March 20, 2013: The OP of a thread called "The Kink Meme Prompt that You Aren't Touching/Prompting" added:

Okay. Maybe you're touching it a little. Just the tip.

It's so soft.

Another nonny replied, “And getting moist.” And that inspired Dripping Id Nonny to write, all in small letters….

Practically dripping, it is. Slutty little thing, so wanton. Asking for my fingers, begging me to type commands, the prompt writhing in terrible pleasure as I make it real. It's soft, but it hardens rapidly at my touch, the clicking of my fingers a potent aphrodisiac to the rare and noble prompt-beast.

The silky smooth skin of the long-suffering woobie is a phantom ghost beneath my keyboard, each letter a cut or wound on his ivory-white cock. Still he screams, begging me for more–or is he asking me to stop? I do not care. His pain is adjustable at my whim, and my id says it must be cranked to eleven, or it doesn't even count. His pupils are blown, Chernobyl in their hallowed depths, and still I hurt him. Is that pre-cum I see? No? I write it in anyway, and he struggles so prettily as I force him to enjoy his misery.

A whip, I think, bleary from beer and lack of sleep. He needs the whip! My woobie wails, my words writing in a lash to his silky hide, and it's not enough, never enough. Twenty lashes–no, a hundred! Then they must be cleaned, oh yes. Click-click-click go my fingers, and my smile is reflected in the computer screen. Salt water is all we have, woobie. You ought not have been so naughty, and I would not have had to punish you so.

Research time, after the fact. Oh dear. The injures I gave him would have made him dead…I ignore the facts. It's time to burn him. Suffer, I whisper, softly in the dark of night, my swiftly typing fingers creating highly dubious torture fic. Then, maybe…a womb. Yeeees. Let us plant babies under your lovely six pack, fill you with the seed of monsters and make your belly swell with the spawn of your most hated enemy.

Woobie's eyelids flutter shut, his skin lily-white with shock. It's bad for the babies (yes, plural, always plural), I checked on Google, but oh well. It's not like I want them to live. He touches the jiggling mass of spawn-ceatures I wrote into his body, sweat dripping down his neck, and I take pity, however slight.

Rescuing hero, oh how handsome you are! Your hair flutters in the breeze and your gleaming orbs gleam nicely in the windowless cage I've locked the woobie in. Can you save him? My plot says yes, but my fingers say that you must suffer first. Tell me, Hero…have you ever performed a c-section? It's so lucky that you brought your sword…

My id drips in my hand, soft and well-used.

When nonnies expressed conflicted appreciation, DIN continued….

…I watch, gentlefailer, and I see you begging in the fic recs thread, your eyes wide and pleading for the dubious generosity of your fellow raptors. My id! you cry out, you hands clattering across the keyboard.

I watch, and I bear witness, learning the soul of fandom in its great and gnarled glory. Like a thick and throbbing cock that towers above us all, fandom is easily pleased. Once you enter it, you become part of the shaft of the masses, and fandom's pleasure becomes your own.

It is a strange cycle of self-pleasure, as each of us who grant the fandom it's hefty girth is also a willing hole, begging to get fucked.

But enough of that! You wish to know how I know your kinks? The answer is simple. They are the kink of fandom, a stroke across our collective twitching, straining, and yes, Virginia, our jerking, jizzing cock. Any fool with a keyboard could do it.

You laugh, uneasily, and say, “my kinks are different. They're special!”

And I laugh and tell you the truth– “They are fandom's kinks, gentlefailer.”

(feel free to swap cock with vagina for the entirety of the previous argument, if it suits you)

“Prove it!” You cry out, determined that I am not correct, that we are not a collective living inside a metaphorical cock.

There is a noble hero, and he is so fucking noble. He's stupid with it, all honor and duty and dreams of a better world. He is young in heart if not in body, and he is so shining and unbroken.

He shall be woobie, I decide, a flush of excitement cheering me. Woobie-woobie-woobie–Oh my god, there's a bear attacking him.

The bear is furry and savage, all unrestrained masculinity in a metaphorical kind of way, and it scores woobie with its claws, cutting him open and allowing his blood to trickle down his side.

Woobie fights on, his blaster/sword/lightsaber in hand, and sweat dripping down his noble brow. The bear is a he, woobie discovers as he is faced with a rampaging bear cock, and the first hint of fear rises. Why is the bear so turned on, he wonders, checking for lady-bears, in firm denial of his universal sexiness to all creatures great and small, even as a mosquito lays her eggs on his arm out of fruitless hope that he'll fertilize them.

Despite his obvious advantage in skill and weaponry, Woobie is laid low by the bear, too distracted by the swaying bearection to fight properly. His clothes are rent, torn apart by the bears claws, and Woobie is helpless and screaming, though his legs part quite naturally around bear's fur-covered waist.

Suddenly bear dick!

In his hole so soft and mild, the bear plunges like a plumber rooting out a blockage. Woobie wails, his voice rising to the trees/next floor/air vents/castle walls, torn between enjoyment of the massive violation of his self respect and dignity, and hating his furry rapist. “Nooooooo!”

The bear is a bear, and it doesn't understand Klingon/Elvish/Wookie. It humps ferociously at the Woobie's tender hole, intent on breeding its slutty little mate. Cubs, the bear thinks, in a dim, animalistic kind of way. Half-woobie and half-bear, they will be the finest warriors to ever fall too easily to the first sexy opponent they encounter.

Woobie is unaware of the womb that was even now growing in his smooth belly, heralded by a tingle that he mistakes for encroaching orgasm. All he knows is the endless agony that is very arousing to him, and the soft silky fur of his bearapist rubbing against his inner thighs. “Nooooooo!” he moans again, much less convincingly this time.

Bear roars his pleasure to the walls/forest/stunned crowd of onlookers, his seed spent in the Woobie's silken hole, a veritable flood of bear-baby batter that inundates Woobie's insides, drawing him into an unlikely orgasm.

Inside the Woobies fine, tender young body, bear semen meets man eggs in a natural and beautiful communion orchestrated by mother nature. Woobie falls silent, his glowing sapphire/emerald/honeysuckle orbs staring into the bear's deep brown/chocolate/walnut eyes. Is this love? he wonders, shyly petting the thick bear fur, earning a grumble of approval from the beast.

You can lie to me if you'd like, gentlefailer, but I know you're aroused right now.

When it is pointed out to DIN that woobies are seldom noble unbroken heroes but hot messes of issues, DIN completes the trilogy:

Well we could go that route as well, I suppose…

He's so deliciously broken, my woobie. A junkie whore with a heart of gold and Robin Hood complex, oodles of childhood abuse, and injection scars in his tear ducts because his pimp don't like track marks.

A limp dishrag, that's what he is, so broke that there's nothing useful about him except his body, and even that's a ten dollar price tag at full price.

Woobie smokes, living dangerously and courting lung cancer by his lamp post, not even strong enough to wrestle himself a street corner. He's so damaged that it's delicious, and the scent of him is like honey to the bear.

Woobie freezes as he feels hot breath on his shoulder, stinking of Alaskan salmon and fresh blueberries. “Ten bucks for a fuck,” he mutters, not bothering to look back.

Bears don't understand currency. Or whores, really. Bears just take what they want, like rampaging barbarians covered in fur, a sleek layer of winter fat under their healthy hide.

Claws as long as Woobie's hand settle on his shoulders, and Woobie has just enough time to scream before the bear drags him into the closest alley. “Nooooooooo!” he wails, terrified and helpless, but everyone on the street looks away, ignoring the bear nosing at the crotch of his lime-green spangly short-shorts with the ease of people who truly believe that they're tripping balls because there's a fucking grizzly bear on the street.

Eight days later: The glorious return of Dripping Id Nonny!

As nick-names go, I'm not sure I could do worse than Dripping Id.

But why not?

The ponies aren't enough for you anymore, are they? You need more, so much more…your pleasure threshold is heightened, and now only the most fucked up shit can get you off. It's cool, though. Dripping Id is here to deal you some sweet, sweet Id-Juice.

We're gonna play with a Neglected Hero today. He tries so hard, but no one appreciates him, the poor boy.

You ready? Yeah, I see your id perking right up…

THE PASSION OF THE POLAR BEAR

Everyone is busy. Neglected Hero falls to the wayside because the world needs saving. He's doing what needs to be done, quietly, unappreciated, but the world ending doesn't mean that his job (whatever the fuck it is) stopped being important.

All his friends stopped talking to him, too busy fighting a war/demon/dragon that's attacking to the west, and they've got to fight it. Hero stays behind on the homefront, because someone has to, and he's like, super-fucking-noble. And awesome, which is why he can do it single-handed.

Everything goes well, except for him being super-duper sad and lonely, drinking tea/rum/ale at a table made to seat a dozen. So lonely he is…LE SIGH.

He gets injured. A bear trap. It was in the garden, where he keeps his bear traps. Woobie insists that they keep a supply of them, and Neglected Hero is cool with that, but now his leg is trapped in a fifty pound steel jaw, and if he wasn't an elf/cyborg/wookie/dwarf, his leg would be gone.

He screams so loud, then starts cursing up a storm because this kind of hero has to be manly and tough for your id to be satiated by his suffering. Hero is alone, no one around to help, and so he pries it off himself, blood getting everywhere. The bone might be broken. He doesn't know how to tell, and his doctor-friend is fighting dragons out west.

The castle/planet/bat cave is empty, but hero's fine with it. He can take care of this. They trusted him with this, and he can do it–even if he has to carve a crutch out of a yeti leg/marble pillar/tree just so he can hobble around. He wraps his leg in bandages and walks around surprisingly well for the damage done. (This is because he is manly.) But if only someone was there to help him, and wipe at his fevered brow. But no, they had to go off and leave him alone, the selfish dicks.

He falls asleep thinking that at least the bears haven't attacked, but in that half-awake state, he remembers, suddenly, that he hadn't re-armed the bear trap.

His dreams are interrupted by the roaring of a savage polar bear, howling its challenge to the uncaring skies. Hero grabs his sword and leaps to his feet only to collapse, his injured leg screaming in pain.

It's too late. The door to his bedchamber shatters, crushed by a mighty white paw, and the Polar Bear stands before him, a thick leg of lamb gripped between its teeth and a rabid, wild look in its eyes. Neglected Hero howls in rage, hurling his sword/blaster/gun at the beast, but it glances off the bear's gleaming white hide!

The Polar Bear swallows the lamb leg whole, then roars again, a rampaging red erection rising from the crux of its pearly white hind legs.

Hero scrambles, trying to get away, but the Bear is following him, preforming the traditional mating dance of its people. Its hips sway with vigor to a melody that is only in Bear's head, but Hero can almost hear it…Hero's mouth goes dry, the thick berection bobbing toward him like a fishing lure, so mesmerizing…

SURPRISE FADE TO BLACK!

It went on so long that I was forced to use a second comment, my apologies.

Neglected Hero is neglected no more, knotted permanently to the polar bear in a moving expression of man/bear love. His friends return from their important quest, but he knows better than to trust them now–there's only one creature who loves him, and that's the bear that has permanently imbedded its prick in his bowels. His friends never understood him–only Bear loves him.

Bear's seed is slowly carving a uterus out of Hero's bowels so that they might have a real family, with the pitter-patter of little paws racing through their love-cave (actual cave, not the uterus, though technically also the uterus). The crippling injury dealt to neglected hero by the bear trap does not matter, because he is tied to bear, forever. He rides him like a fuzzy cock-pony that he is harnessed underneath with bondage straps that make the reader question the author's kinks. And if the Neglected Hero slowly wastes away like a male anglerfish, well, that's the kind of sacrifice you have to make to have true love with an amazing bear like Polar Bear.

In time, even Neglected Hero's old friend agree that they have never seen a love so pure, but Hero never forgives them for saving the world while he suffered at the paws of the bearapist he loves so dearly.

Aw yeah, I still got it.

The original Dripping Id Nonny posts were duplicated on An Archive of Our Own.