#baldur whump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I would love to see more Chris, and especially with Branch now we know that bastard is deep in the ground

Yeah, Oliver Branch is so very, very, very dead. That was a fun day for us all.

CW: Creepy whumper, intimate whumper, Oliver Branch is gross, BBU, forced alcohol consumption, minor whump (whumpee is 17), some gross implications here

-

"They should have a Pets Unlimited feature," His Sir muses, stirring the little stick with the olive speared through it around and around the slightly-tinted liquid in his martini glass. Baldur watches it, his mind too slow and foggy for the words to sink in immediately.

There's a delay before Baldur, kneeling on the floor before his Sir's chair, tips his chin to look up. At first, Sir is blurry and completely out of focus, but when he tries, slowly the details come together. "... a what?"

"Oh, probably not that, I'm sure they'd get sued for copyright infringement," Sir hums, picking up the toothpick and biting the olive right off, bleu cheese stuffing and all. He leans down and feeds Baldur some of the olive-stained vodka, until the boy coughs and Sir laughs at him, stabbing another olive from a little bowl on the table beside him and feeding Baldur that, too.

The squeak of olive and tang of the blue-veined cheese makes his stomach turn, but Baldur refuses to show it. He hates olives, but Sir likes them, so Baldur has to like them, too.

"But..." Sir hums, sitting back. His legs, kicked out on either side of Baldur, shift around behind him, locking his ankles to pull the boy closer, until he's pressed right up against the fabric of the chair. "You know what I mean."

Baldur has no idea whatsoever.

But he nods, slowly, keeping his eyes firmly focused on his Sir's face.

"I don't think I could afford it even if they did. Hell, for all I know the damn concept is already in place, and I'm just not rich enough or enough of the 'in group' to be offered." Sir laughs, a deep, rich, warm chuckle that runs like honey down Baldur's back, settles into his mind and smothers his thoughts. His eyes close as Sir pets fingers through his copper hair, shivering. He thinks he likes the touch.

He doesn't.

But he has to, so he does.

"Order one, keep it until I'm done with it, until you're too old, until you start to look your age... then send you back and get the next one. I'd pay for that kind of convenience, if I could. Which I can't. But wouldn't it be nice?"

These words, he knows. These words aren't honey - they are sharp and spiky, terror that has his eyes flying back open. He puts his hands on Sir's knees and shifts upwards, straightening his spine. "Sir? You... you would... send me back?"

The fear breaks through the daze he lives his days in, the only feeling he has with any strength anymore. He used to feel other things, he thinks, besides fear and the odd need that gets forced out of him. He's sure he did. Once.

"Oh, Baldur, darlin'." Sir sighs, as if he's being silly, a stupid little slut with no thoughts in his mind. He rubs a thumb along the line of Baldur's jaw, along his bottom lip, watches with amusement as Baldur tries to follow it, to somehow earn the forever that is supposed to be part of the promise of the program.

You signed up for this, and now you'll be taken care of.

"Sir..." He whispers, desperate for reassurance.

What he gets instead is Sir's smile, widening like a monster's until it feels too big for his face, and Baldur can only go still and silent as the glass is tipped against his mouth again, and the vodka burns down his throat and runs cold out of the corners of his mouth, trickling over his jaw and down his neck.

He chokes on it.

It's too much too fast, as much in his lungs as down his esophagus. He coughs, bent over with the force of it, and droplets spatter across Sir's pants and his shirt. Baldur's eyes burn, his heart pounds, and he gasps. "Oh... oh, no... Sir, I, I'm sorry-"

"Ssssshhhhh. It's all right, sweetheart, don't worry... it's all right..." Sir shakes his head. "It's okay, darlin'."

Baldur's mouth is trembling and he can't stop the little coughs that keep bubbling up, how his stomach flips and drops. He can't throw up. He can't. He'll be whipped bloody if he does, he always is when he throws up. His fingers tighten into Sir's pants until his knuckles are white as he fights the violence his stomach keeps threatening.

Sir waits, patient as a tiger watching prey take a drink at a stream, fingers moving gently through Baldur's hair, again and again.

Only when Baldur goes quiet, finally getting his body until control, does Sir murmur, "I wonder who'll find you when I'm done, and what they'll do to you, then."

His smile is soft and sweet and Baldur stares up into his eyes helplessly, hating every single second. This time, it's the vodka bottle that he forces against Baldur's lips. It's pure clear burn that he has to swallow. The world dips and spins around him, but his heart keeps racing.

"... I wonder," Sir says, voice nearly a whisper, "How long you'll live when I don't want you anymore."

-

God, I'm so glad that guy is dead now.

[larsisfrommars]

Halsin Whump Audio

BG3 Soundboard of Suffering part 1

Gale (part 2)

No HP/Entangled/Immobilized

Effort and Heavy Breathing

Encounter With Orin

Taking Damage/Death Screams/Falling

Shudders, Moans, Groans

Coughing & Gasping

Crying

[klqrambles]

was gonna do more shading but got Really sidetracked so 🤷‍♂️ have some Gale whump flavored bloodweave

[moyashidoodles]

Box whump!!!! I’ve posted so much fluffy dumb shit recently it’s been a while since I’ve done anything less silly. So here you goooooooo. An AU where Wyll is a pirate or sailor and is hired to escort Cazador on a trip but he brought a BOX. Oohhhh I wonder what’s insideeeeee. Thank you Wyllstarion discord, I appreciate you all <3 I got the scenario from a discussion there. I’m no writer, I just make pretty pictures.

Almost done with the last commission on my list, I’ll open up some emoji spots soon.

[starsspiral]

Everyone simultaneously agrees that Gale doesn't have abs, we all know hes a chubby king but do you think he'd feel inadequate because of it? For Tav or anyone else really, everyone there is generally in shape or at least very lean and slim. Do you guys think he'd feel embarrassed about it? Try to change it? If he does illusion abs on himself do you think that one time Astarion catches him and has to convince him that hes enough? That having a six pack is, shocker, not what he loves Gale for?

[magnoliasinthegarden]

“What will you use to wash away the defilement, but blood, blood, blood”

My bad, my hand slipped lmao

[red-dead-sakharine]

Hubris

He conquered eight layers of Baator, and yet his ambition saw no end. When he invaded the ninth, he bit off more than he could chew...

If only he had stopped at eight. If only, he had not let ambition cloud his judgment.

...the Fallen Prince

[astarion-my-beloved]

"The smell of charred flesh wafts over you..."

[autumnlassitude]

The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance.

[cyberneticfire]

I forget Clip Studio has 3D assets...have some practice Astarion Angst :]

[larsisfrommars]

Gale Whump Audio

BG3 Soundboard of Suffering part 2

Halsin (part 1)

No HP/Entangled/Immobilized

Effort/Heavy Breathing

Taking Damage/Death Screams/Falling

Shudders, Moans & Groans

Coughing/Gasping

Crying

[fanfix666]

Sympathy for the Devil

“Within the ball you see Raphael, broken and bloody, dangling above the maw of the archdevil Mephistopheles who is preparing to devour him.”

Haarlep is owed a boon. They ask for Raphael.

The little brat’s bloody, battered body dangled by his wings, the mangled things pinched between the massive thumb and forefinger of his father’s right hand, the thin membrane pierced and torn by Mephistopheles’ claws. Rows of teeth and a giant forked tongue lie ahead of him; if Mephistopheles’ plan was to come to fruition, that would be the final resting place of his forsaken son.

Never before had a creature managed to invoke such a visceral sense of pity in the incubus, but they had grown so attached to the little brat in their time together. The incubus—who had been called Haarlep for millennia, an anagram of Raphael’s own name—had nearly forgotten the natural shape of their own face and the sound of their own voice. Even their true name felt foreign to them, something best left in the past, never to be uttered again. Who would they be without their fallen master?

As Mephistopheles began to lower his son into his mouth, the pitiful cambion didn’t even struggle, either completely unconscious or already dead. Haarlep spoke. “My lord.” The room was silent otherwise. Aside from the guards and servants, there was only Raphael, Haarlep, and Mephistopheles to witness what was to happen here. Mephistopheles froze, his eyes snapping to the incubus.

“Did you say something, whore?” he asked, pulling the limp creature away from his face so he could peer down his nose. Raphael flopped in his father’s hand with all the grace of a used handkerchief as Mephistopheles moved his arms to rest on the arms of his throne.

“I believe I am owed a boon alongside my freedom.” Mephistopheles glared, his nose wrinkling in an all-too-familiar way that made Haarlep’s chest ache. “My lord,” Haarlep added hastily. They had grown too used to mouthing off to the cambion, their insubordination and antagonistic behavior rewarded as often as it was punished.

“What boon would you ask of me as I am mourning my most promising progeny?” Haarlep’s eyes flicked back to where Raphael remained suspended in his father’s grip, bearing the appearance of a marionette with its strings cut. They met Mephistopheles’ gaze once more before they lowered themself to their knees, the icy stone biting into their bare skin. They bowed their head.

“I would ask that you release him into my care, my lord. I will see to it that he doesn’t overreach again.”

Alright, that's all I've got for for now. This is the start of a first draft. Might continue.

[inkivaarinensart]

Shame on a martyr

[starsspiral]

how do u guys think Gale would act while sick?? would he be dramatic or because of his past do you think he'd hold it in? Try to push through without alarming anyone.

Maybe he's more quiet than usual, less rambling on missions would definitely make Astarion wonder. How long until he figures it out and starts scolding him...

so many fics could be written alas i am no writer.

[alpaca-clouds]

Medieval Writing Prompts - Whump Pt. 1

The next prompt sheet for the medieval writing prompts - be it for fanfictions or your original stuff - are here. And this time it is for a bit of whumpy prompts. (@0nelittlebirdtoldme shall be greeted.)

There is gonna be a master list in the end. But first I will upload those little cards over the next weeks.

Written list under the cut!

On the Battle Field

Bad Coughs

Death of a Sibling

Infected Wound

In the Pillory

Exiled

Fasting

Long Winter

House Fire

Ten Lashes

[brabblesblog]

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable. 

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan. 

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves. 

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears. 

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed. 

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you. 

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive. 

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet. 

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead - 

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave. 

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace. 

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore. 

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up. 

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh. 

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway. 

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies. 

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now. 

  

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