"It's amazing..." Whumper murmured. "You never were able to hide your tears from me. You'd try of course," he chuckled a humourless laugh, "Oh, you'd try so hard."

Whumpee didn't respond, to the taunts or the light touches. They just stared straight past him.

"But," he continued, "your lip would start to tremble. Your face would scrunch up. Your tears wouldn't be controlled and just streamed over your cheeks." He slid a finger over unmoving lips, brushed up over the now completely dry cheeks. "Your emotions were always too strong for you. Bursting out, wild, uncontrolled, unwilling to be held back."

He hummed softly, almost in approval, and whispered in their ear:

"How strong you've become."

#whump dialogue #sadistic whumper #whumpee #conditioning #abuse #trauma response #queueing for whump

whumpthisway reblogged

ashintheairlikesnow

Anonymous asked:

nat seeing short hair forehead scar only-just-talking-again chris for the first time and wrapping him in a big comforting motherly hug🥺🥺🥺

CW: Post-meltdown, nonverbal, referenced self-injury as a result of meltdown, ptsd/trauma, vaguely referenced parental death

Takes place post-I’m Here

---

He doesn’t speak when she comes in, or look at her. He’s curled up on the bed in his room at Jake’s house, back to the wall. There’s a pillow behind him, and Nat knows Jake placed it there just behind the back of his head, and why.

Just in case he needs to, the option is there, a way to do it without hurting until he can be redirected to stop.

His pretty blue hair is gone - only the copper roots remain, nearly shaved, a shimmer of color with blue at some of the ends, like a penny slowly going green with time and neglect.

“Hey, sweetie,” Nat says gently, and he blinks, but he keeps staring towards the window. Jake’s pulled open the curtains, opened it up, let the air from outside, smelling like flowers, drift in. She can hear a plane flying low overhead, making its descent towards the airport a few miles away.

#post-meltdown #nonverbal whumpee #referenced parental death #trauma response #whump #trauma recovery #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #queueing for whump #fic #Chris #h/c

whumpthisway reblogged

ashintheairlikesnow

silvercrystalwhump

Weddings and Wrecking Balls

TW: Owen Grant and everything that he entails, implied noncon, fear response to previous abuser,

Vincent Shield and Owen Grant belong to @ashintheairlikesnow

Tag List: @whumptywhumpdump

Vincent’s fingers run idly over the velvet seating of his limousine. Celebrity weddings are almost a yearly obligation of his to attend. Like clockwork, as spring rears its head a pair of camera-cooing stars drink until they forget about the temporary marriage they just created. To his disapproval, Vincent is expected to attend these events. His Publicist tries to get him in every photo, dance, and tabloid on the event as he could.

Today, however, is different.

Vincent looks up at Dmitri who sits across from him. Adorned in a pink suit and black tie that was a result of compromise.

“I’m still wondering how you managed to convince me to let you do that,” Vincent sighs as he takes a sip of water.

Dmitri, looking at Vincent, chuckles, “What? Getting the flamingo pattern for the inner lining of this suit. The only people that are going to see it are me and maybe you. Plus, MawMaw found it charming.”

“You are my plus one to the wedding of a world renowned fashion designer and an actress known for modeling,” Vincent says as he messes with the cuff of his suit jacket, “Please don’t tell anyone that you did that.”

“Oh please Vee, I look good in everything.”

Vincent rolls his eyes. The only reason he was comfortable with bringing him along is that Luis refused to have any paparazzi at the event. Only one of his photographers would be taking photos of the event and she would be glued to the married couple.

“I’m surprised you managed to get on good terms with Mary Anne,” Vincent says as he glances out the window, “In only a few minutes of conversation and she speaks the world of you.”

Dmitri gives Vincent a smile only he can give, “What can I say, people just love me.”

Vincent returns with a shrug and fusses a bit with his vest, “So do I.”

#panic attack #whump #h/c #hurt/comfort #angst #trauma response #bbu #box boy universe #queueing for whump #fic #Vincent sheild #demetri o'brien

whumpthisway reblogged

ashintheairlikesnow

deviantjoy asked:

"I don't fucking need you. I don't fucking need anyone."

(ideally said to reinforce an angry, apathetic façade)

CW: Panicked whumpee, trauma response, discussion of stabbing/murder, defiant/angry whumpee, referenced prostitution/dubcon, brief internal dehumanization reference

Jake Gets Stabbed: First Second Third Fourth

Also includes @nonsensicalwhump’s prompt ‘don’t fucking touch me’

There was an old backpack already in the closet when he moved into this place. It was worn around the edges, with safety pins all along the top because the zipper had long since broken, an olive green that might have been brighter, once upon a time. The bottom’s duct-taped in layers to hold it together. There are more safety pins holding seams together along the side, another strip of tape where there’s smeared permanent marker, too destroyed for Jameson to even read it.

The backpack looks like Jameson feels, wrecked and ruined and trying valiantly to stay together at the seams, only to come apart anyway.

He stuffs a package of goldfish crackers into the backpack on top of the three pairs of boxers and two shirts and one pair of pants he’s already put inside. Then he adds the bit of beef jerky he keeps up on the top shelf in the closet, where he has to climb onto a box to even reach it.

His heart hammers in his chest, and when Allyn’s fingertips brush along his shoulder blades through his shirt he jerks away from them, shoving some granola bars in, too. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He snaps, but all he wants is to collapse back into their arms, let them tell him it’ll be okay again, and believe it.

But he can’t believe it.

Their rainshower voice is a lie, the taste of ozone and the relieved wash of cool water is a lie, it’s all a fucking lie and it always fucking was.

#whump #defiant whumpee #angry whumpee #scared whumpee #running away #ptsd tw #multiple whumpees #trauma response #guilt #referenced stabbing #referenced murder #referenced pet whump #queueing for whump #awh no jameson #jameson and allyn #fic #ashintheairlikesnow

whumpthisway reblogged

ashintheairlikesnow

burtlederp asked:

writing request for whenever: Laken and Chris go to a dinosaur museum/exhibit

CW: Referenced past pet whump, mentioned negative stimming resulting in self-injury, pet whump (different character) with intimate whumper, grief, referenced parental death, trauma response, brief reference to true crime

Timeline: Chris is 25 years old in this piece

Rafael (Raf) first appears, unnamed, in this drabble from Chris’s early college days

Laken’s hand is warm in his, their fingers intertwined, as they stand underneath the hanging bones of an enormous ancient thing like a whale but entirely unlike it, too. Chris closes his eyes, swaying lightly side to side, humming softly as he imagines it, rows of teeth with some as big as his hand, moving through oceans older than anything he can imagine, chasing down prey.

The sun shines in through the all-glass windows that make up the other side of the atrium, warming against his shirt without prickling his skin. The lights are far up and away, and the sunlight is stronger.

“Wow,” Laken murmurs, and he glances over at them to see their chin tipped back, liquid dark eyes focused on the recreated bones not so far above their head. “I’ve never been here before. Have you?”

Chris feels the hint of pain at the question, and for once it’s not in his head from memories but simply the aftermath of what he knows. “Yeah,” He answers, voice low and soft. “With my, my dad and mom. Long, um, a, a long time ago.”

whumpthisway

ahh goddammit you going to make me cry :') so proud of Chris, but so sad for Rafael </3

whumpthisway reblogged

wildfaewhump

Part 1 | Part 2

It’s sweaty, straining, repetitive work, this job Talvos has found at a grain mill, but it’s paying for their room in the owner’s rent-house, and he’s grateful.

At lunch, many of the men strip to the waist and plunge into the lake to cool off with rowdy games and watersports. Talvos splashes his face and the back of his neck, but chooses to lie back on the grassy shore rather than join in. No one remarks on it the first day. On the second two ask him if he’d like to join in, and he declines as politely as he can, despite the offense it seems to give. By the third they’re trading glances and whispers, and on the fourth day a group approaches him. Talvos watches them cautiously, keeping to his relaxed sprawl in the shade, but ready to spring to his feet if necessary.

“Can ye swim, boy?” one of them asks.

Talvos nods carefully.

“What’ve ye got against joining us, then?” demands another. “You deformed, under all those clothes?”

“No,” Talvos says shortly. He gets up and starts moving away, but a hand clamping onto his shoulder halts him. Talvos spins, knocking it off of him, hand going to his belt knife instinctively.

They follow his movement, and one whistles lowly while another two growl and square their stances. Talvos flicks his gaze over them and forces himself to straighten and let go of his knife. “Drop it,” he advises, as the bell chimes to call them back to work.

They drop it, and Talvos tries to put the mocking tone out of his mind for the rest of the day. You deformed, under all those clothes?

No.

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