You can call me Rhett and I go by they/them pronouns. Feel free to send asks if you want to interact with me. However, since this is a +18 blog, I hope you guys know what you’re stepping into. And if you aren’t comfortable with nsfw whump blogs and I have followed you without this knowledge/accidentally, please do let me know.
I can’t really pick my favorite whump tropes, so assume I like everything (except for the squicks below) and tag me in your writings! Squicks: lady whumpee, lab whump. Irl kink blogs DNI please.
My writings so far if you want to take a peep 👀. Asks and commissions are open!
Series (same ocs, different aus)
1. He was Eaten Raw: defiant whumpee, royal whump ( intro | 1 )
2. Kiḷi whump ~ ( Reunions will hurt | Born a liar | Can we go together? | Indra’s welcome-back gift | Dinner Time | Lion in a Cage )
art ( Kian )
Explicit Nsfw Drabbles
1. You pretty thing Part 1 | Part 2 (Tw: tentacle fucking? yeah, noncon (sexual), graphic depictions of rape, mouth fucking too, conditioning, brainwashing, stress position, slut shaming, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, nsfw +18, royal whumpee)
2. I’ll make it feel like heaven (Tw: noncon touch (sexual), explicit rape, graphic depictions of sex, emotional manipulation, mentions of electrocutions, sex toys, nsfw af, whumpee turned whumper, caretaker whump)
4. A Deal with the Devil Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | (Tw: each part will be tagged accordingly. generally sexual noncon, caretaker whump)
2. Long live the queen (Tw: suicidal idealization, drowning, implied past abuse, burns, reference to past battles, knives, blood, dubcon kiss, dubcon touch, implied past noncon, lady whumper, royal whump, Caretaker whump)
3. To pay what’s due (Tw: noncon drugging, noncon touch - both sexual and not, verbal abuse, multiple whumpers, humiliation whump)
Whumper blindfolding Whumpee just to see the terror on their face when they think they're about to be hurt.
They're so used to Whumper actually hurting them that when they start stomping around the room, screaming, picking up various torture implements and clanging them together, cracking whips, belts, riding crops, just inches from Whumpee- they yelp every time, flinch at every sound, cry at every movement.
Everything Whumper could've asked for from their beautifully conditioned Whumpee.
When Whumpee finally starts to catch on, Whumper gets a little more creative; gently sliding a knife across their skin, their neck. Not enough to cut, but enough to terrify. Whispering, "If you flinch again, just another inch to the left, I'll slit your neck right open."
"P-Please- I don't know what I did, I-"
By the time Whumpee's blindfold is removed, no real harm has been done to them; but they're shaking, sobbing, maybe even having wet themselves, all from the perceived danger they were in.
Tommy panted, struggling to catch his breath. He made a show of it to try to stall, but when he didn’t answer fast enough, Caius pulled the rope again. It lifted him off of his feet, hanging him by his collar. The sharp tines inside impaled him on his weight.
Caius held the rope in one hand, his watch in the other.
Don’t! Tommy tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle as Caius pressed a button on his watch. The shock collar came to life, lighting his body up with a blazing jolt. He jerked and wriggled uncontrollably like a fish on a hook, spasming in pain for a few seconds before Caius eased up.
When he dropped the rope, Tommy crumpled to his knees, wheezing coughing. Blood trickled down the sides of his throat, cooling and growing tacky on his sweaty skin. He yanked frantically at his useless hands, locked safely away from use behind his back. Every shock reduced him a little more. It felt like Caius was shoving a blender in his head and mixing his brains up, and he struggled to put his thoughts back together.
“Are you ready to be a good boy for me, Tommy?”
Tommy sucked in a few more ragged breaths, unsteady on his knees. He was shirtless, and the cool basement air was making his skin clammy even as he sweat.
“Fuck you, you perverted fucking freak,” he spat.
Caius pursed his lips, feigning a look of disappointment.
“What a shame.”
Tommy’s hissing was cut off with a moan of fear as the rope tightened again, wrenching him off of his knees, and then off his feet entirely.
Caius pressed the control button and the shocks started up again, watching him writhe in pain. His legs kicked out, just a few inches away from finding ground to support himself. Not that he could when the current was going. Caius let him dance for a few moments more before taking his thumb off of the button. He dropped the rope, too, letting Tommy hit the floor. His knees would be black soon at this rate, if they weren’t already. The concrete was as unforgiving as Caius.
He stepped closer, invading Tommy’s space. The boy’s chest was heaving as he sucked in air greedily. Even with the shocks off, he was twitching and shuddering in the aftermath.
“I can do this all day, it’s no skin off my teeth. Your neck, however, well…” Caius leaned in, feeling a little rush when Tommy immediately shrank away. He couldn’t go very far on his short leash though, and Caius collected some blood below his collar on his fingertips. He held it up to show Tommy, and then pressed them to his lips.
“Lick.”
Tommy cringed back, disgusted, just as Caius had expected him to do. It wasn’t like it would be the first time Tommy had blood in his mouth, but Caius was always trying to get him to suck his fingers, it was disgusting. Caius tried again and he spit at him, snarling. He gave Tommy a disapproving tut and wagged a bloody finger in front of his eyes.
“Good boys do as they are told, Tommy. And like it or not, you’re going to be a very good boy for me.” With a sharp pull, Tommy was hoisted again, forcing out a yelp of pain. Caius let him cook for a long minute, forgetting to mind the time on his watch when he could watch Tommy flail and spasm instead. His screaming was strangled down to guttural choking sounds, and while it wasn’t as pretty, Caius could appreciate that it was an inherent part of this kind of torment.
When he released him again, Tommy fell lifelessly to the floor, his body still twitching. Caius kneeled in front of him and pulled back an eyelid, using his phone flashlight to check the pupil response. His heart hadn’t stopped, but he had lost consciousness. Caius handled him onto his side, wiping the blood and sweat from his fingers onto his handkerchief.
Tommy woke up a minute later. Everything was hazy; his thoughts distorted, his eyes blurry. There was a dribble of drool down his chin, and he couldn’t stop shivering.
“Welcome back.”
Tommy finally recognized what he saw was Caius’s knee on the ground in front of him, slowly registering a hand carding his sweat-slicked hair away from his face. He hiccuped on a dry sob, turning his face away to press his forehead to the floor, just so he didn’t have to look at him.
“Do you need it again?”
“No,” he croaked. His mouth was so dry. There was an uncomfortable buzzing inside of him, like there was still a current. His lips were numb, his throat felt gouged. His hands behind him felt detached from his body.
“Hmm? What was that?” Caius put a hand to his ear as if he couldn’t hear.
Tommy was tired of fighting. The furious revulsion he felt at cooperating with this monster still smoldered in him, but the pain was unbearable. He just needed to buy a break. Just…just a little one. And then he’d be back to himself again.
Caius started to draw the rope again and the last of Tommy’s resistance collapsed as he teased the rope taut, tugging at his collar.
“Nno, I wannabe - a goodboy,” he slurred.
“You’re going to have to speak up.”
His frustration was useless here, Caius held all the cards. Even if he cut the rope now, Tommy didn’t have the energy to stand, much less fight. He swallowed his pride, shuddering as aftershocks prickled through his body.
“I wanna be a good boy.”
He hated how defeated he sounded, how defeated he felt. Caius touched him again, always touching him, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“Good boy, Tommy, good boy,” Caius praised generously. Tommy felt lower than he’d ever been. Nausea burned in his empty stomach. Caius gently pushed his shoulder to ease him onto his back, running his hands down his chest and stomach like he was petting him. Tommy twitched uselessly, his hands crushed underneath him, too exhausted to struggle any longer.
“Let me show you how good it feels to be a good boy,” Caius said sweetly, as his hands strayed further down to grope him. Tommy whimpered piteously as he squeezed and massaged him through his pants, working him towards an unwanted erection while he was helpless to defend himself. Tears prickled in his eyes as his feelings overwhelmed him. When Caius undid his button and pulled his pants down his thighs, exposing him to the cold basement air, he tried to bite it back. When a warm fist wrapped around him and started to stroke, he began to cry.
“Aww,” Caius cooed, drinking in Tommy’s reactions as terrified sobs wracked his body.
“That’s it baby, let it out. But I’m not letting you go until you finish your treat. Take it like a good boy now.”
His hand was too rough, too demanding. Tommy cried harder when he leaned in, kissing away his tears. He tried to turn his face to one side, then the other. A sharp squeeze in punishment shut down his resistance. A scalding resentment boiled in him, but he was impotent to act on it.
“Good boy, good boy, good boy,” Caius chanted as he forced his pleasure. Repetitive, hypnotic, pushing again and again against Tommy's crumbling resistance. He couldn’t think, his brain fried, a horrific arousal lapping at his weakened nerves.
“Say it.”
Tommy whined, trembling underneath him. He struggled to wet his lips, his words breaking on a sob.
Part 2 of 3 commissions from @elgrajaz featuring Chip getting muzzled. I'm so happy with the expressions and his hair!
Unfortunately this is what happens when you're a bite risk. Captain thoroughly enjoys things that take away either senses or methods of defending one's self.
Poor thing panics so hard whenever restraints like this get involved but what can one expect from a 'declawed' cat?
whumpee is used to whumper taking off their belt to hit them with it, so when they hear the clink of the buckle they think they know what to expect. they brace to be struck, but this time whumper has other ideas, and whumpee has barely a second to process this new, totally unexpected violation before it really begins.
oh this is brilliant. this is utterly brilliant. belts in whump is one of my favourite things, i love that, and the specific bait and switch of knowing what kind of abuse to expect, being braced for it, and then experiencing a very different, unexpected kind of abuse.
whumpee is bent over, on a desk or a bed or over the back or arm of a couch. their head is down, they can't see whumper, but they don't have to. they always hear the belt before it comes off and they know what comes next. their shirt is off or maybe whumper even forces them to strip naked before they're beaten.
and maybe when whumper starts touching them, groping them, beginning the assault, they fight. whumper forces their legs open, pushes something inside them - whumper's fingers, or dick, or a toy - and they start thrashing, yelling. and that's when whumper gets frustrated and grabs the discarded belt, folding it in half and cracking it across whumpee's shoulders.
if they're going to make such a problem, they can get both.
whumper who maybe idly considered sexually assaulting whumpee but didn’t plan to actually do it until they learned a specific thing about whumpee’s sexual history. they’re a virgin - so whumper would be the first, the one to ‘break them in’ etc. they’ve only ever been with one person sexually - this is a favour whumper is doing for them, really, they should see the variety the world has to offer. they’ve been sexually assaulted before - whumper would both be triggering existing trauma AND inflicting new trauma at the same time, and that’s too sadistic to resist. they’ve had a lot of sex, they enjoy sex - whumper can ruin it for them, or see how good they are with all that practice, or tell them clearly they wanted it, they’ll let anyone fuck them.
the victim blaming. the internalized victim blaming. the way they’d feel like if they hadn’t been like that, if they’d had sex before or had different sex or less sex then whumper wouldn’t have been ‘tempted’ by them and they wouldn’t have been assaulted.
Sex tapes and explicit photos in whump / noncon whump
whumper recording the assault 'for later'
whumper recording a consensual sexual encounter, but not telling the other person they're being filmed until they try to leave or tell whumper to stop
whumpee who consented to being recorded or photographed for something non-sexual, only for their assault to be preserved on film
whumpee who consented to sex and being filmed, only to find out after the break up that their ex leaked all of it online
whumpee who makes a living filming / photographing themselves having sex, who is then assaulted on livestream while their viewers eagerly watch on assuming it's all scripted
whumpee whose assault was captured on CCTV cameras, who has photos of their assault slid across the table to them by the police / their lawyer
whumpee whose assault was captured on CCTV cameras, who has photos of their assault slid across the table to them by their assailant's lawyer, who wants to know if that's the look of someone who's fighting back?
whumper who photographs the wounds and bite marks and bruises and stains they left on whumpee
whumper who makes whumpee relive what happened to them by sending them photos and videos of it later
whumper who, being restricted from seeing whumpee, decides to send photos and video of the assault to whumpee's loved ones
CW: Pet whump, restraints, nonhuman whumpee, deshumanization, sensory deprivation, bound and gagged, muzzled, manipulation.
~~~~~~~~~~~🦌🦌🦌~~~~~~~~~~~
Your pet has defied you. One could even call it disrespect. After all you’ve done—choosing to buy him, to bring him home, instead of leaving him to rot in the black market like some wild animal… And this is how he repays you? Such insolence demands an exemplary punishment. And you already know the one: Sensory Deprivation.
“Perhaps a little time alone will help you realize that this is all you’ll ever have. And if I wish, I can take it away. You abused my trust, and now you’ll lose your privileges.”
Elafi lowers his head until his forehead and antlers press against the floor. He doesn’t answer. He only cries, resigned.
You rummage through drawers and boxes until you find what you need: coils of rope. The leather cuffs are far too gentle—tonight, you want something harsher. You force gloves over the deer’s hands, then lash his wrists to his elbows in a box-tie. Tape winds around his hands and arms, sealing the restraint. His legs follow—ankles, calves, thighs bound tight with rope and more tape until he has no freedom left. You won’t give him an inch of movement.
Dragging him across the floor, you shove him onto the dog bed inside the closet. More rope snakes around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The collar clicks shut at his throat, leash tied to the metal bar above. A second chain links the collar to his bound thighs, forcing his knees to his chest and locking his neck in place.
“Please…” he whispers as you reach for the muzzle.
“Not a word,” you snap, forcing it onto his face and fastening the buckles tight behind his head.
He trembles. Poor creature—yet this is only the beginning.
You take a scarf, fold it in half, and then tie it over his eyes. He whines in fear at the sudden darkness, deprived of sight. The noise-cancelling headphones won’t fit his deer-like ears, so you settle for rubber earplugs.
“Enjoy your solitude,” you murmur as you slide in the first one.
His whimpers are weak and desperate. He struggles, but the multiple bindings hold firm. You fit the second earplug and close the closet door. Silence swallows him whole. Eight hours should suffice.
With your pet secured, you decide to take advantage of the freedom to leave the house, running errands with no fear of any foolish escape attempts.
When you return, it’s almost night. A storm has rolled in, and you can barely see through the thick drops of rain striking your windshield. You park inside the safety of your garage and begin unloading the groceries. The house, aside from the rain on the roof and the wind howling through the windows, is quiet. You stop to look at the living room wall clock and realize that Elafi’s punishment still has a couple of hours to go.
You peek into your bedroom, at the closed closet door on the other side. You had already decided to deny your pet food as part of the punishment, but now another thought stirs. Why not trick him into believing more time has passed? If only to add extra weight to the psychological torture. After all, you never told him how long the punishment would last…
After the eight hours have passed, you rise from the sofa where you’d been scrolling through your phone and go to your bedroom. You change into an entirely new outfit and open the closet door.
Even with his eyes blind and ears deaf, Elafi startles. When your hand brushes his knees to untie the rope at his neck, he thrashes and screams in panic. Tears leak beneath his blindfold. You remove the muzzle, and the first sound is not a word but a desperate, broken gasp, followed by frantic hyperventilating.
You take out the first earplug just as thunder rumbles through the house. Elafi lets out a cry of terror before his voice dissolves into sobs.
“Easy, it’s me,” you whisper, removing the second plug. The deer pins his ears flat against his skull, desperate to muffle the storm’s roar.
You undo the scarf from around his eyes. He keeps his eyelids clamped shut, curling into the corner of the closet.
“Oh? Didn’t you miss me at all?” you tease, mock-offended, though his terror pleases you—it’s precisely what you intended.
You remove the collar and leash, cut the tape with scissors, and untie the knots. The instant his hands are free, Elafi covers his ears, head bowed and teeth biting into his lip to hold back noise.
Outside, the storm howls on.
Risking a kick from his hoof, you lean forward and wrap the deer in your arms, crushing him against your chest. You feel his body tense, his breath seeming to cut off, but your warm and calm touch does its work. Slowly, his fingers cling to your clothes like hooks as he opens his mouth and lets out a pathetic, mingled sob that blends with the storm outside. Tears run, soaking his face and your clothes. He trembles like an abandoned fawn. Perhaps that is exactly how he feels now.
You hold him for a while, stroking his head and hair, covering his ears with your palms to muffle the outside noise. You don’t know how long you stay that way, until the storm finally begins to wane.
When you move to stand, he clings, sobbing like a child.
“Clingy now, aren’t you?” you comment. “Three days without me was enough to miss me?”
You’re clearly lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“M-Master…” he cries, voice hoarse and broken. “I-I’m so-rry… p-please…”
“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you,” you answer, stepping back, rising to your feet. “I warned you your punishment would be severe.”
Without your touch, the deer can only hug himself, curled into a ball on the floor, muttering apologies.
You had thought not to feed him, but perhaps you can offer a little water. You hurry to the kitchen and fill his small plastic cup with the liquid. He drinks, trembling, and you brush a hand over his cheek.
“There. A little water will help. I don’t want you to die of dehydration either. Tell me—what did you learn from this lesson?”
Elafi takes a long time to answer, still crying.
“I-I’m sorry, M-Master… I-I won’t… run away again…”.
“Good.” Your tone is calm—far calmer than the thrill rushing through you. “It seems you have learned. What a good pet you are!”
The praise soothes him; his crying subsides.
“It’s late, so I think I’ll let you rest. Tomorrow, we return to our routine, and I expect to see you behaving like a good pet.”
The deer is marked with red lines where the ropes score his skin, so maybe you won’t tie him up tonight.
“Goodnight. See you tomorrow,” you say, moving to close the door—until a strangled plea and his trembling hand stop you.
“P-please!” he whimpers. “Don’t—don’t lock me in again… please. C-could you… could you leave the door open?”
You raise an eyebrow in surprise.
“And how can I be sure you won’t run if I do?”
His gaze drops, chest heaving in anguish.
“Y-you can bind me…” he murmurs. “B-but please, Master… don’t leave me locked in the dark…”
A victory bell rings in your mind, though you force yourself not to show your excitement.
“Well… since you insist, and since you’re being such a good pet, who am I to refuse?”
You go back for the leather cuffs and fasten them around his ankles and wrists. For caution’s sake, you keep his hands behind his back. Additionally, you put the blindfold back on (you don’t want him watching you, now that you’ll leave the closet door open). The storm has left the room feeling cold, and seeing the deer still trembling, you agree to grant him a blanket for the night.
“Thank you, Master…” he murmurs, curling on the dog bed as you tuck him in.
“Before you fall asleep, what did we learn today?”
The deer answers, dragging out the words:
“I mustn’t… run away…”
You smile.
“Goodnight, pet.”
“Good night, Master…”
Elafi is asleep in an instant. It seems the emotional exhaustion was enough to knock him out immediately. You dim the room, leaving only the nightlamp’s glow while you prepare for bed yourself.
But before you drift off, you find yourself pondering: how to ensure obedience in your pet in the future?
Should you…?
Rule with harsher hand. More physical punishments for even the smallest mistake.
Be kinder. With sweetness, and gaslighting, surely you can bend his mind.
Voting ended onOct 4, 2025
*Physical punishments may include beatings, slaps, electrocution, even whippings. Caging, muzzling or binding applied to both options.
content: claustrophobia, in cage/container, heavy restraints, sensory deprivation, itching, captivity, failed escape
-
It wasn’t that bad, this time. Whumper had only roughed him up a bit, like a punching bag. He wasn’t even bleeding except for a bit in his mouth. He could keep going, really. He’d rather keep going than the alternative. He’d rather take the pain.
But as Whumper was so fond of saying, it wasn’t his choice.
“I think I’m about done with you,” they mused with a final, half-hearted kick. “Time to put you away.”
In a desperate bid to stall, Whumpee spat at them, a little blood making it pink. It landed just beside Whumper’s shoe–he wasn’t the most coordinated right now.
Whumper had the nerve to laugh. “Cute. You’re still getting put away.”
Whumpee groaned. “Just gimme a break.”
“This is your break. I do love how much you want to spend time with me, though.” Whumper bent down to ruffle his hair in mock-affection. “Come along, now. You know it’s only going to be worse if I have to force you. I won’t hesitate to get the itching powder again if you’re not cooperative.”
He hated that they were right.
Whumpee picked himself up off the floor, swaying on his feet until Whumper caught his arm, leading him over to that dreaded wooden box.
It was too small, too tight, even though Whumper said they made it specifically to fit him. It just barely fit him, and that was before everything else.
Whumper took out the dreaded straitjacket. Where they even got that thing, Whumpee had no idea, but he’d become intimately familiar with it since his last escape attempt a couple months back.
“In you go,” Whumper encouraged, chipper as they always were after they were finished with him. Like all their stress relieved directly over to Whumpee, multiplied by a thousand.
“How long are we doing this? When do I get another chance? Can’t we just go back to how it was before?” Despite his protests, Whumpee slotted his arms into the terrible thing, letting Whumper lace it around him without a fight. As Whumper tightened and secured the straps, it forced him to squeeze himself, unable to move. One strap even went under and between his legs, so he couldn’t try to wriggle it up over his head.
“Good, good,” Whumper hummed. “I’ve already answered that plenty of times: this is your life forever. I won’t risk your little escapes again. Now, enough from you.” They secured the blindfold and inserted the earplugs next, followed by tape over both, leaving Whumpee to navigate by touch alone.
Whumper’s hands guided him down into the box, facedown, the walls hugging him on the sides and touching the top of his head and the tips of his toes. His arms dug into his chest, making it just a little hard to breathe.
Then came the box’s restraints, bolting him to the floor of it. One across the back of his neck, many more down his torso and legs, the last one pressing his ankles down.
Whumpee’s heartbeat was the only thing he could hear. Everything was constricting: he couldn’t even imagine a way to escape now. He couldn’t even pick his face up off the floor.
There was no powder this time, since he’d behaved, but his arm itched, right below the elbow. Nothing he could do about it. He squirmed, but even that was nearly impossible: Whumper always made everything way too tight.
And there he would stay until Whumper wanted to hurt him next.
This would take place about two weeks after their rescue ☺
TW: flashback, post nightmare, caning, stress position (sort of), noncon mention, recovering whumpee
Quinn closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the feeling of phantom fingers crawling across his skin.
Focus on something else.
Focus on something that is real.
One, two, three, four, five...
Today wasn't a good day.
He swallowed down another wave of nausea and tilted his head up to the ceiling as he swayed even from his seated position on the edge of the bed. The grounding techniques weren't working. They usually did help, at least a little bit, but today, simply sucking in enough air to fill his own lungs was enough to send him tumbling over the edge.
He cast his mind back to last night, to the nightmares full of the most macabre display of his own lived out pain and humiliation that plagued him in his sleep. Something in those twisted memories must have followed him back into his waking consciousness. Still, it was no different than any other night.
Why was today so much worse?
The clothes on his body felt suffocating, itching across his skin, and the floor warmed beneath his feet in a way that made him want to be sick again. He pressed the back of his clammy hand against his mouth and swallowed thickly, his skin prickling with sweat.
It was too hot.
He twisted the hem of his shirt between his fingers, trying to just feel the material.
Let it calm you down.
Let it ground you.
You're safe and you're free and you are allowed wear clothes and to not be on display for anyone that might want to bend you over the fucking desk and fuck you open until you bleed.
A cold sweat broke out across his body and his arms moved without his permission, stripping off the soft shirt and letting it slip from his fingers to the floor. He could smell his own fear, seeping out from his pores and being soaked up into the loose fibers.
That shirt was safe. It belonged to Collins, smelt like him.
Quinn didn't want it to smell like something else.
Sweat and salt and something bitter and cloying filled his senses as a tear slipped down his face. His fingers begged him to pick up the shirt again and bury his face in Collins' scent. It would help him. Ground him. He knows it would.
Fuck.
Is this what he's become?
Collins hadn't even been gone for more than 20 minutes and Quinn deteriorates into some quibbling heap for him to clean up when he gets back. He didn't even want to leave him this time. Quinn had to assured him he would be okay for an hour.
Of course he'd be okay.
He felt himself slip off the side of the bed and sink to his knees. The world seemed to right itself in some awful way as he pressed the palms of his hands against the cool floor.
This was right. He belonged on his knees.
Fuck! Please don't do this.
One, two, three-
Quinn opened his eyes and blinked back his surprise at finding his own thighs still hidden beneath his pants.
That was wrong.
His fingers curled and his nails scraped against the metal of the ship. His pants felt heavy and too hot as a phantom touch dragged down his side, scraping at the hem of the pants he wasn't supposed to be wearing.
A shiver quaked through Quinn's body and he hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband, pulling them over the curve of his ass. The phantom fingers touched him there, cool and poking and prodding at the exposed flesh. They were pleased with him now, demanding more.
He dragged the pants down his thighs and shifted on his knees to pull them off his legs, one by one.
Sweat cooled on his body and he shivered in his nakedness, his heart calming its frantic pace slightly.
This was how it was supposed to be.
His knees already ached painfully, shooting barbs of electricity deep into the joint and down his shins. He pressed down harder. The pain was grounding.
That was good, right? Wasn't it?
He didn't think so.
The brush of touch with no body ran up his spine and he dropped his head down like he was supposed to do, exposing his neck, allowing them all the access they desired.
He was good.
He knew his place.
His mouth dropped open unbidden and his world narrowed, a darkness washing at the edges of his vision and obliterating his senses. Up was down and he couldn't trust himself to move. That wasn't his place anyway. He didn't have to worry about that anymore. The Captain would move him as he sees fit. Spread him open and break his hips to keep him in place- wouldn't he?
Quinn flinched back hard at the sound of the cane against his palms. He looked down at his hands, startled to see his slight pink of his palms and no bright red from the strike.
He'd felt it though. He knew he'd felt it.
No. Please.
–
Quinn screamed behind his clenched teeth, dropping his head as the cane came down hard across his palms.
It felt like a he was being beaten with a hot knife. He swore that the Captain was shattering every delicate bone in his hands with each strike.
He shuddered violently as the tip of the cane came up to press just beneath his chin, tilting his face up.
“Eyes on me, boy. I've already told you once. I wont tell you again.”
Quinn sucked in a wet breath, lifting his eyes to where they belonged.
“Yes, sir,” he whimpered. He wanted to cringe back at the brokenness of his own voice, but he was broken, wasn't he. He sounded exactly as he was supposed to sound.
He watched as the Captain smirked down at him, trailing the cane down Quinn's cheek and over his outstretched arms.
The Captain swung his arm up sharply and Quinn braced, eyes firmly on the Captain, as the cane whipped through the air and struck against his palms.
Quinn screamed.
His fingers curled, desperate to protect the swelling, tender flesh of his palms as Quinn fought against his own body to stretch them out again.
A whimper peeled out of his throat when the cane brushed lightly against his hands. The Captain tisked as he rolled the thin, smooth length of the cane across his fingers, forcing them open again.
“Your punishment hasn't even begun yet, boy.”
Quinn fought to keep his trembling fingers straight and his arms outstretched as the Captain circled him, the tip of the cane grazing over his naked, exposed flesh. A shiver traced the path of the cane as it was trailed down his back and over his ass, back up towards his shoulder and down his arm to his throbbing hands.
Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his face, obscuring his vision but the moment the Captain was back in front of him again, his eyes were where they belonged.
Please stop.
“That's my good boy.”
The Captain whipped the cane back and struck his palms in rapid succession. Quinn braced with each punishing strike, pulling his hands back into position the moment the force of the cane struck them down again.
He never looked away.
With another vicious strike, the Captain cursed loudly, reaching out and roughly grabbing Quinn's left hand.
“Fucking pathetic piece of shit. That's going to fucking scar.”
His palm had split open, bright red and weeping against the violent purple of his palm.
His hand was dropped and Quinn risked pulling his throbbing hands to his chest and folding his body over them as the Captain turned away, tossing the cane across the room.
“Get up,” the Captain demanded as he pulled off his jacket, “If you're going to fucking bleed all the over the place, I might as well enjoy myself. Get over here, over the desk.”
Quinn lifted his head and moved immediately do as he was told. He stood on numb, shaky legs and stumbled towards the desk as the Captain unbuttoned his pant.
He practically fell against the edge of the desk, allowing himself to be pushed down and his legs kicked apart. He watched his own blood seep onto a stack of papers and idly wondered if they were of any importance.
Quinn shifted his hips and spread his legs open even wider as fingers ghosted over his flesh.
He heard the Captain hum his approval.
Just be good.
It won't hurt so bad if you're good.
--
That took far longer than Collins had thought it would. Prim was planning to land on the nearest friendly planet to stock up on supplies and had needed to go over security measures and new protocols, etc., etc.
It had taken forever. He needed to get back to Quinn.
Collins forced himself to slow down his pace as he turned the corner to the crew's quarters. He was fine. Quinn would be fine. He was only gone for an hour. He looked at his watch and grimaced. Well, almost two hours now.
He felt his heart flip as he neared their door and he took a moment to slow his breathing before sliding it open. Quinn didn't need to know how much he worried when he was out of his sight. He had enough to deal with without Collins adding his own fears to the pile.
The door slid open and his heart dropped.
“Quinn?”
It took more strength than he cared to admit for him to tear himself from his spot by the door and enter the room.
The air felt thick and heavy, stepping inside was like approaching the open maw of a bottomless cavern. Collins forced himself to take the few steps it took to reach Quinn and knelt down, his hands held out in front of him in a calming manner but he didn't think it mattered.
Quinn was gone.
“Quinn? Can you hear me?”
Sweat had slicked down his naked body and wet the floor beneath his knees. He was trembling violently with his eyes shut tight. His entire body had tensed when Collins had entered the room and he'd curled himself up even tighter.
“Goddamn it,” Collins swallowed back his panic and reached out to touch Quinn's jaw, if only to close his mouth. It looked painful how wide he was holding it open. Nausea swelled in his gut as Quinn flinched bodily at the soft touch and opened his mouth even wider.
“No, Quinn. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you.”
The whine that tore out of Quinn's throat sliced a piece off of Collins' own soul and laid it at his feet.
“Quinn, can you hear me? It's Collins. There's no one else here, okay? Quinn?”
He watched as Quinn's mouth lost some of its tension and his brow creased in confusion. His chest began to heave in rapid succession as he waited, his hands balled up into fists on his thighs and his eyes still firmly closed.
Collins didn't know what to do. Every single instinct that resided in his body felt wrong. He wanted to be gentle with him, to smooth his sweaty hair back from his face and kiss the corners of his eyes until they finally opened and awareness cleared his vision. But he knew. He knew every single touch would be felt as if it was coming from someone else's hand.
Collins stood abruptly, turning to the shower and flipping it on as cold as it would go. The sound of the water cascading down filled the room and seemed to clear some of that heavy fog that had settled around them.
His put his hand over Quinn's shoulder and the man flinched violently, almost falling off his knees before righting himself.
Collins decided he had to move quickly. He didn't want Quinn thinking he was about to be assaulted for even a fraction of a second longer than he needed to be. Collins bent down and hauled Quinn into his arms in one sweeping motion, stepping to the shower in two quick strides.
The terrified, broken sound that cracked out of Quinn's chest tore at his mind but he stepped quickly into the stall with Quinn in his arms and slid them both down to the floor.
Quinn gasped out in shock as the freezing water shattered whatever specter of memory had gripped his mind. He kicked out and Collins hissed when Quinn's fingernails scraped down his neck as he fought for purchase.
“Quinn. It's me! QUINN!” He yelled in the small space, holding the man tight against his chest until Quinn finally looked up and Collins watched his eyes begin to clear as he tried to focus on his face.
“Hey,” Collins said, pressing his fingers into the back of Quinn's neck and hoping to god that it was soothing instead of horrifying, “You're okay. You're here, with me. He's fucking dead, Quinn.”
Quinn suddenly jerked in his arms and scrambled out of his reach, sliding across the shower floor into the opposite corner, his chest heaving as he frantically looked as his hands in some kind of horror.
Collins had frozen in place, his one hand outstretched and his jaw clenched tight, as Quinn desperately tried to piece his world back together again.
A panicked breath forced itself from Quinn's chest like a punch as realization fully hit him.
“Oh fuck,” Quinn breathed out, sinking back against the shower wall and dropping his head into his hands, “Collins-”
The last came out on the edge of a pained whimper as Quinn swallowed repeatedly, trying to force the hitching sobs back down his throat.
“I'm here,” Collins reached out but held back just shy of actually touching him in the small space, “I'm right here with you, Quinn.”
The water pounded down around them. Collins' clothes were soaked through and sticking heavily to his skin but the freezing cold water felt almost warm with the adrenaline burning itself through his veins.
He wanted so badly to reach out and hold Quinn close. Instead, he straightened one leg out a bit, letting their knees touch.
Quinn finally met his eyes.
Collins watched him pull in one shaky breath after another through his trembling lips before the set of Quinn's jaw hardened and he lashed out with his arm, banging the side of the shower with his fist.
“Fuck!” He screamed, digging his fingers back into his hair and pulling at the roots with his fists, “This can't keep happening.”
He shivered hard and Collins leaned forward slowly, eyeing Quinn carefully before reaching up and turning the water to just slightly warmer but still cool.
Quinn's eyes tracked his every movement. He seemed to force his body to release a shred of the tension buzzing viciously underneath his skin.
“I'm here, Collins. I know you wont hurt me,” Quinn said, dropping his hand to rest over Collins' ankle, his thumb brushing back and forth over his now thoroughly soaked pant leg.
“I know,” Collins tried to assure him, “but when you're- lost, like that, you don't know it's me.”
“Lost,” Quinn repeated, his body slumping against the wall of the shower as if the word stole all his remaining strength away. He met Collins' eyes. “I'm sorry.”
Collins rested the side of his head against the tile, letting the water wash away the droves of adrenaline. He wanted to gather Quinn up in his arms and soothe away all the pain that was etches across his face. He reached out and covered his bare knee with his hand instead, hoping that the touch would calm them both.
“What do you remember?”
“I don't know,” Quinn said as he looked down at his palms, curling his hands into fists and opening them again. “I remember that my clothes felt wrong somehow, like they didn't belong on my body, and I knew I was starting to panic again. I couldn't focus on anything. I tried to do what you said but-”
His voice broke and he swept a hand through the rivulets of water mixed with tears streaming down his face.
“I was back there-,” he tried again before his face crumbled and he moved the two feet it took to draw himself back up against Collins' side. Collins opened his arms and let Quinn decide how close he wanted to get. Quinn dropped his weight back into Collins' arms and tucked his legs up against his side and Collins felt the tension in his chest begin to ease back.
“They didn't have to hurt me like that,” Quinn whispered, “They didn't have to fucking tear me apart until there was nothing left.”
“Hey,” Collins spoke loud enough for Quinn to hear him clearly over the drone of the water, allowing himself to finally brush Quinn's wet hair back from his face, “You're still whole, Quinn. You're still you.”
He felt Quinn shake his head against his chest.
“I'm not.”
“You are,” Collins said wrapping both his arms around Quinn and letting the water wash freely over them, “You're still strong and kind and honest... and an angry little shit when you need to be.”
Quinn huffed out an incredulous laugh as Collins continued, “I know we didn't know each other much, before, but I remember, one time, when you were programming something on the console that I wont pretend to understand and Murphy came over and flipped the wrong switch or something. You were so pissed. I remember thinking your jaw was going to shatter from you trying to hold back whatever it was you wanted to say. You still have that in you. That fire.”
“He deleted half of my work with one press of a button,” Quinn said, “Paid me double for the day though.” He paused, his tone soft in remembrance, “I miss him. He was a good man.”
Collins felt his throat try to close with guilt, instantly regretting bring up Murphy at the sorrow in Quinn's voice.
He couldn't respond. He didn't have the right.
He had no right to share in that grief.
Quinn might not be as he was before, but he was still a far better man than Collins could ever hope to be.
Quinn shifted a little, stretching out his left leg as if his hip hurt, and leaned further against Collins, letting the last of the adrenaline finally bleed out of his system.
“You ready to get out?” Collins asked.
“In a minute,” Quinn said as he rested against Collins' chest, his eyes fixed to the faint line that crossed his palm.
He flinched, only slightly, when Collins placed his hand over Quinn's. He brushed his thumb over the scar and Quinn let out a surprised breath when that light touch didn't hurt.
"Never again," Collins whispering against the wet mess of Quinn's hair as he placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
Quinn felt himself smile. The water was cool against his skin but Collins’ warmth was enough to keep him from shivering. He pressed his now healed palm against Collins’ chest and closed his eyes.
Welcome to my presentation. A caning is usually associated with a thin flexibel rod. But I don't want that. Okyeahsometimes. What I want is a sturdy wooden stick. Because sometimes you need to whack a motherf-- Ahem. Let's start the presentation.
- Canes are about style! They give classy, stoic, cold even, observing, patient!
- But mostly, canes are all about anticipation. The ominous taps of wood that precede footsteps. The 'oh shit it's him'. Getting closer. A hand casually resting on the handle. Seeing the tip of the cane leave the ground, slowly raised; a prelude to pain.
- Start with a backhanded swing to whack them off balance. Followed up with some precision hits to the face or ribs. Or just completely let loose when they are on the ground, only stopping when they are screaming and begging for mercy--
- Precision damage with just the tip. A sharp jab to already broken ribs, to a vulnerable stomach, to zone in on bruises.
- Great to just lean the end onto their ribcage, or better: on their hand. And then slowly leaning forward, leaning more weight onto it.
- Embellishments. Imagine blood spatters on polished dark wood, on silver patterns. Wood reinforced with metal. A sturdy metal handle, shaped into something personal or just a round, orb handle.
- So yeah, if a beating with a stick is not giving the right results, turn it over, hold it by the end and slam that silver handle into them.
- Even more fancy: hidden weapons in the handle! A sword, knife, poison!
- But it doesn't have to be all fancy. Exhibit A: the simple walking stick with a curved handle. Perfect for yanking your victim closer. Hitch it around their neck while you whisper sweet threats in their face.
- Warnings: a quick jab to the wall, just next to their throat (fencing style). Holding it over their throat (bonus if in a cross with the sword they just pulled out) or swinging it up, holding it out horizontally to block their path. Not to mention the chin tilts omg *faints*
Maybe for a deal with the devil like some kind of post-escape thing? Where whumpee has to come to terms with what caretaker did for them?
it's been awhile, and i don't think any apology can make up for how long it's been. but! i plan to answer all of the prompts in my askbox one by one. starting with this prompt for the deal with devil series. thank you anon for the ask, hope you enjoy this piece :) i'll call this part 6.
(tw: discussion of past torture, discussion of past noncon/dubcon, emotional hurt, past captivity)
In the hospital, Whumpee feels like they're a mummy, wrapped in casts and gauze and wires and bed sheets. When he makes this joke to the nurse, she laughs, but Caretaker winces. The nurse, oblivious to it, corrects Whumpee that the bodies were disembowelled before being wrapped in linen. Whumpee says that it feels like it, still trying to make Caretaker smile and failing, for he stands up suddenly and leaves the room.
When he comes back, Whumpee is ready with an apology. But looking at the canned coffee Caretaker must have grabbed from the vending machine, and the dark circles under his eyes, Whumpee says something entirely different.
"You alright?"
Caretaker drags a chair close to their cot and slumps into it. A sarcastic uptick of his lips accompanies the sarcastic response, "Never better. How are you coping with being abducted and tortured within an inch of your life?"
Whumpee is distracted by the drink. "You don't even like coffee. Compared it to the taste of tar mixed in with dishwater." And because Whumpee is never confrontational, they add, "give me some."
A dry snort escapes Caretaker. He shakes his head, opening the can and taking small sips. His eyes leave Whumpee and settle on the monitors mapping out their heart rate and vitals. It gives Whumpee the chance to really look at him. The lack of bandages should appease them, but they can't stop thinking about those splotches of red on his collarbones, chest, and lower.
Caretaker catches their line of sight, and Whumpee glances away before he can spot emotion.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
Whumpee shrugs.
"Please, Whumpee. Tell me."
Whumpee drags their gaze back to him. Caretaker's shoulders are hunched and drawing close to his ears. The coffee is balanced between his thighs, which he cups with both hands. Whumpee's heart turns over, uncomfortable with this development. They pick at the blanket in their lap.
"You, uh, gonna tell the cops about everything?" they ask.
"They'll need all the information they can get to keep Whumper behind bars for life."
Whumpee hums, letting the sound elongate and crawl into the air. Caretaker finally lifts his head, a knowing twitch to his brows. "You don't agree?"
They make grabby hands at Caretaker, luring him in for the response. He stands and takes Whumpee's hand, but doesn't get on the bed; Whumpee will take what they can get. "I'm pretty sure Whumper will get what they deserve from all the things they did to me."
"You don't know that."
"I'm just saying—"
"What are you saying?" Caretaker snatches his hand back. He walks to the foot of the bed. Stops. Before Whumpee can ask him to come back, he spins on his heel and points an accusing finger at them. "You don't want me to say anything, is that it?"
"You've lost me, Caretaker."
A full-fledged frown overtakes his gentle features. He is shaking, a threadbare jostle of limbs that he tries to hide by lowering his hand and taking another swing of coffee.
"Caretaker?" Whumpee whispers, feeling wrongfooted. Their heart does a whole cartwheel this time, pained to be at odds with him. Whumpee hates that the spike of worry is so similar to what they felt chained in a dark cellar. It feels like he'll be comparing every moment to those days in captivity. Because fear tastes and smells and feels the same.
Whumpee inhales deeply. Wherever they are, one thing is consistent. They swallow the hard rock bubbling in their throat and dumps the talk of cops, cases and investigations in the trash. The only thing that matters is right in front of them. "Baby?"
Caretaker blinks at them, fingers twisting the coffee can with vengeance. It's a miracle none of it spills out. He slowly approaches the bedside and resumes his spot on the chair. "Calm down," he says, gesturing at the heart rate monitor going haywire.
"Sorry," Whumpee says, a little more than embarrassed.
He tosses the empty can. It flies in a perfect arc and lands in the trash. If this were a year ago, Whumpee would have gotten competitive and grabbed more things to throw. Caretaker would have started off with scathing remarks that devolved into giggles. Today, they remain quiet.
"It's my fault," Caretaker says, "I didn't mean to scare you."
You didn't, Whumpee wants to reassure. It's just their stupid body's reaction.
"I will tell the cops everything," Caretaker asserts, though he sounds small and tired. "You- we- I know what happened changes things between us. I get it if you need to rethink, or- or change your mind about our relationship. But I don't want even the slightest chance of Whumper being free again. You barely made it out this time."
Whumpee is... Whumpee's head is reeling, to say the least. They think it must be the morphine dripping into their system. "Caretaker, you know I would never leave you, right?"
Caretaker bites his lip. "I'm just saying... I- you don't know everything that happened yet."
"I know enough."
He scowls, a clear disagreement if any.
Whumpee can't lift their arm, but they open their palm and beckon Caretaker, who rolls his eyes before bending over and resting their chin on their hand. "You really don't know," he says again, doing his best to stay disgruntled.
They stroke his cheeks, brushing stray hair behind his ears. "Tell me then."
Caretaker's eyes become wet. He shudders and wraps an arm around Whumpee's waist. Whumpee thinks that if mummifying Caretaker would protect him, they'd switch places with him this instant.
"I can't sleep," Caretaker admits after a while. "I need the coffee to overpower the other tastes. It's hard to shower with the lights on, and I worry every day that my mother is going to find the pictures Whumper took."
Whumpee nods, holding back tears of their own. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry."
Caretaker blows out a noisy, congested, exhausted breath. "Whumper was so focused on you, and I- I can't do this whole life gig without you, so- so—"
"I know, I know," Whumpee shushes him. With lots of coaxing and nudges, Caretaker lies down next to them. His body brackets theirs, and he rests his head right next to theirs on the same pillow, ensuring that he never puts weight on Whumpee.
"Go to sleep," Whumpee says. "You must be fatigued from the spontaneous love confessions."
"Fatigue— big word. Did the nurse teach you that?" Caretaker murmurs, melting into the cot. Whumpee retorts, but gets no response save for snores and snuffles. Whumpee sighs.
The weight of Caretaker's sacrifice sits on their chest. Then, Caretaker wraps an arm around them again. Whumpee decides that the sacrifice started as love. And too much love is never a bad thing.
Tag list: @crimson-wrld @whumpawink @settlingsand @castielamigos-whump-side-blog
gripping your blog rn. like when you’re upset so u grab a pillow and squeeze it, like that typa grip. ouuuuughhhhhhhhhhh living weapon whump makes me combust 💥💥💥
- with love /p, 🥧
Thank you SO MUCH I'm gonna do more!
[found the missing ask!! Was going through life problems so it took longer than expected to answer, sorry!]
More Living weapon stuff
(war vibes)
Content: dehumanization,
The other soldiers get treated ok. But they volunteered. Whumpee is locked in a cage when they're not in use.
Magically tough whumpee trained to be more resilient by beating them up.
As a punishment, Whumper gives whumpee to the other soldiers for a night, telling them they can do whatever they want to whumpee, just don't kill them.
Following it up with "You better yourself useful as a weapon, or I'll give you to them for good."
"Get up." Punch. Whumpee staggers back, sliding into a wall, hands bound behind their back. "Don't let me knock you down." Punch. "If you don't cooperate, this is going to get 10 times worse."
Whumpee dragging themselves back injured from a failed attack. "Fuck, i'm going to pay for this, I just know I am."
A set punishment for every failure. Whumpee just muttering to themself, "ten strikes. Ten strikes and it'll be over."
Manhandling whumpee as whumper shows them off to the others. Pulling their head back by the hair to show how whumpee doesn't resist.
Whumpee tries to convince whumper they're loyal, they don't need all the threats and punishments. "You're a monster, whumpee; obedience goes against your instincts. Just be glad you're allowed to do something for the greater good."
Whumpee forced to stay stoic and hide their rage at the mistreatment. They're punished for showing any kind of emotion. So it comes out in the way they fight, gouging and slashing through their enemies with throat-ripping screams.
Or, they have so much control that they are completely lucid as they kill. Stabbing through their enemy's throat while looking them in the eyes, reminding themselves "i have no choice" over and over
Not allowed to wear enough clothes, to dehumanize them. Maybe just fighting in something akin to underwear, covered in fresh wounds and bruises and blood.
