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oohshinywhump · 2 months

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Thinking about a first time Whumper x veteran Whumpee...

When they first meet:

"You don't seem nearly scared enough. This isn't your first time is it?" "You seem weirdly nervous. Is it yours?"

"Ugh! Out of everyone in the city I could kidnap I had to get stuck with someone else's leftovers!"

"You used to belong to so-and-so, didn't you? Ah! They're my idol! Oh! This is exciting. I get to study their masterpiece up close!"

"WHY AREN'T YOU SCARED OF ME?!!!"

"Oh. You've never done this before." "Stop judging me. I have a knife."

"How is it you know exactly what I like?" "You torturers are all the same." "You've done this before??"

"I won't kill you, but I need you to cooperate. I am new to this, just so you know." "Yup. I'm going to die."

"Mmmm, I love how you move when you're in pain." "Thanks! I've been practicing for years."

"Who taught you to scream like this?"

Whumpee helping Whumper figure out the basics:

"Why are you on your knees?" "Oh sorry. Do you not like that? The last guy liked me that way. I just assumed…" "No, no. It's a good idea. Keep doing that. I just… never thought of it."

"So, what are the rules?" "Rules?" "Yeah, dumbass. Your rules for me. Do you want me to call you sir? Master? Or can I keep calling you jackass?"

"Do you want me to put up a fight or should we skip straight to the submissive stage?" "Oh... uhhh... don't fight too much. I don't trust myself not to accidentally kill you." "Oh, yeah. Good point."

"What kind of scream do you like?" "There are kinds of screams?" "Yeah. The last guy liked it when I ugly-cried. But I'm pretty good a bloodcurdling and whimpering like a kicked puppy. I can try to stay quiet but I can't make promises there..." "Hmmm... try all of them. I'll tell you which I like best."

"You cleaned??" "Yeah? Was I not supposed to?" "I didn't know you could make captives do that?!" "For the record, I didn't do it because I'm scared of you - your arm gets tired after giving me like three lashes. I did it because I'm going to be spending a lot of time bleeding on this table and I doubt it occurred to you to disinfect it."

Whumpee teaching Whumper how to whump:

"Show me what they used to do to you."

Whumper studying the scars on Whumpees body to learn the best places to cut/stab.

"Oh no! A knife? How original!" /s

"If you stab me right there you'll kill me. You have to go one inch to the right. Yeah, right there-AHHHHHH! …yup. Right there."

"I'll make you a deal. Let me have a solid eight hours of sleep and I'll show you where to pinch the nerve that will paralyze my left arm."

"You can't leave me tied up like this!" "I can do what I want!" "Yes. Okay. True. But like, you've either got to tie my knees to my chest or let my feet touch the ground. Otherwise I'm going to asphyxiate."

Whumper having an inferiority complex:

"I CAN DO ANYTHING THEY COULD DAMMIT!" (They = Whumpee's former Whumper)

"WHUMPEE! YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!" *Whumpee trying not to laugh when Whumper fucks up something really basic.*

"You must think I'm so pathetic." "NOo! Of course not! You're doing amazing! Really you are! I'm so fucking scared of you right now. I promise."

"I'll never be as good as the person who hurt you before." "You'll get there! I promise. I was like his fifth victim - I'm your first. Be kind to yourself!"

"How the fuck did your former Whumper do it?" "Yeah... you're not getting that out of me..."

Whumper being paranoid that Whumpee is manipulating them. Even though they hold the power they feel like Whumpee has more control over the situation because they know more.

Also...

Whumpee knowing just how to manage Whumper. They instinctively know when to be a little defiant and when to do exactly as they are told. They know just the right tone of voice to speak in, and just how to move, scream, to keep Whumper as pleased as possible. The sooner Whumper is satisfied the sooner it will stop.

Whumpee pretending it hurts worse than it does, lying about which places/tortures hurt most, acting more sick or tired than they really are to get rest/food, acting more scared than they really are… It's not like Whumper could know better.

#whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump ideas #whump scenario #knife mention cw #death mention cw

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whump-me · 4 months

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Conquest, Chapter 31: Victory

Chapter 31 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, broken whumpee, defiant whumpee, royal whumper, reluctant whumper, multiple whumpers, major character death

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Miranelis

When Kezul paused for so long during his speech, Miranelis knew why. Like the coward he was, he needed time to get up the nerve to enact the betrayal he had no doubt staged this whole thing for. And like the coward he was, in the end he would go through with it, no matter how little he wanted to.

He would tell himself it was necessary. Or that he had no choice. Or maybe that, in the end, it was the best possible fate for Danelor. Miranelis didn’t care overly much what kind of logic he used to justify his cowardice. All they cared about was that it was coming, and that there was no way to stop it.

They were standing unbound, not even forced to kneel. It didn’t matter, because there was nothing they could do. No doubt that was why Kezul and his father had not insisted on showcasing their degradation with chains or a humiliating posture. No doubt it amused them to have Miranelis standing here as if they were free.

But they were wrong. They had underestimated Miranelis. They didn’t understand a crucial part of what they had done to him when they had taken away their fear.

They no longer cared whether they lived or died. And Kezul was standing mere feet away.

Ever since the Wolves had first brought them out here, they had crept a little closer to Kezul whenever no one was looking their way. Whenever no one was looking their way, they had crept closer. They didn’t think anyone had noticed—except Kezul, once. And Kezul hadn’t said anything. He had been too busy visibly squirming at the sight of them. And then—again, like the coward he was—he had looked away.

But then Kezul broke his silence. And like the rest of the crowd, Miranelis was startled into stillness.

When the Unmaker finally ended that stillness, Miranelis listened to his speech with half an ear. The Unmaker’s voice, their very presence, demanded attention—but like the fear of death, it seemed to have no pull over Miranelis anymore. Their eyes were on Kezul. On the resolute look in his eyes, gradually turning to doubt too late, after his decision had already been made. Miranelis had thought it was no longer shocking to them to see emotion spelled out so plainly on the faces of grown adults, but it was shocking to see this emotion from these Wolves. Could it be they were unhappy with the Unmaker’s orders?

If so, it didn’t matter. They obeyed anyway.

Kezul wasn’t fighting. That surprised Miranelis at first, even though of course Kezul had no chance—they had stripped him of his weapons, and even with a sword in his hand, he would have been no match for the Wolves. But, in the next second, as they looked into Kezul’s face, they realized they shouldn’t have been surprised that Kezul hadn’t even tried. They recognized that look. That frozen helplessness. It was the same thing that held them in place on these steps, more thoroughly than any chains could.

But for Miranelis, that helplessness had been an illusion they had let the others believe. They had been ready to act, before Kezul had turned everything on its head. Kezul could break through the illusion, too, if only he could see it for what it was. He could…

What? What could he do, unarmed against an army of Wolves?

What could Miranelis do, except stand here and watch this horrible scene play out?

A moment ago, they had been ready to kill Kezul themselves. Now their stomach twisted into a painful knot at the thought of watching Kezul die.

“Bring him to me,” the Unmaker ordered. The Wolves holding him hesitated—unless that was Miranelis’s imagination, or a product of the way time seemed to have suddenly slowed down.

Kezul’s hands balled into fists. He didn’t try to break free.

In the end, it was Kezul who moved first, taking one step after another toward his father. It was if he couldn’t stop himself from moving. As if his father exerted some kind of pull on him that kept him walking forward, even as his face showed his reluctance.

And then, as Kezul stopped in front of his father with his reluctant Wolves gripping his arms, he took a breath. He smoothed the emotion from his face. After that, his face showed no reluctance. It showed nothing.

“Make him kneel,” the Unmaker said, eyeing his son the same way he had looked at Miranelis in the throne room the first day they had met.

“You don’t have to,” Kezul said quietly. His voice revealed as little as his face did. “I’ll do it myself.” In fact, he was already moving, dropping to his knees as slowly as if time itself had thickened around him. It was as if his body was moving on its own. Watching him, Miranelis couldn’t be sure he was consciously doing it. From his voice, it sounded more as if he was watching himself move, like he was bemused by the whole process.

And then he stopped. His Wolves’ hands tightened around his arm, pulling him up.

One of them let go and stepped forward. It was the one who had treated Miranelis’s burn, and later the rest of their wounds. Gyoras.

“We serve Kezul and the throne of Danelor,” he said. He had not learned the trick of self-control. His voice revealed everything he was feeling—all his anger, all his fear. “We take orders only from him.”

Kezul looked up, his own control slipping as his eyes went wide with alarm. “Don’t—”

The Unmaker’s sword whipped out before Miranelis saw him draw it. Gyoras’s head slid from his shoulders. It rolled down the palace steps, leaving behind a trail of blood. Miranelis looked away before they saw it hit the bottom. They thought they might be sick if they had to look into the empty, staring eyes of the enemy who had been kind to him.

The Unmaker held his sword ready. It still dripped with Gyoras’s blood. “Make him kneel,” he repeated, as if nothing had happened.

Miranelis didn’t know whether Kezul dropped to his knees first, or whether the other Wolves forced him there. Either way, it ended with Kezul kneeling at the top of the palace steps, staring down at the trail of blood in front of him. No other Wolves objected. None of them let go. Miranelis could see their reluctance on their faces—they hadn’t learned the trick of control, either. But they seemed held in the grip of whatever it was that had ensnared Kezul. Kezul had broken free long enough to call for cooperation, but now he was back under his father’s sway again.

And now… now Miranelis could see what Kezul had meant when he had said it would accomplish nothing for him to fight back against his father. Miranelis could watch the scene as it was about to play out in front of him. Kezul’s head joining Gyoras’s at the bottom of the steps. Kezul’s father slaughtering all the heads of the noble houses. The crowd rising up, and the Wolves killing them where they stood, filling the streets of the ruined city with red. And in the end, all Kezul would have accomplished was his own death.

They could see, too, how futile their own would-be act of rebellion would have been. Despair suffused their limbs as they stared at the Unmaker, who looked like a statue with his bloody sword held aloft. Or perhaps like a god come to the mortal realm. Ending Kezul’s life would have satisfied Miranelis’s petty desire for revenge against the one who had betrayed them. But despite what they had told themselves, it would have done nothing for Danelor. That was as much of a lie as when they had told themselves helping Kezul was only about saving Danelor, and not about saving their own life.

If they had succeeded, it would have ended the same way it was going to end now. With Kezul dead, and the Unmaker’s power made plain. It had always been the Unmaker who ruled here.

From the moment he had stepped through the palace doors, Kezul had been helpless to resist his will. And maybe even before then. Kezul had come here under his sway. He had come here to pass his father’s test. To earn something from his father—his approval, the right to be his puppet. But he hadn’t been good enough at it to see what his father had wanted from him from the beginning.

Kezul had seen that as a failing. Miranelis had seen it as a lucky chance. Only now could Miranelis see it as the strength it was.

But even that strength had its limits. Whatever hold the Unmaker had over Kezul, Kezul had never known life without it. It had only taken weeks before the Wolves had no longer needed to escort Miranelis to the throne room under guard, because routine held them in place more effectively than any chains. Miranelis had been in those invisible chains for mere months. Kezul had worn them all his life.

Of course Kezul had dropped to his knees at the sound of his father’s voice. He had only done what Miranelis had been about to do when the Unmaker had ordered him to cut off his own finger.

But Miranelis had not lived under the Unmaker’s sway all his life. Kezul had seen killing the man as an impossibility—of course he had. But perhaps, even though every instinct in Miranelis told them they were facing down a god, they could.

No one was paying attention to them. From the Wolves, to the crowd below, to the terrified heads of the noble houses the Wolves were holding in place beside Miranelis, everyone was staring at Kezul and the Unmaker. At the sword held aloft. At the tension in the Unmaker’s muscles as he held the pose for an impossibly long time.

What was stopping him? Was he making it as much of a spectacle for the crowd as possible, reveling in their shock, making them wonder until the last moment whether he would actually follow through? Or was he reluctant to take this final, irrevocable step? Despite everything, did a part of him still feel the temptation to give Kezul a second chance?

Whichever it was, it wouldn’t matter for long, because the delay wouldn’t last much longer. If Miranelis was going to do this, it had to be now.

They would die in the attempt, whether they failed or succeeded. They had no doubt of that. But they were no longer afraid of death.

Kezul had given them that gift.

There was no time to creep closer and closer the way they had during Kezul’s speech. Subtlety would not be an option this time. They drew in a sharp breath as they prepared themselves. The Unmaker’s eyes flicked toward them, and they froze. But the Unmaker’s gaze simply slid over them, not registering them as a threat worth considering.

Miranelis darted forward. The scabs on their wounded legs, and the torn muscles underneath, screamed at the sudden movement. They ignored it. They had gotten a lot of practice at ignoring pain lately.

And soon, they wouldn’t feel anything anymore.

The Unmaker’s sword came down. But time had thickened again—although this time, Miranelis suspected it had nothing to do with how slowly the Unmaker was moving, and everything to do with their own perceptions. Because it wasn’t just the Unmaker. Everything was moving too slowly—like the Wolves holding Kezul as they glanced at each other, their reservations painfully plain on their faces. Or the restless crowd, their movements as slow as sleepers slowly rousing from a dream.

The sword came down toward Kezul’s neck. And down. And down.

But not fast enough to stop Miranelis.

Miranelis grabbed clumsily for the Unmaker, for that spot along his side where Kezul wore his own knife. Their hand closed around the wolf-hilt knife. It was familiar in their hand. They had held it twice before. The first time, they hadn’t been able to bring it down. The second time, they would have struck without hesitation, if Kezul hadn’t stopped them.

This time, Kezul was in no position to stop them, even as his head jerked up and his face filled with naked shock at the sight of Miranelis.

This time, Miranelis struck without hesitation. And this time, Miranelis completed the strike.

His hand slashed across the Unmaker’s throat. The blade dug deep.

It didn’t the way Miranelis had expected it to feel. When the Wolves’ knives had sunk into their own flesh, it had always felt like the blades had cut into them without resistance. Now Miranelis could feel the work it actually took. It was nothing like the shallow slice they had made in Kezul’s leg. It was like cutting into a tough steak. They gagged.

But they kept going.

Blood cascaded down onto Miranelis’s face, hot and stinking, blinding them as it splashed into their eyes. It rolled between their lips and onto their tongue. They choked on the metal taste of it. It tasted different from their own. Sharper, more bitter.

A sharp burst of pain ripped through their torso. At first, they only registered as the shock that they had actually succeeded. They had wounded a god. That god was bleeding in front of them, wobbling on his suddenly unsteady legs.

But then Miranelis tried to breathe in, and a sharper burst of pain ran through them. They looked down at themselves and saw the Unmaker’s sword protruding from their chest. The Unmaker had missed their heart. Probably the only reason Miranelis was still alive was that even the Unmaker himself could not aim his weapon perfectly when he was bleeding to death. But as blood bubbled up from Miranelis’s throat and out through their lips, as they stared down at the sword hilt jutting from their chest, they knew the Unmaker had accomplished his goal nonetheless. He had killed them.

The knife fell from their hands with a muted clang.

The Unmaker clutched his throat. His eyes were wide with shock, a mirror of his son’s. This man, powerful as he was, had never learned to keep the feelings off his face. He didn’t look like a god anymore. He looked small and afraid as his hands clawed at the bloody slash, gurgling sounds emitting from his mouth.

He toppled backward onto the steps. He kept bleeding. His hands scrabbled at his throat, but the movements of his fingers were slower now, less purposeful.

Then the sky was spinning, and the palace steps were shifting underneath Miranelis. Something slammed into their back. The blade ripped through them all over again, then fell to the steps beside them. Only then did Miranelis realize they had fallen backward. They were lying on the steps, staring up at the blue sky. The force of the fall had driven the blade out of them.

But that wouldn’t save them.

Hot blood gushed from their chest wound as soon as the blade dislodged. It spilled out over their tunic, wetting their chest, soaking them like they had slid fully clothed into a hot bath. They might have found it almost relaxing, except for the fact that they couldn’t breathe.

Miranelis could hear the chaos in the crowd, although they no longer seemed to have the strength to turn their head to see what was going on. Some of the Wolves shouted for Kezul’s blood, claiming this had been some plot of his. Other Wolves gave shouts in his defense. Weapons clashed; warriors screamed in pain. Shouts of fear and confusion—and no small amount of exultation—came up from the crowd, in Miranelis’s own language.

Gradually, they became aware of vague blurs around them, rising up to block the sky. The blurs resolved into faces. None of the faces were looking at them. They recognized the heads of the noble houses, who had been held in place by the Wolves a moment ago. Now, with the Wolves more concerned with fighting each other, no one seemed to care much about them anymore. They stood frozen on the steps, like they weren’t sure what to do. Even they had little control at that moment. Miranelis could see their confusion, and their fear, as they tried to figure out whether they were safer staying up here or making a run for it.

Then a new face came into view, closer than the others. Closer, and more familiar. Kezul.

He knelt beside Miranelis. As his gaze fell on Miranelis’s chest, where blood was still gushing out onto the steps, a string of harsh words Miranelis didn’t recognize left their lips. Just from his tone, Miranelis could guess why none of those words had made it into their textbook. They might have said so, if they had had any breath left to spare on jokes.

Kezul’s hands pressed at the gushing wound, as if there were anything he could do to stop the flow of blood. Miranelis knew it was ridiculous, and from the look on Kezul’s face, he knew it too. It didn’t stop him from trying. The pressure on Miranelis’s chest felt as if Kezul had sat his entire weight on them, and yet it didn’t hurt. Mostly, Kezul’s hand just burned with an impossible warmth. It was as if Kezul were on fire. Miranelis was surprised not to see flames rising from his skin.

Or maybe Miranelis was just impossibly cold.

Kezul said something else, softer this time, almost inaudible over the shots of the crowd. It took Miranelis a moment to figure out what he had said. “You did it.” His voice was soft with wonder. “You actually did it.”

Miranelis wanted to say there was nothing Kezul could do to punish him them for it—they were already dying. But they couldn’t speak. When they opened their mouth, all that came out was a fresh gush of hot blood. And anyway, the tone in Kezul’s voice hadn’t been accusation.

It had been thanks.

The sky was going gray around the edges, like all the color was leaching out of it little by little. But Kezul’s face was as bright as ever, radiating fury and helplessness and shame. “It should have been me. I could barely even find the courage to say a few words he didn’t want me to say.” He shook his head, making his hair fly into his face. He was having trouble looking at Miranelis. “You were right,” he said, meeting Miranelis’s eyes again at last. “I was a coward after all.”

If Miranelis could have drawn in one more breath, they would have said it wasn’t too late. They would have told Kezul what Havedrial had told them what felt like a lifetime ago—that a coward was simply one who hadn’t found the right opportunity for bravery.

They would have made Kezul promise not to be a coward now, when it really counted. They would have made Kezul promise to continue the work the two of them had started together. Even though it would take so much more courage to do it alone, without guidance.

They wanted nothing more than to say those words. Those, and perhaps others—like, Thank you for not killing me in the courtyard that day. And, Thank you for listening to my advice when it wasn’t what you want to hear. Thank you for taking that chance.

And yes, there was a part of them wanted to say, Everything that has happened here is, at least in part, on your head. Don’t let yourself forget that.

But most importantly, they wanted to say, Danelor is in your hands now. Your father can’t take it from you. And I can’t help. It’s all up to you now. Use this power well.

As the color leached out of Kezul’s face at last, and the light winked out of the world, Miranelis thought, somehow, that Kezul had understood every word he hadn’t possessed the final breath to say.

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