Forever

TWO DAYS OF FLUFF. What have you people done to me.

For @boxboysandotherwhump and @yet-another-heathen, my Nanda fans

CW: Aftermath of dubcon, bruises & welts, references to intimate whump/nsfwhump, bloodied, dissoci@ted whumpee, dissoci@tion, pet whump, dehumanization, intimate whumper, possessive whumper

Nanda’s phone rings just as the shower kicks on, with cold water that begins to warm almost immediately. The water hits the cool marbled floor of the shower side of the bathroom, falling from the ceiling like rain, and the mist makes the pet close his eyes, enjoying the spray.

His back throbs, a blend of pain and nearly-unbearable heat that is deeply familiar. It radiates through him, down the backs of his thighs, making him kick his legs out to the side where he sits to avoid having his heels touch his legs. Before the shower turned on, he could hear the drip of blood from where the whip had cut too deeply - now, though, he can only feel the softly itching trickle of a drop here and there as it curves around the bottom of his ribcage and marks the floor. 

He shifts his hand and it slides in the blood, he has to pull it back, looking down at the smear with a wrinkled nose. His palm is red, now.

Caught red-handed, he thinks, a joke he doesn’t understand but he knows he once did. He smiles, a little. The throbbing heat feels like being good, the pain means he is doing exactly what he is designed to do, he is what he was made to be. He is a good boy, like Nanda whispers to him at the end, when the both of them are panting and soaked in sweat and smeared in the pet’s blood and everything else that happens between them.

In those moments, he knows that this is love, to him. 

This is how he was made to love, to be loved. With pain just on the right side of agonizing, with pleasure just on the wrong side of pain.

He was made to have all his bite and sharpness beaten out of him until he is languid and content in the ache. He takes in a deep breath, listening to the phone ring and ring, and then finally stop. Nanda’s hand rests on his short, shaggy hair, petting lightly through it. He pushes his head back into the touch.

“Mmmn, you’re all sweet now, huh?” Nanda’s hand moves back to toy with his collar, hooking two fingers to pull back until it cuts into the front of the pet’s throat, making him gasp and hitch in shallow breaths, stirring his exhausted body. “I think I like you better sweet.”

“No-” The pet’s voice catches, and he shivers, not from cold but from a different sort of heat. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re right.” Nanda chuckles, and his hand shifts down, trailing fingers, grazing them over the raised red welts that layer over his shoulder blades. The pet groans, softly, and he arches his back to lean into the pain. “I love you most when you bite back.”

The pet stiffens. “You-”

Nanda’s phone rings again, and his hand pulls away, leaving the pet bereft of touch once more. 

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Warnings: Heavily implied and referenced noncon, aftermath of whump, medical whump/trauma, hospital setting, disassociation, scars and injuries, trauma response, swearing.

[Follows this]

Three days in a hospital bed. An actual bed, which he’d stayed put in because he knew they wanted him to. And also because of the armed guards outside the door. He was used to that though, and almost surprised they didn’t come in to make use of him, until he remembered where he was.

Bad people were everywhere though, surely it was only a matter of time before someone slipped in who had that kind of inclination. He’d be ready. He was always ready, nothing could shock him now, he didn’t think.

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AHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH???!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!! fkdhkhdkffk :D :D Eli honey!!!!!

I’m already attached to him, goddammit Socks!! Idk what happened to him and I don’t trust that “they’re” done with him, but i loveeeee him and i rly hope Archer will protect him!!! Archer seems like a good, solid bean, we like him :D

love ittttttt :D <3 <3 *bounces excitedly*

Nick/Milo: A Whisper of Touch

CW: referenced refusal of food, starvation, fainting spells, referenced captivity, referenced torture, malnourished whumpee, shameless fluff, cuddles, referenced dissoci@tion

Masterlist

4 am gang wheeee somehow I ended up with 2k words lol I should probably sleep

—

Nick didn’t like hovering but…he really couldn’t help it.  He couldn’t help the knee-jerk reaction to throw his hands out to steady Milo whenever he swayed, or seemed off balance, or got that recognizable, pale look on his face.  He didn’t like it because more often than not he got a flinch in reaction to the sudden movement, heart twisting in guilt.  He was thankful for the instinct, though, when he actually needed it.

They always came out of nowhere, the fainting spells.  One minute Milo would be fine, maybe even relaxed if they were lucky, and the next his knees were giving out, sending him crumpling to the ground with barely a second of warning.  They were happening almost every day, which was what made Nick develop the protective habit in the first place.

He was at the bar on his laptop, desperately rummaging through deficiency possibilities when his boyfriend came into the kitchen.  He quickly clicked off the tab and smiled up at Milo, sighing.  He never took a single second he could lay eyes on him for granted, not anymore.

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Whump Prompt 159

“[Whumpee], [Whumpee]…”

They looked so hollow, their eyes void of life. Staring blankly into thee caregiver’s eyes, the whumpee coldly tilted their head to the side- nothing was getting through. The whumpee they knew was long lost.

“Please,” the caregiver whispered, “please wake up.”

Set in the ‘hotel room weeks’, post-escape. Vaguely continued from here. Referenced drabbles at the end.

tws: dissociation, and discussions thereof. references to past torture— drowning, stabbing, beating, choking, branding.

The bad days usually started with tears, and that was something they could share in. Crying into each other’s shoulders, eating whatever terrible, unhealthy food they could scrounge from the nearby 7-Eleven. Looking through cooking magazines and trying to find recipes that had zucchini in them, so that Graham could make them when he could walk more than two steps at a time. Those days were gloomy, and restless.

But the really bad days? They were silent.

Lev would be right there, right there, but go somewhere no-one could follow, and Graham would be left alone. His boyfriend would either lie on the cot and stare blankly at the ceiling, or curl up on the small chair in the corner of the bedroom, or just kind of stop in whatever he was doing. 

Graham knew he shouldn’t be moving around as much, or at all really. He was only six weeks out from fracturing his femur in two places, and his other ankle was still in the walking boot. It wasn’t wise. But he hauled himself from the bed, onto crutches, just so he could leave the room for an hour or so—because god, he’d tried to stay, he’d tried, really, but there was only so long he could take the glassy eyes and the eerie muteness.

He’d return, and Lev would be back. Sobbing, disorientated, but back. Or… he might still be lost somewhere.

Sometimes he could see the shift of it. When a loud noise sounded from the street below, and his partner’s shoulders would draw incredibly tight, and his hands would come up, to pull at an invisible collar. He would hold and squeeze his palms, creating some gentle, but firm pressure that Lev said helped. But attempts to keep him in the present moment were limited, at best. Sometimes he’d catch it, and try to help ground him, but Lev would withdraw anyway. As if—and there was no blame assigned to this, how could there be—as if the man wanted to check out, and was doing so of his own volition.

But when the trigger was something internal… a memory, or a sensation? Graham could ask a question and turn around for a moment, and when he turned back, his boyfriend was already gone.

That had happened a few times, now. But it never got easier.

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