#Whumper pov

[the-bar-sinister]

me in real life: torture and murder are horrible and you shouldn't do them.

me in fiction: torture and murder are literally the two sexiest and most fun things you could possibly do and you should do them all the time.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Easy Way

cw: institutionalized violence, abuse of authority, torture, interrogation, vague threats of noncon, forced to strip (referenced)

an Asbury POV drabble for @paperprinxe

÷÷÷

He almost feels sorry for number 3844. 

No family, no friends. From a planet so backwater he doesn't even have a birth certificate on record. Scars and tattoos put on display by the strip search, marks of a lifetime of gang violence. 

Part of Asbury knows it's no small wonder the boy joined the Riot Kings. What else could he do with the hand life had dealt him? But he still joined the Riot Kings, and that does tend to put one at odds with the Fleet.

Asbury watches ‘44 squirm in his chair through one-way glass. Name, age, and hometown are all in bold at the top of the file he was handed when he stepped through the door, but he let them slip through his mind at the earliest convenience. Right now, the prisoner doesn't need a name. He's just a number, just a suspect. Two simultaneous detonations at the Imhotep Healthcare Directory yesterday, and Mainfleet wants someone booked for it. Maybe ‘44 did it. Maybe he didn't. Either way, Asbury will get his confession.

The interrogation room is kept at a cool fifty-three degrees. 3844 is stripped to his boxers, ankles chained to the ground to keep him from curling his legs to his chest. All by design, of course. It's only when the suspect is openly shivering that Asbury opens the door and takes a seat across from him, a thick jacket zipped up to his throat and a smile on his face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

‘44 doesn't reply. Typical song and dance. All the Riot Kings think they're tough shit, but he's had the majority of his intakes in tears by five o’clock. ‘44 won't be any different.

“I'm sure you know why you're here. Big explosion. Property damage, civilian casualties, all sorts of bad things, and you're our number one suspect.” He taps a few buttons on the side of the table, and a digital form appears in front of ‘44. “Mainfleet thinks you did it. I can't say I disagree. So I'll give you a chance to take the easy way out. Sign a confession, accept your sentence, done.” Asbury slips a stylo from his sleeve, rolling it across the table to where ‘44 is hunched, eyes locked on the confession form. The line for his name, the box for his thumbprint.

“Come on, it isn't difficult.” He folds his arms, leaning back to watch him. “One quick signature and this will all be over.”

‘44 doesn't seem to want it to be over. They never do. They never know what's coming. Asbury doesn't miss the way his eyes trail from the stylo to the document, perhaps considering. But then his stare locks onto a spot directly in front of him, and Asbury knows a choice has been made.

Maybe he thinks there's not enough evidence. Maybe it's just pride, rearing its head for one last hurrah. But there's a reason there's no cameras in the interrogation room. There's a reason they don't snap an intake photo until after initial questioning's complete.

‘44 tenses as Asbury comes up behind him, chains rattling as his hands try to raise and shield his head. Unfortunately for him, there isn't nearly enough length for that. The suspect's head bounces off the table as Asbury slams it forward, nose cracking on impact. He lets out a startled gasp of pain, the loudest sound he's heard '44 make so far.

He always gives them a chance to do this the easy way.

Asbury palms the back of the suspect's head, slowly forcing it onto the table, shoulder over wrist until the full weight of his torso is keeping him down. He gently rocks his skull back and forth, all pressure on that broken nose as ‘44 shrieks.

It's rare a suspect takes his offer. A Riot King certainly never has, so he isn't surprised. Just a little disappointed at the repeat mistake.

‘44 lets out a whine as he pinches a piercing between his thumb and forefinger, stud pulling at the cartilage of his ear. Asbury uses the leverage to steer him, repositioning his head so his cheek is pressing into the table, face smeared red.

It doesn't take a confession to book a Riot King, but it's the most surefire way to keep them locked up. One more criminal off the streets, one less danger to the public. Even if it's likely ‘44 is the perpetrator, it doesn't matter if he is or not. He would've done something similar eventually. They all do.

“I told you to take the easy way out,” he says, still pinching ‘44’s ear to keep him still. “Of course, it isn't too late.” He releases the suspect, taking a step back. “I'm just as willing to keep this going as I am to take an early lunch. Really, that's all up to you.”

“Fuck you,” ‘44 mumbles. Ah, look at that. Finally talking. Asbury shrugs off the expletive, once again more disappointed than surprised. Time and time again, the Riot Kings have proven they'd rather suffer needlessly than cooperate. But what else should he expect from a group of misguided punks?

“Alright, I see you want to keep going.” He kneels beside him. “Are you right or left handed?”

No response. He sighs exaggeratedly.

“I'll take a guess then.”

There's about an inch of slack between the metal leg of the chair and the wristcuff; nowhere near enough to enable ‘44’s struggles, but he still does his damnedest as Asbury catches a bony finger and snaps it, wincing as ‘44 lets out a deafening scream right next to his head.

He really needs to start wearing earplugs, or his tinnitus is going to keep getting worse. 

Breaking every finger would be overkill, so Asbury stops after the index and the pointer. If ‘44 remains stubborn, he'll dislocate the left thumb next, but he'd prefer not to stack on any more injuries than necessary for something as simple as a confession.

When he stands, ‘44 is slumped against the table, taking heaving, pain-pitched breaths through his mouth.

“I hope you weren't left-handed,” Asbury says, eyeing the stylo. “But even if you are, as of right now, you have a set of fingers that are still good to go. As of right now.” He leans on the table, eyes fixated on ‘44’s blood-smeared face.

“Unfortunately, you may not have the privilege of using your remaining set for very much longer. See, I'm here to entice you to sign a paper, and if you have two broken hands, you can't do that. And if you can't sign a paper…” He shrugs. “Well, there's no point in me being here, is there?”

‘44’s eyes are wide as he stares up at Asbury. There's fear there now, he notes with satisfaction. Exactly what he needs to get this ball rolling.

“Without a signed confession, we'll have to proceed the old-fashioned way,” he continues. “Gathering evidence, building a case, prosecuting. Consumes time and resources. And that whole time, you'll be in a holding cell. Not the end of the world, the guards will make sure you're fed, but some of them will also be looking for… company.” He shrugs. “And you'll have two broken hands.”

The suspect's eyes widen a fraction, breaths hissing through clenched teeth as Asbury leans on the table beside him, hips just about level with ‘44’s face.

“And sure, eventually the investigation team will find what they're after. One way or another, you'll be going to Phaestus.” He feels the suspect flinch as he reaches down to brush his thumb across his cheekbone. 

“All it really boils down to is how long you'd like to spend in that holding cell.”

÷÷÷

Maybe ‘44 was left-handed after all. 

The name that winds up scrawled at the bottom of the page is a scribbling mess. Then again, that could just be his handwriting. The Riot Kings aren't exactly known for being educated.

‘44 looks defeated when the guards come in to drag him away, and Asbury swears he can see tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of him wishes he could snap a picture of this moment, show today's rebel youth what happens when you join up with terrorists, but that isn't his job, is it?

He leaves the puddle of blood and spit on the table for the cleaners. 

Beside it, right where the digital form had glowed, sits a bloodied stylo and a thumbprint in perfect scarlet.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Augusnippets Day 1: Brainwashing

CW: 2nd pov from whumper's perspective, brainwashing (obvi), general Gothic whump

In the shadowy dining room, whumpee sits alone, candlelight flickering across his expressionless face. His folded hands lie motionless in his lap. His eyes stare at nothing, two blank windows that open into emptiness.

Perfection. Just what you always wanted. A beautiful, flawless doll of your own.

“My dear whumpee,” you murmur, “I see all our hard work has paid off. You look exquisite.” Gently, you brush the back of your hand against his collar and down his silk vest. Its embroidery glimmers like stars.

Whumpee remains statue-still at your touch. Just what you always wanted.

“Not a single thought in your head,” you muse aloud, walking around whumpee to examine him from all angles. “Of course I can always change that if I want. But for now, this emptiness is—”

With an echoing crash, the door to the dining room slams open. Caretaker. The ferocious glint in his eyes delights you. Such a contrast to the magnificent blankness sitting before you.

“You’re too late, as usual.” You stride forward, shielding your precious whumpee from view. “I’ve already completed the process. And only I can reverse it. If I choose.”

“Then do it,” caretaker growls, drawing his weapon, “or I’ll make you beg for death.”

How silly. Threats mean nothing to you now, in the wake of your triumph. You step aside, revealing whumpee’s seated form, frozen and lifeless as if made of porcelain. Caretaker gasps and rushes forward.

“And why would I undo this,” you ask, gesturing at whumpee, “when at last I’ve created the perfect living doll?”

@augusnippets

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

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@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[paingoes]

Crash Out - Reflection

Birthday, shower thoughts, shrooms

Paris reflects on the birthday incident and his life in general

(Content: whumper turned whumpee, (ex) royal whumpee, living weapon whumpee, whumper POV, past abuse, abuse apologism, dehumanization, beating, drugs, addiction, body image, minor emeto, suicidal ideation, guilt, death mention)

It was his birthday and the same night everything was destined to be destroyed. The Castle Thales seemed to know this and did its best to look haunted. The warmth of her presence broke through all that was the cold and crystalline. She was the only one he could stand to speak to.

Everything had been fine until they’d ended up back in the main hall and that old argument started up again.

Delta knelt at the side of the throne with the golden chain around his neck. All the bruises had been painted over carefully. He looked bored more than anything else. One hand played idly with the thread of the carpet. He did not see them come in.

Lorelai went rigid just as soon as she saw him. She pulled away from Paris as harshly as if he’d hit her.

“…You really keep him there all night?” she asked in unease.

He rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed. He didn’t want to go through it again now. Not on his birthday. He wanted a single fucking night where he didn’t have to think about it.

“Yeah,” he answered flatly. Obviously.

Her expression darkened, “And you make him wear a leash.”

“Who cares?”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, “Can you imagine how he feels?”

“Oh my god, are you still on about that commie shit?” He moved one hand to his hip, his irritation deepening. He was tired of explaining this. She wouldn’t understand.

“You are mean,” she said. She said it like it was a revelation, like it was something that was supposed to surprise him. Like she was finding it out now for the first time.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“You’re worse each time I see you.” 

Something like horror was dawning in her eyes. She was the only person he cared about in the world and in that moment, he swore that he hated her.

~

One year later, in the bathroom of a rundown motel, he washed the dirt off of his hands and carefully re-bandaged all the places the skin had torn. The air was heavy with steam. It opened up the shredded membrane of his throat. It distorted his reflection.

“Can you imagine how he feels?”

The thought came to him without warning, but with the kind of day it’d been, it didn’t come as a surprise. And he couldn’t have imagined it, not really. He’d never spared Delta the time, or even the consideration.

But he was starting to. He could almost imagine it, forced down onto his knees by the barrel of a gun, the blindfold tied over his eyes. He’d treated it like it was nothing. Empire demanded sacrifice — from everyone. It was all just more of the same.

He wiped at the mirror to reveal the litany of bruises along his skin. His body was turning into a minefield of scars. It was meth thin, and tired often. He’d done such a number on it.

~

Twelve hours earlier, Lorelai’s ship had pulled down onto the clearing of the festival. For all that had happened, the partying had went on uninterrupted throughout the entire trip. She’d asked if he wanted to skip it for a little bit, since his head was fucked, and since his body was fucked, and since he’d almost died. He said no.

It didn’t take them long to disappear into the crowd, about as indistinguishable from any other pair of losers in their twenties. She could get along with anyone — and he was finding it was a lot more tolerable to talk to people when they didn’t know who he was.

They found refuge in the company of the spring-breakers. College students. They were easy to work. The fine arts student pulled a knitted pouch from within her purse.

“No. None for you. Don’t give him any,” Lorelai insisted, popping a handful of the shrooms into her mouth.

“I’m fine,” Paris said.

“No. You always freak out.”

“I’m literally fine.”

“Don’t give him any.”

They waited until her back was turned before making the handover. 

“I took it,” he said, the moment she turned back.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

~

“You know what? Fine.” He yanked at the chain around Delta’s neck, harder than he needed to. He slid the key into the lock. The chain clattered loudly to the floor.

“Fuck both of you.”

He stormed out. It was freezing on Thales that night and he could barely feel it. He was hot. He was burning all the way through the wood path.

He stomped up the ramp of the ship and all the way to his room.

Empire demanded everything. It would erode away at any happiness he might’ve gotten, any other life he might’ve had. He would give and give and give and get nothing and still keep at it endlessly. He’d made his peace with it. 

He thought he did.

And still he thought he might have her. 

Empire would rob him of that too. It was the final intrusion, one final act of self denial.

He handled it with all the grace of someone off six different stimulants.

He tore his room apart and he took everything in it. He was in the grip of it. All the scorn and betrayal bubbled up and coiled and burned. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

She belonged to him. 

They both did. 

~

Through the thin walls of the motel room, he could hear her on the other side. She laughed softly, her voice indistinct as she took the call.

She could never know. He’d tell her almost anything, but this she could never know. 

He tried to imagine saying it to her now. He tried to imagine telling her what he’d done that night. The fear and the shame coursed through him like ice. He never could. 

Everything he owned fit inside of the trunk of her ship. There was so little that belonged to him anymore. 

~

The shrooms crept up on them about midway through the set. They hit her first. He saw the way her eyes dilated, the little mania that crept into her movements, and knew he did not have long to go. Sure enough, the colors shifted, and the strange vibrations through his body picked up in synch with the bass.

He thought it was fine. In the busyness and brightness of the crowd, he could almost forget that it was his destiny to freak out each time he went on psychs. It was only as the sky darkened and the music quieted that he felt it crawling.

They were in the woods. Why hadn’t he realized it until now? He stumbled back to the college kids’ little outpost and found that they were surrounded by woods on all sides. He was on the ground. He was in the dirt. Something large and tiger shaped crested in his periphery. Something dog-headed flashed behind his closed eyes — and the harder he tried to push the thought from his mind, the more it wanted to stay. He whined miserably into his crossed arms, hiding his face in the grass.

“I told you not to take it,” Lorelai sighed, combing her fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, meaning it. 

“Shh,” she said. She kissed his temple. “Just ride it out.”

~

It was so easy to blame Delta. He’d gotten into the habit of it. And Delta took it so endlessly. He never fought back. 

Paris would never be happy. He’d known it for a long time. Empire demanded sacrifice. It demanded and demanded and demanded. Paris would give to it endlessly, everything. He did everything for it.

He was so fucking sick of it.

He did not dream of a better life. He dreamed of dying. He dreamed of crashing the ship into the side of a mountain and killing everyone onboard. He dreamed of unlocking Delta’s collar at the ball and unleashing upon all of them a fury that they’d all done everything to deserve. He dreamed of death in a million different ways.

Paris hated his life. He hated Empire and that nuclear bomb they had built up in his brain, the child they’d ripped from his home and turned into a machine, the fucking symbol of all that had ever gone wrong. Real evil burns and coils and glows. It destroyed cities and cut civilians in half. It cauterized wounds and bled from the mouth. It was down there now, with one of Lorelai’s hands pressed up against its own.

Because Delta was so fucking blameless. He’d never had a choice, he heard Lorelai’s voice in falsetto.

What fucking choice had he had, either? Delta got to be blameless. And he got to be worse each time I see you. He got to be mean.

He did the last of the line off of the cracked sink.

He’d show them fucking mean.

~

He felt around in the space between his ribs. He traced careful fingers over the star-shaped scar on his chest and then again over the bandages on his palm. It still hurt nearly too much to touch. He didn’t know when it would heal again. They’d stitched it up for him at CTRL and they had not even done it painfully. He hadn’t understood why. He still didn’t understand why.

The word mercy tasted sour against his tongue. It spun sickly within his mind. 

Wasn’t he just a little bit disappointed when the gun was removed from his mouth, when his life was extended any longer than it had to be?

And wasn’t he so devastated when he learned that he was spared?

He traced the scratches along his arms. Delta’s claws had gotten in deep. It was some of the last traces of him left on the earth. All the rest was buried at the bottom of the ocean.

It wasn’t fair.

He didn’t deserve it.

~

One of the art students gave him a sketchpad just to shut him up. He took it, grateful to give any form to the horrific intrusions.

He drew wolves, mostly. Wolf heads. Lorelai laid down on the grass beside him. The others were sprawled out a bit further away. 

She wanted to share the paper with him. He held it in between the two of them. His drawings were scary, at first. All the wolves had eyes in their throat. All the lions had teeth like knives.

But she filled in the empty space with vines and flowers until it looked like a jungle you’d find in a children’s book. She said she wished they had paint. He remembered she’d been good at that. They’d have gotten a lot of mileage out of it. 

He felt his fear dwindling. He felt guilty that he let it.

He knew he freaked out whenever he took it. He did that with most things, really. Did he even like drugs? Why had he taken it?

~

Paris barely heard him. So much adrenaline coursed through his system that even seeing felt like an impossibility. He didn’t bother holding back anymore. He didn’t want to.

The impact broke the mirror open and scattered the shards all across the floor. He threw Delta roughly down on top of the broken pieces, not caring. The glass crunched beneath his boots, crystalline, iridescence.

Everything was ruined. Everything was ruined and there was no coming back. There was no hope.

He pulled his leg back and drove it straight into the side of Delta’s rib, listening for the crack that followed. He hated it. He hated all of this so much he could not stand it. He was spiraling, he knew, completely lost in the goddamn tantrum. He didn’t care. He wished they’d both just fucking die.

He yanked at Delta’s collar again, dragging him into the bathroom. He was going on about some shit that Paris didn’t understand, that he couldn’t even begin to care about. If he’d been listening, if he’d really been anywhere but inside his own head, he might’ve noticed that Delta had been crying. That he’d started begging. He didn’t notice. He took a rough handful of his hair, forcing his head back down whenever he squirmed too much.

The water reached the rim, and he’d forced his head under that, too.

Delta laid gasping within the tub, the thick strands of his hair slick and wet across his face, his wrists bound up in chains. He’d tried to speak again. He couldn’t. Paris clamped a hand over his mouth. He didn’t want him to speak, to interrupt his own spiral. He wanted to feel it all, to drown in it.

“I hate you,” he said.

And Delta’s eyes got wide, probably wondering what he’d done wrong, as if it’d ever been about him at all.

~

He tried to throw up, but nothing could come out. He hadn’t eaten in days. It’d become habit. His hands were shaking and his nose was bloody and the hot steam of the bathroom made it so that there was no coolness to the tiles. He felt no relief even as he pressed his skin against them, as badly as he wanted to lie down on the floor and never get up. He was sick.

He could still hear Lorelai through the door, the faint sound of the phone call, and of her music playing in the background. She seemed to know, always. He heard her rising up from the bed, a gentle knock at the door.

“Paris?” she called softly through it.

He winced, closed his eyes. How could he ever begin to tell her?

He was sick.

~

Did he even like drugs? He asked himself this again and again, still sprawled out on the grass, still with her beside him. The night was on in earnest now. Thousands of stars peppered the sky. The music student said there would be a meteor shower tonight. Maybe they’d get lucky.

Why had he fought so hard and so fiercely? They’d come all this way, across a hundred different planets, across an entire year. He’d dragged her from her home and across the galaxy. It was such a desperate bid.

He must have wanted to live. This was the behavior of someone who wanted to live.

And so why had he gotten drunk every night of the trip, and each night before that, ever since he turned fifteen? He’d taken the pills off the street when he could afford to pay for the real thing. He’d forgone the test kits, when it was no trouble for him to get them. He’d taken more than he should and he’d picked fights he couldn’t win. He’d spent hours prodding at Delta, at an atom bomb, just hoping for something-

He hoped the ship would crash sometimes. He hoped the stars they passed would explode without warning. He hoped for one thing, desperately, and he had for as long as he could remember.

I want to die.

It was a quiet admission. He could only say it in his head. Lorelai was tripping too hard, it would throw her in a bad way. But as it surfaced, there was no way to submerge it again. It rose up all at once.

Death evaded him. It was denied to him. Was he ever relieved afterwards? He wasn’t. He hadn’t been.

The world was cruel as it was endless — and it was out for him. He would die just as stupid and evil as everyone else had been.

But then they’d been so careful when they pulled him out of the grave. They’d bandaged his hand and stitched it without hurting him, even when they had every right to. They’d given him blood from their veins when his own had run out.

Lorelai’s hot tears had fell onto the bare skin of his clavicle. She’d clung to him when he was found. She didn’t want to see him in pain. In spite of everything.

She killed for him.

I want to die.

And as soon as he admitted it, he didn’t want it anymore.

“Lorry, I think I need to get sober,” he said.

She turned over in the grass, whining a little bit.

“Me tooooooo. Why is it lasting so long?”

“No, like, permanently.”

“Oh.” She poked her head up. “Are you serious?”

His hand rested against his chest. He could feel his heart beating beneath it, quick and painful. The same frantic rhythm it’d been honing for years. He nodded.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Her face turned back into the grass. He looked back up into the sky, waiting for his heart to settle down, waiting for meteors. Absently, her hand reached out for his own.

~

On the morning after his birthday party, Paris woke up with sick clarity, and he knew he’d done something he could never take back.

One week later, Delta was dead and the kingdom was lost.

~

Paris stood up roughly from the bathroom floor. He pulled a clean shirt over his head and combed his hair out with his fingers. 

As he looked up into the clouded mirror, he remembered the shards that had spilled out onto the floor of Delta’s room. He’d broken the mirror.

Seven years of bad luck.

He was sure he’d earned himself so much more than that.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[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]

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

[ironwhumper359]

The Swan and the Songbird

An interactive whump adventure

Once, their love protected them. Now, it has doomed them both.

— — —

“Has he broken yet?” 

“No, my lord. He has remained remarkably resistant to both physical and magical methods.” 

“I see. I expected that might be the case.” 

“Worry not my lord, I have been developing some new runes that I plan to try at our next session, and I believe they will–” 

“That won’t be necessary, Kavenor. Your sessions with young Captain Lemont have finished.”

“I– my lord, you cannot be serious. No man is impenetrable; if only you give me more time to–” 

“If his mind had broken by now, I would have considered this mission a failure. He has proven his resilience to me, and now I intend to make use of him.”

“My lord?”

“Don’t give me that look, Kavenor. You are employed because of your arcane power and your lack of scruples, not because of your strategic thinking. To break a man and then simply discard him would be a terrible waste, don’t you agree?”

“Pardon me my lord, but how do you expect him to break at all without further torture?”

“I said that your sessions with him were at an end, Kavenor. Not that he would endure no more torture. There is more than one way to break a man. Now listen carefully, I have a new assignment for you.”

— — —

The men go their separate ways, and you must follow one of them.

Next

Author's Notes: This is an interactive story, where you the readers will at times control the point of view, the character's actions, and even major plot points. You do not control a single character throughout the entire story, so it's not quite "choose your own adventure" per say, it's more like you're the embodiment of the narrator, choosing where the focus of the story lies. I hope you enjoy!

[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.”

[justplainwhump]

They deserve it

This is a prompt fill for Day 3 of Whumpmas in July, @whumpmasinjuly-archive.

Set in parallel to the beginning of my BBU series Pet Safety, refers to the first two chapters.

Renee is just being a very creepy person.

Content / warnings: BBU, voyeuristic whumper pov, creepy/sadistic whumper, mention of (group) noncon, filmed whump, forced to watch, demeaning language, this is pretty rough in general. Also short pregnancy mention but that is in no way part of the whump, and not related to whumpee.

Renee has never told Cory, that she's paid WRU's refurb unit double to be sent the tapes of their pets' processing. He wouldn't understand, she wagered. Her husband had always had a soft spot for his plaything.

So she patiently waits until he is at work, before she puts on a record of Haydn's "The Creation" and then curls up on the couch to watch the tapes for a third time, just as the first soloist starts to sing.

They're vile, these videos, but it's that particular, thrilling flavor of vile, that makes the hair on her arms stand up and her heart flutter.

It's nothing sexual that she feels, as she watches Cory's pathetic little WRU whore writhe in the brutal hold of two sturdy Guards, underlined with Haydn's magnificent music. It's another sort of pleasure. Peace of mind, maybe.

The pet on the screen is in a disgusting state, covered in blood and come. One of the men in the video fucks her roughly from behind, the other lands punch after punch. And next to them, fixed to the white wall with clinical looking fastings, Renee's own pet, the good, perfect Rosa, cannot to anything but watch.

Renee smiles at the perfect composition of that ensemble. It's the same lazy, content smile she sees on her friends faces after a holiday or a day at the spa. She's ordered that treatment, after a short consultation with WRU Customer Satisfaction.

They deserve it.

Blanca deserves it for her audacity.

Rosa deserves it for her lack in loyalty.

Cory deserves it, for the too long looks he liked to spare for Blanca, for the lingering touches, for the barely veiled adoration of her whore body.

On screen, when the man pulls out, lets her drop to the floor like a wet rag only to make space for a fresh team, Blanca doesn't even react any longer. Pathetic.

Renee hums and takes a sip of that pricey, fizzy non-alcoholic peach drink she's bought just for this occasion and imagines it's champagne. She has to take care of herself and her body these days. Not too much stress, the doctor has ordered.

Good that she has just the way to unwind.

The video is silent, but it's easy to see that Rosa's cries must be devastating, as she witnesses the wayward pet get beautifully, perfectly ruined.

She'll never forget her place again.

Renee smiles fondly and rests a hand her rounded belly. There's a month or so still, until Rosa is needed back here, to fulfill the duty she's been purchased for.

WRU assured her that Rosa's loyalty would never be diverted again.

On the screen, a handler drags Blanca's lifeless body away.

"Bye bye," Renee whispers, and lifts the champagne flute to her lips.

Only Rosa remains in the white room, crying, strung up on the wall. Renee zooms in on her teary face and smiles softly. The video won't end for another 43 minutes. And, just like the last two times, Renee is not going to miss a second of it.

[whump-tr0pes]

Lux in Tenebris - Mors Part 2

Azazel is half-human, half angel. However, their angel mother is losing her power and perhaps even her very grip on reality. She is convinced that Azazel is Abaddon, a demon that she must punish and exorcise in order to redeem herself and set things right. Her mostly-human child can only hope to survive their mother’s increasingly brutal torture and convince her that they are, in fact, still her child - before it’s too late.

‘Stop’ | Punishment | Mors Part 1

Lux in Tenebris Masterlist

AO3

Contents: whumper POV, abusive parent POV, victim blaming, parental abuse, religious abuse, mis-naming, aftermath of [torture, physical abuse, strangulation], blood, rescue

~

Azazel’s mother paced back and forth, feet barely lighting on the worn wooden floor of her home. Beneath her, a floor below, her child – but it wasn’t her child, that’s why she had done all those things – lay dead, motionless, wrists still bound in the chains that had fettered it in life. Abaddon – infernal fucking monster, that creature, that thing – lay dead, and it wasn’t her fault.

But her hands shook. Tears fell down her cheeks like raindrops and soaked into her shirt, chilling the fabric like snowy runoff. She hiccoughed and wrung her hands as she turned and stared at the door to the basement. She had been shackled to this house because of the thing that lay beyond that door. She had been chained by her duty to rid the earth of the thing that had taken residence in her child, and she had done her duty. Her guilt was only part of the burden of the mission. A stumbling block, nothing more.

But Azazel…

She whimpered and pressed her face into her hands. It wasn’t her fault. She had done her duty. She had exorcised the evil from this earth.

And she had only been a little angry while she did it. Only a little resentful at the creature she strangled as she tightened the wire, only a little hateful, because it was the cause of all her suffering. What did it matter, her rage at the fragile body that she had battered and bruised, made to bleed, as long as she did her duty in the end? What did her own feelings matter, as long as her actions were sound?

What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? can faith save him?

Now that Abaddon lay dead, she was free. Perhaps now that the serpent was gone, God would smile down on her and welcome her back into His fold. Perhaps now that the demon had been cleansed from her child, she could go home.

She fell to her knees and wailed softly. But Azazel is also dead. Was that always the cost of my salvation? Was that always the answer? To kill Abaddon, I had to sacrifice Azazel? My child? My only baby? She sobbed and whimpered, pressing her forehead into the floor.

Perhaps that was the price. Perhaps she should leave her child below, leave their body to fester and rot as their soul had, with such proximity to the demon.

She raised her head and looked once more at the door to the basement, standing ajar like the mouth of a cave. She sniffled and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Then, she went to the ancient landline on the wall and took it down from its cradle. She dialed the number; even after years, she remembered it perfectly. It rang and rang. Her chest ached as she stared into the dark doorway of the basement.

The next ring cut off, and a familiar voice spoke over the line. She clutched the phone.

“This is Ezekiel.”

“E-Ezekiel,” she gasped, and the tears started anew. “This is—”

“I know who this is,” Ezekiel snapped. “You were never to call this number. You were never to communicate with any of us ever again.”

“I know,” she whined softly. “But… please. You have to help me. I—”

“You are Fallen,” Ezekiel said harshly. “Don’t contact me again.”

“Wait!” she cried. When Ezekiel stayed on the line, she wet her lips and continued: “I… I have a child. Something terrible has happened to them.”

Ezekiel was silent for a long moment. Then, “A… child? What do you mean?”

“My baby,” she sobbed. “I had a child with a human, and… Ezekiel, please. I… I think they’re dead.”

∴

Azazel’s mother chewed her lip as she looked out at Ezekiel, who stood on her front stoop. Frustration blazed out of his every pore. Not even his thundercloud expression could darken the light.

“What happened?” he said flatly.

She took a stumbling step back, and he stalked into her house. She suddenly became painfully aware of the dust smeared on every window, the grime on the floors, the cobwebs gathering along every corner of the house. Even the smell was stale. She swallowed tightly and met Ezekiel’s eyes.

He was glowering at her.

“What happened?” he said again, his mouth hard.

She burst into tears. “They… they died,” she sobbed, wringing her hands.

“How?” Ezekiel ground out.

She glanced at the floor. “Um… I… I was—”

“Where are they?” he said, turning his back on her and pacing around the living room. He glanced down the hall that led to her bedroom. She whimpered and stared at the open basement door.

He turned back to her and caught where she was staring. Without a word, he descended the steps.

She rushed after him. “Wait,” she gasped. He didn’t wait. “Wait, I, well, they were possessed,” she said weakly. “I was… I w-was… exorcising them…”

Ezekiel reached the bottom of the steps and felt along the wall. He flicked on the light. When his eyes fell on Abaddon, he froze in place.

They hadn’t moved from where she had left them. They lay splayed out on their side, wrists locked in manacles that chained them to the wall. Bruises and blood marred their face and arms. Their face was red and splotchy, eyes still half-open, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. And there was that thin, deadly line of red encircling their throat, with the flesh around it already beginning to mottle purple and blue.

Their mother fell to her knees and began to keen softly.

“Azazel,” she wept. “Azazel. Why did you have to be corrupted? Why couldn’t you—”

To her utter shock, Ezekiel slapped her across the mouth. She fell silent. Her tears stopped. When she raised her gaze to him, his eyes were wide in horror.

“This child was not possessed,” he rasped.

She blinked, staring up at him for a long moment. She stumbled to her feet. “Not possessed?” she said.

He shook his head, never tearing his eyes from them. “This child has never been touched by demonic power in their life.” His lips barely moved.

Azazel’s mother let out a huff. “They why,” she snapped, “Have they sapped my strength, my holy light, my life ever since they were born?”

Ezekiel knelt without a word, ran his fingers gently along the thin red line along their throat. “Pax huic domui,” he whispered into the heavy air of the basement.

Continuing the rites, their mother murmured, “Et omnib—”

“Don’t,” Ezekiel snarled. Her mouth snapped shut and she fell back a step, even though she stood over him. His eyes blazed with righteous fury. “You murdered your own child in cold blood and in your fucking hubris and resentment. Such a thing is an abomination. You are an abomination.”

She wet her lips. Her translucent hands tightened into fists. “How… dare you say that to me,” she said feebly. “After I have just… suffered this loss—”

“Leave us,” Ezekiel said through his teeth, turning back to look at the broken child. He did not turn back to see if he was obeyed. He was.

Once Azazel’s mother had slinked up the stairs, she began wailing to herself. Ezekiel ignored her and passed his hand over Azazel’s head. His fingers tangled in the sweat and blood drying in their hair. “Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini,” Ezekiel murmured. “Dominus vobiscum. Oremus. Introeat, Domine Jesu Christe, domum…” His hand stopped in its path through their hair. He turned his head, listening. Slowly, he slid his hand over Azazel’s chest and let it rest over their heart. A slow, sluggish beat pulsed against his palm. He let out a breath and withdrew his hand.

His eyes passed over Azazel once more. The chains were made of iron, he realized. He clenched his teeth so hard they sparked. The cuffs would have burned, if the child was a demon or was even possessed. When he checked the skin beneath them, the only marks were from years of wearing the cuffs. He tapped the chains. They fell away and clanked on the cold ground.

“Come, child,” he whispered as he gathered them to his chest and lifted them as easily as if they were made of paper. “I’ll take you away from this place.” Their head hung limp; their limbs dangled from his embrace. Their blood smeared on his shirt.

When he reached the top of the stairs, their mother rushed at him. “No,” she whined. “You can’t take them, what will I do without them? My baby, my poor baby… They’re… they’re gone…”

Ezekiel opened his mouth to tell her that they still lived, that their heart still beat in their chest. They looked into her limpid eyes, listened to her simpering moans. He thought of the red line around their throat. He thought of the blood staining his shirt. He could smell it. It smelled stale.

His jaw tightened around his wrath. “You are unclean,” he said coldly. “How can you perform the funeral rites?” He pushed past her and left her in her empty home. Her howls followed him as he carried them into the street. When he tired of listening to her, he folded space and bore the child to his own empty home.

Latin is from the Last Rites

Continued here

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[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper shivers with satisfaction watching whumpee go down in a heap on the ground, unable to do anything any more aside from curl in on themselves and groan. Whumper can't keep a smile from their face as they lick their thumb and use it to wipe a smear of blood off of their cheek.

"I did warn you," they remind whumpee.

[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

[whumpsmith-participates]

AI-less Whumptober 2024

Day 29 - Ownership, Branding

Tags/CW: female whumper, intimate whumper, 1st person, whumper POV,

How do you make sure that the people you care about never leave you?

It's quite simple.

You give them a permanent reminder of where they belong.

It took a lot of planning and effort on my part to get him back to where I wanted after he was taken from me, and kept from me. Moving to New York, then Massachusetts, and back again... Restraining orders, no social media, lying to his so-called friends about me.

How ungrateful could a person get?

That ungratefulness was one of the first things I was forced to beat out of him. I didn't want to hurt him, that was never part of the plan, but his attitude and actions gave me no choice.

Did I like to club him over the head in a dark alley and drag his unconscious body into my car?

Me?

Of course not! But he gave me no other choice... he knows better now, though. He hasn't tried to run for a couple of days. Though that probably also has to do with me finally finding the balance between keeping him exhausted enough to not fight, yet fit enough to still be able to dance.

After all, if he can't dance, I can't exactly call him my Star anymore, can I?

And I've been calling him that for years, ever since I first noticed his talent. I spent hours upon hours training him, teaching him, making sure he maintained the proper weight and physique, and my Star delivered time and time again.

He had such a bright future ahead of him...until his parents decided I was pushing him too hard and they took him away from me. I thought that was the end of it, but imagine my delight when I found out he continued to dance.

Even without me there, he still delivered. And I longed to be a part of that.

I deserved to be a part of that.

So I planned, and I prepared, and I performed, and I prevailed. I took back what was rightfully mine, and I trained him, and I tested him, and I taught him. I made him my Star again.

But it wasn't enough.

I couldn't help but to feel that there would still be a chance that he would want to get away from me again. Perhaps even succeed. So I had to make sure, that no matter what happened, he would never forget where he truly belonged.

I entered the studio where I was letting him stay, turning on the—admittedly—horrid lights, illuminating the dirty and drap interior. I'm sure it might have been a decent dance school once, but now the only echoes that remained of that past were the grand, floor to ceiling mirrors, and a barre so sturdy it put modern manufacturers to shame.

It was sturdy enough to hold my Star even, seated on the floor, his back resting against the mirror as his hands were cuffed to the barre above him. He stirred slowly as the harsh light roused him from his sleep, though he seemed fully alert by the time I stood before him.

I looked him over as I placed down my bag of carefully selected items, watching as he quickly straightened his back and sat up properly, looking up at me in case I had any instruction to give.

"Good," I said.

Praise should be given where it is due, after all.

"T-thank you..." he quietly responding, glancing away for a second.

That won't do at all.

"Thank you, who?" I asked.

"....t-thank you, M-mistress Joy..."

"That's better," I said, "but I can't help but feel disappointed that you still need a reminder."

"I-I'm sorry, Mistress," he quickly said.

I could tell he was desperate to please me, probably fearing punishment. Either way I couldn't blame him.

"I know you are, dear." I said, "You always needed a little extra help. Dancing has always been your strong suit. Thinking, however..."

He looked down again. He knew I was right. But as I'd already told him years ago: There was nothing wrong with him. And it was okay to simply...leave the thinking to the better able.

We worked best that way. With me doing all the planning and choreographing, and he just had to keep up with the pace. Count his steps, watch his lines, smile, and make it all look effortless.

"Don't worry, though. I thought of the perfect way to always remind you, even when I'm not around to do so," I said, crouching down to open the bag.

My Star stayed quiet. He knew better than to question me. Besides, he would find out very soon. I pulled a box from the bag, only the shipping label mentioning in a small section that it contained a "custom hot stamp."

It was an electric leather-working tool that allowed one to mark their work with their own logo, or in my case, initials. A self-heating pen with a little metal plate at the end with my custom design etched in. All I had to do was plug it in and wait for it to heat up. Luckily I had remembered to bring an extension cord.

The nearest plug was on the other side of the floor, by the window. The extension cord easily reached far enough, and whilst I fiddled with the electric logistics and tried to figure out how I was supposed to know it was hot enough, my Star could no longer contain his curiosity.

"M-mistress?" he piped up, "w-what do you have there?"

"You'll see," I replied, "don't you like surprises~?"

He didn't reply, allowing me to focus back on the manual and find I just had to wait ten minutes, give or take, for the device to reach the correct heat.

While I waited, I looked at the mirrored design on the plate at the end. It was a little star shape with my initials in it. It really couldn't be more perfect. Surely this would forever remind him where he belonged.

With me, as my Star.

When the stamp had finally heated up and I turned around to get it over with, my precious dumb little start seemed to finally catch up with what I was planning. His eyes widened, his face paled, and he began feverishly shaking his head, pressing further back against the mirror, while his feet slipped and squeaked uselessly over the floor in an attempt to get away, even if the he cuffs and the barre itself would never move an inch unless I wanted it to.

"P-please, wait..." he said breathlessly, "M-mistress please— No! Mistress Joy, please! Don't do it, please! Please! Please please please please please!"

As much as it pained me to hear him beg so desperately, I knew I had to go through with it. I knelt down, sitting down on his legs to stop him from kicking. My free hand weaved into his hair, grabbing a tight hold to stop him from wildly shaking his head. He wasn't perfectly still, but it would have to do.

"Please Mistress!" he sobbed, "Please no— AAAAAGH!!!"

The resulting scream when I pressed the stamp against his shoulder rattled my eardrums painfully, but I was willing to tough it out. This was for his own good. I wanted only the best for him.

"Hush..."

I pulled the stamp away, making sure to turn it off so it wouldn't burn too much of a hole in the floor. I stroked his face as he took deep, gulping breaths, still sobbing as I wiped the tears off of his cheek.

"It's over," I assured him, "you did so great."

He couldn't bring himself to reply, still gasping for air between sobs and coughs. I let it slide, just this once. I knew the mark hurt him. I could tell he was trembling from the way his cuffs rattled against the barre. The poor thing was so upset.

"Come."

I shifted my position, sitting on the floor next to him and guiding him to rest his head on my shoulder, but holding him to keep his shoulder straight. If he smudged the mark before it could heal, I would have to go through all of that again.

"I'm so sorry I had to do that," I said.

I really was. To see him so upset brought me no pleasure whatsoever, but unfortunately a permanent reminder was necessary. At least the worst was over now.

"Since it hurt so much, why don't we skip practice tonight?" I suggested, "You get some well-deserved rest for doing so well. We'll dance again tomorrow."

He didn't respond with words, but instead he just muffled another sob in my shoulder as he turned his head to bury his face against me. I could only gently stroke his hair in an attempt to comfort him.

"That's it...that's my Star..."

@ailesswhumptober

Masterlist Main account

Joy Adair is Xander's old and abusive dance teacher, as you can hopefully tell she's incredibly entitled and very desperate to regain control.

[whumpninja]

I’m pretty proud that I actually managed to give myself the shivers with this piece. This entry features Dr. Fowler and Kestrel from my story W.M.D.- it’s set a year or so before the main story begins.

Whumptober Taglist: @whumperofworlds

W.M.D. Taglist (let me know if you only want to be tagged in full chapters!): @whumperofworlds @mysticalburntpaper @scoundrelwithboba @paperprinxe @fruitypineapple00 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @lancedoncrimsonwings @1seaweedbrain1 @whumppsychology @ziptiesnfries @maracujatangerine @whumpsoda

Prompt used: Whumptober non-consensual body modifications (although I think painful transformation counts too)

Featuring: whumper POV, lab whump, medical whump, probably some level of body horror, blood/muscle/flesh/gross body things, Dr. Fowler is terrifying

Whumptober Day Four: Winged Victory

Metaphors were insipid things- comparing a pretty girl to a summer's day, or the feeling of grief to the sensation of drowning, or a betrayal to a knife in the back. Dr. Fowler hated metaphors. He hated the comparison of unlike things in a pathetic attempt to be poignant and clever.

But standing over the finished stage of his project, he felt as though he had to make one indulgent metaphor. He was not a scientist any longer; he was an artist. The scalpel in his hand was a paintbrush. The work before him, a canvas.

The paint was the blood.

It wasn't perfect, of course. It never would be. No matter how carefully he cut and carved, there would be scarring. It was highly likely that an infection would set in- he could deal with it, but it would also probably leave marks. It wasn't a perfect piece of artwork.

But when one went to see Van Gogh's Starry Night, it was all the better because one could see the brushstrokes, the places where a master hand had swirled the paint into a dazzling night sky.

Dr. Fowler set the scalpel down and ran his fingers over the row of closely-spaced sutures. "These are my brushstrokes," he whispered, so softly that he could hardly hear himself. "I am the master artist. No, not brushstrokes. I am not a painter. I am a sculptor." He twisted the scalpel in his hand. "This is my chisel. This is my block of marble, carved into something beautiful."

The doctor adjusted a stray feather on the wing. It had been a hard, long surgery, grafting the wings into his subject. They'd come originally from a California condor; he'd extended them to the wingspan he needed, carefully implanting more bone and feather and blood vessels. And then he'd had to attach them, rooting them deep into his subject's shoulders and back. The site would take a long time to heal.

But when it healed-

"I saw a statue of the goddess Nike once," Dr. Fowler whispered. "Nike, the winged victory. That is what you will be. My victory.” He brushed a hand- still gloved, his process demanded absolutely no skin-to-skin contact- over the subject's back, brushing over the raw wounds. It shuddered beneath his fingers.

It had been screaming for awhile, when he made the first cuts and when he began grafting the wings in, but for now it was silent and still. It would need to be taught how to use its new gift. There was a risk that something could go wrong- a tendon might snap, a nerve could wither, a muscle could tear. The body might refuse to adjust. There was even a chance- a very slim chance- that Dr. Fowler himself had made an error, a very small one, and that tiny mistake could ruin the entire project. He could not use a weapon whose wings hung useless and limp from its back. It needed to fly.

If it could not, he would have to start over again.

Enough worry about failure, he chided himself. Look at what we've made.

It was a weapon. It was never intended to be beautiful. It would not have been beautiful to anyone else, all blood and flesh and exposed muscle and crumpled wings.

To Dr. Fowler, it was a work of art. He ran his fingers over the wings, and felt a tremor. There was a connection. The procedure had been a success. He knew it. He could feel it.

"You are going to do great things for me," he said into the silence of his makeshift laboratory. "My work of art, my bird of prey. My winged victory."

He smiled, satisfied with his work. "My Kestrel."

[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.