#eventual female whumper
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Fire Down Below
Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below |
CW: Dehumanizing language, prolonged repeated choking, nonhuman whumpee, angry whumper, restrained, hanged (no death), captivity
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“How many fingers am I holding up?” Gilly leaned forward, the wooden chair he sat on creaking alarmingly under the shift in weight, rocking slightly forward onto the one leg that was shorter than the other three for no discernable or understandable reason.
It’d been a free chair, though, so… there was that.
He held up one hand, thumb curled over a bent forefinger, middle, ring, and pinkie fingers straight up in the air.
The siren stared back at him, only its eyes, nose, and wet curls above the washtub’s water line. He could just barely see the strap of the gag curving around the back of its head, the barest hint of the wood visible through the increasingly dirtied water. It made no movement, no sound.
Honestly, if he hadn’t known what it was, he might have felt some sense of guilt or a prickling at his conscience. It looked so human. As if he’d found a beautiful youth and abducted him for nefarious purposes, like in the scandalous penny awfuls he sometimes bought during times in port and read on lonely nights on the ship. He might imagine himself the villain of such a tale, if the creature had been a person.
“How many?” He repeated.
The thing did not respond. It only blinked, once.
Gilly sighed. “Must you make this as difficult as possible, thing?”
No answer. But he could see the curve of its plush top lip over the bit between its teeth, the way it wanted to sneer and snarl at him, and he would not bear that disrespect.
“Fine. Have it your way.” Gilly wrapped the rope around his hand again and again that led up to the ceiling where his rough-hewn pulley-system had been rigged, leading back down to the rough, coarse rope knotted tight around the stupid creature’s throat.
This it understood, and only this. It did not learn without violence. Not that Gilly had tried too many other options.
As soon as he pulled hard enough to tighten the loop a fraction around its neck, the creature shot further up to give itself slack, but Gilly only followed its movements with his own, pulling with one hand and then another to ensure that once it stood it could not hide itself again.
It was dripping, well-formed body naked as a newborn babe, and Gilly once again mourned that he had had the piss-poor luck to catch a male one and not a female. The monster croaked around its gag, in a cracking voice, “Th-eeee.”
“Good,” Gilly said, voice short and sharp.
He let the rope go slack again.
The creature dropped right back down as far as he would let it go, until it was only bared to him from the ribcage up. It hid itself, always, whenever it could. As if it felt his eyes, as if it cared a single bit about modesty. Sirens were simply animals mimicking a human shape, everyone knew that. The intelligence he saw in those dark eyes was a false one, a trick. Only madmen thought sirens were thinking beings, madmen who sailed off to the islands the sirens were known to stay on, wanting to communicate or connect with their so-called ‘communities’.
Those madmen never returned, or the ones who did claimed to have found nothing at all, simply bare rock and empty bushes.
“Again,” Gilly said, and held up all the fingers on one hand this time. He kept his other hand tight around the rope, in a subtle, wordless threat.
The creature swallowed - with difficulty, the noose was still too tight for comfort even as the rope slackened - and managed, “F-eye-fff.”
“Close enough,” Gilly muttered, but he was secretly pleased. The longer it was trapped in the washtub, a mere speck of water compared to the vast oceans it had known before, the more it cooperated, the more it gave in to Gilly’s demands.
Eventually, it would need to understand him well enough to do his bidding, but until then… until then, they had to move slowly. He couldn’t do anything anyway until the magic had been laid to make the creature more fully his to command.
Outside, there was a creaky, high-pitched voice, the old woman calling in baby-speak to her infernal little dog with its yapping ankle-bites and ridiculous smushed-in face. The siren’s eyes flickered to the window, its head turning with a simple, open curiosity and wonder.
It was a deeply human expression, and Gilly felt a thrill of fury and something he refused to feel as guilt for what he’d done in bringing it here. So he yanked so hard on the rope the siren choked.
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at its aborted, hoarse cry of pain. Its attention certainly left the window and the sounds outside, didn’t it? And the cries of pain it made were nearly as beautiful as its wicked, tempting songs at sea.
His smile widened as he pulled, stalwart and resolute, with one hand and then another. First its navel was bared to the air, then the mimickry of a man between its legs, those long muscled thighs, water running in rivers down shapely calves and finally to its feet. Gilly’s arms shook despite the years of work on ships he’d done to build his strength, but he kept pulling, and the creature kept rising.
Its cries became shorter, whistling and airless, and then turned to nothing more than gasps. The rope was tight just under its jaw, one strong jerk from broken, like a convict hung on the gallows before a crowd.
But Gilly was the only audience to the show.
The siren’s arms jerked, hands twisting its wrists still bound behind its back. They were already rubbed raw to bleeding and yet still it kept struggling, legs moving uselessly, fighting to breathe when its throat was nearly closed entirely.
“Don’t worry about her,” Gilly said, in a tone of utmost genial friendliness. “She can’t hear you, and she doesn’t care about you anyway. None of them do, they just don’t care. Even if she did know what I’ve got here, what could she really do, hm? Make me leave my home here, to be sure, but what else? What would happen to you?”
The siren’s face was going dark, blood rushing into its cheeks as Gilly stood and braced his feet shoulder width apart for a better, stronger grip. He didn’t need to do this - he should stop, he would never have treated any dog, cat, or horse with such cruelty - but somehow he couldn’t.
He couldn’t stop watching its eyes go wide and frightened, then hazy as the world began to darken for it. As it stared into the death that he could give it, so easily, just by staying put like this, just by letting it dangle until there was nothing left in it but its pretty, pointless skin.
Gilly felt nearly as breathless himself, although with excitement, not with fear. He had never had power of any creature, not this sort of power. Not the power to simply take a life with no rhyme or reason, only his own desires.
He let go, abruptly, and the rope slid hot through his hands as the creature crashed back into the washing-tub, dirty water splashing up over the sides from the violence of its landing.
Its legs crumpled and it disappeared entirely at first, before it pushed itself back up, sucking in gulps of air and coughing, over and over in a vicious cycle. His ribcage swelled and pulled so tight the bones were visible, again and again. Its face was still red, its neck was dark as sin itself with blood running down where the rope had rubbed right through its skin.
When Gilly moved closer, the creature flinched backwards until it smacked into the other side of the washing-tub, hunched over itself protectively, looking up at him with its dark curls over its eyes.
It was finally truly terrified of him, after days of this.
Exactly how it should be.
He pointed to the washing-tub, the dirtied water inside it. “The water is dirty,” He said, over-emphasizing each word as if he spoke to an idiot child or a very dumb puppy. “It needs to be cleaned.”
It swallowed, wincing at the pain even such a simple involuntary motion caused. There was no sign it understood, beyond the way its eyes flickered to one side, where he had forced it to stand in the past in the corner while he emptied the tub out and refilled it clean.
“Yes,” Gilly said, pointing now into the same corner. “Go there.” When it didn’t immediately move, he snapped, “Now!”
The siren hurriedly half-fell over the side of the tub, landing without dignity with a thump on its side, making Gilly laugh at the sight of it wiggling to get back on its feet with its hands still tied behind its back. It skittered away from him, more bug than humanoid thing, until it was in the shadowy corner where he had pointed it to.
“Good. Now stay there.”
He took the rope, changing it so it hung from a different hook, pulling it tight enough that the siren was forced to dance on its tiptoes to keep breathing, and tied it off. Now it couldn’t move. Stupid monster couldn’t even think well enough around its fight for air to try anything.
Which was good, because changing the water was a chore he did not enjoy, and his mood was already dark today. He didn’t need it to get any worse. He’d put way too much time and effort into training the creature to accidentally kill it or something if it upset him too much.
“I know you don’t like that,” He said, almost conversationally, as he moved to open the window. “And if you want to make it stop…”
Its voice was barely a hiss as it echoed, “May-... t-ah-p,” unable to pronounce the sss or k sound around the bit gag.
“Right. Well, you’ll have to start learning faster and start listening to me, won’t you? I wouldn’t have to do any of this if you would just understand me and obey the first time, instead of making it a fight.”
It blinked again.
Gilly had to fight the resurgence of his fury at its simple refusal to listen and learn, reminding himself that he had work to do, and he couldn’t have a nap until he had finished cleaning out its water.
There was a slight downhill slope outside, and so he simply took a bucket and began to bail the washing-tub out, tossing each bucket of dirty water outside to let it run down into the widow’s garden below. The bits of fish parts would help the plants to grow, he supposed. Although in this hot climate, it didn’t help the place smell any better. Not that you couldn’t smell the manure from the animals that lived in the barn, anyway…
He lost himself in the work, as always, simply drifted into a place of contentment even as sweat beaded up on his skin and trickled down his neck and his back. Sometimes, he paused just to watch the siren where it stood, making hoarse little guttural noises, moving from one set of toes to the other, tears trickling from the corners of its eyes down over its beautifully wrought cheekbones, its jawline, and to the floor below.
“I suppose you need a name,” He said, thoughtfully, once he had emptied the tub, scrubbed it out, and then worked to dry it with a towel. In a moment he’d have to head down to the water pump to start the refilling process, but he allowed himself a break to wipe away his sweat and push up his glasses, watching the suffering siren. It watched him back, even though the rope kept its chin tipped up trying to escape the constriction. It whined, like a whipped dog, and Gilly shook his head.
It was even trying to mimic other animals, now, to get him to be kinder.
“I was thinking… the people here before the colony was founded, they had a dance called areyto. I think that’s what I’ll call you… Areyto, because once you’re strung up like this, you dance.”
He laughed.
“We’ll work on teaching you your name tomorrow, I think.”
He headed out to start working on bringing in fresh water. It took nearly as long as cleaning the damn thing out had taken, and each time he left and came back the siren’s movements were slower, more exhausted, the fight to breathe taking more and more out of it. Blood began to dry where the ropes had rubbed, and so did its tears.
By the time the water was clean, it had to move on its knees, hunched over, inch by tired inch until it made it to the metal sides of the tub. Gilly kept the rope in hand, ready to punish, but it had no fight left, not now. He watched those powerful leg muscles shake as it pushed itself clumsily to its feet, and then simply allowed itself to fall over the side and into the water.
It did not resurface.
Gilly tied the rope back off in its usual place, cleaned the splashed-out water with the still-damp towel, and walked out whistling cheerfully, closing the door and locking it behind him.
They were definitely making progress.
Once Atabei came from the northern colonies, her magic would make sure he didn’t have to worry about the monster trying to hurt him, and he could finally start laying his plans out for a gilded, influential future.
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Taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam
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Note: Although I am not planning any specific @whumptober this year, this piece ended up covering the first three prompts!
#whump#fantasy whump#siren whump#fantasy writing#nonhuman whumpee#sadistic whumper#captivity#torture tw#choking tw#hanging tw#restrained#bound#dehumanizing language#dehumanization#whumptober2023#no. 1#“How many fingers am I holding up?”#no. 2#“They don't care about you.”#no. 3#“Make it stop.”#whump writing#OC#original content#original writing#magical whumpee#gilly is a weird little motherfucker isn't he#atabei is weirder though
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HELLO WHUMP COMMUNITY
My name is Lian! I'm 21, and use any pronouns. I love whump so much I just had to make a blog dedicated to it.
When I first discovered this community existed a few months ago I was obsessed. I just knew I'd eventually cave and make a whump blog, and now here I am! This blog is actually rather old, but I never used it, and purged all the content on it to start over.
Here are all the whump tropes / things I like! 👇👇👇
Whumper turned caretaker / carewhumpers
Intimate whumpers
Stockholm / Lima syndrome (whumper × whumpee)
Nsfwhump / Noncon / dubcon
Restraints & gags
Magic & curses
Branding & scarring
Whumpees in collars & leashes
Whumpees who are famous
Whumpees who get tortured on camera
Whumpers who have a soft spot for whumpee
Whumpers with violent kinks that they take out on whumpee
That includes cannibalism. Give me whumpers who literally fucking eat parts of their whumpees in front of them
Waterboarding, drowning, anything to do with water, really
Ferocious, bloodthirsty caretakers who are ready to kill whumper and do anything for whumpee
Trans whumpers and whumpees and just queerness in general, I'm very queer
"Immortal" characters (don't age but can die, just not of natural causes / time) (also much stronger and can endure more before they get to the point of death)
The only thing I do NOT like are male whumpers with female whumpees. Just can't do it, feels too... ick. I am, however, cool with AMAB whumpers and AFAB whumpees, so long as they aren't cis. In fact, my two favorite characters fit that dynamic! So expect to see a bunch of them.
PLEASE KNOW there will be sexually explicit content on this blog! I will tag them appropriately, but please, minors dni.
Most of my original writings and characters are going to come straight from a book series I'm currently writing, but I'll try my best to make them digestible to folk who aren't already familiar with my work. If you wanna know more about it, check out @multimagical. That's my writing blog, basically just like this one but without torture and smut. So it's like this blog's clean, wholesome cousin, lol.
If this content sounds up your alley, feel free to give me a follow! I'll be re blogging allll the good shit, and have a BUNCH of a original content to give you that I've been cooking up! I'll keep y'all nice and fed, I promise ♡
#whump community#whump writing#whump#writers#writers on tumblr#writing#whump blog#whump intro#whump introduction#blog intro#get to know me#blog introduction#whumpblr#whump art#my post
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Experimentations Chapter 1: Nets and Traps
content: avian whumpee, scientist whumper, female whumper, nets, capture
Started this rp a while ago and wanted to post it. I'll be updating regularly. There is a bit of a backlog for this one. :)
Streak was stuck. He wasn't panicking, because obviously everything would be fine. Everything always was, and eventually this would be too. He just couldn't move. Or see. That was the more pressing concern, actually, the seeing part. The net he'd triggered had closed up quite tight, and his wings burritoed him. He couldn't see anything but feathers, and that was a bit of a problem.
"Helllooooooo..." He cried out again, wriggling uselessly. He strained to hear if anything was around, but he couldn't tell. His feathers may have blocked his vision and hearing, but at least they would insulate him if he was still here when night fell. He wouldn't die of exposure, and that was good! Perhaps the only good news he had right now.
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Dr. Vaughn hadn't wanted to get her hopes up today. The usual migration patterns of the avians in this area dictated that this late in the season it was very unlikely that there were any avians coming through this stretch of forest. When she got the notification that her trap had triggered she was thrilled. She only hoped that it hadn't been triggered by a deer again. When she arrived to the site she held back a gasp. The avian she caught was an adult with large dark brown wings. She couldn't quite tell if the avian was male or female due to the amusing predicament it had gotten itself into. That was until the creature gave out a low cry. Dr. Vaughn smiled. She had caught a male. She imagined he would put up an honorable fight. She pulled down the lever that controlled the trap and watched with intrigue as the net fell from its suspended position. The net, of course, remained firmly trapping the avian.
He let out a shout as he plummeted, his wings straining against the net instinctively, trying to catch him. But it didn't work, and he fell hard, with another shout. It hurt, a lot, but nothing was broken. He flexed his wings, making sure. Bruised, yes, but not broken. "Please, let me out!" He called, figuring someone must be there. "There's been a mistake! I'm not a bird, as I'm sure you can see! I'm an avian!" He wriggled around more, but there wasn't much he could do. Or anything he could do. "I understand the confusion, as I am devastatingly gorgeous and expertly preened-" thank you Loe, "But I am, in fact, sentient, so if you could please cut the net?"
Dr. Vaughn smiled at the avian's cries. She walked over to uncover a cart that was tucked away behind a large tree. She pulled the cart over to the avian and unhooked the latch in the back, making a small click as the metal was freed. She smirked again at the avain's words. He was arrogant, that was for sure. All the better; the arrogant ones were always the loudest. Dr. Vaughn crouched down next to the avian who, despite claiming he was well-preened, was currently a frantic ball of feathers. She reached out and picked up a large feather that had come loose in his struggle. It was a long feather, most likely from the outer wings and, to the avian's credit, was in near perfect condition. It was a chocolatey brown with black accents. Dr. Vaughn smiled, highly pleased with her capture. "Don't worry," Dr. Vaughn said lowly, leaning toward the avian, "I am well aware that you are sentient. I'm a scientist. Rest assured you're in good hands. My name is Doctor Vaughn."
"Cool, very cool," he commented anxiously, still unable to see who it was. "I don't need a doctor, I'm great, I am. So if you can please just let me out-" His struggles renewed and a hand punched through a hole in the net. He waved and laughed awkwardly. "Hi there. Please let me out now." He was running out of patience. "I need to get home now, I've been here a while now and I need to get going." He was worried, he needed to get home. Loe would be worried, he was supposed to be home soon. He was only going out for a fun flight.
Dr. Vaughn chuckled. "You misunderstand me. I am not a medical doctor, I'm a scientist, a researcher if you may." The doctor rolled up her sleeves and grabbed the bottom of the net, then she hoisted the avian into the cart, only straining a small amount despite the weight of the adult male. She situated the ball of feathers carefully in the bed of the cart and latched the gate back. When she stepped away she noticed that the avian had shifted enough that his eye was visible. She leaned down to examine it. His eye was a stunning shade of brown that was widened in confusion. Dr. Vaughn gave him a gleeful smile. "And you won't have to worry about your home. You won't be going back there any time soon."
Next
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Only the Beginning
Masterlist
CWs: Angel whumpee, fem whumpee (though never addressed in fic, whumpee is female/female adjacent), capture, captivity, restraints, cult setting, religion, nonbinary whumper, forced to hurt/kill, semi-cannibalism (consuming a sapient humanoid’s flesh), major character death, gore
Death marks the beginning of our protagonists’ story, recounted by the very one who met her untimely end.
My name is an Infinite Expanse of Starry Skies… and this is the story of how I died.
It’s not an easy tale to tell, nor can I put into words the experience of dying, but I will recount it as well as I can.
I was an angel, a paragon – in my mind I am still, despite no longer living.
I tended to the religious spaces of my Realm. I sat behind a confessional screen, always listening, offering peace to troubled souls. They came to me: young and old, religious and not – and laid themselves bare. Their sins, their regrets, they were mine to hold, and I took them as if they were my own. In return, I gave them words they needed to hear, ones that the Realm never gave them.
I'm not the wild creature I was made to be in my last moments.
When they found me, I was wandering their Earth, searching for someone dear. Someone I would call my love … though the two of us never made that label official despite our affections. We were as different as could be – I, a devout worshipper, and she, a clever being with a tongue gilded in silver. Her sharp edges carried me to places I can’t name, and I was there to hold her steady, balance her out.
Her intensity drew me in, and I’m not sure what part of me appealed to her — but she made sure I always knew how she felt. She’d never been vocal about her opinions except to a close few, and I knew them all. Coupled with her actions, I gained a true understanding of her. Her passions, what she valued, every quiet thought of dissent she had, how she ached to feel real again.
I supported her. I covered her with my wings and offered shelter from the world and its worries, but she pushed me away.
“This isn’t something I can ignore.”
I had no reply.
Eventually, it became too much, and she fled to these lands seeking something I couldn’t offer her.
There I followed, finding myself caught in her motion again. Like a leaf in the wind, swirling and floating on its currents, subject to its whims.
Scouring the ground, the surface soft with the beginnings of spring, I looked for her, heart aching. The new growth padded with every step I took and the sun shone in my eyes, a far cry from the light of the Angelic Realm.
No luck yet.
And there would be no more to come.
They ambushed me when I considered what to do after hours of searching — pausing my ambling and standing tall, unmoving, breathing in the air. The stillness felt tangible in the barely warm sunlight I’d found myself in … and it tore apart so easily.
Ensnared like a beast, with my limbs twisted together and my cheek digging into the dirt, they took me down. They snapped the bones of my wings with swift kicks, tied me up and carved sigils into my flesh. I wailed. My blood welled up to kiss their blades, so eager to spill, something they licked off, tasting, savoring.
They were only humans. Mortal creatures.
I was brought back to their settlement and caged.
My powers had been rendered useless, and it was no use to struggle. Yet I did, hopelessly fighting against my imprisonment, desperate to find a way out. I hated to admit it, but deep in my chest there was a sliver of fear that hurt more than it should... impaling my heart while it still beat.
Help would not come for me. Yet I fantasized anyway, watching the humans come and go.
Over time, one caught my eye.
They were fully clothed in white, with white skin and white hair, save for dark gray streaks in it. They looked to be no more than a few years into maturity. Months? I’m unsure of the rate humans age. Whatever it was, it would be the age where an angel stopped aging so quickly, where time found itself stagnating, as if it were dipped in honey.
They kept their head bowed, seeming to be an important figure in the settlement despite their age. The others would give them flowers or sweets, whisper blessings and praises to them. They accepted them with grace, tipping their head in acknowledgment and responding with hushed words.
They never talked to me. They only stared, eyes lingering on the gilded cage at the center of the settlement that held me. And I stared back.
I had no desire to speak to them, and they must have felt the same. I found no solace in their lingering gazes.
Perhaps I should have.
I was convinced we were too different. We were not the same age, truly, nor the same species. We came from two separate words, each with their own unique history and culture, one in the sky and the other dwelling on the ground. Enough to keep us apart.
They were the one to speak to me first.
“I- I’m sorry..”
I didn't respond, for fear of ruining the moment.
“I have no choice. They want me to kill you. I can’t run.
“I’ve tried so many times.
“Please understand.”
I remembered that. What they said word-for-word, the date — a few days into my captivity — everything. It had been barely a blink’s worth of time, a moment’s eternity.
That was the day I ceased to be trapped.
It was sunset.
The humans had circled around me, opened my cage and dragged me out into the open. I fought them, thrashing and spitting, snapping into a frenzy, something so unlike myself, so violent — but so right.
It’s what she would have wanted me to do.
The hazel-eyed one walked before me, knife in hand. “I’m sorry.” They said again, tears forming in their eyes. They sparkled like rare gemstones or beads of dew, glowing in the dying light.
I realized what they had told me before was a confession, and I stopped struggling, my breath catching in my lungs.
…
Oh.
We weren’t so different, were we?
They slammed their knife in my chest and I screamed, the moment shattering.
My silver blood painted the ground, wet and warm and I thrashed, bucking against the ropes holding me down.
“Please! Please stop!” I begged, shrieking. My voice was sharp. The sound of it was the same as a violin played harsh and high, the notes incorrect, the sonata it played turning into sounds of horror and prayer.
They didn’t stop. They carved open my chest, digging the blade deep into my flesh, dragging it through the meat. It hit bone, scraping against my ribs, and that was when I began to fade. My limbs were untied as my life left my body, splayed out as my heart was torn from the cavity of my chest.
I was then eaten from. Consumed inside out, bled for drinks. The tender flesh of my heart was severed by teeth, chewed and swallowed, found its home in the human’s stomach.
I had died knowing no peace.
And now I find myself here, at The Divine’s judgment.
Once again, I become unraveled, and It consumes me too.
#whump#whump writing#angel whumpee#fem whumpee#nonbinary whumper#forced to hurt#forced to kill#my ocs#my writing#sky oc#blaze oc#starling oc#ImMortal Triplicity
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Happy Whumpmas (੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭*🎅⛄❄️!!! You have just been snowballed by a secret whumper. Help to keep the snowball fight going by anonymously sending this to five other whumpers with a whump-related question of your choice.
Here's mine for you: What's one whump trope you can never get enough of, no matter how often you read it?
Oooh, nice question, thank you!
I am an absolute sucker for a Rescue - which segues nicely off I'm an absolute sucker for a captivity arc :D
(But i chose rescue for this bc it's the end result and i wouldn't like a captivity arc nearly as well with no escape/rescue - rescue obvs preferred)
And actually, the less agency the character has in their own rescue, the better, imo.
All the hate for the "helpless, poor abused female with no power who gets rescued by a big strong man"? I love that.
Agency can kiss my ass lol okay, perhaps that's a bit blunt. I prefer a blink and you'll miss it sort of agency - defiance that gets you nowhere. having that small bit of spark left even after all hope is gone and they're ground into the dirt. when rescue arrives, making the choice to cooperate instead of being like, what's the point. wanting to die but eventually choosing to live.
small acts that may not be as flashy as "i can kick your ass six ways to sunday and i don't need nothing from nobody i can take care of myself", but feel infinitely more satisfying to me
*cough* ANYWAYS
ITS THE RESCUE
#starlit asks#Anonymous#whumpblr#obligatory i don't give a shit what the genders are really i just tend to write and read m/f but i would still like this trope with any#combo of gender/nongender#also me not really giving a shit if thats a trope or smth else - its what i thought of :')#i can't keep that shit straight i swear#anyways#im gonna write this someday#maybe#i seem to churn out spicy females one after another so uh#carr and her i can kick your ass six ways to sunday 😅😂#honestly i think Riah has the most potential but its kinda Nykim hanging from broken arms kneeling on shattered knees rn soooo#hehe#but i'm still planning on bricking her into a wall so there's that :))
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Salome: An Introduction
I used to be erotichorror, but then I moved house. Gonna be interesting trying to find all my friendos again, but at least now this is my main so you'll know if we're mutuals?
Writing masterlists are at the bottom of this post. Sorry to make things hard.
Silly blog= @salomemes
Non-whump sideblog= @actnormalsalome
A03 = somethingsalome
Name Donation Bin here. (MINORS DO NOT DONATE! I will not use your name.)
My gorgeous icon was created by @scarletfish8eta and I love it so much. SO much.
If you want to be on a tag list for something let me know! I've never done tag lists before, but no time like the present.
Info below the cut. I don't like a long pinned post, honestly.
Hello! I'm Salome. I like reading, writing, knitting, memes, and cold blooded, sadistic [imaginary] murder. I am 33 years old, nonbinary (they/them), and married to the lovely Alice (also they/them, and tragically not on Tumblr).
I am very friendly, for an absolute monster, and my inbox is always open for tomfoolery! I was on Tumblr for a number of years then vanished and came back to the same URL, so if my name sounds familiar you probably knew me when.
I am still growing more comfortable with whump lingo, but I am learning! Also worth mentioning, I will chitty chat about this stuff all day long, but I will not role play anymore, because I am monogamously married and my spouse is the only real person I'm allowed to fake murder. (They let me fake murder them! I'm so lucky.)
Here are some bullet lists of things my writing will and will not contain, followed by a masterlist of masterlists.
Things I love:
Blood and gore (I wanna see what your insides look like).
Cannibalism.
Dismemberment, decapitation, disemboweling. (Basically my "Live Laugh Love" tbh.)
Captivity.
Noncon/dubcon (sexual or nonsexual).
Murders and executions.
Helpless, terrified whumpees.
Things I'm curious about or want to write more of:
Tiny whump (as in grown up adults who are miniature).
Choose your own adventure whump.
Fantasy whump.
Ongoing series (I have way too many ideas).
Soft limits (may be included but very unlikely):
Female whumpee with male whumper.
Hard limits (you will never see them here):
Whump involving minors.
Scat.
Animal abuse.
WRITING MASTERLISTS:
Stories on my old blog (Some are not well tagged, and some will be moved over here eventually. But yeah. Enjoy?)
Snips and Snaps (drabbles, etc.)
Boss (ongoing series)
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Unburied, Chapter 6
Chapter 6 of Unburied, my contribution to the Whump Girl Summer event hosted by @whumpawoman. Masterpost here.
Prompt: “I’m Not Going Anywhere”
Contains: spy whumpee, friendly whumper, female whumpee, female whumper, fantasy setting, magic, human sacrifice, dismemberment, vivisection, seriously I am not kidding this is brutal
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At first, Kira didn’t understand how anyone who believed in an afterlife could see the destruction of the soul as anything but horror. Kira, for lack of any more plausible alternatives, had made her piece with the idea of eventual nonexistence a long time ago. But even for her, the idea was a yawning horror deep in her mind, something she tried not to think about too closely. It was the empty face behind the mask of every childhood nightmare, the bottomless abyss that lurked under every bit of gallows humor she and her fellow agents had thrown around. How could oblivion be anything like a mercy?
Then Leila began, and she understood.
She started with Kira’s right foot. She grasped the ankle joint, right over the bruises the cuff had left. Kira would have gasped in pain if she had still had any control over her own voice. The wall between her and the pain didn’t make her immune to the agony of someone grasping the swollen, bruised flesh and digging her fingertips in.
Leila produced a knife. The blade was in no style Kira had ever seen before, and she was an aficionado of small bladed weapons. It was longer than most knives in modern use, and too thin to be much good as a weapon. Overall, the shape was odd, awkward for combat. But when Leila slipped the blade under Kira’s skin, it pierced through her flesh like water, sinking all the way to the bone.
As the blade scraped bone, Kira briefly thought she had screamed. She even imagined the sound of her own voice. But of course, that was something she couldn’t do anymore. Her imagination had simply provided the sound, and that sensation of her throat working and her chest tightening, because she couldn’t imagine feeling a pain so sharp and all-consuming and not screaming.
In reality, she didn’t make a sound, and she didn’t thrash or jerk away. Not as Leila dug the blade deeper, and not as she pried the end of the blade into the ankle joint until the foot popped free. Leila carved a circle around the joint until the foot came off in her hand, with nothing but a sluggishly bleeding mass of flesh and bone at the end where her leg should have been. Kira wanted to close her eyes at the horror of it, but that was one more cruelty of her current state—she couldn’t.
The injury should at least have cost her enough blood to kill her. It might have, if she had been properly alive. But she wasn’t, and the proof was in the trickle of blood from the stump where her foot had been. It was barely enough to wet the stone under her, hardly the gushing waterfall that should have erupted at such an injury.
Dimly, through the spiky haze of pain, she realized she shouldn’t have been able to see the stump of her leg—not without being able to raise her head. And even if she had been able to crane her neck, she shouldn’t have been able to see it from that angle, as if she were seeing through Leila’s eyes, or from somewhere above Leila’s head. Another wave of stomach-churning dizziness washed over her. She would have squeezed her eyes shut if she could have. But she couldn’t, and the strangeness in her vision only grew, until she perceived herself looking down at her body from all possible angles at once.
She tried to narrow the images down to one. It worked—but unfortunately, the image her mind chose to focus on was the one that gave her the best view of the place where her foot had been. She watched as light flowed in from the jagged lines on the floor to congeal around the injury. Wherever it touched, the thin trickle of blood slowed, then stopped entirely.
When Leila’s knife dug into the severed foot, Kira discovered yet another cruelty of the unnatural state the other woman had put her in. The foot was no longer attached to her body, but she could still feel it every bit as strongly as she could feel the rest of her flesh. And the wall between her and the pain could only block out so much. She felt every bit of it, and or near enough, as Leila began stripping skin from muscle, then muscle from bone. Her knife worked in thin and precise strokes, carving Kira’s flesh away bit by bit. As the blade stripped away the skin and the muscle, light poured from the blade and burned the discarded flesh to nothing. Kira felt it every time, like holding her hand over a flame and waiting until the skin began to bubble.
When Leila was done, she held a collection of gleaming white bones, bound together in their original shape by strings of light instead of the muscle that used to hold them in place. Kira could still feel the foot as if it were her own. It didn’t feel like pain, exactly—or heat, or even pressure. She didn’t have a name for what the feeling was. All she knew was that it still felt like a part of her body—as much as any part of her body felt as if it still belonged to her, at least—and that some part of her was still convinced that if she flexed her toes, they would move.
When she tried it, of course, nothing happened. Just like she could no longer move the toes on the other foot, even though it was still attached.
Leila set the gleaming white foot down in one of the smaller stone bowls. Kira thought back to the view from the ceiling. She remembered just how many of those bowls there were.
Leila’s eyes briefly found Kira’s. She looked sad, pitying, but not in the least guilty.
“I really am sorry about this,” she repeated.
The other foot went next. It wasn’t quite as bad as the last, because this time, at least Kira knew what to expect. But the pain was every bit as bad as the first time. When she had told herself a person could get used to anything, she had thought it had been true. But apparently that didn’t extend to feeling her own flesh burned off her severed bone.
Next came her left hand, which was a different kind of horror. Beyond the pain itself, there was the knowledge that Leila was rendering her powerless—because what could a person do without her hands? If she regained control over her body, if she found the strength to overpower Leila, it wouldn’t matter—not without fingers to snap her neck, or pull a chain taut around her throat, or stab her in the back with her own knife.
Not that it mattered, because she knew—could sense the truth of it down to the bones that no longer felt like hers—that she would never regain that control, would never find that strength. Whatever Leila had done to her, it was permanent. Her hands would never move under her own power again, whether they remain attached to her body or not. Still, the dull feeling of helpless horror came from a level below rational thought.
The other hand went next. The horror didn’t dim up on repetition—if anything, it grew twice as strong. After all, a person could live without one hand, could feed and clothe herself, could perhaps even fight. But without two? What could a lone agent do in that state to bring down the enemy who held her at her mercy?
Soon, both hands sat in their own bowls, next to her severed feet. The strands of light held the bone rigid, the fingers slightly curled, as if the hands were about to reach out and grab something all on their own. Kira willed them to jump from their bowls and wrap themselves around Leila’s neck. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Even if the light had granted them any animating power, it would not have served her will. Her body belonged to the enemy now. Her own bones were no longer on her side.
If she had been alive in any proper sense, the severing of both feet and both hands would have been enough to kill her under almost any circumstances. On the off-chance she survived—perhaps with an excellent doctor in attendance who could stop her from losing all the blood in her body—the pain would have either kill her shortly or at least rendered her unconscious. Kira had seen it happen before—where an injury was survivable, but the pain it caused proved not to be. Maybe the onslaught of sensation overloaded the brain until there was no room for anything else, not even the knowledge of how to keep breathing or keep one’s heart beating. Or maybe, faced with that amount of pain, the body made the rational choice to simply shut down, giving the person’s consciousness the only escape there was.
But Kira wasn’t alive, and so she couldn’t die. At least, not yet—not from this. She was fully awake and aware as Leila moved on to the bones of her legs, prying apart first one knee joint, then the other. Was she going to take apart Kira’s entire body like this, piece by piece, bone by bone? Would she strip the flesh from Kira’s component parts and lay her out in shiny white pieces, with Kira aware all the while? The mere loss of her feet and hands seemed a mild torture next to that. She shied away from imagining how it would feel when Kira’s knife moved on to her rib cage, her spine, her skull. And yet it seemed like the most likely fate awaiting her.
But as Leila moved onto her thighs, and then the bones of her arms, something shifted in Kira. She couldn’t have said what it was that changed. The pain didn’t grow any less. But when she had said a person could get used to anything, maybe she had been right after all. Because after a while, she found she was numb to the pain and the horror both. Something deep inside her, after wailing out silent scream after silent scream, had finally gone silent. She watched in a distant way, no longer caring that her field of vision didn’t seem to correspond to her physical eyes as Leila carved away her arms up to the shoulder.
But she barely had time to feel relieved at this small mercy before it changed again.
Leila’s next cut was shallower, digging just deep enough to open the skin from her collarbone all the way down her torso. Then, with the flat of the blade, she deftly peeled the skin back on both sides, biting her lip in concentration. She didn’t know what it was that broke through the numbness—the difference in the type of horror, or in the type of pain. This pain was less, but it was sharper, brighter, more urgent. And it turned out growing used to having pieces of herself carved off bit by bit did not make her immune to the entirely different horror of being carefully opened up like a cadaver ready for dissection. The deep part of her mind that had gone silent started up its screaming again.
Leila’s knife carved a precise path through Kira’s torso. She pulled out something small and wet, just the right size to fit into her palm, where it sat jiggling slightly in her trembling hand. Trembling with nerves, or with anticipation? Kira didn’t know anymore, nor did she care.
Leila used the very tip of the knife to carve away any stray bits of flesh and smears of blood from the delicate organ. Then she set it down in one of the bowls, her movements slow and reverent.
When she leaned over Kira’s torso again, she paused as her eyes found Kira’s. Kira couldn’t speak, and couldn’t move her eyes, but something deep within her gaze must have gotten through to Leila, because Leila’s own eyes widened. “Oh,” she said softly, her voice faintly queasy. “Oh, you’re still conscious, aren’t you? That’s… oh, that’s horrible.” She shook her head, sending her soft curls tumbling across her eyes. “I really am sorry, you know. I would do this some other way if I could. I’m sure if there were an easier way, Norkhuggak would have come up with one. I’m just one researcher—all I can do is follow the instructions they left behind.”
Kira wasn’t at all sure that was true—the part about how they would have found an easier way if it were possible. She wasn’t so sure the pain and the horror weren’t part of the point, part of what gave the act of sacrifice its power. The longer she spent in this place, the more the light sank beneath her skin, the more she understood of it. Magic wasn’t just death. Magic was cruelty. Magic was pain and fear.
The ones who had buried this city had been right to do so. They should have done more than bury it. They should have used its own weapons against it, should have burned it to glass until there was nothing left of the horrors it contained.
Her apologies done with, Leila went back to her work. Every so often, she stole a glance at Kira’s face, her eyes still full of queasy sympathy. But she didn’t stop. Even if she had been inclined to put an end to this, what good would it have done Kira? The best Kira could hope for now was for Leila to finish her work and bring about the blessed oblivion she had promised.
As Leila carved more and more pieces of Kira away, Kira’s connection to each part didn’t diminish. She still felt that first severed foot as a part of her body, and the hands, the bones of her arms and legs, every quivering internal organ. If anything, her sense of connection to each piece of herself only intensified. Although none of the severed parts of herself felt pain—the glistening organs came close, but even then, it was nothing more than a distant dull ache—there was an overall sense of wrongness that grew with every piece Leila cut away. These pieces were all part of her, no one of them any more or less than the other. They were meant to be joined, to be part of a single whole, and yet they were not. An energy bound them together, thick with pain, pulsing in the same rhythm as the earlier ritual’s light. It was a waiting feeling, a frustration, a knowledge that they should be one and were not.
Maybe that was the power the magic used, the energy powerful enough to destroy a city.
When Kira’s brain sought escape again, it found it in a different way. This time, it didn’t hide her behind a protective skin of detachment, as if she were watching what was happening from behind a thick window. She kept waiting for that detachment to come back, but the window had been shattered, and she couldn’t retrieve that brief experience of something akin to peace.
Instead, she started hallucinating again.
One moment, Leila was carving out another piece of flesh from Kira’s torso, her face intent, lines of concentration creasing the skin around her eyes. And Kira was watching everything, physically unable to look away despite the changes in her vision. She could choose what to see, to a limited extent, but she couldn’t choose what not to see.
In the next moment, there were two women above her, not just one. Edri crouched behind Leila, her eyes full of a deep horror that bore as little resemblance to Leila’s superficial sympathy as Edri’s agency-issue knife bore to a quality weapon. Edri looked sick as she stared down at Kira’s mutilated form. It was exactly the look the real Edri would have worn. But she didn’t look away, even though she clearly wanted to. The real Edri wouldn’t have, either.
“Can you hear me?” Edri asked urgently, her voice shockingly loud in the cavernous room. Kira hadn’t realized until then just how quiet it was now that the discordant hum of the light had faded away. She half-expected Leila to react to Edri’s voice, but of course she didn’t. She kept on with her work, without so much as looking up at the spot where Kira saw the image of Edri.
“Listen to me, Kira,” Edri said. “I’m going to help you. But you have to work with me. Do you understand?”
At least Kira’s mind was showing her this one small bit of mercy: this version of Edri wasn’t cold and accusing like the earlier hallucinations had been. Kira was surprised by how grateful she felt at that. Any small amount of comfort was better than nothing at this point, even if it only came from her own mind. As weak as it made her feel to admit it even to herself, she didn’t want to die alone.
And having a hallucination for company was better than having no one at all.
Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t think of a single other person whose voice she would rather have in her ear as she died than this imagined version of Edri her mind had dreamed up. Who in her life did she know well enough that their presence would give her solace? Not Nichols, for certain. And she had never bonded with her fellow agents—a sense of competition had always run through the agency, such that they were rivals as much as they were colleagues, and the attrition rate was high enough that everyone was reluctant to make real friends.
As for outside of work… there hadn’t been any such thing for Kira for a long time. She had long ago given up hope of developing any sort of casual friendship, let alone anything that meant more. How could she, when she spent more than half her time in foreign cities, living under assumed names? She knew how to make someone trust her, and how to make someone think they were friends. But that was work. It was nothing she wanted to occupy her time with when she had a spare moment to breathe. Those relationships were never real.
So even if she had her choice of people to keep her company in her final moments, this was what she would have chosen. Edri, the protégé she had never wanted—and not even the real Edri, but a projection created by her desperate, dying mind.
There was something sad in that. But she couldn’t find it in herself to grieve for lost opportunities. Not when she had lost far more than that.
Edri leaned closer. Her face was creased, her voice urgent. “Can you hear me, Kira?” She asked. “Do you understand?”
At first, Kira was at a loss as to how to answer—not that she really needed to, when there was nothing the imagined Edri could do for her whether she answered or not, but she would have liked someone to talk to. She would have welcomed the distraction. But Kira’s voice was gone, along with all her other physical powers. And in any case, she didn’t relish the thought of Leila’s ears intruding on this private moment.
But Edri was a hallucination. She was inside Kira’s mind. Didn’t that mean Kira could talk to her inside her mind? There was no harm in trying, certainly. “I wish you could,” she said, imagining her own voice until she could almost hear it out loud.
It had been a long time since she had heard her voice used for anything but screaming, or so it felt to her now. The sound was almost unrecognizable.
Edri’s face split in a smile. The sight of that smile tugged at Kira’s heart, making her remember Edri’s maddening optimism throughout their desert trek. She had hated it then, had seen it as evidence of Edri’s refusal to face reality. She hadn’t realized, back then, that there would come a time not too far in the future when she would have given almost anything to see that smile again.
She was glad she had the chance to see it now.
“You can hear me,” Edri breathed. “Good. I wasn’t sure if what she did to you would make it harder. I don’t know all the details of what exactly she did. This place has knowledge in its stones, but it’s not as simple as reading it like a book. It takes work, and there’s so much. And I’ve had other priorities.” Her smile faded, leaving her face creased and troubled. “Those other priorities—that’s what I need to talk to you about. I found a way to help you. But it’s… not what I hoped it would be.”
Kira didn’t know which was the most frustrating: that even in the last moments of her life, her mind—like Edri herself—insisted on manufacturing a way out, or that even the hallucinated solution had to be imperfect in some way. She supposed it wasn’t reasonable to expect her relationship with Edri to be anything other than frustrating, even at the last.
It didn’t matter. She was still glad to have Edri. Just as she had been grateful to have Edri with her when she had left the agency, and in the long journey through the desert, even though she had refused to admit it either to Edri or to herself.
She wished she had admitted it earlier.
“I can’t save you,” said Edri, lowering her eyes and swallowing like she was making a confession. “I wanted to. I tried. First when I came to get you, and then… after.”
“It’s all right,” said Kira. “I wish I could have saved you, too.”
“But I can do something else,” said Edri. “It’s not what either of us wanted, but it’s almost as good. I can make this place burn.” Her face split in a feral grin that looked nothing like the normally gentle Edri. “We can make this place burn.”
Kira’s gratitude melted away. She wordlessly chastised her mind for forcing this defiant hallucination on her when defiance had already failed her. Why make her want what she couldn’t have? The thought of burning this foul place to the ground made her ache with rage-filled longing, disturbing the fragile peace Edri’s presence had so briefly brought her.
“Don’t, all right?” she said quietly. “Just don’t. It’s over. I failed.” It hurt to admit it, even without speaking aloud. The taste of failure sat bitter on her tongue.
“But you haven’t,” Edri protested. “That’s what I’m telling you. We can—”
“Stop,” Kira snapped, and watched Edri’s face crumple. “I know what you are, all right? You’re the part of me that doesn’t know how to give up. But it won’t work this time. I’m lying helpless in the middle of this ancient death machine, carved to pieces, whittled down to the bone, and no amount of willpower will would put me back together. It’s time for us both to accept that.”
Edri’s face softened, the hurt smoothed away. “Is that what you think? No. I’m real, Kira. I’m really here.”
“You don’t need to lie to me,” said Kira. “Or rather, I don’t need to lie to myself. I think we’re past that by now, don’t you?”
Edri shook her head hard. “No, I’m real. I’m not some part of your brain—it’s me. Edri. But you still don’t believe me, don’t you?” She huffed out a small sigh. The puff of her breath briefly blew her hair away from her face before it settled back against her cheek.
Edri stared into the distance, her face taut with concentration. “I can’t do much to affect the physical world,” she finally said. “If I could, I would have been able to save you. But I should be able to do enough to prove myself to you. Here—”
She closed her eyes. At first, nothing happened. Then one of the stone bowls shook, the one holding the first of Kira’s severed feet. The bones clattered against the stone.
From across the room came the sound of wind rustling through paper. Kira’s expanded vision showed her several pages, messy with cross-outs and ink smears, fly off the top of a thick stack and sail across the floor.
Leila’s head jerked up. Her knife hand froze. She looked over her shoulder at the papers for a long moment, then stared down at the severed foot in its bowl.
“Unforeseen effects,” she muttered. “Bound to happen. Don’t get distracted, Leila Larkmoor. Not when you’re so close.”
Kira was distracted enough that she didn’t even feel the knife sink back into her flesh. She stared up at Edri. “You did that,” she said in wonder.
And she, Kira, hadn’t done it herself. She knew that. If she were capable of that, she would have done it long before now. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried.
Edri nodded. “And what does that tell you?” she asked in the voice of a patient teacher.
“You’re not a hallucination,” Kira admitted. “You’re real.”
Edri answered with a relieved grin. “Of course I’m real. Do you really think you could ditch me that easily? I’m not going anywhere.”
“How?” Kira asked. “How are you here?”
Edri shrugged. “This place runs on souls. I guess it wasn’t ready to let go of mine.” Her smile took on a sharper edge. “I’ll make them regret it. With your help.”
“We can make this place burn?” Kira asked, feeling the beginnings of hope despite herself.
Edri nodded. “And you can die,” she said softly, her voice suddenly thick with tears. “This can end.”
Kira wasn’t sure which of the two promises she looked forward to seeing fulfilled more.
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Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg
Ask to be added or removed from tag list.
#waw2023#whumpgirlsummer#my writing#my writing: Unburied#fantasy whump#human sacrifice#magic whump#whump#gore#dismemberment#vivisection
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Your last post made me think - if I remember correctly you said that Charlotte prefers psychological torture. So, we know physical violence is not effective against Nathan. What if Lawrence decides to hand him over to Charlotte? Whoud she is able to break him? Will she give him back to Lawrence or decide to keep the boy to herself?
I never thought of that, you made me really think XD.
TW: Mentioned psychological torture, mentioned exploitation of phobias, parental whumper/s, female whumper + male whumpee
The answer would be: maybe. I could make this part of the Nathan recapture arc when I do continue it, since this is actually really interesting to think about.
Nathan, upon hearing that Lawrence plans to hand him over to Charlotte, would totally underestimate her, since he thinks no one can be as insufferable as Lawrence.
He'd be like, "Thank god I can be away from you. This'll be like a vacation for me!"
He'll find out he is wrong. Very wrong.
Charlotte might grow to like him, because unlike Lawrence, she likes more of a challenge so she can feel all the more in power when she breaks someone. It makes her feel more proud of herself and her hard work, and makes her feel more of a bond towards her victim.
It would break him if she pulled out certain tactics. It'd take a while of trial and error, but eventually she'd find what his phobias are, and what really makes him tick. Breaking him would take around month or two, maybe more.
If Charlotte decided to keep him, she might make a deal with Lawrence to take turns keeping him.
Co-parenting, if you will.
#answered ask#charlotte oc#nathan oc#lawrence and charlotte would be like divorced parents to nathan lolol#like “ok i get nate on the weekdays and you can get him on the weekends and holidays. sound fair?”
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Last minute escape from Execution
@whumpers-monthly
Fandom: The Witcher Netflix
Whumpee: Cahir
Published: 2022-10-19 Completed: 2022-12-14
Words: 26,422 Chapters: 17/17
Chapter 17 of "Not Cruel by Nature"
Soon it will be over. With a bang. No, more of a thud. Cahir knows what it sounds like when the executioner's axe hits the bones in the condemned man's - or woman's - neck, cuts right through them and then strikes the beheading block still with enough force to create the thudding sound. If the executioner does his job like he should. If not, things can get pretty messy. No, wrong word, there is nothing pretty about a messed-up execution. Cahir has witnessed quite a few beheadings back in Nilfgaard, one or two of which were exceptionally gruesome. The headsman must have been drunk to miss so badly, to need more than three attempts to finish the job. Not that an execution is pretty in any way even if the executioner knows what he is doing, with all the blood spurting from the severed carotid artery and the grisly, chopped-off head left to rot on a spike by the city gate. For a moment Cahir wonders what they will do with his head after the execution. Display it at the entrance to Aretuza? No, probably not, a bit too terrifying for a school for young girls. Maybe they will gift-wrap it for one of the northern kings or queens for their private collection of shrunken heads and skulls? Some people even use the skulls of their dead enemies as candle holders or paper weights, he knows this for a fact. Well, as he will be thoroughly dead then, whatever they do with his remains will not concern him anymore. If it was only over already. Instead he has to stand here between the two guards like some exotic exhibition piece. In clear view of the executioner's block. The sight does give him the chills, no matter how much he pretends it does not, the more so the longer this takes. This commemoration ceremony. At the moment, Tissaia de Vries is solemnly proclaiming the names of the killed mages. Her voice sends cold shivers up and down Cahir's spine. When he looks at her, he can almost feel her fingers on his temples, her magic mercilessly drilling into his brain, like some sort of phantom pain. Well, perhaps he ought not complain. Any phantom or otherwise pain will cease to exist shortly. As will he. And was it not his wish that his death would serve some kind of purpose? Now it will. Atonement for Yennefer - Cahir has no idea what the Hero of Sodden would have to atone for, but this is hardly his problem - and, most of all, entertainment for the audience. And what an illustrious audience it is, no reason for complaints here either. Pretty much all the northern kings and queens appear to have assembled in this ancient ruin. A fitting ambience for a memorable execution. At least they are giving him this. In addition to a beautiful, female executioner. Something he has never heard of before. Whether or not it is a good thing, remains to be seen. Cahir looks at Yennefer's slight form. Has she ever held an axe in her hands before? Probably not, why would she? Hopefully, the powerful sorceress will use some magic trick to help her do her grisly task. Otherwise it seems unlikely that she will be able to do it with just one swing of the blade. Which is not exactly a reassuring prospect, no.
Strange, how he can reflect on what will happen in a short while in this detached manner, as if it was not his head on the chopping block but somebody else's, as if this was not happening to him at all. As if it was just a nightmare and he would eventually wake up in his bed in Darn Dyffra, the last couple of months nothing but the lingering aftertaste of a bad dream. However, he knows this is real, he knows this is the end. His end. He knows it will hurt. And begin any minute now.
Suddenly an even more disturbing thought occurs to Cahir. What if they send his head to Nilfgaard? As a demonstration of power? What if his father gets to see it at court? It will be hard enough for his parents to lose another son. He can still remember how devastated his mother was when his much older brother Aillil was killed many years ago fighting the uprising in Nazair, and how ugly she was from weeping. She made him promise to her to hate the Nordlings then, and he hated the Nordlings with a vengeance for making his beautiful mother look so ugly. How old was he? Ten? He has killed plenty of Nordlings since then. Even a Nordling king. And now the Nordlings are killing him. Makes kind of sense. If only his parents are spared the horrific details. Just imagining them seeing his severed head makes Cahir nauseous. He swallows back the rising bile. Maybe it is a good thing he has not had anything to eat today ...
Yennefer of Vengerberg, his executioner, does not appear to enjoy the ceremony much either. She looks pale and nervous as she is standing by the wall opposite him with two other sorceresses. Has she ever seen an execution before? Funny, somehow Cahir does not feel any hate for the black-haired witch although she alone is responsible for the defeat at Sodden Hill. Without her fire, Nilfgaard would have won the battle, he would have won. With a little luck he might even have been able to apprehend the elusive Lion cub of Cintra. While many of the mages assembled here would be dead and eaten by the wolves or crows by now. Including Tissaia de Vries and Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. Aretuza would never have happened to him, nor would this be happening now. He ought to loath this Yennefer from the bottom of his heart. But he does not. Why does he not?
"Today we must unite again against a common enemy."
Vilgefortz, in flowing black and yellow robes. His words disrupt Cahir's train of thought, giving him goose bumps all over. Murmurs of agreement from the audience. The charismatic sorcerer gestures to the guards. It is time. The two long-robed mages start to move, leading the prisoner between them toward the wooden platform in front of the monument. Toward the beheading block. Cahir's chains rattle ominously. They force him onto his knees with a thud. With another thud the two mages make him bend over the block in an awkward position. He must look ridiculous kneeling like this. Well, that is certainly the least of his problems at the moment.
"This Nilfgaardian," Vilgeforts proceeds in a strong, confident voice, "will be put to death."
One of the guards passes the axe to the mage before he turns and faces the audience again, obviously enjoying the dramatic scene and his lead role therein.
"His head will be sent to Cintra to make our voices heard."
He brandishes the axe theatrically while he speaks, adding brief pauses between the words to emphasise every single one of them. Cahir must give it to the man, he is a talented orator. The thought of his head being sent to Cintra, on the other hand, turns his stomach. No. Do not think of it. Breathe. Just breathe. Cintra, not Nilfgaard. His parents won't see it. Everything else does not matter.
"The North, kings and mages alike," Vilgefortz's voice again, dripping with pathos, "this is what strength looks like."
Cheers from the audience. Clapping. Vilgefortz must feel extremely satisfied with himself. His perfect revenge for Sodden Hill. However, why chopping off an unarmed, fettered prisoner's head would show the North's strength, eludes Cahir. Looks like Vilgefortz can sell any bullshit to the kings with his rhetoric.
The applause dies down. The dark-haired mage raises the axe again demonstratively, then walks past Cahir to where Yennefer is standing, alone. He hands the axe over to her. Cahir cannot see the sorceress from his position, but he can feel her eyes on him. Like in the dungeons.
Not long now. He starts to wheeze. To feel faint. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears. Far too fast ...
Yennefer seems to hesitate for a moment. Gasps softly. Then he can feel her come closer, step onto the platform. He cannot hear her through the sudden ringing in his ears, but he can sense her presence, sense her shaky breathing, her fear. Just the length of an axe between them. He turns his head to the side, wants to look his unlikely executioner in the eye for one last time. Catch a glimpse of those incredible purple orbs. Tell her that it is OK.
Holding the axe with both her hands, Yennefer glances down at Cahir and their gazes meet. She clearly does not want to do this. But she has to. He inhales audibly and moves his head back into position. He is ready, as ready as he can be. He cranes his neck downward so that it would be easier for her to see where to hit. Only seconds now before the impact. His breath comes in heavy bursts. What are you waiting for, Yennefer? Do it. Just get it over with. Please.
A movement. She raises the axe. He draws in one last shuddering breath. A whoosh of air as she brings down the blade. His heart skips a beat. However the axe does not strike at his exposed neck. There is no explosion of pain, no gush of blood, no severed head falling to the ground with a wet thump. To Cahir's utter surprise, it instead shatters the chain of his manacles. He gasps in disbelieve. A collective groan runs through the assembled crowd. Then deeply ingrained survival instincts take over. Cahir springs to his feet and runs for his life. The exit is not far. He cannot believe his luck, no guards anywhere. Behind him, he hears the uproar of the audience, the dull sounds of the axe hitting wood, the pyre constructions collapsing, crashing. And the roaring cackle of flames. Yennefer. She is doing a hell of a job. Again. Only this time they are not enemies, are they?
He hears the neighing of a horse just as he rounds a corner. There she is, his executioner turned saviour, mounting a white horse. Panting heavily, Cahir comes to a halt in front of the steed. The horse whinnies, startled. Yennefer reins it in, staring down at him. The horse snorts impatiently.
"Come on, then," she says, having made up her mind. Cahir does not need to be told twice. He jumps onto the mare behind the sorceress, barely believing his good fortune. Why on earth would she help him? It is a total mystery.
"Why save me?" he asks, still out of breath from running.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm saving me."
Yennefer spurs the horse and off they gallop, the sorceress and the enemy soldier, away from the site of the failed execution and into the night.
If you liked this, read what happened before that and what happened after it on Ao3 or read the entire Sewer Pals series (if you haven't yet). Have fun!
#whumpers monthly#the witcher tv#the witcher netflix#the witcher season 2#cahir#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#eamon farren#cahir x yennefer#yennefer of vengerberg#anya chalotra#execution#failed execution#the witcher fanfiction#enemies to allies#enemies to friends#enemies to lovers#cahir whump#issue no 21#whumptober#whumpers-monthly
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Febuwhump Day 1: Touchstarved
And so the time has come for a whump event once more. This year I am committed to finishing any and every event that I may participate in, Febuwhump 2023 included!
Today is “touchstarved”.
Please note that any work I produce for the month of February regarding my OC of choice, Rose, may be featured in the respective fic I am actively editing for A03. Later on in the year, likely during the summertime, I’ll post the official masterlist for this fic! Please keep a lookout.
Yes, this is based in the Supernatural universe, although I am trying to focus more on developing my original characters through this event. Please be patient, offer feedback if desired, and enjoy!
@febuwhump
Content: touchstarved, angst, mention of character death, eventual fluff, self harm, mention of abduction as blackmail, younger female Whumpee (think nineteen, young little fluffy thing), drowning, fluffy romance (nonsexual), parental male caretaker, genderless whumper for the time being
Two weeks. Two weeks since it happened.
The scene replayed itself over and over in her head, and all of time seemed to stand still. Rose’s room was a time capsule, irrelevant and unimportant to the flow of the world outside its unmoving steel door. The bedding had gone as cold as her heart, and all the reminders of Jonah were strewn across the ground in a fit of rage. She was cold too, cold like his body before they’d wrapped him in a sheet and set him aflame once the salt was spread. She willed her heartbeat to still, willed for it to stop like his heart had done beneath her trembling fingers. The fingers that were supposed to bring life, not death. The thin fingers sewn onto the hands of a monster.
Rose lay on her side, staring at her grey walls in the boxy prison she used to call her bedroom. Save for a blink, she didn’t stir, hugging herself and clutching at the raw skin on her arms with those death fingers. Burns riddled areas which hadn’t been scratched or patched by stitches. She wished for touch, his touch. But that would never come.
She saw it coming and did nothing.
Kai’s grin was malevolent and the next thing Rose knew, she was tip-tip-tipping backwards into the water. Her heels scraped against the docks, and she screamed, unable to catch herself. The rigid structure of the chair kept her from scrambling onto the dock, and instead her solid form crashed into the chilling winter waters. It all came flooding in, and the rushing cold drowned out the sounds of her family’s dismayed cries. Jonah’s pierced her most of all, causing her to inhale nice and big and deep. The water gladly took the invitation, swarming into her nose. Rose immediately wished she hadn’t, thrashing. Her knife was still above the water, in the hands of the demon.
Like a torpedo, someone dove after her after what felt like minutes. Rose was drowning fast, with her lips adhered shut and the bay sucking her in. Her fingers were clamped tight around the iron dragging her down, rigor mortis greedily taking a preemptive effect. The evening gown she wore contributed in dragging her down to the floor of the deep. In the dark, deep blue, she could not make out who the torpedo was, though judging by the fuzzy cloud that was a shaggy head of hair, she assumed Jonah. If not for the lack of oxygen she would have been relieved. Instead, she let her head loll back, eyes fluttering. Her chest went from heavy to light, skin going numb quicker than the last time she had almost drowned. Was it supposed to be like this?
The knife sawed at her bonds, but she felt nothing. Nothing except for the angel hands lifting her to the heavens.
Those hands suddenly became firm and real and raw, and even rawer air smacked her straight in the face. Rose’s blurry vision was stabbed by the brilliance of the dock lights, back hitting the rough wood. Arms were wrapped around her, arms clad in soaked fabric. Rose struggled for air, and the moment she could open her mouth it became a fountain, sputtering out the bay water so she could breathe again. In the whiplash of it all, she could barely tell how long it had been since she went under. She suspected not long, because she would have drowned after four to six minutes without her airways being obstructed by tape and being bound to an iron chair, even less under her circumstances.
“I’ve got you,” Jonah mumbled to her, though it all sounded bubbly and wrong. He pushed slimy tendrils of hair from Rose’s face, and she mustered up a smile of relief. Though he was now as cold as her, she welcomed the touch. In return, he grinned, pulling her towards his chest. That goofy smile was a source of comfort, the pearly whites with the chipped canines a relief in comparison to the straight-toothed devil. “That was scary, wasn’t it?”
“M-mhm,” Rose mumbled, clinging on for dear life. She couldn’t get enough of the touch.
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you home now. Just get up with me and we’ll get to the car.”
But they never made it to the car.
Rose’s hand inched forward, the only movement in hours. Every one of her muscles ached with the effort as her fist curled around the lighter on her nightstand. It was Jonah’s, one of the only things she had left of him. It was a dingy, silver Zippo with a faded rattlesnake decal and a rusty hinge, but it worked just fine. He always used to argue with her during those long nights camping or the times they were left in a motel alone. His hands would run down her sides, keeping her all sweet and secure through the nightmares, and they would argue over that stupid Zippo all the while. This, this was all she had left of his touch.
Laboriously, Rose rolled up the lower half of her tanktop, fingertips rubbing against the fresh scars she’d forged since his murder. The ghost of his pressure could be felt in those scars. Full of yearning, she lit up the Zippo. Little blue flames with a crimson crest broke from the ignitor, licking up the oxygen in the room. The only warmth in the whole damn box, this lighter. She needed it. The girl sniffed, bringing it to her skin.
Sizzle, burn, scar, again. Purer than cigarettes, better than drowning. The flames moved along her hips, lower, lower, lower. All with that blank stare. All just to feel anything other than the pain.
She was ready to move to her thighs when her door creaked open. She stopped.
“Rose?”
Rose snapped the Zippo shut and set it on the nightstand, pulling her tanktop down and drawing the covers up, but the clatter was too loud for her guardian to ignore.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing,” Rose stammered, “I-I was… nothing.”
So funny, how that chopped up sentence spoke more truth than the lie she was trying to tell. I was nothing. I am nothing.
Heavy footsteps made their way to her bed, a burdening weight sinking her bedside. A weathered hand reached out, pushing her hair back from her face. It was warm, so warm, and for a moment, she felt the lake water again.
“Talk to me, kiddo.”
That was all it took for Rose to melt into her surrogate father’s arms, a hot mess of sobs and snot. Crying isn’t always pretty like it is on TV, she decided to herself, no matter who told her how beautiful her eyes sparkled when they were full of tears. At least, it wasn’t pretty on the inside. You could be a model crying to the screen, but on the inside you only felt like more of a monster.
Neither of them said any words for a long while. It was father and daughter, alone in the grey prison. Father providing security, daughter clinging to and eating up all the contact she could before it could escape her grasp. There was one thing they both knew for damn sure.
That demon was going to be no more come March.
#febuwhump2023#febuwhumpday1#touchstarved#femwhump#female whumpee#male caretaker#parental caretaker#demons#angels#hunters#winchester#supernatural#whumpblr#original character#not a mary sue#tw self harm#tw drowning#tw abduction
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Whumper torturing female (or born female) Whumpee by not giving them anything for menstrual cramps.
It's that time of the month again and I'm in school and have no painkillers so i'm venting my feelings
The pain will eventually subside, for a while, but then it comes back and it's way worse.
The pain can literally make you throw up.
I'm kind of struggling to keep everything down rn...
It's fucking hell.
#period#menstrual cramps#hell#vent#venting#pain#whump#whump prompt#on my period#ouch ouch ouch#im gonna throw up uhh#and im in SCHOOL UGH#two posts in a day wow
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Experimentations Chapter 2: Darts
Content: avian whumpee, scientist whumper, female whumper, injections/needles (trypanophobia), sedation, speciesism
Streak was starting to panic.
"Ha! Okay, no-" He kicked out, his breathing rapid and heavy. His eye was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, deep brown with a perfect ring of gold. He weighed only slightly more than a human his size. His bones were more hollow and his body built to fly rather than walk, but his enormous wings added some mass and weight.
"You need to let me go," he insisted. His wings kept him so enveloped that he couldn't even kick and fight his way out of the net. "That's not okay with me, so I need you to let me the fuck out of here, right now-"
Dr. Vaughn watched his struggle with amusement. She was pleased with her assumption that he would be a fighter. Stray feathers flew everywhere. She debated telling him off for making a fuss but she knew that he would tire himself out eventually. When she got to the research van she set up the cart next to the back and pulled open the doors. The interior of the van was neat and clinical with no equipment that looked intimidating. There were hooks and rope attached to the wall for the purpose of holding specimens down when they were being particularly difficult. Dr. Vaughn was under no assumptions that her specimen was going to behave himself. It would be a grave mistake to let him out of the net at this point. She would have to wait until she was back at the facility where there was plenty of room for him to throw a fit when she temporarily let him out of the net. She once again lifted him, this time more prepared for the unwieldy nature of the avian. She placed him in the back of the van and got to work securing him down. The floor of the van was hard and cold but the ride would be short so Dr. Vaughn was unconcerned.
Streak grunted, finally done struggling with all his might. It wasn't going to get him anywhere, not like this. He would have to wait for an opening. He relaxed slightly, now shifting to get comfortable in the bed then escape.
"Hey- Hey, actually!" He cried out, his voice tight with pain. "Please, you gotta move it- move me- ah! I don't bend this way!" His wing throbbed sharply as his weight rested on a bent part. It didn't bend there. "Mmm- ow, please can you turn me?" He pleaded, trying to shift but only managing to step on his own wing. He needed out of this net, he needed out of wherever this was, he needed to go home! "Oh- oh, I don't- ow."
Dr. Vaughn frowned slightly at his words. She didn't want the avian to damage his wings before she even got the chance to examine him fully. Damage could come later. She carefully hid the cart behind some trees again and stepped into the back of the van. She pulled the doors closed behind her and crouched down next to the avian.
"I need you to relax. Which way do you need me to turn you?" she asked. Her voice was low and full of authority.
He let out a shaky breath, as demanded. "I don't- I don't know, I don't even know which way is up!" He shut his eyes, though it didn't make a difference. Ruffled feathers stuck out every which way. He took in another breath, forcing himself to feel gravity's effect on him. "I need to rotate right," he decided quietly. He was sort of ashamed that he needed her to help him like this, when she was the one that captured him to begin with. It also sucked that he was in so much pain he was willing to compromise staying in the net for a better position.
Dr. Vaughn smiled at the sound of his breathy voice. She was pleased that while he was still heated and rude he was at least complying with her. She decided she would reward him by fulfilling his request. She reached down and shifted the avian until the main tension eased off his shoulders. "Now," she said clinically, "I need you to stay relaxed as we move because you will not get to move again until we arrive."
He nodded, but realized she didn't know that. "Okay," he agreed. "Will I shift? Will I roll over while you drive?" He assumed he was in a vehicle of some sort. "You know, I've heard humans make the best drivers," he joked lamely. "Though I suppose there's no way to test that theory, cause when avians are told to race, they take off." He was rambling, blowing off steam verbally since he couldn't struggle physically.
Dr. Vaughn smirked at the avian's comments. She was becoming increasingly pleased with her specimen. He would be wonderful, she was sure of it. After she was sure that he was properly situated she moved to secure him to the van so that he wouldn't move around. She hooked some rope through the net and tied it to the hooks on the wall on the van. She repeated this until she was sure that he would not move at all from his spot on the floor of the van. She opened the back door of the van and hopped out, closing the door behind her. She climbed into the driver's seat and turned over the engine, setting off to the facility.
He did squirm as they drove, but it didn't accomplish anything. Mostly he tried not to panic. He could survive this, sure, but- why? Why did he have to, why couldn't they just leave him alone? He'd been flying, that's all. And he'd tried to land, and now he was in a net, and he didn't know what was going to happen to him. And no one would ever even know where he went. He tried to detangle himself, but the net was too tight for him to actually get each limb where it belonged. He had to settle for arms in one spot and legs on the other side, hoping that was about right. Each wing was wrapped fully around him, and he was on his back, pinning the ends in place beneath him.
When they arrived at the research facility, Dr. Vaughn backed into the loading dock. She stopped the engine and walked around to the back of the van. As she opened the door she saw that the avian was moving slightly in the net. He stopped shifting when she opened the door, he didn't want to piss her off. She started untying the ropes that held him in place, then lifted him once again. This time she placed him onto a stretcher, still not releasing him from the net and wheeled him into the facility. As they came upon a large room Dr. Vaughn grabbed a small syringe and a bottle of medication. The room was empty spare a few avian-sized perches on the walls and the ceilings were high enough for flight to be comfortable. She stopped the stretcher in the middle of the room and pulled out the syringe, carefully measuring out the dose. The avian had thankfully shifted in such a way that his neck was accessible through the net. She skillfully grabbed the scuff of his neck and gave him the injection. He still couldn't see anything, so he wasn't sure how scared he should be. He cried out as she grabbed him, startled and afraid, and shut up real fast when he felt the needle. Dr. Vaughn pulled out a knife and carefully cut away several points in the net. After she was done she stepped away carefully.
She was not messing around here. It served to confirm that he was in big trouble here. He tried to keep breathing evenly, all the way in, all the way out, and again. It must be working, because his body relaxed, and his eyes drifted shut. Okay. Everything was okay. Then his eyes shot open. No, no, it was a drug, it was whatever she injected him with. Nothing is okay, he needed to get out of here! Still... he just couldn't find the energy to move.
The Doctor watched as the avian calmed with the help of the drug. When he was completely relaxed she stepped back towards him again. She pulled off the net and walked over to the side of the room to hang it up on a metal hook. He wriggled himself free of the net and took about a minute to adjust his feathers. His wings were huge, she learned. Much bigger than the net's confinement had made them seem. He stood up, finally untangled. His hair was long and smooth, black with one white streak toward the front. It was pulled into a bun at the back of his head, which was barely recognizable considering his current state.
"By now you have noticed that I gave you a small sedative. Don't worry, it won't put you to sleep, you just needed something to calm your nerves. It will wear off in a few minutes. That net was quite cramped I'm sure." Dr. Vaughn pulled out a small dart gun from her lab coat, out of sight from the avian and made sure that it was fully loaded.
He looked around as he smoothed his feathers. He didn't need to be perfect, he just needed to fly. Interestingly, he took notice of the long one that was missing, the one she had in her pocket. Then his wings were out, stretched wider than she thought possible, and then he was gone. Well. Not gone, just up. He'd rocketed off the ground, to the first perch, jump-soaring from one to the next until he was as high as he could go. He figured there was no way she could reach him up here. He crouched on the perch, catching his breath, and leaned against the wall to steady himself. He did not like being on drugs. "If I was a real bird, I'd shit on your head," he called down to her.
Dr. Vaughn was amazed at the beauty of the specimen she had captured. He was even more beautiful now that he wasn't in a ball of feathers. She was highly amused by his antics already. It was marvelous to watch him fly. She looked forward to seeing more of it.
"I think you would find that an unwise decision. Now since you have untangled yourself, I suggest you fly back down here so we can discuss."
"I'm very willing to discuss from here." He tucked himself into a small form, though in a much more comfortable position than the net had allowed. "I understand. You're a scientist, and you want to learn about avian... what, biology? Behavior? I'll tell you right now, I do not have a cloaca, so don't even ask. I hate that question." He stopped his rambling, adjusting his position on the perch. He wore brown leather boots that didn't provide much grip on the perch. He hadn't planned on this. His sharp eyes were glancing around, and he was very disappointed to note that the only perch wide enough to act as a nesting platform was the lowest one, practically on top of this crazy lady.
Dr. Vaughn raised an eyebrow. As amusing as it had been for the first few minutes the lip was starting to get on her nerves. Never mind that though, she would have him tied down soon enough. Any lip that he dared to give her then would be superficial.
"That was not a suggestion. You will come down here. It is your choice whether or not it will be flying or falling." She pulled up a chair and sat in it with her legs crossed.
Streak scowled at her. He didn't really want to fall. He took an extra moment to steady himself, and glided downward, kicking off the wall, pleased at the scuff it left, and settling on the platform near her. He sat cross legged, his wings folded behind him. He needed time to preen them, but he wasn't about to let this kidnapping scientist watch. Not unless he could get something out of it.
"What are you trying to discuss?" He asked. It sounded a tad accusatory, but at least he wasn't rambling.
Dr. Vaughn smiled at his compliance and pulled out a small notebook, writing some notes down about his current behavior and appearance. She didn't say anything for several moments and just went about her business, curious to see what the avian would do in response to her ignoring him. She even pulled out her phone momentarily to report to her boss that she had acquired the specimen.
He rolled his eyes and sat back, pulling his hair out of the bun, smoothing it, and re-tying it. He couldn't help smoothing his feathers. He was all ruffled and mussed, and while he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of getting to watch him, he needed to fix it. It was instinctual, like needing to fix a hundred hangnails. He plucked a broken one and a bent one, straightening that one and putting it in his hair. The broken one he shoved in his pocket, he just didn't want her to have it. Of course, once he started, he couldn't seem to stop himself. It was so ritual, and calming, in an unsafe and unfamiliar environment. He picked through each section of feathers, smoothing and straightening, removing grains of dirt from between feathers, making sure it was all perfect.
Dr. Vaughn was pleased as she noticed the avian start to preen. She noticed him tuck one into his pocket and noted it for later. She further recorded the ways in which he cleaned himself up. the information being highly important for her research. When she was done she looked up at the avian.
"It seems I am at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Okay." He was perfectly okay with that. Still, he subconsciously tucked his streak of white behind his ear. To be fair, it wasn't his real name, but it was the only one he used. He stopped preening and folded his arms.
"It's not legal to kidnap an avian, any more than it is to kidnap a human. I don't consent to any sort of medical trials or anything like that, and as soon as I'm out of here I am going to make your life hell. Why am I here? Why won't you let me go home?!"
Dr. Vaughn smiled broadly. "That's where you are wrong. I happen to have special licensing to procure and test avian subjects. While it is generally illegal in this country to take avians, it is very legal to do so with proper licensing. I don't need your consent to do anything, unfortunately enough for you. That said, I am going to give you a word of advice: if you decide to make my job more difficult I will be very displeased and you will find that it is me that will make your life a living hell." Dr. Vaughn was lying slightly. She would be very pleased if he decided to make her job more difficult, but he didn't need to know that. Besides, the results wouldn't change whether he did or not. He would be punished for disobedience quickly and efficiently and she looked forward to it highly. "Now, I believe I asked for your name."
He paled slightly, he didn't like that answer at all. "I don't care how human supremacist you are, you can't just take me away from my life like a- wildlife specimen. There are people who depend on me, and you have no right to take me and- experiment on me!" He clenched his hands. "There can't be a law that just lets you kidnap people."
Dr. Vaughn held back a smile at his words. It was best not to antagonize him right now. She would have plenty of time to do that when he was properly restrained. "It is true that this is very unfortunate for you, but that doesn't make it illegal." She gave him a stern look. "And as entertaining as discussing human politics is, you will find that I am not a patient woman. I will only ask you one more time. What is your name?"
Streak scowled. "You can call me Streak," he said at last. "What was your name?" He never was good at names. And in his defense, he'd been in a pretty shitty situation just then, so he excused it. He really didn't believe that it was just legal for her to take him and have him. It didn't make sense, there was no possible way. But there also wasn't really anything he could do about it.
Dr. Vaughn nodded. "My name is Dr. Vaughn. Your name is nice, you can keep it." She wrote down his name in her notes and added a few more comments before looking up again. "Now Streak, tell me where are you from?" She asked. She wanted to see how he would react to her comment. Would he comment or would he just answer her question?
He laughed. "Thank you, for your permission to have specific sounds attributed to me." This whole situation was absurd, and he was going to keep pointing out the insane parts. "I live nearby, and I'd very much like to go back there. If I could punch through this wall, I could be home before midnight. Or maybe before breakfast. I'm really not sure what time it is, to be honest with you. Can we open some windows?"
Dr. Vaughn raised an eyebrow. His response was slightly unexpected. She was getting irritated with his rambling. She imagined that he would be far more receptive to her questions after some pain. It would also allow her to establish some rules. "You're right," she said, "I think we have wasted enough time sitting here and talking. I believe we can be more productive in a different setting." She pulled out her dart gun and quickly shot off two darts at Streak, giving him no time to react. "I think that you will find that this sedative does, in fact, knock you out."
Next
#avian whumpee#avian#avian whump#wing whump#science whump#scientist whumper#female whumper#lady whumper#needles#injections#trypanophobia#sedation
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Getting Settled: Day 1
(tw: overly friendly dogo (Dog will never be whumped), blood, oxygen deprivation, non-con touching (non-sexual), invasive measuring, cursing, pet names, captivity, blood, female whumper, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, non-human whumper, non-binary whumpee,) If I missed anything lmk
Indigo opens their eyes to two giant eyes and a giant tongue staring at them. The creature licks their face and they back away until they can see what it is. A dog is staring right at them with her head cocked to the side.
“Oh, it’s just a dog. What in the world…” they trail off as they get up and look around. They are enclosed with three walls and one glass wall. To one corner is a pool of water and the opposite is a little fake cave to hide in.
Fake and real trees are littered on the ground. Indigo sinks to the floor and the dog comes over and noses their hand. Eventually settling on putting her head in their lap. They give up on brooding on where the heck they are and pet the dog.
“Man, do you have a name? Family missing you? A life?” They sigh and continue petting the dog. They notice a collar wrapped around her neck. All dingy and dirty. “Miko,” the dog gets up and runs around stopping before Indigo, “So your name is Miko, I’m Indigo,”
They feel silly talking to a dog, but beggars can’t be choosers right? “Well this is good! I wasn’t sure if you two were compatible! I mean, my research said you were, but there’s always outliers. Now, you need not to speak unless I ask you to specifically, so shut your mouth before I do it for you,”
Indigo furrows their brow, what the fuck? Who is this lady? And are those scales covering her?! They open their mouth, then just close it confused. They settle for pushing the dog off of them and scuttling back into the nearest corner trying to get as far away as they can.
She laughs at their fear and just comes closer and crouches down in front of them with her big orange eyes staring right through them. Not even looking at them, just assessing with a critical look, like they’re an object. They can’t handle the apprehension, “Who the hell are you, and why the fuck am I here?” she starts frowning and comes even closer to them, “Hey, HEY! S-stay away from me! Back off you-you creep!”
She continues to just stare at them, but her eyes keep getting narrower. Indigo plants their hands on the strange creature's chest and tries to push them away with all of their strength. She just barely falls over and Indigo runs to another corner and crouches with their hands outstretched like they can defend themselves. What a dumb idiot.
She gets up and brushes off her clothes picking up her clipboard. Miko starts whimpering and runs to the fake cave cowering. “Miko…?” They are so intent on watching the dog that they don’t see the creature sneak up on them, effectively cornering them.
Her eyes are narrowed into slits and she puts her hands on either side of their head, trapping them. “Now, I was trying to be civil, letting you have some control, but now I know that your species, homo sapiens, cannot be trusted for sure and not just because of a war that happened a long time ago. You cannot even understand SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS,”
They’re trying to find a way out of the corner to escape but she then grabs their chin making them look her in the eyes. Her hands are making weird gestures. Out of the corner of their eye they see that she has started circling their head. Indigo tries to move their head so see what she’s doing but her claws dig into their chin, making blood drip down her hands.
Wincing, they fail to notice their breathing is becoming labored. Indigo’s eyes fly open in shock, they can’t breathe! Their hands fly up to their neck in an futile attempt to breathe better. Tears start to gather in their eyes and their vision is glazing over from lack of oxygen. A tiny sliver of air is able to trickle into their lungs and it’s barely enough to not pass out, but not enough to do anything else.
Entirely held up by her hand on their chin, more blood cascades down her hand, staining her white coat sleeve red. Taking away her hand, Indigo crumples to the ground like an old sweatshirt you drop on your floor. She puts her hands on her hips surveying the mess of a human beneath her feet.
“Now, I didn’t want to do this, but you forced me to play my cards. Now you know that I’m not nice when mean,” she makes a fake pouty face and picks up her clipboard. Tears have leaked out of their eyes, tracing lines to their hairline. “Sweet thing, don’t cry, it was necessary, if it helps, think of it as correction. Better yet, punishment for acting out. You spoke out of turn and pushed me, you deserve this,”
I deserve this? Why would I deserve this! I was just defending myself! And a punishment! What does she think I am, a pet? A naughty child? She’s still talking but it all goes through one ear out the other for Indigo because she moved their head into her lap and their splintered focus can only coherently notice her unwanted touch.
“Lovely, I need measurements, and on flooding days, you’ll go back into the lab for further studying. Thankfully the next flooding days are only a week away so I won’t have to wait long!” Curve around their left temple, across their hairline, then curve around their right temple. Repeat.
She keeps touching them, moving them, talking about something, but they have no idea, too deprived of oxygen to care about anything other than the next breath. She pulls a measuring roll out of her pocket. Next thing they know is she is measuring everything about them.
Pulls out their arms, fingertip to armpit. Legs. Torso. Head. Neck. Nothing is left unmeasured until she is prying open their mouth and looking around, muttering about how their anatomy is all wrong and they shouldn’t exist. Eyes pried open and looked at underneath a looking glass. Who has that in their pocket!?
They can faintly hear a scratching sound. With great effort, they move their eyes trying to find the source of the sound. She’s writing everything down on her clipboard. Bright orange eyes meet theirs and they crinkle in amusement. “Sweet thing, what are you doing? Are you curious about what I’m doing?” she doesn’t wait for an answer, “Well, I’m measuring you, I have to have the correct measurements! So naturally then I’m writing them down afterwards!” She goes silent and keeps measuring them.
Their hair is brushed to the side to reveal their forehead. “Huh, you don’t have any tellings. I wonder what you prefer. I could ask you, but you decided to be difficult!” she frowns and sighs, “I guess if you behave, I’ll let you be able to talk. Are you going to behave?”
They give the best glare they can manage and let out a tiny costly huff of air. Her eyes narrow and a hand shoots out to grab their upper arm. “Are you going to behave?”
She digs her sharp claws into their arm, drawing blood. If they had any air, a cry would’ve slipped out, instead all that comes out is a weak shaky exhale. She digs them in deeper, cutting muscle and maintaining eye contact. They stay like that for a bit until they frantically try to nod their head. Wanting her claws out of their arm.
There is suddenly more oxygen available and they suck in as much air as they can greedily. They start coughing and she laughs, “Not so fast there sweet thing!” they glare at her but she ignores them and plows on, “Now, you are going to answer my questions and nothing more, got it?”
They nod slowly, head rubbing on her pants. “Now, what is your telling,” Indigo’s brows furrow, confused. What the hell is a telling? She must notice their confused look and sighs, trying to clarify, “You know, how you tell how you want to be addressed. I noticed your species doesn't have one, so I’ll ask you. How are you addressed?”
“I-I uh guess, they-them? I don’t know what you’re asking though…” they trail off as her brows furrow now, deep in thought. Her hands leave their head to search for her clipboard.
“So, non-binary then? Hmm, that’s interesting, name?”
“Uhh, real or preferred?”
“Prefered, I guess, you don’t pick your names?”
“No, you do?”
“Yes, now answer the question!” Her claws prick his forehead in warning and he winces but continues.
“Indigo,”
“Age?”
“2-” his body is wracked with coughs as his tries to sit up but she just pushes them back down into her lap, “21”
“Interesting, well, that is all for now, I will get all this information out on your plaque,”
“Plaque?”
A slap turns his head into her pant leg, muffling his whimpers of pain. “You stupid homo sapian, why can’t you follow orders like all the other inferior species. Little canis lupus familiaris over there follows orders, why can’t you just be a good little specimen,” She massages her forehead sighing. “Now if I hear from the visitors that you’re misbehaving in any way, there will be a punishment to fit the crime. You hear me?”
“yes..”
“That’ll be a yes miss from you,”
“Fuck you! I won’t call you miss!” Another slap follows this one more painful and aggravating their sluggishly bleeding chin. They still don’t answer as she wants and this time it’s a fist that follows their disobedience. “Ow! Fuck! Fine! Yes miss!”
She smiles, “Now, that wasn’t so hard. Behave now,” She pushes them off her lap, continuing to stain her white lab coat a crimson red. She smiles, but the light doesn’t reach her eyes and shuts the heavy door with a clang.
Indigo pushes themself up with shaky arms, collapsing once under their weight, arm bleeding again. They manage to awkwardly crawl into the fake cave next to Miko. Blood stains their drysuit, making the light blue almost a dark maroon. They exhale shakily, pulling their hands over their face.
They lay down staring at the ceiling feeling nothing. They don’t want to sleep but their body forces them too. Trying to make up for the blood they lost. Their eyes flutter closed and in another room, someone smiles, watching their sweet, fragile little thing fall asleep.
｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟﾟ･｡
Taglist~ @susiequaz12
#oxygen deprivation#captivity#creepy whumper#intimate whumper#non-human whumper#Human whumpee#Non-binary whumpee#Female whumper#I've had to step away for a long while to take care of myself#Now I'm back! I'm going to try to be more active#but school is a Bitch#Hope this can be enjoyed and I'm excited to be back to create and consume more things!#Hope You Can Swim#Edith#Indigo
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(Don't) Open the door
Look who finally wrote something again! Finally had some time and motivation again to finish this~
It's been on my mind for quite a while now and I'm very happy I finally managed to write it out 😌
This piece is featuring Ari one of @whumpkinpie/ @whump-latte 's whumpers that I borrowed for this~
CW: (actually not that many I think-) female whumpee, condescending nickname(s), implied threat, chin grabbing, non consenual touch (not sexual), creepy whumper, brief mention of scar, (if I forgot anything, please let me know!)
Locking herself in a room hadn’t been Olivia’s best idea.
If she thought about it, it may even be on the list of worst ideas she had so far, definitely one of the worst of the day so far. Maybe the idea wouldn’t even have been so terrible if-
Her thought got interrupted by another knock at the door, followed by a voice coming from the other side,
“C’mon Princess, don’t you think this is getting a little ridiculous now?”
Nathan still sounded mainly amused over anything else although Olivia was almost certain she could hear a faint impatience in his tone. She didn’t even bother with an answer as she continued to lean against the door. Looking around the room, desperate for…she didn’t even know what, a way out maybe? Something to defend herself with?
The thought almost made her let out a bitter laugh, there was no way that would lead to anything good.
In her defense, she really didn’t have much time to think about this. All that had been on her mind in the moment was the intense urge to get away and when the opportunity presented itself well- She really hadn’t been thinking.
Honestly, she was surprised she even made it as far as she did but…maybe that was just another calculated move by him, to give her a false sense of hope only to crush it again moments later. The thought made her feel even more hopeless and stupid.
Stupid for falling for such an easy trap. It didn’t matter how long she stayed in here, eventually she would have to open the door again. That…or Nathan would find a way to do it for her.
For a few minutes it was silent again and Olivia used the time to hesitantly move from the door, slowly and carefully moving towards one of the windows on the other side of the room. Maybe…maybe she wasn’t that high up and the window wasn’t locked? Perhaps there was a chance after all…
Her heart was racing in her chest as she crossed her arms tightly in front of herself.
“Hey Livy…Why don't you just open the door for us, hm? I know you’re scared dear but it will be much more pleasant for you if you just come out by yourself now.”
The woman that was now speaking had a softer, honeyed voice. It was almost calming but a certain eerines attached itself to it, like an underlying warning.
Despite everything inside of her screaming to do the opposite, Olivia stopped. She wanted- no she had to keep going but her feet wouldn’t move and her breath suddenly felt stuck in her throat.
“If you just open the door now, I’m sure Nate will agree to have a milder punishment for you.”
Her voice was quieter compared to Nathan’s but not any less intimidating.
Lies! She’s lying, I know she’s lying but- There has to be a way out of this room!
What if…No, no I can’t…I can’t open the door, I don’t-
Olivia was stuck. Stuck in her racing mind and stuck in this damned room! As she tried to take a deep breath, which was closer to a shaky gasp, she closed her eyes.
For a moment she thought the overwhelming dizziness would finally let her already weak legs give in but somehow she managed to stay upright.
How…how do I get out of here, I just- I just need to find a way out! That’s not through the door, but the window won’t work either and-
When she opened her eyes again, for a moment she could feel nothing but the sinking feeling of dread and defeat. There wasn’t a good solution to this mess she had gotten herself into.
She didn’t even have a choice, the only option was to face the nightmare ahead of her.
As she slowly, hesitantly turned back towards the door, Olivia could hear the woman’s voice again. Still as calm and calculated as before, sending an icy shiver down her spine.
“Last chance Livy. I’m going to count to three now. One…”
For a moment Olivia still couldn’t bring herself to actually move but at this point? What was the point of delaying it, knowing that she had lost anyway. This game of cat and mouse that she was never going to have a chance of winning in the first place.
“Two…”
Every step made her chest tighten even more, her heart feeling like it was about to explode and as she reached out her hand towards the doorknob she almost couldn’t grasp it because her fingers were shaking so badly.
“Three.”
Just as the words left the woman’s lips, the door opened.
Olivia’s eyes were pinned to the floor, refusing to look at the two people in front of her.
An amused chuckle cut through the air, ringing in her ears.
“See, I told you it would work. All she needed was a bit of…convincing. Isn’t that right-”, the sudden feeling of a hand grabbing her chin and forcefully tilting her head up made Olivia flinch as she was staring wide-eyed at Ari standing over her, “Princess?”.
Unable to stop herself, she gave a small nod, biting the inside of her lip so hard that it didn’t take long for the metallic taste of blood to fill her mouth.
Ari smiled but there was nothing friendly about it. No, it was a sadistically amused expression, one she was all too familiar with. “Hm, such a compliant little pet if she wants too…A real shame that dreadful attitude still comes through.”
Nathan gave an agreeing hum as he stepped beside her, looking down at Olivia was a cruel smirk that made her skin crawl. “Yes it really is, isn’t it…But-”, he reached out to her just as Ari tightened her grip so she couldn’t move away from him, brushing a strand of hair out of her face before letting his hand trail down her face, brushing over the scar on her cheek, “I’m sure we’ll find a way to get rid of that eventually.”
Taglist: @whumpkinpie, @whumpasaurus101, @mudpuddlenl,@painsandconfusion (if you want to be added or removed let me know!)
#this was kinda fun to write actually~#this may or may not be inspired by a certain Tiktok sound- if you know which one you get a cookie akjhjdh#whump#whump writing#lady whump#female whumpee#creepy whumper#chin grabbing#pet whump#whump blog#whump ocs#my ocs#oc olivia#oc nathan#oc ari (not mine)#also Lyri I hope it's okay I borrowed Ari for this~#this is the writing thing i didn't want to tell you about because it was supposed to be a surprise~#hope you like it aksdjfh#my writing
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Whumptober 2022: #15 :: Emotional Damage
Whumptober Masterpost
Lies | New Scars | Breathing through the Pain
Whumpee: Will Wardrew, Bree Cooper
Whumper: Constable Baden Hatchett
@whumptober-archive / @whumptober
CW: police/prison, mention of death/execution (hanging), stab wound, infection, infected wound, burns, lady/female whumpee & male whumper, restraints (chains/shackles)
The Prince of Thieves
Follows from Day 13 and precedes Day 24
The skin of his arm is hot to the touch. I knew this, expected it, and yet my stomach still turns. In the dim light, I can only just discern the violent redness streaking out from the still-gruesome stab wound. He’s wincing now, trying to calm his breaths as he permits my fingers to gently explore just how bad it is.
Bree
The boy in the cell next to mine—Fox—has been quiet. Too quiet. I’m starting to wonder if he’s dead.
I cannot stop thinking about how sorrowful his voice was when I was first dumped in this cell. How it seemed like he really meant it when he said he was sorry I got thrown in here with him. Even though we’d never met before. Even though he had no reason to care about me one way or another.
I creep toward the bars that separate our cells. “Are you still alive?”
A slow, drowsy answer. “Maybe.” A long, pained breath. “I think so.”
I press as close to the bars as I can, squinting at him through the dark. “Seems you are.”
“Shame.” Another dawn-out breath, punctuated by a wince.
“Does it hurt?”
“Like hell.”
I bite my lip. That infection is getting worse, I can tell. A lot worse.
I’m waiting to see what kills me first.
“Can you get up?” I keep my voice casual, trying to keep the sliver of worry out of my words. “Let me see.”
“You really don’t want to get close to me.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” I say, an edge of annoyance slipping its way in, “I’m at least half as filthy as you are.”
A weak snort that serves as a laugh.
“Let me see.” I don’t know if insisting with do any good, if it will prompt him to move his failing limbs, but I have to try.
“Fine.” He’s rolling his eyes, I can tell. As if I am the one who’s being unreasonable.
The skin of his arm is hot to the touch. I knew this, expected it, and yet my stomach still turns. In the dim light, I can only just discern the violent redness streaking out from the still-gruesome stab wound. He’s wincing now, trying to calm his breaths as he permits my fingers to gently explore just how bad it is.
How deadly.
“Just breathe,” I murmur, only half-aware I’ve even said it. My mind is racing. If no one does anything about this…
He doesn’t respond. He’s shivering now. Moving from his spot on the floor must’ve triggered a bout of chills. I press a hand to his forehead. It’s radiating heat, too.
“Well…” What other choice is there but to tell the truth? He won’t believe me if I say anything different. “It seems pretty bad.”
Another weak laugh, interrupted by the stutter of chattering teeth. “H-Hatchett’s going to be so pissed off when I d-die before giving up the stuff he w-wants.”
A different sort of chill runs through me. He’s probably right. He’s going to die, probably soon. Then it’ll just be me and Hatchett. Eventually, maybe, the same fate with befall me, or maybe I’ll just get the noose like all the others.
“Why’d you join?” His voice is quiet, but he doesn’t seem to be growing faint. Shivers still wrack his body, but his eyes are on me. Still attentive. “The ring?”
Keeping his voice down, I realize, in case someone is trying to listen from…on the other side of the door, perhaps, or from the shadows outside our cells, stationed there without us knowing.
“Well—” No one has ever asked me before. When I got recruited, no one cared about the why. The only important questions: Can you do it? Will you be loyal? Are you willing to risk it all?
“I grew up rich,” I said. No point beating around the bush. “I had everything I want. My father did business, and he…made lots of money. For a while.”
He won’t feel sorry for me as I recount what comes next. Why should he? Surely he’s lived a much harder life. But his weary face doesn’t change. No judgment, not so far, anyway. He just listens, his eyes on mine.
Will
I wish I could see what Bree looks like in brighter light. Yellow torchlight, deceiving and dim, reveals so little of her features. I cannot tell what colour her eyes are. I’m not even sure about her hair. Brown, I suppose, but the details of her…they are obscured by the darkness.
As she speaks, she unties the bandage from my shoulder, then reaches for her cup of water. I know what’s coming.
“Breathe.” There it is again, that word. She’s already said it once. The trickle of water onto my wound is enough to make me dizzy, but when she says it, I feel like I have no choice but to obey. I suck in as much air as I can, squeezing my eyes tightly closed.
A realization draws them open again. Through the bars, I’ve grabbed her free hand, nearly crushing her bones between my fingers. She doesn’t wince, doesn’t balk.
“Breathe,” she repeats.
The water runs out, rivulets streaming down my arm and pooling around my useless fingers before sinking into the damp dungeon floor.
“What happened here?” Her fingers trail down my arm once she’s finished tying a new bandage—fashioned from her own shirt—in place. I grit my teeth as she brushes the fresh burns left there by yesterday’s interrogation.
“You know what our little meetings are like.”
I think of her watching, pale-faced and still, when they drag me away. So far they haven’t given any beatings while she is right next to us. I’m not sure why.
“It’s going to leave a scar.”
“I mean…” I shrug. “I’ve got plenty of those already. What’s a few more?”
“How can they keep doing this?”
I don’t know what to say, don’t have an answer. What am I supposed to tell her? I’m the one thing they need to crack Jamie’s hideout. To blow the ring wide open. I won’t give them what they want, so they get more and more creative each time. That it’s cruel doesn’t matter. That it hurts doesn’t matter. I’m no one to them. Nothing.
“You didn’t finish the story.” Slowly, I pull away from the bars. From her touch. “You were rich until…”
Silence falls between us like winter’s first snow, and then it cracks like ice. “I—”
A pause.
“I was twelve, maybe, when business turned bad.” Her voice is slow. Sad. “I don’t remember what happened. My father never explained it. Just that one day we were starting to get rid of things. Clothes. Furniture. My mother was weeping all the time.”
I nod. It happened more often than she thought, probably. My brother used to work for a family who went through the same thing.
“And then he began to let the servants go. Not just let them go—turn them out on the street. It was…awful. Cruel.” Bree wraps her arms around her knees. “I remember that so many of them cried. Grown women, grown men. They had nowhere to go.”
Dreamy darkness slithers toward me. She keeps talking. “The worst was this—this boy. I remember only pieces of him, snatches of things I’d heard him say or others say. Only in passing. I don’t remember his face.” She chuckles—humourless. “Isn’t that awful? If I ran into him on the street, I wouldn’t know him. But I do remember the look on his face when—when Father told him to leave and not to come back, he—I don’t know—he looked so—lost.”
No, I think. It can’t be.
I know this story. I have heard it before.
“I told my father he couldn’t be so cruel to a child. He was perhaps fourteen or fifteen. I don’t even know. But he was young. My father didn’t listen. I know the boy heard. James. That was his name. He had a little brother somewhere, not at our house. I remember thinking of that when I watched my father fling that boy into the snow.”
Into a snowdrift, shards of ice cutting into his bare hands.
She was the girl who tried to stop the master of the house from turning him out on the street.
Just as she had never known me, only heard of the younger brother elsewhere, I had never known her, only of the little girl with reed-thin limbs and a shrill voice who had begged her father not to sentence my brother to a life of destitution.
“And I knew,” she says softly. “I knew I couldn’t be like my father. That when the opportunity to do something good with my life, something better, I would.”
So you became a thief. It’s the sneering voice of Baden Hatchett that comes to mind, but I don’t share his contempt. “So you joined the ring to help people.” It isn’t true of everyone who steals for us. Some want to keep the spoils and riches for themselves.
But that is not what we do. Not what James ever intended for his merry band of thieves
“Father died,” she says flatly. “I was to be married. I chose differently. Now I’m here.”
I want to ask, I want to know that part of the story. But I’m so tired.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I jerk awake. The memory of what I’d learned, what Bree had unwittingly confessed, strikes me like lighting.
Muddled thoughts pool together, the sluggish trickle of a drought-stricken river. Her, it was her. My shoulder hurts. The burns, they’re still stinging, they hurt. Everything hurts. Breathe.
It was her.
Her voice cuts through the mud. “I want to make a deal.”
I sit up, panic already fighting into my throat even before I fully understand what she’s saying.
No, I want to say. Don’t.
“What do you think you have that you could possibly offer me, Bree?” It’s Hatchett, his face snide as ever. He leans against the bars of her cell.
“Why don’t we have a conversation and you can find out?”
He catches the movement when I sit up straighter, shift my sore manacled feet. A smirk.
“Maybe I know more than you think I do,” Bree says. A voice like butter. Like hot oil, searing, blazing, burning. Leaving scars all down my arms. “Don’t you want to see if I’m bluffing?”
“Don’t.” The word, it spits itself out, twisted and mangled. “Don’t.”
This cannot be the girl who tried to rescue Jamie all those years ago.
James. That was his name.
Did she know this whole time?
“Don’t,” I repeat. She only glances at me, doesn’t speak, not a word. Her eyes are chips of ice, slicing into bare skin from the belly of a snowdrift.
Has she been keeping things from me, lying to me, this whole time?
A fool, I think. Hatchett is unlocking her cell. I am a damned fool.
#whumptober2022#no.15#lies#new scars#breathing through the pain#oc#originalcontent#original content#fic#lady whump#female whump#female whumpee#lps the prince of thieves#whumptober 2022#Whumptober#whump story#whump fiction#original fiction#original writing#original story#day 15
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