every imperfection/injury/etc. with a cane/riding crop/gun, hitting Whumpee's spine when they start to slouch
Whumper using Whumpee's own belt to choke them, and their pants slip down without support while they thrash, exposing them even more to Whumper, who's straddling Whumpee's hips to hold the belt tighter
or using the belt as a makeshift collar and leash, and tugging Whumpee along, choking them with it when they don't listen or don't follow
Whumpee using the laces of their shoes to cut through zip ties, or to try and choke Whumper in an attempt to escape
Whumper using a corset to choke Whumpee, and tying it so tight there's no way for Whumpee to get it off, while also forcing them to go around and do chores or tasks, Whumpee fighting not to faint; the eventual organ damage that happens after years of wearing a corset (ruptures, lung collapse)
Whumpee wearing Whumper's clothes because their own are filthy/otherwise unwearable. Whumper snapping at them to put it on after throwing them a random blur of fabric, and watching as Whumpee puts it on
Whumpee being rescued in one of the suggestive outfits Whumper made them wear, and being embarassed that their friends/team have to see them like this
Caretaker peeling off the tight fabric, giving Whumpee space if they need it, helping them take off the disgusting thing Whumper made them wear and helping them into comfortable, if oversized clothes
Whumpee is so grateful to have clothes they don't even notice that it doesn't really fit or isn't their style, burying their face and smelling laundry detergent and not Whumper's scent
Whumpee wearing oversized clothing after their rescue, because they can't handle tight things--it reminds them too much of the restraints Whumper used on them
Whumpee finding their style again, experimenting with designs and colours and becoming happier as Caretaker helps them adapt to life again
just. clothes in whump.
Two hours of horrific torture compressed to 30 seconds. Two cute girls have their way with me, while I'm completely mummified on the bed, with my air supply controlled by a tiny yellow valve, at their whim.
whump dialogue prompt #11
“just breathe, alright?”
“i— i can’t.”
The whumper rolling the whumpee over with their boot. Pressing their steel toe under the whumpee’s ribs. Kneeling on the whumpee’s chest while mocking them for not being able to get a word out.
The Silence Beneath Her Song
Percy Jackson x Siren!Reader CW: drowning imagery; suffocation; mass temporary death; body horror–adjacent magical compulsion; grief; ancient curse/abuse by a god; and a monster who didn’t choose to be one. Angst with a hopeful ending.
The first thing sailors noticed about her was the quiet after.
No bodies floating.
No wreckage splintered across the tide.
No blood slicking the water red.
Just ships drifting empty beneath a sky that refused to look down. Sails sagging. Lanterns still burning.
As if the sea had inhaled and simply… kept them.
They called her the Drowned Choir – a siren whose song did not enchant.
It ended.
When she sang, lungs filled with water that wasn't there. Hearts stopped in gentle rhythm. Men walked smiling into the sea as if returning home to a mother who had forgiven everything.
And no one survived long enough to describe her voice.
Only the silence afterward.
Percy Jackson had heard worse.
He told himself that as the fog swallowed the research vessel whole.
It wasn't a large ship – just big enough to justify metal railings and equipment Annabeth insisted was 'necessary for empirical validation.' The deck creaked beneath his sneakers. The ocean felt uneasy under him, currents twitching like muscles under skin.
Annabeth was below deck arguing with a sonar monitor that kept flashing a slow, circling pattern.
"It's not a glitch," she snapped at the screen, like it might apologize. "It's moving too consistently."
Grover hovered near Percy at the railing, gripping it tight enough that Percy worried splinters might embed in his palms.
"I don't like this," Grover muttered. "The water feels… wrong. Not angry. Just-" He swallowed. "Sad."
Percy opened his mouth to answer.
Then the sea went still.
Not calm.
Still.
The kind of stillness that exists at the bottom of trenches where sunlight dies and pressure crushes sound before it's born.
The fog thinned in a single column beside the ship.
And she rose.
Dark hair drifting around her like spilled ink in water. Skin pale as bone polished by tides. Eyes the color of the deepest trenches – blue so dark it bordered on absence.
The ocean bent toward her as if in apology.
She inhaled.
Grover dropped instantly.
No struggle. No gasp. His body simply slackened, eyes glassy, breath gone before he hit the deck.
The sailors followed. One by one. A man reaching for a radio. Another turning toward the lifeboats. A third mid-prayer.
Silent.
Peaceful.
Dead before they touched wood.
Annabeth burst from below deck. "Percy-"
Her voice cut off like a string sliced clean.
She crumpled.
Percy felt the song hit him.
It wasn't music.
It was pressure.
Ancient and crushing.
It was the weight of miles of water pressing against fragile ribs. It was shipwrecks rotting in darkness. It was sailors whispering apologies to the dark before slipping beneath it.
It was the moment lungs surrender.
It was death.
Percy braced for drowning.
For suffocation.
For the instinctive terror of air turning traitor.
Instead-
He heard nothing.
No melody.
No command.
No pull.
Just silence.
And beneath it-
A hitching breath.
The siren faltered mid-note.
Her brow furrowed as if she had misstepped on invisible stairs. She sang louder – and this time the force of it split the world.
The ocean around the ship began to boil. The mast splintered. Windows shattered inward. Water climbed the hull in eager hands, slapping the deck, curling around Percy's ankles.
Still nothing.
Percy stood there, perfectly still, listening harder than he ever had in his life.
Silence.
No.
Not silence.
Absence.
Like something trying desperately to exist and failing.
Her mouth was open.
But she wasn't singing anymore.
She was crying.
The sound wasn't audible. It didn't vibrate in air.
But Percy felt it in the water – tiny tremors. Grief traveling through salt. A vibration too small for mortals to survive and too heavy for the sea to ignore.
"You don't want to do this," he said gently.
Her head snapped toward him.
For the first time in centuries, someone was still standing.
The ocean surged at her command. She shot forward, faster than thought, hands like iron bands gripping his shoulders. She dragged him overboard.
The world vanished into cold.
It rushed over Percy – but it welcomed him.
The water parted around his body instinctively, recognizing something older than language. Blood that tasted like storms. Like tides. Like tridents raised in fury.
He was already claimed.
A son of Poseidon does not drown.
She forced him downward anyway. Deeper. And deeper. Into the black where pressure snaps bones and thoughts turn brittle.
Percy stared at her.
Nothing happened.
No water filled his lungs.
No panic clawed at his chest.
The sea curled around him like an old friend confused by hostility.
Her eyes widened.
"You can't," she whispered.
And this time he heard her voice.
Not the curse. Not the weapon.
Her.
"I can," Percy replied, bubbles ghosting past his lips without stealing breath. "You're not trying to kill them."
Her grip faltered.
"You're trying to stop singing."
The words hit harder than any trident.
Her hands trembled.
The curse clung to her like chains forged from sound. Old magic. Older than Olympus' current rulers. A jealous god who did not tolerate divided devotion. A punishment for loving a mortal man whose lungs required air.
Her voice had been turned into execution.
Every note a death sentence.
Every breath betrayal.
She had not heard true silence in centuries.
Until now.
"You don't hear it," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"I hear you," Percy answered. "Not the curse."
Something in the ocean shifted.
Not power.
Recognition.
The sea did not circle him as prey. It did not bow to her as sovereign.
It recognized kinship.
Her song was meant for creatures bound to air. For fragile lungs and hearts that beat in shallow cages.
Percy belonged, at least in part, to the deep.
She pressed her forehead to his.
The water stilled entirely.
No current.
No tide.
Even the pressure eased, as if listening.
"I wanted," she confessed, voice trembling like a wave about to break, "someone who would not die."
Percy let out a soft, crooked smile. "You found the wrong demigod for that."
For a moment – just a moment – she laughed.
It sounded like a ripple against stone.
Above them, on the crippled ship, Annabeth gasped back to life. Sailors coughed violently, dragging in air that had never truly left them. Grover rolled onto his side, sputtering.
The curse fractured.
Not shattered.
But cracked.
The siren pulled back abruptly, fear flashing across her face for the first time. "If they know you resisted-"
"Let them," Percy said.
Olympus had bigger grudges than him surviving a song.
He reached for her hand.
She flinched – not from pain.
From hope.
His fingers closed around hers.
The sea did not rebel.
It folded around them both, protective rather than possessive.
For the first time in centuries, her voice did not rise.
No sailors fell.
No lungs stilled.
Only water moving gently in patient arcs.
Percy stayed with her a moment longer in the quiet beneath the world.
Then he said, "You don't have to be a weapon."
The ocean carried the words like a promise.
And in the silence between waves, Percy Jackson listened to a monster who had only ever wanted to be heard-
Without killing the world for it.
