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kabie-whump · 10 days

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CYOA Whump Part 17

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You chose: Nothing. I'll try to form a stronger bond with him before I ask for help.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

You and Onthyes sit together below deck as the sounds of fighting dwindle down. You're dizzy and cold from blood loss, but he seems confident that you're going to survive.

Sunlight blinds you as the door opens and John beckons the two of you outside. His nose is bleeding, but he looks fine otherwise.

"Hildris?" Onthyes asks as he helps you to your feet.

"She's a tough one, laddie," John says, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. "A wee stab wound is nothin she can't handle."

"Thank the gods. I wanted to help but..."

"Your charge here is more important, accordin to the captain. Shame that Rye's gonna beat your kill record now. It'll go right to the bastard's head."

Onthyes winces. "I don't mind. It suits him better than me."

Nearby, Hildris is sitting atop a crate while a young elven woman presses her hands to the wound in her side, chanting a soft melody. Her hands glow gold, and Hildres lets out a contented sigh.

"Who is that?" you whisper.

"Tiria," Onthyes replies, leading you over to her. "She's a healer. We picked her up a few months ago. Found her stranded on an island."

You stop short, glaring at him as you pull on the chain, forcing him to stop and look at you.

"What?"

"There has been a healer on board this whole time and I have never met her? What about when I got the shit beat out of me? My ribs have been killing me and they could have just been magically healed?"

A breeze swirls around you, making Onthyes's clothes flap around where he'd torn them to make a bandage for your arm.

"She doesn't want us asking her for healing unless it's an emergency. She doesn't like to tire herself on scrapes and bruises when someone could break a bone or be impaled any second."

"Are my broken ribs not an emergency?"

Onthyes sighs. "They're probably only bruised, Ventis. Rye wasn't even wearing his kicking boots."

You glance over at where Rye is showing off his newest trophy - a severed finger. On his feet, his blood-soaked boots are capped with thick metal spikes.

"I see."

You allow Onthyes to lead you to Tiria. She eyes you with a bored expression as she cleans blood off her hands. "Let's see it."

Onthyes unwraps the makeshift bandages from your upper arm. "He got hit with an arrow," he explains. "Barbed head. I cut it out as soon as we were safe."

You do your best to sit still as Tiria examines the wound. She pokes it with her long fingers and it takes all of your self control to not flinch away from the pain.

"Not bad, Onthyes," she remarks. "Clean cuts. You'd make a good surgeon."

"Um... thanks."

Her fingers dig a little deeper into the wound and you see a look of morbid fascination cross her face. "Your blood is... bubbly," she murmurs. "Interesting."

"Air genasi thing. Can you just heal me?" you grind out through your teeth.

"Hmph. Alright."

She starts singing and the pain fades away, replaced with a tingling warmth that spreads through your whole body. You sigh, your muscles relaxing for the first time in forever.

As she works, you watch the rest of the crew bring in the spoils. Crates and crates of supplies and merchandise. The civilians and remaining guards that weren't killed in the fight are left tied up on their own ship. You can feel the excitement of the pirates around you; can hear the whispers about how this is by far the best haul they've ever had.

And it's all thanks to you.

They're never letting you go now.

The next few weeks go similarly. A few days of downtime followed by Erxik calling you in for a task that requires you to use your magic. The crew of the Fortune enjoy a new era of wealth and power thanks to their use of your abilities.

You stay chained to Onthyes, but it gets easier to manage and it turns out that the two of you coexist pretty well considering how different you are. It helps that he's extremely comfortable to sleep next to. You warm up to his friends as well, and the next time Rye tries to fuck with you he only gets a few punches in before Golkulildyth the Mighty glares at him as she stands to her full eight feet of height and he backs down.

So things are going well, all things considered.

One night, you and Onthyes are preparing to go down for bed when you hear Rye's voice. His voice is low like he's trying to whisper, but the wind just so happens to carry it right to your ear.

You pause, pulling on the chain to halt Onthyes and signaling for him to be quiet.

"Captain's got all this wealth now thanks to the little freak," he says. "But the rest of us ain't seen none of it."

"I hear ya." This one's a woman's voice, deep and raspy. Tinny. "But ya can't go pressin him about it, alright? Captain ain't keen on sharin. You know that."

"Something's gonna change, Tin. If he don't start feeling generous soon we're gonna have to take matters into our own hands."

"Yer not talkin mutiny. I won't hear that."

"Ya didn't. I never said the word. I never said nothin."

You hear footsteps, and you and Onthyes hurry below deck.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

CYOA whump taglist: (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @rainydaywhump @whumperofworlds @hauntedroseart @3-2-whump @fleur-a-whump @whumpsday @whumpisfun @whumper-whimsy @ghost-whump @fabled-whump @violets-whumperflies @whumped-by-glitter @thewhumpening-thesequel @lumpofsand @whumpycries @unicornbeck @gala1981 @a-formless-entity @ryahisbored @mentallyunwellautism @idontreallyexistyet @aethernorwood

#whump #whump community #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpblr #whump scenario #cyoa game #cyoa whump #pirate whump #nonhuman whumpee #magical whump

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befuddled-calico-whump · 7 months

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The Soiree (part one)

@whumptober No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

cw: alcohol/forced intoxication, dehumanization, adult language

Masterlist ///// next

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Alexei Wilder didn't used to hate parties. He wasn't much of an extrovert, and the majority of the events he'd attended had been in pursuit of a target, but even so, parties had a certain charm. There was something about being surrounded by people, united for the common purpose of celebration, and happily distracted enough to not pay him any mind.

There lay the root of his issue with Uriah's parties. Here, he was the distraction.

It wasn't too bad at first. Fox dressed Lex in suit pants and a black silk shirt and kept him at his side as he made the rounds, greeting guests. At dinner, he knelt on the floor beside the CEO's chair, a debasing position that Lex was actually grateful for. Here, the eyes weren't lingering on him. Here, they wouldn't touch him, at least for a little while. Uriah had even been gracious enough to let Lex keep his cybernetics for the party, though the threat of having them taken away for good if he tried anything was still being held over his head.

But that wasn't bad. If anything, that was normal. Until—

"You're a terrible host, Fox." A meticulously groomed brunette across the table was leaning past his cocktails and hoeur d'oeuvres, addressing Uriah though his eyes were heavy on Lex. Before the Tower, Lex would've stared back, pouring threats into his gaze until the other man backed down. Now, it felt safer to drop his head and hope he lost interest.

"Oh?" came Fox's response.

"You haven't let anyone play with your new toy."

(Ploy, alloy, coy.) Pretentious dickhead. Alexei had learned pretty quickly that the city's wealthy had a glitzy, roundabout way of speaking, especially to each other. It made him want to puke.

But under the thick layer of disgust, there was still the fear of this guest's—all the guests'—intentions, as well as the hope that Uriah would prove to be his usual controlling self and shut the request down. Instead—

"Of course. Where are my manners?"

(Planners, banners.) Lex's stomach dropped. He'd beg Uriah to take it back if it would change anything, but that would only show weakness—fear—to the guests.

Under the table, he saw the brunette man's hand move, tapping his knee.

"Here, boy."

Are you fucking kidding me?

He didn't say it. Somehow, he didn't say it. That would only give them something to punish, only make things that much worse.

One stern look from Uriah, and Lex was crawling under the table to a chorus of amused laughter. He prayed that at the very least, none of them knew who he was, who he used to be, but Uriah wasn't the type to hold his tongue when there was bragging to be done.

He tried to retreat from his body, placating his mind with fantasies of setting the tablecloth on fire and beating the shit out of the man who was now sitting above him, tracing his cheekbone with a finger, hunger in his gaze.

This new enemy tilted his chin up and pressed a glass to his lips. When Lex caught the sharp smell of alcohol inside, he drank without protest, grateful that he could at least be moderately numb to the humiliation.

But the man didn't stop, and drink after drink was poured down Lex's throat until the room was spinning and he was no longer sure if this was a kindness or a curse.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

tag list:

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise

#whumptober 2023 #no.1 #but now the room is spinning while im trying just to fill in all the gaps #oc #fic #alcohol tw #welp more lex suffer time #sorry for the uncreative title i am at a loss #wildefire #alexei wilder #assassin whump #some will be short #its hard for me to write short stuff cause wrapping it up neatly is harddd #multiple whumpers

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quietly-by-myself · 2 years

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The Dark Side of the Sun: Chapter 2

Masterlist

CW: intimate whumper, non-human whumper, non-human caretaker, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, reluctant caretaker, branding, inter-species tension, captivity, slavery/forced servitude, defiant whumpee, tuberculosis, abandonment, manipulation, starvation, broken jaw, experiment whump (past), use of the word "child" to describe a young adult (eighteen year old), death/murder mention, beating

---

Seeing Cassius smiling and laughing at his comments brought Hakon right back to those days in Cassius’ lab with a needle in his arm. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat as he looked at his former captor, shirtless in cheap breeches.

The brand, King Myndill’s mark, was red and hot on his side. Of course, he was an alchemist and would be able to fight off infection much more easily. Hakon was still surprised to see that the brand wasn’t covered.

Somehow, as he was watching Cassius smile from the ground, he found himself finding the sight rather pathetic. This was the man who’d tortured him? This was the man who’d kept him captive and made him accept that punishment by the Judge?

The notion filled Hakon with rage.

In fact, it made him want to punch that smirk right off of Cassius’ stupid, smug face.

“Somehow, I doubt that quiet little Elijah managed to grow up into a big bad monster all on his own.”

“Shut up. Shut up right now, you bastard!”

Cassius gave him that smirk he knew all too well. It only served to make Hakon angrier.

“What? Was it really all bad? Come on, if you want to hit me, go ahead. Hit that stupid fucking brand Myndill put on me. If it really was that bad with me, show me how angry it made you.”

From his position above, Hakon soon realized that he was giving Cassius control over the situation. He hated how easily he’d let Cassius put him right back into that position he was in all those years ago - fifty, now, wasn’t it?

He wanted to beat the shit out of Cassius. Hakon wasn’t the weak child that Cassius had tortured anymore. In fact, he was stronger than Cassius. Hakon didn’t rely on hurting others for his self-esteem. Hakon knew he was powerful - probably stronger than Cassius in fact.

It left him with a sense of pity for his captor. Part of him was angry that he was so weak as to let such a pathetic man torture him. Part of him knew it wasn’t his fault - just like King Myndill had taught him.

Because Hakon was stronger than Cassius in spirit and in magic, it was easy for him to figure out what he wanted to do.

“You’re pathetic,” Hakon spat. “Here you are, on the floor. You think you still have power over me. You see, Cassius, I’m not that person you knew all those years ago. I’ve become a Seer for His Highness, King Myndill. In my presence, you will address him with respect.”

Cassius scoffed.

“In fact, I pity you.”

Cassius’ face changed. That simple phrase had wiped the smirk off of his face with more grace and ease than any punch to the face would’ve.

“You pity me?” Cassius asked incredulously.

“You’re a sad man, Cassius.”

Hakon pulled a small knife out of his boot. Cassius looked at Hakon with a glint of fear in his eyes. Somehow, that fear was entirely unsatisfying to Hakon. He didn’t want Cassius to fear him, not anymore. Hakon knew that Cassius’ fear would not heal the hurt in his heart.

Using the knife, Hakon cut a strip of fabric from his plain, white robes. He didn’t really mind in all honesty. What he was about to do was worth more than any old robes he’d thrown on to go see Cassius.

“Stay still, Cassius. I’ll be able to see what you’re going to do before you do it.”

As Hakon reached to open the door of the cell, Cassius filled with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to dress my fucking wound? Just who do you think you are?”

“I’m not sure who I am. I never was. You certainly never helped me figure that out.” Hakon took a deep breath. “I know one thing. You’re weak and you’re injured. You need my help.”

“If I’m so weak and pathetic, what does that make you?” Cassius hissed. “I broke you so beautifully back then. A weak little orphan, suddenly an adult and alone in the real world.”

Cassius’ question gave Hakon pause. Still, he continued in silence. To his utter astonishment, Cassius let him dress his brand wound.

“I’m not sure what it makes me.” Hakon wrapped the bandages around Cassius’ torso, pulling them snug, but not too tight. Cassius flinched in pain and groaned each time a new layer was added. “But, this,” he motioned to the bandages. “This makes me stronger than you.”

To that, Cassius had no answer. Instead, he let Hakon finish dressing his wound, then allowed Hakon to help him relocate his jaw.

“I know you can fix the rest with alchemy.”

Cassius nodded.

As Hakon turned to leave, Cassius called out from behind him. “Seer suits you well, Hakon. You were always so observant.”

Hakon said nothing as he walked back up the stairs. The comment made him feel a little sick. He wasn’t sure why.

---

Cassius spent longer than he would care to admit thinking about his conversation with Hakon.

The boy was so different from the orphan he’d taken in. That scared boy who was just barely an adult and had to face the horrors of the world on his own. People like that made amazing prey for research subjects. Nobody would miss them. Nobody would ever look for them. Nobody would lash out at the alchemists for keeping someone like that.

Back then, he was Elijah with no last name.

The day they met, it was raining in sheets. Elijah had been sitting under the roof of the back entrance of a church - the entrance to the soup kitchen. He was thin and had the biggest bags under his honey eyes.

Cassius had been looking for someone to test an idea on. He’d managed to purify the bone marrow of a Tainted he’d killed with an affinity for curses. All that was left was to try injecting it in the corresponding organ area of someone else. Cassius had a theory back then that because mages stored their magic in organs, that Taint originated in the same area.

Taint spread like a blight from person-to-person. One day, after an ill deed, people would turn into depraved, evil fae with black sclera. They always reported a strange dream before Taint took over - at least, the ones that would talk to Cassius about their experiences.

Sometimes, Taint would infect an entire household. Cases were rare of a Tainted spreading their corruption, but it was typically in mage families with similar magic that it happened.

Thus, Cassius thought that if he could identify the direction of the soul of his subject and inject the purified version of the Tainted’s bone marrow, he could corrupt their soul and create “artificial” Tainted.

His theory would prove deadly for many, so someone like Elijah was the perfect target.

“You look hungry.”

Elijah had perked up immediately upon being talked to. Cassius was holding an umbrella over his own head. It made him look particularly well-off.

“Sir, if you have any change to spare, I’d like to buy a warm meal. The soup kitchen only serves food once a day.”

Cassius felt a small smile on his lips. He felt it made him look friendly to the scared child at his feet.

“Come, I’ll feed you. You look so awfully thin.”

Elijah shook his head. “S-sir I can’t. I have consumption. You’ll catch it from me if you take me in.”

“Consumption doesn’t scare me.” Cassius prepared himself to tell his little lie. “My brother had it and I grew up with him. I never caught it. I doubt you could give it to me if my own brother didn’t.”

That seemed to convince Elijah.

“Tell me your name, child?”

“I-I’m not a child. I just turned eighteen three months ago.” He ducked his head as he trailed behind Cassius when he started walking. “I’m Elijah.”

Cassius nodded. “I’m Cassius. I’m an alchemist. I can help you, though. We aren’t bad people.”

It was the honest truth. Alchemists weren’t bad people. He wasn’t a bad person, either. Merely someone in the pursuit of knowledge. Sometimes, the pursuit of knowledge wasn’t always noble. It was a fact of life.

Little did Elijah know at the time that he would never step foot near that church again. In fact, he wouldn’t get to leave the alchemist’s house once he was fed.

Cassius thought he carried no regrets. Seeing Elijah, now Hakon, a Tainted just like he’d intended all those years ago filled him with an indescribable emotion.

Was that what regret felt like?

Cassius wasn’t sure.

---

King Myndill waited with a giddy sort of pleasure for his new toy to arrive. Cassius was a fighter - it was why King Myndill had chosen to capture him. That and he was a nuisance. Better a toy than a nuisance, King Myndill presumed.

Of course, his new toy came kicking and biting the guards like a feral beast. King Myndill smiled. Perfect.

“Leave him unrestrained and exit.”

The guards bowed and listened before shutting the door to Myndill’s personal torture chambers. The walls were lined with cabinets that held all sorts of materials he needed for his pets - materials to feed them, hurt them, and heal their wounds, eventually.

How would Cassius react today?

“That little shit Hakon came to visit me last night.”

Of course, King Myndill knew already. He’d prepared time for him and Hakon to speak about how it had gone. “Hmm? What happened to make you so angry?”

A look of annoyance washed over Cassius’ face. King Myndill had to stifle his chuckle.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but the little bastard still cares about me. He came and wrapped up my side, without your permission, I’m assuming.”

King Myndill had noticed the bandages. He’d given Hakon permission to do what he pleased, so it didn’t bother him. Hakon had a beautiful empathy around him. It was a gift - a helpful one at that. Seers needed empathy to be good at their jobs.

“I’m surprised he didn’t just punch you in the face.”

Cassius laughed. “Something we can agree on.” Cassius got a wicked smile on his face. “He’s oh-so loyal to you, your royal highness. He demanded that I call you by a proper title,” Cassius scoffed.

“I was thinking about working on that with you, actually.” A smile formed on King Myndill’s face. “Mocking me is a piss-poor idea, Cassius.”

“If you want to see a piss-poor idea, just look at your kingdom.”

King Myndill wasn’t smiling anymore. That just seemed to egg Cassius on.

“Why take in a pathetic kid like that? When I had him, he could hardly wipe his ass without my permission.”

“Keep speaking, Cassius, and I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”

Cassius took that as a challenge.

“Really? Like I made Elijah regret ever being born?”

That was the end of King Myndill’s rope. He threw a hard punch at Cassius’ face, hitting him squarely in his already-injured jaw. A sharp kick to his abdomen, right on top of his brand, came next.

Cassius fell to the ground in a heap, coughing, biting back a scream of pain.

“Get up now. Face me.”

Cassius didn’t comply. King Myndill knew he couldn’t - it was exactly why he had asked.

Instead, King Myndill kneeled down and picked up Cassius’ chin, tilting his head to watch the contorted look of pain wash over his face.

“Do not insult any Tainted, much less one as talented as Hakon, in my presence. They’re like children, brothers, and sisters to me.” He squeezed Cassius’ jaw with his hand until Cassius was whimpering. “I’ll make everything extremely clear to you, understand?”

King Myndill took a deep breath. “You will be my servant from now until the day you die. If you’re respectful and good, I’ll treat you well. If you can’t keep your damn mouth shut, you’ll find yourself hurt. It’s only natural. Humans don’t understand anything other than pain.”

Cassius scoffed, but King Myndill only squeezed his injured jaw more until the only noise he made was whimpering.

“From now on, dear Cassius, you have no god other than me. You will obey my every command. It’ll take you a while to get there, I know, but you will. I promise you that I will learn every secret in your head, every horrible memory you’d rather forget, and every weakness you have.”

Cassius, for the first time, had a horrible look of fear in his eyes. King Myndill smiled. “You know that I always make good on my promises, right?”

Cassius said nothing, but his silence confirmed that he was already beginning to break down a bit. He was starting to understand.

That just made King Myndill giddy as he prepared himself for what he would do with Cassius that day.

“You’ll call me ‘Master’ before this day ends. However long that takes is your choice, Cassius, but it will happen.”

The look of doubt on Cassius’ face only served to make King Myndill more excited for what laid ahead.

---

Taglist (always open): @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

#the dark side of the sun #whump #whump writing #cw are above #nonhuman whumper #defiant whumpee #nonhuman caretaker #nonhuman whumer #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #captivity whump #intimate whumper

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whumpwillow · 2 years

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Hello I hear you like pretty men suffering? Allow me to present Evertale (yes the game with the horror ads that everyone rightfully hates, as the developers are obsessed with making characters with ridiculous boobs). You have to get through Act 1, the Act 2-6 protagonist is Norza/Oz and he’s constantly getting the shit beat out of him. He has a monster form he hates but someone else controls. He has a magic power that uses way too much energy and knocks him unconscious a lot and he uses it all the time. He lets himself get stabbed to protect people (namely Rolotia who’s implied to have a caretaker role whenever he gets himself hurt). There’s a whole thing where he fights the physical manifestation of his evil past self. Canon killed him off and I’m highkey bitter because he’d be much better at the post act 6 stuff than the current protagonist. Also bitter about there being no Evertale tag on ao3 because I want so much whump of him.

YO?????? THAT SOUNDS RAD AS HELL oh my gosh there is so much to unpack there. gets the shit beaten out of him, has a monster form he hates and theres also someone controlling it??? and self sacrifice??? aND FIGHTING THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF HIS EVIL PAST SELF?? fantastic. phenomenal

and yes i also hate it when games / animes give characters ridiculous boobs

#willow answers #answered asks #whump recs #save for later #whump #evertale

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straight-to-the-pain · 2 years

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I do know several explicit self identified kink blogs that only have text. Thats quite common now especially since the Great Tumblr Purge. Ive seen some whump posts floating around there. Ive also seen some kink posts floating around whump tumblr. Especially with posts like “wow I just want to see a cute boy get beaten up” or whatever, there can be so much overlap.

Idk what the ~solution~ for minor issues are. I dont think there is going to be a way to make sure youth who are on the internet looking for Hurt People Content will NEVER stumble across something sexual tbh. But I guess the best we can do is try to make it clear what isnt for them on our own blogs (aka label up front things that will have noncon or whatever, maybe tag “hey minors dont go thru OPs blog” if we’re concerned) but if they decide to go click on everyone who reblogs a post… thats out of our control. The internet is, for better or for worse, full of all kinds of people who will reblog whatever they please, and some of them might be horny about it.

And our staff are already trying to make this website have as few nsfw images as possible with varying success so… 🤷🏻

I think whats more important than wringing our hands about whether or not someone of some age has a sexual though is being kind and helpful to the people who are in our community. As a minor wading through all kinds of nasty shit online back in the day™️, I could have benefited a lot from a community like this. Open conversations about consent and ethics and sexuality would have done much more for me than trying to keep anything remotely sadomasochistic as far from me as possible.

-(New anon, just didnt want shit about this but came to soapbox on your blog. I think youre making great points and Im glad youre facilitating these discussions)

I think those are some great points, thank you! I want to say that I think it makes complete sense to say, state that you have to be 18 or over to interact with your blog, or asking people with nsfw blogs not to interact because you’re a minor, but you also have to remember that not everyone is going to check this or realise this.

While people should be able to message others and ask them to not reblog from them or comment on their posts, I also think that blocking is honestly fine and good and people shouldn’t be afraid to block simply for personal comfort. It doesn’t have to be a punishment. It’s just a way of curating your own experience.

I definitely think that it’s futile and harmful even to pretend that teens and young people don’t know anything about kink or sex. I am well aware that minors are going to have personal interests and fantasies and may well be trying things with each other, and honestly I just hope that they’re having open and honest discussions about this with their friends and with trusted adults in their lives.

I’m not responsible for online minors who follow me and I don’t want to know about your sex lives and interests, but at the same time if you don’t have someone you trust who will talk to you about this at home or at school or at a youth group, I would rather people came to me so I could give them age appropriate resources and guide them towards a more appropriate and safe source of information.

I would absolutely rather that young people have informed safe sex rather than being told that they should never think about it until they turn 18 and doing it secretly and getting hurt or hurting someone else in their ignorance. And I am well aware that teens are going to read sexual content, and probably read things that aren’t meant for them too, and I think there’s a difference between exploring and figuring things out in your own mind and actively seeking out adults to interact with them about that content. And it’s on the adults here to draw those boundaries and at the end of the day, block minors who are interacting with them inappropriately.

#asks answered #whump community #whump meta #I think it is important that young people see those sorts of conversations about consent and safety and ethics #because teens are always gonna be doing stuff and I would really rather they at least had the knowledge to do it safely

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go-whump-in-the-night · 1 day

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Here's an excerpt that I wrote for an OC of mine. Some context missing, but plenty of nice emotional whump from a very angry young man. This is the culmination of a lot of messed up stuff happening to Warren, including nearly being permentantly enthralled to a vampire who Warren had thought loved him. As well of a laundry list of other little indignities. My boy has a lot of reasons to be angry.

TW: self-injury, implied past noncon, LOTS of swearing if you're bothered by that sort of thing

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck!!”

Warren's fist slammed into the wall, each verbal outburst met with the slam of flesh to stone. He threw his whole weight into each punch, leaving streaks of red on the gray-painted brick of his basement safe house wall.

And yet through all of it, Warren barely felt the pain.

Numb, numb, he was so numb. Every day he felt less and less.

Except for rage. That he still felt, crystalline clear and sharp as a knife.

He was always so fucking angry. He was sick with it. He felt like a rabid dog on a short, fraying leash. Every night was an exhausting ordeal, constantly biting his tongue, holding back, holding it in.

Don't let things escalate. Why was that so difficult? Immediately, immediately, they - Crow, one of their only friends - had done the opposite. Why was it that Warren spent all of his time holding back his rage, his absolutely blood-boiling rage, forced to stay calm, and nobody else was expected to? Why did Crow get away with it?

“They don't respect you,” Warren snarled aloud, pressing his forehead to the brick as he fought to gain control over his breathing.

Sure, Crow thought of Warren as a friend. But at the end of the day, what mattered was what Crow wanted.

They wanted to help Trevor. They wanted to give him a second chance. They wanted to be nice.

“Good!” Warren nearly screamed it, grabbing a nearby plate of takeout and flinging it across the room, “Who gives a fuck about him?! He can fucking die for all I care!!”

He wheeled around, searching the room with a frantic, manic energy to his gaze, looking around for something else within throwing distance. When he didn't see anything, he grabbed his chair and flung it to the side. The rage was coiling, coiling, like a viper striking over and over again.

Trevor's face swam in his view. His disgusting smile. His fake, pathetic apologies. The way he'd tasted when they kissed-

Warren couldn't believe he'd ever felt anything but loathing for that piece of shit. Trevor had manipulated him, lied to him, forced his blood into Warren's body and nearly destroyed his free will forever.

“You fucking…you s-sick fuck…”

Words were failing him now; none of them felt strong enough to describe the hideous crawling rage bubbling over now. Warren felt insane.

He should have killed Trevor when they had the chance.

Why didn't anyone fucking get it?! Why couldn't they see that helping this bastard…see how it looked? Why couldn't his friends understand how Warren must feel, that they're so friendly with Trevor - that hearing Trevor's name made Warren feel like he was being stabbed. Over and over and over.

“I don't care…I don't care…'' Warren panted, dropping to his knees, blood drizzling from his knuckles as he ran his hand through his hair fitfully.

But he did care. He cared so much he thought he would die.

Was something wrong? his friends had asked him. Is something wrong, Warren? Are you okay? What's wrong?

“Of-fucking-course something is fucking wrong!” Warren's voice was getting hoarse, “After what he did to me, you want to help him?! You want me to forgive him?! And then you say you give a fuck about me!! Give me a fucking break!!”

A burst of harsh, ragged laughter escaped Warren.

It was hilarious.

Don't get angry. Think rationally. Be calm. Don't hold grudges, think about the future, think logically. Don't be angry with Trevor. Sure, he manipulated you, took you out on dates, complimented you, kissed you - then, when you showed the slightest signs of resistance, of doubt...forced his blood into your body, shoved it down your throat and tried to break your mind forever. To steal your free will, to make you his. Don't think about any of that.

He heard his father's voice echo in his mind. Calm down, grow up. Don't use that tone of voice with me, young man.

Straighten up, Saint-Claire. You think the other cadets carry on the way you do? You call yourself a soldier - a man? Shut up and follow orders.

He was going to fucking kill somebody if someone told him how he should feel one…more…fucking…time.

He sat down. He was gasping for breath, his eyes wide, saliva dripping down his chin.

He couldn't take this anymore.

But he had to.

#whump #whump drabble #my oc #warren saint-claire #oc whump #punching the wall #bloody knuckles #screaming #anger #past trauma #manipulation #verbal abuse #blood #tw implied noncon #tw blood #tw self harm #long post

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painful-pooch · 2 years

Text

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's a... Fuck, It's Lukas

I definitely had a lot of fun writing this and I plan to make this a full feldged story!

Continued right over HERE

Lukas Masterlist (Coming soon)

Tagging the squad: @ocean-blue-whump, @whumper-in-training, @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump, and @winedark-whump

CW: BBU, Pet Whump, Death Threats, Gun Violence, Brief Mentions of Past Trauma

SHIT! Okay how am I going to get out of this? Do I say, ‘Heyyyyy, sorry about stealing human beings from you’? No… How about just getting the fuck out of here? Yeah, that works.

Lukas was sprinting down the hall as fast as his legs could carry him, the sound of different people barking out orders and shouting for him to stop echoing. If that wasn’t enough, he could hear the telltale sound of someone behind him firing a gun, the bullet whizzing right by his ear.

“Not the face!” He yelled at his chasers, rounding the corner and skidding to a halt when he saw two guard dogs waiting for him and an extra security detail aiming a pistol at him. He held his breath and stared at them like a deer in headlights, wondering if they could sense that he was nervous.

Well, this is not good. Nope, not good at all. Note to self: Don’t piss off the Scottish crime boss’ sister. That’s probably for the best. I think I still look cute enough to be convincing.

There was only one thing Lukas could do at that moment.

He clapped and flashed a large, smarmy grin, rubbing his two hands together quickly as if he was about to give one hell of an excuse. “I think I got lost here so would ya mind pointing to the exit? It’s a long story.”

***TWO HOURS EARLIER***

Lukas could see the private airstrip by the same estate he managed to discover held some pets, from Domestics to Guard Dogs, and also hosted some illegal pet-fighting matches. The thing was… it wasn’t owned by just anyone. It was owned by some rich tycoon woman or something like that. All he knew was that he knew better than to trust the owner.

The pilot of the plane grinned and messed with his headset, placing the mic by his lips, but making sure he was muted before speaking.

“And now, folks, if we look to our right, we will be seeing the mansion of a few deranged people living inside of there. Don’t worry though, I am sure they are very hospitable. I mean, sure I am going in there to liberate as many as I can, but it’s an adventure, right??” He asked, glancing over to the seat where his copilot, a pillow, is resting, a headset on it as well.

Silence.

Lukas rolled his eyes and huffed, “You are not a talker, Timmy, and I am very upset by this. Anyways! It’s a wonderful day today and I am not going to let your boring ass ruin it for me. Plus, I have to look super cute in my flight suit and sunglasses. No one can hurt the cute guy.” He adjusted his aviators and after he rounded the house, his fingers on the switch for the emergency frequency, 125.5MHz, over the radio. “Lights…. Camera…. Action!”

He flipped the switch and unmuted his mic, digging in deep for what he was about to do. In his most panicked yet militaristic voice, he announced, “Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan, all stations, all stations, all stations, this is Tomcat 444, position unknown, airspeed 112 Knots, altitude 1012 feet, I’m lost and I am running out of fuel, about to emergency land, Tomcat 444 Over.”

After muting, he put his thumb up at Timmy, the pillow, and once he set up for the landing, he pushed down on the control wheel, decreasing his altitude while also decreasing his speed by pulling back on the throttle. Once he got the messages he needed, the pilot smirked.

“And this year's Oscar goes to-” he tapped the wheel with his fingers to simulate a drum roll- “Lukas Ashraf Kazemi! Oh look how devilishly handsome he is! That smirk. He makes the women blush, he makes the men feel warm inside, and he makes all the other sexy people of the world swoon!” He exclaimed with a laugh, reaching over to grab his body armor energy drink. He pretended to cry and wipe a fake tear, still descending at a normal rate. “I couldn’t have done this without my biggest supporters: all of you. You all just make me so fucking happy! Oops, kids are watching this. Sorry children.”

It’s okay… This is fine! This is just landing. Not like I am going to crash and burn in a fiery inferno. Nope. Not meeeee! I am a damn amazing pilot. Please for the love of everything good and nice in the world, do not let me scratch this paint job with random ass shit on the runway.

He snickered from his antics and he ensured that he is going to land properly and safely, also keeping in mind that he had enough distance to take off again should things get wild and hectic. Things could sometimes not go as planned even though he is decently careful and strategic.

He hated landing the plane the most if he was going to be honest with himself. It wasn’t the best thing in the world and it is one of the easiest ways to actually crash, especially since he was flying a prop plane. Not just any prop plane, but a Cessna 208 Grand Caravan. It’s a gargantuan of a plane while also being the best one for transporting heavy cargo. Yes, even in the form of rescued pets.

He wasn’t the kind to get nervous, but landing is again one of those little things that always bothers him the most. That probably stems from his training all those years ago at the Academy and while in combat training. He never points the nose too low, but rather he makes it an art to land such a beast. As if it is the simple flourish of the paint brush for an artist, he lands as smooth as can be, the plane not even jolting from the impact.

He throws both hands in the air, balled up into fists while he cheers, acting like his favorite sports team has just won the championship. “Woooooo! See, Timmy? I am one cool cat,” he compliments himself, throwing finger guns at the pillow.

Silence, though Lukas was aware that if the pillow could so much as speak or judge him, it would absolutely be groaning at him. And that is what makes all of it so entertaining to him.

He went through his afterflight procedures, shutting down the plane slowly and taking off his headset. There was no way that he wasn’t noticed landing, so he was expecting someone to come pick him up and escort him inside, but he had enough time to fix himself up, putting on his Air Force garrison cap, the silver accents along the edges shining wonderfully in the light that was coming from the window.

“Man, I look like one hot fuck. I mean how can anyone say no to this face? Alright… you know the plan, Lukas. Just go in, be cute, act cute, embrace the cute, and salvage as many lives as you can. You can do this. I know you can. They are counting on you. Timmy, keep the plane warm. If I come back and you made a mess in here, I will throw you out.”

Taking in another deep breath, the ex-military officer made sure his green flight suit was clean and spiffy before opening up the door to his aircraft and stepping into the cool breeze, the sun thankfully blocked out by his sunglasses. He truly did look like an iconic pilot minus the leather jacket that he refused to wear.

He was prepared to see the mission through and made it seem like he was in a panic, so when he finally caught sight of three people approaching him, he walked around the airborne vehicle and put his hands up. “Oh thank goodness you all showed up! I didn’t know what happened, but one thing led to another and now I am here, my plane is low on fuel, and I think my navigation system is not configured right,” he explained in a rushed voice, playing up the extreme worry that some newbie pilots would have if they messed up.

To his extreme displeasure, he saw that there were two guns aimed right at him and then he noticed the individual in between both armed guards: it was a collared woman with her teeth bared, her canines more or less switched out with what he can presume to be titanium or some other metal. He could also notice that the heavy duty collar around her neck was just a notch too tight, the collar digging into her flesh a little too much. She definitely was a Guard Dog, and that made his blood boil.

Something tells me you are going to be one tough cookie… Why do I have the distinct feeling that my life is in perilous danger? Oh right… Guns. Not the face!

He covered his face and braced himself while he alleged, “My name is Felix Light, 1st Lieutenant of the United States Air Force, and my plane needs refueling because of miscalculated navigation.” He peeked over, the collared woman growling at him while the two armed guards glanced at one another. “I can show you my ID,” he offers, pointing at his zipper pocket at his chest.

Felix Light???? F. Light?! Oh if you fall for this, I am going to fucking die of laughter here. I am such a comedian! I told you I could be an actor, Mom and Dad! But noooooo, go fly a plane, Lukas. You’ll have a good time, they said. Now I am getting guns aimed at me. Yippee!

“If you try anything, I won’t hesitate to kill you,” warned the first guard, walking over and grabbing Lukas by the front of the flight suit. Her hair was as black as her soul most likely, her green eyes sharp and poised.

I am sure you won’t, but I think I have a lot more potential being alive than dead. I mean maybe I’d be cute still? I’ll have to ask someone. Also you need a day off, honey. You look mad.

“Yes, Ma’am, of course. I wouldn’t lie to you about this,” Lukas replied, watching the guard harshly unzip his pocket and pulling out an identification card, holding it up next to Lukas’ face. “I am pretty sure nothing from the picture has changed.”

She scoffed and glared at Lukas. “I don’t like your tone. You think you’re better than me?”

Yes. I am hotter, smarter, and definitely nicer than you are. I am calling you Grumpy.

“Of course not, Ma’am. It’s a pilot thing.”

“What’s a pilot thing?” The other guard asked, this one being a rather large and gruff male, his neck scruff light brown.

I am naming you Scruffy. See how you like it.

“Oh, me being a bit more arrogant.”

Grumpy clenched her jaw and shoved the card back at Lukas. “Take your shit back and come with us. Someone will refuel your plane while you speak to the Lady of the house.”

Lukas quickly placed the card back where it belonged, zipping the pocket and patting over his heart happily. His plan was working and he would soon get to infiltrate the mansion and enact his plan. He followed the two guards while the collared woman was behind him. His hands were interlaced and behind his head like he was taking a break from sprinting a marathon. He could tell Grumpy and Scruffy were engrossed in whatever topic they were talking about, so he wanted to try something.

Time to see how much charm this Tomcat has.

He turned his head back, lowering his hands and sunglasses, grinning at her with that good old fashioned Lukas touch. “And who might you be?”

She growled back at him and looked like she would kill him.

He pouted and used the puppy dog eyes trick. “Oh come on, don’t be mean to me,” he whines, adding on, “I’m a soft boy. You can tell who’s dangerous here, don’t you? It’s not you or me.”

She looked very confused at his words, her eyebrows furrowing and head tilting. “I don’t believe you.”

Really? You don’t believe me??? What the hell am I going to do huh? You can probably bench press me!

Lukas knew better than to sigh or give off any signs of aggression, so he shook his head softly. “I don’t even have a weapon on me, and something tells me they can hurt you more than I ever possibly could.”

That got her thinking a bit more, looking over at the two guards in front of Lukas, her carmel brown eyes showing the gears in her head turning. “Who are you?”

“I got a better question for you: Do you trust me?”

Before she could open her mouth and give him an answer, Scruffy barked in a low voice, “Stop talking to the fucking mutt! She’s not supposed to be talking. She only takes orders right, Saber?” He asked.

The woman, now known as Saber, bowed her head and answered back, “Yes. I only follow orders.” Her dejected demeanor was blended in with her tough outer shell, but Lukas knew better.

Not for long, Saber, I promise. I just have to find others too. I will get you out. That’s a promise I won’t break. Like the promise I made to myself not to eat Doritos while flying. Not again…

Grumpy smirked and chuckled. “Good. Know your place. Behave now or when we get inside, I can let her know that you need some time alone in the box.”

Lukas couldn’t bear to look behind him, but he knew fear when he felt it radiating so much behind him. He couldn’t give away anything yet, so he kept his mouth shut. Or well tried. “Let’s just focus on getting my pretty face out of this place, yeah? Yeah, Lieutenant Light here would love that so much actually.”

The group made it to the grand entrance of the mansion, the doors being opened by… two collared individuals, his blood boiling even more. He fully removed his sunglasses and entered the home. Once his feet crossed the threshold, he also removed his garrison cap and placed it into his leg pocket, taking his chance to get a good read on both the home and the host.

To say that the house was owned by someone rich was an understatement, being greeted by a diamond chandelier that glistened beautifully with the sunlight coming through a well placed window, dazzling colors of the rainbow all over. The staircase led up to a wall where the stairs broke off into two different directions, the mahogany wood handles being polished by yet again… another collared individual.

HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU HAVE?! Damn! If I had this much money I would go ahead and actually eat real food every other day and donate it to safehouses that need it. Maybe buy myself a nice tuxedo… I think I would be hot in a tuxedo.

He stifled a laugh and licked his lips, inhaling deeply, the scent of wax, roses, and… fire, being so apparent. He paid one quick glance to Saber, who was standing as straight as she could, almost like she was waiting for someone to come.

And then at the top of the grand staircase was a woman in her late forties, early fifties, her hair a combination of red and grey, her eyes somehow having a purple hue to them.

Already, Lukas knew she was not someone he was going to like very much.

“Welcome to my humble home, Lieutenant Light. My name is Fia Abernathy and I hope you can make yourself at home here. I’d like to have a few words with you, if you don’t mind,” she spoke in a voice that was both regal and dignified. Her eyes crinkled barely from the small smile she offered.

“Of course, Miss Abernathy.”

Oh fuck me. I don’t think this is going to end as well as I want it to. Roll the fucking credits.

#bbu #pet whump #tw death threats #gun violence #mentions of trauma #box boy universe #Lukas Kazemi #izzy writes

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ocean-blue-whump · 2 years

Text

4 - Lorenzo

(Happy!AU - The Kidnapping Arc -> Shattered Diamonds)

The very angsty arc of the Happy!AU where Dany never gets forced to marry Ridley Lordin and follows in her father’s footsteps as a crime lord, Lorenzo Whitlock never becomes Sunny, and their one-night stand at the Bahamas leads to a happy, loving marriage. This is a collaboration with @justplainwhump , Dany is her character.

Dany Masterlist || Sunny Masterlist

[Part 1] [Previous] [Next] [Masterlist (coming soon)]

Tagging both the Dany crew and the Sunny crew! @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch @distinctlywhumpthing @whumping-on-the-ridge @queenofthenoobs @hackles-up @whumping-newbie - let us know if you want to be added or removed from this tag list.

CW: NSFW. 18+. GUN IN MOUTH, creepy/intimate whumper, derogatory language, bad gun safety, loved one forced to watch, self-loathing, humiliation, degradation

***

Lorenzo shifts around, his shoulders straining from having his hands tied behind his back for so long. The zip tie is cutting off his circulation, his fingers are stiff. He can see Dany standing in her office, barely able to keep herself upright. He’s glad she can’t see that the man standing behind him has a finger hooked in his collar. “I’m sorry for the sudden change in anniversary plans,” he says. “It wasn’t intentional.” He has to keep his panic down, has to show Dany’s that he’s okay. He flashes a smile at the camera, his teeth white. “How’s work?”

Dany is taking a controlled breath before she shakes her head. "Shit day," she whispers. "I'll get you out of this, okay? We'll be good."

The tablet is placed on a desk and someone else appears next to Dany, gently takes a gun out of her hand. Dany doesn't fight it.

"You know what we want, Ms. Hammond," the other man says. "You've made a mistake, thinking you could decline our offer."

“I know.” Lorenzo takes a shaky breath. “We’ll be good.”

“No, you won’t be.” The man standing behind Lorenzo gives a harsh yank on the collar, making Lorenzo sputter for air. “You definitely won’t be.”

“I left food on the grill,” Lorenzo says. “And I think I left a burner on too. I’m so sorry, Dany.” They both know he’s not talking about the food.

Dany flinches and her hand twitches for the camera, as if she could touch him. "You won't hurt him", she presses through gritted teeth. "You want something of me, you won't get it if you hurt him."

"I think there's levels", the man with Dany says mildly. "We will hurt him. And you'll still give us what you want. So we can make him hurt less." He looks at the camera with a short nod.

They're right. She'll cave, give them exactly what they want, especially once he's bled a little. "Don't give them shit, Dany," he says, looking straight at the camera, straight at Dany. "Don't give these bastards what they want. I'll be fine, okay, but whatever they want you to do, don't do it, don't fucking--"

He's cut off by another man walking forward and grabbing his face, squeezing his cheeks together. "I wouldn't listen to him. He's in way over his head."

Lorenzo stares up at him, fury blazing in his eyes. It's the only way to hide how scared he is. The collar that once felt so safe is closing in on him, too tight, too much to handle. He needs Dany. Desperately.

"Enzo." Dany looks into the camera as if nobody could see her but him, her gaze speaking of nothing but love and worry. "Enzo, this is my business, I'll handle this, alright? You... you just do as they say."

"And we say that you should be quiet and pretty and stupid just like you're meant to be," the man holding his jaw croons.

Lorenzo wrenches his head away. "Fuck you," he snaps. "Don't do it, Dany. Whatever they want, it's bad, please don't do it."

A harsh slap connects with his face, his neck twists to the side. "I thought I told you to shut it and let the adults talk. Now...now, we're going to make you pay."

"No," Dany hisses and spins to the man next to her, grabbing his lapel. "Kauffmann, tell them to leave him be, we're not fucking done talking here. I'm sure we'll find a deal."

Kauffmann's hand wraps around her wrist and he pulls her in. "You are not in charge, sweetheart. We are." He nods at the camera. "Show her." "Don't touch her!" Lorenzo yells.

The man behind him chuckles and tangles his hand in Lorenzo's soft hair. "Come on, Fitz. Let's put his pretty mouth to good use, huh? Give his wife an extended version of the show we got earlier." Now that he's saying more than a few words, Lorenzo recognizes his voice. He's the man in the ski mask, the one who kidnapped him.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea." The man in front of him, Fitz, grins.

Lorenzo jerks in his restraints, eyes still latched on Dany. "Don't tell them...anything. No matter what. I love you, Dany. I love you so much."

"You think I should give him a chance, Adam?"

"I think you should." Adam tightens his grip on Lorenzo. "I think he can be a good boy for us."

"Not your good boy," Lorenzo grunts. He's only hers, only Dany's good boy.

"We'll see about that." Fitz tilts his head to the camera, smirking at Dany, before turning back to Lorenzo. There's a gun in his face, quicker than he can blink. "Suck on it. Come on, diamond boy, put on a show for us."

"N-no, no, I can't--"

"Or I'll shoot you. Not somewhere that would kill you right away, but somewhere so your wife can watch you bleed out slowly."

The words send a chill down his spine. "I'm sorry," Lorenzo whispers to Dany again. He's sorry he's weak, that he couldn't fight back, that he let himself get captured. He's sorry that he's going to do whatever they say because he doesn't want to die, not anymore.

Lorenzo Hammond bends his head and takes the gun between his lips for the second time today.

The metal is cold and heavy on his tongue, cloying his senses and making him gag on the foul taste of gunpowder residue. He swallows his pride and the saliva gathering in his mouth and bobs his head up and down the length of the barrel, looking up at Fitz with tears in his eyes.

Fitz groans. "Fuck. That's hot."

In the background, he can hear Dany make a soft noise of distress and his brain short-circuits. "Oh, no," he mumbles around the gun, but it comes out incoherently. No no no no no. He can't do this, he can't have this thing in his mouth ready to kill him and his lips are stretched obscenely around the steel and it tastes awful and he's crying and gagging slightly and he can't do this, especially not with Adam's hand on his head.

He can't do this.

Lorenzo whimpers and tries to pull away from the gun, but Adam keeps him in place. "You're doing a horrible job, diamond boy," he hisses, loud enough for Dany to hear. "Trying to pull away before I'm done."

No one gets to call him that but Dany, but it's happening anyway and Lorenzo is shaking as the first tear slides down his cheek. He doesn't want to be shot, doesn't want to die, he can't just die like this.

He goes back to working his head along the barrel, hollowing out his cheeks so he can fit more of the gun in his mouth, gagging slightly.

"No," Adam says. Lorenzo stops, confusion wracking his brain. He's doing what Adam asked, he's...sucking the gun, he's being good even though it makes him sick. "Fitz, I think it's time we showed this stupid slut what it means to get his pretty face fucked. "I'll keep him in a good position for you." Adam pulls Lorenzo's head back slightly and forces him fully upright.

Lorenzo looks into the camera, right at Dany. She looks like she's coming undone and desperately trying to keep herself together, watching Lorenzo with the gun in his mouth, debasing himself for these men, his kidnappers.

Fitz thrusts the gun into Lorenzo's mouth. The rough edges scrape the delicate skin, he's forced to keep his jaw wide so it doesn't bust his teeth. The gun slams into his gag reflex and Lorenzo chokes, coughing and sputtering and crying now. He's not getting enough air, he won't survive this, he can't.

Fitz doesn't stop, he keeps pushing the gun in and out at a relentless pace, despite Lorenzo's gagging, and Adam is holding his head still, talking to him the whole time. "Pretty boy. You should go to someone who would make good use of that mouth. I love your noises, baby. You're such a pretty crier. That's it. Look at your wife. Look at your wife while you let yourself get face fucked by a gun. Dumb little whore. I'm surprised this hasn't happened to you yet."

Drool is falling from Lorenzo's stretched lips, coating his chin and chest, making the apron stick to his skin. This was supposed to be his safe outfit, they're ruining it, they're ruining him. He can't catch his breath with the gun cutting off his air supply and the sobs wracking his body.

"Think the gun's had its fill?" Adam asks.

"You know, I think so." Fitz pulls back the slide and Lorenzo's eyes go wide.

He can faintly hear Dany yell, "No!" in the background but he's not focused on that. They're going to kill him they're going to shoot him. He's going to die here all alone. He's going to die.

The gun is jamming against the back of his throat with increased force, he's too scared to fight back. He just has to sit there and take it as Fitz's finger inches closer and closer to the trigger--

Fitz pulls the gun away and Adam lets go of his hair. Lorenzo doubles over, gasping for air. There's a strand of saliva connecting the gun to Lorenzo's lips, and saliva all over the gun and Lorenzo himself. Fitz frowns and looks down at the dirty weapon. "Fucking disgusting." He wipes it on Lorenzo's apron and steps away.

Lorenzo whimpers, still softly crying, still sputtering for air, he needs more air, he can still taste the gun.

"Apologize to Mr. Kauffmann for interrupting," Adam snaps. "Say it, slut. And make it real good, otherwise I'm gonna fuck your mouth with the gun, and I won't be as nice as Fitz. Look at the camera, too. Look your wife in the eyes and apologize for being such a desperate whore that you needed something in your mouth."

Lorenzo can't but he has to, he can't have the gun in his mouth again. He raises his tear-streaked, drool-stained face to the camera, his lips sore and red and swollen. His voice is raspy, it hurts to talk. "I'm s-sorry, Mr. Kauffmann," he chokes out. Adam grabs onto his collar again as a warning. "I'm sorry for being such a-a desperate w-wh-whore that I needed some, something in my m-mouth. It w-won't happen again. Please d-don't let them hurt me."

A deep wave of shame washes over him, watching the expression in Dany's eyes shift as he speaks. These next words are directed at her, but subtle enough that his kidnappers don't notice the change in tone. "P-please. I'm s-sorry."

I love you, Dany. So much. And I hope you'll still love me.

Fitz picks up the camera and brings it forward, getting several close-ups of Lorenzo’s swollen mouth, of the tears in his eyes before making him come face to face with Dany one last time.

She looks disgusted, horrified. Lorenzo is half glad when they end the call and leave him alone in the darkness.

He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t love him after that. He just wishes he was strong enough to save himself.

#nsfw.#whump #kidnapping #danielle hammond #lorenzo hammond #gun cw #danzo #danzonapping

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Text

This is the Beat of My Heart

happy very early birthday to @jaskierswolf! have some soulmates.

new soulmate mechanic: you can hear your beloved’s heartbeat whenever you feel frightened

art by the always-talented @mawbwehownets

tw: mentions of the Trials, canon typical violence but it’s just the cave scene from Posada/Four Marks, minor emotional Geralt whump (self loathing witcher feelings), hurt/comfort with a very fluffy ending

---

Geralt’s fingers curl painfully into the tops of his legs. He’s trying to hold himself down against the rough-hewn seat of the tavern bench with all his mighty strength; there’s an irritating sound filling the small room that has activated his fight or flight response, and he can’t do either without drawing suspicion from the already antsy villagers. The haunting rhythm echoes through him, a soft but insistent thud thud thud that floods his senses and soothes his aching head. The sound is more familiar to the witcher than his own gruff voice. More familiar than his brothers’ voices, or Vesemir’s. This staccato beat has marked out every terrifying moment in the witcher’s long life.

The sound that pounds against Geralt’s ears is his soulmate’s heartbeat.

The poor, ignorant fool he’s meant to match in every way is wandering around this shit-hole tavern in Posada, totally unaware of the sad, unsavory fate that Destiny has bestowed upon them. Geralt never thought this day would come, really. Being bound to a witcher was bad enough but being in the same room with one, feeling the subtle pull of forces far beyond your control meddling with your life… drawing you towards danger and death...

It will be better for both of us if I leave as soon as possible, Geralt thinks to himself. He takes a quick inventory of his purse and swords and finds them all accounted for. At least I can spare them the tragic end they’d no doubt meet at a witcher’s side. They would likely hate me if I ever sought them out.

They must be terrified of him, whichever one of these people Destiny has saddled with the other half of Geralt’s soul. They’ve heard his heartbeat, too, in their moments of fear. As well as Geralt knows his soulmate’s giddy, fluttering pulse pattern, they have lived with his slow mutant heartbeat in return. Were they even more frightened when they heard how slow it was? Did the connection serve its purpose, calming them down and reassuring them of his presence, or had it made things worse, elevated their level of terror? How cruel it was for Destiny to chain this person to a living firebrand, to create them to be the perfect other half for someone who’s no more than a monster.

That heartbeat, vibrant and steadfast, is what had kept Geralt alive and fighting for survival during the worst of his Trials. When the poisons and tinctures and potions had crawled through his veins, turning them from black to red to black again and twisting his body into something other, that glorious beating had been there for him. The sound of his soulmate’s fragile mortal heart had measured out the seconds, giving him something to cling onto. That heartbeat had given Geralt something to love. To hope for in his worst moments. When they had dragged him back into those dark, musty rooms, seventeen and screaming with what little was left of his voice, all Geralt could do was pray for his future soulmate’s heartbeat to return to him. To comfort him.

In the relentless pain and terror of those added experiments, Geralt had kept that sound buried deep within his very being, like a candle in the center of a pitch-black room. Even when they said the Trials would take his emotions from him, that the additional testing would obliterate his humanity entirely, the sound of a stranger’s heartbeat never failed to stir the strongest feelings of love and safety he’d ever known.

Can ever know, perhaps.

Regardless of what might have been in another lifetime, Geralt keeps his fingers clenched and his muscles taut. He focuses all his energy on keeping himself sitting. He would have been content to stay there in the corner, his eyes trained on the grain of the worn wooden table before him, ignoring Destiny’s desires entirely… except…

Except for the damned bard. The novice bard swans his way over to the witcher’s corner table, lashes fluttering and face flushed. Geralt catches a faint whiff of arousal and writes it off as a boyish reaction to the rush of performing. The young brunette opens his mouth and the sweetest voice Geralt has ever heard playfully says: “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

“I’m here to drink alone,” the witcher grunts. He can practically feel his fingernails biting through the leather of his gloves. The heartbeat is louder now, closer, and it’s driving Geralt mad.

“Good,” the bard nods, still leaning against a support beam. “Yeah, good. Nobody else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except-” he takes a slow step forward “-for you.”

The bard is probably barely old enough to order his own vodka, and the bright, sparkling blue of his eyes makes the deeper blue of his doublet look incredibly washed out. Geralt tries to keep his face impassive, rolling his eyes and remaining silent. He’s still thinking about his soulmate… trying to block out the rapid thrumming of their all-too-human heart.

“C’mon,” the brunette urges. “You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me; three words or less!”

Geralt hears his soulmate’s heartbeat growing louder, more irregular and more excited, regardless of his efforts to ignore the hurried drumming. The scent of happiness grows thick and hazy in the air as the bard continues to grin and Geralt realizes, with a tiny jolt of horror, that the origin of the life-altering sound is sitting directly across from him. Geralt matches the rabbit-quick jumps at the junctures of the bard’s wrists to the soft rhythm thumping at the back of his head and finds them to be a perfect match.

It’s you, the witcher thinks, eyes widening slightly against his will. He takes a moment to tamp down his more obvious emotions, trying desperately keeping his expression neutral and under control. The bard is the one whose heartbeat kept me breathing in my very worst moments. Kept me fighting. Kept me…

Geralt suddenly remembers that he needs to answer a question: “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t exist?” the bard asks, eyebrows furrowing. The expression is halfway between a pout and an offended grimace, which infuriatingly verges on being adorable. Geralt’s heart lurches traitorously in his chest. He has never known such horrible yearning in all his many decades on the Path.

“The creatures in your song.”

“Why would you know?” the bard scoffs. Geralt prepares to stand, finally releasing his death-grip on his own legs. His fingers and palms are cramped and tight from holding himself still for so long; the bard is really testing his patience. The witcher is less than two seconds away from revealing the big secret and ruining both of their lives when the young man continues, eyes shining, “Ooooh, fun! White hair, big old loner, two very very scary looking swords…”

Geralt stands from the table and collects his purse.

The bard glances up at him, blue eyes wondrously wide and cheeks flushed pink.

“I know who you are,” he practically breathes. He stands, following Geralt halfway out the door. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt’s fists clench again. The retraction of his muscles keeps him from grabbing the foolish human by the collar and dragging him from the room for a proper chat about manners and soulmates. Thankfully. As the disoriented witcher hurries from the tavern’s main room, he hears the bard shouting after him: “Called it!”

---

Geralt snaps back into consciousness with a grunt. As frustration and fear weave themselves into a web of anxiety at the center of his chest, that soft thud thud thudding fills his ears. It soothes him and helps him focus; he is in a cave, it is midday or a little past, and the bard, Jaskier apparently, has been bound against him, back-to-back. He tugs at the ropes that bind their wrists again but it does no good. Behind him, the bard says quietly: “This is the part where we escape.”

Geralt fears for his soulmate’s wellbeing more than his own. He’s technically responsible for this stupid, fragile person who refused to stay behind despite his warnings. He lowers his voice, “This is the part where they kill us.”

“Unfortunate,” the bard sighs. The witcher listens, confused and a bit shocked, as Jaskier slowly starts to even out his breathing by matching his inhales and exhales to Geralt’s slow, methodical heartbeat.

“How can you hear it?” he asks without thinking.

“Hear what?” Jaskier replies, whispering.

“Your breathing,” Geralt says, as if it’s obvious. “You’re matching it to my… to my heartbeat. You don’t have a witcher’s enhanced hearing so how are you matching the rhythm so perfectly?”

“I was matching it to-”

Their conversation ends abruptly as an angry elven woman storms into the cave. She kicks at them furiously, spitting in the Elder tongue, “Beast!”

“Quick, Geralt!” the bard urges, “Do your witchering!”

“Shut up!”

“No!”

The woman doles out more swift kicks to the chest. One for Geralt and one for Jaskier. More muttering in Elder, insults that even the bard manages to understand and toss around. Geralt grimaces as he’s beaten by Toruviel and hears the thudding even louder than before. The witcher smiles when he notices that he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat against his back, pulsing through the thin material of the bard’s light woolen doublet. It’s so much more intense, close up like this.

“Leave off! He’s just a bard.”

He’s so much more than that, Geralt’s own thoughts remind him. He’s everything to you.

A wave of urgent protectiveness swells within him and Geralt diverts the attention of the Elf King away from the foolish human, whose mouth has run away with him. Eventually Filavandrel tires of their chatter and pulls his short blade. The Silvan rushes forward, arms outstretched to stop his sovereign, “Wait!”

“Torque! Stand aside!”

“The witcher could have killed me,” Torque rushes to explain. “But he didn’t. He’s different, like us!”

Geralt watches with mild trepidation as the battle-hardened King pushes his subject aside, fury blazing in his clear blue eyes. He understands that this may be his final day alive. He wishes that Jaskier would have listened before and stayed at the tavern below. He wishes, with what may be his final moments alive, that Jaskier were safe and not bound to him this way. Literally and figuratively.

“If you must kill me, I am ready,” Geralt intones. “But the Sylvan is right… don’t call me human.”

The witcher tilts his head back, eyes open but unseeing, his entire being focused on the feeling of Jaskier’s racing heartbeat thudding against the back of his leather armor. The killing blow never comes. Instead, Filavandrel cuts the ropes that bind their wrists; Geralt ignores his initial instinct to check Jaskier for injuries and instead ushers the bard onto his feet and towards the mouth of the cave. “Wait!”

The witcher freezes in his tracks and glances back over his shoulder. Filavandrel holds out a gorgeously crafted lute with a beautiful gold design painted across the front. “My apologies for the loss of your instrument.”

“Your Majesty,” Jaskier gasps. “I couldn’t. You’ve already lost so much.”

“Then promise me to do right by him,” the elf nods at Geralt. “And consider it payment.”

“I swear it,” Jaskier nods, tone serious and face grim. Filavandrel lets his eyes flicker between the two unlikely companions and Geralt prays that the Elf won’t say anything out loud, if he indeed understands the bond between them.

“Be on your way, then, before I change my mind.”

Filavandrel winks conspiratorially and disappears back into the shadow of the caves. Jaskier pulls the lute strap over his shoulder and beckons for Geralt to follow him. “Your horse is probably worried.”

---

It takes nearly six months for Geralt to break down and tell Jaskier the truth about their seemingly uncanny partnership. If it weren’t for the rapid approach of harsher winter weather, he probably never would have said anything at all.

But on one particularly frosty evening, two weeks after Samhain, the witcher sits Jaskier down beside their fire and tries to remember how to speak from his heart. The bard is patient, warming his hands over the flames and waiting for Geralt to gather his words. Jaskier has never rushed him, and for that Geralt is eternally grateful. Taking a hint from his companion’s hunched shoulders, Jaskier speaks first. “What’s on your mind, my dearest White Wolf?”

“I… I have to tell you something and I don’t want you to be angry.”

“Did you spill ink on my new doublet?” Jaskier teases. “Because if you have, I promise to be very cross with you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt half-smiles. He’s terrified, and he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat surrounding him from all sides. “No, I’m afraid it’s more complicated than replacing a doublet.”

“Oh, is this about us being soulmates?”

Geralt’s eyes snap up to meet Jaskier’s and his mouth drops open. “Wha-? When did you- When di-”

“You said it in your sleep maybe two weeks after we first met,” Jaskier explains quietly, like he’s the one who’s been holding back a secret all this time. He blushes furiously as he tries to apologize and extrapolate all at once, “I thought you were just muttering to yourself, really, or I would have woken you up! I swear! You were just…”

Now it’s Geralt’s turn to wait as Jaskier fumbles to speak.

“You hadn’t been resting well and I didn’t want to wake you up. You looked so happy and content that night, with your hair all loose and the moon so bright…” he shakes his head and giggles nervously, “Anyway, not important. You rolled over and reached for me. You chuckled a little between snores and said A bard for a soulmate, how lovely. It sounded happy, when you said it like that.”

“Was that… the only time?”

“No,” Jaskier smiles. He pulls his knees against his chest and rests his chin atop them, “You reach for me all the time in your dreams. Sometimes you say my name or call me soulmate or beloved. It’s rather sweet and I-” tears brim in his eyes and Geralt’s heart skips a beat “-I know that witchers don’t feel things the same way humans do. I didn’t want to get my hopes up and then-”

“I love you,” Geralt says. He takes Jaskier by the hands before he can stop himself and pulls the pale knuckles against his lips for a soft kiss. “You… You have saved my life so many times.”

“Geralt!”

“I mean it,” the witcher nods. “I know that the Path is treacherous, and I wouldn’t ask you to join me on it and risk your life, but I do love you and care about you. Ever since I was young I have marked my steps by the beat of your heart. I would be happy continuing to do so, whether or not you accept me in return.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sob-laughs, flinging himself into the witcher’s embrace. Geralt falls backward, shocked, his arms full of emotional bard. His face is peppered with kisses between hurried words: “I love you, too! I thought you didn’t want me that way. I thought it was just… a witcher mutation thing.”

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen for the winter, Julek. You can learn more about my kind; you can meet my brothers and the old swordmaster for the Wolf School, my adopted father of sorts. We’ll protect you and I-” Geralt clears his throat. “I will hold you every night in my arms, if you so desire.”

“I would like it very much if you were to hold me,” Jaskier grins. “And of course I'll come with you to your witchery keep for the cold months, dear heart. I’ll never part from your side again.”

Geralt presses a firm kiss to Jaskier's forehead, their heartbeats echoing faintly in the witcher's trained ears. Something in his chest settles into place, contented at last. He presses another, even gentler kiss to the bard's chapped lips and feels his heart swell when Jaskier smiles into it. He breathes out his promise as they pull apart, "Never."

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #art collab sorta #art collab #geraskier art #geraskier fluff #getting together #soulmate au #geraskier soulmate au #soulmates #you can hear you soulmate's heartbeat #heartbeats #tw violence #tw four marks #tooth rotting fluff #happy birthday wolfie #geraskier fluffiness

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thecitythatdoesntsleep · 2 years

Note

Favorite tropes?

My top recent likes have been

Famous/Known Whumpee's and Fanatic Whumpers or Socialite Whumpers. Relationships that look amazingly caring to the public but under a suit and tie or long dress are a thousand different scars. They are domestic and loving to their fans, the public, they have a superstar relationship. Behind closed doors, one of them is basically a captive to the other. OR, they are stalked and coveted by a crazed fan. Always forced to hear about how wonderful their relationship is but they have to smile and agree because Whumper will know if they screw up to the media.

Self-sacrificial Caretakers or self-sacrifice in general. Caretakers especially that offer their life limb and body to whumper if it spares Whumpee a little less harm. Caretakers that keep Whumpee's innocence intact by giving sex, their body, their blood to Whumper/s if it keeps Whumpee safe.

It also goes close to the intimate/romantic Caretakers. Caretakers that genuinely love Whumpee and continue to take care of them because they understand whatever it is that mentally ties them to Whumper. They just want to see them safe, at home in their arms but they don't trap them. Some are physically loving but don't have to be, just kind and doting. They cater to Whumpee and do whatever it is they need to keep them comfortable.

SOME OTHERS THAT I LIKE:

Intimate Whumpers

Stalker Whumpers

Whumpers in positions of power: Political, Business, Royalty.

Brothel/sex-club/public slave-houses.

Human Pets and Box-boy are tropes that own my soul.

Medical/Science experiment whump is god tier. Give me spliced DNA and functional parts that much to Whumpee's horror, work. Give me rare Whumpee's that are experimented on ruthlessly to figure out how they work. I eat that shit up like soup through a straw.

Lady Whumpers are a rare but prime delicacy in my opinion and when mixed with any of the tropes above, even more tasty. The best garnish to a meal I could imagine.

Psychological Whump also holds a large piece of my personal creativity. I enjoy writing and reading about the internal Whump side effects as much as the bruises and scars. Anxiety attacks, depression, buckets of trauma to remind them of what all has been done to them. Night terrors, sleep paralysis, insomnia, and trust issues that run deeper than the ocean. This is the extent of brokenness in Whumpee's that really trips my trigger and butters my bread on both sides.

I personally tend to drift into the non-con side of Whump as a big trope for me too. It's been a personal Whump for me that I work with for several reasons.

Drug Whump and Addiction Whump are two more tropes I enjoy reading and working with. Aphrodisiacs, tranquilizers, narcotics, anything that controls and manipulates Whumpee's sobriety and diminishes the fight with a plausible explanation to their weakness. The most defiant Whumpee can be turned pliable and the Whumper can keep it in their back pocket as a quick fix when their temper arises. Plus it can make a mush of their mind in the meantime, given what Whumper makes them partake in. The lack of drugs is also a scary one if Whumpee is on controlled substances and Whumper is now in control of them.

Demon/Incubus/Succubus/Entity tropes are a long-term favorite for the amount of variety. Anything becomes possible when it has to do with demons or the supernatural and situations can happen when there was no possibility before. Possession, spells, mind-control, curses. All of those things can make just about anything you could imagine happen without rhyme or reason and it's an easy excuse to tack on some fantasy without going into the voids that most people don't like. There's also blood magic, occult happenings, voodoo, and black magic that can do even more harm or plotting.

Sorry, this turned into a long post but before I keep going, as I can always think of more, these are the basics and besides vampires/vampire AU; this is what I work with. It's also what I tend to look for and consume in media. Books, fanfiction, television; most media can catch my attention with these tropes or any combination.

These tropes are the reasons I'm drawn to more pop-culture things like; Game of Thrones, YOU, Criminal Minds, American Horror Story, Alice in Wonderland, Adaptations of Harley Quinn as well as the variations of the Joker. Games like Detroit: become human, The Last of Us, Assassin's creed, and Alice the Madness returns as well as its predecessor. I've watched Lifetime Movie Network and Crime and Drama shows since I was a child. Bailey Sarian and Kendall Rae drive with me everywhere I go.

I love anything that is chaotic and shows that people are the things that should scare us the most. That and the things that humanity does to them and can do to the world and us. Anything that borders insanity and brokenness of the human mind or body and really digs deep on death and life and drama.

#whump #whump tropes #whump prompts #pet whump #whump asks #whump prompt #whumpblr #answered asks #whump scenario #vampire whump #ask the mayor #the mayor speaks #tw whump #tw noncon #tw violence #tw abuse #tw addiction #tw mental illness #tw slavery

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whump-mania · 3 years

Note

Cod you do a deal leader drabble where Daniel and Hunter almost kill Quinn?

previous / next

(be VERY careful with this one! read all of the warnings!)

(tw: 18+ noncon and kind of explicit discussion of it, brief misgendering, exploration of sadism, knife torture/cutting, blood, unconsciousness, near death experience, multiple whumpers, cursing, brief suicidal thought)

“No no, you have to go slowly, like you’re drawing it out. Yeah, yeah, there you go!”

Hunter clapped Daniel on the back, watching over his leader’s shoulder. Underneath Daniel was a squirming, screaming, sobbing Quinn, shirtless with their back covered in blood at the lines Daniel was making with his knife.

“Don’t patronize me,” Daniel grumbled as he brought the knife back down again. He made a slow line from Quinn’s shoulder to their middle back, watching intently at the blood that flowed out. Quinn’s screaming picked up, filling the room.

Daniel cringed and lifted the knife. “Can’t you gag them with something?” He barked at Hunter, who just chuckled and found Quinn’s shirt to stuff in their mouth. He tied it around their head.

“You’re gonna wanna bite onto that.” Hunter grinned and made his way to sit in front of Quinn’s face instead. He took a fistful of their hair and lifted it to meet each other’s eyes.

The raw desperation in Quinn’s eyes filled him with glee. “Damn, that’s why I love this. That look, right there.” He glanced up at his leader. “Sir, come look at this.” Hunter motioned Daniel over with his hand.

Daniel rolled his eyes and came around begrudgingly, crouching next to Hunter and looking at Quinn’s expression. “You see it now, yeah? You see why I love this shit?” Hunter laughed, tightening his grip on Quinn’s hair.

Daniel stared at Quinn’s expression for a while. He explored every crease, every glimmer in their eyes, every tear that fell. He had to admit it: it scratched an itch he didn’t even know he had.

“…I wanna try something else,” Hunter said, dropping Quinn’s head and breaking the silence. “You know how I’ve uh…borrowed…them some nights?” Hunter smirked at the pained whimper that came from Quinn’s form.

Daniel grimaced. “I’m aware,” he said skeptically, giving Hunter a testing look. “What are you getting at?”

Hunter reached down to rip the gag out of Quinn’s mouth. They coughed on their own saliva as their mouth was filled by Hunter’s fingers almost instantly.

“What do you say? Me in front, you in the back? Come on, I know you’ve at least used their mouth before. Why not go the extra mile? I know you’ve thought about it.” Hunter tried. He had a gleam in his eye that Daniel couldn’t quite read.

Daniel couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about it. He just had self control, is all, as opposed to Hunter. But something about Quinn’s powerlessness, about how weak they were compared to him in that moment…it made that self control slip, just a little bit.

Daniel sighed, long and deep. He closed his eyes. “Let’s make this quick.”

Quinn’s stomach dropped to the floor as they realized what was about to happen. “No,” they whispered. “No, no no no, wait—” They choked on Hunter’s fingers as he lodged them back in again.

“You’re gonna wanna be good tonight, pretty boy,” Hunter whispered lowly into Quinn’s ear. “Because I’ve got this fun little thing here…” He picked up the knife again and trailed it threateningly across Quinn’s throat. “…If you even think about misbehaving.”

Quinn gagged and bit down on Hunter’s finger’s reflexively, causing Hunter to yelp and pull his hand away. He took the same hand and backhanded them with it, his expression turning even wilder. “Ohoho, you really want it, don’t you?”

Quinn needed to get the fuck out of there. That was the only thing running through their mind as they squirmed against the all-too strong grip of their abusers, too panicked to form a sentence.

They felt their pants being tugged down and that’s when their mind left them.

Quinn registered bits and pieces. Something filling their mouth and overwhelming their senses. The sensation of being torn open over and over again. The thin, hot slice of the knife across their throat when their teeth bit at the intrusion out of instinct.

The blood slowly dripping to the floor.

Everything was blurry after that. When they came to, Quinn could feel something rough around their throat, keeping something from coming out. Bandages, their mind told them fleetingly.

They could hear voices every now and again.

“You went too far, you dipshit! You almost killed my fucking runner!”

“They bit me! What the hell did you expect me to do?!”

“We’re not doing this again. They’ll be out of commission for two weeks, at most.”

“It’s fine. You have your other runners, right?”

“…Whatever. Whatever. Just get the fuck out.”

Quinn phased in and out of consciousness again and they were alone in the dark. The pain radiated everywhere in their body. It was all too much.

They let themselves sleep again, a tiny part of them hoping they wouldn’t wake up.

tag list: @tears-and-lilies @mammonsemptycreditcard @abitefullofwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @xzinn-fury @whmp @freefallingup13 @sadistgalore @firewheeesky @finch-birb @authorofemotion @lavmars @whatwhumpcomments @w-whump @wingedwhump @writerat @wvnda-whump @whumblrwork @ficklefuddle @yesimlonely @whumptakesthecake

#whump #whump blog #whump community #whump writing #whump scenario #dark leader #tw noncon #tw suicidal thoughts #tw knives #tw cutting #tw blood #tw torture #tw sadism #multiple whumpers #tw misgendering #tw near death #tw cursing

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pretty-face-breaker · 3 years

Text

Maybe Not Now

During Pavel’s daily torment of him, Emir sees something in him that he hadn’t seen before.

c.w. military whump, sadistic whumper, forced exercise as punishment, insults, degrading language, captivity, alluding to death as an alternative to torture

—

“That’s all for now, soldaty. Back to your dorms and make it neat,” General Levkin called.

With a raise of his palm, collective relief could be heard above the fading grunts. Men rose from the field and dusted their palms on their trousers, snatching up their rifles. Twenty of them clicked sharply as they swung over various shoulders. Some grabbed a drink of water they had been meaning to get for hours as clouds swept over the barren training grounds.

The drills of the day were over.

As the soldiers filed after one another, murmuring too fast and foreign to be kept up with, Emir followed behind with a dry throat. His arms ached. He could hardly remember making that many mistakes in his basic training or what were supposedly called mistakes by Stanislav Levkin’s eye. He always seemed to catch him doing something wrong. Inaccurate aim. Sloppy position. Poor posture.

But he had taken the admonitions, the hits and laps, nodded obediently, straightened his back or concentrated harder on his aim. He didn’t feel like fighting the corrections in front of fifty others and with the amount of sleep hardly managed each night, he didn’t doubt some were his fault. That, and for other reasons. Emir winced as a now clear head focussed on the burning in his bicep.

The place Pavel had rubbed the salt earlier that week.

Maybe yes, sir-ing his way through the drills had been also to spare his throat from overexerting itself more than he had torn in, wailing wordlessly among laughter and pleading in broken Russian to a man who likely hadn’t heard the word in his life. Emir grimaced and, feeling a bump of a body behind him, sped up to climb the stairs. Until he felt a hand pulling him aside.

“Not so fast. Hey, you.” Pavel grinned as he pulled him from formation and back down the steps.

Emir froze and his hand shot to his collar, trying to keep his balance. “Podozhdite—” But Pavel wasn’t one to wait and pulled him fiercely until he tripped on the rocks, barely catching himself on the stone railing. Humiliated, he straightened up glaring. Pavel’s leer was ever present with that same colour of resentment, his eyes cold and devising.

The taller man chuckled. “Did you even complete your recruit training? With how today went, I thought Stas was going to pin you to that target.”

Emir swallowed, trying not to dignify that with a response.

Pavel’s face darkened in silence. “Follow me then get on the fucking ground. I’m not done with you.”

His heart slammed in his throat as he followed without a word, feeling his fingertips grow cold as the group’s noises faded. With each moment, he pushed his feet further to the edges of the terrain where voices ended and the forest began and each step felt harder to take, the closer those trees got. He sucked in a quiet breath when Pavel stopped.

“Drop. Feet together.”

Emir obeyed, falling tense to the pushup form, and dug his nails into the earth for a brief moment, just to feel the cool of the grass, to ground himself. Once, he let his lungs expand with a breath and plunged. Pavel didn’t have to say a word for him to begin and he figured he could save him the trouble. Save it for himself too so he wouldn’t have to pay for it later again.

He bent his elbows, breathing evenly and keeping them tracking alongside his body, until his chest dipped just below the angle of each elbow, then pushed back up, expelling the air. Slow, controlled so his throat wouldn’t burn like it had last time. His eyes were fixed on the trees across from him, the endless stretch of wood and darkness that he watched from his bed sometimes.

It reminded him of the trip he had taken years ago, camping with his cousins after having convinced his mother that he would bring a gun and that everything would go well. Even now, he remembered the distaste in her head shake and the veiled worry in her tone as she had thrown up a hand in defeat.

Fine, abni, but if you get mauled by a bear, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A smile graced his mouth. It was like he was hardly there anymore. Though a few reps more and he felt a shift in breathing as Pavel sunk down onto the log next to him.

“Feel like this has gotten easier for you. A hundred and fifty reps, nothing, eh?” He chuckled and patted him on the shoulder with enough force that Emir briefly swayed. “Fast learner. You don’t piss me off as much.”

“Then why do you keep hurting me?” Emir asked coolly. His jaw tightened a bit, hearing the huff. As if the question was a challenge.

“Because you’re fun to hurt. You make fun noises, give me—all of us—a good time.”

Pavel’s eye caught a nearby stone and he tapped on his knee thoughtfully as Emir plunged into another graceful pushup. The leer he wore quickly grew crooked and he revelled in the tiny spark of fear that stuttered Emir’s breathing. Hearing it was always wonderful because it meant the little shit was listening to him and on his toes more often than he had been.

“I noticed your back was all fucked up,” Pavel admitted, reaching for the rock which could have easily been five pounds, “when we changed.”

Emir’s eyes stayed frozen on the hollow of a nearby tree. His chest was beginning to burn with the onset of faint panic but he was surprised as it wasn’t his fiftieth repetition yet where the burning usually started. “Is that new?”

The pressure of the rock came fully and at once into the small of his back and he jerked and tightened into a plank. He couldn’t move for a few seconds, realizing Pavel’s intention.

“You haven’t finished. Keep going or the next one goes into your head.”

Admittedly, the next few repetitions of the pushup were only slightly less comfortable, just a tinge less familiar with the weight on his spine and he felt his elbows wobble only the slightest amount. Still, Emir persisted. He had gone no more than ten before the next rock, larger this time, sat in front of the first. Hearing Pavel’s snicker, a silent rage caved in his chest.

“You just had to fall into my hands, huh?” he laughed, patting the ground for another. “Unlucky bastard.”

Emir was beginning to feel the onset of exhaustion seeping into an already worn body. He knew if he collapsed, Pavel would have something to say about it, presumably with his shoe. He winced and exhaled on the wrong motion, had to pause for a moment and focus his breathing before the next plunge and all while ignoring the wry laughter of the man next to him.

“At least I’m not dead,” he muttered.

Pavel stirred before he was about to lay the third rock on the next few ridges of his spine. At first, he scoffed off the response but didn’t resume the motion. He stayed silent for a few moments, letting Emir dip into the next less-than-graceful pushup and watched a bead of sweat roll down his dark temple. Something akin to cynical admiration passed across his eyes.

“You’d rather be alive, here?”

This time, Emir stopped too. He kept his eyes forward, trained as usual, but too long had passed for it to feel like Pavel’s routine. His gaze gradually flickered over to the green eyes and tan skin beside him that so typically fixed him like prey, now staring at him in annoyed curiosity. “Yeah,” he admitted.

The trees rustled softly in the background, dampening the mechanics from the camp as if they were unpleasant, fading memories.

“You’re an idiot.” Pavel let the stone go and smirked to himself at the wince but it was less self-satisfied. “For getting caught and for thinking this is going to be better.”

“My pilot got shot and we crashed directly in front of you,” Emir grumbled, feeling a pulling need to defend his honour and that of his late pilot’s. “Didn’t get caught.” He glanced at Pavel warily and breathed out, seeing no brimming violence under his expression. “Besides, I-I have a family at home to think about.”

The green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not going home.”

He swallowed, not quite yielding. “Maybe not now.”

“Maybe not ever.”

Emir waited in silence for a minute more, saying little besides the soft, stuttering breaths that whistled in unison with the pines, gull calls, and the dirt twisting under Pavel’s shoe. He sensed it was an exercise to relieve boredom with how often he did it. He didn’t want to think about what Pavel had just said.

He thought about it too often, already.

Slowly, he exhaled and pushed down again under the weight of three rocks, elbows bending alongside his body, and inhaled like it would be his last breath on his—shit, he had lost count. He mechanically continued, hoping that at a certain point, Pavel would stop him and let him go when he had fulfilled the day’s quota of entertainment but then, froze completely upon realizing that it had always been his responsibility to count.

Pavel noticed his uncertainness. “What? You lost count or something?”

Emir did nothing for a minute before lapsing into silent despair and nodding. What was the worst he could do, really? Kick him in the ribs? Big fucking whoop. He waited for the blow anyways, feeling that it would be a welcome relief to the incessant burning in his arms that threatened to have his entire body give out at that moment and crash to the ground onto that asshole’s boot.

But in the meantime, Pavel had been quiet and uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“Get up,” he ordered. “That’s enough.” He pushed himself up from the log and stretched to the clouds, wincing himself at the unwise angle he had been slouching in since Emir had begun the exercise. “Go back to your dorm and don’t let me see you again today.”

Too stunned to move, Emir fixed him with a fearful look until he realized it was a serious order. He could have let himself fall to the ground and really, it was tempting. To lay there and let the exhaustion seep into the dirt but Pavel’s patience already seemed stick-thin and he didn’t want to push today’s generosity. He rolled to let the rocks fall off and bolted to standing, starting his journey back to the camp. When he turned for Pavel’s approval, the man wasn’t moving.

His eyebrows pricked up. “Maybe not now,” he muttered. “Idiot.”

Tagging: @straight-to-the-pain @heathenville

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