#tw gagging

[stars-hide-our-fires]

Gags

CW: Gags, mouth whump, pet whump implied

The embarrassment as drool drips down around the gag from the corners of their mouth

Bruising and chafing that is very difficult to hide

Whumpee wearing a mask to cover it up

Or Whumper taking them to an event and forcing whumpee to wear a mask to hide the gag, while people at the event marvel at how ‘well trained’ and ‘quiet’ Whumpee is

Taped mouth. Duct tape pressed over lips. The smell of the adhesive. The residue it leaves behind. The tightness of it, the way it pulls at the skin.

The immediate control it gives Whumper. Pinch Whumpee’s nose shut and suddenly you have a writhing, spasming victim.

Or better yet, tape their nose shut. Make them believe this is how it ends, suffocating behind that plasticky scent, helpless

Sew their lips shut. The intimacy of it, the wincing every time the needle pierces their flesh — or maybe Whumper numbed it first, and Whumpee can only watch in the mirror as their mouth is stitched up, utterly silenced

The little noises Whumpee makes. The breathing around the gag. The whines, the panicked “mmmph”s as they realise the words aren’t coming. Maybe they try anyway, sounding stupid as they fail to hurl insults

Caretaker carefully removing a gag, horrified at the thought of Whumpee humiliated like this, their autonomy stripped

Caretaker gagging Whumpee to keep them quiet while they escape. The quiet “I’m sorry”s. The betrayal in Whumpee’s eyes; or maybe it’s acceptance.

Whumpee waking up to realise they are muzzled, the immediate dehumanisation, the panic to realise they can’t move their jaw, the laboured breaths to the thick leather or even metal strapped and pressing into their face

Cut out their vocal cords. Do it. Whumpee can't even make a sound. And they never will again.

Or cut out their tongue, the feeling of something wrong in their mouth, the shapeless screaming it causes

April is the cruelest month Day #1: Gagged

[star2fishmeg]

imagine luke and his girlfriend and the boat in michigan and his girlfriend is in a bikini and he can't stop staring at her titts (we all know he's a titts man) and after when he drags her upstairs after the boat they have super rough sex

I literally think about this more than I should and got carried away😩Not super rough since I didn’t want to make it too long, apologies!! One day in a longer fic, I hope to get it there for you!!

[Handcuffs, reader having her bikini bottoms used as a gag, and slight dom!Luke themes]

You know what’s coming when the bedroom door locks, his frame backing you to the bed until you fall onto the mattress with a small bounce, lip caught under your teeth as your gaze up couldn’t be more provoking. Luke’s pissed, not actually pissed, but frustrated and pent up from the afternoon, watching you flaunt around in your bikini and wiggling away from him purposely, teasing by asking him to apply your sun cream, pressing up against his arms and watching him wet his lips as your chest squished against his skin. All afternoon he fought himself.

You crawl backwards towards the pillows, coming to an abrupt halt when his hands grab your hips, unbuttoning your shorts and slipping them down your legs, your t-shirt swiftly following until both items of clothing pile on the floor. He swings his leg over your body, straddling you, breathing heavily and running his hands over your curves, fingertips tracing down your stomach to the waistband of your bikini bottoms, tugging them down a little just to let go and watch it bounce back. He’s in his head, thinking, relishing, admiring. 

“You gonna punish me, Lu? For wearing this ol’ thing?” You smirk up at him, pulling on the strap of the top, running your finger down the elastic and under the top of the cup, pulling it away from your skin. 

He leans down, places his lips below your ear and trails hot kisses down your neck until you writhe, letting out a soft whimper when a kiss releases a fuzziness through your chest and over your body, little tingles where he’s found the sweet spot. He doesn’t let the spot go, sucking harder until your nails grip his biceps, taunting giggles breathing out from you.

“Keep talking and you’ll lose touching privileges, angel face.” Luke’s voice rumbles in your ear, chills rattling down your spine at the tone; it’s firm and has a power to it, control. 

“Awe, I love when you talk all tough-” You give him wide and doe-like eyes, cupping your hands behind his nape and tugging his curls between your fingers, your knee bumping his cock, feeling how hard he is before you fake surprise to him. He said about losing privileges, but you couldn’t help but rile him up, not when he looks at you with a passion so hungry, so desperate and needy. Curiosity got the better of you and there’s nothing more to you right now than a throbbing in your cunt. “Oops! The words slipped.”

Luke presses his lips to yours firmly, humming as you open for him and lapping your tongues with saliva gathering in the corner of your mouths. You don’t notice him reach into the nightstand, but you only realise what’s happening when he yanks your hands off him, pinning them above your head and cuffing your wrists to the headboard. It shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but your eyes widen and you tug, hearing the clanking followed by his chuckle - mocking you. It’s not bad though, you don’t hate it, heat pools into your bottoms over it and the pulsing in your clit becomes vigour. 

“Such a fuckin’ tease, you know that? You knew what you were doing with this,” he grumbles, pulling the ties around your neck and back loose, flinging the bikini top across the room, encasing your breasts in his palms and squeezing, “’nd now it’s my turn.”

“Me? Tease? Wouldn’t do such a thing, puppy-” you retort, flirting, watching him untie your bottoms from the sides. You begin to open your mouth again, to shoot another comment but he grabs your jaw and between his thumb and fingers, stuffing your bottoms into your mouth, “Hmpf!”

“S’better. The only noise you’re gonna make is from when I fuck you again, and again, and again, m’kay? I don’t care who hears you moan, that’s all I wanna hear.” 

His shorts hit the floor, you pull your knees to your chest and spread for him, humming in agreement. It’s all so enticing. Arousal glistens over your cunt and Luke brushes his cock over your folds, his hands pulling your legs around his waist before pushing in slowly, relishing your walls suck him in. He tucks his head into your neck, painting the skin with kisses while his thrusts quicken, slow and steady isn’t the method, and you don’t want it to be. You let your body sink back into the mattress, his drive becoming more dedicated to his carnal desire, arms tense either side of you and high-pitched mewls slip out following the rhythm of his thrusts. 

You try and speak, and he just about makes out ‘harder, faster’ from you.

Luke’s hips snap into yours, skin colliding with yours with a ‘plap’, your increase in muffled moans between, what sounds like, ‘oh God’ and ‘Luke!’ fuelling the fire that burns in his core, yet he hasn’t looked up and you don’t want him to. It’s not like you’d see him, your eyes close and head tilts back, legs hooking higher around his torso when he reaches a brutal pace, cock drilling inside your cunt, warm and gummy walls squeezing him. He’s groaning and grunting at the pleasure wracking through him, but none of that can be heard over your wanton moans wailing from your throat. You’re in a different headspace, all you’re hearing is the sound of wet echoing around the room and your own sounds vibrating from you, letting him fuck his frustrations out on you and the aching feels euphoric, and when his fingertip caresses your clit, the sharp whine that pierces from you has your eyes rolling back and jaw falling slack. 

It then when he looks you in the eyes, curls sticking to his forehead, your muscles limp, every receptor your body homes in overdrive and your high just around the corner but the way he’s looking at you - lust coursing through his system - tells you that he’s clearly nowhere near done.

[sageivyreads]

doe eyed and ready to kill

Ghoap x street kitty!hybrid fem!reader

introduction: ok ok the tension is finally building people!! and the beef between reader and ghost begins 😓 as much as i like this part it’s definitely kind of a filler chapter so i can move on to the next main plot point (smut coming soon 😋). tysm for 200 followers! masterlist here

contains/warnings: 2.6k words (un)consensual kidnapping, ‘rough but he means well’ ghost, allusions to drugging, manipulative & pushy ghoap, noncon touching but no sa, reader is awkward & insecure, slight unreliable narrator, brief mentions of piss but nothing sexual about it, slightest of angst & mildest of comforts, quick description of gagging & fingers in mouth, r eats toast & jelly.

“How long d’you think she’ll be out for?” Johnny asks, watching as Simon pets over your hair like a beloved dog. Simon’s gaze is downturned towards you, blinking slowly as he watches your eyelids flutter and close.

“I gave ‘er enough to last ‘till tomorrow morning.”

Johnny whistles quietly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. “Talk about a hell of a hangover, huh?”

Your mouth is dry as you wake. There’s something slightly scratchy around you. Under you. You’re warm. It takes all of your energy, and multiple seconds, to pry your tired eyes open.

You’re in a room. A small table stands beside the bed you’re on. A plain, dark wood. Blueish grey sheets. A door to the left and a double closet to the right. You’re trying to conjure some sort of memory, but nothing is coming immediately.

Your arm doesn’t ache so bad. In fact, it feels kind of numb.

A blanket is draped over you. A few, you think. The warmth you feel is from something- someone hot pressed against your back. A naked chest tight against you. You feel a chin on your shoulder, breath against your neck. This feels familiar.

You blink. Your fingers spasm. Your ears flick.

“Mm.. you awake, love?”

Johnny.

Your breath shakes as you feel a crooked nose run up your neck and nuzzle along the edge of your jaw. Your heart beats louder in your ears than his voice does.

You’re still wearing clothes. You can feel his boxers against the back of your thighs.

You know he knows you’re awake, so you hesitantly nod. You can feel your hair is combed and clean. The fur on your ears and tail is brushed. Soft. For the first time in a while.

He peels himself from you, and you can hear him sit against the headboard. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, turning you towards him, and lugging you up against the bed frame with him.

He pulls your limp body into the crook of his arm, pressing his nose against your hair and breathing in before he presses a small kiss to the top of your head. The flesh of your cheek is smushed against the muscle of his shoulder. You smell men’s shampoo. You don’t know if you can move or not. You haven’t tried.

You slowly flex your fingers, then curl them into a fist. You’re tired, but you’re okay. You shift to sit up a little, subconsciously leaning away from him a little.

“Are ya feeling okay?” he asks, “Took quite a tumble yesterday. Still ain’t sure if ya hit yr’head or not.”

Why is he holding you like this? You broke into their home. And aren’t they together? You swear you thought Simon and Johnny were in a relationship before, but now you can’t remember much.

“Tumble…?” you question, lips sticking together as you part them to speak.

“Oh, yeah. You don’t remember? Yesterday morning, when ye were about to leave. You collapsed.” Johnny tells you, squeezing you a little closer. You can’t tell if that was his response to you scooting away, or if he really is clueless.

“..Oh.”

“Yeah, but we got ya all fixed up, didn’t we, Si?”

You frown in confusion, eyes flicking to the doorway where you find Simon lurking, one hand gripping the doorframe. He hadn’t made a sound. Not even the creaking of a floorboard or squealing of shoes. He’s dressed in casual athletic wear as if he might’ve come home from a jog an hour or two ago. You’ve learned he does that every morning, usually around seven.

Simon just grunts like the caveman he is, eyes running over the picture of the two of you.

“Get up. I’m making breakfast.” he huffs, turning and walking down the hall just as quietly as he came.

Johnny sighs next to you, his free hand flipping the covers off the two of you. “Well, let’s not make him wait any longer than we need to.”

He stands, your eyes trailing down his back as he bends over. You watch as he tugs some gray sweatpants over his hips, grabs a shirt from the floor to pull over his head.

“After y’finish eatin’, I figure I’ll rewrap that nasty wound o’ yours, and you can tell me all about how ya ended up that way, yeah?”

You don’t speak, but he doesn’t seem to be looking for a response, anyway. He straightens and turns back toward you, your eyes fixing on his thick fingers tying the strings of his sweats, on the imprint of something against his upper thigh-

You blink heavily, eyes swiftly flashing up to his. He’s smiling at you, but not smugly. More… gentle, than anything. Your voice quakes when you speak.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He sighs, reaching a hand up to shove some overgrown strands of hair out of his face. “Alrigh’. How about you go on ahead an’ join Simon? ah’m gonna take a piss.”

He turns and trudges over to the connected bathroom before you can respond. You slowly nod to yourself. You feel tired. So tired. You shouldn’t, considering this is the first time you’d slept on a mattress, let alone a bedframe, in years.

You pull yourself to the edge of the bed, legs shaking as you push to stand. The floor is cool against your warm skin. You take a quick scan of your surroundings and don’t find much more than what you’d expect from them. A single, golden brown dresser. Two bedside tables. Not much decor besides a little clutter. Everything’s a little mismatch.

Your feet move as if they don’t belong to you. They seem to know the choreography of their kitchen more than your consciousness does.

Your vision is fuzzy. Your body feels like a rusty engine of a car. Just barely rumbling back to life each time you twist the key, sluggish and old.

Your sense of smell stirs to life before anything else. Slightly burnt toast, you think. Strawberry jam. You sniffle as cold air pinches at your nose, shivering and hugging your arms with the opposite hands.

You flinch and hiss when you make contact with the sore skin beneath the bandage on your upper right arm, shifting your grip lower as you wince. Your slow walk has finally brought you to the kitchen.

Your eyes trail over his face as he slides three pieces of toast on a plate, two on another, and a single slice on the last one.

“Mornin’.” He vaguely gestured around the stools at the kitchen bar. “Sit.”

And once more, your feet guide you before your thoughts do. The backs of your thighs meet a stool as he spreads a vibrant red jam across the piece of toasted bread, most of it golden brown with the crust a little black. He slides the plate with a single slice in front of you.

You prefer raspberry jelly. You don’t like the crust on your toast. You also can’t imagine he’d care if you told him either of those things.

Your fingers shake as they reach in front of you, skin feeling fragile as it touches the brittle corners of the bread. Sharp canines pierce the texture easily, teeth tearing off a chunk and chewing as your tongue slips out to swipe the remnants off of your lips.

He’s staring at you. Has been since you picked up the piece of toast. His gaze fixes on your tongue so vehemently, that you’d think he was waiting for you to open your mouth just to catch a glimpse.

A shiver runs down your back and you shudder, spine curling inward slightly to keep you looking small. Even if you weren’t physically.

“‘ave you brushed your teeth?”

Your face twitches into some expression of confusion, and your hand comes to cover your mouth not so subtly as you place the toast back on it’s plate.

One of the many luxuries you didn’t have being homeless.

“N-no, I haven’t h-“

You’re stunned into silence by the view of him abruptly standing, lips parting in surprise as he curves around the corner of the counter.

“C’mere.”

His hand is on your nape, grip just a little too tight. Again, you feel a sense of deja vu. He pulls you out of the chair and your hands jerk up to commit some sort of action, just to fall flat at your sides. You feel like a snail in comparison to his heavy footsteps.

He walks you to his bedroom and opens the attached bathroom, ignoring the way you nearly flinch at the sight of Johnny- his boxers and sweats tugged down to where you can see the beginnings of a pale appendage. There’s still a toothbrush hanging out the side of his mouth. His head pops up when the door opens but he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

You swallow thickly, throat suddenly feeling tiny and clogged as Simon pushes you to the counter. You cast your gaze downwards.

His big fingers seem to randomly grab a green toothbrush from a cup on the marble. It’s clearly been used, has to be one of theirs. You nearly gag at the thought.

He shoves the plastic object into your mouth, his lips twitching at your gurgled grunts as he roughly pushes the bristles back and forth against your teeth.

Your hands jolt up to his offending digits and wrist, halfhearted claws digging into the firm muscle beneath his sleeve.

You try to turn your head away and his grip slips to the front of your throat. Light pressure. Thumb just under your jaw to keep your chin propped up while he listens to the thu-thud of your heartbeat. Your ears flick to the side and lower.

When you finally get a good enough grip to tug yourself away from the toothbrush, neck muscles straining to tear away, he seems amused at the flash of teeth.

“Yeah, bare those pretty teeth at me, love. Let’s see how that goes.”

The expression on your face twists to the closest thing you can get to a scowl. You almost get away when he tightens his grip on the front of your throat enough for you to part your lips in a gasp.

“Enough.” he snaps, so loud you think you can feel your skull vibrate. You nearly choke on the toothpaste, just barely manage to stop yourself from swallowing. Cold fingers tremble in front of you before you lower them to cling to the counter at each side of your hips. Squeezing your eyes shut helps a little and you go still.

“Jeez, Si, didn’t get a good night’s sleep?” Johnny pipes up, and you can hear a rustle of fabric and the groaning of pipes as the toilet flushes. You hear him spit into the sink behind you and the tap run while he rinses his mouth briefly.

Simon ignores him and resumes for a minute or two before he turns and pushes you to bend your upper half over the sink. Gives your tongue an exceptionally harsh scrub before he drops the toothbrush into the sink.

“Spit.”

And when you hesitate, because that’s a weird fucking thing to say, he shoves his salty, meaty fingers down your throat until you gag, nearly retching around his fingers so you expel the toothpaste involuntarily instead of just repeating himself.

Your nose burns.

You’re crying when he releases you, bitterly glaring up at him as he rubs the leftover toothpaste from your lips. He doesn’t let you rinse.

“Way to scare a girl away,” Johnny sighs, shouldering Simon out of the way to stand in front of you.

He cups your cheeks with his warm hands and gently brushes the tears away with his thumbs. “It’s alright, lovely. No need fer the tears. You know he means well, hmm?”

You can’t help the relieved sigh as he touches you, body instinctively relaxing under his heated touch.

You don’t know if it’s your own doing or his when you nod.

“Let’s go finish our breakfast.” he says, moving his hands to your shoulders. He turns you and you pout (frown) the entire time he walks you out of the bathroom. He brings you out to the living area but instead sits you down on the middle cushion before joining Simon in the kitchen.

You huff to no one but yourself, tongue running over your teeth absently. At least you have a clean mouth now. Better than nothing for all the trouble he’s put you through.

Johnny walks back in just as you finish your train of thought, holding your plate and his. He places the one with a half-eaten piece of toast in your lap, sitting beside you and doing the same with his. Your fingers twitch on your thighs.

Johnny slings an arm around your shoulders, bringing you a little closer to him. Just like he’d done a few minutes prior when you’d woke up in his bed.

You’re hungry. You know you are. With the way your stomach aches like a crater, there’s no way you couldn’t be. Why don’t you want to eat?

Maybe it’s the whole situation, the way they’re treating you. Like they don’t plan on you leaving. They’ve already started making space for you in their lives. It feels as if they’ve shoved you into the deep end, not given you a chance to catch your breath or dip your toes in. It’s weird.

“Not hungry?” Johnny’s voice brings you back to the moment, as well as Simon joining the two of you on your other side.

He’s farther than you’d like.

Your eyelashes flutter after a moment, and you shake your head.

“Tired.” You rasp, your voice scratchy and your throat feeling swollen.

“m’sure now you regret wasting all that energy causing a fuss in the bathroom, huh?” Simon unhelpfully adds, voice slurred while he speaks with food in his mouth.

You glare at him from the corner of your eye, but he doesn’t notice with the way he’s shoveling food down his throat.

Johnny releases your shoulders to reach for your plate, ripping off a small piece and getting some jam on his fingers as he brings it up to your mouth.

“Come on, just a bite?”

You don’t respond for a moment.

Eventually, you decide you’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of here fastest.

It only takes a nod before he’s pushing it past your lips, a bit more gently than Simon was with the toothbrush.

He ignores the fact you agreed to a single bite as he continues feeding you. The toast tastes slightly of mint when you take your next bite.

“So, after breakfas’ ah’ll rewrap tha’ wound, Simon’s gotta go to the store, I’ve got a game t’watch, I figure you can rest up on the couch with me. How’s that sound?”

You look over at him, red jam smeared over his lips, free hand stuffing food in his mouth nearly just as quickly as Simon. They’ve both got a bad habit of talking while eating.

It doesn’t feel like have any other choice but to nod. Not that you plan on sticking to that. You drift off to a memory earlier in the day when you were in the kitchen for the first time.

When your eyes naturally flit back to the window you’d climbed in the day before, you noticed the dried blood had been cleaned up.

You also noticed the little nob on the top of the window had been turned, sealing the window shut. Probably just because of the storm.

lHowever, it irks you. Even when it was storming, they kept it open for you. It’s only closed now that you’re inside. You need to say something. Confirm that they know you aren’t staying.

Something inside you hushes your thoughts, telling you to keep quiet, you want this-

You urge your unease to the front of your mind.

“S-So when can I leave?”

Do you really want to?

Your head turns to Simon, and he pauses, before resuming his meal.

You turn to Johnny, and he just smiles at you sympathetically, a speck of red on his cheek.

“Oh, love. You aren’t goin’ anywhere. Not in this weather. Let the storm pass and we’ll talk then, yeah?” he says, reaching forward to wipe a bit of toast from the corner of your lip with his thumb.

For the first time, his smile doesn’t comfort you.

You don’t finish your piece of toast.

notes: that little moment of reader struggling with food was meant to show her unease around them and loss of appetite from the drugs, not an ed btw! i admit i have no idea what foods english people eat so take it easy on me ok? if you’re reading this thinking ‘god i just want them to fuckkkk’ me too 😞 in due time. also at what point do i stop using the ‘new writers on tumblr’ tag?

taglist: @lilana56 @angelic-thingys @sweetnightowl @skullcrawler @kxnnxy @lazystorycollector @pagesfalling @honestlymassivetrash @theyoungeagle

lemme know if i missed anyone it wouldn’t let me tag a few people for some reason

me telling u guys i posted part three:

[subhuman25]

anyone else have a weird thing for gags? like why I do love them so much I want my mouth to be permanently full. it doesn’t even matter the gag but I wanna try the dildo ones the most. my mouth craves restraint and gag, im so desperate for them. I wanna wear a mask in public with a gag underneath :) I can’t be the only one obsessed with them??

[popcornpoppypop]

WIP Wednesday!

I got more than one request for a Jack Abbot x Reader where they get into a crash or trauma and suffer a TBI, I've been working on that one for a minute. Here's a little snippet. Not sure when it'll be out. It's requiring a lot of research.

Warnings: Blood, TBI, mental breakdown, dissociation, intubation, gagging.

“Jack, I’ve got them. You can’t be their doctor.” John said as he worked on stabilizing you.  

“14G in the right arm.” A nurse yelled. Jack’s head was spinning. He could only focus on your face.

“Why are we not cutting her clothes!? Get them off, now!” John barked as he listened to your chest.  The nurses hesitated, stuck between duty and respect for you. You were their doctor, coworker, and friend. To rip your clothes off like you were just anybody else felt wrong.

“On it.” Princess started cutting the dress. It once sparkled, now it was dimmed by your blood covering it. Your exposed body sent a shiver up Jack’s spine.

“Pressure is dropping.”

“They’re tachy.”

“Bruising on the belly.”

“Burns to lower extremities.”

“Crepitus to the right side.”

The words meant something to Jack. He knew what they were saying. But none of it stuck. None of it made sense in that moment. He just watched your face, watched the blood spill from your nose.

“Radiology is ready for her.” One of the nurses called out as she hung up the phone.

“She’s stable enough. Get her up there. Head, chest, belly.” Shen ordered as they pushed Jack out of the way. “Call Walsh, I want surgery waiting for her once she’s back.”

“Dr. Abbot, you should sit down.” Bridget pulled him over to the hub, pushing him into a chair.  Jack’s face was blank, unreadable. He couldn’t feel his fingers. How could he let this happen? How could he let his guard down?

“They’ll be okay, Jack,” John said.

“You can’t say that. I saw them.” Jack huffed. Bridget shoved a cup of coffee into his hand.

“Drink it.” She demanded. Jack sipped the coffee, it burned his tongue. He let it.

Jack sat motionless, stuck in his head. He thought about every possible thing that could be wrong with you. Every terrible outcome. Shen had told him you were back from CT at some point. He still couldn’t move.

“Jack!” Robby’s voice broke him from his trance. Jack wondered how long he’d been standing over him. The concerned look on his face told him too long. “Jack, are you here?”

“Yeah.” He managed to croak out.

“Shen gave me the rundown. Said he told you what was going on, but you weren’t responding. Not sure how much got through.” Robby pulled a chair in front of him.

“I don’t know.” He murmured.

“Well, there is some internal bleeding. A liver laceration, Walsh is consulting now. Pulmonary contusion, broken right tib fib and most of the ribs on that side,”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear this.” Jack winced away from him.

“I know. But you need to. Jack, she’s got multiple skull fractures and spinal cord damage. The CT showed a depression fracture near her right frontal lobe.” Robby sighed. “Once she’s stabilized from the liver lac, they’ll set her up for an MRI. Neuro is going to meet Walsh in the OR. The liver is the priority right now.”

“None of her friends called.” Jack looked confused, pulling his phone out to see no messages or calls.

“Jack. You need to see her before she goes up.” Robby put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“I can’t.” Jack’s voice broke, his throat tight and painful as he tried to keep from crumbling.

“I know. But you have to. Come on,” Robby pulled him to his feet, ushering him into the trauma bay. You were hooked up to every machine in the ER, it looked like. The tube down your throat made him gag.

[there-will-always-be-blood]

Chapter XXXIX - The Crow and the Dove | Finale

CW: death as a theme explored in depth, grief, past main character death, past torture, past non-con mention (very brief), aftermath of grievous bodily harm (stabbing, loads of stabbing) and torture, chains, gags, blood, captivity, fear of child abuse, mention of death of a child, necromancy, undead whumpee, captivity, compulsion, emotional whump, death wish (sort of)

Summary of the previous NSFW chapter: welcome to the finale. Ashe is frozen in her sarcophagus, commanded not to move. Kyriel makes Kai scream on top of it, stabbing him everywhere so that Ashe can see what he’s done with him. Kai pleads and surrenders so that Kyriel’s rage is directed towards him, because he will do anything for her no matter the cost to himself.

Previous - Masterlist

The thing about death, Kai thought, was how absolute, how final it was. How inevitable the darkness at the end of the line, how cutting the knife severing the tread of life. How cruel the demarcation between what once had been and then no longer was — how one could feel, watching the body of a recently passed one, how they were no longer there. No longer them, no longer in the vessel of the flesh — death, death, and then gone.

That was, unless Kyriel had anything to say about it.

No wonder people worshipped the angel when he could raise people from their graves. No wonder there were those, even among Kai’s people, who thought him a god — for the monster could make reality out of what were mere promises for other religions, could make tangible the return to the flesh from the valley of shadows. He could back with power and magic what were only tales, only shushed comforts given in the face of a truth too hard to bear — that life didn’t end after death, that there was more to discover after one passed. Why there were queues, decade-long queues, entire families staking everything they owned and all their hopes and fortunes for the chance of being selected to serve in the ranks of Kyriel’s Fallens — for the chance of becoming immortal, to transcend the limits of the mortal flesh and live alongside their immortal god.

Kai had never thought he’d come to understand them, one day.

The boy wheezed, his lungs constricting as he slowly came back to himself. He groaned, chained and slumped on the stones of Ashe’s cell — his entire body aching, throbbing where he’d suffered his captor’s wrath. His muscles knotted, his flesh a tangled mess of sharp and bruising pain — his body caked in blood from head to toes, his and the Fallens’ both, his skin covered by thick bandages wrapping everywhere Kyriel had stabbed him over and over again. Kai’s wrists raised above his head, manacles tight around them — a gag, a dirty rag stuffed tightly inside his mouth, silencing his every sound.

The boy moaned, folding forward over the stones.

It took him a second, an aching beat, for him to realise that he was still breathing, despite it all. That he was still underground, in the same cell Ashe was — and that he was chained to his wife’s coffin, back pressed uncomfortably against the jewelled sides of the sarcophagus that held his love. His torso and thighs wrapped with thick bandages that were already soaked in blood — as if Kyriel had healed him just enough for him not to die, the power-suppressing runes on the walls turning his magic into the faintest whisper deep below his skin, but not enough for Kai to be comfortable about it. The red seeping through the gauzes where he’d been stabbed, each breath bringing a renewed flash of pain — as if Kyriel had wanted him to feel the aftermath of his punishment, hadn’t wanted to spare him any minute of it.

Kai blinked where he sat, covered in blood and grime. The taste of iron sharp on his tongue, the sound of his breathing muffled by the dirty rag stuffed deep in his mouth. His silver eyes wide, shiny in the low light, only the cracking of the eerie green flames on the walls breaking the silence of the cold cell underground.

Ashe.

The boy shuddered, shifting even as the movement sparked a white flash of pain down his insides. He winced, the memories of his wife’s frozen body assaulting him like a fresh stab of the knife — her perfectly preserved face, pale and beautiful like an immortal statue carved in marble, crying blood as he was made to scream bent over her coffin. As he was stabbed over and over again, taking whatever Kyriel would give him to spare her the pain — the boy mindless of the agony again once more as he twisted to try to look up towards her. Towards his wife, his love, his soul, trapped in that crystal coffin he was now chained to—

He could only see a few inches of the girl’s elbow from where he was, a few strands of her carefully braided hair pushed against the edge of the crystal lid of the sarcophagus that held her prisoner. Could only see a small bit of her too-pale skin, pearlescent porcelain ivory as Kai’s had been, covering the freckles that had once covered every inch of her — the girl still, perfectly still like only a commanded undead could be.

His heart squeezed, so deeply he thought he would die of it.

It was a blessing and a curse both, he thought, to know her revived. A blessing, for how could he deny the wrenching swelling of his heart, the desperate love and joy filling up his chest, even when mingling with the claws of despair? For Ashe — Ashe wasn’t dead, wasn’t gone, wasn’t lying in a clearing all alone. Her flesh wasn’t rotting off her bones, worms burrowed inside her body as he’d thought for a year now — she was alive, she was back. She wasn’t in the ground, all alone in the dark, her soul lost in the valley of shadows. No, she hadn’t left where he couldn’t reach, but had joined him in his new life now — in the torture and the darkness of the captivity under Kyriel’s knife.

Kai screwed his eyes shut, whimpering in shame at the relief he felt into his chest. At how his stupid, treacherous heart rejoiced, the bastard, in knowing himself no longer alone.

He shouldn’t be happy about it at all, knowing what awaited them now.

He knew, better than anyone, what Kyriel would do now. What he’d done to him, when he’d wanted to break him and in the months thereafter, in that first year of captivity underground — what a curse Ashe’s return really was, what a Damocles’ sword dangling over his neck to ensure his compliance from now on. And how effective that was, when Kai was willing to fight and bleed for the world when he’d lost everything before — but not now, now that it was her pain, her life, her wellbeing on the line. For Kai had seen her die already once, and knew deep in his bones the terror of seeing his love kneeling, gagged and prisoner with a knife to her throat — the jelly feeling of seeing a loved one hurt, the horror of her body bleeding instead of his own. A horror he couldn’t live again, no matter what it took.

He’d do anything to spare Ashe what had been done to him, no matter what that turned him into.

He remembered faintly, frozen on the dungeon’s floor, how glad he had been, even in the darkest of hours, that it was him under the knife and not his wife or their child. How even then he’d known, deep in his bones, how so much worse captivity could have been if he would have been made to listen to their screams in addition to his own. If he’d known them under the knife rather than himself — for he could handle it, he thought, he could handle anything at all as long as he was the one paying the price, rather than his wife or child. He could sustain anything in the world but not the sound of Ashe’s throat being ripped once more. Not her screams, not the sight of the light leaving her eyes—

Kai wheezed at the thought, terror gripping him like a vice.

He wondered then, faintly and with the immediate risk of throwing up what little was left in his stomach, what Kyriel had done to their child. If they had survived, or if they had suffocated in Ashe’s womb before she could have been revived. How long she’d been left in that clearing, after Kai had been dragged bodily through the portal into Kyriel’s home — the boy remembering how he’d been blindfolded, knowing the reason why now, and how he’d been dragged, kept there kneeling in the Throne Room until Kyriel had finally returned. Had it been one hour, or more, before the angel had finished whipping him to an inch of his life, bathing him and then chaining him to that bed underground? Was it that much longer until he’d finished fucking him for the first time — until he’d left him there, shocked and numb, pinned to that bed that would be his place of torture for the next year and more? And how long did it take to revive someone, after all — or to cut a corpse belly in half, extract a perhaps still living magical child—

Kai shook his head, his heart squeezing in stupid, oh so stupid, terrified hope.

It didn’t matter, he thought, whether Kyriel had cared enough to try to save their child or not. It didn’t matter, and it was better if he hadn’t — for if he did, that was the worst possible thing Kai could imagine in this world. No horror scenario in his head being worse than the one of the monster putting his hands on his child — of Kyriel having access to their baby, their vulnerable flesh and mind, to do as he pleased for the whole year he’d spent underground. For eternity, for it wasn’t like Kai could stop him if he decided to bring the child there underground, to, to—

The boy had to repress the instinct to be sick then, sinking his nails in his palms to steel himself.

He tried not to think about what Kyriel liked to do with babies, what he did to children barely old enough to stand on their feet. The horrors Kai had witnessed when he’d been an undead, the Council’s dinners served with the youngest cuts the monster’s underground meat grinding machine could provide — or what Kyriel would have done to a child with power, taking and shaping them away of Kai and Ashe’s protection for his own twisted goals. If they had indeed lived, if they hadn’t died as Ashe had done.

Kai wished they had then, knowing how any alternative was so, so much worse.

The boy grabbed at the chains around his wrists, knuckles whitening as he steeled himself on the stones. He swallowed, fighting against the instinct to throw up once more — breathing raggedly through the rag, at the shame of the thought. Feeling the love in his chest slowly drown into a sea of black despair, for the still, desperate need to know. For he’d been alone so long, after all, nothing had ever felt home like love — nothing had ever felt home like the promise of Ashe and the babe, of the life of peace they’d claw fighting through the darkness holding each other close. Of the family they would have built together, how desperately he’d wished for that peace — and how selfish that had been, now that Kyriel had put his claws on him. How stupid, how foolish he’d been, having dared to hope even though he’d known there was an immortal that wished for nothing but possess him — how arrogant in thinking he could fight him, how reckless for allowing himself to love and put someone else in danger by allowing himself not to be alone. How dear the price to pay now, how steep the cost of love — no resistance possible anymore, not unless he wanted Ashe and perhaps, who knew, their child to pay the price for his stupidity once more. Kai feeling himself utterly trapped, like it always way in his fight with his captor, knowing that he would have to choose between his loved ones and the world.

There was no question, really, what he would opt for.

Kai breathed deeply, raggedly, shuddering against his constraints. He craned his neck again towards Ashe, towards his love trapped behind him now — the princess in the Tower, ready to be made to scream if her prince even so much as breathed wrong. The boy swallowing down the nausea alongside the pain in his gut — the pain in between his legs, where Kyriel had assaulted him in a way he didn’t want to name. Focusing on Ashe, of what he could see of his love, his soul.

He remembered, like it was yesterday, how it had felt to wake up on the angel’s altar upstairs. Knew intimately, for he’d been through the valley of shadows himself, what dying meant — what the darkness swallowing one whole did to one’s soul. How it had snuffled out everything he had been, until he’d been made to re-emerge in a body that was his and was foreign both — the nothingness, the sheer absence of self, the nightmare of how he’d been erased when the knife had been driven into his heart. How wrong that new body had felt at first, colder and harder and unfeeling at the fingertips — how the hunger had churned in his gut, how his entire mind and thoughts had narrowed over the vision of Kyriel’s face above him. His whole being wanting to please him, how he hadn’t been able to conceive disagreeing with him— even as the hunger had demanded blood, so much blood, to satiate the magic that had kept him alive then. The all-encompassing hunger of the undeads, Kyriel’s creatures needing flesh, fresh human flesh to feed upon, to sustain themselves — how Ashe’s mind must be close to going insane after a year on her own, for that need alone.

Out. He needed to get her out, now.

Kai yanked his wrists against the chains, the desperation in his chest suddenly turning into rage, welcome and hot and alive in his gut. For he knew he was chained, he was constrained allright — but if there was something he’d learned, something he knew deep in his gut, was the need never to give up no matter how hopeless the situation was. To try, to always try something, to knock on every surface and wall — for everything could be cracked, and Kyriel hadn’t ordered him not to free his love yet after all. Hadn’t ordered him not to wake her up, not to take care of her or try to make her run — and so he had to try, try try try no matter what, no matter how he knew deep in his heart that an undead couldn’t disobey their maker, Ashe wouldn’t be able to run even if he pushed her out of the Tower with his own hands.

He had to do something, if he wasn’t to go insane himself in the terror and pain.

The boy grunted, the sound muffled by the gag in his mouth as he slowly, so slowly, begun to push his knees under himself to hoist himself up. He bit down the rag, grinding his teeth against the pain in his gut — his vision darkening in spots, sharp bright pain stabbing him with every inch he moved. Sweat broke on his brow as he tried to stand, to reach for the crystal lid of Ashe’s coffin to knock it down—

The runes on his back flared, angry and crimson, as soon as his wounds opened up for the strain.

Kai let out a strangled scream, crashing as the compulsion on his back seized him whole. His gut ripping as his legs gave out on him, his body seizing before going limp — the boy falling back down where he’d started, after he’d barely managed to push one knee under himself. Fresh blood beginning to seep through the bandages wrapped around his chest, Kyriel’s words ringing in his head—

You are not to harm yourself.

The boy laughed then, a hoarse and hysterical thing, angry tears beginning to bite at his eyes. As he sat chained exactly in the position where his captor wanted him to be — the compulsion taking away even the autonomy of trying to reach his love, the runes burning crimson on his back as all strength suddenly left him. The boy knowing Kyriel’s orders, his rules, of course — for he understood that wounded as he was, every attempt at movement was a threat to further harm. Everything but staying there, exactly in the position Kyriel had left him in, feeling every inch of the aftermath of his punishment and reflecting of what was now to come — everything but that could be interpreted as rebellion by the runes, as threatening his wellbeing and life, and thus to be nipped in the bud. Kai’s body going limp, slumping on the floor like a puppet with cut off strings, as soon as he’d begun to bleed.

Kai bit down on the gag, feeling the first tears spilling down his cheek, clearing up a path in the blood covering every inch of his skin. His stomach churning, his whole body uselessly revolting against the compulsion declawing him — as if it cared about his feelings at all.

Ashe. Ashe, Ashe, Ashe—

The boy lifted his head towards the crystal lid of the coffin behind him once more, the green eerie flames on the walls illuminating him.

He had to hope their child had died, that Kyriel hadn’t used that time when Kai had been blindfolded to take them out of Ashe’s corpse. He had to hope they were human, powerless, and that they’d suffocated inside her womb — because while death was merciless, a clean cut after which nothing was anymore, it was better than the alternative that would await any child of his now. It was better for them to be spared this pain, the horror of knowing Kyriel at all — for Kai didn’t know how he would get Ashe out of there if he couldn’t even stand without Kyriel’s say so, and he had to god damn well hope their child was dead so that he wouldn’t have that one more failure weighting on his soul. That they would be beyond the monster’s reach, a human babe’s useless to revive, good for nothing more but be fed to the dogs.

Kai screwed his eyes shut, hating himself for that horrible thought.

He didn’t need to be stabbed again, truth be told, to see how their lives would unfold now. To know that Kyriel would do horrible things to them both — unspeakable things to them and the world, to punish them if Kai even so much as breathed wrong. If he wasn’t his perfect pupil, his perfect monster, his prince and weapon and whatever else the monster wanted him to be now. His soldier, his whore, it didn’t matter anymore.

Kyriel had won. And Kai, in the same way as he couldn’t even stand without his say so, knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop him at all. And that through him, and the Damocles’ sword hanging over his love, he’d give him the world.

Previous - Masterlist

This was really hard to write and has been rewritten a thousand times. It can be a non NSFW conclusion to Kai and Kyriel’s Tumblr story, or a launchpad for something more — if I have it inside me to write that, I am not sure how it might go. It’s been eight months bbs, and I saw my best friend die — these words, Ashe, were really, really hard to push out. And I am still proud of myself because it’s not perfect, but it’s done — and whether I end up writing more or not, we have a complete story of sorts now :)

Taglist:

@flowersarefreetherapy @sunshiline-writes @enigmawriteswhump @suspicious-whumping-egg

@luminouswhump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @fraugustends @hellodecisionparalysis

@violent-ultraviolet @cepheusgalaxy @redwinesupanover @forthetaintedsorrow-whump

@alexmundaythrufriday

@badthingshappenbingo : chained to a wall, original fic

[purpletealgoatguy]

Woke up at 5, blacked out for four hours and proceeded come back to find:

Whumptober Day Four: “Don’t Be Scared, I’ve Done This Before.”

“Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before.” Thatcher said, dropping into a crouch and leaning in way too close to Enn. “Well, not actually. But I watched a deer fall in once, and that’s the same thing, really.”

Enn didn’t think so, but the rag in his mouth muffled any snark he would have spat out. He settled for a glare.

“Now, hold your breath! Or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.” Thatcher grinned with no small amount of glee. “On ten! One, two, three…”

[the-sonic-crew]

Who wants a slightly concerning pizza? Actually I don't care here's one anyway

Oh- *gag* ew!!!

I gotcha buddy! *grabs a bucket*

that's horrid!! >m<