*tugs You Around By Our Red String Of Fate Like You’re A Dog On A Leash*

when the cuddle sesh is so good your arm becomes fully necrotic

i sleep diagonally so i wake up to a dutch angle view of my ceiling symbolising my descent into madness

I swear to God if I had loads of money I would buy the biggest Blaze package they have and promote this image to the whole of France

why'd the escapees decorate the walls like a Left4Dead level

oh this is also an old one

It all starts rather abruptly.

She’s going about her day - well, her night - doing all of her usual jobs. She’s found and served a meal for her boss. She’s told the others she works with the tasks they have to do, then she’s gone to do her fair share of those tasks.

As things stand, she’s in the hallway, about an hour before sunrise, checking over all the decorations and improvements and fixes she’s made to the house.

In her time here, she’s turned a building on the edge of collapse into one that is not only structurally sound, but one that is beautiful and that she can be proud of.

Not to mention, her methods mean that all the waste from her and her boss’ meals gets put to use. She’s tidy and efficient like that, never wasting something that can be put to use.

She spent decades working on this place. She painted and repainted the door. She fixed the knocker on the front of it. She found and installed the locks that keep it closed. She has lavished that same amount of love and attention and care on every little detail of the place.

This is why it’s so upsetting when the door caves in.

A sharp tearing of metal rings out as the door flies off its hinges and backwards into the hallway.

She’s angry, but she isn’t stupid. She’s also quite quick, dashing upstairs before she can be seen.

Four people stride into the house, looking rather pleased with the damage they’ve caused.

What other details of these people matter? Neither their appearance nor their clothes nor their gear change a single thing about their fate.

The door she’s cared for for decades lies splintered and broken across a floor she’s cared for for decades, in a room she’s maintained and cared for for decades, in a building she’s cared for for decades.

She made that floor herself, taking out rotten planks of wood and replacing them with her usual materials. She made those flowers lining the hall. She made those books on the shelves. She made these walls.

The floor under the hunters erupts, sharp slivers of bone and teeth appearing from it as though out of thin air.

One hunter is caught in their leg. They stumble. They fall.

The floor yawns open to let them fall through. They’re in the void between the floor and the foundations now. She can deal with them later.

One hunter stands, leaning against the wall, recovering from their sudden exertion.

This one is fast.

A long, thin, and sharpened bone - maybe a femur, she thinks - slides swiftly out of the wall and impales them through their heart. Their life drains from them as they struggle powerlessly to lift themselves off the spike that rests in their torso.

One hunter is brave. They climb the stairs, taking the steps two or three at a time, intending doubtlessly to kill her.

Claws grow from the fingers of her right hand. She dashes forwards with a swift, controlled movement.

Their face a bloody, pulped ruin, she discards their corpse over the banister.

She has made rather a mess of herself. It is not proper for her to have so much blood in her hair, or on her hands, or on her dress. It will take hours of scrubbing for her to clean herself and her clothes.

The last one stands, frozen still, eyes fixed on hers. They can do nothing but uselessly open and close their mouth as she descends, and rests her hands on their arms.

Their eyes beg for mercy.

Their form distends and stretches. Muscles and bones snap and reform. She needs more material for this, so she fetches the corpses of their comrades. The three are joined and remade.

At the end of this, she has something to replace the door they so rudely destroyed.

The first hunter to fall is kept a while longer. She has exerted herself oh so much, and is rather in need of a drink before she goes to clean herself and lay herself to bed.

Pirate Whump

salty air and harsh wood rubbing on wounds, making them worse.

manual labor as a punishment, scrubbing the deck all night until whumpee’s back aches and their knees are raw.

lashings. good ol’ lashings.

Whumpee, an important passenger on another ship, gets captured by pirates and taken hostage.

tossed in the brig, a dark, dingy, cramped space with chains and metal bars.

drowning!

a sword pressed against their throat as they’re presented to the captain. (forced to kneel??)

Forced to join the crew and doing their chores with shackles on their ankles.

Strapped to the main mast, exposed to the elements (and the cut throat crew) and completely at their mercy.

Stuck in the crow’s nest (especially during a storm)

A new peg leg. Might seem silly but I’d like to see YOU laugh while walking on a chunk of wood with a newly healing leg stump.

cant think of anything else rn but feel free to add on!

my taglist is open by the way ;)

@toads-and-gremlins

@whump-till-ya-jump

@herhighnessthegoblinqueen

@scoundrelwithboba

any story featuring a Special Class of Disposable Boy (mech pilot child soldiers, science experiment psychic kids, living bioweapon, etc etc) is a transfeminine narrative whether the author intended for it to be or not