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a-living-canvas · 23 days

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Broken hourglass

TW : Dehumanisation

"You may call me sir or master." Whumper ordered as they were adjusting the collar on Whumpee's neck. Whumpee frowned, "What? Why should I?" Whumper finished putting the collar before they stood up straight again and sighed.

They walked to the metal table, examining every single one of the tools. "I'm your owner now. You ought to listen to my words." Silent enveloping them for a moment. Whumper pulled the leash that connected with the collar.

"Come, pet."

Whumpee fought against the rope, they backed away to the wall. Whumper blinked twice before they pulled it again, slightly harder. Whumpee still didn't budge from their spot. Whumper sighed, on the verge of losing their patience. They pulled the leash again more intensely.

"Come on, now…!"

"No!"

Whumper tightened their grasp on the leash and pulled it with more force. Whumpee struggled yet again. "No! Let me go! You freak—!"

Whumper slapped them hard on the cheek, silencing them. They walked behind Whumpee before putting a blindfold over their eyes. "W-wait, what are you—"

"Shut up. Can you stop being obnoxious for a second?"

Whumper walked in a circle around Whumpee, silently judging them. They trailed their gaze up and down at their pathetic form.

"Kneel."

Whumper ordered with a firm tone. Whumpee stood motionless on their spot, gritting their teeth in rage. They would have launched at Whumper if not for these pesky restraints. Whumper crossed their arms,

"I said kneel—"

"I won't fucking kneel for you, you dumbass!"

Silent.

Whumper walked and stopped in front of Whumpee. They poked their blindfolded eye with their finger lightly. "You won't?" Whumper took out a sharp knife from their pocket.

"Then I'll make you."

"W-wait, what do you—" Whumpee flinched and yelled loudly as they felt a sharp pain on their front thighs. Their knees buckled and they slumped to the floor along with their soft whimpering. Whumper watched them kneeled in amusement and satisfaction as they were smirking down at them.

"Now, can you bark for me?"

"...w-what..?" Whumpee asked breathlessly. They could feel blood under their palms as it was slipping out from their thighs. Whumper chuckled, they ruffled their hair in somewhat a mocking manner.

"I asked you to bark for me, Whumpee. You can do that right? You are a dog, after all."

Whumper grabbed a fistful of Whumpee's hair before they brought their face to them. "Now, be loyal to your owner and bark."

"I…I don't want to…"

"Oh yeah?"

"Y-yes…"

Whumper hummed in thoughts. They let go of Whumpee's hair before they pinched their cheek. "Then, I have no choice but to put you in a muzzle. You know, so you won't be able to talk and maybe I won't give you any food—"

"W-wait, please…please don't do that!"

Whumper ignored Whumpee's pleading as they continued to talk.

"...if you behave, then…yeah, I might give you food. But who likes a bad dog like–"

"W-woof…"

Whumper smirked, "Hm? What was that?"

Whumpee swallowed their embarrassment and shame down their throat. "Woof…woof…"

Whumper ruffled their hair affectionately. "Aww, look who's finally being a good dog for me! Always so good for me, hm?" Whumpee put their head down as they continued to be treated like an animal. Their fingers curled up tightly, their palms nearly bleeding from their sharp nails digging down on it.

Whumpee heard the sound of a plate colliding with the floor before it was placed in front of them. They tried to reach the food with their hand when Whumper said,

"Ah ah ah, don't use your hands. You gotta use your nose to find the food and your mouth to eat it."

Whumpee obeyed. They leaned their head down a little before they started sniffing for the food. They crawled for a short moment and when their nose was hovering above the food, they grimaced. It's a dog food. Specifically in a can. Whumpee knew Whumper bought the expensive one for them, because they used to buy the same brand to their beloved dog at home.

Whumper snickered, "Aw, come on. What are you waiting for? Don't you feel hungry?"

"...I can't eat this."

Whumper rolled their eyes, "Oh, you can. You are just being a brat."

Whumper walked to the door, leaving Whumpee alone. "I would give you human food if you behave and eat the dog food for now."

The basement door shut close before the sound of it being locked could be heard. Whumpee stuck in that kneeling position for minutes. They refused to eat the kibbles no matter what. However, after half an hour passed, their arms started giving out. Their stomach rumbled loudly. They leaned their head down again, parted their lips before sticking their tongue out to eat.

They ate in silence as tears were dripping down onto the food.

#whump community #whump writing #dehumanisation #whumper

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chaotic-orphan · 10 months

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June of Doom, Day Twenty-nine:

It’s really not that big of a deal: bruises // secrets // acceptance

CW: bruises, implied abuse, abuse of power, unaware victim, unaccepting victim, beating, aftermath of beating, concerned caretaker, extreme whumper, gaslighting, blood, punishment, unfair treatment of Whumpee,

Extremely unedited, i am currently s-i-c-k… so I wrote it and didn’t want to tag but now I have time to tag, yaaayyyy

P.s. if there’s any tags I missed please tell me my brain is dying <3

*~*~*~*~*

It was two pathetic knocks on Villain’s door that roused them from sleep. Followed by another weak one and then there was a heavy thud against their door. Villain was out of bed after the first knock, bare feet hitting hard wood and padding out to the living room in their apartment. They grabbed their gun from table beside the door when they heard the thud and peeked out the peephole into the empty stairwell. They clicked the safety off and quietly drew back the hammer.

Frowning, they left the chain lock on the slider and unlocked the door, positioning themselves into the crook of the opening and pulling the door open. It flung open and Villain aimed the barrel at the floor to the figure slumped there.

A very bloody Hero.

Villain blinked back the sleep in their eyes, but they were right the first time. They cursed and closed the door again, sliding the chain off the latch and opening it again. They clicked the hammer back, put the safety on their gun and placed it on the table again before bending down to their crumbled Hero.

“Hero? Hey, Hero,” Villain said, snapping their fingers in front of Hero’s eyes. They got a minuscule moan in reply and Villain cursed to themselves. They put an arm around Hero’s shoulders, the other under Hero’s knees and hoisted them up.

Hero’s eyes sprung open, gasping cradling their side and hunching in on themselves. “Hey! Hey, Hero. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Villain. I’m just taking you inside, okay?”

“V—Villain, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go, I’m sorry,” Hero whispered against Villain’s chest and Villain shushed them as they closed the door to their apartment. Trying to pretend that Hero’s ragged breathing wasn’t pulling at every heartstring, and gently lay Hero on their couch. “No! No, I’m bleeding… the couch… it’ll— agh, s-stain,” Hero protested but Villain put a firm hand on Hero’s shoulder to keep them lying down.

“I can clean the couch, Hero,” said Villain softly. “It’s really not that big of a deal. You’re more important.”

Hero opened their mouth to protest again, but before any words could come, Hero grimaced, clenching their teeth as they held their side, fingers digging into their waist.

“I’ll get ice,” Villain said after a quick once over. Hero’s clothes weren’t bloody (except from the obvious blood dripping down Hero’s forehead and nose) but the rest was most likely some bad bruising. Villain stood and walked around the couch into the kitchen, calling back to Hero. “Tell me what happened.”

Villain looked into the freezer and only saw a half empty tub of vanilla ice cream and three gel ice packs. Villain took the ice packs, leaving the ice cream a shut the door. They stopped at the sink on the way back, wetting a clean towel and walking to Hero who was still trying to sit up.

“Stay still,” Villain said, “you’re obviously hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Hero denied, but recanted after the deadpan stare from Villain. “Okay. I’m not fine.”

“Can I take your jacket off?” Villain asked, setting everything down on the coffee table.

Hero smiled. “So forward of you Villain.”

Villain smiled back. “You’re bleeding on my couch, Hero, I think we’re past the dinner date phase.”

“Fair enough,” Hero laughed, then stopped with a wince. Villain set their jaw and stood, trying to remove Hero’s jacket as gently as possible.

Hero’s arms were always a shock to Villain. Littered with so many different scars and bruises and burns at any give time, and Hero used them as if they weren’t damaged at all. Continued with their life as if they didn’t even notice they were hurt. Sometimes Villain wondered if Hero even felt the pain anymore, and was kind enough to not ask about the several deepest cuts on Hero’s wrist.

There were certain lines they never crossed with Hero. Some secrets that were still their own… despite the recent blurring of lines between friendship and enemies Hero and Villain had been towing.

“What happened?” Villain asked again, breaking the gel ice pack and handing it to Hero. Hero took it gladly, pressing it against their abdomen while Villain cracked another to activate it and glanced up at Hero for permission to help them.

“My… my ribs, I can—“

“I can too,” Villain told them and Hero bit their lip before nodding and pointing at the sorest spot. When Villain pressed the ice pack to it Hero jerked away, hissing sharply.

“Villain. Villain. Wait— ow! Ow! Ow! Okay. Okay! We switch, okay?” Hero howled, dropping the ice pack on their abdomen and grabbing the one by their ribs with the opposite hand. Tears were in their eyes, so Villain didn’t fight them on their pain. A shaky hand went over Villain’s and Hero said: “it’s okay. I got it.”

So Villain let go and sat back on the coffee table, clasping their hands between their thighs and levelling Hero with a pointed stare.

“Superhero put me on 1st tonight,” Hero began. 1st being the rich quarter of the city with the banks and the businesses and the Hero tower as it’s shining jewel. “I told them I knew the dregs better but they refused, put Other Hero there instead,” Hero grumbled and Villain had to smile at the disdain colouring Hero’s voice.

Other Hero was a fanciful prick at best of times and dangerously incompetent at their worst. Which was all the time.

“So I went on patrol on 1st, and Other Villain appeared for the first time in two months since they blew the warehouse at the docks,” Hero told them and Villain nodded, remembering the burns on Hero’s arms after they rushed in headfirst to save a ship worker. “I reported it and Superhero told me to give chase so I did.”

“Did other Villain do this to you?” Villain asked, voice hard, eyes narrowing. Hero shook their head, and a drop of blood fell onto their cheek. Villain reached forward with the wet towel and brushed it away. Hero’s eyes widened marginally as they glanced at Villain’s gentle hand, then to Villain’s face.

Villain found Hero’s eyes and their breath caught in their throat at the pure openness of Hero. They remembered reading somewhere that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and if so, then Hero was the best person Villain had ever known.

“Did Other Villain—“ Villain began again, but Hero smiled a little sadly and said: “no.”

“No, they got away. Fled into sixth, but I’m pretty sure I stopped whatever destructive plan they had for the night so that’s a bonus at least.”

Villain frowned as they wiped the blood from Hero’s upper lip and leaned back on the coffee table. “So who did this to you?”

Hero didn’t say anything. Though they did gasp when the wet towel touched the bruise on their cheekbone. Villain wiped at the small cut in the centre of it, while Hero avoided any and all eye contact.

Villain nodded silently, pursing their lips slightly and sitting back on the coffee table again. They grabbed the spare icepack and stood, walking to the kitchen.

“Do you like vanilla ice cream?” Villain asked, pausing at the doorframe and glancing back at Hero. Hero peeked over the couch with confused eyes.

“What?”

“I have a tub of vanilla ice cream in the freezer. You want some?”

Hero let out a short huff of laughter. “Umm. Sure.”

“Okay then.”

Villain got to work. They put the bloody towel into the sink, the last ice pack into the freezer and took the tub of vanilla out. They grabbed two spoons and walked back to Hero, sitting down again on the coffee table and opening the tub with a swift and comforting clack clack clack to fill the silence.

Hero gestured with their elbows uselessly and Villain looked down at the spoon in their hand, then back to Hero’s occupied hands pressing the ice packs to their abs and ribs. Villain looked back at the spoon, then dug it into the ice cream and got a decent sized scoop before bringing the spoon to Hero’s closed lips.

Hero laughed then winced, and said: “you’re going to feed me?”

Villain threw their free hand in the air, a helpless gesture. “If you don’t eat it it’ll melt and you’ll be wearing it.”

“Okay,” Hero said with a smile and opened their mouth wide enough for Villain to put the spoon into Hero’s mouth. Villain swallowed as if they were the one eating ice cream, and drew it back out, going back to get another scoop.

They raised it again and Hero shook their head with that same smile that made something warm flutter in Villain’s chest and said: “no, no. You now.”

Villain glanced at the spoon, the same one Hero had just eaten off, and put it in their mouth. Hero’s eyes crinkled at the sides when they rested their head back against the arm rest of the couch.

Then their expression melted into one of sadness, their eyes going to the ceiling. They bit their cheek, then said so quietly Villain nearly missed it:

“Superhero did this,” they said and Villain paused mid scoop. Their head snapped to Hero who was still staring at the ceiling. “When I reported that Other Villain fell out of my jurisdiction and handed it to Other Other Hero in 6th, Superhero called me to their office. So I went, knowing I was going to be punished for letting them—“

“Punished?” Villain repeated, tightening their grip on the spoon in the ice cream.

Hero just nodded, their throat bobbing as they swallowed hard.

“Punished for— for what?!” Villain demanded hotly.

Hero just kept staring at the ceiling.

“For not catching Other Villain. I should have been faster. Should have been better as Superhero’s protégé,” Hero spat the last word. “I let them down. Embarrassed them by being useless. So I get punished for letting them go.”

“You didn’t let them go!” Villain protested, slamming the tub of ice cream onto the coffee table. Hero finally — finally — looked at them. “They left your jurisdiction! It was another Hero’s job to catch them.”

“To pick up my slack—“

“No!” Villain yelled, and Hero flinched. Villain let out a long sigh, running their hands through their hair to try and calm down. This was barbaric, how could Hero be so okay with this? This treatment? Villain’s eyes widened at the realisation, shock colouring their voice as they whispered: “it’s not the first time, is it?”

Hero’s eyes shuttered close, letting out a shaky breath of their own. That was all the confirmation Villain needed.

“Fuck. Fuck! Hero! How long? How long have they been beating you?”

“It was apart of my training,” Hero confessed. “It wasn’t physical punishments at first… they just told me to do extra reps of push-ups, pull-ups, extra ten minutes on the treadmill. To make me stronger, make me fast, build my stamina. Then one day I couldn’t bench the weight Superhero gave me and— and I told them it was too much…”

“Hero,” Villain whispered, reaching forward and putting their hand over Hero’s on their abs. They just needed to touch them, to show them that they were they for them.

Hero shook their head, tears streaming down their cheeks as they continued: “they… they spotted the weight and told me to put my knuckles back on my collarbones so I did, while Superhero put an extra weight on either side of the bar… I was so scared that I just lay there, waiting…

Then Superhero put the bar back down on my hands and it crushed me. I tried to push it up, but I couldn’t, it was too heavy, too heavy for me and the more it stayed there the harder it got to breathe and my whole body was shaking… Superhero just watched me from above, this look of utter… utter disgust. I was trying to make them proud, and I was disappointed them no matter what I did… they left me there until I was able to push the bar up myself and get myself out and when I did they were so proud.”

Hero cut themselves off with a sudden burst of sobs and Villain tightened their hand on Hero’s. They felt so… so useless. How do you react to that? How you do even begin comforting someone who’s been through that.

“That was only the beginning,” Hero sniffed, “after that Superhero started beating me personally, called it sparring. Training, to make me better before my debut. To make me unstoppable. And I still let them down to this day.”

The look Hero gave Villain shook Villain to their core. The desperation on their gear stained face, the puffiness of their eyes and the steeled determination behind them.

“I just want to be good, Villain. I just want to do good and make them happy, but I’m useless. I’m pathetic. I can’t even stop one villain! I deserve this. I deserve this, I don’t deserve your kindness,” Hero said sniffing, pushing Villain’s hand away and sitting up with a grunt of pain. Villain tried to get them to lay back down again but Hero held up a hand and said: “don’t.”

“Hero, please. Let me help you. Superhero is psychopathic! You don’t deserve to be treated like that! Please, please just— just stay the night. We can talk more in the morning, okay? Not even about this is you like.”

“No Villain, I need to—“ Hero winced as they put their feet on the ground. Villain lunged to catch them and right them again.

Villain took Hero’s chin in their hand and tilted their head up to look at them. Hero was breathing heavy from the sudden exertion and stabbing pain.

“You know what Superhero is doing is wrong. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come here, Hero,” Villain said softly, raising their other hand to Hero’s cheek and stroking a thumb under Hero’s eye, catching a stray tear that was about to fall. “You wouldn’t have come to let me help you, so let me help. I won’t ask again, I’ll just keep you here against your will. So please, stay. Just for tonight.”

Hero leaned into Villain’s hand, their soft, gentle touch and let out a sigh of defeat. “Okay,” Hero whispered and Villain smiled.

They reached a hand down and helped Hero to their feet. “Wait, Villain—“

“You’re sleeping on the bed, I’ll grab the couch.”

“No, agh, Villain—“

“No arguing Hero, I won’t change my mind.”

Hero was tired, so they walked with Villain to the bedroom and allowed themselves to be taken care of, for just one night.

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cold1dead1eyes · 1 year

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16. bad caretaker

“don’t leave…” whumpee whimpers from their knees. they reach out to grab caretaker’s ankle and caretaker turns around in a flurry, fury evident on their face.

“i told you, whumpee…” caretaker grits out. they shake their foot but whumpee holds on tight, lip trembling with desperation.

“caretaker! please, don’t leave, don’t leave—” tears wet whumpee’s cheeks as they dig their nails into caretaker’s pant leg. caretaker rolls their eyes. they pull out their gun and whumpee jerks back.

“you are a pain in my fucking ass, you know that?” caretaker’s voice is thick with vitriol. a wave of guilt goes through whumpee. they didn’t mean to bother caretaker. they just thought— caretaker had rescued them, let them stay, taken care of them when they were sick and hurting and bloody. whumpee thought—

“i don’t give a crap what whumper did you, whumpee. you’re only here because you’re useful.” a hurt sound grinds past whumpee’s throat without their control. they didn’t mean to bother caretaker. they just wanted to be good, to show caretaker that they appreciated their kindness. they just want to be safe, like they were promised.

caretaker takes the safety off their gun, cocking it before pointing it right at whumpee’s forehead. whumpee freezes. they stare up at caretaker with wide, terrified eyes, trying to make sense of the situation.

“now back off, or i’ll make you.” caretaker growls, their eyebrows knitted together in a threat. whumpee swallows hard. they slide back on the hardwood floor, leaning back against their bed. whumper never gave them a bed. whumper never fed them. but caretaker does, caretaker always makes sure they're clean, well-fed, healthy. whumpee should be more thankful. whumpee should apologize—

"goddamn punching bag, making my life hell." caretaker mutters as they click the safety back on their gun and stow it away in their belt. they sigh and give whumpee a look before they leave.

"be good while i'm gone." they order, and then they walk out. whumpee doesn't move. they barely breathe. they make sure they're good for their caretaker until they come home again, because after everything caretaker does for whumpee, obedience is really the least they can give them.

prompt by @whumpay

#bad caretaker #whump #whump writing #whump drabble #whump prompt #nameless whump #carewhumper #conditioned whumpee #recovery whump #fear of abandonment #agh i really struggled with this one :/#idk why #the idea just didn't flow...#oh well #i think it turned out ok #whumpay2023 #whumpay

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

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A Whumpee who was conditioned to associate safety with restraints. Whenever their arms were aching, hands tied snug behind their back, they knew Whumper wasn’t going to hurt them. They knew the protection that came with a blindfold and a gag, in the simple way a rope could twist around their wrists they knew that for now, just for now, they could relax a little, let down their guard.

Any comforts they were given only came when they were tied up. Food, water, all provided. Sometimes their bonds would be manipulative enough that they could manage to feed themself, others not so much but Whumpee had learned to accept that helplessness—Whumper would help. They only ever got to sleep normal if their wrists were tethered in chains, able to close their eyes under the blindfold and just know that they wouldn’t be hurt. Physical comfort, medical attention, all paired with the familiar pressure around their forearms.

To further affirm this, some nights Whumper would leave them untied. The first time it happened, right at the beginning of Whumpee’s captivity, they had thought it was a slip up, an overlook. They had decided to take that freedom as a little treat, by that point aware enough to know that any attempt at escape would only end horribly for them. So they take the leisure to stretch out their stiff muscles and attempt to make themself a bit more comfortable as they fall asleep. Imagine how awful it felt for them to wake up, not half an hour after they fell asleep, to a fist in their hair, dragging them up to a whole new world of pain, worse than anything they felt to that point.

At some point, they learned. Any food that was given to them in the absence of cuffs was undoubtedly poisoned, tainted with drugs that would induce the worst fever dreams or the most uncomfortable pain, whereas the lasting nausea wouldn’t allow them to so much as sip water for days after. They learned that if they fell asleep without that familiar strain on their shoulders, they would be woken minutes later to the stinging lash of a whip or the burning shock of a stun gun or whatever torture Whumper was in the mood for.

Whenever they’re left unrestrained, the anxiety alone, anticipating what would happen, the pain that would follow, was enough to drive them to tears. Before long, whenever Whumper would leave them free in the room, they would return however long later to Whumpee hunched over on their knees, sobbing with their arms behind their back, nails digging into opposite forearms despite the absence of bonds.

Now imagine that Whumpee post-rescue. In the days, weeks following their (unwilling) liberation, as they sit in Caretaker’s home. The indents around their wrists having yet to fade, the deep bruises by now appearing as if they never will. Imagine the constant anxiety they’re faced with. Imagine the panic that weighs like a stone in their stomach every second of the day, building up and worsening as they wait for the inevitable. They know it’s coming. The waiting is driving them mad. Every day, they fear that the moment they let their guard down, the moment they step a toe too far out of line-

But they don’t know caretaker. They have no clue what they would do. And that scares them. It scares them beyond expression.

It’s inevitable, the day when they finally break. They’re sobbing and can barely speak, but still trying to beg caretaker to just do it, just do it already please just hurt me- I can’t stand it, please just do it-

And caretaker has no clue what to do. Do they give in to Whumpee’s pleads for sanctum, and finally, reluctantly bind their wrists, telling themself they are only doing this for Whumpee’s sake, assuring them that at any time Caretaker will remove the restraints, despite how this will only hinder any progress towards recovery? Or do they stand strong, despite how much it pains them to see Whumpee in such emotional anguish, doing the best they can to help them without feeding the habits they had grown to depend on?

How long can Whumpee last under this inexplicable stress, without food or water or sleep, without a moment allowed to let their guard down because they know exactly what will happen the moment they do.

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whumpsoda · 3 months

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Spill - Nevan & Darius

WOHEO Masterlist

I procrastinated on finishing this one for so long but I’m finally posting it :) now to work on even earlier captivity stuff

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud

cw: conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, gore/blood, vampire whumper

———————————————————————

Nevan gasped sharply, eyes wide and body trembling. Shards of slick, edged glass littered the previously pristine floor in a giant trickling pool of elegant wine. His throat caved in, shriveled up and dry, as his fingers twitched mercilessly. The thrall’s vision trailed over each cracking fragment, leading all the way to a pair of drenched boots in front of him.

As his gaze ever so slightly rose, the slender body of his still master came into view. His breath hitched as he stopped at Darius’ abdomen, a wide splatter of the dark beverage already seeping into and taking hold of the fabric of his sweater.

His new sweater.

His white sweater.

The first time his master had granted him the privilege of doing such a task as pouring his master’s luxurious wine, such a simple task at that, and he’d instantly fucked it up.

Nevan’s knees buckled weakly, almost stumbling into the deadly array of razor sharp slivers. “I-!” He spat, staggering a step closer. He couldn’t see his master’s face, but the fierce grip of his fist was enough.

“I- I, I, I didn’t-!” He cried, thoughts moving so fast the pleas he so desperately needed to say were split apart like a puzzle. Nevan tripped over his heavy feet, hopelessly teetering around the shatters. Almost falling into his master, he stopped himself just before he could commit another grave mistake.

He clutched Darius’ clothing in both shaking hands, taking in the effects of his crime. Nevan frantically dove his head into the rich, impossibly expensive fabric, tongue outstretched and exposed.

Vigorously he ran the red piece of flesh over the ridges of sewed cotton, already stained a vibrant magenta. Fuzz and twine stuck to the moisture as his tongue dragged over, in a futile attempt to suck out the pigment. “‘M so- sorry-! So- so sorry!”

Nevan released the item with a swift but firm slap to the cheek, hungrily burning his supple skin. Spit flew from his open mouth at the contact, and an already forming tear slipped out from his eye.

“Down.” Darius commanded, voice graveled and coated in disgusted displeasure.

His body moving beyond his own accord, Nevan’s knees dropped to the wood below his master’s. With his head bowed, he silently held back a wail when numerous bits of the bottle cut through his skin, digging and burrowing their way into his flesh.

“So- sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! So, so, sorry!” He exclaimed, grabbing eagerly at whatever shards lay in his reach, disregarding the sting of more breaks tearing into him. Nevan searched until his hands were full, and he was howling in a mixture of horror and pain.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!” he rambled, streams of fat tears dampening his cheeks, only trailing off in panic when Darius’ hand neared his head.

Nevan shrieked as the vampire’s fingers drove into his scalp, seizing a hearty fistful of the human’s hair. Nevan’s head was aggressively wrenched back, agony pricking at each little divot in his head where the hairs sprouted. “Sorry, sorry, sorry-!”

“Shut up.” Darius snarled, baring his teeth as he pierced into the eyes of the pleading man below him. Nevan whimpered, snot dribbling over his quivering lip as he clasped his hands together as means of begging, glass deeping their spot inside of him.

“You know, Nevan,” Darius sickly huffed a bitter laugh. He began a slow descent to a crouch, digging his face into his thrall’s. “I got you to make my life easier.” He sneered, twisting Nevan’s hair between a furious grip and yanking to elicit another yelp.

“And somehow, after all the effort I’ve put in to getting you to so much as call me Master, you can’t manage a task as easy as pouring me a drink?”

Nevan wanted to scream, to beg, to plead until his voice ran raw. How could he be so stupid all the time? He was just a brainless, good for nothing dog like his master told him.

Darius released his rigid hold on the bundle of strained hair, swiftly gripping his thrall’s face between his fingers before Nevan could catch a second to recover. With his free hand he clutched the man’s wrist, squeezing it tightly with all of his amplified vampiric strength and tearing it from Nevan’s clasp.

Nevan watched in unwavering focus as his master lifted his tattered hand to his widening mouth, dragging his clammy red tongue over each ragged cut, scratching himself in the process.

Nevan’s hand jerked with each tickled sensation, shivers of pleasure and fear running all the way to his spine. Darius’ grip was still hard, holding the direct intent to hurt, but with each tender lick his eyelashes fluttered against his will.

Smears of lavish gore muddled the vampire’s tongue and lips, and Nevan was yanked back into lucidity as Darius extended his mouth, giving the other man a full display of his bared fangs.

Nevan’s heart plunged to his tensing stomach as the realization of his master’s moves captured him, attempting a single muffled shout.

Thin bones popped and cracked as Darius’ teeth and fangs brutally sunk into his thrall’s palm with the force of a feral animal, grinding the rows and sticking them deeper.

Nevan thrashed and wriggled to his best ability, shrill screams of terror and torture swaddled by the purse of his lips. His master’s overwhelming strength was far too great, holding Nevan in place with violent intent.

Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt-

Darius’ sets of razor like fangs were nearly touching, ripping gaping holes in a mess of violence of which Nevan couldn’t stomach. His head spun with sickness, mind overwhelmed with the sight of sickening red, the threat of retching inching closer to reality.

At the last possible moment, seconds before tearing completely through the twitching meat, Darius relaxed his jaw. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, Nevan convulsed in anguish, thick and rich bite marks protruding into his ripped and bloodied skin.

Licking his meal stained lips, Darius pecked the tip of his finger, leaving a stain of jarring red with a grin. “Look at me.” He quietly sung, his honeydew voice pulling Nevan from debilitating shock. “Focus on master. You can at least do that for me, can’t you?” He softly requested, as if he didn’t almost mangle his thrall seconds before.

Each of Nevan’s breaths were shaky and panicked, his slender chest heaving and his throat wheezing. Darius let go of his cheeks, instead slipping his hand to gently cradle his thrall’s lolling head.

“Fuh, f- focus, focus, master-” Even melting into a sweaty mess of aching misery, Nevan wanted nothing more than to please his beloved master.

“Hush, listen.” The vampire shushed, pressing a thumb to Nevan’s lips. “Let Master fill your empty little head with my voice.” Darius lifted a finger, leaving a smear of the thrall’s own insides as he placed a stray piece of his thrall’s hair back in its rightful place.

“You want to be good, right?” He questioned, allowing Nevan the slightest bit of movement to eagerly nod. “You want to be better.” He stated, easing his grip on the man’s mouth.

“You’ll surely have to be if I ever want to socialize again. I’ll look like an idiot if I try showing off a faulty thrall.”

Nevan nodded again, slower this time, still desperate to agree. “Yes, better… good…” His voice fuzzed as he spoke, eyes unfocusing. The heavenly agreement almost distracted him from the aching throb of his hand.

“You will be better. Remember what I told you?” Darius asked, studying his thrall with hungry eyes.

“Ye- yes… sir.”

“Then say it.”

Nevan swallowed back a whimper as he began reciting what the vampire had painted into him. “Oh- obedient…mmm… quiet… sss… still… do… docillle…” Each word more slurred than the last, his brain was melting under the weight of the blissful expectations his master had stained upon him. “Betterrr…”

Darius laughed a breathy, charming chuckle, amused by his thrall’s unwavering submission, and Nevan simply supplied a hazy smile. The vampire wiped a bead of salty sweat from his servants moist upper lip.

“Now,” Nevan gave the slightest bit more awareness, eager to follow along. “You, my pet, are going to go take good care of your hand, and I’m going to change.” Darius instructed, forcing Nevan to focus his cotton candy filled mind on only his words.

“You will take my dirtied items and throw them in the laundry, and come back to clean up this mess.” The human nodded along drowsily. “Then, and only then, will I consider calling a doctor for your injury.”

“Yes… sir.”

“Good boy.” Darius praised with a bitter and smug grin, showing off his pink coated mouth as a pool of pleasure swished inside Nevan’s chest.

His master was so kind, helping him better himself. Nevan simply couldn’t let him down, could he?

#we only have each other #Darius oc #Nevan oc #whump #whumpblr #servant whumpee #servant whump #pet whump #whump writing #My writing #vampire whump #vampire #vampire whumper #non human whumper #cw: gore #cw blood

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ashintheairlikesnow · 7 months

Text

The Seas No More

CW: Thoughts of murder, nonhuman whumpee, magical whump, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, some noncon-y from Gilly, choking

The moon hung heavy and full, pale light shining through the window onto the only water the siren could have now. The rope with its looped end now hung by itself above him, gently swaying seemingly of its own volition.

A reminder.

Left there so be did not forget the hissing gasps for air or his hands opening and closing where they had been bound behind his back, helpless to save himself as his toes left the safety of the ground.

A reminder of the look of shining need in the eyes of the siren’s captor as he watched life fade with every denied desperate gasp.

A reminder of how, just before he could fight no longer to live, his captor would let the rope go and watch him crash back into the tub, water splashing out the sides, new bruises blooming.

Above him was the constant threat that it could happen to him again, if he dared to disobey the captor’s commands.

Not that he could even begin to try.

Not any longer.

Not with the cruel magic written into his skin.

The siren tried not to look at the rope, feeling his throat click painfully with every remembered swallow, but he couldn’t really escape it without the sight of his landlocked prison taking over. Stone floors and stone walls threatened to close in on him with every passing second, and he would rather mourn what he had lost than fear what he was forced to have.

Panic threatened around the edges of every breath, but he fought it back. Barely.

Deeper in this place, in another room, his captor laid out in a comfortable human bed, covered in the cloth that kept him warm. It would have taken so little to kill him, and the siren now was unfettered. There were no ropes digging into his wrists, nothing looped tight around his neck. No wooden bit between his teeth to keep him from singing.

It would have been so easy to stand, and walk into that bedroom, and bare his teeth.

Except… he couldn’t.

He kept trying, over and over again, for hours while the moon slowly rose in the sky. He would open his mouth and try to sing the man in here, to lure him with soaring tenor song to put his own head under the water and hold it there until his very lungs burst and then the siren could walk outside and find the ocean and-

Nothing came out but whispers, his own magic fizzling away before it left the heat of his body.

He couldn’t sing.

It was like being unable to breathe, just a different way of choking, and yet being forced to keep living anyway long past when he should have died with the sense that his lungs needed to expand but they couldn't remember how.

His voice caught halfway up his throat when he tried to use it, and what came out instead was a strange rasping croak paired with a sudden flickering burn along one of the things painted on his right arm.

He cradled it close, now, staring at the symbols that meant nothing to him… but he understood enough to know that he was caged this way, captive to the very enclosure of his own skin.

He could not even die to escape it.

His heart skipped and then began to race, and he curled up even more, burying his face between his knees with his arms around them to hide everything but his hair, terrified of what it meant to have a voice that someone else could command, but which was kept from him.

His sobs were nearly silent, present more in the shaking of his shoulders than in any hitch of his breath. If the man woke to his weeping, he feared there would be more pain. There had already been so much.

The moonlight in his hair felt like a caress, like the way his mother touched him when he was young, a quick graze of fingertips as he swam with his sisters, a loving smile.

The moon was enormous tonight, such a feature of the sky it seemed as though it might be about to fall and crash into the ocean. As if the moon, the creator of sirens and mermaids and all the ocean things, would come chasing after her lost son to save him and take him back home.

The waves created by the goddess coming down to earth, the siren thought, would crash upon the land far, far inland and wipe away all the plague of men with their greedy hands and grasping fingers. With his eyes closed he could picture them in their thousands, swept out to sea and prey for those like his own people or the black-and-whites up north, tossed about by the shimmery silvered dolphins with their playful violence, ignored by the enormous whales who would eat their krill while evil men died beside them.

It was a beautiful imagining, so he followed it further, let it lead him from the fear that threatened to overrun him entirely.

He pictured the moon's gift pouring through the windows here, his captor coughing up seawater he couldn’t stop inhaling, begging him for help. Those stupid greedy eyes would be wide in fear but the siren would do nothing but watch…

And smile...

And then feast upon the remains.

He would bury his teeth into soft skin and rend it apart, watch blood bloom and dissolve into the saltwater, giving him strength to go back to the ocean.

The moon would shine the way for him, show him where to swim, unceasing, until he found his way home. His mother and sisters would have known how to survive the great waves of the moon’s crashing. The moon’s own children would be sheltered from her wrath, and they’d be there on the rocks with their arms open to greet him.

If any sailors had survived, the siren could rejoin his sisters in singing them onto the rocks, and he would take new joy in dragging them into the darkest waters until their lungs burst and they could be brought back to land for the meal.

It would be a fitting revenge, for how they had dragged him away and into the air.

He found himself smiling, just a little. The vision of destruction calmed his fear and settled his heartbeat. His body throbbed on the right side, remembering pain from whatever dark magic had been done to him by the woman who had kind eyes even while she hurt him. While she made him… this.

She had finished and looked tired, swaying on her feet, and left with one final soft touch of her hand to his face.

She had done this to him. The moon would kill her, too. But… she had settled her fingers in his hair, stroking gently, while she had painted over his back with her strange paintbrushes and humming ink. She had held him in her arms when the second agony came, even while the man who held him captive had scolded her.

She had soothed him, whispered things he thought must be apologies from her tone, and encouraged him to rest his head on her shoulder. She had only said soft things, and his captor had not started to truly hurt him until she had taken her leave and gone back to her sleeping-place for the night.

Until he and his captor were alone, she had stood between them even as she built the bars of his cage into his body.

He… changed his imagining, then.

He let his dream shift and told himself the moon would show her mercy, kill her quickly so she had no time even to know what had come upon her. The siren wouldn’t eat her. He would lay her out on a sunny rock somewhere higher up, closer to the sky, and let her go back to her own gods that way.

A kindness, for holding him while he screamed, even if she had been the reason for the screaming.

No human had ever held him before.

“Areyto.”

He stiffened, turning away from the moonlight to look back at the doorway. His captor stood there, hair a mess and little round metal-and-glass things down to the end of his nose. The hated man spoke the hated word that the siren had been given as a name. And he… had to answer, now.

Something in the magic had twisted inside his mind, and he knew he had had another name, a real name, but the magic had stolen it from him, taken the sound of his mother's voice whispering it in love away.

All he remembered now was that the human man called him Areyto.

The magic burned, a lick of fire just beneath his jaw, and he winced, closing his eyes as the obedience was compelled. “Ye-es…” He managed, voice still hoarse from his earlier screaming. “Master?"

His captor’s smile widened, and Areyto felt sick at the sight of it, slick like the whale oil that sometimes they found in shipwrecks, dirtying his skin like the black rocks they burned in their metal cooking things.

“I can’t imagine I’ll tire of that,” His captor said, cheerfully. “What a rush, to be called what I am by what belongs to me. What is mine." The siren understood only bits and pieces, but he understood enough, and let his eyes drop back down to the water he sat in. His captor either didn’t notice or didn’t care - he kept talking.

He never stopped talking.

In his dream, Areyto thought, he would rip the man's tongue out first.

His captor chuckled. "Can’t sleep either, huh? I understand entirely. We had an eventful day. I keep thinking about it… thinking about what we’re going to do together. A thousand years… we could do anything. I could do anything. Imagine what I could become with a thousand years of knowledge built up, with all that power and influence. A thousand years of knives being unable to penetrate my organs, of no weapon able to murder me.”

He stepped into the room.

Areyto fought the urge to cringe away from him, trying to hold still and seem unmoved, unafraid, when panic beat inside his chest like a seabird’s frantic wings. He could not escape this, no matter what happened. There was no way to cover himself enough from the human man's filthy smile and glittering eyes.

He listened as his captor stepped closer, and then closer again. He could feel the heat coming from him when he stood beside the washing-tub. His nose wrinkled at the smell of sweat.

Areyto did not look up.

He was afraid the tears would begin again if he did.

With effort he held perfectly still even when his captor touched his hair, disgust like insects crawling from the roots down the back of his neck, his very nerves desperate to hide away and escape from the way fingers scratched his scalp and twisted into the curls.

His captor pulled and the siren’s head was forced back until it knocked into the metal side of the tub, looking up at the human man. Those eyes, behind the glass and metal, shone with ugly triumph.

And… something much worse. Something he recognized only because the man looked at him like that over and over again.

“Out,” His captor ordered - and the buzz of magic moved the siren’s body for him as he found himself standing, stepping out of the washing-tub that was his only hint of safety here, looking down at the ground to avoid the way his captor’s awful eyes moved up and down his body. There was a desire to his expression that was terrible in a way Areyto didn’t yet understand… but he knew to fear.

“Kneel,” His captor commanded in a whisper.

Areyto dropped to his knees, shuddering when that hand with its heavy weight was again in his hair, resting on top of his head, rubbing his thumb between his dark curls. He kept his eyes on the ground and tried to remember his dream about the moon falling into the ocean, the thousands of evil humans swept to their deaths for he and his kind to feast upon.

This man would die slow, and in agony.

“Say, ‘yes master,” His captor ordered, voice thickened. "Say it for me."

Areyto fought not to, but pain burst in a sudden burn down his back and he groaned, shuddering, unable to fight the agony for long. “Y-... yes, Master,” He whispered, hoarsely rasping hated words. Once he obeyed, the pain vanished all at once.

Where it had been, though, there was something hollowed out inside. A sickly self-loathing, a seed taking root that would only ever grow.

His captor smiled, fingers sliding down to take the siren’s chin in hand, tipping it up until their eyes met. His captor was flushed, breathing more heavily, and he stepped closer. It would take so little, the siren thought as the man’s thumb pushed into his mouth and pressed against his tongue, to bite him.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do anything at all but taste salt and skin and hold still as his mouth was forced open, tongue pressed down, before his captor let go and let him look away.

“You have a lovely face,” His captor said, and Areyto didn’t know the words very well but he knew there was something hideous in the way the man formed the sounds. “It’s too bad you weren’t a female siren, isn’t it? Terrible waste of such beauty. I guess you need a male siren for some sailors, that makes sense, but why could I not have caught a female one? Seems like a ghastly joke, doesn't it?"

The siren, looking towards the window just to try to wash himself clean with the moon, swallowed around the nervous heart beating in his throat. When he saw the way his captor’s eyes dropped to watch his neck shift with the motion, he wished that he hadn’t.

His captor sighed, wistfully, crouching slowly down with a grunt of effort. “I suppose it’s not like anyone else would ever know… You can’t tell them. You wouldn’t even know who to tell or what to say. Besides, you’re not even actually a man, either, are you? Wait. No, Gilly,” He muttered to himself, “No, that line of thought is much much worse. You’re overthinking it. It’s yours, now, and who’s to tell you what to do or not do with your own things? Might as well be my own hand." He met the siren’s eyes, with a smile thick and heavy on his skin, a smile like a hand around his neck. “Besides… you really are too beautiful to waste. I know what I promised Beibei, but…” He trailed off, swallowed hard, moving his fingers to graze along the siren’s jaw and watch him shiver. “She won’t know, will she?”

His captor paused, as if waiting for a response. When the siren only stared at him, he sighed and pushed himself to standing.

Then he backhanded the siren across the face.

Areyto hadn’t expected it, and was thrown to the side, landing hard with one arm bent wrong beneath him, a bright flash of pain. He cried out, but before he could push himself back up those thick fingers were back in his hair, pulling him by his scalp along the floor, through the doorway, into the bigger room.

His cheek hurt where the man had been wearing a ring that had torn skin open, hot blood dripping down his face and onto the floor. He managed to scramble onto his hands and knees, half-crawling and half-dragged along, until he was shoved, and then kicked, and his ribs joined his other pains as he came to a stop and found himself staring at the big human bed in a room that had little else in it.

He didn’t know much about how humans lived - only what he had learned in his time imprisoned here, and what could be gleaned from swimming through the shipwrecks after he and his mother and sisters had eaten the sailors. He didn’t know why the man had brought him in here.

But he knew enough to miss his time alone in the metal tub of water. At least that prison had been a solitary one.

Tears burned hot, blurring his vision. He could hold them back no longer. When he hitched out a sob, his captor gave a shuddering exhale behind him, making a groaning sound that Areyto understood too well, with a new fear that broke like a cold wave against his back and into his chest.

“Listen to you,” The man murmured. “I’m going to enjoy this. And if I want you to… so will you. Isn't that something..."

His foot pressed into the siren’s back, forcing him down onto the cold stone floor until he could barely breathe for the weight on his spine. It felt like having the rope around his neck again as he clawed at the floor but found no help there, no rescue.

No way out.

“Beautiful,” His captor whispered. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Really mine. Say ‘yes, master.’”

Areyto pressed his forehead against the stone, the words coming obediently from a throat that no longer belonged to him. He couldn’t hold them back. “Yes… m-master.”

The man’s foot briefly left, but then was replaced by the weight of his body, sitting over Areyto’s lower back, one hand between his shoulder blades and the other gripping into his hair, forcing his head back. “Don’t hide from me. Say it again.”

“Yes…” He gasped - wanted to fight, but felt the threat of the agony returning in the symbol on his neck. Tears stung the cut on his face. “Yes, m-... master-”

His captor groaned again, and it felt like the sound was right beside his ear. He felt the man’s hot damp breath on him and would have begged for mercy, if he could, but those words weren’t allowed to him now.

“Again,” His captor demanded, yanking on his hair so hard his scalp burned, fingernails digging into his back. “Say it again!"

Areyto's wail went from nearly a whisper to something sharper and loud when he felt a tongue move up his neck over the marks that branded and caged him, hot and wet and repulsive. “Yes-... ye-es… master!”

“Again.” His captor’s voice was rough, and he pulled away but then his tongue was replaced by his hands closing around the siren’s neck, grip tightening in a sickeningly familiar feeling.

Spots danced before the siren’s vision, the world spun. He tried to obey, but had to fight for every single searing gasp for air.

His captor moved against his back. “I said say it again.”

“Yes…” Areyto’s chest heaved, his lungs burned. There was nothing to fill them with, and it took the last air he had to finish the words. “M-... m-ah-... master-”

“Good. Again.”

His captor’s grip tightened.

“Y-... yes-... M-...” He couldn’t finish. The moon moved behind a cloud. Even the goddess hid from her child's fear and shame.

Areyto fell tumbling into the mercy of the dark.

Taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump

Covers @whumptober prompts 10, 11, and 12

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kabie-whump · 2 months

Text

✧･ﾟRipe, About to Fall - Part 7 ✧･ﾟ

This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance.

Title from ‘Liquid Smooth’ by Mitski

Series Description and Warnings

Masterlist, First, Previous

Chapter Summary: Onthyes and Ventis try to escape. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t go well.

Chapter Content: Branding!, flashbacks, character death (a character thinks another character is dead when they aren’t), intimate whumper, failed escape attempt, conditioned whumpee, it may get a little stockholm syndrome-ish at the end, passive bystanders, a few sexual references, domestic abuse vibes

Onthyes does not belong to me. He was created by my wonderful gf @sapphicccici and I have kidnapped him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“I’d hoped it would never come to this,” Athos growled as he threw Ventis to the floor.

Ventis struggled to his hands and knees, fingers digging into cool stone as he tried to crawl away from the raging man, but Athos quickly stopped him with a firm boot to his shoulder, pinning him face first to the ground.

They were in the kitchen in the servant’s quarters - a place Ventis had only seen a few times before tonight. He could hear the sound of doors opening and closing down the hall as their noise woke the sleeping servants; the sound of approaching footsteps and confused murmurs.

“Master Landleigh?” A woman’s voice came from somewhere behind them. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, perfectly. Just teaching my pet what happens when it tries to run away. Hand me that.”

Ventis managed to turn his head, his cheek pressed hard into the floor as he tried to get a glimpse of what Athos was asking for. A small crowd of servants had gathered, drawn to the drama that rarely visited them in their home turf. The girl Athos had been talking to moved to the still smoldering fireplace. “This, sir?” she asked, holding something up- oh gods.

Please say no.

“Yes, perfect. Give it to me.”

No no no no no.

Ventis struggled with newfound energy, grunting as he tried to extract himself from under Athos’s foot. He would have succeeded if Athos hadn’t called out to a footman, “You there, hold him down please.”

“No!” Ventis cried, still struggling unsuccessfully as Athos moved off of him and the footman quickly took his place, sitting on the back of his thighs and taking both of his wrists in one hand, pinning them above his head while the other hand shoved his face into the ground when Ventis tried to look up at Athos.

“The thought of doing this has crossed my mind a few times,” Athos mused, examining the object in his hand. “It would be pretty, sure, but I was afraid it would be too traumatic for you. Such a delicate thing… I wasn’t sure if you could handle it and I loved you too much to find out. But you have never wronged me like this before.”

Athos had hurt Ventis before, but this was an entirely different monster. An iron rod, capped on one end by a thick handle and on the other by Athos’s personal crest. The baker used it to sear the symbol into fresh loaves of bread - a personal touch that Athos’s guests always commented on during meals. It was glowing red, the air around it taking on a slight haze.

“Please,” Ventis whimpered, shuddering as Athos pushed his shirt up to expose his back. “Please don’t.”

“Hush, pet. I’m trying to decide where to put it.”

“I’m sorry! I promise I won’t try to run again! Please!” Ventis had started to sob, tears pooling under his face and seeping into the thin layer of dirt and dust and flour on the floor.

“If you don’t shut up it’s going in your mouth.”

Ventis closed his mouth but he couldn’t make himself stop crying, his whole body shaking with the force of his sobs. Some of the servants had left, heading back towards their sleeping quarters with pale faces, while others stayed with looks of sick fascination.

When Athos finally made his choice and pressed the hot iron into Ventis’s skin the pain blinded him.

And then he was sitting with his knees to his chest, curled up in a little nook under a staircase where not many others could fit. It was where he went when he wanted to escape. If anyone knew where he was they didn’t come to find him, even though he knew it was time for his lessons and his absence would definitely be noticed since it was only him and his brother and sometimes the Princess when she wasn’t too busy to practice elvish with them.

Ventis knew no one would look for him. He knew the tutor would be glad to not have to deal with the problem child.

There was a mouse hole in the wall - tiny footprints left in the dust that had gathered since even the maids didn’t come here often. Father didn’t know about the mice but Ventis did, and he wasn’t planning on ever exposing their hiding place.

He used to have to squint at the pages of his book in that dark corner, but he’d learned a spell to summon a little blue light that perched on his fingertip as he traced it over the smooth paper, paragraph by paragraph.

He was supposed to be too young to read something so advanced but he didn’t care. If his brother had to be the best at everything else, Ventis could at least be the best at reading.

But it wasn’t reading that he loved so much. It was running away.

Ventis coughed harshly as voice broke on a scream. A horrible ache radiated out from the hot point on the back of his ribs on his left side. The pain came in waves, each one making his vision darken and a roaring sound build in his ears.

Athos must have pulled the hot iron away but he didn’t take the pain with it, and all Ventis could do was sob into the floor and wish he would just pass out already. The footman got off of him but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. And somehow even in this unbearable misery all he could think about was Onthyes.

“Get rid of him,” Athos had said. That could mean a lot of things. Or one thing.

Dead. Gone. No more pretty green eyes.

Ventis didn’t even care about him. Or, he had tried so hard not to care about him. But he'd been so charmingly naive that Ventis had had no choice but to buy into his delusional belief that he could ever be free from Athos.

It was never going to happen.

But Onthyes had seemed so sure.

--- Earlier that day, Onthyes’s POV ---

Onthyes had done nothing but plan ever since Ventis had admitted to him that he wanted to escape. He’d kept the idea in the back of his mind for so long, memorizing the patterns of the other guards and taking note of the more secluded escape routes.

Getting caught sneaking around with Ventis had complicated things a bit. Onthyes had been moved from the night shift to the day so Athos could keep a better eye on him, but Onthyes wasn’t going to let that stop him.

He rarely had any time to talk with Ventis anymore. Athos refused to leave the two alone together, so they had to wait until the night of one of his big parties to really talk. They’d made the plan behind a column, pressed close together to avoid being seen while Athos laughed drunkenly with his friends not far away.

Onthyes had asked Ventis why he suddenly changed his mind about wanting to escape.

“He can hurt me all he wants. I don’t mind it. I did this to myself. He doesn't get to hurt you though. That’s just not fair.”

Ontheys’s heart still hadn’t stopped fluttering.

They waited until the next party to enact their plan. Ventis played the part of the good little servant, ensuring that Athos’s glass was never empty and whispering things in the man’s ear that made him flush bright red and excuse himself, dragging Ventis along with him.

Onthyes tried not to think about what happened next, standing and watching over the party as Ventis did his best to tire his master out. When the genasi reappeared he was disheveled and bruised but looking pleased with himself as he announced to the party guests that Athos had overindulged and would not be rejoining them.

It was then that Onthyes mumbled something about using the bathroom and slipped out of the ballroom through a side door. A bag sat tucked behind a nearby statue, left by Ventis sometime between him going to the bedroom with Athos and coming back. Onthyes checked its contents: a few spare clothing items, a coin purse, and a locked wooden box that Onthyes knew contained a vial of nightspill. They’d gone back and forth over whether or not they should bring any, and Onthyes had eventually given in and agreed that it would be easier to get far away from here if Ventis wasn’t withdrawing. It was enough for a few days if they rationed it - enough time for them to make it to Onthyes’s friend’s house and then find transport out of the city.

Ventis’s hand landed on Onthyes’s elbow, making him jump. “Are you sure you want to become a fugitive for me?” he whispered.

“If it means you can get away from Athos and become your own person again? Absolutely.”

Ventis took Onthyes’s hand and they shared a silent, anxious smile before making their way down a hall and out into the night.

Their walk across the gardens was illuminated only by moonlight. Ventis trembled as they slipped out of a rusted, neglected gate, officially leaving Athos’s property, and Onthyes offered nothing but a simple squeeze of his hand, not wanting to risk speaking just yet.

Onthyes and Ventis were the only souls on the streets as they tried to put as much distance between them and the sounds of music and laughter from the manor as possible. Their hands were still clasped together, and Onthyes marveled at how comfortably they fit. It was just so natural.

“I can’t believe it,” Ventis whispered giddily into the night. “We’re out.”

Onthyes glanced down at him, their pace slowing to a stop in a little side street. They couldn’t hear the party anymore, and they had made it to a more secluded part of town.

Ventis’s eyes were shiny and full of life as he looked up at Onthyes. “Where do we go now?”

“A friend of mine lives not too far from here. We’ll stay with her for the night and then join a merchant’s caravan on their way out of the city at first light.”

“And then?” Ventis’s anxiety was audible this time, indicitave of a fear that can only come from spending years unable to make a single choice for himself. His life with Athos was awful, but at least it lacked uncertainty.

“Then? It’s up to you. We’ll go wherever you want, as long as it's far away from here. And I’ll be with you for as long as you want me.”

Onthyes lived for every rare genuine smile from Ventis. This one in particular could fuel him for eternity.

Then, Ventis threw his arms around Onthyes’s neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Onthyes had to bend over to accommodate it but he didn’t mind at all because the feeling was blissful. After a moment Ventis pulled away but he didn’t let go and their eyes met. Ontheys heard his breath stutter, watched his eyes search his face questioningly, and then felt him lean in.

Their lips had just barely brushed when there was a shout from down the street. “There they are!”

They jumped apart, suddenly on high alert, but it was too late. Guards, at least ten of them and all wearing Athos’s crest on their armor, closed in from each side, backing them against the wall of a brick building. Onthyes put himself between them and Ventis, drawing his sword.

“Stay back,” he growled. “No one touches him.”

The guards drew their weapons and advanced.

“Ventis, run,” Onthyes said firmly. “I’ll find you.”

The fight was quick but fierce. Onthyes managed to knock out some of the guards but he was out of practice and they had him surrounded. Someone managed to land a hit to his stomach that had him gasping and falling to his knees.

Then there was a sword to his throat and Ventis was pushed down next to him with a gasp.

“A valiant effort, boys.”

Athos emerged from the shadows, looking far more sober than he should’ve been considering how many drinks Ventis had given him.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t realize what you were doing, pet? You’ve always been obedient but I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic to serve me.” Athos stalked forward, grabbing Ventis by his hair to make him look up at him. “It's a shame, too. You’ve never performed that well in bed before. Maybe I should let you think you can get away from me more often.”

Onthys glanced at Ventis out of the corner of his eye, too afraid to turn his head with the blade at his throat. The genasi’s face had gone unnaturally blank, his eyes unseeing as he stared straight ahead.

“Leave him alone,” Onthyes barked.

Athos’s glare turned to Onthyes. “And you. I gave you so many chances to get your fucking act together, and you wasted them. All because you couldn’t help but pine after a stupid pet.”

“He’s not a pet!”

“Look at him.” Athos turned Ventis’s head so he faced Onthyes. “Not a thought behind those eyes. He only followed you here because you told him to. Isn’t that right, treasure?”

Ventis didn’t hesitate “Yes,” he whispered. “That’s right. I’m sorry, master. I got confused.”

Onthyes’s heart clenched. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. But Athos was right; there was some horrible vacancy behind Ventis’s eyes at that moment that suggested that he was nothing more than an object to be commanded. It hadn’t been there minutes before, when they were holding each other like nothing could ever get to them. Onthyes would give anything to go back to that moment.

“That's not true.” Onthyes shifted as he glared up at the man, causing the blade at his throat to press dangerously into his skin.

“Enough of your delusions, boy.” Athos pulled Ventis to his feet, holding him tightly by his wrist as he started to walk away. “No one steals from me and gets away with it.”

The sudden movement seemed to break something in Ventis. Onthyes saw him blink hard, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. “No,” he muttered, suddenly making an effort to pull out of Athos’s grip.

Athos struck him across the face without any preamble. He stumbled but stayed upright thanks to Athos’s firm grip on his arm.

Then the man turned to the guards who were still standing, his voice cold and detached as he said, “Get rid of him,” and gestured to Onthyes.

“Yes sir.”

“No!” Ventis shoved at Athos as the man started to drag him away, a couple of guards trailing after them. “Onthyes!”

“Ventis!” Onthyes watched helplessly as Athos took Ventis, disappearing into the night.

Multiple helmets turned to him, weapons still drawn. Onthyes closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

But it didn’t come.

When he opened his eyes there was no longer a sword at his throat. The guards who were still standing were picking up the others from the ground, checking them over for serious injuries. One turned and gave Onthyes a tight smile as she walked over to where he was still kneeling.

“You’ve been a good friend. Don’t come back,” she whispered.

Then she slammed the hilt of her sword into the back of Onthyes’s head, and everything went dark.

--- Later, Ventis’s POV ---

Ventis was left curled up on his side under the covers in his own bed, still shivering and hiccupping quietly as pain continued to radiate out from the brand on his back. He tried to think of some joke about how he spent twice as much time in Athos’s bed as he did in his own. There had to be something funny about it, right?

Athos entered not long after. He was carrying something, but Ventis didn’t bother to look at what it was. He didn’t care anymore. Athos was just going to do whatever he wanted to him anyways, so why should he bother?

The mattress sunk as Athos sat down behind Ventis. He drew the blankets down and lifted Ventis’s shirt, exposing the burn to cold air. Ventis whimpered.

“I’m sorry, treasure,” Athos sighed. “You know I hate having to hurt you. I just… I was so scared of the thought of losing you. Of you forgetting how much I love you.”

Ventis didn’t respond.

“My reaction may have been a little extreme. I see that now. Just… let me help you.”

A damp cloth landed on the burn, making Ventis jump and let out a pained squeak.

“Don’t be dramatic, darling. You’re going to be fine.”

Ventis forced himself to remain quiet as Athos finished cleaning and crudely bandaging the burn. When the man was finished he stood and made to leave.

“Stay.” Ventis said it before he even knew what he was saying.

Athos stopped, clearly just as surprised as Ventis was. “What was that?”

Ventis blinked back tears, finally looking at his master. “Please. Stay.”

“I’d be glad to.”

Athos blew out the candles before returning to Ventis’s bed, slipping under the covers. Ventis turned over, taking the familiar position under Athos’s arm, his head on his chest.

They laid there in silence for a while before Athos finally whispered into Ventis’s hair, “Tell me he didn’t mean anything to you, that he was just so big and strong and charming and your sweet little mind couldn’t resist him. Tell me that you still love me and not him.”

“No,” Ventis whispered back. “I can’t.”

Athos’s hand tightened on Ventis’s waist.

“I understand.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Ventisposting taglist (aka a list of people who i want to bake cookies for):

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet @rainydaywhump

#whump #whump tropes #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr #whump scenario #oc #original character #whumpee #nonhuman whumpee #branding #intimate whumper #conditioned whumpee #pet whumpee #pet whump #mind conditioning #oc whump #ventisposting #ventis

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parasiticwhumpee · 2 months

Text

Starving Artist

CW: Multiple whumpees, conditioned whumpee, sadistic whumper, royal whump, graphic descriptions of violence, vivisection

(Let me know if I missed anything)

Maurin had been sitting on the cold dungeon floor for hours now. He could not tell how many hours exacltly, but he knew that the king never left him down there for long. The gravely stone was slowly digging into the skin of his knees. The initially sharp pains of the rubble had faded into a dull pulsing across his legs. Maurin had already shifted positions multiple times but that did little to aid the ache. The pain was the just a backdrop to the soft sounds of bloody droplets making their way to the ground. The near silent plopping was just enough to keep Maurin occupied. The quiet sound was better than absolute silence after all.

Maurin slowly shifted his gaze up towards the source of the crimson liquid. Suspended in metal shackles was Abel, the man who was about to face the full wrath of the king. Abel’s blood was dripping as a result of the initial defence from the guards, which was to be expected for stealing without a solid escape plan. The fact that a quick beating was enough to bring Abel to unconsciousness was saddening. Maurin doubted he would last more than an hour once the king came.

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching the dungeon doors. Maurin let out a long sigh and stood to his feet. He quickly brushed off the rubble that latched onto his cloak and stretched his legs. He then slowly picked up his sketchbook and made his way to the fortified door. The artist knew how to properly greet the king, this was not his first time after all. Posture-straight, clothing-dusted off, sketchbook-ready. The door unlocked with a loud metallic clunk and opened eerily slowly. At last, the boot of King Dante stepped onto the dungeon floor.

“Good evening my lord…” Maurin made sure to keep his eyes to the floor as he bowed his head.

“Maurin! How lovely to see you again!” Dante stepped past the artist, further into the cell. “Please forgive me for leaving you down here so long! I had some last minute business to attend to!”

Maurin knew the king was lying. Maurin knew he was not a priority. But Maurin also knew that voicing his thoughts would be like begging him to switch places with Abel in the shackles. Flattery was the way to stay in the king's good graces, that was something Maurin had always known.

“Always no trouble my lord. I am just overjoyed that I was allowed to stand in your presence once more.” Mumbled Maurin without lifting his head for even a moment.

Dante took a quick glance at the man next to him. While the king normally despised such spineless cretins, Maurin was capable of getting his job done. The king sauntered across the room to the bloodied man hanging from the dungeon ceiling. The state of the man was honestly pathetic. Matted blood coated his hair, concealing the original blond colour. Specs of blood littered the body, mixing with the coloured bruises to create a wonderful masterpiece along the skin.

The king made his way over to the dark, wooden workbench in the corner of the cell. The bench was littered with his favourite tools and devices, all intricately crafted by the most talented craftsmen for the king’s royal hand. Abel was still completely unconscious, which would ruin Dante’s fun. That obviously could not happen, no one would ruin the king’s fun. Dante reached for the bucket of water hidden underneath the bench and practically skipped over to Abel. Within moments the bloody man was splashed, soaked, and gasping for air.

The king ignored the sounds of blubbering and looked back at the artist. “Maurin? Are you ready yet? I know I am!”

Maurin sat down on the floor in front of the quaking Abel and placed his sketchbook in his lap. “I am prepared as always, my lord.”

Dante smirks and strides back to the workbench. His gloved hand grazes over the instruments before landing on a sharp, steel cleaver. A personal favourite of his. He brings it over to the now soaking Abel at an agonisingly slow pace. He makes an even slower motion of pressing the sharp metal deep into the man's stomach. The king leaves it there for a moment to enjoy the ear piercing screech of Abels voice.

Once the initial enjoyment fades, Dante makes quick work of bringing the cleaver higher and slitting the skin. Thus revealing the beautiful yellowing of fat beneath the layer. He gives it a few pokes and watches the squirming figure dangling in front of him. The next movement of the cleaver creates a clean cut through the fat and, unintentionally, the muscle. This creates the perfect opening in the gut for the king to reach into. It takes a few moments of concentration and handiwork to find exactly what Dante was looking for. With a nice pull, the small intestine came tumbling out of the hole. Seeing the graphic display below him was enough to knock the bloody Abel back into a sweet unconsciousness.

Maurin did not want to spend any more time watching the display than he had to. Instead focusing on the work at hand. He was quick to grab his ink pen and start the sketch of the scene. It was far from Maurin’s first gory task as the royal artist, and it would be far from the last. The artist stopped feeling pity for the subjects of his pieces after the fourth time King Dante had hired him. All that time worrying was better spent drawing. He had not spent all these years earning the king’s favour just to mess up a piece. Maurin knew that Dante appreciated seeing all the little details that only the artist could provide. Every speck of blood and every inch of viscera perfectly captured in a single work of art. The king just wished Maurin could be there for every session.

It took a few hours for Maurin to finish the inky sketch. Coincidentally, Dante had finished his own entertainment just a few minutes later. The normally ostentatious king was now a bloody and dishevelled mess. His once royal gaze now akin to that of a deranged peasant. The two exchanged a brief glance before the artist looked back down at the floor.

“I have finished the sketch, my lord. I shall have the final painting completed and sent to your quarters by the end of the week.”

The king let out a small sigh before looking back at the man sitting below him.

“I thank you for another great day of work, Maurin.”

The two of them spent a silent moment together before they excused themselves from the cold dungeon. Leaving the hanging corpse to rot until a passing guard would remember of its existence.

#Parasitic Whumpee #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #oneshot #royal whump

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jordanstrophe · 4 months

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God I wanna see a full post about whumpee digging their own grave 👀 (Bonus if Whumper fakes them out and they get to live after dreading for hours as they dug)

(AH I love that last part, making them dig a grave, but nothing comes from it. At least not yet....[the prompt in question]

"Get on with it. Dig." Whumper yanked on the ropes binding whumpee's hands. They fell on their knees right on the spot whumper wanted, a shovel tossed in front of them.

Whumpee glared while taking the shovel between their bound wrists. They used it to shakily stand to their feet and dug the shovel deep in the ground.

"This is a cruel way of killing someone." Whumpee growled.

"Huh, who says I'm killing you? Maybe I just want some dirt for my garden. Your head goes to some dark places, whumpee." Whumper smiled, twirling the end of their rope.

Whumpee sighed and dug again.

"A bit deeper, dear." Whumper hovered.

"Just how deep?"

"Six feet will do."

Whumpee fell silent. They don't move until whumper tuged on the rope and gave a 'hurry it up' whistle. In the end, whumper got their six feet hole. They pat whumpee on the head and tells them they did 'such a good job' before suddenly dragging them home silently.

Everything returns to normal, aside from the fact that whumpee now has something lingering in the back of their mind.

A six foot threat if they ever misbehaved again.

[SIDE NOTE, I had to do this before writing. Gotta let my FBI agent know I'm not a murderer]

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump drabble #whump writing #whump angst #cruel whumper #kidnapped whumpee #captivity whump #kidnap whump #whump scenario #creepy whumper #defiant whumpee #bound whump #whumplr

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roblingoblin285 · 1 year

Note

What are your favourite scenarios/tropes for wing whump?

WING WHUMP WING WHUMP WING WHUMP

me and sage's og creator have been coming up with wing-specific whump for SO LONG that i could probably fill the library of records with ideas at this point. but that's too long to post, so take 8 for now:

broken blood feathers! this is when the shaft of a feather is broken due to some sort of force trauma, causing an overwhelming lot of bleeding. it doesn't look like a lot on a bird, but if your whumpee's feathers are to scale, this can be a LOT of blood very quickly. (i am not an expert! i recommend some research!)

some sort of binds that prevent wing movement for long periods of time. this can cut off circulation, exhaust muscles, hurt like an absolute bitch, etc etc. lots of potential

molting!! make your stressed whumpees molt!! leave bare patches in their wings!!

broken wing bones are very hard to set and heal, because literally every position is a bad one and you can't really put a cast on a wing, especially a human-sized one. snap their bones!

pin them down by their wings! dig a bony knee into the space between their muscles! it would really hurt!

have their feathers ripped out, for whatever reason!

in terms of caretaking, preening is super up there for me. with winged whumpee it's always so relieving to finally have comfortable and clean wings. with a winged caretaker whumpee can feel useful, like they're giving back to caretaker

and, last but not least, cut them off and mount them above your mantle :)

#this got away from me i am very sorry #this is so unhinged #wing whump #whump #whump ideas #whump prompts #whump scenarios #whump ask #ask #answered ask

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cold1dead1eyes · 11 months

Text

20. enemy-to-caretaker

"don't touch me!" whumpee screams as they scramble away from whumper. they dig their nails into the floor to relieve the tension. whumper is watching them with wide, terrified eyes, so uncharacteristic and strange that it just makes whumpee more fearful.

"whumpee, listen to me. listen to me! i'm not here to hurt you!" whumpee's breathes come out hot and hard. their head is screaming, danger, danger, danger, each step whumper takes closer to them making the panic alarms in their brain flare.

you hurt me! whumpee's brain screams. they sneer at whumper and whumper flinches back. danger, danger, danger! you hurt me! you monster! you hurt me!

"i'm sorry." whumper whispers, quiet and oh so broken, and whumpee can't help but laugh. what a joke.

"no you're not. you're just sorry that you got found out." whumper's eyes widen even further and they shake their head aggressively. the anger in whumpee dulls from the odd gesture of vulnerability. what the hell is going on here?

"no, you have to believe me. i... i didn't want to. i had to. they- it was my job, whumpee. and i thought i was doing the right thing. i thought it was for the greater good. but now i know-" whumper's voice chokes up. whumpee's eyes widen, heart pounding uncomfortable and confused at their ribcage. is whumper crying?

"now i know that it wasn't good. what i did- it wasn't good. i hurt people. god, i hurt you, whumpee, and i'm so sorry. i never wanted to hurt you. i should have known better. please, please forgive me." whumper falls to their knees. they sit there, crumpled up into a pile, silently sobbing into their hands.

a soft hand falls on their shoulder. they look up to whumpee's face, eyes wide with awe. their hand on whumper is shaking from fear. still, they don't draw back.

"i don't know if i can ever forgive you." whumpee confesses, and whumper could almost cry. it doesn't matter if they can't. it doesn't matter. they're trying to trust whumper, they're willing to give them a second chance, and that's all that matters.

"just let me help you." whumper takes whumpee's hands in their own. whumpee flinches back instinctually and a flood of self-hatred floods through whumper. god, how could they ever have hurt them so badly that the mere sight of their face makes them flinch?

"let me take care of you. i'm going to keep you safe. no more lies, no more pain, i want to earn your forgiveness." whumpee stares at whumper, incredulous. this is nothing like the whumper they knew. is this the true whumper, or just another attempt at manipulation?

whumper's thumb swipes away a tear from whumpee's cheek. their breath catches, but they don't pull away. the whumper they knew would never have done that. not even as a trick. this is someone new. this is someone that whumpee can learn to trust.

"it's okay if you never forgive me. just let me help you. let me undo what i did." whumper holds whumpee's hand against their chest. the frantic thump-thump-thump of their heart pounds against whumpee's hand. they look down at their hand, wide-eyed, then up at whumper's tear-slick face.

whumper opens their arm for a hug, and whumpee carefully accepts.

prompt from @whumpay

#enemy to caretaker #whump #whump prompt #whump writing #carewhumper #whumpee #whumper to caretaker #hurt/comfort #whump recovery #whumpay2023 #whumpay

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shywhumpauthor · 10 months

Text

Two Weeks of Whump—Day Five

Broken Glass // Building Collapse // Necktie

Masterlist

Cw: major character death, heavy descriptions of gore, mentioned suicide bomber

“Shit- shit, Whumpee, breathe,” Caretaker cursed, their voice laced tight with panic as they wrung their hands together. They paced a couple steps, muttering reassurances that were lost to the sounds around them. The wailing alarms, the sirens. The water rushing from broken pipelines, the desperate screaming. The sound of rubble falling, gravel clinking against the wreckage as the structure continued to crumble.

Caretaker turned hard on their heels, hands flailing slightly as they shook out their arms, realizing they should not be walking away. They quickly returned to Whumpee’s side, swearing under their breath again. “It- it’s gonna be okay, Whumpee. Just breathe, it’s- it’s ff-fine, okay? Leader and- and Medic are coming,”

They weren’t sure Whumpee could hear them, if they were even conscious. Caretaker’s stomach twisted as they looked their friend over again, having to turn away and gag.

It was bad. Bad bad. Bad enough that Caretaker didn’t know if Medic, Medic and their beautiful, amazing skills, could do anything to fix… this.

The team had managed to shelter right before the collapse. Taken cover in a solid storage room and braced. The ceiling had caved in on them, but most of the framework had survived the attack, stopping the rubble from crushing them alive.

Whumpee… they hadn’t been with the team. Caretaker could’ve sworn- they had been right behind them. A few feet behind. They were right behind them.

It was only after the dust had settled that they realized, a cold dread creeping through their chest.

Fuck- they were right fucking behind them. Right there. How- how the hell had they ended up so far away?!

It seemed as if they had been in a utility closet when the bombs had detonated.

Caretaker heaved as they dropped to their knees next to their best friend, twisting their head as bile threatened to climb their throat. It didn’t come, and a moment later they brought themself to look back, face twisting as their skin began to crawl.

While they had been in a reinforced room, when the building had fell, Whumpee had not.

It was a miracle they weren’t crushed completely, that their skull wasn’t splat like Villain’s had been when they stumbled across their body. Karma for bringing the building down? Yeah, probably. Still brutal to witness, fearing that the startlingly large puddle of blood had been Whumpee’s, Caretaker and Hero had gone digging together through the rubble, only to find Villain’s symbol pinned to the corpse’s chest. Or at least, the part they had assumed was the chest. There were a few that might’ve been.

No, not crushed. Not completely. The support beam had mercifully missed their head and chest—which, for a moment Caretaker thought had fallen still, but a second later rose again with a labored inhale. They were actually, relatively, unharmed. Covered in ash and dust, soaked with the water that had rained down when the pipes broke. Only a few scratches along their face; it looked like they had used their arms to protect it. Their hands were a little rough off, especially their left but nothing- nothing too bad. A few broken fingers maybe, a small gash. Not awful.

Everything below their waist…

The beam that had oh-so-thankfully missed their head had not spared their body entirely.

Caretaker couldn’t see their legs. From about center down from Whumpee’s thighs, there was nothing but solid, bloodstained metal. Caretaker couldn’t tell if the tourniquets they had applied, using their belt for one and their undershirt for the other, were working. Or done right. Shit, they weren’t a doctor! They didn’t even take the fucking required first aid course! They lied on their application! Fucking fire them.

Their legs weren’t the worst part. No. The worst part was the fragment of pipe, a few feet long and about two inches thick, buried deep in Whumpee’s abdomen.

“It’s- it’s okay Whumpee, it’s not- it’s really not that bad. Medic’s going to hh.. help you,” Caretaker’s shoulders shook. They didn’t know if Whumpee could hear them, if they were even conscious. Their hands shook, but they didn’t know what more they could do besides wait. They didn’t want to hurt them more.

They were about to stand up again, stomach churning so badly they didn’t think they’d be able to sit still much longer, just beginning to straighten when a weak touch brushed against their ankle. Caretaker nearly jumped out of their skin, the touch startling them so much they stumbled back, nearly falling and cracking their head open on the fallen foundation. They rushed forwards once again, dropping to the ground next to Whumpee, uncaring as their pants soaked through with the water still spraying nearby.

The hand weakly reached for them again, and it took Caretaker a moment to realize what Whumpee was trying to do. Or at least what they thought Whumpee was trying to do. They took their friend’s hand in both of their own, holding it tight.

Whumpee’s lips were moving, voice barely above a breath. Caretaker had to lean over them, ear nearly against Whumpee’s mouth so they could hear.

“ss.. s’ty,” Whumpee whispered, their voice so quiet and yet so tight with pain and emotion it broke Caretaker’s heart. They clutched their hand a bit tighter, rubbing their thumb over Whumpee’s knuckles.

“I- I’m not going anywhere,” Caretaker croaked, blinking the tears from their vision, cutting small tracks through the grime that coated their cheeks. “Just- hold on, the others are coming-”

Caretaker cut themself off as Whumpee’s breath hitched, face twisting in pain as they cracked open their eyes. The look behind them struck some deep pain in Caretaker’s chest, as they moved a bit closer to hear what Whumpee was saying.

“d’nn… l’h mm’ dhn.. ah- ah’ne… pl- ‘lse….”

“No, no Whumpee,” Caretaker shook their head, the tears flowing freely now as they let go of Whumpee’s hand with one of their own, bringing it up instead to push the hair out of their eyes. “No, you’re not going to- Medic’s almost here, they- they can help,”

Whumpee’s eyes closed, an agonizingly long blink that made Caretaker heart jump. They didn’t try to speak again, but the single tear that trickled up their temple said more than words ever could.

“Please, Whumpee,” Caretaker begged, pulling their hands away for a moment so they could tug off their jacket. The sound Whumpee made when the touch was lost was agonizing. Caretaker hoped they made up for it a moment later as they balled up the dirty fabric so the slightly cleaner inside was facing outwards and, as gently as humanly possible, they lifted Whumpee’s head off the rubble to slide the jacket below them. A pin of ice struck their chest as they noticed a small amount of blood staining the rocks below their head.

They quickly took Whumpee’s hand again, holding tight. “They’ll be here any, any second, okay? You’ll be ff-fine,” Caretaker hiccuped. Whumpee’s lips twitched slowly, pulling up into a pained, small smile, but it turned to a grimace. When they spoke, Caretaker could see their teeth stained with red.

“ss.. oh’ky,” Whumpee breathed, giving Caretaker’s hand, the weakest, saddest squeeze that nearly sent the last bit of Caretaker’s resolve crumbling harder than the building had. “j’st… stay…”

“Whumpee, no- no, keep your eyes open, okay? Medic’s almost here, no, no, stay- stay awake,” Caretaker’s voice cracked. They knew it was useless, Medic already knew their location and was moving as quick as they could, but it was the only thing they could think to do. “HELP! MEDIC, HERE! OVER- OVER HERE!” They screamed into the rubble, letting out a small sob as Whumpee flinched.

“shh..” Whumpee’s voice was nothing now, a breath paired with barely moving lips. Their hand weakly held onto Caretaker’s, and they clung back as tight as they could.

“No. No, Whumpee. Don’t- they’re almost here! They- they’re almost-” Caretaker’s voice broke, a sob tearing from their throat before they could stop it.

“stay…” Whumpee’s eyes slipped closed, their hand tightening for a moment.

Caretaker shook their head, but their voice was lost. Their face was flushed, hot and wet with tears that wouldn’t stop coming. Something deep inside them told them that any more begging, any more pleading and screaming for help wouldn’t do anything. So instead, they leaned forwards, quivering lips pressing a long kiss to Whumpee’s forehead.

“I- I’m here,” They whispered, the hand in theirs giving the smallest squeeze before going limp. “I’m here.”

——————————————————

@promptsforyourwhumpfic

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snakebites-and-ink · 4 months

Text

Whumpuary #3: Used as bait / Stumbling / "This is gonna hurt" + #4: "Help me" / Lightheaded / Kneeling

CW: Chase, overexertion, failed escape, manhandling

Whumpee ran through the underbrush, desperately pushing their aching and weakened body to keep going. They couldn’t rest yet.

Whumper was on their tail. Whumpee had a head start, but they weren’t sure how big it was. All they knew was that this was their chance to get away, and they weren’t likely to get another one anytime soon.

Underbrush hit at Whumpee’s legs as they dashed through it. They paid no heed to the sting and pushed on. They panted for breath, their blood pounding in their ears as their feet pounded on the ground. Still they ran. There would be no respite until they were out of Whumper’s reach.

They tripped on a half-exposed root and nearly lost their footing. They managed to keep from falling, and regained their pace.

Whumpee kept running. After a while, they realized they were flagging and sped up again. They couldn’t afford to slow down. Whumper knew this area; they lived in it. Staying ahead was Whumpee’s only advantage.

It didn’t take long before their stride became less steady. They were pushing themself too hard. They grimaced and kept going anyway; they didn’t have a choice.

Their lungs burned and their legs became unstable as they battled with fatigue. Whumpee stumbled, then scraped their hand as they caught themself. It was so tempting to just stay there and rest a moment, but they didn’t have the time. They pushed off of a tree and forced themself onward.

Not long after, they were stumbling again. They lost their footing, well and truly this time, and fell to the ground. They painstakingly stood back up with a groan. As they leaned against a tree, bracing themself to keep going, they heard a sound behind them that definitely wasn’t from the local wildlife.

“Whumpee.”

No. Dread washed through them. They already knew whose voice it was, but Whumpee still turned to look as Whumper emerged from the trees. They were breathing hard, too, but not as hard as Whumpee. It made sense: Whumper was healthier and knew the terrain. The logic didn’t make it any less disheartening, though.

The chase was over. Whumpee was in no condition to get away from Whumper now that they’d caught up. Whumpee looked out into the trees, for a moment entertaining the idea of running anyways, before slumping in defeat. Their knees hit the dirt almost before they knew what they were doing.

The show of submission might earn them a modicum of lenience. Not much, but Whumpee was willing to take any chance to make their impending situation slightly less awful.

Whumper fixed them with a stony glare, looking very displeased. Whumpee cringed and broke eye contact.

“You are in a whole lot of trouble.” Whumper walked over to where Whumpee was kneeling and roughly pulled them to their feet. Whumper held Whumpee in a vice-like grip, fingers digging into them.

Whumpee didn’t say anything back. They knew it would be pointless to ask for mercy.

Whumper kept Whumpee in a painful hold all the way back to Whumper’s house. Back to everything Whumpee had hoped to escape from. Hot tears welled in their eyes as freedom slipped further out of reach.

#Took an extra day on this one because it wasn't one of the ones I'd pre-written and it ended up being my longest whumpuary piece yet #This is not the end of these characters' story #whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno3 #whumpuaryno4 #stumbling #kneeling #chase #overexertion #failed escape #recapture #I'm kind of unsure where to draw the line between failed escape and recapture so I'm just tagging both to be safe #manhandling #threats #original fic #whump #whump writing #my posts #my writing

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