#forced to hurt

[painsandconfusion]

You know when whumper forces caretaker to hurt whumpee?

And the only thing 'making' them do it is the simple threat "Do it. Or I will."

And that's enough?

Yeah. That's the good stuff.

[funkytownwinchester]

This scene was fucking delicious. There is so much underappreciated whump in supernatural, generally speaking, and i think that's a crime (S15E09)

[Click here for my supernatural gifs]

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Content: Forced to hurt, captivity, torture, reluctant whumper, sadistic whumper.

Fifteen minutes, Whumper promised. Fifteen minutes of torture at Caretaker's unwilling hand and it would be over. They promised.

But as they feel the angry crack of the whip coming down on their stomach, where Caretaker had tried so hard to be gentle with them, they're given a harsh reminder that it doesn't matter. Nothing matters in this basement - nothing but Whumper's desires.

And what they desire right now is to see Whumpee suffer.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

what do you think about a whumpee coming very close to death, but not actually dying? do you think that would be peaceful too? or just.,, agony?? (i definitely lean towards it being painful, but i love your posts about peaceful death and i was wondering what you'd do with an NDE)

Why not both?

Honestly, I really enjoy when pain is used to signify the line between life and death! Dying hurts. The burning pain that steals your breath, the pounding of your heart that only makes your blood spill faster. The pain is unbearable, and the terror that comes with dying is maddening. Dying hurts.

Being dead doesn’t hurt. It’s a painful road with a peaceful destination, one that becomes easier the longer you’re on it. Because pain is for the living, those who still have a chance to survive. As that chance fades, as whumpee’s body gives up on them, the pain fades with it.

Whumpee’s senses dull as their body gives up, shutting down. Their heart slows, adrenaline fading as their body loses the energy to struggle. The agony becomes a distant throb, the terror sinking into a confused, delirious daze. They can’t feel the cold anymore, even as their lips turn blue.

Whumpee is dying. They know it, but the knowledge grows more distant as everything fades. All they can feel is the sticky warmth pooling around their body.

And! I just love how it inverses our understanding of pain and peace. Suddenly, it’s comfort and peace that represent danger. Suddening, resting is a death sentence, escaping pain is to embrace damnation. To be alive is to hurt, to scream and cry and writhe, fighting against the pain with everything you have. In this moment, peace is a deadly temptation.

It also puts caretaker in an interesting situation. As they’re cradling Whumpee’s bloodied body in the ambulance, they can’t help the mix of sorrow and terror and relief at the look of agony on whumpee’s face. If Whumpee is hurting– fingers clenched into tight fists, sweat trickling down their brow, tears spilling from their eyes—it means they’re still alive. Every moan of pain is a promise that they’re still there.

Caretaker comforts them as best as possible. They run shaking hands through sweat stained hair, uncaring of the blood staining their fingers. They promise that Whumpee will be okay, they refuse to leave whumpee’s side for a moment. In that moment caretaker would give Whumpee anything they’d ask for. Anything but rest.

When whumpee’s eyes begin closing, caretaker doesn’t hesitate to shake them away. They don’t hesitate to pinch sharply at their sides, slap roughly at their pale face. Caretaker doesn’t hesitate to push into Whumpee’s wounds until they scream.

It hurts them to see Whumpee like this, it hurts them to cause Whumpee so much pain. It hurts when whumpee’s hazy eyes turn up to caretaker, a look of betrayal and hurt stretched onto their features. It hurts when Whumpee begs to be allowed to sleep and Caretaker has to refuse them.

But Caretaker will do it. They’re willing to do anything to keep whumpee alive, even if that means hurting them.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

T$$ Drabble: Nothings

cw: violence/beating, adult language

prev // masterlist // next

×~×~×

“Again.”

Metal-crowned knuckles collided with a cheekbone, skin splitting on impact, the sudden change in pressure sending Hunter's hand throbbing throbbing throbbing, drenched in flowers and thorns alike after so many blows.

All he wanted to see was the petals, to focus on the color there, the outline, not the shining red of Sahota's face as the other man sagged in the chair, little wheezing gasps passing his lips, winces twitching in to overpower his stony face.

“Vic,” Hunter tried for what was probably the hundredth time, hating the way his voice shook in his throat. “Vic I think he's done, please, can't we be done?”

The splatter pattern had long stopped swirling, the shapes in its cyclone dropping as if dead, melting on the ground, clinging to his shoes. Hunter held his wrist, squeezing and squeezing, but no amount of pressure would drown out the flowers or the silver or the red swirling up from Sahota like blood in water. His head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

Vic was quiet for a long time, and Hunter wondered sickly if he was supposed to answer the question himself, if he was supposed to keep going. Wasn't this enough? Wasn't this enough proof that he could take it? He was standing, he had hurt him, he couldn't keep hurting him.

“I suppose I'd call it good enough, though I can assure you he's far from done,” Vic said at last. His voice sounded like nothing. Not a single fuck given that the guy who was supposed to be his partner and maybe even his friend was sitting half-dead and bloody in the chair. The smell of chlorine still clung to him, now with something else at its edges, stinging like rubbing alcohol. "Let's get going. He still has one more visit scheduled, mhm?"

Hunter's arms were dead weight at his sides. He couldn't move, could only just stand there, his eyes stuck on the floor. Couldn't make himself lift his gaze, not even when it landed on the specks of red scattered around the chair’s legs. That was him, he did that.

Vic wanted it.

Vic doesn't always know what's best.

A shudder ran through him as he looked up and found Vic's eyes on him, a darkness growing in his blue as he waited for Hunter to stop being such a bitch about it and follow orders.

“Hunter? Are you alright?”

I want you to come back.

Hunter choked down his own doubts, swatting at the air as if he could shake away the anxious vines that wrapped heavy around him like snakes.

Did he want to come back? If Vic… if he did this kind of shit? Hunter already knew he did, but not to his own partner, not to someone he wasn't even a stranger to, much less an enemy. Was he just gonna leave him here?

“I… I don't—”

“Come on now, he wanted this. Remember?”

Hunter didn't think he wanted this, but he gave a hesitant nod anyway, his eyes hovering at a spot just past Vic's head. Vic, on his way out, just... just leaving Sahota bleeding behind him, like it was fine, like this was fine.

It wasn't. It couldn't be. It has to be.

He was suddenly seized by the thought of saying no. Of giving Vic a big "fuck you" and turning around and cutting Sahota loose but what then? Vic would hate him and probably kick him out, and then he'd be alone again. He'd have nothing. He'd had nothing before, it wasn't a big deal, but he couldn't make himself do it. Not when obedience felt like the only real option.

Hunter moved to follow Vic out, a guilty gravity sitting in his stomach like hot stones, weighing down every step towards the door. He could hear Sahota's shaky, painful breaths behind him. In and out, in and out.

He didn't look back.

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes , @clickerflight , @sodacreampuff

[fallenwhumpee]

Tour

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Torture, forced to watch, forced to hurt, restrains, water torture.

Right Hand shrunk their shoulders, hiding in the group of new recruits walking through the corridors of Whumper's base. This was their last chance.

Whumper was walking in front of them, just in their reach, but also untouchable. They had to focus on something else than the fact that they could just stab Whumper at that moment, and they would still have enough time to watch the monster bleed to death until the help arrived.

But then they couldn't risk their mission for the sake of revenge.

With a silent sigh, they looked around, the environment getting darker and darker every second.

The recruits marched in silence, the only sounds being the echoes of their footsteps bouncing off the cold, metallic walls.

Right Hand's muscles tensed as they fought to maintain composure, suppressing the anger that threatened to surface. Too secure. There was no way they could break out of there without gaining some access to the security system.

That meant it would take time. The time they didn't have.

As they neared a particular door, Whumper abruptly stopped, and the recruits followed suit. A cold chill crawled up Right Hand's spine with the harsh gaze studying them.

"The prison is the last part of our tour. You might want to cover your ears, my friends. We've got only a few prisoners, but we look after them well."

Before Roght Hand could comply, a loud, high-pitched noise leaked in through the door that just opened. They squeezed their eyes and covered their ears, an unbearable ringing making their head ache on the spot.

The sound got cut as they all stepped into the room, Right Hand's ears still throbbing.

They opened their eyes slowly, barely managing to hold back their gast. Leader was tied in the middle of the room, shackles on their neck low enough for them not being able to stand up, but their wrists hamding through thd ceiling high enough for their knees not to touch to the ground. They were trembling, a blindfold soaked with blood covering most of their face.

"While I like to deal with important prisoners personally, I should test my new minions, don't you think?" Whumper directly looked at Right Hand as they spoke.

Right Hand wanted to throw up.

Whumper slapped Leader, the chains rattling but not letting them fall. Leader whimpered, but they tried their best to keep it to themselves. Whumper put a hand to Leader's shoulder, patting it slowly as they speak.

"That's no way to welcome someone, Leader. You're so rude. We've got bright underlings here! Aren't you honoured to be their first experience in using interrogation techniques effectively?"

"Get off me!" Leader finally snapped after wincing in every pat, struggling weakly in the restrains.

"As you wish. I don't feel like a villain today, so I'm just going to take the blindfold off and leave you with the rookies."

Right Hand didn't flinch— but they didn't know how Leader would react to see them there. In the worst case, Leader would expose them. In the worst case for Right Hand, they would have to comply in this 'test'.

Leader snarled as Whumper pulled through black fabric, revealing dried blood on Leader's temples and burns covering half of their forehead.

"No, no, no. I don't think I broke you that much. You're still a human, act like it."

"Then treat me—"

Whumper punched Leader.

"I said yet. But you tempt me."

Whumper grabbed Leader's chin, making them look up for a moment to see the sadistic smile. Then they moved away, leaving the group in the middle of the room with not knowing what to do.

"Any volunteers? I will help, don't worry."

It was just what Right Hand was worried about.

Leader groaned as they looked around, their gaze lingering on Right Hand just more than a brief moment. They stiffened, a shiver running down from their spine.

"Anyone got ideas? No? Dont tell me you're all so decent. You came with knowing the job."

"W-water?" One of the rookies suggested.

"Ah, a classic. And perhaps a bit of showoff, but there's no harm in trying it. Now, would you go ask the guards for water? You— scared one at the back. Excuse my addressing, but I didn't want to learn names until I can be sure that you're fit to work. Getting attached and all of that isn't good for my heart. It gets harder to kill, you know."

"I'll get it," Right Hand sounded somehow stable.

"Be quick," Whumper huffed, bored.

Right Hand made the mistake of looking at Leader. The only emotion in those eyes was acceptance. Not acceptance of what Whumper did to them, but acceptance of what Right Hand was about to do.

Right Hand didn't take long with the task, their mind not capable of thinking anything else than what was going on in yhe room without them. They were already late with the rescue, and they were going to take even more time from that moment— they had a feeling that Whumper was already smelling the foul play.

When they came back, the only difference was that one of the rookies had a deep and bleeding bite mark on their hand, and Leader's nose was bleeding.

"My bad, you look so thirsty," Whumper chirped. "What about I make it up with a little extra?"

Leader stared with fire in their eyes.

Whumper pulled the wide bucket, pulling Leader back from their hair and unhooking the shackles on their neck.

Right Hand looked down as Whumper pushed Leader's head down into the bucket.

They didn't turn their gaze up until they heard Leader cough and gasp, collapsing to the floor as soon as Whumper let them go.

"I got distracted again. Who wants the job?"

Only a deep silence answered. Right Hand guessed no one had signed up for this.

"If there's no volunteer, I will show you how to do it."

Again, the only answer was silence.

Right Hand stepped closer as Leaders struggled to rise on their arms, but Whumper took it as if they wanted to, pulling them to their side.

"Good, good. At least not all of you are cowards. Now, pull them up."

Right Hand froze.

"Do it, I don't have all day."

Right Hand pulled Leader from their shirt, trying not to jolt them too much.

"Amateur!" Whumper roared, yanking Leader from their grasp. "I'm starting to think none of you want the job. I know all of you have records. At least no one will press charges for this one. Now, you will hold it like this, and..."

Without a warning, Whumper pushed Leader's face back into the bucket. Leader struggled right in front of Right Hand, but they couldn't stop this. Not if they wanted to end it permanently. But their confidence about pulling this stunt was just crushed in mere seconds.

Whumper pulled Leader up, who just tried to breathe as Whumper threw the body to Right Hand like a rag doll.

"Now try it."

"I'm so sorry," they whispered only to Leader.

They didn't know which one of them would be more broken at the end of this.

[whumperofworlds]

Reluctant Whumper (could be a Caretaker/Whumpee forced to do it) having to torture Whumpee. They're close to Whumpee (friend? Lover? Family?) and having to hurt Whumpee hurts Whumper more than anything.

As they raised the weapon at Whumpee, Whumpee looks at them with pleading and betrayed eyes.

"...But..."

Whumper frowned. "...I'm sorry."

[painsandconfusion]

Whumper who finds a whumpee and forces them to kill alongside them, determined to turn them into the perfect partner. Guiding their hand, keeping it wrapped tight around the knife. Whispering encouragement and instruction into their ear. It doesn't matter to them if whumpee sobs the entire time.

They'll learn to like it.

[linecrosser]

several of you folks suggested whipping or flogging / scars on the back, so there we are! added twist: delivered by a loved one (he tries to not hit too hard but hard enough so they will be satisfied and not prolong this whole ordeal)

[a-crumb-of-whump]

i tie carlos down to my bed with his stomach against the mattress and, using anon magic, drug him with something that makes him disoriented and calms him down. then i make ryker kneel over him and fuck him in the ass. his arms are tied behind his back and he's got no way of escape even if he tried.

once he's about to cum, i push carlos onto his back and make ryker fuck his mouth <3 once that's over, i give them some food, water, clothes and something to wipe them both down with. they're free to go.

Content: Rape/non-con, anal, oral, restraints, pseudo incest, forced to hurt, vampire whumpee, reluctant whumper.

Carlos has never experienced anything like this before. What little he's able to make of the situation tells him that he should be panicking - should be doing something other than simply lie there, but his body won't cooperate. His eyes are half-lidded and his lips are parted ever so slightly, allowing saliva to trickle down his chin.

Meanwhile, Ryker is teary-eyed and pale as he scrambles shakily to straddle Carlos' thighs. He lets his head hang low and he allows you to guide his cock, a muffled noise escaping the vampire beneath him as he's stretched open.

Due to how non-pleasurable the experience is, it takes a long time for Ryker to get even close to his climax. He sobs frustratedly and squeezes his eyes shut, blood smeared across his cock from the lack of prepping beforehand.

Sickeningly, Carlos' mouth is a far more pleasurable place to be. It doesn't take more than a few minutes for him to reach his orgasm, and Carlos does not seem mentally present through any of it. Still, he obediently opens his mouth when asked and stares hazily up at his human, who only ducks his head and continues to cry.

Once it's finally over, both boys are released from their bindings and some supplies are placed by the door. Ryker ignores the food, but takes anything that could be of use to Carlos and carries it towards the bed.

Unable to leave until the drug wears off, Ryker cleans and dresses both of them before climbing back onto the bed. He pulls Carlos to his chest and lays his head back against the headboard, not moving again until he Carlos starts to come back.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 19: "Please, don't,"

Content warning: vague suicidal idealation, forced to hurt a loved one

Caretaker would never forget how Whumpee played the piano. How their fingers danced across the keys, not even needing to look to know exactly where to press. How their eyes closed, how their body swayed in time with the music.

How they smiled when they played, like there was nothing else they’d rather do in life.

Whumper had strapped Whumpee onto a table. Their arms were spread, hands pinned down and fingers splayed out, exposed. Even as they writhed, breath coming out in desperate wheezes from their efforts, they couldn’t pull their hands back. Whumpee was shaking.

Caretaker stood over Whumpee. A hammer was gripped in their hand, hovering above Whumpee’s bound right hand. Caretaker was shaking, too.

“Please, don’t–,” Whumpee’s eyes were impossibly wide, tears dripping down the side of their face and soaking into their hair. Caretaker felt pinned down by that look.

They felt Whumper shift behind them. And yet they flinched hard, an animalistic whimper leaving their throat, as Whumper’s hand laid heavy on their shoulder.

“You can break their hands, or I can break their neck. Your choice,” Whumper’s voice called behind them, thick with amusement.

Their fingers twitched around the hammer.

They knew what was going to happen. They knew Whumper wouldn’t give Whumpee the care they needed. They’d let the wound sit, let the bones heal incorrectly, let the damage become permanent. Their hands would never move the same way again.

So much of their lives would change. Whumpee’s career, their passion. Their ability to look at Caretaker without terror and hate in their eyes.

But everything would change if Caretaker didn’t.

“Caretaker please,” Whumpee begged. “Don’t, don’t let them take this from me–!”

They both knew what Whumper was threatening. They both knew what Whumpee was asking them to do. They knew Whumpee would rather die.

But Caretaker couldn’t do that. They couldn’t. They couldn’t. Caretaker’s hand moved—

“Caretaker! Caretaker stop–!”

—And brought the hammer down.

[pigeonwhumps]

Forced to hurt a loved one

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 13: forced to hurt a loved one

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @den-of-evil @dustypinetree @cardboardarsonist @skittles-the-whumpee

Morgan's conditioning is triggered again, for more nefarious purposes, and Director Jodie Armstrong makes a breakthrough.

1.3k

CWs: conditioned whumpee, living weapon whump, forced to hurt, burns, dehumanisation, self dehumanisation

Morgan lies on the floor in the front room, legs up against Rhian's armchair, colouring. This is the most comfortable position, and even though weapons shouldn't take up so much space, Rhian says it's acceptable to sit here.

Asha hops over Morgan's legs to join Asim and Blue on the sofa, and the weapon cranes its neck all the way back to look up at her. She peers at the colouring book.

"Nice owl. You're doing the same colours as your Archimedes?"

Morgan nods. Technically this is a Sword in the Stone colouring book and so maybe it should colour the pictures the same as the film, but both Asha and Rhian have said that it doesn't need to be accurate, and this is the first time in its memory that that's been allowed. Despite seeing the video, it still can't remember any solid memories of its childhood before the government.

It is allowed, right?

Asha grins. "I like it. Hey, Asim, you can start the whales now."

Rhian squeezes its ankle reassuringly as the DVD starts, and it relaxes. Yes, it's allowed.

This is Asha's favourite whale documentary, and Morgan's seen it several times before, so it doesn't pay as close attention as it might otherwise, focusing on its colouring. It's okay, that's allowed here, the video isn't training or a briefing or anything that it's expected to memorise in its entirety. It's just entertainment.

Suddenly, a loud siren-like sound emits from the TV and Morgan jumps, looking up. Blue curses.

Asim frowns. "We didn't hear anything about this."

The screen switches to a news channel, and Morgan straightens up immediately, dropping its pencil and sliding onto its knees, hands behind its back.

"Morgan?"

Morgan doesn't respond, doesn't look round. It can't. That's the Director on-screen, and its full attention must be focused on her at all times.

"This is an emergency announcement. All citizens within the immediate area of Base 47 are requested to stay in their homes until further notice. Please be alert, but do not be alarmed, there is no danger to civilians if you do as requested. We are searching for the stolen government property MD-264N and the traitors hiding it. The crisis will be resolved swiftly and the traitors taken into permanent custody."

MD-264N, whose mind went blank when the Director spoke its designation, doesn't hear anything beyond that point. It has its orders, to take the traitors into permanent custody, and it stands, swiftly identifying the leader. It picks up the nearest makeshift weapon it can identify, an electric iron that swiftly heats in its hands.

Then it strides forward and pushes the rebel leader to the ground. It's not hard, he's clearly not really expecting it, and it presses the iron into the top of his shoulders. It tunes out his ear-splitting screams from years of practice, pressing it down, its free hand holding him down to stop him bucking away.

Someone wrenches it off its target and throws it to the side, kneeling on its back to cuff its hands as it struggles. No, no, it hasn't completed its task yet, it can't be captured.

It's sat up against the wall forcefully, still struggling, and someone crouches down in front of it.

"Sweetheart, you're crying," she says gently.

"Weapons don't cry," refutes MD-264N.

"Yes. You do. Morgan, do you remember who I am? Think, sweetheart, it's okay. Come back to me."

The person touches it gently on the shoulder and pulls it into a careful hug, one its commanders have never given it before. It feels so warm, so cared for, so–

A soft and rough owl-shaped toy is pushed into its hands.

Its mind rushes back and it gasps. Morgan. It's Morgan. That's Rhian. This is Archimedes. And– and–

"Asim. This weapon hurt him. Is he okay? It– it didn't want to, it's sorry, it's sorry, it–"

"Shh. It wasn't your fault, that was Armstrong forcing you. Asha's with him now, he'll be okay, I'm sure. Do you want to go back to your room?"

Morgan nods vigorously. "Please."

"Okay. Let me help you up, sweetheart. Blue's going to escort us."

"This weapon's ankle is malfunctioning. It, it doesn't think it can walk there."

"I'll help you."

Rhian puts her arm under Morgan's shoulders and starts helping it towards their bedroom, Blue following close behind. He shuts the door, standing guard outside, and Rhian tries to help Morgan into the bed.

Morgan stops dead in its tracks, forcing Rhian to pause, frowning at it.

"Sweetheart?"

"This weapon is dangerous. It should not be out in the open where it can hurt people."

"We broke through your conditioning, faster than last time. You're not going to hurt me."

"But it, it, I, it might. Something could set it off again. It doesn't want to risk it. Please, Rhian, it should go in the cupboard, where it can't harm anyone."

Rhian bites her lip. "It won't be comfortable."

"Weapons do not need comfort. It is a more usual place to be stored than a bed anyway, it will stay in good condition."

She sighs. "Okay. Okay. Can I uncuff you?" Morgan shakes its head. It should stay disarmed, it's not safe. "At least let me refasten them in front of you." The weapon pauses, uncertain, and then nods. Its hands will still be cuffed, after all.

Rhian uncuffs it, massaging its shoulders as she moves its arms in front of it, making sure that the sleeves of its hoodie are cushioning the cuffs.

"Is that comfortable? I know you said that doesn't matter but it does to me."

Morgan nods. "Thank you, Rhian."

"No problem. Let me sort out the cupboard. I wish you'd consent to staying somewhere more comfortable, sweetheart."

"The cupboard is already more than this weapon needs or deserves," replies Morgan readily. "This weapon's top priority is your safety and the cupboard will allow it to fulfil that objective best."

"Okay. Okay."

Rhian doesn't look happy as they line the cupboard with spare blankets and pillows, and Morgan doesn't understand. It's fulfilling one of its basic functions, to keep people safe, surely they should be pleased?

"Alright. I'll give you a duvet, torch, and a bottle of squash once you're in, we have all of them in this room. Can I give you another hug first?"

"Yes, Rhian."

They pull them into a tight, warm hug that Morgan wishes it could stay in forever.

"You're sure about this, sweetheart?" Morgan nods. "Okay."

Too soon, Rhian lets go, and Morgan climbs inside the little cupboard. Rhian passes it a duvet, a bottle of squash, and a torch.

"Come out when you're ready, yeah? I hope it's soon."

"Yes, Rhian." It might not be soon, it needs to stay in here until everyone's safe, but it will come out.

Rhian shuts the door behind it, and it's in darkness, alone. It buries its head in its knees, Archimedes held close to its chest, and tries to stifle its muffled sobs.

It didn't want to hurt anyone. It never does. But somehow, it always has to anyway.

_

A few miles away, Director Jodie Armstrong smiles at the blinking light on her computer screen. It worked. It actually worked. Maybe the scientists deserve a bonus for this.

It'll be a few days before anything's settled enough to come online properly, but that's okay. She can wait. She's waited months, after all.

And then, once MD-264N's back, they'll see what needs to be done about it. Whether it can be re-trained, used for experiments, or just needs decommissioning. It all depends on what's been done to it in its absence, because wherever it is, she's sure it hasn't been treated appropriately.

She presses a finger to her ear.

"Contact Colonel Colgrave of Section 13. Tell him that the verbal activation of the implants worked. We'll have MD-264N back in a matter of days, along with all the information we require. There's no need for him to interfere again."

[starryybrained]

Only the Beginning

Masterlist

CWs: Angel whumpee, fem whumpee (though never addressed in fic, whumpee is female/female adjacent), capture, captivity, restraints, cult setting, religion, nonbinary whumper, forced to hurt/kill, semi-cannibalism (consuming a sapient humanoid’s flesh), major character death, gore

Death marks the beginning of our protagonists’ story, recounted by the very one who met her untimely end.

My name is an Infinite Expanse of Starry Skies… and this is the story of how I died.

It’s not an easy tale to tell, nor can I put into words the experience of dying, but I will recount it as well as I can.

I was an angel, a paragon – in my mind I am still, despite no longer living.

I tended to the religious spaces of my Realm. I sat behind a confessional screen, always listening, offering peace to troubled souls. They came to me: young and old, religious and not – and laid themselves bare. Their sins, their regrets, they were mine to hold, and I took them as if they were my own. In return, I gave them words they needed to hear, ones that the Realm never gave them.

I'm not the wild creature I was made to be in my last moments.

When they found me, I was wandering their Earth, searching for someone dear. Someone I would call my love … though the two of us never made that label official despite our affections. We were as different as could be – I, a devout worshipper, and she, a clever being with a tongue gilded in silver. Her sharp edges carried me to places I can’t name, and I was there to hold her steady, balance her out.

Her intensity drew me in, and I’m not sure what part of me appealed to her — but she made sure I always knew how she felt. She’d never been vocal about her opinions except to a close few, and I knew them all. Coupled with her actions, I gained a true understanding of her. Her passions, what she valued, every quiet thought of dissent she had, how she ached to feel real again.

I supported her. I covered her with my wings and offered shelter from the world and its worries, but she pushed me away.

“This isn’t something I can ignore.”

I had no reply.

Eventually, it became too much, and she fled to these lands seeking something I couldn’t offer her.

There I followed, finding myself caught in her motion again. Like a leaf in the wind, swirling and floating on its currents, subject to its whims.

Scouring the ground, the surface soft with the beginnings of spring, I looked for her, heart aching. The new growth padded with every step I took and the sun shone in my eyes, a far cry from the light of the Angelic Realm.

No luck yet.

And there would be no more to come.

They ambushed me when I considered what to do after hours of searching — pausing my ambling and standing tall, unmoving, breathing in the air. The stillness felt tangible in the barely warm sunlight I’d found myself in … and it tore apart so easily.

Ensnared like a beast, with my limbs twisted together and my cheek digging into the dirt, they took me down. They snapped the bones of my wings with swift kicks, tied me up and carved sigils into my flesh. I wailed. My blood welled up to kiss their blades, so eager to spill, something they licked off, tasting, savoring.

They were only humans. Mortal creatures.

I was brought back to their settlement and caged.

My powers had been rendered useless, and it was no use to struggle. Yet I did, hopelessly fighting against my imprisonment, desperate to find a way out. I hated to admit it, but deep in my chest there was a sliver of fear that hurt more than it should... impaling my heart while it still beat.

Help would not come for me. Yet I fantasized anyway, watching the humans come and go.

Over time, one caught my eye.

They were fully clothed in white, with white skin and white hair, save for dark gray streaks in it. They looked to be no more than a few years into maturity. Months? I’m unsure of the rate humans age. Whatever it was, it would be the age where an angel stopped aging so quickly, where time found itself stagnating, as if it were dipped in honey.

They kept their head bowed, seeming to be an important figure in the settlement despite their age. The others would give them flowers or sweets, whisper blessings and praises to them. They accepted them with grace, tipping their head in acknowledgment and responding with hushed words.

They never talked to me. They only stared, eyes lingering on the gilded cage at the center of the settlement that held me. And I stared back.

I had no desire to speak to them, and they must have felt the same. I found no solace in their lingering gazes.

Perhaps I should have.

I was convinced we were too different. We were not the same age, truly, nor the same species. We came from two separate words, each with their own unique history and culture, one in the sky and the other dwelling on the ground. Enough to keep us apart.

They were the one to speak to me first.

“I- I’m sorry..”

I didn't respond, for fear of ruining the moment.

“I have no choice. They want me to kill you. I can’t run.

“I’ve tried so many times.

“Please understand.”

I remembered that. What they said word-for-word, the date — a few days into my captivity — everything. It had been barely a blink’s worth of time, a moment’s eternity.

That was the day I ceased to be trapped.

It was sunset.

The humans had circled around me, opened my cage and dragged me out into the open. I fought them, thrashing and spitting, snapping into a frenzy, something so unlike myself, so violent — but so right.

It’s what she would have wanted me to do.

The hazel-eyed one walked before me, knife in hand. “I’m sorry.” They said again, tears forming in their eyes. They sparkled like rare gemstones or beads of dew, glowing in the dying light.

I realized what they had told me before was a confession, and I stopped struggling, my breath catching in my lungs.

…

Oh.

We weren’t so different, were we?

They slammed their knife in my chest and I screamed, the moment shattering.

My silver blood painted the ground, wet and warm and I thrashed, bucking against the ropes holding me down.

“Please! Please stop!” I begged, shrieking. My voice was sharp. The sound of it was the same as a violin played harsh and high, the notes incorrect, the sonata it played turning into sounds of horror and prayer.

They didn’t stop. They carved open my chest, digging the blade deep into my flesh, dragging it through the meat. It hit bone, scraping against my ribs, and that was when I began to fade. My limbs were untied as my life left my body, splayed out as my heart was torn from the cavity of my chest.

I was then eaten from. Consumed inside out, bled for drinks. The tender flesh of my heart was severed by teeth, chewed and swallowed, found its home in the human’s stomach.

I had died knowing no peace.

And now I find myself here, at The Divine’s judgment.

Once again, I become unraveled, and It consumes me too.

[dont-touch-my-soup]

Last Goodbye

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CW: captivity, torture, manhandling, drugging, whipping, forced to perform, forced to watch, forced to hurt, forced to self-harm, amputation, hand whump, blood, gore, violence, multiple whumpees, self-hate

A hand forced Kell’s head up. He flinched back but it didn’t hurt. Not this time. 

Seconds passed by and Kell’s skin itched under Oryn’s eyes. The blindfold kept him from seeing anything but he could feel his scrutinising gaze on him.

Finally, he let go of Kell to even the fabric of Kell’s cloth and to fasten the buttons. Kell could hear his footfalls as he walked in a semicircle around him, inspecting his appearance one last time.

Every touch burned on Kell’s skin, but he forced himself to keep still.

The clothes were too tight, and the fabric tightened with every breath and rubbed painfully over his injured skin.

He didn’t understand why Oryn had wanted him to clean up when he’d be tortured to death tonight anyway. 

The thought was enough to make him nauseous.

It was better not to think about what was happening, but his thoughts were like dice and they just didn’t stop flying through his head.

He breathed slowly against the panic in his chest and again the clothes were suffocating him. Panic creeped up his throat and he tried to calm himself, tried to control his breathing but it was like the edge of a cliff was coming closer and closer and there was nothing he could do to stop himself.

Oryn touched his side and pulled at a loose thread. He didn’t seem to notice how Kell flinched under his touch and continued wiping non-existing dust off Kell’s clothes until Kell’s skin was raw and his mind was screaming.

The cool rim of a glass met his lips.

“Drink.”

A spike of fear rushed through Kell, but he didn’t have the strength to ask. He opened his mouth and the cold liquid poured into his mouth.

He swallowed. Too fast.

The liquid was bitter and cold and felt good against his burning throat.

“It will keep you from vomiting all over my stage,” Oryn explained. 

He patted Kell’s shoulder and turned away and Kell concentrated on his trembling legs. They didn’t feel like they belonged to his body anymore and it scared him how heavy and numb they’d become. The numbness creeped up into his arms and his heart until he felt like floating. 

“It’s time,” Oryn said finally.

Kell’s clothes were already soaked with sweat. He was trembling in the cold air. 

He swallowed. He still felt like throwing up. The only thing he could hear was his own ragged breathing.

“P-please …” His voice is hoarse already from screaming.

He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.

A hand started to push him forward, but Kell stemmed his feet against the floor. “Please don’t do this,” he begged, and a sob slipped from his lips. “Please don’t. I will do anything. I swear ...”

A hand over his mouth stopped the flood of words.

“None of that,” Oryn said, his voice low and gentle, his thumb stroking over Kell’s cheek. It did nothing to calm him down. “If you already beg now, you can’t step up the show later. And you still want to protect Sparrow, don’t you?”

The sudden terror was hot and sharp in his chest.

Kell nodded. 

“Well, if you want to protect him you better give me a show worth watching,” Oryn said, his voice like velvet. “Do you understand?”

Again, Kell nodded, tears silently streaming down his face. 

But as soon as Oryn’s hand let go, he was begging again. He’d lost control over his body and the words were there before he could even think about it.

A sudden stinging pain on his face silenced him.

Oryn sighed and without another warning he shoved him towards the stage. Kell stumbled, caught his balance a second later and hurried to move his legs even though everything in his body screamed otherwise. 

He heard the buzzing of the audience. His legs wobbled under him and as soon as Oryn let go of him, he collapsed to his knees with nothing to slow his fall. His stomach twisted inside him, and he counted his breaths to keep himself from panicking.

The buzz of the audience died down and Kell heard Oryn speaking. But the words seemed far away. 

He clenched his hands into fists, but his body was trembling so hard it ached.

He wished he could see the stars one last time. He wished he could see Sabea one last time. 

He would never hear her voice again. He would never see her face again. He would never get the chance to apologise or hug her.

Would she know? Would she feel it when he died?

I am sorry, Sabea. I am so sorry.

He could barely breathe as grief formed a huge burning knot in his stomach.

He took a deep breath and counted his heartbeats on his exhale.

The murmur of the audience grew louder as fear took over Kell’s mind. He could hear a voice betting on how long he’d make it and nausea washed over him.

His gut turned into a bottomless pit, and he was falling falling falling. A sob creeped up his throat. He pressed his eyes shut and held his breath in a desperate attempt to keep it back.

He was still shaking as the sob finally slipped from his lips. The choked sound was almost painful in his ears and he could feel his control sliding away.

Then there was a hand on his thigh. “Good to see you’re still in one piece,” a voice croaked right next to him.

Kell froze. The voice was so strained and hoarse Kell barely recognised it.

“Thrasher,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Thrasher hummed in affirmation. “Listen,” he said and Kell could hear the suppressed pain in his voice. “Don’t do anything he says. Promise me you …”

He was interrupted by a sick wet smack. Then he was screaming. 

Kell’s stomach turned.

Thrasher’s scream turned into a half-hysterical laugh. “You really should have cut my tongue out if you don’t want me to talk,” he said, followed by several Tharlian curses and Kell could tell it took him all his strength to speak aloud. 

“Don’t tempt me,” Oryn said. His voice was colder than ever.

Again, Kell heard something fly through the air and landed with a sick wet smack. Then a third. 

Thrasher wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Stop it,” Kell screamed. “Please,” he added more softly.

Oryn’s dry laughter reached his ears. “I see you are eager to entertain our audience. Don’t worry, we’ll get to you in a minute.”

Steps came closer. Kell crouched his body to his legs, but hands grabbed his arms, rubbing over the countless burns. He screamed as he was yanked up again. Then the blindfold was ripped from his face and Kell blinked into the sudden brightness, squirming his eyes. 

He heard Oryn’s voice but again he couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. The buzzing in his ears drained out every other noise.

There were people in the theatre. It shouldn’t be surprising. He had already heard them. He had known they would be here. Still, it was terrifying, and his mind couldn’t grasp the fact they came here to see them getting hurt. To see them die. 

Then he heard a pained moan on his left. “Promise me … ” Thrasher panted.

He looked nothing like the man Kell knew. His features so contorted with pain Kell barely recognized him. His skin was layered in bruises, dark shadows under his eyes and his nose looked like it was broken multiple times. Scrapes and cuts crisscrossed over his body. Some deeper than others.

His palm was pressed to the floor and covered in blood.

The metallic scent was suddenly the only thing Kell could smell. It was so thick and heavy Kell’s stomach twisted painfully.

Kell wondered how long he’d already been here.

Then Oryn came into his view.

He was talking to him, but Kell didn’t understand a word over the buzzing in his ears. When he lifted the knife, Kell hastily moved to back away from him and fell hard to the ground.

Without rushing Oryn stepped closer.

Kell closed his eyes. He knew it wouldn't protect him. Nothing could protect him. 

He held his breath just as he felt a yank against his wrists. The rough rope vanished and Kell’s hands started to prickle.

He looked up in confusion as the knife was pressed into his shaking hands.

For a second Kell stared at the knife. 

Why would they give him a knife? He could attack them and run … 

He wouldn’t get far. 

“Take the hilt in your hand,” Oryn said, irritated and Kell’s fingers were forcefully wrapped around the hilt. 

“The rules are easy,” Oryn said, and his voice boomed through the room. “Cut off one of your fingers or I will cut off one of his fingers.” He paused before he added: “I even let you choose which one.”

Kell stared at him in horror. 

“I-I … no!”

“It is your decision,” Oryn said softly.

Kell gripped the knife tighter. His hands were sweating so much, it was hard to keep a hold on it. 

He was shaking violently. He couldn’t see anything through his tears.

Cut off his own finger. 

He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t.

He would never be able to play piano.

You will die anyway. It doesn’t matter.

It would hurt so much. There would be so much blood. 

Kell’s lungs were full of ice. He couldn’t breathe.

His eyes flickered to Thrasher lying on the floor, one hand still pressed flat against the wood tiles.

“Don’t.”

Without even looking at him, Oryn kicked his foot into his side and Thrasher screamed in anguish. He curled into a ball, but his hand still remained on the floor.

It was only then that Kell realised he couldn’t move it even if he tried to. It was nailed to the floor. He had no way to free himself.

“Y-you … you …” he trembled so hard he could barely form a word.

It took him several tries until he managed to sit up.

The only thing Kell heard was his own heartbeat. He tries not to look at the blood. It was too bright. Too red.

He took a deep breath and pressed his hand on the floor. If he pressed hard enough it almost didn’t shake anymore. 

Then he placed the knife over his index finger. 

The blade shimmered white in the bright light. His hands trembled so badly he could barely hold the knife. He tightened his grip around it. The touch of the blade felt cold on his skin. He hoped the knife is sharp enough. His vision became fuzzy around the edges. Seconds ticked over. His head was swimming. Finally the knife clinked to the floor.

“I … can’t,” he panted. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t look at Thrasher. “I’m sorry.”

Oryn bent down next to him and picked it up. 

The terror on Thrasher’s face was so raw, Kell had to lower his gaze. Thrasher desperately tried to move away from Oryn. Fresh blood pooled around his hand and his breaths became shallower.

Oryn caught his wrist and slammed his other hand flat against the floor. Thrasher gasped and tried to wrench his hand out from under Oryn’s, but Oryn put the full weight on Thrasher’s body. A strangled sob escaped his throat and then Kell could hear a sound he would never forget.

Thrasher’s muscles tensed with an effort to make no sound. As soon as Oryn let go of him, he pressed his hand against his chest. Blood immediately soaked the beige fabric and Thrasher gasped for air.

Kell couldn’t stop staring at the severed finger. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. 

The room spun around him, and he heard Oryn’s voice but not what he was saying.

Then the knife was pushed into Kell’s hands again. 

Someone had cleaned it but there was still too much blood on it. The smell of it filled the whole room and Kell’s stomach was violently roiling inside of him. 

He looked up and his eyes met Thrashers. 

He shook his head a single time and Kell could tell how much strength it took him. “Don’t,” he breathed. 

Kell’s gaze snapped to Oryn who just smiled down at him. 

There was no way out of it. If he wouldn’t do it, Oryn would keep going until Thrasher had lost all of his fingers. But if Kell complied, he would still keep going. There was no winning. 

Kell looked down at the knife in his lap. His hands were cold and numb and sweaty and shaking. 

“Make a decision,” Oryn said again.

Kell clenched his fist around the hilt. 

“Three - two - one,” Oryn counted. When Kell still hadn’t moved he sighed and took a step in his direction. It wasn’t even a decision when Kell pressed the knife flat against his stomach and curled into a ball. He knew it wouldn’t help either of them. It would just infuriate Oryn. Still, he couldn’t help it.

A hand wrenched his arm up behind his back and gave it a violent twist. Kell screamed as Oryn wrenched the knife out of his hands. 

He caught his face into his hands and gave him a violent shake. “This is going to cost him an extra finger,” Oryn hissed. 

This time Thrasher was screaming. His scream was exhausted and hoarse, and it echoed inside of Kell’s head. Pleas came over his lips too fast and too slurred for Kell to understand.

The more he trashed against Oryn’s grip the more he tore open his other hand.

Then the knife was in Kell’s hands again.

Tears fell on his hands. He watched as a single tear landed on the blade and blood started to swirl. He looked up at Oryn.

“Please,” he whispered. He immediately regretted it as Oryn’s eyes grew hard. He made a step in Kell’s direction and Kell couldn’t take it anymore. “Please,” he begged. “Please, please, please …” 

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop repeating the same word over and over again but Oryn just pushed Thrasher’s hand to the floor again. He took his time placing the knife over the next finger and Kell’s voice got louder and louder with every second until it turned into a wordless scream.

Then Oryn cut off Thrasher’s fourth finger.

And then Kell was holding the cursed knife again.

“You know the drill.”

“Why do you do this?!” Kell screamed desperately.

Oryn didn’t answer. 

Thrasher’s eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling heavily.

There was so much blood. So much blood. 

“Please,” Kell begged again. “You are killing him.”

Oryn laughed. “He can take it. It’s not like I chopped off his whole hand.”

This would never be over. Oryn wouldn’t stop until both of them were dead. And there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

He stared at his own fingers. Pale scars marred the back of his hand. He hated them more than any other scar on his body. 

It didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered. 

Kell set the knife on the base of his little finger and took a deep breath. A second later he saw the blood. But the pain only came later.

His head suddenly felt heavy, white spots dancing across his vision. He was going to pass out. 

His breathing turned shallow as pain consumed him. His own heartbeat raged through his body.

His body fell to the side, slamming hard onto the stage. He pressed his injured hand against his chest, unable to let go of the knife in his other. 

Hands harshly wrenched his hand away from his chest and pain jolted through Kell’s hand. He tried to yank his hand back, but Oryn was too strong. 

“Shhh.” His voice was nearly too low to hear it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

Tears were running over Kell’s face as Oryn pressed a cloth against the fresh injury. 

He was breathing shallowly and too fast for the oxygen to reach his lungs. His head was swimming, and he couldn’t comprehend what was happening around him.

“Good. Now another.”

Kell cried harder and when he opened his mouth a sudden sob was breaking the silence. He wanted to scream; he hated Oryn with a sudden all-consuming fierceness. For a moment anger was all that was left pulsating through his veins. Burning almost painfully in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Oryn. He wanted to punch him, to kill him. 

He had always hated him. He had always wanted him to be gone. But he had never wanted to actually kill him. 

It didn’t matter how well he knew Thrasher or whether he liked him. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Oryn kept hurting them and he would never stop. He would keep hurting them, killing them, torturing them. 

Kell looked at the knife in his hand.

It took a few moments to find Oryn. Kell gripped the knife harder as their eyes met. Oryn's lips tug up and finally he smiled at him. It was a challenging smile.

Maybe he should just smash the knife in his own throat. Then it would be over. It was how this was going to end anyway. It would be the quickest, most painless solution.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move the knife.

He knew Thrasher would do it. Thrasher would be brave enough. Or smart enough. Maybe just desperate enough. That was why Thrasher’s hands were still bound. That was why Kell was holding the knife and not Thrasher.

His eyes wandered to Thrasher. He was only a few steps away. If he ran, he could reach him and … Oryn walked into his line of sight and for a moment there was something in his eyes. Something like hesitation. But it vanished in a blink and Kell wasn’t even sure anymore what he had seen. 

They kept staring at each other and Kell was trying to catch his breath. His mind was swirling, his thoughts racing.

He didn’t want to beg anymore.

He took the knife in his left hand and threw it as far away as he could. He heard voices as Oryn went for the knife. Kell barely felt his legs. Then he toppled to the floor. Belatedly, he realised he had thrown himself in front of Thrasher.

He pulled him into his arms. Kell wiped at the blood and sweat and tears as Thrasher screamed again. “You’re … so stupid,” Thrasher rasped.

Tears fell Kell’s face. He was trembling. 

Then he felt a hand on his arm. Oryn. He was talking to him, but it took a while for Kell to catch on. 

“No,” he said, holding Thrasher tighter against him as if he could protect him with his body. 

“Don’t!” Kell begged.

Someone in the audience laughed.

He clapped his hands around Thrasher’s shoulder.

“P-please…” Thrasher strained his voice, just to get a word out. He sounded dehydrated, exhausted. “Just …” he whispered hoarsely, “take the fucking knife and k-kill me…”

Dread filled Kell as he realised he wasn’t holding the knife anymore. He could have ended this here and now.

He couldn't have done it. He knew it.

A hand wrapped around his wrist and Oryn tsked. “Silly boy.”

They kept staring at each other and Kell was trying to catch his breath. His mind was swirling, his thoughts racing.

Finally, he dipped his gaze. “Please,” he said, swallowing his anger. “Please. You just want entertainment. I promise I can entertain you better. I can sing. I can sing anything you want. Please. Just … please just let me try and … I p-promise!”

“No,” Thrasher’s eyes opened, and he struggled in Kell’s grip. “Don’t.”

But only when Oryn started to smile Kell knew he’d made a mistake.

Tears swelled in his eyes. Desperation in his chest. This was what Oryn wanted. That was the whole reason why they were both here. Just like when he’d brought Jinn. The knowledge tasted bitter on his tongue.

Oryn tilted his head. “Fine. Sing and maybe it’s good enough.”

They both knew it would never be enough. It would just delay the inevitable.

“Kell, don’t,” Thrasher rasped. His words were barely comprehensible.

“It’s going to be okay. I …”

“No, Kell. Don’t do it …” His voice sounded almost angry.

“Enough,” Oryn interrupted them. “Start singing now or he’ll lose his whole hand.”

Thrasher was too slow to hide the flash of panic in his eyes.

Kell sucked in the air. He was still breathless; his face was prickling from tears and salt and his body ached. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down his nerves. He had to sing better than he had ever sung before. He had to convince Oryn.

Kell took another deep breath.

At least Oryn didn’t want him to stand up this time. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to stand up.

It was uncomfortably quiet, but Kell still needed more time.

“Now, if you may,” Oryn said.

Kell nodded his head far too many times. Then he took one last breath and started to sing.

He didn’t open his eyes. He had to concentrate. He had to put everything he had into the song. He sang as if it could change the world. And perhaps he could.

When he finally finished, he forgot where he was for a moment.

It was quiet and he was exhausted. His body was aching.

Then he opened his eyes and looked right at Oryn. He looked pleased. A wave of relief rushed over Kell. He had done it. His singing had convinced him.

Then there was a choked sound from his side and Kell’s gaze snatched to Thrasher. He had opened his eyes. Looking straight at Kell. His eyes were big, and his mouth was open.

“You idiot,” Thrasher said, his voice raspy and quiet but it still carried his anger and disappointment.

He wasn’t sure when Thrasher had sat up. His eye was still swollen shut but the cut on his temple had closed.

Kell dropped his gaze to the rest of his body. The blood was still there but the cuts under the layer of blood had closed. Disbelieving Kell touched his chest, wiping away the blood. The skin had closed. All that was left were scars. 

“How …” Kell whispered. 

“You did this,” Thrasher spat, like he was accusing Kell of a murder. “You healed me, you fucking idiot.”

Thrasher’s gaze dropped from Kell’s face to his arms and back again.

His arms still hurt but they weren’t feeling like they were still on fire. Kell looked down. His skin was still bright red and hurt but the wounds had closed.

“What …” Kell started. He didn’t understand.

Kell looked to Thrasher, who was crying now.

He shook his head full of disappointment.

Hands grabbed Kell's arms.

"No!" Thrasher shouted. He pulled Kell closer to him. “My name is Jack,” he said with a sudden urgency in his voice, switching to Tharlian, a pained smile on his face. “Would you … please remember?”

Kell nodded.

In Thrasher’s – Jack’s eyes pooled tears. “I still don’t like you,” he said tunelessly, but his voice was too soft to carry any weight.

Then Kell was ripped away from Jack and he suddenly knew he would never see him again.

He screamed as he saw Oryn crouching down next to Jack, the knife in his hand, and he didn’t stop even as he was carried away. Tears flowed over his face once again and he struggled against the iron grip around his arms, clawed bloody lines down their arms as he fought to get free. He wasn’t strong enough.

A door closed and all resistance in Kell died.

He toppled to the floor and rolled to his side, weeping in hoarse, wracking sobs. Stings of hair stuck to his skin.

______________________________

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Thank you for reading! @whumpzone @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @whump-cravings @tears-and-lilies @imagination1reality0 @suspicious-whumping-egg @i-can-even-burn-salad @siren-of-agony @villainsvictim (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)    

[whumpsday]

Vampire the Masquerade: Chapters - Gabriel Tremblay's Prologue

i'm playing a ttrpg called Vampire the Masquerade: Chapters, in which all the playable characters are vampires. one of these characters, Gabriel, had such an incredible (and whumpy) introduction that i absolutely had to share it.

here it is:

it contains the entirety of Gabe's prologue, some of Jade's (a different playable character) that gives relevant information, and the 4-page campaign introduction. this doc is 53 pages of interactive, choose-your-own-adventure vampire whump. have fun!

for the parts that ask you to roll dice, i have translated them to be a D6 instead of the game's specialty dice.

content tags: vampire whumpee, vampire whumpers, starvation, forced to hurt, sadistic whumpers (flashback), carewhumper (present)

support Vampire the Masquerade: Chapters - Official Website - BoardGameGeek Page

[nouseryetlol]

Been brain rotting a lot these days about the idea of a whumper being forced to hurt Whumpee.

Whumpee being a completely random bystander grabbed for the sake of Whumper's torture, essentially being an innocent bystander dragged into it.

Whumper who refuses at first. Maybe they're squeamish, maybe they don't do well with gore or blood, maybe they just don't have it in them to torture an innocent person. All that earns the two is a comparatively more hellish beating. The guilt gets so overwheming Whumper gives in, not for themself but as a mercy to Whumpee. All the while the guilt eats them alive.

Whumper and Whumpee starting to grow a bond, Whumper maybe even acting as a Caretaker in a desprate attempt to make up for the pain they caused, despite not being able to do much at all to make it stop. Fleeting moments of gentle touches and soothing words after torture sessions before Whumper is dragged back to their own cell.

And the dynamics after rescue! Does the trauma bond between Whumper and Whumpee keep them clung together? Maybe seeing the other is too painful for them, whether it's the gnawing guilt or the fear of pain that comes with seeing their face. Maybe a friendship that grows into a bitter resentment as they stay together, being all the other has but all it becomes is a painful reminder of their hell. The possibilities are endless.

Honestly I'm just a sucker for characters with guilt complexes.