The Cycle series in chronological order (pts.1-32) | Consequences (pt.32)

The fingers in his hair aren’t a source of his rage anymore. It still doesn’t feel right, he still doesn’t want it… but Simon’s been watching his reactions, he thinks. Seeing if going against the grain hurts or feels good. Finding that Major won’t lash out at the gentle scratches, and he’ll actually relax if it’s pulled. If his head is pushed down. The weight, the tugging, it feels good.

Major scowls, head in Simon’s lap, watching the Titanic grumpily as his hair is played with. Every time a hand wanders down to his neck, toward his back, Major tenses - braces his elbow against the couch cushion - and Simon’s hand drifts back up.

Eventually, it takes too much energy to keep tensing. It’s pointless, anyway. So Major goes boneless. His cheek smushes against Simon’s slacks, soaks up the warmth of him… and he didn’t realize that he was aching until he settled down.

Simon’s hand slips down to his neck again. A tremor runs across his skin. Major kissed him, things could be different now. Stupid, stupid. He screwed himself over.

It touches the top of his back. He holds his breath, falls perfectly still. Some sappy music is swelling on the TV.

The hand disappears. Major’s fingers flex at Simon’s hip, stubby nails finding the edge of a cushion to pick at.

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whumpitisthen:

Characters that are out of it. Cannot see past their anger, their fear, their conditioning, their confusion. Maybe they’re drugged, maybe not. I need to see some characters so completely lost and causing problems, be it a whumpee begging their caretaker not to hurt them because they think they’re still with whumper, or whumper seeing red and going too far even for them, or even caretaker having their own issues and not being able to properly caretake and scaring or even hurting whumpee.

Put your characters into the spin cycle. Confuse them!! Make them lose sight of their surroundings and make them do shit that makes no sense!!! Make sure they hurt someone they didn’t intend to!!! Confused crying!!!!!!! Do it!! To them!!!

aliceinwhumperland:

Your whump word(s) of the day

“Can I see your wound, please? I won’t hurt you.”

friendlylocalwhumper:

Wavy hair dangling and tickling their cheeks, brown eyes wide, freckles stark against paling cheeks, Quinn struggles to take in the sight before them. One hundred and twenty stories up in a massive tower in the city, the firm grip of a furious businessman at the back of their neck to pin them bent over the guardrail on this rooftop. If they fell from this height… well, they need to make sure they don’t fall.

The cars driving down below look like little toys. The streetlights and headlights make up a stunning array, a swarming pattern that will only be extinguished when the sun rises again. Will Quinn be around to see that sunrise? The man behind them shoves down harder so they’re dangling at a sharper angle, startling a sharp cry out of the young spy. Their fingers are wrapped tightly around the railing.

“You’re a liar,” Growls the man. Pearce, his name is. “You just wanted to skim off the top, make a quick buck. Ruin my portfolio. Ruin my life.”

Quinn is in nice slacks, a white dress shirt, shiny shoes. Those shoes are scuffed now from struggling against being shoved to the edge of the rooftop. Their shirt is bloody from the initial punch to the face that they took as soon as he figured out their scheme. Quinn licks their busted lip and tries not to let their mind drift away to escape this situation; they blink at the constellation of city lights as their mind works frantically.

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saffitaffi:

whump-galaxy:

The whumper rolling the whumpee over with their boot. Pressing their steel toe under the whumpee’s ribs. Kneeling on the whumpee’s chest while mocking them for not being able to get a word out.

Cass and DL core what who said that

artistic-freedom-enjoyer:

caretaker used as bait to recapture the escaped/rescued whumpee

fidgetspringer-art:

Sometimes my sketches are neat and tidy. Sometimes they are… less so.

dead-heading:

MINORS DNI -

humunanunga:

Enough of the trope where memory loss undoes the damage or the corruption or whatever. More content where removing memories just removes the context.

The tragedy of needing to grieve and not knowing what or who you lost or why. The angst of having trauma and being denied the awareness that it’s trauma. The suspense of being different somehow and left to wonder how and when. The tension of knowing that something is off and you can’t find where it hurts. The Adventure Zone gets it. Kingdom Hearts gets it.

There is an aching inside you and you don’t know how it got there.

tender-threats:

There needs to be so much more (co?)dependent whumper and whumpee content out there. Like soo much more. I need a whumpee letting whumper hurt them because they know whumper needs the stress relief! Or on the other hand: a whumpee who will always forgive whumper no matter what they do to them because they’re scared no one else will love them like whumper. Whumper who NEEDS someone to control and hurt to feel in control of something in their lives and taking it out on someone they’re close with. There is just so. Much. Potential.

friendlylocalwhumper:

Stillness. Calm. He waits, lax where he lies, his constant agony no longer fresh enough to keep him tense. His muscles are fatigued and he is done being terrified. Toby’s just… ready.

Lux’s shoulders. Anders’ leg, Alex’s hip. Lux’s instant submission at threats of mind magic. Bailey’s desperation for hugs, Major’s self-descructive rage, Sonia’s panic when unable to see. Lux’s ruined broken shoulders. Quinn’s attempts to be clever devolved into mindless pleading. Lux’s crying and swearing he’ll be good.

Of all the acts the Hunter has trained him to pull, Lux probably takes up half of them. Tobias isn’t sure why the Hunter is so obsessed with his little light, but he must’ve been very memorable. He wonders if Lux is still alive, or if he’s the one most often played out here because he died.

“Lux,” He hears from above, by the top of the steps. Tobias cowers back against the wall like a marionette with its strings yanked on, hyperventilating, stammering apologies. It’s not an act. He’s just unleashing the parts of him that want to beg and hide.

Nothing happens. Toby squints but sees nothing. Did he imagine-?

“Major.”

Another role, very different. Tobias snaps forward, pulling at the chains around his wrists like he doesn’t care that his shoulders are grinding sickeningly. He growls, chomps at the air like a rabid animal, yanks and twists and bellows vulgar things.

In a break of quiet while he sucks in a breath, the next command comes, still oddly quiet. Still his imagination, maybe. The pounding icepick-to-the-temple heachache that arose suddenly is growing worse.

“Anders.”

Back against the wall, clutching at the chains, his broken leg held out at an odd angle. He focuses on that agony as the source for the defeat in this character. “M-Mistress, please, please…” He thinks of fire. Morphine. Heels clicking down a hall, a blowtorch flicking on. Horror makes his bones ache as he imagines stress positions and a bloody whip trailing across his skin.

“Tobias.”

He blinks. “What?” Rasps the prisoner, suddenly thrown into a blank void in his mind. Frozen in place, listening hard.

“Toby.”

Who… how is he supposed to act? Toby sags hesiantly against the wall. He doesn’t focus on the broken leg, or the messed up hip, or the crunchy shoulders. All of it consumes him, now, along with a wave of defeat.

“Well? I want to see Toby.”

He doesn’t know how to do that one. Does he just…? Tobias tugs on the chains restlessly. He has no character to lean into. No iconic pains or fears. Just… he’s just tired.

No more commands come. It’s stressful. Toby waits, quiet now, slowly growing overwhelmed with the amount of pain he’s aware of all at once. It feels so pointless to be himself. Will he get in trouble? Should he be sweet? Fiery? Unreadable? Nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen.

He must not’ve been fun enough. The Hunter gave up. Toby sinks toward the floor and feels hollow.

He’s here. Across the room, focused on his notepad, wearing a suit now, speaking to the barista.

Lux stares blankly at the cop - is he a detective, now? - over his coffee. He’s pulled off the lid to admire the pretty pattern in the foam. Now it’ll go cold and he can’t bring himself to care.

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How dramatic is it, to be more upset by an annoying sound than a wound that’s worsening day by day? Quinn huffs in annoyance at themself as they shiver, and the movement sets the chain clinking - and the sound gets under their skin so bad that they have to roll the back of their head against the stone floor painfully hard.

All they have to do is crack three heads a day. The most recent victim to be deposited into their room is hunched over in the far corner, fingers knotted into his hair, trying to fight the magic.

Quinn bends forward until their forehead is pressed to their knee. The compression of their ribs makes it harder to breathe. Easier to focus. The movement summons more noise from the stupid chains, and it takes all of their self-control not to kick and scream about it.

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