the writing (heh) has been on the wall for a while, but i suppose i might as well say so for anyone who might still be checking this blog. nothing in life is certain, but i'm retiring as a whump writer for the forseeable future.
the friendships i found through this blog helped a sheltered young adult through the uncertainty and growing pains of starting their adult life and growing up. writing with and for you all will remain some of my fondest memories!
a special nod to some of my dearest writer friends, whether or not they are still active on here: for-the-love-of-angst, justplainwhump, ashintheairlikesnow, just-horrible-things, comfy-whumpee, whumpiary, and card-games-and-pain. we're all in a different chapter of life than we were seven-odd years ago, i think, and i wish us all the very best.
i don't think i'll finish the (many) series i've started over the years. i love my characters fiercely, and they've taught me a lot about writing and about myself. for now, their purpose in my life is finished.
i won't be deleting anything, so if you've enjoyed what i've written here don't worry - this blog will remain as an archive. my pinned post with my masterlists will stay up. if it helps, i envisioned all of my stories eventually winding their way to mostly happy endings. i hope the same for all of us. 💜
🥺🥺🥺🥺 🧽 cleaning them up after mean smut for Talvos please
I swear this STARTED on-prompt….
The air in the tent is thick and stifling. Talvos breathes in shallow spurts, lightly dizzy under the weight of the man sleeping atop him. His hands have long since gone numb, but their bound position digging into the small of his back doesn’t seem to deter the bounty hunter’s snores. Beyond the canvas, the rest of the camp is silent. Tonight, in a change of pace for which Talvos is dreadfully grateful, the leader of his captors didn’t see fit to call anyone else to join in his enjoyment. Talvos turns the sickening mix of relief and guilt over and over in his mind, observing it from every angle. Sleepless and aching as he is, there is little else to contemplate.
He has not yet deciphered any of it when something scratches at the canvas. Talvos blinks dry eyes against the unfathomable dark and listens.
Softly, threads tear one after the other. Faint starlight makes its way in through a hole swiftly filled by a hand, then shoulders and a moonsilvered head.
“Talvos,” Iesin breathes. “Come, you.”
Hot and cold chase each other across Talvos’ body. Iesin can’t be here, he can’t– endure this, see it, feel it, know it. He escaped, and Talvos did not, and that was supposed to be the end of it. He's not supposed to be here.
“Come,” Iesin repeats. “Talvos?”
Through the roar rushing in his ears, Talvos finds enough movement to shake his head faintly. Iesin tilts his head, then wriggles back out of the hole he has made. Talvos watches the torn canvas rub against itself, each edge new-woven with scattered glints of starlight.
He should move. Get out, get up, do anything it takes to make sure Iesin does not see anything more when he returns– because he will, of course he will, his beloved never leaves him for long.
Unbidden, his mind tries to tally the days spent stumbling behind the bounty hunters, barefoot through bracket and stony gulch, bound on a lead so he cannot escape, sunburnt and dizzy with thirst and hunger. But the nights crash in atop his count, sleepless, worse, worse.
He doesn't want to count the nights.
The weight of the body atop him swells and falls in gentle, deep rhythm. The bounty hunter is still fast asleep. Talvos could ease out from under him, work his way back into his clothes somehow–
No he couldn’t. Not without hands.
The canvas flaps softly behind him. Talvos turns his face into the too-thin shelter of the sleeping mat half-under him. He’s already dampened it with plenty of tears tonight; a few more won’t matter.
The brush of canvas against feathers is achingly familiar and blindingly terrifying. Iesin’s hand, cool fingertips tilted away to spare his mate's fragile human skin, pats up his ankle, skims across knee, then hip, and Talvos shudders hard enough that the bounty hunter grunts in his sleep and throws an arm across his captive's shoulders. Iesin's hand withdraws.
In the end it's nearly silent. Feathers brush against cloth, a gurgle cuts itself off, and Talvos' neck and head are drenched in a warm rush of iron-tanged blood.
Iesin shoves the body away. Dead flesh slides out of Talvos with a soft squelch. Iesin slices through the ropes binding his hands, then works Talvos' legs back into his trousers while he bites the sleeping mat to keep silent through the nerve-wrung fire of numbed arms finally falling out of their constrained position. Iesin's hands are sticky where they wrap around his torso to help him up.
"Come, you," his beloved says.
Outside, the low bed of coals casts no light further than a body's length. Under dense tree cover, the rest of the camp is thick with darkness and the quiet of night's deepest hour. Talvos forces his aching body to move at Iesin's guidance. He winces at the disturbance his shuffling steps create across the ground, but the rest of the tents remain silent and still.
"The dogs–"
"No dogs," Iesin says quietly.
He's not whispering.
Talvos looks around at the tents again. "Are they all dead?"
Iesin bares his teeth. Even in the faint starlight, Talvos can see they are shadowed with blood. His mate's nod is sharply, viciously satisfied. Talvos closes his eyes against the hints of susurating light he sometimes sees limning his beloved. In daylight, the reminder that he loves something so much more than he will ever be feels like a gift, a wonder, a treasure his to cherish. Tonight, to be loved by the shape against the stars that drips with the blood of any who dared lay a hand on him is a burden he does not know if he is strong enough to bear.
The woods swallow the silent camp behind them. Iesin leads him unerringly through the night until a small clearing beside a stream opens around them. The stars' gaze feels too bright, highlighting the bare planes of Talvos’ chest and casting stark shadow across the bruising, the teeth marks, the fingernails dragged down his shoulders and back, the filth splattered and smeared across his skin. It feels foolish, childish, to hide from his mate's gaze by focusing instead on the softer darkness of mossy ground beneath his bare feet, but Talvos cannot bear the weight of lifting his eyes to Iesin's.
"Come, you." Iesin's voice is as gentle as the delicate brush of his fingertips across Talvos' palm. "Let help, me."
He eases Talvos to a seat on the ground, then at Talvos' failure to stifle his hiss of pain, lies him down on his side instead. The stream bubbles past, swiftly set on its own destination. Talvos listens to the faint change in the tone of its hurry when Iesin dips his hands and forearms in to wash the blood away and then fills their small pot. The rustle of kindling and sticks take over next, and then light blooms as Iesin coaxes a small flame to life to boil the water. Talvos closes his eyes.
Time slips. He wakes with a jerking flinch at hands on him.
"Just me, beloved."
The phrase, traded back and forth between them in moments of doubt and pain, does more to ease Talvos than even the retreat of Iesin's touch. He remembers that his hands are free, and eases himself into a sit despite the pain. He's spent enough time with his face ground into the dirt.
"Have warm water, me. And boiled ban-dage." Iesin pronounces it carefully, shaping foreign syllables between teeth and tongue. "Let help, me?"
Talvos considers the weight of no. Heavy behind his lips, forced back by knotted cloth and deer-fat greased fingers or the salt-bitter aftertaste of his captors on his tongue. No, heavy in his stomach, aching from bruises both outside and in, bootheels one atop another until he feels as if they press against the tear and ache within, held back only from making of him one ugly, throbbing mass of hurt by the too-thin barrier of his skin. No, stinging in the furrows dug around his wrists, where torn skin broke effort against reality again and again and again and again. He tried no. For his beloved, for every breath of freedom Iesin has granted him, he tried no. And night after night, it was taken from him and the hollow of its loss filled by his captors.
He uncurls one arm from its protective cradle around his torso and offers it to his beloved. Let Iesin think the shudder coursing through him is for night-chilled air pebbling across bare flesh. He cannot hope to put words to truth in a way that won't hurt his mate.
Iesin starts at his fingertips and works his way up. Gently, thoroughly, warm cloth wipes away the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the spend from each inch of skin. He pours more water over the torn skin at Talvos' wrist, rinsing until the water runs clear. The fire's crackle as it heats more water in their other pot is the loudest sound in the clearing.
Talvos drifts. Detachedly, he watches his arm tremble in his mate's grip. Iesin pins his focus on him and says something that does not penetrate grey. One taloned hand lifts slowly towards his face. Talvos feels nothing, but Iesin's thumb comes away damp and glistening in the firelight. Blood? No, too quick and too clear. Just tears, then.
He drifts. Pain batters at him, wearily insistent, but Talvos would much rather watch the firelight on his beloved's hair. He follows the glint and glimmer down individual strands until, inevitably, a twig or leaf interrupts him and he must start again. It keeps him tethered, imagining the pieces of his beloved in exacting detail when every part of him wants nothing more than to flee and scatter into the dark. Whatever happens elsewhere, as long as he remembers his mate, some small part of him will be safe.
His body tugs at his awareness. Warmth and cold chase each other across bare skin. He tries to ignore it. A sleeping mat is under him. He shudders and rolls off of it. No one grabs his hair to haul him back into position, so he must be alone. He'll have a few minutes at most to try to patch scraps of himself back together before the next assault begins.
"Are cold, beloved? Want to move closer to fire, you?"
Talvos opens his eyes. He doesn't remember shutting them. The scent of loam lingers under his nose, earthy and clean. No sweat, no blood, no– just earth. Firelight teases at his peripherals. Carefully, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he is awake, he looks.
A low bed of coals, carefully contained by rocks. The small pot he had thought abandoned when he and Iesin had to flee their camp. Taloned feet, bare and dirty as he remembers, kneading fretfully at the ground.
He could stop here. It would be enough, for as long as it is allowed. He could keep imagining just this much, and maybe it won't break apart and fragment into fingertips digging fresh bruises into his hips.
"Am here, beloved. What need, you?"
He should stop here. He shouldn't look up. But hope, traitor, tugs him towards the begging light and he looks.
"Iesin?"
The shape of it rasps against his throat, stumbles across the ache in his jaw. His beloved leans closer, wings lifting and settling behind him in anxious query.
"See me? Are here, you?"
"...You came for me." He remembers that, doesn't he? "The hunters…" Blood on Iesin's chin. Blood soaking his hands and feet. Blood still splattered across his pants, fading by now into stains.
"Food for carrion, them," Iesin says, frigid as starlight. "Deserved worse than could give them, me." He frowns. “Came as soon as could, me. Were too watchful, them. Had to lure away one at time, me. Am sorry, beloved.”
Gone. Talvos feels his body relax before his mind finishes processing Iesin's words. They’re gone, and he.… it’s over.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, answering Iesin’s earlier question. Somehow, his eyes have fallen closed again. He hadn’t noticed how tired he was. “And you’re here. That’s all that matters.”
A blanket drapes over him gently. “Sleep, best mate, mine,” Iesin whispers. “Will watch for you, me.”
Dany gets a visit by the bratty son of her the Fighting Ring's owner.
(Short read)
Thank you @hackles-up for the inspiration today and for creating this arc in the first place 💜
[Fighting Ring Arc]
Content / warnings: bratty teenage whumper (yeah, I don't even know), defiant whumpee, whumper pov, captivity, dehumanisation (mostly of a third), a bit of humiliation, a bit of poetic justice, short description of hand whump (?), biting.
Of course, Maurice - Morry - knows he's privileged. A spoiled, rich boy, born with the proverbial silver spoon, respected only because of his father's borrowed authority. He's grown into it. Use it while it lasts, for access, funds, respect - and certainly, for entertainment.
His Dad's Fighting Ring provides plenty of that. The Fighters are scary in their own right, the handlers are somewhat even worse, all of them stocky, mean looking bullies, who'd crush a lanky, nerdy teenager like Morry in one hand, in an outside life.
Here, they don't. And Morry thrives in it. Strolling through the corridors of the facility like he owns it. Sending some asshole like Tom to get him a diet coke. Sipping at it while dropping in to watch some of the Dogs train. Making the bullies do his bidding.
And demanding his own private time with the girl.
They call her girl, anyway; she's at least five years older than Morry, a grown woman, and his Dad has implied she's actually not a pet. She's a person. A former rich kid, like himself. Reduced to some toy, for both Hank and the Dogs. It's a bit terrifying, disturbing - but also, thrilling in an extremely kinky way.
The girl is in the handlers' break room, surrounded by a worn couch, stacks of uncleaned plates, a large TV set, and an array of some ominous devices to handle the Fighters.
She's thin, naked but for a collar around her neck, connected to a ring in the floor by a short chain. She can't stand like this. Just kneel. Morry sucks in a sharp breath. It's easy to imagine what she could be made do from that position. He glances at her slightly swollen lips and exhales slowly. Morry could make her do it, too.
He could -
"And who might you be?" Her voice somehow breaks the spell. It's rough, tired, but he can still make out a somewhat mocking tone. Of course. Girls like her always mock him. Everyone always mocks him.
Morry purses his lips and makes a point of looking her down. Fading freckles and fresh purple bruises dust the pale skin of her breasts. She won't get a lot of daylight here. But a lot of - he swallows thickly against the images popping up in his head. A lot of... sex.
"I'm your owners' son," he says, eyes narrowed. "So you better show some respect."
He's somehow expected her to throw herself flat to the ground, like he's seen pets do. It's mildly irritating that she doesn't.
She shakes her head with a tired chuckle. The chain rattles softly at her motion. "I do not respect you. You're what? Fifteen? Here to get your dick wet? Without the pesky questions of consent? I can't stop you from doing that, but you can't stop me from finding you fucking pathetic."
"Eighteen," he says stiffly, omitting the one final month before his eagerly awaited birthday. "And I didn't actually come here to... fuck you."
He didn't. But he knows he will. If only because he can. If only because he needs to show her that he might be a boy in her eyes, but he's in charge.
Morry steps in closer, carefully runs a hand over her soft dark hair, over her neck along the thick collar, traces her face with his fingers. She doesn't flinch.
She's pretty. Dark, deep eyes, narrow nose, high cheekbones. Her gaze warily follows his touch.
"I came here to get to know you." His fingertips rest on her lips. There's a little split in it. Someone must've hit her in the face. He bans the thought of him doing the same. For now. He does want to talk, after all. "They say you're the Beast's girlfriend."
He feels her muscles work under her skin, as he jaw tightens. She stays silent.
"How does that work?" he insists. "The Beast is monstrous. How can you be into that? Is it his dick? That's supposed to be monstrous, too."
Her mouth is stubbornly pressed into a thin line. Testing, Morry pushes his thumb down on her lower lip, like he's seen in some cheap film. And, just as in that film, her lips part for him, trembling. Fuck.
He inches closer, enough to imagine her breath on the tight fabric of his pants.
"You've been a person, right? Not a pet?"
Morry slips two fingers into her open mouth, presses down on her soft tongue. She inhales around him, carefully. The suction around his finger makes him dizzy.
"How can you call me pathetic," he muses. "When you're just the whore who falls in love with the huge dick of a mindless Dog."
He doesn't really get it right away. The twitch of her face. The shock jerking through his hand. The warm wetness of her mouth mingling with another, warmer, stickier wetness. The sensation of something grating over his bone. The scream that can't be his, but isn't hers.
The fucking pain.
She bit him. The fucking pathetic bitch bit him.
He doesn't even remember lifting his other arm, but his hand connects with the side of her face and she crashes down to her side, choking as the chain holds her collar. There's blood in her face, there's blood on the floor, there's blood rimming her teeth.
Only then does he dare look at himself. At his hand. His fingers. Where the blood is from. Torn white skin, ripped flesh, a glimpse of bare bone-
His head spins. His vision blurs. As the world fades out around him, the last thought that remains is one brightly burning promise.
🔗 What was their first experience sexual assault? How did it shape their later actions? and:
🔔 Do they have any willing partners?
for Piers! and also for Adrian if you like 👀
Piers is the worst so he will be under a cut, and I'll start with Adrian 😅
[From this ask game that I'm still doing]
Cw noncon (not surprising), child sa (under the cut)
Adrian
Adrian never committed or was victim to sexual assault in a narrow definition (probably both regarding dubcon though, and it traumatized him). But he has encountered several sorts of it very often. The first probably was during (and after) his relationship with his first real partner Eric. Eric had been spiraling with mental health and self destructive behavior, and during that time others took advantage of him in ways that were clearly assault (but Eric refused to see that). Later Eric signed up to WRU and in trying to find and help him, Adrian first witnessed the incredible cruelty of WRU training.
I think his story shows enough about how that shaped his later actions 😅 he fights against the system and for the victims, ready to put his own life on the line.
(And re: the other question - Adrian only wants willing partners).
Piers
Piers really likes unwilling partners. It's about power. And the power to break another's will about something that intimate is the most thrilling experience, even after a lifetime of doing it.
Willing partners - I guess the only one he has is AU!Lourdes, and it's highly debatable if they really are willing. He controls them, too, but still it's something else for him. Still hot in that noncon-flavored way though. And even hotter when he can get them to assault someone else.
As for his first experiences-
He's a bad guy from a bad background. I assume he suffered sa as a child and learned that power in life comes from being physically superior and taking what you want. So he acted accordingly and probably hurt other, weaker children already in his own teens. And he liked it so much (not the children, but the power) that he followed up on it and pretty much made it his job.
🔗 What was their first experience sexual assault? How did it shape their later actions?
❌️ What was their worst sexual experience?
⭕️ What was their best sexual experience?
for Peyton 🥰
- sara / @justplainwhump
oooooooohhh. oh peyton, my sometimes-horrible son
🔗 in peyton's social circles, having a Romantic or two wasn't uncommon, but they would have generally been kept to adult-only or near-adult-only settings. i'm sure at some point during peyton's childhood at least one person brought their Romantic as a plus-one to a friend's kid's birthday party, but it would have been considered a social faux pas. so peyton wouldn't have officially met any Romantics till his teens, but he would have been aware of them generally before then. it was a naughty and thrilling topic to talk about among his friend group as they got to the ages where they began to be interested in sex.
along those lines, his parents arranged a sixteenth birthday present for him with a local WRU branch that catered to such "rites of passage" for their ultra-wealthy clientele. (it makes good business sense: if you introduce your future customers to your product young, they're more likely to remain lifelong customers). anyway, peyton grew up being taught that, like humanity, consent was conditional and, like everything else in life, based on how much capital one owns. it later influences his treatment of valerian; after their father losing the family fortune, valerian becomes something less than they were, less "real". and the less real someone is, the less people like peyton (the real people) need to care about what they think or feel.
❌ when peyton was first kidnapped by WRU, there was a specific set of instructions in place for his first few hours in the facility he was taken to. he doesn't remember it anymore; it was repressed by WRU's menory drugs, aided by his own trauma, but a recording was made and given to his owner. it was the first step in reducing Peyton Montgomery, proud CFO of one of the country's wealthiest privately-owned companies, to something less than real.
⭕ peyton (pre-wru) would have said that he's had so many amazing experiences that he couldn't possibly pick one, but there was this one time with two beautiful people he'd just met that day and hasn't seen again on a golden summer's beach in italy....
post-wru, he hasn't had one he'd classify as good yet :) except in the polycule au with @angst-after-dark, there was probably a day with wick and dami where they did not get out of bed at all, and that was pretty great 🥰
🎚 Do they prefer to dom or sub? Are they a switch?
Please and thank you!
hiii thanks! I'll answer for Lourdes!
Before WRU, Lualhati wasn't much into d/s dynamics either way, but they did get a little thrill from occasionally bossing a fling around in bed, if the mood was right and the other person was into it too. In WRU and with Geoff, Lourdes was consistently submissive by default, being used as sexual prey and as Geoff's stress relief/safety valve.
Afterwards, sex and power dynamics are really complicated for them to navigate. All of their remembered history and bodily responses are conditioned around submission, but they find more of an adrenaline rush (which they are by then well accustomed to turning into libido) in exploring being dominant. At the same time, the tension and background danger of their life creates a space for exploring submission as a safe and consensual part of sex that is entirely new to them. I have a fragment of a scene rattling around in my brain with Lourdes and their two ex-guard dog escapees where they get to experience being physically dominated in bed by the two of them, while knowing (for the first time that they remember) that if they really wanted to, they could end things at any point. I have another fragment in mind of them exploring being a rigger with a future partner, which turns out to be really sweet and empowering for them.
I'm in bed with a fever. So have some really mean and cruel noncon whump.
You're welcome.
This is based on an idea I tossed around a while ago with @hackles-up ; Leo Luciano is her character. Set early during Dany's captivity.
Dany Masterpost
Content / warning: This is not very explicit, but it's very dark. Noncon (m/f), mutual noncon, humiliation, threats, mafia whump.
"And this is why we, my father and I, are declining your offer to-" Elio paused. He couldn't fight the deep frown on his forehead, not any longer.
Leonardo Luciano, head of the city's mob, who sat across from them at the heavy mahogany conference table had seem a bit distracted during the entire conversation, one hand playing with a pen on the table, the other hand in his lap. Elio had clocked it as a power game - show that they weren't important enough to get his undivided attention, textbook classic. But now, Luciano's eyes fluttered closed, his head fell back almost obscenely, and he let out a soft moan.
"Mr Luciano," Elio hissed. "This is -"
Luciano's eyes snapped open. Cold, steel blue bored into Elio's gaze.
"It's not wise to say no to me, ragazzo."
His hand reached under the table, while he went on. "Stuart Hammond thought he could do that. Whose operation, may I remind you, was a lot bigger than your little toy park." Leo slid back with his chair.
There was another noise, though, next to the sliding of wood on wood. A soft, garbled whimper. Elio's shoulders tensed.
"And now, look what happened while you played mob boss, Elio." Luciano clicked his tongue. "I came all over his principesa's face."
A sharp tug of Luciano's hand, a choked cry from under the table.
Elio stumbled to his feet in horror, just as Luciano dragged out Dany Hammond by her blond locks and tossed her bound figure to the hardwood floor, leaving her choking for air.
If not for her hair and the freckles on her shoulders, Elio would've barely recognized her. She was skinny, pale skin spotted with hand sized bruises, the marks of a whip crisscrossing her back, where the skimpy dress had slid down to reveal them.
She rolled to her side, weakly lifted her head and looked at the table. At him.
Her face was a mess. Not bruised, like the rest of her, but swollen and covered in tears and snot and cum. It was everywhere. Her hair, her cheeks, her neck, her eyelashes, her lips, pried open by a metal o-gag.
Luciano reached out to the side and was handed a towel. Carefully cleaning his hands, he didn't take his gaze away from Elio. "You have a younger sister, don't you?"
Elio pressed a hand to his mouth. His fingers were curled up into a fist.
"You and your Daddy are with me, Elio, or you're not. Your choice." He handed back the towel. "Your consequences to bear."
Dany's head sank back to the floor, and she closed her eyes.
Valentina. They'd been friends, once, the four of them. Elio and Dany, the big kids, always in charge. Or, Dany had been in charge, to be honest. Elio had been the brawns to her brains. And his little siblings, Valentina and Marco, had followed them everywhere.
Dany Hammond had been his first love.
He couldn't help her. He could only save his own.
"I understand," he said hoarsely. "I... I didn't mean to doubt you. I'm - We are with you, Sir. Of course."
A small smile played around Luciano's lips, that made Elio shiver.
"Good," he said and stepped back, hand casually waving at Dany's broken form. "As business partners, we share our spoils. Have at her."
Elio's knees threatened to give in. He reached for the back of the closest chair to steady himself. "Uh," he stuttered. His throat was dry. "I... I'm good, actually. Thank you."
Luciano chuckled quietly and shook his head. "Oh, ragazzo. You misunderstood. This is not optional. You were about to step out on me. I need a proof of your loyalty. To me. Not to whatever childish business your family once had with my enemy."
"She's... She's not..."
"She's mine," Luciano interrupted I'm softly. "I get to decide what she is, and what she's not. She's been Stuart's spoiled little principesa, now she's my little loyalty test. She has a bunch of lovely, tight holes, Elio, and if you claim you're with me, I expect you pick one of these and fuck it."
Dany curled up on herself.
He'd lost his virginity to her, at 16. She'd guided him then. She always had.
"She's my friend," he whispered. "Please, I swear, I'm with you."
He felt the movements more than he heard them. A sudden shift in the room, a cool draft, a soft rustle of guns on textiles. His own guard hadn't been fast enough. One hand raised, his other dropped the gun on the ground.
Luciano hadn't moved at all. Just sighed, as he pointedly looked at the guns on Elio, and then back at Elio himself.
"Actions speak louder than words, ragazzo. And my patience with kids who want to play pretend with the grown-ups is wearing thin." He tilted his head towards Dany. "Get your dick out and put it in whatever is left of your friend."
Elio's legs felt like rubber as he stalked around the conference table towards them. Had the lights in the room somehow gotten brighter? Hotter? Sweat pooled in the collar of his shirt.
He went onto his knees next to her, gently put a hand on her shoulder. Her brown eyes locked with his. She was still there, he thought. She was still his friend. Which somehow made it even worse to do what he was about to do.
His hands ran around her head, through sticky, sweaty hair, until he found the buckle of that obscene gag. A quick glance over his shoulder to Luciano, who shrugged indifferently, and he gently pried it open. Dany spat it out, stretching her jaw with a soft whimper.
"I have to do this," Elio whispered, as he reached down to open his belt. "I'm sorry."
She nodded, curtly, determined. Almost pragmatic. Almost as if she was in charge.
"How?" He asked, as he pushed down his pants.
She tried to speak, but all that escaped her throat was a weak croak.
Instead, she pushed herself up on her knees and turned herself around, offering her back.
One of the crooks around them jeered. "What a needy-" He shut up under a warning glance of his boss.
Elio turned towards Luciano, pointing at the rope tying her feet.
With a shrug, Luciano stepped in, knife appearing in his hand out of nowhere. Dany's whole body tensed, with a fear Elio had never thought possible to see in her. Luciano sliced through the rope between her ankles, almost casually, before slapping her ass with the knives flat side. "Smile for the camera," he mumbled.
Only now did Elio saw it. A small tripod with a mounted camera, pointed just at them. It had been planned, just like this, just from the beginning.
And he'd let Luciano lead him right into it.
The knife flashed again, this time ripping apart what was left of the skimpy red dress. She winced, as he drew blood, but remained still on her knees.
Dany wasn't wearing anything underneath. Of course not. The skin on her butt and thighs was dark with angry bruises, all colors, layered on top of each other. He thought, he could see a bite mark, too. He was sick.
Something flat and cool pressed to his cheek, and he looked up. Luciano's knife.
The man's cool eyes rested on him, while he kicked out to spread Dany's legs. Her hands still tied, she fell on her face with a broken yelp.
"Get on with it," Luciano said. "You're not my only guest today."
Dany mumbled something. At first, he couldn't make it out, so rough was her voice. "Please," she said. "Please, Elio."
He pushed himself forward between her legs, reached into his shorts to give himself a few desperate strokes to get himself hard. Dany, he thought. I'm going to fuck Dany again, beautiful, strong, cool, smart, arrogant Dany, who always knows a way out of things. She wants this. She's begged him for it. She's waiting.
He lined himself up behind her, put his other hand on her shoulder.
"Please," she whimpered again.
When he pushed into her, he pretended her cry was pleasure.
figure 1: anti-magic cuffs. the most expensive--but most dignified--method of binding a wizard. their exact alchemical makeup is difficult to replicate, and so they are usually only found in the possession of powerful magic-users who can construct them themselves, and royalty who can afford to commission them. there are several lost pairs floating around in various black markets. any magic-user bound in the cuffs is rendered completely magically inert*, unable to perform even basic cantrips. such cuffs are most frequently used in trials by the wizard's consent. they are, after all, less humiliating than the more practical options.
figure 2: iron and leather. this is the most common way to bind a wizard, used largely by mercenaries, law enforcement, and anyone else with experience dealing with them. the hands are forced into fists within tight leather mittens, and the mouth is kept gagged with either a leather belt or metal bit. this prevents him from making hand gestures, tracing seals, or speaking spells. binding his ankles prevents an especially wily wizard from drawing seals on the ground with his feet. the collar is to remind him he's a little bitch.
figure 3: cloth, rope, and a sack. the most accessible way to bind a wizard, and by far the most degrading. the preferred method of peasants and angry mobs, it takes a 'better safe than sorry' approach by stripping and blindfolding the wizard. one can never know what enchantments he's sewn into his garments, and what curses he can cast with a look. the sack should be filled with a thick material, like flour, horse-feed, or mud. anything to keep his hands still. this method is also frequently employed by other wizards, the humiliation being the point.
*this includes tattooed seals. cadogan, bound this way, would regain his breasts, higher voice, and the function of his uterus. he would still prefer cuffs to being bound any other way.
continued with @angst-after-dark 's permission and devious help. read their part 1 here!
“I’m not a w-w-whore, Mx. Ainsworth but if I, if I were, I'd know better than to wear a dress that revealing when there's so little worth seeing."
"Even a whore knows when to show some respect," Peyton intervenes coldly. Teasing Valerian is all well and good among friends, but Wickham's little upstart wife-to-be will never have that right. He steps into her space, looming with arms crossed as his genial host's facade drops.
To her credit, she doesn't drop the way Emiliana's slut does. Peyton ignores the whimper behind him, as well as the faint rattle of Geoff's latest Lourdes twitching on the table. No, Kestrel glares up at him, shaking but on her feet, and sets her jaw instead.
"Let them down from there," she demands, raising a trembling finger to point at the pet on the table, "and I'll show you r-respect."
"Leigh," Wickham protests somewhere off to the side. His twinge of conscience goes unremarked, as usual.
Peyton looks her up and down, amused, then lifts an eyebrow at Geoff. His friend tightens his mouth unhappily, displeased at anyone interfering with his pet - and really, it was an ingenious display, Peyton had been looking forward to feasting off of it later - but jerks his chin. He wants to see how far the bedazzled slut will take this little game. Across the room, Nimbus lifts a lazy eyebrow, and Acacia sets her
"Deal," Peyton agrees mildly. "If you ruin that lipstick on my cock, too."
"Store brand," Valerian sniffs under their breath.
Cute little lips press together. Peyton thinks about teasing them open with his thumb, smearing that red all across her cheeks till she looks as debauched as she's supposed to.
She glances at Geoff's pet, drooling blindly into their apple like a good little decoration. They haven't made a peep all night. That's the way of the Lourdeses though, especially towards the end.
"Deal," she finally agrees, and oh, how he loves to hear the way it costs her.
Peyton smirks and takes himself to a chair. He spreads comfortably, making no move to ready himself otherwise, and tilts his chin back to watch her from under half-lidded eyes.
"Leigh, you, you, you can't--"
"Oh no, Wicky," Emiliana interrupts, "I thought she was free? Don't go telling her what to do now."
"It's just a game," Nimbus drawls. "She wants to play with the big kids, let her play."
Wickham's shoulders hunch under that ridiculous sweater. Their face blotches red and pale, fingers tightening spasmodically on their crutches, but they shut up.
"Emerald, darling, why don't you go and help Mx. Wickham calm down," Valerian offers. Perfectly pointed nails scratch at their Romantic's scalp, turning her head towards Wickham.
"No," Wickham snaps. "N-no, no thank you, Val." He crutches stiffly along the wall, choosing a corner further away to observe.
He likes it, deep down. Peyton's sure of it. Little freak. Why else would he take his father's leftovers?
At the table, Geoff is easing his Lourdes out of their restraints. They whimper as the clamps are removed, and again when he releases their wrists and their limbs move for the first time in hours. Tears darken the silk of their blindfold.
"Sshh," he soothes, uncharacteristically gentle as he picks them up and carries them to a couch. At least the party hadn't gotten to the main course yet, or that designer suit would have been ruined. He settles them on his lap and cradles their naked form, tucking their head under his chin and smiling coldly at Kestrel.
"Your move, Leigh."
She looks around at them all, scattered around the room on furniture that cost more than she did, all of them watching her and her alone.
Wickham's slut crosses the room to stand in front of Peyton. He can see her fighting everything she knows she is, everything she was made to be. Poor thing.
"Respect," he says, low and magnanimous. "Go on, you know what to do."
Her knees fold. She sinks to the floor, spangled fabric flowing to pool around her, hands flat beside her head as she kneels, forehead touching the ground. Peyton's eyes wander up the line of her leg, miles of soft skin exposed by the slit up the side of her dress. He wonders if she's wearing amything underneath. She'd look better without all the finery, splayed across the table just like Malcolm would have wanted, ready and waiting for each and every guest to partake of her.
Silence stretches between them. His friends watch, cooly content to let her linger in her shame. Wickham's too much of a coward to break the spell, and the pets are too well-trained to offer noise when it's not asked for.
"Up," Peyton orders finally, soft enough to be mistaken for kindness. "Show me everything Malcolm taught that mouth to do."
She hates him. He smiles.
On the couch, Geoff tweaks something until his pet squeaks. It's enough of a reminder, and Kestrel settles between Peyton's knees. He leans back to grin over his shoulder at Wickham.
"I'll write you a check, Christopher," he calls. "Charity of your choice. I'm feeling inspired by your generosity."
Distracted, he misses the moment Kestrel moves, and the wet, warm stroke of her tongue up his length tugs a surprised exhale from him. Peyton grins down at her. "That's more like it."
She looks up at him as she takes the head of his cock into her mouth. Her eyes slip off of his, off into the distance over his shoulder.
"Suck," he orders softly.
She flicks the tip of her tongue across his slit instead, and he moans theatrically. "Damn, Wickham, you've been holding out on us."
Geoff waits till she starts to bob before dumping Lourdes off his lap and ordering them to go take care of Nimbus. Peyton, warned by Geoff's gesture, fists a hand in Kestrel's hair in time to keep her from pulling off.
"Off the table was the deal," he chides. "Hold up your end or you can take their place."
"And don't even think about fussing, Wickham," Geoff picks up for him, seamlessly intercepting everything Peyton never thinks of. "We both know you're no knight in shining armor, and you couldn't get anything to stick if you called the cops."
Peyton feels Kestrel's neck stiffen. He tightens his grip in response, forcing her down where she belongs until she gags for him, tight and breathlessly wonderful. Her resistance softens. He lets her resume her rhythm, watching as she bobs back up with tears dragging mascara down her cheeks to mingle with the red smearing as deliciously as he knew it would.
"That's it," he encourages, petting her curls lightly as a reward. "Good girl."
He glances around the room. Emerald is sequestered under Valerian's dress while Lourdes bounces on Nimbus' lap. Emiliana is tucked up next to Wickham, teasing him with snarky nothings, and Acacia, supremely disinterested in such soft play, sips her wine and scrolls her phone. Geoff watches it all from under hooded eyes, both arms draped across the back of the couch. Secure in his vigilance, Peyton tips his head back, closes his eyes, and focuses on the mouth around his cock and the heat in his gut. He holds Kestrel down once more when he finishes, keeping her through the end of her round of their game, and then lets her go with a satisfied groan.
She sits back on her knees, glassily empty. Her dress has slipped off of one shoulder, her hair is tangled and fallen out of its pinned pile of curls. She looks absolutely wrecked.
Geoff has stepped up behind her without either of them noticing. He tips her chin up from behind, tilting her head back to slot long fingers down the line of her throat.
"This feels more honest, doesn't it?" he asks softly. "No more lies to try to keep from crumbling. No more worrying that everyone will see through you, when your truth is laid bare."
"Let, let go of her." Wickham, finally stepping up for their damsel. The tap of their crutches seems to wake something in Kestrel. She jerks away from Geoff, scrambling to her feet and adjusting her dress.
"We're going," they snap. "Thanks for, for, for nothing."
Emiliana waggles her fingers. "Toodle-oo, Wickhams," she calls lightly.
No one bothers walking them to the door. Peyton glances around as soon as the sad excuse for a couple are out of sight. "Soooo. We're still eating dinner off of Lourdes, right?"
Wrote something brutal for Dany, set a little later in the Fighting Ring Recapture Arc that starts with Spotted. Hank is the same bad guy from that piece.
Referenced B and Tom belong to @hackles-up ; and moose, this entire piece is for you.
Content / warnings: Noncon (fade to black), humiliation, dehumanisation, gags, threats, implied pet whump, whumper pov. (Character referenced as girl is an adult.)
Hank has had to gag the girl eventually. She's a good talker, sure, and her voice is pleasant enough. He likes the lingering anger, the impatience, the desperate disbelief. It gets too much though. She's not getting it. She still thinks there's a way out of this, for her, or that feverish Dog of hers.
She doesn't get that there isn't.
They are theirs now. The Dog is going to win fights for them, and the girl is going to make it win.
He estimates they'll roughly last six months; once it's back on its feet, the Dog can probably win them a dozen big fights, twenty if they're lucky. Only question is - will it continue fighting if the girl dies first. And she will. The Dogs never go easy on the Chewtoys, and with her attitude, she's made enemies among his men, too. Tom would've gladly fucked her to death on her very first day.
"Listen, sweetheart," he says patiently, running a finger over the freckles on her cheek, right above the straps of the gag. Her dark eyes glare at him from her kneeling position at his feet, her tied hands twitch behind her back. She is pretty hot like this. "This is for your own good. You talk way too much, for a fucktoy. And we don't want to be forced to put you down as long as you can still be useful."
She wants to reply, of course she does, but all she can do is set her jaw and let out a garbled groan around the gag.
Hank raises an eyebrow and pats her cheek. "It's not your mouth that makes you useful, pet," he says amiably. "It's your other holes."
She jerks at the short chain that connects her collar to a ring in the floor.
Hank rolls his eyes, before he lets his gaze rake over the scars her naked body. "Don't be shy. I can see you've been put to proper use before." He lifts his foot, digs the tip of his boot into the remains of the stylised letter branded onto her hip. "Mysterious Mister "R" surely fucked you well."
She shakes her head wildly, sudden tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, she can beg with these eyes, if she wants to. Adorable, if it weren't such a waste.
"You want to forget that guy, huh? Was he mean to you? Hard to believe, for I got the impression you're spoilt rotten." He chuckles. "But anyway, I'll gladly do my part. I'm your owner, now. You spread your legs for me, my men, and my Dogs. Give it a week or two, and I promise, you won't remember any of the cocks you took before." Hank's foot wanders a little further down, until he can nudge his boot between her legs.
She squeezes her eyes. Tears are shining in her lashes. It hurts, he guesses. Tom's fucked her raw. And the others have just built up on it.
"I want to work with you here, sweetheart, okay? So I'm giving you a chance to learn. I'm going to take off that gag now, and I'll fuck you. And if you stay quiet, don't complain, don't beg, don't fucking try and negotiate, you can sleep in my bed with me, and I'll have someone look after your wounds. If you don't stay quiet though-" He forces his boot deeper between her legs, and she flinches violently, her whole body trembling.
"- I will make sure everyone in this building uses you, man and Dog alike, and only when they're all done, I'll present you with the same choice, again." Hank shrugs. "If you're still alive. Last bitch we had in your position, she didn't make it one full round."
The girl's shoulders are shaking, her eyes still shut.
He pushes his foot forward. "Look at me, Dany."
The hatred in her dark eyes is riveting. He can't tell, if it's his words, or his actions, or the name he's stolen from what her Dog called her. What he can tell is, he'll enjoy fucking her when she looks at him like this, and he'll enjoy it even more when it crumbles, piece by piece, until all that's left is acceptance.
"So. Will you be a good little bitch for me, Dany?"
She nods briskly.
Hank reaches around her head, fingers finding the buckle in her dark hair. He's almost gentle, opening it, while his foot holds the pressure.
The bit falls out of her mouth, and she grimaces a little. She doesn't say a word.
Hank smiles. "There's a few words you will be allowed," he offers. "'Yes, Master.', 'Please, Master.' and 'Use me, Master.'"
Her lip twitches, and for a moment he thinks he sees a sarcastic smile, before it drowns in pained despair.
"Yes, Master," she says, voice hoarse from the bit.
He smirks. "Good start. But this is the moment for another line, don't you think, pet?"
She stares at him flatly, keeping his gaze for long seconds. "Use me, Master," she says then.
Dany's Fighting Ring Arc has been created in cooperation with @hackles-up.
This scene was inspired by this prompt list by @defire, and also for "F is for Food", in this month's event @alphabetofwhump .
Content / warnings: dehumanisation, humiliation, intimate whumper, noncon nudity, mention of starvation, fade to black noncon. Character referred to as girl is an adult (is Dany).
The greasy brown paper bag on the small table in his room smells fantastic. Pop's really makes the best fast food in town. Hank grabs it, leans back in his chair, before he flaps the top open, letting the aroma of fries, spices and grilled meat escape and waft through the room.
The girl at his feet grits her teeth. Even the hungry growl of her stomach manages to sound angry. She's kneeling on the floor, naked, the short chain connected to her neck leaving her with few other options. He can't help but ruffle her short dark hair. It shines golden at the roots. She's dyed it, the stubborn little runaway. He wonders, how she's looked before. He thinks he prefers her now. Dirty, messy, desperate.
He nudges her with his foot. Her flinch is so feeble, it's almost invisible. "You want some food?", he asks her.
Her jaw is clenched and it's adorable to watch her inner fight playing out on her face. She doesn't even have the energy to hide it.
"Yes, Master." Her voice is pressed, gaze on the paper bag.
He grins. Hunger wins. Of course. It always does, eventually.
Hank reaches out, past the bag, until his fingers find the cardboard box. "Good girl," he praises. The box rattles, as he lifts it and reaches down to fill up the metal bowl he's so kindly put next to her. Kibbles drop into the remains of her daily water ration. He starved her, sure, but he's kept her well hydrated.
She's been so good at lapping water from the bowl. Still, now there's nothing but plain disgust speaking from her dark eyes, as her gaze flits from the kibble to his face.
He puts the box back and smiles down on her. "Permission to speak," he says, amazed at her silence so far.
She swallows. "It's dog food."
"It's not," Hank says amicably. "We feed our Dogs much better than that. You know, strength and stamina, all these things a little thing like you wouldn't have use for." He lifts the box and shakes it in front of her eyes. "It's cat food. Suits you much better, don't you think, kitten?"
"I'm not your kitten," she whispers.
Hank clicks his tongue. "Oh, kitty. You're whatever I want you to be. And today, you're either my bitch, or my kitten." He takes a cheeseburger from his bag and unwraps it.
The girl sobs.
"Bon appetit," Hank says.
She's hungry enough not to talk back. She's hungry enough to try to. He gives her that. She leans in over the bowl, tears on her cheek, dirty hair falling down around her face, but she can't seem to bring herself down to touch the soggy kibble.
With a deep sigh, Hank lifts his foot and drops his boot into the back of her neck.
The shortest wail escapes her, hands helplessly, too late, fly forward, before her face crashes into the cat food.
She thrashes under his boot. Hank puts the burger back on the table, eyes glued to the way that pretty body spasms. He's not hungry for food any longer.
"Eat, kitten," he whispers. "Empty the bowl, be a good kitten, and maybe your master will let you eat the scraps of his people food as well." He releases his foot, watches her tremble as she lifts her face to look up. Tracks of tears are smeared on her face, crumbs of the cat food stick to her cheeks in a crude addition to her freckles, soggy kibble is entangled in her messy hair.
"Please, Master," she says. It's rare that she sticks to her lines like this. He spreads his legs, palms himself through his pants.
"Eat," he repeats, other hand placing his untouched burger on his knee, right in front of her. "Eat your food, and you'll be rewarded."
Her lip trembles. So does her hand as she reaches out towards her bowl. Of course she tries. She's adorable.
"Shhh. No hands." His rebuke is soft. It doesn't need to be harsh. He's got her, right where he wants her. He knows.
And so does she.
She looks at his lap again, at his hand stroking himself, at the burger waiting for her.
Slowly, she bows down again, lips parted. When her tongue darts out to collect the first bite of kibble, Hank has to bite back a moan.
It's hard to stay seated, as she carefully, slowly, disgusted, finishes the small bowl of kibble, each bob of her throat as she swallows vibrating under Hank's skin.
*
He lets her sit between his legs when she ravishes the leftover burger. His hands roam her body as she eats. Her dyed hair, her soft neck under the collar, her cute little breasts. She lets him.
When she's finished, carefully licked her fingers, she looks up at him, then the bag on the table.
"More?", he asks with a chuckle. "Insatiable, kitten, aren't you?"
She bites her lip.
Hank holds her gaze, as he reaches into his pocket, gets out the key to unlock the lock of the short chain that keeps her down.
She stays perfectly still.
He grabs a fry from the bag, cooled down and soggy. Still, he makes sure to eat it slowly, almost lovingly.
There's no anger left in her eyes, as she watches his mouth with silent expectation. He feels a smile tug at his lips.
"Alright, alright, I'll let you." Slowly, he opens his fly and pushes his pants down, letting himself out, hard and ready. He leans back and softly pats his thigh. "Get on top, kitty. And make it convincing."
