#whumper pov

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper who is a smoker

Whumper who enjoys a smoke after ‘working on’ their whumpee.

Whumper who sits in a captive whumpee’s room and smokes.

Whumper who blows smoke in their whumee’s face.

Whumper who leaves a pack of cigarettes on the same table with the tools they use on whumpee.

Whumper who offers whumpee a smoke.

Whumper who smokes big, fat, smelly cigars.

Whumper who smokes a specific brand of cigarettes that their whumpee will later associate the smell of with them.

Whumper who burns whumpee with the tip of their cigarette or cigar.

Whumper who sets their whumpee on fire and lights a smoke off of them.

Whumper who always talks about quitting, and no one is sure if they mean the cigarettes or the whump.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw age gap, implied kidnapping, implied torture, intimate whumper, power dynamic 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

They glanced at the doorway, a cigarette between their full, pink lips. They raised an eyebrow and smirked at Whumper, blowing out a cloud of smoke before replying, “What makes you think I have a bedtime?” 

Whumper smiled and leaned against the wall next to them. Leaving enough distance between them to be casual. “I don’t mind,” they said, not answering the question. “I mean, we do all ages shows for a reason. I think it’s great for kids to see live music.” 

Big, innocent eyes narrowed into a glare. “I’m eighteen, actually. But thanks for your concern.” 

Oh, this one was going to be fun. “Sorry, you just look young is all. Didn't mean to insult you—maybe we could start over? I’m Whumper.” 

“I know, I came to see your band.” Another drag on their cigarette. “I’m Whumpee.” 

Whumpee. The name suited them perfectly. Whumper could imagine saying it tauntingly as they did horrible things to Whumpee. Or whispering it as they comforted them afterwards. Whumper didn’t expect to be so lucky tonight. “Well, Whumpee,” they said, testing it out. “I haven’t seen you at any shows before, but you seem cool. There’s an after party at my place if you wanna come.” 

The kid looked hesitant. “I don’t know, I have class in the morning.” It wasn’t a no. 

They watched Whumpee stub out the cigarette on the wall behind them and flick it over the porch railing into the grass. They imagined lighting one of their own just to put it out on Whumpee’s skin. They would probably scream so beautifully as it burned into their wrist or their neck. Delicate, unmarked skin. Oh, Whumper was going to have so much fun breaking them. “Your call,” they said with a shrug before closing the space between them. “But I'd really like it if you were there.” 

Whumpee looked up at them, visibly nervous but making no move to back away. “Yeah?” they breathed, seeming to catch the unspoken implication in Whumper’s statement. 

The other people milling around outside paid them no attention as Whumper placed one of their hands on the kid’s cheek, cold from the winter air. Their nose was red, too—how cute. “Yeah—come party with the rockstars. I promise you’ll have a good time, honey.” 

What Whumper didn’t mention was that once Whumpee made it to their house, they wouldn’t be leaving. Not for a very long time, at least. 

“Okay. I'll come,” Whumpee agreed without much convincing. God, they were easy.  

Whumper smiled, tucking Whumpee’s hair behind their ear. Fingers ghosted down their neck, picturing a collar around it. Imagining how that sweet, young face would look covered in tears. “Awesome. Let me pack up my equipment and then we’ll get going.” 

[honeycollectswhump]

PLEASE aftermath of the shock collar piece?👉👈 back to normal? back to ashtray being loved and lovingly used for his normal standard purpose? so he knows he in fact didn't do anything wrong? and he's a good boy? MAYBE... MAYBE EVEN... merciful mistress mireille checking on him to make sure he's gonna be alright?🥺 because maybe she's worried she went a bit too far with all the shocks?🥺

-🪷

Citrine Kisses

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, cigarette burns, past torture (referenced)

When her servants carry in the ashtray the next day, no amount of makeup they have desperately seemed to apply can hide his condition. As Mireille lounges on her velvet couch, worth someone’s fortune, she can’t help but notice his sickly sweet, pale tone and the occasional twitch he tries and fails to hide. It’s unbecoming of such a luxurious good as him, laughable for the price she paid for him to be pretty. 

It almost makes her want to ring her stupid servants back and have someone, anyone, answer for ruining her scene with a pathetic excuse for a golden ashtray. And yet…

And yet she doesn’t. 

Despite it all, he still looks beautiful, doesn’t he? There is beauty to be found in his alabaster skin, no matter if it was caused by the thick collar around his pretty thin neck, which has still left imprints like two pricks of a vampire. The thought makes her laugh, elegantly like chiming bells, like candlelight and a passionate kiss. No, Mireille wouldn’t mind being a vampire.

Twirling a lush black lock around her finger, a cigarette between her lips, she leans forward, taking in the sight of her ashtray. If he were a diamond, she’d hold him in her hand against the light, letting rays of sun play with the rainbow. What happened yesterday, it too was like seeing a rainbow illuminate her walls, each gasping scream echoing in her mind like a marvellous symphony. 

Under her gaze, the ashtray goes still like a marble statue. He never raises his eyes, just like it should be. Silently worshipping but never being brash enough to gaze upon her. 

Mireille bathes in the knowledge that the ashtray’s biggest fear must be displeasing her. That is all he was made for after all. Maybe… maybe that is why he now holds himself differently, but it’s not like she could expect a simple thing like him to understand the aesthetic intention behind the shock collar, the joy and entertainment so unlike a punishment. Of course, the ashtray is too simple to get that.

It almost makes her feel bad, if only for the unappreciated amusement getting drowned out by his pleading devotion. He had been good yesterday, had been less an ashtray and more a diamond yet to be polished. She is merciful, Mireille thinks with a slight smile, and his pretty screams have earned him a reward.

Gracefully, she takes her cigarette from her lips, gazing at it for a moment, before delicately placing a hand on his shining golden locks. Immediately, the ashtray leans into her touch, imperceptively stretching himself to press himself into her palm. 

He was made mindless but a simple drawled “Ashtray” is enough to get his attention fully on her. Melting under her gracious touch, her thing turns towards her, lowered and on his knees. Mireille pets his head a couple of times, like she has seen with her friend’s lapdog. She much prefers love as an act of passion, of art and burning.

The ashtray shivers under her touch, as she lets her long fingers glide down his jaw and tilt his head up to meet her eyes. “You love that, huh?”, she chuckles, and that alone seems to give him to strength to hold himself straighter. 

“You’ve been a good boy, a very good boy. Your screams have been delightful, you’ve done so well.”

A hazy smile appears on his lips as if drugged, and for a moment she considers the fun in that. Instead, though, she holds out her hand, beckoning him to lay his hand in hers. Of course, the ashtray complies, it is all he knows, eager to please like a dog or something less.

Holding eye contact makes her ashtray flush sweetly, and he shivers again. This, she thinks, is also art. 

“You are my favourite toy, I want you to never forget that.” Mireille purrs, lightly holding his hand like a prince would a princess’, his fingers curled around hers. “A reward would only be fitting, don’t you think? Something to commemorate this?”

She turns the cigarette between her fingers until it feels right, before placing the glowing end of it on the ashtray's pale skin, pressing down until the citrine gets swallowed up by ash. 

Never once does he flinch, steadily looking at her. A practice of worship, the greatest price of them all.

Soon, when her servants wash away the dirty ash, a bright red spot will remain, burning through skin and tissue, a kiss his body will never be able to heal. And her ashtray, her stupid little ashtray, will look at it in doglike adoration, his most precious possessions are the scars she allows him, and he will be thankful. 

Sometimes Mireille wonders if the ashtray pities her servants for their lack of burning, wonders if her little lamb prides itself in the red scarf wrapped around its neck, telling a story of how the butcher will one day cut its throat.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[whump-in-the-closet]

“You? No, no I won’t touch a hair on your head. Your friend on the other hand…oh, can you hear the screaming? Yeah, that’s them. Such a lovely voice.”

[snakebites-and-ink]

CW: Pet whump, referenced kidnapping, captivity, conditioned whumpee

Whumper stretched and glanced at their clock. It was probably time to check on their freshly-caught pet. They headed to the room their new pet, Whumpee, was in, and opened the door only to be greeted with furious yelling and the jingling of chains. Clearly Whumpee was not happy with their new arrangement.

Whumper walked into the room and shut the door behind them. “Hello there.”

With a small growl, Whumpee lunged towards Whumper and swept their leg out in a kick that very nearly landed.

“What do you want?” they demanded angrily as Whumper stepped just out of their reach.

Whumper smirked. They retracted Whumpee’s chain so that it was too short to stand with, and Whumpee was forced to their knees. “Nothing too extreme. I just want you to behave and obey me.”

Whumpee struggled against the chain uselessly. Whumper walked closer, feeling fairly safe from attack now. “What—? What are you going to do with me? Why am I even here?”

Whumper smiled. Someone was asking all the right questions. “I’m going to keep you for myself, dear. You’re here because this is your new home. You are my pet.”

Whumpee paused. Their eyes went wide. “You mean you’ve adopted me?” they asked.

“That’s right,” Whumper confirmed.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you! I won’t disappoint you,” Whumpee said, nuzzling Whumper’s leg affectionately.

Whumper hesitated, dumbfounded. They gently tipped Whumpee’s face up to look at their own. “Are you…already trained?”

“Yes sir, I know my place,” Whumpee said intently.

“Oh?” Whumper responded. “Then why were you acting so feral just a minute ago?”

“I didn’t know you were adopting me! I thought I’d been kidnapped, and I had to fight my captors like a person to have a chance at getting out. I can be good, sir, I promise!” They looked up at Whumper with pleading eyes.

“And why were you going about the world without an owner when I found you? Living your life like you thought you were a person?”

Whumpee averted their gaze, not looking like they’d been caught faking, but like they actually were sad. “After I was taken from my first owner, no one wanted to have me as their pet. They all said I was a human. No one else took care of me, so I had to take care of myself.”

Whumper lowered themself to Whumpee’s level. They cupped Whumpee’s cheek gently, and noticed that they automatically tilted their head slightly into Whumper’s hand. 

“Oh, I bet that was hard, wasn’t it?” They kept their tone soft and sympathetic, but inwardly Whumper was ecstatic. Whumpee didn’t even want to be free.

Whumpee nodded, face rubbing against Whumper’s hand as they did so.

“Don’t worry. Now that you’re mine, I’ll take care of everything for you. You won’t have to work another day in your life to have nourishing food and a roof over your head, so long as you don’t do anything too foolish like running away.”

Whumpee dove towards Whumper and hugged them fiercely. “Thank you thank you sir, thank you, you’re so nice I need it—”

Whumper was delighted. Whumpee was so so grateful, practically loved Whumper already for taking them. And here Whumper had been expecting to be hated and resisted for a couple weeks at least. They pulled Whumpee back enough to see their face. Were those tears? Aw, they were! Whumper forced their instinctive grin to emerge as something warm and soft instead. If Whumpee thought they were nice and caring for doing this, Whumper wasn’t planning to disabuse them of that notion as long as their behavior stayed good enough. “Shh, it’s alright, dear pet, relax. You’ll never have to worry about anything again.”

Whumper hugged back, holding Whumpee close. They felt so small and sweet in Whumper’s arms. Whumpee obediently quieted their rambling and let go of a portion of the desperate tension in their body. With Whumpee’s face tucked safely out of view against Whumper’s chest, Whumper allowed their wide grin to finally appear. This was going to work out wonderfully.

[whump-queen]

It’s me, I’m the bad caretaker

Let me give you hope. Let me promise that you’re safe now.

Let me watch the way hope makes your eyes glow with that beautiful warmth. Let me feel it’s heat warm my heart when I rip it all away.

But you need me anyway, don’t you?

Look at you, you’ve been so broken down, you’re just so conditioned..

I could take advantage of that so easily.

You wouldn’t even be able to tell.

Let me see your eyes fall when you realize. Let me watch the betrayal narrow your pupils to terrified, shaking points.

When you realize that I don’t see you as broken.

I see you as pre-trained.

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 1

(Loosely based off of this post by @whumpshaped)

CWs: mind control, whumper POV, kidnapping, restraints

Everyone loved Gianna Jennings. Her friends said she gave the best hugs. Her fans adored her makeup tutorials, and even her most vocal critics had to agree that she was charming in person. Gianna wasn’t sure how old she was when she first noticed it—really noticed it. All her life, her family had adored her, and even strangers would bend over backwards to please her. She’d always been affectionate, so maybe that was why it took so long to notice: it was her touch. Any skin-to-skin contact made the people around her much more agreeable. The effects only intensified the more she learned to control it.

Of course, she never let it get out of hand. But what was a talent like this for if not to be used? It served her well with getting sponsorships when she launched her career as a beauty guru. Most of her job happened online, but after years of building up her charisma, she knew how to work her audience. She didn’t need touch to draw people in, but when it came to in-person contact, it certainly gave her a boost.

Having the whole world at her fingertips was lovely, but it wasn’t very exciting. She wondered what it would feel like to make someone hate her—really, truly hate her—and what would happen if, then, she used her powers on them. The thought of it was more than a little alluring. It sounded complicated, interesting, real.

She decided to go hunting.

After visiting the same club a few weekends in a row, Gianna had finally found her target. They were smaller than Gianna, and always wore short skirts and tank tops—the kind of outfit that would give her ample opportunity to use her powers. Every weekend, without fail, the target arrived at the club with the same group of friends and spent the entire time sitting in a corner, texting. They seemed utterly disinterested in everything around them, even their friends—although, given the interactions she’d seen, Gianna was hesitant to label them as friends. Others who tried to approach the target had been met with either apathy or outright hostility.

They were perfect.

Gianna had already been at the club for an hour, chatting people up, when her target slouched in behind their usual group of three others. One of them, a tall girl with long brown hair, looked similar enough to be related to the target—a sister, maybe a cousin—and she interacted with them the most. The other two, another girl and a boy, hardly spoke to the target at all.

Gianna watched as the group claimed a table, and the boy went off to the bar. The two girls sat next to each other, chatting and laughing. The target was already slumped down in their chair, eyes glued to their phone, their bleached bangs obscuring half their face. When the boy came back with the drinks, he only brought three, depositing two in front of the girls and one in front of himself. The target didn’t seem to notice or care.

Gianna kept an eye out as she circled the room. The three friends took a while to drain their drinks before they finally headed for the dance floor. The brown haired girl hung back for a moment, tugging at the target’s arm. The target yanked away, and although Gianna couldn’t hear across the club, it looked like they’d snapped at the girl. The girl stormed off, and the target was left alone.

Gianna took her time, idly circling the club before she sidled up to the target’s table. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” 

They gave no indication that they’d heard her. The blue glow from their screen reflected in their bored eyes and highlighted glitter on their cheekbones. She could just barely hear their response over the music. “Who said I was trying to be?”

Instinctively, her wrist twitched to touch their shoulder, but she lowered her hand quickly. She was wearing lacy, elbow-length gloves to ensure that there weren’t any slip-ups. She didn’t want to use her powers—not yet, anyway. She laughed. “That’s cute.” She leaned on the table, tilting her head. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

The target’s eyes flicked up. They scanned her face for a moment before turning back to their phone.

“I’m Gianna.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Really, though, what’s someone as pretty as you doing by yourself?”

Finally, they lowered their phone and gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “None of your business,” they said, enunciating each word.

It was like talking to a brick wall. Gianna could see why everyone who had spoken to them had given up. Even she was tempted to take off her glove and touch their hand, just to get them to open up a little. But she refrained; the whole point was for them to hate her, and it seemed like that was going well. She pouted. “Oh, come on. You don’t even have a drink. I’ll get you one, okay?”

As she headed for the bar, she thought she heard them mutter, “Don’t come back.” She grinned to herself. She couldn’t have chosen a better target.

When she returned, they hadn’t moved an inch. She slid their glass across the table, and they kept texting. “I don’t drink,” they said.

“It’s seltzer.” It wasn’t, and they’d know right away if they took a sip, but they didn’t even glance at the glass. She stirred her own drink with her finger and wondered how to provoke them. Clearly they weren’t interested in playing her game, and that was what she’d expected, but she needed the tables to turn in her favor a little if she wanted to take them home tonight.

“Don’t care,” they said dismissively. “I don’t take drinks from strangers.”

“That’s smart.” She smiled and rested her chin in her hand as she leaned forward. “But I think you deserve to have some fun. Don’t you?”

They shot her a scathing side-eye. “I’d be having a lot more fun if you weren’t—”

“Oh my god, Shelby!”

Their head jerked up, and Gianna turned to see the brown-haired girl from earlier approaching the table, her two friends in tow. All of them looked tipsy, but the brown-haired girl seemed just a tad more wasted than the others, casually gripping the table for balance. Gianna suppressed a grin as she turned to her target. “Friends of yours?” she asked innocently.

The girl didn’t seem to hear her. “Oh my god, Shelby,” she repeated, turning to the target. “Are you actually talking to someone for once? I never thought you’d—”

“Shut up,” they hissed, lowering their phone into their lap as they glared at the girl. “I’m not—”

“We were just having a little chat,” Gianna interrupted. She extended a hand over the table. “I’m Gianna.”

The girl shook her hand limply. “I’m Taylor.” She was talking too loud, even for the background noise of the club. “And that’s Anna and Tate. And of course you know my baby sibling, Shelby.” She squeezed their shoulder.

Shelby jerked away, their elbow missing their untouched drink by an inch. “Fuck off!”

Taylor pouted at them sarcastically. “Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?” She shot Gianna a suggestive grin.

“I said, fuck off!” They crossed their arms, their phone clutched tightly in their hand. “Can we just go already?”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “We just got here. Why don’t you go home with someone else for once? Loosen up, have a little fun!”

Shelby’s arms tightened around their chest, and they opened their mouth to protest. “I’d be more than happy to help with that,” Gianna cut in.

Blush rose to Shelby’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure you fucking would.” Their chair nearly toppled as they got to their feet. “Whatever, I’m calling an Uber.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “You’re such a killjoy.” They didn’t dignify her with a response before storming off across the club.

Taylor didn’t seem keen to go after her, and the other two hung back, exchanging uncomfortable glances. Gianna gave them all a sympathetic smile before she turned to pursue her prey.

She found Shelby near the entrance, tapping furiously at their phone screen. “Hey,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. They stiffened, but they didn’t turn toward her. “I’m sorry if I was being too forward. Do you need a ride home?”

Their back was still turned, but she heard them snort. “Like that’s not the most forward thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll take an Uber, thanks.”

She approached casually, sliding an arm around their shoulders. They stiffened as she leaned in close and murmured, “Come on, let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do.”

Her lips brushed their ear, and that was all it took. The tension melted out of their shoulders, their phone lowering. They were quiet for a moment before they cleared their throat. “I … guess you could take me halfway there?”

She squeezed their shoulder before letting go. They’d feel the effects of her touch for another few minutes, and she’d sneak in another dose along the way. Of course, she’d prefer not to use it at all, but Shelby was a difficult target. A little persuasion would be necessary. “I’d be glad to,” she murmured.

Gianna took off her gloves to drive. Shelby was quiet in the passenger seat, their face turned out the window, their phone all but forgotten in their lap. “What’s your address?” she asked.

They didn’t turn their head, but their voice still sounded a little distant as they said, “You can drop me off at the corner of Fourth and Fremont. I’ll give you directions.”

“Oh, no worries. I know where that is.” Her house was that way, anyway—just a little farther down. Maybe Shelby actually lived near her; that was an interesting thought. “I really am sorry about earlier, by the way,” she added. “I know I can be a little pushy. And your sister … well, she didn’t seem very nice.”

They blew out a sigh that lifted their bleached bangs, propping their chin in their hand. “Fucking tell me about it. She’s a real asshole sometimes.”

Gianna suppressed a grin. “Oh? What’s she like?”

“She thinks I should worship the ground she walks on just because she’s letting me live with her.” They rolled their eyes. “I’d appreciate the favor more if it didn’t come with so many fucking strings attached.” They cut off abruptly and glanced at Gianna. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“That’s alright.” The car was rapidly approaching the corner Shelby wanted to be dropped at. Gianna leaned over and laid a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of her power flow through her palm. “Are you sure you want to go home, then? Maybe it would be nice to spend a night away from her. She sounds so overbearing.”

When she glanced over, Shelby’s lips were parted, their eyes halfway glazed as they gazed out the windshield. “I, um …” Gianna removed her hand, allowing the poor thing to think a little more easily. They blinked hard a few times. “She is overbearing,” they admitted.

Giddiness rose up in Gianna’s chest, but she couldn’t let it show. She rarely allowed herself to play with people like this, but god, it was fun. “Well,” she said, in her best logical, concerned tone, “take a break from her, then. It’ll be good for you.”

The intersection passed by, and Shelby blinked again as they realized. “Where are you …?”

“You can stay the night in my guest bedroom.” Gianna’s voice was pleasant and soothing, trained to perfection. Her powers may have only worked through touch, but people always responded well to her words, too. “You won’t have to see your sister again tonight.”

“Alright,” Shelby agreed quietly. Their hands rested in their lap, their eyes forward. “Thanks.” Gianna smiled.

It didn’t take much longer to get to Gianna’s house, a quaint two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. It was a bit big for one person, but Gianna had always liked it, and the extra space came in handy for guests. Shelby was quiet and pliant as Gianna led them inside, a gentle hand between their shoulder blades. The lightest touch was enough to keep them relaxed all the way up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

Once they were in the room, Shelby paused, trying to gather their wits. “Ah … thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Of course.” Gianna smiled, her heart thumping. “Could you come in here with me for a moment?” She nodded toward the guest bathroom, attached at one end of the room.

They looked confused, but with her thumb rubbing circles between their shoulder blades, they followed her into the bathroom. She flicked on the lights and casually grabbed the pair of handcuffs she’d left on the counter earlier. Shelby looked even more confused at the clink of metal, and when they spotted the cuffs, they stiffened.

They made to pull away, but Gianna grabbed their wrist, channeling her power into the touch. Their phone cracked against the floor as they dropped it. “It’s okay,” she murmured, like she was soothing a frightened animal. Her heart pounded. She’d never done this before—never tried to calm someone over anything truly objectionable. She wasn’t even sure whether it would work. Shelby’s wide, fearful eyes flicked from the handcuffs to Gianna’s face, and she smiled at them reassuringly as she gripped their wrist. “It’s alright; you’re okay.”

Their mouth was agape, struggling to protest, but their body was like putty in her hands. One cuff clicked around their wrist, and Gianna gently guided them closer to the towel bar before looping the chain around and securing their other wrist.

“Good.” She removed her hands and stepped back to admire them, feeling giddy that it had actually worked. They twisted their neck after her, their lips still slightly parted, distress in their eyes. She scooped their cracked phone off the ground and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” Their bewildered gaze followed her as she shut them in the bathroom to wait for the effects to wear off.

Read part 2 here

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Winners

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

For @amonthofwhump Day 8: John Mclane | Held Hostage | Russian Roulette | Forced to Watch | Comfort: Rescue

CW: Murder most foul, very brief gore, captivity, whumper POV, sadistic whumper, referenced shock collar and noncon (brief)

As always, Jax Gallagher belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with their permission and input

-

When Isaac Marcoset holds out his hand, his steward is already stepping forward to give him the gun. 

He smiles, closing his fingers around the familiar grip, custom-built for larger hands, his fingers weighed down with rings. It feels like simply an extension of his limb. The family heirloom has been with the Marcosets since the 19th century, handed down from father to son as each took over as the head of the family business.

It’s a beautiful gun.

“Everything is ready?” He asks, already knowing the answer. The question isn’t for the steward’s benefit, or for his own - it’s for the benefit of the three unlucky men sitting at the table. 

Their eyes are on him, and Isaac is truly in his element in moments like this - he is the power and force in the room. It’s his whim they’ll all be subjected to, and not all of them will survive. None of them deserve to, granted, but Isaac enjoys the occasional extension of mercy. It makes his cruelties stand out all the more. 

“Yes, Master Isaac,” His steward replies, quietly unobtrusive. He was brought in as a young man and has been with the family for nearly two decades, a creature of perfect loyalty for the family that owns him. 

Unlike the man his niece insists on keeping, who Isaac has more or less been forced to keep track of while Savvie is out of town yet again on a tour.

That irritating creature doesn’t get a seat at the table, and Isaac doesn’t like the way he seems capable of befriending all the staff of the house so quickly. He’s keeping Jax close this time around, even if the man is nearly unbearably annoying.

Jax, the slave his niece lost and he recaptured for her and who she is definitely fucking now - disgusting, but Savvie has always been headstrong and stubborn. She denies it, of course, but the loathsome man himself has been perfectly happy to elaborate unnecessarily and in the crudest of terms as to what is going on at Savvie’s home at least three nights a week these days. If he says the words ‘sex slave’ one more time, Isaac’s going to duct tape his mouth shut and leave him in the stables until Savvie comes back.

In any case, his niece’s erstwhile kidnapped lover has been given a place against the wall and told not to move a muscle or say a fucking word unless he wants his arm broken again. He isn’t here because he deserves to be, but because he is a living example to the other men of what the Marcoset family can do to those who displease them. 

He’s a walking example of a fate worse than death. 

Based on the flat, empty look on his face, he’s well aware of it, too.

Isaac was in a foul mood earlier, and the asshole Englishman has plenty of bruises now to prove it, although he’s calmer now. Nothing soothes a bad day better than punching Jax in the stomach just to see him double over in pain. Savvie’s irritating attachment to the man is the only reason he’s even allowed to live after all the trouble he’s caused. Isaac kills runaways who aren’t useful, and he assumes Jax must have at least three brain cells working, since he seems to know that Savvie is the only reason Isaac didn’t simply leave his body in his father’s apartment to be found shortly before he murdered the father, too.

No, it was Savvie's insistence that Jax be brought back to her, and the father be left alive.

But... Savvie isn’t here for him to simper at and hide behind, not now. He's utterly at Isaac's mercy, and he's smart enough to know Isaac has very, very little mercy at all. 

“Good man,” Isaac murmurs to the steward, tipping the gun this way and that, giving it some thought. This, too, is for the benefit of the three men at the table, who look increasingly uneasy with every passing moment. 

At least they aren’t stupid enough to start yelling or begging again. He’d just kill all of them if they gave him another headache.

The steward steps back and folds his hands behind his back, standing next to the place Jax has been told to remain. Isaac doesn’t see the way that the steward briefly touches Jax’s shoulder, a sign of sympathy and solidarity - if he had seen it, he’d have beaten the steward within an inch of his life, too. He doesn’t see the way Jax manages a slight, faint half-smile in return before carefully shifting away.

Isaac, instead, is busy gesturing using the gun. “You see that man, gentleman? The one right there next to my steward?”

He watches each of them look at the underfed, overdressed man against the wall, who stares without expression back at them from beneath carefully styled auburn hair. Isaac smiles as their eyes catch on the shock collar tightly locked around his neck, scratchy nylon above the crew neck of his luxurious cashmere sweater.

They look back to Isaac. One of them nods. 

Isaac addresses that one directly. “He’s Marcoset property, bought as a gift for my lovely niece. Then… he ran away from her. He dared. He had his daddy call the cops and he tried to put my niece in prison.”

The second man - the one in the middle - clears his throat and then hesitantly asks, “He… did put her in prison, though, right?”

Behind him, there’s a noise. Isaac glances back, but Jax’s face is exactly the same, no sign of a smile or the huff of laughter Isaac thinks he heard. He turns back to the men. “Yes,” He acknowledges. “She did go to prison. For quite some time. But then… she was released.” He checks the chamber of the gun, idly. One bullet, six spaces. 

Isaac spins the chamber and smiles at the satisfying clicking sound it makes. Honestly, this is his favorite gun, even if it isn’t the one he uses most often. Although this pistol has killed a lot of people since his grandfather first bought it.

He clears his throat. “Once she was out, I recovered him for her. Brought him back to where he belongs. Brought him back to my niece’s loving embrace.” He pauses, but Jax has no quippy little reply for this. No, he seems to be smart enough to know this isn’t the time to push his luck. “No one runs away from the Marcosets. No one. He tried - he was gone for years - and we still tracked him down and brought him back. He won’t run again. Will you, Jax?”

Jax doesn’t answer. Refuses to play along with Isaac's game.

Isaac will make sure he regrets that later. 

Savvie never minds a few new bruises, as long as her little slave can still do whatever she wants, whenever she wants him to do it. As long as he’s still able to obey, and fuck her, and tell her she’s pretty. As long as she can still tell herself he loves her. His niece is not stupid - well, in some ways she is... but she is primarily delusional.

Isaac knows better than to poke holes in that delusion.

Besides, the idiot creature makes her happy. 

He moves on. “Now, each of the three of you is a known associate of someone who ran away from a Marcoset,” Isaac continues, as if Jax had played his part. “Each of you provided that runaway with invaluable assistance. Each of you was exposed by said runaway once we recovered them. Three men sit at this table. Two will leave here alive, with my simple suggestion that you not aid a runaway from Marcoset family properties again.”

Isaac would tower over everyone else even if all of them were standing - he’s tall, and more than that, he has the Marcoset build of muscle trending towards bulk. He owns every room he walks into, impossible to ignore.

“Let’s play, shall we?"

With the gun loosely held in one hand, he walks slowly behind the first man. The lights catch the clammy sweat on the man’s face, making his dark blond hair brown around all the edges where it’s damp. His breathing is an audible rasp as he gasps in and out. 

“Oh god,” The man whispers. “Oh god, oh god, oh god… Please, pl-please, please no… oh god-”

Isaac smiles. “You gave a safe place to sleep for someone who ran from my oldest son Brayden,” Isaac rumbles, enjoying the man’s clear terror. “We brought her back to him, and he has ensured she will not run again. Frankly, she’s lucky we only cut the tendon on one leg.”

Against the wall, his steward remains expressionless. Jax glares up at the ceiling, hands behind his back. Isaac is sure he has them closed into fists, and wonders how often the man dreams about hitting him. Isaac glances over, smiling slightly at the sight. 

He raises the gun and presses the barrel against the back of the first man’s head, listening to his soft whimper. “Please,” The man whispers one more time. Tears stand in his red-rimmed eyes. The chair creaks.  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t kn-know, she l-l-lied to me-” The man’s voice trembles with his fear, and Isaac sighs, as if disappointed in it. “I-I didn’t know!”

“Yes, you did,” He says simply, and pulls the trigger.

Click.

The man flinches with a cry, then exhales in a rush when he realizes he’s still alive, and starts weeping openly right there at the table. Isaac catches himself licking his lips, and moves on to the next man before anyone else might notice. 

“You will live. Don’t fuck with the Marcosets again.”

The next one starts begging before he even touches him with the cool metal, jerking forward as if he could escape even though he can’t stand. “Wait, wait, please, please, I didn’t-... I didn’t mean to help anyone! I just, I thought, I thought h-h-he was homeless, is all, I thought-... wait, wait, you don’t have to-... I can pay you, I can… I can pay you-! I have money!”

“I have more money than I could ever use, and spend more on clothes in a month than you could ever have to give me,” Isaac says amiably.

He pulls the trigger.

He’s actually vaguely surprised at the deafening noise and flash when the gun goes off. The man jerks forward, dead before he even knows he’s been shot, blood and bone and brain matter spraying. A few drops hit Jax on the face and he flinches violently. 

Isaac sighs, shaking his head, disappointed. 

The dead man’s leg jerks once, twice, three times, and goes still. 

“Well, that’s no fun,” Isaac murmurs. “Ruins all the tension of the game if the second guy gets the bullet, doesn’t it?” He looks over at the third man’s wild eyes ringed in white. He looks like he can’t decide whether to be frightened or relieved, knowing that the bullet won’t be meant for him. “I was really hoping to get a second round in before it got to one of you. Oh, well. I suppose he’s the loser, and you two men are the winners. Congratulations.”

The first man blinks, as if coming out of a daze, and slowly looks up, shoulders still shaking. “What…?”

“I said, congratulations. You two have an exciting opportunity not to fuck with my family ever again. Thank me for it, or we'll play again."

The third man’s lips are trembling as he manages a weak, “Th-thank y-y-y-you… it, it won’t h-happen again.”

The first man nods frantically. “Yes, it, it won’t happen-... thank you-!”

“Good.” Isaac walks away, crossing the room and stopping by his steward. The first man starts weeping again behind him. 

His steward is unmoved by the carnage - it’s not new to him, after all. But Isaac notes with pleasure that Jax’s face is white and he’s staring at the blood slowly spreading on the table around the dead man’s head, the bits of gray matter mixed in. The man's breathing sounds shallow and fast. 

Isaac leans in. “You two can handle cleaning up this mess?”

“Yes, Master Isaac,” His steward says quietly. “We will have this dealt with within the hour and the two living men will be removed from your property.”

“Good man.” He pauses, then snaps his fingers right in front of Jax’s face. He catches the man’s suppressed flinch as his eyes snap up to Isaac’s. He does so love the way Jax looks when fear overrides his usual anger. “You. Savvie’s little toy. Dinner is in two hours, and your presence is expected. You will be showered and dressed for it by then. Is that understood?”

Jax inhales through his nose. His mouth moves into a smirk, even though his eyes don’t reflect it. He says, in a low voice, “Wouldn’t miss family dinnertime for the world, Uncle Isaac.”

Isaac’s lip curls, hand twitching with the urge to choke the man to death right here and now, but… that would be losing his temper. He won’t do that now, not in front of the two men he very much wants to think of him as a terrifying man in total control. Instead, he just leaves them there, and he hopes Jax understands the message for what it is.

One man died today, just for helping someone get away.

If it weren’t for Savvie being stupidly head-over-heels for the idiot and insisting on not doing anything that might make him hate her - as if he didn’t already… well.

If it weren’t for Savvie's inexplicable obsession with Jax, Jax’s father would have been one of the men at the table, instead.

He still could be. 

-

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper cutting into whumpee.

Watching the flesh part under the tip of their blade like cloth coming undone.

The red beads of blood emerging from the wound and spilling forth over skin.

The panting breath and agonized sounds of whumpee's pain.

Whumpee's shuddering and struggles.

The power in the act of violence. The beauty.

[pancakesandpain]

A glance back to catch B’s wide eyes staring at them, their lips move but there’s no sound. A feels a small satisfied smile twitch on their face, curl their fist and hits the now limp and barely conscious C one more time.

A grabs the collar of C’s shirt with both hands and lifts them as they start to stand up, gives C a shake before dropping them to the floor, satisfied when all C does is moan painfully and then weakly trying to curl up on the floor.

A turn fully to B, who never even attempted to stand up, they are still on their hands and knees, frozen in a mid crawl. Like they wanted to go over to C, to help them or put themself between A and C, but was then grabbed by an invisible chain of cowardice and fear so completely they couldn’t move.

B stares at C and it looks like they’re ready to cry, but when A moves towards them their eyes snap back and it seems to unlock whatever it was that had had them frozen. They jolt backwards, hands and feet clumsily scrambling to push them back and away. The smallest whimper escapes them and A finally can’t hold back the grin, thinking they should beat up C more frequently if this is the reaction it gives B.

B flinch when their back hits the wall behind them and then press themself flat against it when A comes closer. Their breath is quick and hitching and A can see their pulse thudding in their throat.

“Oh, B.” A croon and hunches down before them. They reach a bloodied hand to B’s face and stroke away the strands of hair that have fallen over their eyes, almost tenderly. B is frozen again, wide eyes focused on A.

“See what happens when you try to hide behind others?”

[honeycollectswhump]

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided. 

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor. 

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long. 

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship. 

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship. 

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her. 

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering. 

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value. 

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone. 

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision. 

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for. 

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it. 

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up. 

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching. 

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around. 

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed. 

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it. 

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes. 

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork. 

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use. 

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all. 

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else. 

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through. 

Bone. 

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done. 

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know. 

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

[whump-me]

Obscure: Chapter 14

Chapter 14 of Obscure, novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the completed novel on Patreon

---

Kirill

Kirill didn’t have a guard escort him to Elias’s cell this time. That had just been for show. He was perfectly capable of getting in on his own.

Inside, the lights were dimmed almost to full darkness. A hint of yellow light remained, like a harvest moon. He had always found something sinister in the baleful glow of the harvest moon. Elias had told him it was nothing to be afraid of. Just an effect of the moon sitting lower in the sky. Now, as he stepped into the cell and eased the door most of the way shut, leaving it open just enough that it wouldn’t lock behind him, Kirill wondered if he had been right all along.

This was only the second time he had set foot in one of these cells. The first time was when he had tried to fool Elias into thinking he was his new cellmate. He had been playing his old self that day. He just hadn’t known it. No wonder it had come so easily.

When Kirill had come here, headquarters had assigned him a private room in the dormitories. In some places, private rooms might have been a privilege. Not so in headquarters. Here, they had to prove they were trustworthy enough for roommates.

His room had been half the size of this, with no toilet or sink. For the first few months, the door was locked all the time. He’d had to call a guard whenever he needed to use the bathroom.

But this room felt like a cell the way that one never had. Maybe it was because he’d had a drawer under his bed where he could keep any personal belongings—not that he’d had anything to put there. Maybe it was that PERI had called it a dormitory, like he was away at some fancy boarding school. He had been young enough then to be swayed by a difference in words.

Or maybe it was as simple as this: he had chosen it. No one who ended up in one of these cells had chosen to be where they were.

Elias muttered incoherently and rubbed his eyes, the sound of the closing door bringing him awake. Kirill didn’t say anything yet, and he didn’t walk closer. He looked down at the man in the bed, Elias’s figure indistinct in the dim harvest-moon light. He saw his best friend, but impossibly old. He saw his prisoner, his adversary, but impossibly familiar. The two couldn’t coexist. But they were both there in the same man.

Elias sat up. He showed no outward surprise when he saw Kirill. But his fear leaked through in his memories.

“Is this your next tactic?” Elias asked. “Catching me half-asleep, while my defenses are down? Not letting me have a moment of peace?”

“I don’t need a new tactic,” Kirill reminded him. “I already have one that works.”

He instantly regretted his words as a look of raw disgust came over Elias’s face. Maybe he should have been disgusted with himself for threatening Elias’s son. Maybe he would have been, if he hadn’t spent so long hollowed out inside.

How had he never realized there was nothing in his heart but the obscuring fog?

He still didn’t know the answer to Elias’s question. He didn’t know who had been before the obscuring, before he had come here. He had changed in the decades since Elias had obscured him. The nooks and crannies where his old memories used to live were gone or reshaped, as unrecognizable as his current face would have been to anyone who had known his teenage self. His mind was a muddle now, the once-sterile space transformed to a chaotic jumble like the remnants of a house in the aftermath of a tornado.

“Then why are you here?” Elias’s eyes were flat. Like Kirill’s own eyes in the mirror. Only the trickle of memory betrayed that Elias was feeling anything at all. And it was a small trickle. Mostly anger.

“I thought we could talk somewhere that wasn’t an interrogation room,” said Kirill. “Somewhere we can have a real conversation.”

“I’m sure this room has cameras, too.”

“They’re off.”

“You don’t think anyone will find that suspicious?”

“I need to talk to you.” The sound of his own desperation in his voice surprised even him. Not because he had been trying to hide it. But because, until he had spoken, he hadn’t realized what he was feeling. He wasn’t used to feeling anything that was his own. Anything that wasn’t what the person he was talking to wanted him to feel.

Elias didn’t want him desperate. Elias wanted him gone.

“The room isn’t the problem,” said Elias. “The problem is that you’re assigned to destroy what I built, and the cost of that destruction is measured in lives. The lives of the people you’ll abduct if I give you what you want. The lives of the people we won’t be able to save in the future.” Elias looked down at the metal bracelet. The cuffs were gone, but the bracelet remained. “And you still threatened my child.”

The memories spilling out from Elias weren’t pure anger anymore. They were a confusing, chaotic darkness. Half-remembered nightmares. One second, a rage-inducing image—an intricate model smashed to pieces, all its delicate parts twisted beyond repair. Elias yelling out through the small house, demanding to know who was responsible. The next second, he saw his own younger face—not blurry anymore, but still the face of a stranger—disappearing under opaque green water. He felt the panic in Elias’s body as if it were his own.

He couldn’t tell what Elias was feeling toward him anymore. He probably didn’t want to know.

“I can’t give you what from me,” said Elias. His memories were a tangle of emotion, but his voice was perfectly even.

Kirill still didn’t know what he wanted, only that Elias was the only person who could give it to him. “Just… talk to me about the past,” he said. “It’s hard to make sense of the memories after all this time. They barely feel like mine.”

He sat on the edge of Elias’s bed. Elias recoiled. He swung his legs over the side and stood, careful not to let any part of his body touch any part of Kirill’s.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to remember,” said Elias.

“I don’t want to see it through your eyes,” said Kirill. “I want to see it through my own. I lost so much. I never understood how much I was missing.” Was this how everyone else went about their lives, with the memories of their childhoods clear in their minds? Not a crayon sketch, but a series of full-color recollections, with all the emotions as strong as the day the memories had been formed? How did anyone live with this much past in their heads?

Elias stared at a point past Kirill’s left ear. “I thought it would be kinder that way. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have left some of the guilt. I never imagined what you might become without it.”

An icy wave of shame washed over Kirill. Not at who he was—he was doing his job, he was being what PERI needed him to be, and wasn’t that the only right thing? Wasn’t that what he was for? Was this jumble of memories, memories that barely felt like his own, supposed to change all that? So far, all it had done was make it harder for him to do that job. It had filled him up until there was no room for what he needed to be. The memories had made him useless.

The shame was about the look in Elias’s eyes. He had never wanted to let Elias down. He remembered that much. It was why he had climbed that tree in the first place, even though he had known it was too high.

Maybe Elias was wrong about his lack of guilt changing him. Maybe Kirill was wrong about how Elias had hollowed him out. Maybe this was who he had been all along, but with Elias in place of PERI, Elias showing him what he needed to do and who he needed to be.

Maybe all Elias had done was make him better at being who he was.

He wished he could hold out the jumble of memories in his head and ask Elias to take them back.

He probably could have asked. Elias had the power to do that. But he didn’t ask.

“There’s too much in my head,” said Kirill, looking up at Elias like a supplicant. “Help me sort through it. Tell me about… I don’t know. Tell me about the marsh.”

“You still haven’t told me why I should.”

“Or tell me about my parents. I remember them, but the faces all blend together. I can’t remember which parts are Mama Kelly and which parts are Mama Charisse, and which parts are Papa Graham, and…” His vision blurred. It had been simpler when his family had been a crayon drawing, when he hadn’t cared about the nuances between one stick figure and the next. “Which ones were mine?”

“All of them,” said Elias. “That’s how it worked there.”

“You won’t even give me this?” Kirill asked.

“Will you give me my son?” Elias countered. “Will you guarantee his safety?” The flow of memory surged. It grew darker, the memories tinged with grief. The boy’s memorial service. Elias and the red-haired woman screaming at each other—the woman saying she knew there was something going on that Elias wasn’t saying, Elias telling her she had to accept Sammy’s death.

If he were still who he had been in those memories, he would have promised to keep Sammy safe. It was what Elias needed. But memories couldn’t erase the decades that had passed. His two selves lived together in his head, uneasily sharing space, and his past self was the one that felt alien. When he looked at Elias, he saw an interrogation subject. He saw what PERI needed from him.

But what he saw lacked the sharp clarity he was used to. And he couldn’t begin to understand how to get it back. He remembered his plan. But his confidence was gone. In its place, he had the memories. He was too full of contradictory things. He was his own interrogation subject. He was full of memories that weren’t his, staring out through the eyes of someone he had never been. But Max stared back, wondering in confusion and a small bit of horror who this person was that he had become. And for a second, he saw through Max’s eyes.

Was that shame he felt?

No. Only anger. Elias had broken him. Once when he had taken his memories. Again when he had inadvertently given them back.

What did PERI need with a broken tool?

Who was he, if not what PERI needed?

“You asked me who I was before PERI,” Kirill said. “Maybe you can tell me.”

Another brief burst of memories from Elias, before Elias shut them down. “You already know now.”

“I was what you needed me to be.” Kirill’s eyes searched Elias’s. “Is that really all I was?”

Elias’s eyes widened, like Kirill’s words had surprised him. “Of course not. It’s only PERI that has you thinking like that.”

“Then tell me.” He heard himself begging, like it was an act he was putting on to get what he needed. But it wasn’t. He didn’t know what would make Elias gave him the answers he craved—except setting him and his son free, which was impossible.

And if he didn’t know how to get answers, he was broken, because that was what an interrogator did, and an interrogator was what they had made into.

You were made for this, Ramachandra had told him, once he had finished the battery of evaluations that would tell PERI exactly what he was good for. What she didn’t say was that PERI had made him for this, as surely as if he had come out of one of their labs.

“Do you think I want to revisit those memories?” A hint of roughness broke into Elias’s voice. “I’ve spent thirty years trying not to think about Max. You may think you’re him, but you’re not. Not unless you choose to be. Until then, it’s best for both of us to leave him buried.”

“How can I choose to be him if I don’t know who he was?” Then, as the tone of Elias’s memories turned to fear, he asked, “Are you afraid of talking about Max? Are you afraid of feeling something, in case I use it against you?”

“You’ve done it before.”

“I won’t this time. Not about this.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Now Kirill saw how hard Elias was working not to look directly at him, and how unnaturally even Elias’s breaths were. The only reason Elias felt so little right now was because he was doing everything in his power to hold the emotion at bay.

“You used to trust me more than anyone else in the world,” Kirill reminded him.

“That was Max,” said Elias, and left it at that, as if the subject was closed.

Maybe Elias was right. Maybe the solution was to leave Max dead and buried. He was Kirill now. He had been Kirill for longer than he had been Max. He couldn’t be both of them at once, the dutiful interrogator and this alien teenage boy. Maybe the way to remember how to be Kirill again was to send Max back to the grave he had crawled out of.

And if Max was dead, Elias had been the one to kill him. He didn’t owe Elias anything. Especially not if Elias wouldn’t help him figure out how to be Max again.

Elias wanted Max gone. Kirill would give him what he wanted.

He stood without a word and left.

It was time to get back to his job. It was time to follow through on his threat.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: The Voice That Shakes The Stones (Part 2)

Continued directly from this, but will make more sense if you've also read The Rose Queen parts 1 and 2.

This one follows part one in terms of getting some plot stuff out of the way up top and then some Really Heavy Whump in the back half lmao

TW for: broken bones (including ribs and spine), blood, aftermath of beating/caning, past/referenced child abuse, referenced parental death, referenced decapitation, Again Broken Bones To The Extent That It Is Essentially Body Horror.

----

Morden raises a sculpted eyebrow at Tern. “Been opening my mail, have you?”

Tern looks at him; or at least Morden assumes he does. Tern wears an elaborately constructed mask sewn out of feathers and leather and bone, and removes it very rarely.

“I open everyone’s mail,” Tern says.

Morden knows this, of course. He has no secrets to keep from his own Falconers, and if and when such secrets do arise, he will simply have Thorne deliver them. If Morden feels—caught off guard, set on edge, it is no fault of Tern’s, and snapping at his own Scout will not help him feel more in control, anyway. Morden arranges himself more casually at his desk with a bit of effort.

“What do you think of the Lady’s proposal?” he asks, forcing his voice back into its usual light and airy register.

Tern tilts his head. The mask makes him the most actually-birdlike of all the Falconers, a fact Morden usually finds endearing, though he is struggling not to be annoyed by it at the moment.

“It’s my job to know things, not to act on them,” Tern says finally. Which is a letdown after such a long thoughtful pause, even though it is also true. Morden does not roll his eyes, but the temptation is there. “What do you think, Mord?”

Morden sits up straight and brushes his hair from his face. What he thinks is, she must have eyes in the Castle that Morden can’t see, to be able to time this missive so exactly. But that thought is uselessly paranoid—Tern would know, and Tern would tell him—so he is not entertaining it. Or vocalizing it, either.

“I think she’s audacious,” he says instead, which is true. “And I think I had better consider carefully before I think anything much else.” He folds the letter back up, so that he will not keep reading it uselessly over and over, and looks up at Tern, pretending to make eye contact through the mask. “In the meantime, make sure the Prince doesn’t die, will you? I may finally be able to put him to some use.”

Tern nods, and stalks out silently, still in his soft-soled scouting boots.

Morden makes it, optimistically, another five minutes before he unfolds the letter to read it again.

“Your desires have aligned neatly with our own, dear Crane,” reads the now-familiar script, “and the appropriate sacrifices have been made.”

Morden has not yet opened the accompanying jeweled and gilded casket, but the size and heft of it—and, more importantly, the smell—makes him fairly confident he knows what will be inside.

“A healthy partnership ought be reciprocal, however,” the letter goes on.

Morden chews his thumbnail, a nervous habit he does not often indulge. He scolds himself; he is only now realizing how he has begun to enjoy his exchanges with the Rose Queen, how they have begun to feel so like a game of chess against an interesting opponent as to make him forget the stakes. It has left him feeling—exposed, now, at best; trapped if he is not careful.

He needs to make a plan.

----

This is not part of Crow’s job.

It’s all very well for Tern, who relays Crane’s instructions—“Fix up the Summer Prince; the White Crane had his fun and now wants not to play with broken toys”—and then scurry off with the excuse of some Important Scouting Duty, which Crow suspects is probably bullshit.

When Morden introduces the Falconer’s, he says that Crow’s job is “Throatcutter,” the one who makes sure everyone’s theatrics have resulted in actual corpses at the end of every ambush and skirmish. And although that isn’t all he does—far from it—that is certainly part of his job. If the White Crane had said, “I’m too busy to finish killing the Summer Prince, finish that up for me, will you?” Crow would have done it, and with a whistle and a spring in his step.

Crow is built for ending lives, it’s truly what he’s best at. He doesn’t prolong pain on purpose; he isn’t Raven. Once a creature is past a certain threshold of injury, keeping it alive becomes—boring and sad, and little else.

The Summer Prince flops slightly at Crow’s feet, as if hearing him think this. He is moving like a deboned fish. Sounds a bit like one, as well.

Morden is going to owe him, and Morden doesn’t enjoy owing things, even to his own Falconers. So at least, Crow thinks, there is that.

“I don’t suppose you can walk,” Crow says. He slides the toe of his boot underneath the writhing shape of the Summer Prince, meaning only to nudge him slightly.

There is—more give in the ribs than there should be.

The body at his feet spasms violently as the Prince tries to curl in around himself. He manages to twist his torso in a way that makes Crow’s gorge rise a bit in spite of himself, his handless arm flopping over and up to haphazardly cover his face. His legs don’t move at all.

Crow contemplates, very briefly, the idea of picking the Summer Prince up off the floor and carrying him to Heron’s quarters, or more probably to the Castle’s Healer. He doesn’t mind blood, as a rule. The blood would not be the problem.

The Prince heaves in what must be his first full breath since Crow entered the room several minutes ago. It scrapes audibly against his throat; the effort of taking it arcs his back up off the floor, except that his legs still haven’t moved. Something—either ribs or spine, Crow isn’t sure which—grinds audibly inside him and he loses whatever air he has managed to take in in a single quiet, bubbly-sounding wail.

“Eugh,” Crow says, and turns his back on what is rapidly becoming the corpse of the Summer Prince. Where has that bloody wolf pup got himself to? Cleaning up Morden’s messes is literally that kid’s whole job.

----

(Andry can’t see. He can almost breathe, if he tries very hard. It feels like lifting a very heavy weight, and at the height of each breath there is a sudden stabbing pain in his back, just left of the center, that makes him twitch. He is in—water, maybe. Or anyway his face and shoulders and ears feel wet. His lips feel wet, too, although the inside of his mouth feels very dry indeed.)

(He must have hit his head, he thinks. He knows that burning cracked-egg feeling well enough, in his temple and below his right ear and on the high point of his opposite cheek. And his back is cracked open that way too, not sharp and bone deep like the whip but broad and blunt and shattered like his father’s cane.)

(His father is—dead, he thinks, around the buzzing in his head, like bees tangled up in cotton wool. The White Crane cut off his father’s head, and Andry could not catch it when it was thrown. And now he cannot even tell if he is sorry. His father did kill him once, after all.)

(He had known where he stood with his father, though. His father was not elegant and smiling, like the White Crane.)

(Although the White Crane was not smiling this time, was he, Andry thinks; no, this time he was angry, and the worst part is that Andry does not even know why.)

(…Andry thinks that is the worst part. Then he tries to move his legs.)

----

Heron is the Falconers’ battlefield medic, and he is not a healer. He has smelling salts in his bag that will get a man to his feet and into the fray with an arrow through the stomach; and skill enough with a needle and a bandage to patch up even serious punctures well enough to heal on their own. He even knows the basic alchemy needed to keep a wound from going septic about seven times out of ten.

In this situation he is useful only in that he has a stretcher he is willing to bring to Thorne’s chamber in exchange for the privilege of seeing a mutilated body.

Crow returns with Thorne and Heron after about five minutes, and it is clear as he nears the threshold and begins to hear the Prince’s breath whistling in and out, like wind blowing across a broken bottle, that the boy has not done him the great favor of dying in the interim.

One of the Prince’s eyes is open when Crow stands over him again, but it is rolled back in his head far enough to hide all but a thin ring of blue-purple iris. The other eye is already swollen too far to open more than a crack. Every time he takes a far-too-audible breath he shudders, violently, exactly twice. His torso is still twisted at that odd angle, as though he has tried to roll over onto his side without lifting his hips.

Thorne has been helping Heron carry the stretcher. When he enters the room he drops his end of it with a loud clatter.

Heron does not seem to notice, though he gamely drops his end of the stretcher, too, so that he can dart closer to the body, his pale eyes glittering behind his physician’s mask.

(Tern and Heron are both masked more often than they aren’t; both masks, as far as Crow is concerned, are products of paranoia. Tern is convinced some authority or other is going to discover his identity, as though that would matter now that he is at the right hand of the conqueror of a whole damned country. Heron is concerned about inhalants. This seems sensible sometimes, even to Crow; Heron takes apart something like a half-dozen cadavers a week in pursuit of his craft. However he also wears the mask when it is just the eight of them alone in the Nest or in their rooms here at the castle, and that seems like overkill to Crow.)

As always, Heron’s hands are light, and clever, and ruthless. He pulls the Prince’s fluttering eyelid up and peers closely into his eye, tipping his head back quite gently. Then he presses his fingers against the Prince’s shattered ribs with slow, deliberate pressure, using his hand in the Prince’s hair to keep the Prince from curling up in a ball at what must be excruciating pain. Heron’s face is quite close to the Prince’s answering gasp. Crow, a safe distance away with his arms crossed, thinks to himself that perhaps Heron wouldn’t need the mask if he was willing to do his job without getting so very close.

When the Prince has relaxed out of his pain-spasm, Heron taps twice on the sharp edge of the Prince’s sharp recently-starved hip bone with a gloved fist. The Prince’s gasp this time is much quieter, more of a hiccup than an airless scream.

When Heron stretches out a booted foot to give the Prince’s calf a not-particularly-gentle kick, the Prince doesn’t react at all.

“That’s interesting,” Heron says, his voice dark with things Crow finds professionally distasteful.

----

Thorne left Andry—what, thirty minutes ago? An hour? Surely no more than that. Thorne left Andry asleep on the couch at the foot of his bed, wrapped in Thorne’s borrowed sheets, curled up like a child with the stump of his missing hand tucked under his chin.

Thorne’s bedsheets are in disarray, now, on the floor in front of the couch. There is blood on them. There seems, at least to Thorne’s suddenly spotty and blurred vision, to be blood more places than there isn’t.

Heron’s hand is on Andry’s throat, now, prodding narrow deep bruise that is forming there. Heron is hovering over Andry with the same excited twitchy over-interest with which he treats any sick or injured person. Thorne is familiar enough with Heron’s attention to remember the growing unease and sick, crawling discomfort it inspires.

He usually finds it easier to look away.

“Well go on,” Crow snaps at him from where leaning against the wall, looking mildly disgusted but little else. “Get him on the fucking stretcher already.”

Thorne’s instinct to obey is honed sharply enough that he moves to follow the order without thinking. So at least there is that relief.

[whump-queen]

There’s something about the way your heart beats in my hands.

The way I feel your gentle pulse just beneath my fingertips. How it flutters when I ever so slowly squeeze.

The way your warmth drips down my skin.

Trickling down pointed nails, kissing around a thin wrist.

A living muscle, strong and unyielding in its pace—

so long as I continue to let it.

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 2

Read Part 1 here

CWs: whumper POV, kidnapping, mind control, gaslighting, belting/whipping with a belt, restraints, noncon touch

It only took ten minutes for the shouting to start. Gianna sat placidly on her couch and listened to the muffled curses coming from upstairs. It turned out that Shelby was very creative when pissed off; Gianna was excited to hear what they’d come up with under real duress.

Still, she didn’t rush it—she wanted to make sure her influence was well and truly out of Shelby’s system before she got started. She enjoyed the ebb and flow of their shouts for a while before she finally slipped her silk gloves back on, gathered her supplies, and headed upstairs.

At the sound of her approach, the shouts in the guest bathroom abruptly went quiet—only to explode when she opened the door. “What the fuck?!” Shelby demanded, twisting around as best they could in their restraints. With their hands cuffed to the towel bar, they had to crane their neck in order to face her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Gianna hummed as she deposited her supplies on the counter next to the sink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” they hissed. The handcuffs rattled against the bar as they gestured. “What the fuck is this?”

It was so tempting to take off her gloves and soothe them again, but at the same time, her body thrummed with excitement at their anger. She could definitely get used to this—their defiant scowl, the hint of fear in their eyes … “We’re just having a little fun, that’s all.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Besides, I don’t remember forcing you to be here.”

She stepped back just in time to avoid their lunge, and the cuffs rattled and scraped against the towel bar. “I don’t want to be here!” they shouted. “I don’t know what the fuck you did to me, but—”

“How could I have done anything to you?” she asked innocently, hands clasped behind her back. “You didn’t even take the drink I offered you. You agreed to come here, didn’t you?”

Uncertainty flashed in their eyes, but it was quickly replaced by rage. “I agreed to spend the night, not—whatever this is.” They swallowed as they spotted the supplies on the counter. They took a deep, measured breath. “Just—just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Now turn around.”

They backed up against the wall, still facing her with their arms twisted awkwardly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picked up the kitchen scissors from the counter. “Turn around, or this is going to hurt much more than necessary.”

Their eyes widened, their breaths becoming shallow. “You wouldn’t—”

Without warning, she jabbed the scissors into their arm. They yelped and sucked in a breath. She smiled as she leaned forward. “I said, turn around, beautiful.”

Slowly, they complied, taking shaky breaths as they gripped the bar in front of them. In a way, Gianna did find it beautiful: the way their shoulders trembled, their knuckles turning white, their head bowing in anticipation. The bathroom mirror hung just across from them, so even with their back turned, she could see their eyes wrinkling around the edges as they squeezed them shut.

She snipped the scissors, delighting in the way Shelby flinched at the noise. “Now, stay still,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t want to cut you.”

She teased the blade against their exposed lower back before slicing up their thin, skimpy shirt. As they realized what was happening, they let out a gasp, but they stayed still, stiff and trembling. Gianna smiled; they were a quick learner.

Just for fun, she ran the scissors down the dip of their spine. This time, they flinched, arching their back away. “Careful,” Gianna murmured. She drew the scissors away and admired the expanse of their back, a blank canvas. Reverently, she ran her gloved hand over their bare skin.

They jerked away, pressing into the wall. For a moment, it startled her; she was used to being leaned into, not pulled away from. “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!” Shelby snapped.

She just smiled. By the end of this, they’d be begging for her touch. She put down the scissors and picked up the belt, folding it over. “Well, if you really don’t want me touching you …”

They caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, and the blood drained from their face. “No. No, no, no—”

“Just relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The hard smack of leather against skin startled her, but the cry it drew from their lips was divine. She paused to admire the mark across their shoulder blade. Their muscles rippled as they panted, squeezing the bar tight. “Don’t—”

She hit them again, and again, and again. Power rushed through her—a more raw, exhilarating kind of power than anything her persuasion could give her. By the seventh strike, Shelby was crying. By the twelfth, their legs shook with the effort of keeping upright. Every whine and whimper and cut-off plea gave her chills; it was absolutely gorgeous.

Still, she couldn’t have fun forever, not if she wanted to keep her toy. She stopped precisely after the fifteenth strike, resting the belt in her hand. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over the welts on Shelby’s back. Gianna couldn’t help it; she put down the belt and ran her hand over their shoulder blades. They cried out, trembling as they arched away.

A thrill ran through her, and she grinned. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m about to make this so much better.” She pulled off her gloves and laid them on the counter.

Shelby cowered away. “Don’t.” Their voice was thick with tears. “Don’t touch me.” They flinched as her hand reached for their shoulder.

As soon as her skin made contact, they went limp—knees thudding against the ground, wrists yanking painfully upwards. A pitiful moan escaped their lips as their big, teary eyes gazed up at her.

A surprised laugh burst from her lips; she hadn’t expected it to work quite that well. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” They nodded eagerly, distressed and desperately leaning into her touch. She cupped their face with her other hand, and they melted against her, eyes slipping shut as she thumbed tears from their cheek. “Oh, you poor thing.” She laughed again, feeling giddy. The rude, defiant person she’d met back at the club was nowhere to be found. Shelby was like putty in her hands.

She let go long enough to unlock the handcuffs, and Shelby whined the whole time, as if they’d rather stay locked up for an eternity if it meant she’d never let them go. Their arms fell limply to their sides, and they winced at the pain, their chafed wrists twitching. The remains of their skimpy top slid down their arms, and they didn’t even seem to notice, still chasing Gianna’s touch. She grabbed the spare t-shirt off the counter and helped them into it. Each brush of her fingers against their skin made them sigh.

Seeing them like this was intoxicating. Of course, Gianna was used to people adoring her, wanting to be near her, but this was something else entirely. Shelby followed her movements like a moth drawn to a flame, desperate for her touch. It was incredible; she could easily get addicted to this.

“Come on, sweet thing, time for bed.” She helped them to their feet, and they clung to her side all the way to the bed. They flopped down like a ragdoll on top of the covers, head lolling on the pillow. God, they were just helpless—maybe she should have held her powers back a little … She caressed their cheek, restraining the flow of her powers as she did so. “God, you’re so stupid like this,” she murmured

To her surprise, there was a flicker of something in their eyes, a downward twitch of their mouth. “’M not …” They shook their head, then paused, as if worried Gianna would disapprove.

“Oh, of course not, beautiful.” She smiled as she climbed onto the bed next to them, sitting up against the headboard. She kept petting their hair. “You’re just so good for me.”

Again, there was that twitch in their face, like they were struggling to form a scowl. Their cheek nuzzled into her palm, muffling their words. “Fuck off.”

Gianna’s eyebrows shot up, and she paused in her caresses. “What did you just say to me, love?” she asked, wondering if she could get them to say it again—wondering how far her powers really extended into their psyche.

They sighed against her skin as their hands balled into fists. “I said, fuck off.”

And yet they curled closer to her, their cheek pressed into her hand. A slow grin spread across Gianna’s face. “Interesting,” she murmured. “Tell me, what does this feel like for you? If you have the capacity to explain, that is.”

Their eyes narrowed, and they finally seemed to break out of their stupor. “Asshole.”

She started petting their hair again, and their eyes fluttered shut with a sigh. “Answer my question, sweet thing.”

They exhaled deeply. “It’s like drugs,” they finally mumbled. A pause. “It’s better than drugs. No pain, just … bliss.”

She hummed thoughtfully. Few people knew about her powers, so she didn’t get many opportunities to experiment like this. “So when I take my hand away …”

She dragged her long, manicured fingernails across their back. “Fuck!” They recoiled, shuddering. “Stop!” As soon as she touched their forehead, they went limp again, swearing under their breath.

“Interesting.” She scratched their scalp absently. She never knew her powers could have a pain relieving effect … This could be interesting—in the future, of course. For now, her little toy needed a break. “You’ve been very good, pet.”

“I’m not—” They shivered with pleasure, leaning into her touch, their voice a low growl. “I’m not your pet. I’m gonna call the fucking cops on you.”

Gianna just hummed doubtfully. “And you really think they’ll believe you? You came here willingly. I didn’t force you to do anything.”

They lifted their head, starting to pull away. “You handcuffed me in your bathroom!”

She grabbed their hair and dragged their head back down against her leg. “You let me do that, pet.” She added just a smidge more persuasion as she massaged her fingers against their scalp. “You could leave, if you wanted to, but you’re lying here with me. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” They didn’t budge an inch.

“You have such a hard time getting along with people, don’t you?” She kept her tone light, but from the way they flinched, she could tell she’d hit a nerve. “But it’s so nice that you’ve warmed up to me like this. Now you have someone aside from that awful sister of yours.”

Her persuasion didn’t linger for long after an encounter. In the long-term, she couldn’t convince someone of something they didn’t already believe. But if Shelby already believed they were unlikeable, if they felt deep down that no one would take their side in this … Well, if they thought that, then it wasn’t Gianna’s fault, was it?

Shelby shifted against her leg, but they didn’t respond. Gianna kept running her fingers through their hair. Their bangs were fried from bleach; maybe at some point she could help with their hair. After all, she couldn’t have her toy looking like they didn’t take care of themself. But that was a problem for later. “Well, you’ve had a long night,” she murmured. “Get some sleep, beautiful.”

They shook their head. “Don’t want to …” A yawn slipped out, and their eyelids drooped. Before long, their breathing grew deep and even. Gianna smiled and kept petting them, dreaming about what else she might do with her new plaything.

~

Tag list: @whumpshaped @paperprinxe @suspicious-whumping-egg @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @toyybox @mommymarichatfurever @cardboardarsonist

[pigeonwhumps]

Contract 2

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @whumplr-reader

Introducing Bug's primary handler.

696 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, whumper pov, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper (sadism only mentioned), dehumanisation, institutional pet whump, mentions of breaking people, mentions of torture

Bill jerks awake when the papers slap him in the chest.

"I wasn't asleep, and they're secure anyway," he murmurs. Then he sees who's standing over him and scrambles backwards. "Shaniqua. You're 134U's primary?"

"The one and only." She smirks down at him. "You're lucky it is me. Sleeping on the job? What would people think?"

Bill shrugs. "The paperwork's finished, this sofa's comfortable, and the new pet isn't doing anything interesting."

"I didn't think you'd have finished staring at their tits yet. Apparently, I was wrong."

"You were. I mean they're cute, and their tits are gorgeous, but there's not enough fear there yet. There's only so long you can watch a pet stay in one place when you're unable to do anything to them."

"You should become a handler. We'd love to have you."

"But then I wouldn't get to watch the intake. That's the fun part, especially with defiant ones. Getting to watch their fear and resignation."

"Oh yeah, that reminds me." She whistles sharply. "726E, heel."

A young man trots into the room carrying two plates of food and a jug of water. Bill raises an eyebrow. Shaniqua doesn't usually eat while she works.

"The nachos are for you. And you'll see what I'm doing with the rest of it. 726E, place everything on the coffee table."

726E obeys, then kneels gracefully at Shaniqua's feet. She ruffles his hair.

"Good boy."

Bill remembers this one, he thinks. One of his most defiant intakes initially, but so quick to snap like a twig at the first hint of pain.

"Entertainment class, huh? What tricks can he do?"

Shaniqua grins. "Roll over. Play dead. Freeze."

The pet freezes like a statue, one arm and a leg in the air.

"Okay, back to default."

He moves back to a knelt position at Shaniqua's feet.

"You've done wonders on him," says Bill admiringly. "Final test today?" Shaniqua nods. "How do I help? Surprisingly, my shift has never actually ended up coinciding with one before."

She chucks a mostly-full notebook onto his lap. "Stay with him while he watches the new intake, and write down whenever he has any sort of reaction to it. I need to make sure they're in line with what his prospective wants."

"Gotcha. Can I play with him?"

"Later. If you promise to be extra good in bed tonight."

Bill grins, already relishing the thought of both. "Now that's a deal I can get behind."

"Excellent." She pats the carpet at Bill's feet, and 726E crawls over, kneeling there instead. Then she wanders over to the intake room (plate and jug in hand) and peers through the floor-to-ceiling window at the new pet. "Certainly cute. Good call on the hair, by the way. I'm surprised though. That's a lot of restraints, even for you. Your manipulation skills going?"

"The information their foster parents gave was sparse, and they don't have a lot that I can guess they care about. Brute force was the best way to go."

Shaniqua whistles lowly. "Okay, yeah, I get it. Not so easy to use that. Wow. I feel like I'm gonna have a lot of fun with them."

Bill chuckles. He knows she enjoys using the more advanced methods to break and rebuild pets, that's why she did extra training, but she doesn't always get much of a chance.

"Just... I don't know, be a little careful? We spent a lot of money on them. You remember how long you had to spend training on X-designated pets before you learned where to stop."

Shaniqua flips him off without looking, and he smiles. She gets irritated by him constantly bringing that up, but it's true. She probably has the highest track record of Xs entirely destroyed. It's a good thing that's why they keep them.

Shaniqua squares her shoulders, grins, and saunters into the intake room. The door locks automatically with a quiet snick, a sound all pets learn to be afraid of.

He picks up a cheese-covered nacho and pops it in his mouth, nudging the pet at his feet to make sure he's in his peripheral vision. Now to sit back and enjoy the show.