#god whumper

[mintflavouredwhump]

A god whumper whose favourite mortal is the whumpee. Being a god's favourite just means that you're going to get subjected to various forms of cosmic and psychological horror just for the whumper's own enjoyment

Bonus points if the god is more of a carewhumper than a whumper

[whumpitisthen]

Limbo

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: dissociation/derealisation [whumpee thinking they aren't really alive], mentioned torture, mentioned character death, a candid conversation about death with Death the jolly fellow himself, angel whumpee, deity whumper, religious themes, carewhumper, the poor boy has no idea what's coming the boy is not doing so well :/ if only there was someone who cared :pensive: ( <- actively making him worse)

“Am I dead?”

The angel looks far away, grey, foggy under his skin. He perches on the bed he was provided, in the lavish guest room he was given. It's an emperor-size bed; it makes him look little with his bruised-up legs hanging off the edge.

Sitting at the long dinner table, legs propped up as he leans back in his chair, Grim hums distractedly. — “Hm?”

“Am I dead?” — Auden repeats after a swallow of consideration, this time at least managing to sound like he wasn't just talking to himself.

The Reaper’s lips curl with a slow hum. He forgets about the pen he was twirling — always playing, always busying his hands with something. A pen, a blade, someone's hair. His hand pauses only briefly, then he continues spinning it between his fingers like he never stopped. — “Mm. It feels like that, doesn’t it.”

There is the sound of thunder, far away, but close enough that Auden can hear it rumble. The sound of his Fall. It scares him so much he can barely breathe. His hands dig into the heavenly soft sheets, feeling undeserving. A moment passes.

“Mori,” — he starts quietly, voice breaking, — “they um… I did not mean to, I really didn't, but I asked them how uh, h-how they got,” — he gestures vaguely in the direction of the intimidating double doors leading into the bedroom, — “...here.”

He feels so similar to how he felt on the day Grim brought him home. Weak and hazy, no particular colour to him. Just tired. Shaken, commanding about as much presence as a ghost.

“It was really stupid, I know. It would be insensitive to ask anyone that, right? Especially so out of the blue, like I did. But I did not m-mean it um, literally. I just thought — I thought they were so nice. So kind. They, I, I did not expect anyone here to be nice. Not to me. I-It surprised me.”

They never found out what he really meant. He meant it to be a compliment. They took it as an order. — “That is what I had meant,” — he tells the Mori in his memory, a small murmur, as if they could still hear him, still trying to explain himself.

“They had gone quiet, and I um, I told them they didn't have to t-tell me anything they didn't want to. I felt horrible. But I asked them, so they answered.”

Now Auden is the one going quiet. He doesn't know how to continue, or if he even wants to. His melancholic rambling isn't even fully directed at the Reaper. Grim’s interest has been piqued, however. — “And what did they tell you?”

Auden squirms, frowning. — “Not pleasant things.”

“Is that so,” — muses the deity, expecting this to be the end of the conversation. For a minute it was, but then the angel finds it in himself to continue.

“They told me they came close to dying, many times. They told me they did die, but not literally — that confused me a little, but I’m, uh, I think I am starting to get it.” — Stealing a glance at the Reaper, he sees a bit of humour glint in his vermilion eyes. He must know the story as well as Mori, though, unlike them, he clearly finds the tale a lot more amusing. — “They said they barely remembered who they were before… before you um, saved them.”

The way he is saying all this makes it seem like he has some sort of conundrum he must solve. Like every bit of information Mori had relayed to him is a puzzle piece. However, while it is fun hearing about how Mori remembers their meeting, Grim does not enjoy long roundabout tangents that go on forever. Setting aside the pen, he stretches, swinging those heavy boots off the table, and fixes Auden with a questioning look. — “This is a lovely retelling darling, but is there somewhere you are going with this? Or did you just feel like sharing with me something I already know?”

The thunderstorm flies ever closer. Static ruffles the feathers on Auden's wings. His shoulders hitch higher, hiding him.

“You saved Mori…”

“Mhm.”

“And you saved me, from the, the dragon lady.”

Grim laughs. — “I did.”

“S-So, since Mori was saved by you when they were dying, and I was saved when I was near death, and we both ended up here, here w-with, well, with you…” — he trails off, hesitant to finish his train of thought. It's like he can't even bring himself to say it.

Finally, Grim's expectant gaze forces the words to tumble out of his mouth anyway.

“I was wondering if maybe… I did die.”

The silence is so loud Auden doesn't even dare to look up, afraid that all he would find is a pitying, mocking grin. His guess at the Reaper's expression is not far off.

“Are you asking me?” — Grim asks belatedly. The fanged smile is clear enough in his voice.

“...Nothing really felt real since then,” — Auden finishes vaguely, weakly, eyes stuck to his own shaky hands clasped around each other in his lap. He feels silly, now. Saying it all aloud made it sound like it's either the most obvious or the most stupid assumption in the world. He can't tell which one it is from the Reaper's mood, but shame sears his cheeks nevertheless.

It takes another moment of cruel silence before he is granted a curious reply; — “Where do you suppose you are right now?”

Auden curls up a little more. — “Somewhere between alive and dead.”

Oh, the poor thing is lost, in more ways than just one.

Grim thinks for a minute, leaning his temple onto his fist. The angel's reality has been all but turned upside down, and now his mind is fracturing. Perhaps the shards could be built into something vastly different. His Lord does find moulding minds especially enjoyable, though such a process can be unfathomably delicate. Still, for now, the safest way forward may just be care and patience. The angel is confused enough as it is, and while hilarious, he doesn't want his lamb losing all touch with reality before meeting his new master. He will have a difficult enough time keeping track of what is real under his care anyway.

“Where do angels go when they die?” — he inquires instead, half interested in Auden's answer himself.

“They don't…”

Grim rolls his eyes. Of course. — “Where do Fallen go?”

“To Hell,” — Auden answers promptly, but then thinks further, and finds the answer insufficient. He doesn't really know what happens to Fallen Angels besides ‘eternal damnation’, since that is just a sentence, not reality. He just never thought to think further than that. Because Fallen can die. They do die, swiftly, once they reach here, once demons find them and tear them apart. — “But, but when they die… I am not sure.”

“Would you like to know?” — the Reaper asks with an easy smile.

Auden lifts his head, a little surprised to be offered to be let in on such secrets of life and death. Asking questions rarely lead to straight answers back up in his Heaven. Most of the time, he was met with disdainful expressions and waved off, told that these kinds of matters should not interest him, or, more humiliatingly, that he should already know the answer. Embarrassed, he learned not to ask questions, and only now is he starting to realise how much of his present knowledge is made up of his own assumptions.

To think he would be learning of death from Death himself — and for his silly question to be met with an unexpectedly straightforward desire to answer; no mocking, nor judgement, nor annoyance…

A small glimmer returns to his eyes as he looks to the deity intently. — “Yes please,” — he whispers, amazed, a little reverent.

The Reaper lifts a claw and beckons Auden over. The angel slides off the mattress and begins walking over obediently, only to stop in his tracks all of a sudden, hesitating.

“W-Wait, no, no I don't,” — he stutters, waving his hands out in front of him, seemingly swiftly having changed his mind. — “You don't have to, to show — I'll, I'm sorry…”

Grim is confused for a moment, not understanding the sudden reluctance, his outstretched hand sinking ever so slightly. Then, he chuckles, light as a cloud. He waves his hand dismissively. — “Oh, no, not like that. That did sound somewhat threatening, I will admit. No need to fear; you are a smart boy, you do not need such demonstration.”

Being beckoned to come closer by the Reaper after inquiring about what happens to Fallen when they die — Grim can't exactly fault the angel for hesitating. Nevertheless, with a small bit more encouragement, the nervous dove sulks up to him cautiously in the end, keeping his hands close in front of him.

“Choose one,” — the Reaper says, motioning to the jade porcelain vase filled to the brim with fresh roses set in the middle of the table. Auden saw so many bouquets arranged in large pots lining the hall as he was looking for a way out. He wonders just how much work it takes to keep every one of them filled and replenished in such a massive mansion.

Once he has made his choice — sliding free the flower that least upsets the balance of the rest as he takes it out — he looks to the Reaper. The Reaper picks one for himself and lifts it to his nose.

“When angels die, their souls float towards Heaven.” — He flips the rose downwards, letting it flop on the table. — “When demons die, their souls remain stuck here. And when Fallen die — ”

The radiant red petals are suddenly wilting, growing limp and dark, then dry and ugly in the Reaper's hand. Auden watches the healthy, beautiful flower rot, and then finally completely erode into black ashes, floating in the air like smoke after a wildfire, leaving nothing behind. Some sort of twisted awe leaves his mouth open and raises the hairs on the back of his neck in seeing the effects of Death's touch. Obliteration, destruction, extinction — with just a single touch…

He held that same hand from Miss Thu’lin’s palace all the way here.

“When Fallen die,” — Grim repeats as he rubs the pads of his fingers together to rid them of the flower's remains, — “their souls have nowhere left to go, so they disperse, just like that. Like a warm breath on a cold winter night.”

Auden clutches his own rose close to his chest, far, far from those deadly talons of shadow. — “Do they just… cease to exist? Permanently?”

The angel's wide eyes bring fondness to the Reaper's smile. He asks, instead of answering; — “do you think you exist?”

“...I don't know,” — Auden admits, a hushed whisper.

The fondness remains as he puts his hand out, scaring a flinch out of the angel. Auden goes to carefully place his rose into Death's hand, but he takes hold of Auden's wrist before he could, plucking it from him and returning it to the vase. He holds his hand gently, but firmly, feeling resistance. It's hard to tell the difference between his silver jewellery and icy skin.

“You are alive, my dear,” — assures Grim, making sure Auden hears him, looking directly into his eyes, — “you are here with me, and that should be all the evidence you need that you still exist as, if you didn't, I could never find you again.”

The young angel's lips quiver, his eyes growing misty, but he listens, and tries in earnest to believe those words. His eyes flicker down as the Reaper's thumb runs across the back of his hand. Back and forth, slow and gentle. Auden's face never crumbles fully, his tears silent as they flow.

Death's frigid kiss presses onto his knuckles like a curse, and the angel forgets to pull away.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi @sordayciega @a-miscellaneous-number-of-rats

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince @a-living-canvas

[loonybun]

request: something with Rosé? maybe more interactions with him and Aisling? :3

COMING RIGHT UP! i say as if this ask hasn’t been in my inbox since november

contains: fae shenanigans, faerie whump (ish? he’s fine guys. no faeries were harmed in the making of this drabble.), psychological distress, faerie whumpee, carewhumper, god whumper, complete lack of editing because i didn’t wanna, magical shit, inhibiting powers, implied drugging, fearplay, fear of loss of autonomy, suspiciously vague ending.

guys. toxic yuri is coming soon trust. i just wanted to finish this ask cuz its been waiting for SO LONG… jay im SORRY!!1!1!!

also sidenote rosé does go by he/him but this drabble is from aisling’s perspective and he doesn’t know that so he’s just going w neutral pronouns here 👍

——————————————————

The door was right in front of him.

Engraved with little hearts, looping around its pink frame, all complete with the golden knob. Right in the middle of the woods with seemingly nothing behind it.

Aisling had been looking for this for almost two weeks. Two weeks of searching for something he didn’t even really believe existed. And right as he planned on giving up, here it was.

So why was he scared? It was as simple as stepping through, but he couldn’t even get himself as far as touching the handle.

The rumors hadn’t bothered him before. He’d heard countless different things by now. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what to expect anymore. An angel? A witch? A god? Whatever was behind that door had been described as that and more.

Sure, nobody seemed to have any overwhelmingly negative experiences, but what if that was by design?

Aisling knew when something was too good to be true. He wasn’t that stupid. What were the chances of him making it out of this alive? Or making out of this at all? There were so many horror stories about faeries mysteriously disappearing after visiting places like this. And he was here by choice. Was that possibility even worth the risk?

He sighed and turned the handle. What other choice did he have? He’d already come this far. Leaving now would have made everything a waste.

The atmosphere shifted around him, trees melting into tacky pink wallpaper, printed with little roses. As the last of the fresh air from the forest dissipated, he was left with the nearly suffocating scent of wine and perfume that made his head spin. It was as if the room itself was trying to squeeze the breath from his lungs, attempting to lull him into an incomprehensible state.

Dread pooled in his stomach as he stumbled into a couch, taking a much needed seat. The romantic decor did nothing to distract him from the grave he was making.

Just as his eyes began to flutter and his vision started to blur, a figure appeared beside him, carding a pale hand through his hair.

“…Too much, little faerie? I didn't mean to overwhelm you so quickly.” The person next to Aisling giggled, and the air shifted with a simple clap of their hands. It was like he’d been pulled apart and a magnet had finally brought all the pieces back together.

On the couch right next to him, the person sat beside him with their legs crossed. He took in their appearance, too stunned to say a word.

Two pairs of fluffy wings curled around their back, folded politely. Their eyes bored into Aisling, a color he couldn’t pinpoint. Shifting between red and purple every time the light hit them, pupils struggling to stay completely focused on the faerie, yet eagerly looking him over all the same.

“It’s impolite to stare, you know.”

Aisling snapped back to attention, taken aback by the playfulness of their voice.

They smiled at him. “Are you surprised..? Not what you expected? Don’t worry, I get that a lot. So, how can I help you?”

He squinted at them, trying to determine their intentions. Something about the way they spoke was so… Off. Not in the accent, but threaded between their words. It was like every word was part of some tapestry that he wasn’t allowed to see.

Still, he came here for a reason. “I uhm… I heard you sell love potions? Is that still something you’re offering?” He could only hope they couldn’t see how much he was shaking.

With a grin, they grabbed his shoulder and leaned in. “You’d be right! My specialty. Now, I do have to say, before we go any further, I do need your name. Won’t do anything with it, of course. Just a safety precaution, lovebug.”

Oh.

That’s odd.

Aisling’s fear must have shown, because the angel next to him folded their arms and tapped their fingers against their elbows. “See, usually they start getting a little anxious at this point. And that’s fine. I understand completely. Just know it’s the only way you’re leaving this place with a potion. I don’t make exceptions. Honestly, it’s all the same to me. Just don’t waste my time if you’re not really committed.”

“No— That’s not it… I just… I feel weird.” Aisling interrupted them, not wanting to ruin this opportunity. “Can… Can you just tell me you won’t hurt me? Or keep me here?”

With that, they snorted. “Oh… Come on! Don’t make me laugh. I’m not gonna keep ya around here or take anything you don’t let me take. I’ll lock you in my basement for a few hours and see how you fare with the fae-eating chimera I’ve got down there though.”

When Aisling’s face contorted into pure horror, their smile dropped into something more adjacent to concern. “—Jokes! Jokes. Gracious, I don’t even have a basement. Or a chimera, for the record. Lighten up a bit… I’m just teasing you. Nothing here’s gonna hurt you, including yours truly.”

“O…Oh.” He looked down at the floor with a heated face, fidgeting with his hands. Why was it different for them? Why couldn’t he tell?

“I am serious about needing your name though. You seem sweet, but I can never be too careful with these sorts of things, sweetheart.”

There’s no way he’d even consider it. The risk was too high. They’d use it against them. Force him into digging himself a deeper hole. He couldn’t trust them. Every possible warning bell was going off in his head, screaming at him to run and get out of this unfamiliar place. This person was too strange, too powerful, too dangerous. If he stayed here a minute longer, let along give them his name, there’s no way he’d make it out of here. They’d hurt him. They’d hurt—

“Aisling— Prince Aisling.”

“Oh, it’s lovely to formally meet you. You can call me Rosé, not that the name means much to you.”

And nothing happened. He was… Fine. For now, at least.

———————————

The rest of their little meeting went by, and eventually Rosé handed a crystalline perfume bottle to Aisling. Inside of the heart shaped bottle, a pink liquid sloshed around. It looked almost mesmerizing from the outside, with the way it gleamed in the light.

Aisling still felt nervous. Something was off. Something was incredibly off.

“…There’s a cost for this.” It was meant to come out as a question, but he knew better.

Rosé shrugged. “I mean, if you want there to be. I usually just invest as a form of entertainment. It gets awfully boring here, and some people think that actions have zero consequences. Fun thing to watch.”

“How should I pay you then..?” Aisling dug through his pockets, only for the winged figure to take his arms and hold them still.

“Well, if you’re offering, I’d love a bit of magic in return.”

Despite the hunger in their eyes, Aisling nodded. What was the harm? He’d just recharge when he got home.

All things considered, that was the easiest thing he’d been asked of in this exchange. It’s not like something as simple as that could go wrong.

[whumpsoda]

OOO HAVE A PROMPT! a god whumper taking whumpee—a mortal—and making them into a suggestible immortal consort. whumpee can barely remember being human, and all that matters is that they feel safe near whumper

So I made a mistake where I wrote a whole thing for this, then read this ask again and realized it wasn’t really what was asked… So I guess I have two things?? The correct one is first, and I’ll post the second under it😭

cw: god whumper, immortal whumpee, human caretaker, dehumanization, brainwashing

———————————————————————

“I… Whumpee?” 

The two met one another’s gaze, one pair of eyes terrified and desperate, the other hollow and sunken.

The immortal stood tall, draped in fanciful robes and numerous strings of extravagant jewlery, which jingled with every movement. The human kneeled, hunched over in filthy garments, sore wrists shackled behind his back.

“Oh, Whumpee… is it really you?” Caretaker studied the figure, digesting the image of their old friend. The relief was short lived, overridden by the uneasiness bubbling in their starving stomach. “What happened to you?”

Whumpee, the boisterous, ball of positivity that they had missed so dearly, was staring them down blankly. Their eyes were devoid of emotion, their expression vacant and empty.

Where was the giddy, sunshine smile Caretaker had scoured the land for?

After a moment of silence, Whumpee’s lips parted in passive fashion. “Who, is Whumpee?” Their face contorted, an unpleasant scowl forming from their delicate features.

“No… no, you are Whumpee. It’s… it’s me, buddy. It’s Caretaker.” He let out a shaky breath, wriggling inside the metal cuffs scratching at his wrists. “I- I found you, Whumpee. I’m going to rescue you, and, and I’m going to bring you home.”

Whumpee’s brows furrowed, their muscular body towering over the human. “This, foolish human, is my home.” 

Caretaker could feel his heart shattering inside his chest. His lip quivered, as his strong smile began to falter. “W-whumpee, I don’t… I don’t understand… really, you don’t need to pretend, it’s me, I promise. Just let me out of these shackles, an’ I’ll get us out of here. Together, Whumpee.” Desperately, he wished he could’ve held out a warm hand to his friend.

“Well, wouldn’t that be nice.” A booming voice enveloped the room, an overwhelming presence filling the air. Whumpee’s expression flipped, a wide, dull eyed smile stretching across their face as they turned to face the sound.

An enormous, mystical figure began to materialize, catching the full attention of the two on-lookers. Whumpee clasped their hands together, enraptured with the sight of the god. 

“Greetings, darling. I see you’ve met our guest over there.” Whumper affectionately pet the top of Whumpee’s head, grinning smugly at Caretaker. 

Caretaker stuttered, their brain scrambled in a gummy clutter of confusion. “I- Whuh… Whumpee..?” 

Whumper cupped their novelty’s face, admiring their docility. “Don’t bother. They haven’t been the ‘Whumpee,’ you speak of, for a long time. Isn’t that right, little one?” Whumpee nodded eagerly, the words seemingly flying right over their head.

“Whatever you say, master.” Whumpee muttered, leaning into the god’s heavenly touch. Their head tilted as Whumper warmly scratched at the skin below their chin. 

Whumper expelled a short exhale of contentment, before meeting Caretaker’s terrified eyes once again. “Such a good one, aren’t they? I do always make a point to let them know that such subservience suits them exceedingly well.” Whumpee sank to their knees, enraptured with the sensation of such glorious itch.

Caretaker, no matter how much he tried, could not move a muscle. The situation was too much for him to handle, too horrifying for his brain to digest.

“What… what did you do to them..?”

Whumper laughed boisterously, the sound practically mocking the human at their feet. “I gave them purpose, dear. To serve at the will of a magnificent god, devoting every fiber of their feeble being to me for the rest of eternity.” Whumpee let out a pleased sigh at the thought.

“N-no, please… not Whumpee.” Tears pricked at Caretaker’s red rimmed eyes. Their lips twisted into a pleading smile. “Take, take me instead! You can do whatever you want to me, just let Whumpee go!”

“Oh, darling, I was already planning on it. Keeping you as well, that is.” Their wicked grin only grew, shaking the human to his core. “The two of us could use another friend, wouldn’t you agree, dear?” They questioned Whumpee.

“Whatever pleases you, master.”

Whumper chuckled at the devoted mumble of their companion, continuing to litter Whumpee with pets and scratches that turned their will to mush. 

“I mean, it’s not like I could even return them, anyways. I have no means of undoing such a clean slate. So no use in getting your hopes up.” 

Before Caretaker could protest, a humongous hand began traveling toward him. Set into a frenzy, he frantically made the attempt to kick himself out of reach. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just look at your friend over there, they’re certainly enjoying it.”

Whumper’s hand soon caught up with the human, beginning a soothing stroke to his hair. Caretaker watched in horror at the way Whumpee mindlessly nuzzled into the touch, all the while wiggling under the god’s touch himself.

The reality of the situation quickly set in, Caretaker’s breaths becoming fast and thin. 

Soon, that would be him. His mind wiped clean, just a toy for the entertainment of an all powerful god, for the rest of eternity. 

It was obvious that Whumper took notice of his distress, their face softening. 

“Don’t worry, little one. You won’t feel a thing.”

Here’s the second one if anyone actually wants to read it…

———————————————————————

The god turned to the door, beckoned by the creak of its centuries old hinges. He eyed his two guests as they entered the room, one in a handsome suit, the other draped in exquisite robes. 

“The procedure has been completed, sir.” The one in the suit said, bowing toward Whumper. The other visitor gracefully stepped closer, then elegantly kneeled before them. 

“Thank you, child.”

“My pleasure, sir.” The servant kept his rigid eyes stuck to the floor as he spoke.

The enormous immortal descended to their own knees, mirroring the tiny human below them. Whumpee watched them with adoring, wide eyes. Cupping the human’s face with ginormous, soft fingers, they carefully adjusted their head. They studied the mortal intently, before expressing a content hum.

“Good, good. A beautiful one, aren’t you? An amazing catch, if I do say so myself.” Their supple grip loosened, transforming to a loop of gentle pets down Whumpee’s head. The countless strings of extravagant jewelry adorning the human jingled with each stroke.

“Thank you, sir.” They replied, giving Whumper a warm smile. They eagerly leaned into the God’s touch, nuzzling against the bliss of their hand. 

“Seems the alterations went perfectly. No more crying and fussing I see.” Whumper grinned, scratching the skin underneath Whumpee’s chin. 

“Definitely sir. They were wiped without issue, I assure you. The perfect mortal for the perfect god.” The servant spoke robotically, with a face devoid of emotion.

“Wonderful work. You may go now.” With a flick of the wrist, they shooed the dull man away. Without another thought, the servant made a quick and obedient exit.

“Now back to you.” Dominantly, the God swiped a finger under Whumpee’s chin, smoothly lifting their gaze to meet Whumper’s.

“How about I ask you a few questions, hm? Double check everything is working correctly?” Whumpee nodded eagerly. “Tell me your name , little one.” 

For a moment, the human’s eyes flickered, a flash of something underneath, which soon faded into assured comfort. “Whatever pleases you, master.” The response was devoted, trained, enticing a small sigh of satisfaction from the god.

“Very good answer. So smart.” Whumper lovingly stroked Whumpee’s glossy hair. “Tell me, what do you remember, my dear?” 

Whumpee pondered for a moment, obediently reaching into the depths of their mind for the correct answer. “I- I remember you, master. How dearly I love my master.” They gazed passionately at the immortal.

“Anything else, love? Any friends? Any family?”

“No, master. Those would simply be insignificant when compared to you.” Whumpee was swiftly rewarded with more heavenly scratches to the neck, eyes fluttering in delight.

“Just marvelous. Only one more question, and then I’ll let you relax.” Whumpee’s eyelids drowsily lifted, a pleased smile still evident on their lips. “Do you understand your role, little one? Your purpose here?”

Whumpee nodded heartily. “Most definitely, master. I am but a novelty, for the enjoyment and company of my master. The rest of my mere, mortal life will be subsequently dedicated to you.” They bowed before the god, resting their forehead to the ground. 

“Absolutely splendid. Your conditioning went just superbly! I must say it suits you.” Whumpee settled upright, heart melting from the praise. “The two of us will have such fun together, I promise you.” They flattened one large hand to the floor, beckoning Whumpee to advance.

The human elegantly neared, delicately placing themself in the palm of Whumper’s hand. Gently, hands wrapped around Whumpee’s frame as they lifted from the ground. 

After a moment of movement, Whumpee was graciously sat in the lap of their master. “Lie down, my dear.”

The mortal did exactly that, draping their tiny frame across the wonderous fabric that covered Whumper’s figure. 

As the god began to routinely sift several dainty fingers through the human’s hair, a continuous wave of pleasure washed over Whumpee with each repetition. Even if they had just been practically reborn, better and new, they were sure they had never felt such bliss in their life. 

Before Whumpee could give a proper thank you for such a sensation, they were silenced by the weight of an enchanting sleep. 

“Good night, little one. Sweet dreams.”

[whumpcloud]

consider: god of life whumper torturing poor mortal whumpee in unimaginable ways to test the limits of mortal life and of their own power and god of death caretaker treating mortal whumpee with care and reverence as they understand how important a life is and would not wish to damage a living being or take a life before its time

[a-wumper-on-the-internet]

An Introduction to my Whump Ocs: The Lord's Favorite

Ethan Everest-Mann is, quite literally, an everyman. He works at an office job, drinks black coffee, and is rapidly approaching his 40th birthday. He likes dressing in business casual, watches the news, and has minimal free time. He's, in literally every sense of the word, boring. The most boring, normal person alive - and he's perfectly fine with that.

But for some reason, out of all the people in the universe, the One Who Watches, Lord with One Thousand Eyes, The Great Devourer, Collector of Worlds, The Bringer of Endings, Keeper of Time and Space, Ro'tharoth, has decided that Ethan is, in fact, his favorite mortal in all the worlds. He adores watching him, loves seeing what he does and says, and has made a human form just to talk to him! Ethan is his blorbo, the bestest human ever (in his opinion), and he'll happily spend all his time watching him when he's not bringing ends to worlds and extinguishing stars.

However, he's getting a bit bored with the usual things that Ethan is doing. And what does one do when canon is boring?

You put your blorbo in Situations. You make AUs. You write angst.

So Ethan is plunged into a variety of Situations - everything from being kidnaped and sacrificed by cult, to being falsely accused of murder and forced to run from the law, to dying stranded in space. He doesn't know when the world will change - usually it's after he dies a horrific and gruesome death, but it continually does, and he can't even die to have the nightmare end. He's the plaything of a cosmic god he can't even comprehend, let alone understand, and his sanity is fraying just as much as his body is mutilated.

Meanwhile, Ro'tharoth is having the time of his life! His favorite mortal is now doing so many new and interesting things, and it's so much fun to watch him try. Using that mortal form, he even gets to help in the stories - take care of his favorite character, heal him up, talk to him - it's all fantastic. He's sure that Ethan is having fun too, because he always resets the world after the really scary stuff, and he tries to comfort him after every new au through their human form, or letting him talk to them after they die.

Ethan, is, in fact, not having fun.

It's the relationship of a whumper and their whumpee on a cosmic scale, of knowing you're a character designed to recieve torture and pain for someone else's entertainment or catharsis, and how that would feel. They have a really fun dynamic, and I can't wait to share more - their arcs are really cool, and I love them so much.

[springwhump]

having an intimate moment 💜

b&w version + reference under the cut

[hurtfortea]

Whumpuary Day 1: Offering

Sacrifice | headache | "this will hurt"

Contains: torture, blood, dehumanization, lady whump, nonsexual nudity, religious whump and fantasy whump

Hailey doesn’t struggle as they lead her to the altar, having already made peace with her fate. The day is overcast, and she isn’t sure how she feels about that. This will be her last chance to feel the sun, her last chance to smell the rain, her last chance to experience anything at all, and yet…the sky sits in the same limbo as she does. Mari, the closest thing she has to a friend- offerings don’t have friends- has a tight grip on her right arm. She doesn’t look at her, she knows what she’ll see, and strangely, she thinks it might hurt, even though she knew from the beginning that this would be the way it ended. The high priest, the man who will carve her body into something fitting of the gods, holds her left arm. Behind them, the rest of the following walks, each wearing the signature green of their people. The direct opposite of red, so they won’t be mistaken for offerings.

They reach the top of the hill, and she can’t help but be glad. Her feet ache from walking barefoot. Mari and the priest let her go so she can climb onto the stone slab at the altar, laying down. It’s cold and hard against the bare skin of her back. She doesn’t move as they begin securing her wrists and ankles to it, but she makes the mistake of tilting her head to the side, catching Mari’s eyes. Her expression, as expected, is impassive, but her green eyes widen slightly when they catch hers. She imagines that she can see a tiny bit of sympathy in her face, a bit of mourning. Both emotions she has never been allowed.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers. That gets a reaction. Her mask breaks near instantly, her throat bobbing as she swallows, blinking rapidly. Hailey can’t help but smile, knowing her death has affected someone. Mari looks briefly away from her, to the priest, and Hailey turns her head to look too. He stands over her, his expression unreadable. He offers Mari a brief nod, and Hailey looks back to her in confusion. She leans over her, her lips pressing to her forehead. Then she pulls back and steps away, expression flattening. Hailey shuts her eyes and tries to hold on to the sensation of the kiss.

“We stand at this altar today to present a fresh offering to the gods,” the priest begins. “We pray that they receive it with ease, and that it pleases them for the century to come.” With that, his address is over. Words have never been all that important to her people. They prefer action. “Open your eyes, Hailey, and don’t close them again.” The priest says, and she does. His thumbs press into her temples, and he looks away from her, instead staring into the sky. A moment later, she feels as though every part of her body has been rejuvenated. Her heart seems to pump stronger, her breathing becomes more full, her aches and pains fade. He looks back down at her again, removing his hands. “I’ll offer my only sympathy now.” He says. “I’m sorry for how this will hurt, you were a bright child.” She swallows, and doesn’t reply. He straightens up, raising his hands. Until the ritual is over, no one will be able to speak another word.

He begins to cut, starting at the very top of her manubrium and going down to the end of her sternum. It burns, it stings, but she doesn’t close her eyes, doesn’t make a sound. The more cuts he makes, each part of an intricate design, the more clouds converge over her, growing darker. Perhaps she will feel the rain after all. She feels warm and sticky. A flash of lightning lights up the mass of clouds above her, bright purple. Thunder rolls through the sky and the ground, clapping so loudly she thinks she might go deaf. The clouds cry. The high priest continues his work, unphased. Hailey shivers as the water runs over her, washing away the blood, but not the pain. It hurts like nothing she’s ever felt before. Her skin is in agony, sensitive even to the wind.

She thinks she sees Mari step back out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t look at her. Her attention is reserved for the sky, which has begun to open up. Something has begun to tear a hole in the atmosphere. She can’t tell what it is, only that it isn’t natural. She begins to pull against her restraints, her fear spiking. She doesn’t want this; she doesn’t want to be an offering, doesn’t want to be kept or eaten or used by this thing. The knife is taken away, but the pain only increases, like something is pulling her apart, ripping open her wounds. She’s screaming now, but she can’t hear her own voice, she can only feel the pain of it in her throat. Something reaches out from the expanse, something terrible and monstrous. Hailey flinches back from it- she shuts her eyes.

And everything goes wrong.

[whump-queen]

sabotage

a carewhumper who’s constantly engineering situations for whumpee to need them, to run to them crying, to fall to their knees, broken and shattered and so easy to convince that all they need is whumper.

- slashing their tire so they’ll have to call whumper for a ride

- paying dudes to go rob and beat them up so they’ll be bloody and broken and weak and whumper can happen to ‘stumble upon them’ since they were just in the neighborhood…

- sabotaging whumpee’s finances (stealing their rent checks, running up their credit cards) to get them kicked out of whatever meager housing they’ve managed to rent. make them destitute. desperate. and all whumper has to do is waltz in with open arms, maybe a warm coat, and an offer whumpee can’t afford to refuse.

whumpee just doesn’t know why these things keep happening to them. whumper doesn’t help of course; their every word implies it was all whumpee’s fault. that maybe if they weren’t so careless and reckless with these things, maybe they—

no, whumper should just take care of these things for whumpee from now on. that’s what’s best, since whumpee has clearly proven they aren’t responsible enough to manage money, or shopping, let alone a job or really any human responsibilities.

after all, whumpee’s just a broken thing, and only whumper can put them back together.

only whumper will let them break down. only whumper can make them safe. only whumper can hold them close, warm, and just let whumpee collapse into their arms and sob against their neck until they finally drift to sleep.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee wasn’t just the whumper’s captive, no, the whumper would never allow them to just waste away in a cell. the whumpee had been “gracefully allowed” to work alongside the whumper- of course trying to get away from this resulted in beatings, so the whumper never fought back. To the outside world, the whumpee was a loyal lackey, willing to do the whumper’s bidding, but the whumpee just wanted someone to notice what was happening- they wanted to be free.

[chaotic-orphan]

Vendetta (XI)

Read part one // Master-post // continued from here

TW: failed suicide attempt

This part is dedicated to @canigetanamenforbritney

I had to split this part into two parts because it was too long, so update soon for this!!

*~*~*~*~*

Hero’s tears dried into tracks of salt on their cheeks, hardened like shells and shale in line on a beach, cutting into their fingers when they scrubbed the crust from their cheeks with their knuckles.

They didn’t want anyone to see their weakness, even if Supervillain knew they were crying, so what? He’d probably see Hero cry again, but out here in the halls… anyone of the other villains could see them, even though they seemed suspiciously empty, purposefully empty. Maybe Supervillain was trying to be kind, not exposing Hero too soon too quickly.

But that didn’t sit right with everything Hero knew about Supervillain…

No, this was tactical emptiness. Maybe to let Hero come to terms with the fact that they were well and truly alone in their knowledge of the how the world used to be, powerless to change it, to even attempt to change it.

Supervillain wheeled them through the varnished wooden floors, and turned right, into an arch where doors should be. A long dining table that could easily seat twenty people dominated the beautiful room. A fire roared in a stone fireplace that took up the middle of the right wall, heating the room with the crackling of wood and coal, painting the air with hues of yellow and gold. Supervillain walked Hero up the length of the table and parked their wheelchair beside the head of the table. Hero noticed two doors that led off to a different room. Maybe a kitchen, Hero couldn’t be sure, and they didn’t really care either.

Supervillain walked around to face Hero. Hero stared up at him. They didn’t have the energy to glare, but somehow, they managed it just fine. Pity Supervillain couldn’t wither under that glare, pity Hero’s power was just power negation.

Wait…

The realisation must have flashed on their face because Supervillain’s expression broke into one of shrewd amusement, appraising Hero’s line of reasoning before he even knew what it was.

“Yes… I’m surprised you thought of that before you’ve had some food, Hero,” Supervillain said, extending his hand to cup Hero’s cheek. Hero lifted their hand with an effort and put it on Supervillain’s wrist and sucked at his magic thrumming below his skin. Supervillain smirked. Hero stared. “Do you want to stay like this all day, sweet Hero?”

Hero swallowed. Their tongue darted out of their mouth to wet their dry lips.

“Or would you rather I call in someone to demonstrate how this trick won’t work on me and my ability?” Hero stiffened under Supervillain’s hand as he raised his head and called a name that made Hero freeze in their seat.

The door to the left opened and trainee Hero stepped out. His hair was the same chocolate brown, his skin the same varnished bronze, but his eyes were a little glazed over. Hero lurched over the edge of the chair, but Supervillain righted them, so they were facing Supervillain and not able to see trainee Hero.

“Super—”

“Sorry to take you away from your duties, young Trainee Hero,” Supervillain said, his smile as sharp as Hero’s blades. He was delighted that Hero’s attention was fixed solely on him, feeding off it. It made Hero sick. “I just have a question to ask, do you know my guest here?”

Footsteps. Hero trembled, they realised belatedly, shivering like a chihuahua in the stupid fucking wheelchair. Brown eyes found Hero’s and Hero swallowed as they felt the familiar ghost of unfamiliarity roam their features, searching for a sliver of recognition.

Hero pulled harder at Supervillain’s abilities under his skin, wincing as they pulled too much and their body thrummed with unused energy, buzzing around their blood like a live electric wire.

“No,” Trainee Hero said blankly. “Should I know who they are?”

Before Supervillain could speak Hero leaned over the chair and grabbed at Trainee Hero’s uniform. “Your sister was a water hero, and you always wanted to be as good as she was.” Hero desperately asserted. They reached to Trainee Hero’s hand and tried to negate Supervillain’s ability from within Trainee. Trainee Hero’s eyes went wide, going between Supervillain and Hero wildly.

“My sister was a hero in a pointless war,” he said hotly, balling his fists at his sides. “She is a traitor and should he have treated as such.”

Hero’s eyes widened. “What? A traitor? She… she became a hero to protect you and your—”

“Alright, Hero. Enough,” Supervillain said as Trainee Hero became visibly agitated. “That’s all we need from you. Return to your duties.”

“Wait!” Hero cried and jerked forward, moving to get out of the chair when Supervillain pushed them back down.

“Wait! Supervillain has brainwashed you—” Hero screamed, struggling against Supervillain’s hands and trying their best to ignore the wild, satisfied smirk on his face. Why wasn’t he trying to stop Hero revealing his trickery? Why was he just smiling? “He’s manipulated your memories! Your sister was—”

Hero flinched at the sound of the door shutting. Their words died on their lips, choked from their tongue. They raised terrified and furious eyes to Supervillain’s icy blue who leaned away and dropped his hold of Hero altogether. Hero continued to tremble so violently that their teeth chattered.

“I told you Hero. Your ability cannot stop what I’ve done. It’s too late.”

Hero flinched when a fresh droplet of water fell onto their cheek but recoiled when Supervillain rubbed the tear away tenderly. His expression warm and kind, compassionate and sympathetic, as if he understood how hard this was for Hero. As if he had any idea how fucking disoriented Hero felt after they woke up in this new world.

“It’s okay, Hero. It will be a swift, but difficult adjustment period for you, but you’ll understand with time.” Hero didn’t bat his hand away. They didn’t have the energy. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here to squash all your rebellious ideas and attempts at undoing my… what did you call it?” He asked, his head tilted. His smile turned lopsided at the edges. “Brainwashing? Yes. That’s a good word for it from your perspective, I suppose.”

“You mean the true perspective?!” Hero demanded. This time they did slap Supervillain’s hand away, anger making their blood hot. “Before your generals and yes men filled your head with sawdust huh?!”

They didn’t want to be in the same room as him, never mind put up with his faux compassionate touch. Hero could endure a lot, but they refused to endure that. They refused to see Supervillain as anything more than a monster.

They hated that the memory of Supervillain talking so honestly and openly in Superhero’s office played on their mind at that moment. How logical and insufferably rational he was when he spoke…

But most of all, they hated the fact that they didn’t actually believe, deep down, that Supervillain was a bad person. They were just on different sides of a war. Hero thought they were right, right enough to fight against Supervillain and the other villains that were against them.

God, how long had they been fighting? How long did the war go on for? They couldn’t remember… isn’t that a ridiculous thing? They couldn’t remember the time before the war, who they were before… what they were like before they were a general and a soldier.

Supervillain straightened. He sighed and turned his back to Hero which was laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Supervillain really had the audacity to turn his back on Hero? As if they weren’t a threat?

Hero could only watch as Supervillain pulled a chair out from the table and turned back to Hero. “Do you need help to get out of the chair?”

Hero stared at him. “What?”

“You’re not eating for the first time in a year in a wheelchair, Hero. I may be an enemy in your eyes, but I’m not an animal.” Hero’s stare hardened into a glare. Supervillain sighed. “Fine. You can struggle to it yourself.”

Hero swallowed as Supervillain took the seat at the end of the table, to the left of the chair he pulled out for Hero. They glanced at the short distance between the wheelchair and the table. They could make it. They were fine, they were stubborn enough to make it. Hero planted their hands on the edges of the armrests and set their feet on the ground.

They could do this.

With strength they didn’t have, Hero stiffened their upper lip and pushed themselves into a shaky standing. Their arms shook and protested as Hero made themselves vertical, grunting with the effort as they took a short, risky step away from the chair. They gasped out every last of their oxygen as their foot landed solidly on the ground, gratefulness flooded their body once they remembered Supervillain had parked the brake on the wheelchair, so they didn’t go flying.

See, he wasn’t a bad man.

Hero wanted to kill that small voice in their head more than they wanted to kill Supervillain. It was his fault that they were in this condition in the first place! His fault that Hero couldn’t walk without a gargantuan effort.

Hero took another step in anger unbeknownst to themselves. But now they had another problem. They had to release their hold of the chair and transfer their weight to the front; grab hold of the chair at the table. Supervillain remained silent throughout Hero’s ordeal, but his eyes lingered as Hero struggled.

Hero grunted as they removed one hand from the wheelchair. Steadied themselves. Okay. They were fine. They could do this… they could do this…

They didn’t notice their legs going from under them the moment they lifted their other hand, until they were falling backwards, the ceiling stretching above them. They screwed their eyes shut for the impact.

They didn’t hit the floor. Two strong arms caught them before they could hit the wood and Hero’s eyes flew open in a confusing concoction of relief and rage. Supervillain’s icy blue eyes were more done than furious, but there was a frustration in them that Hero didn’t want to acknowledge.

“You really would let your pride injure you instead of letting me help?”

“Yes,” Hero hissed viciously at him. Supervillain scoffed and shifted his arms under Hero, one under their shoulders and the other under the back of their knees. “Let go of me!” Hero said indignantly as Supervillain straightened.

He walked Hero over to the table and deposited them unceremoniously in the chair they had pulled out before. Before Hero could give him a piece of their mind, their chair was roughly shoved into the table and Hero’s chest hit the wood of the table, drawing an oomph from their lips, winding them.

“You heroes and your ideals, hmm?” Supervillain mused, though there was nothing humorous in his words and his expression was a picture of a storm on a calm sea as he pulled out his own chair and settled gracefully into it. His icy eyes like glaciers seemed like they were trying to freeze Hero’s stubbornness in them, as if he could delve inside Hero like they were a robot with faulty wiring and fix them just like how he wanted them to be.

Hero gulped and fixed themselves in their seat, but the entire ordeal exhausted them, sapped them of their strength, their energy, their will to fight. Even the energy that buzzed from sucking at Supervillain’s and Trainee’s abilities fizzled out to nothing and left them drained.

Thankfully the doors behind Supervillain opened and two people wearing aprons walked in carrying two delicious smelling dishes. Hero’s eyes brightened at the smell; their stomach screamed at them to feast on the scent like it was a tangible thing.

It smelled… was that chicken? And roasted vegetables? Oh, it smelled absolutely divine. Hero didn’t notice that Trainee Hero served them, they just thanked them as they set the plate down.

Their bright eyes dimmed a little, crestfallen as they looked into a bowl – not a plate – of soup. Hero glanced at Supervillain to see his plate had real food on it. Chicken and vegetables. Hero frowned as they stared at their bowl again.

“Hero,” Supervillain said as Hero dropped their spoon. “Your body would reject solid food if you tried to eat it now. You need to start slow.”

“But…” Hero protested, their eyes getting bigger as they stared longingly at Supervillain’s plate. Supervillain softened. “Hero, we have the exact same meal. Yours is just blended so you can actually absorb some of the nutrients.”

Hero looked down at their bowl again. They felt tears pinprick their eyes at the caution and care Supervillain had prepared for Hero’s awakening. They hated it. They hated him.

If Hero wanted to eat chicken, they should be fucking let! After a year! A year of eating nothing!

Because of Supervillain!

“Hero,” Supervillain said, drawing Hero back into the present, back into their body. Hero pushed the bowl away which was a mistake because the smell went straight to their nose and into their gnawing stomach that threatened to eat itself if they didn’t eat anything in the next minute. “Hero, come on now. You don’t want to throw up bile. You haven’t eaten in—”

“A year.” Hero told him cutting into him with a glare. Supervillain slumped a little at their tone, but Hero couldn’t care less. “If you want me to eat so badly, why don’t you call your little dog Grieves in here and fucking make me?”

Supervillain had the audacity to bristle at Hero’s tone. Hero turned their mutinous glare to the bowl of soup in front of them. And the tears started anew.

Gods— fucking… they were getting so sick of fucking crying! They’d only been awake an hour?! Two at most and how many fucking times have they cried in that—

They froze as they felt a pair of strong arms wrap around them. Their brain stuttered and shut down and Hero couldn’t help themselves. They sobbed into the warm chest, fingers like claws in the shirt as their back jerked silently, violently with the weight of every shaking inhale and sharp exhale.

They weren’t this weak, broken thing.

Hero wasn’t weak. They were strong. They were strong, and Supervillain not only won the war – and made everyone Hero knew and loved to forget their existence – but he stole Hero’s strength and left them powerless in this fucking skinny, muscle-less body.

If Hero had their swords in front of them now, they knew they wouldn’t be able to wield them with any of their old dexterity or skill. Would it be like starting again? From scratch? Or riding a bike— Hero didn’t… they didn’t know. They knew they wouldn’t be able to spear or do any real damage to Supervillain, their enemy, who gently comforted Hero, stroking their back and hair as if Hero was a child.

“It will be a steep adjustment,” Supervillain told them after Hero settled down and stared blankly at Supervillain’s chest. They found comfort in the sound of his heartbeat, like Hero wasn’t completely alone, no matter how watery a defence that was. No matter how hard they had to fight the fact that this was all Supervillain’s fault. “But adjust you will, Hero. You’re strong. I know you will adapt quickly to this new world.”

Hero’s eyelids were heavy like shutters, so it took some time and effort to just blink. “And if I don’t?” They mumbled, void of any emotion.

“Then things would be very difficult for you, Hero.” Supervillain pulled back so his cold gaze could catch Hero’s dead one. “If you’re thinking of any petty rebellion, Hero, think again. If you would rather die than endure what I worked so hard to build, to show you, think again.”

Hero looked away. Supervillain grabbed their chin in his hand and forced them to look at him. “If you think you’d rather waste away than eat, you will be fed via a feeding tube for however long it takes to get you back to a healthy weight.”

“You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” Supervillain promised darkly, his eyes glinted like light off steel. “And I will if you force my hand. I want this to be pleasant for us both, Hero. Please don’t make me go to such lengths to get my way, when we both know I’ll get it no matter what you do, hmm?”

Hero’s tongue seemed to dry up completely in their mouth. “Do you understand me, Hero?”

Hero swallowed. “Yes,” they croaked.

Supervillain smiled. “Good.”

He pulled away and went back to his seat, leaving Hero cold at his absence. Hero grabbed the bowl on the table and dragged it towards them again which took a gargantuan amount of energy and breath.

They picked up the spoon and brought it to their mouth. The divine smell made their glands salivate and they closed their eyes when flavour exploded like fireworks on their tongue. They couldn’t help the moan from escaping them; both from the pain in their gut that screamed for more, and the sheer relief of finally having something slide down their throat to their stomach.

“Good,” Supervillain said with a small smile. “Very good, Hero.”

But Hero didn’t seem to hear him as they brought a second spoon of tan coloured soup to their mouth. Somehow the second spoonful tasted better, and it warmed them from the inside out, as if they were lighting up a fire in an old furnace for the first chill of Winter. Something to warm their bones and their heart, clear the cobwebs out of their ribs.

Hero could only finish half of it before they were full. They stared at the bowl of soup, like if they stared at it long enough, the food would somehow magically transfer from the bowl to their stomach without them throwing it all back up.

Hero lifted their spoon again, determined to finish, when a hand grabbed Hero’s bowl and pulled it away. Hero’s head shot to the hand, grabbing at it, eyes frantic and heated. Supervillain dipped his head.

“You will get more food, Hero, but I think that’s all you can handle at the moment.”

“No!” Hero protested. “I can— I can have more. Please—” they needed to get stronger. They needed it more than they needed air to breathe, or eyes to see. They needed to decide something in their life!

Supervillain pulled the bowl away, and as if on cue the two doors opened, and the waiters came out again. Hero couldn’t do anything except white-knuckle grip their spoon, glaring at the table in front of them.

“Hero,” Supervillain said. For a single, heart wrenching moment, Hero thought about jamming the spoon through their eye. They could do it. They… they could get enough force behind it surely, and then… then they wouldn’t have to suffer this humiliation anymore. They wouldn’t have to live in this world where they were a stranger to everyone they knew and loved. Their mind flashed an image of Vigilante on their eyes and Hero softened. That’s an image they could die to.

Hero jammed their hand up toward their face but was stopped in mid-air, eyes watering as the metal of the spoon was so close to their eye. Their hand shook as they tried to fight against whatever was keeping their arm suspended.

“No!” They cried, grabbing their other hand to try and put some more power behind it. “No! No!”

A hand yanked the spoon from Hero’s grip. The force holding their hand at bay released and Hero punched themselves in the face. Hard enough that their head smacked back against the chair and Hero went cold as they realised that that would have done it. That level of force would have killed them.

“Seems I missed an interesting morning,” a cold voice purred that set all of Hero’s hairs standing on edge. Of course it was Villain. Of course it was. “Hello again, Hero.”

Hero trembled in their chair, their body thrumming with an anxious energy they couldn’t dispel.

“Ah, Villain. Just in time, as usual,” Supervillain said. There was something curt about his tone, like stress or worry. So even he thought Hero was going to die…

What a cruel twist of fate.

“I wouldn’t give them anymore utensils, Supervillain.”

Hero wanted to look. They wanted to turn their head and look so badly at Villain; to see if, like Grieves, Villain would parade Vigilante around as a warning to Hero that they have nobody they could rely on.

“I didn’t think…” Supervillain trailed off. Then footsteps approached and Hero’s chair was yanked back suddenly, turned to face a furious Supervillain. “Why would you do something like that?!” He demanded. “Hero… you cannot… you are not allowed to die; do you understand me?”

Hero didn’t look at him. Instead, they let their eyes drift to Villain who stood smugly at the arch, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the wall, his black-eyed gaze focused on Hero.

“Hero!” Supervillain snapped. His fingers gripped Hero’s chin and forced their gaze to meet Supervillain’s. A look of concern twisted his features, and he looked strange. Hero stared back at him blankly. “I will keep you restrained if you act this way. Is that what you’d prefer? Hmm? To be treated like a child?!”

Hero let out a helpless scoff that sounded suspiciously like a sob. They grabbed Supervillain’s wrist and yanked it off of them.

“What do you know about what I’m going through! Nobody remembers me! Nobody except you and your band of fucking villains that terrorised me a year ago, that were enemies on the front lines. People I killed,” Hero said, their voice breaking on the word killed. They remembered every life they took. Every single one. “And you won’t even let me forget like you did to all the other heroes. You have given me no mercy,” Hero seethed. “So sorry if I’m feeling a little fucking helpless right now! You have no idea what it’s like! To wake up in a world that looks so similar to the one I left, but have everything look strange, different! You don’t fucking know what that is like! Of course, suicide is my go-to solution!”

For a long moment, silence engulfed the trio, and only Hero’s heavy breathing and the crackling of flames punctured the thick blanket of tension that smothered them.

Supervillain’s icy eyes searched Hero’s face for something, before one side of his mouth curled up into a smirk. “I didn’t give all heroes the mercy of forgetting, Hero.”

Hero stared at him. Their mouth suddenly dry. “What?” they whispered.

Supervillain chuckled darkly. “It wouldn’t be enough to let the heroes get off, as you said, for murdering my people during the war.”

Hero’s heart thundered in their ears, deafening. A solid BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Other Heroes remembered? Would they remember Hero? Superhero? Would Hero be able to gather them and actually stage an uprising against Supervillain one day? For the first time since Hero woke up, hope bloomed like a rotten flower in the dark cavity of their chest. No sunlight, no water, no oxygen, and somehow the plant bloomed against its nature.

Supervillain straightened to his full height, towering over Hero again. Hero swallowed, suddenly remembering how weak they were, how weak their body was, how they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves if Supervillain decided to attack right now.

“I was going to wait and let you settle in, maybe build up some strength and get accustomed to your new life, your new world before we took a little road trip, but it seems you’re just itching to get as much information as soon as you can. And I wouldn’t want you to feel completely alone, Hero.”

Hero frowned. Something was so wrong about this picture. Supervillain would willingly bring Hero to a group of their past allies and let them speak? Hero looked at Supervillain.

“Do they–”

“Oh, they remember you, Hero,” Supervillain told them with a vicious grin. Hero’s heart thundered in their ears BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Hero didn’t care about all the warning signs that screamed at them that this was a trick, something Supervillain would let them hope for, a beacon of light in the darkness, only to be snuffed out when Hero finally reached it. But they couldn’t help the rot flower of hope that wrapped its thorns around Hero’s throat and sucked all the moisture from their mouth. “Would you like to go and see them?”

Hero could only nod. Supervillain’s expression sharpened.

“Excellent.”

*~*~*~*~*

Fun challenge for you if you like this story — whoever can guess what Supervillain’s done with the other heroes, I will dedicate the next part to you (however many guess it doesn’t matter hehehe, GOD I LOVE THIS FUCKING FIC)

Tag-list— @micechomper @aarika-merrill @silentpotat0 @dutifullykrispyland @gloriousqueen101

[fleur-a-whump]

Overloaded (#2)

late night sparks

guys guess what!! little villain guy has a name!! it’s Jasper and we love him dearly. also team leader’s got a name too, it’s Miguel, but we don’t really care about him because he’s a bitch. plus new character reveal: Chase, a teammate. he is also, unsurprisingly, a bitch.

Content: ex-villain whumpee, hero/leader whumper, manipulative whumper, collars, electrocution (for realsies this time), implied referenced abuse of a minor, referenced bullying, bad team dynamics, adult language

in which Miguel gets worse. takes place probably a few months after "preventative measures"

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Jasper's back was sore. And his arms. And his everything.

He sat kneeling on the kitchen floor, determinately ignoring the pins and needles that pricked at his calves. He couldn't stop, couldn't take a break till the floor was spotless. Chase had once again threatened some mixture of violence and telling on him to Miguel for insubordination if he didn't do the man's chores. 

Big man-child, Jasper thought bitterly.

So, here he was, scrubbing well past midnight, after having spent the day straining his powers in the lab and doing his own chores. 

Jasper sat back to indulge a long, dramatic yawn. He nearly jumps out of his skin when an impatient ahem cuts through the previously dead silent kitchen. His bleary eyes take several long moments to focus on Miguel, leaning against the doorway. The hero would look casual if it weren’t for the peeved look on his face. Jasper’s stomach does a somersault.

Sheepish, Jasper drawls, “Heyyy, Miguel…”

Miguel is not amused. “What the fuck are you doing out here,” he snaps.

Jasper squeezes his hands into fists to quell the tremors. He stutters, “J-just cleaning.”

The villain can hardly finish the statement before the unsettling and painful electricity of the collar arcs through him. His muscles seize and ache and burn and it feels like death and he can't breathe—

Just as quickly as it began, the electricity stops. He gasps and collapses to the side, just barely able to catch himself on his forearm. Small, choked-off whimpers escape him as he tries to catch his breath and keep his volume to a minimum. His father never liked to hear him whine.

Jasper continues to shudder as his powers go haywire. The typically comforting restless skittering of his own electricity under his skin now burns as it travels across the newly fried neurons. More than that, it feels wrong for such a core part of his being to cause him pain. The feeling is everywhere, from the tip of his nose to his toes, and it is everything. Little sparks and crackles of energy fly from his shaking hands as it becomes too painful to completely contain his powers. Simply existing—not to mention actually using his powers—will be painful while his body tries to recover from the unnaturally strong current, engineered just for him.

As his body gradually backs down from its state of panic, ire at the punishment surges within him. The hero didn’t even let him explain. It was Chase who ordered him to do his chores; ordered him to not leave this room until it was spotless.

“I was just following orders!” he bursts.

Oh shit.

A quick glance at Miguel and his quirked eyebrow lets him know just how badly he just fucked up. And even if it didn't, the second burst of electricity from the collar definitely spells it out for him.

A guttural groan escapes his clenched teeth as he feels the current worm its way through his neurons, igniting them. The burning, all-encompassing pain is all he knows. Spots cloud his vision. Seconds feel like minutes, feel like hours, feel like eternity, until he wonders if that's all he'll ever feel. Nothing but the gut-wrenching pain of his greatest gift, so deeply intertwined with his being, turned against him and ripping him apart from the inside out. 

And then, it stops.

Jasper’s body fully gives out this time, his chin bouncing off the tile and teeth clacking painfully. He's a pitiful mess of useless limbs. His muscles feel like jelly and yet are still forced to endure the waves of aftershock, twitching and spasming irregularly. Each movement is agony.

He gulps oxygen, having still been out of breath from the first shock. He can hardly hear his own moans and whimpers bouncing around the kitchen with each breath over the ringing in his ears, and he has zero energy to control them this time.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he can't help the delayed but violent flinch that ripples through him. But the hand is soft, gentle, as it pulls him to lie on his back. It guides his hand to rest on someone's chest, to follow as it rises and falls rhythmically. He latches onto it, using it as a guide to breathe and bring himself back to reality. Another hand gently cards through his loose curls as he works to steady his breathing and his vision clears. If he eagerly leans into the gentle touch, well, he can blame it on his delirious state.

When Miguel's face finally comes into focus above him, a shiver runs through him, and he averts his gaze. He'll blame that on his still-spasming muscles.

Miguel’s soft voice calls for his attention again. He focuses back on his leader’s face, haloed above him by the bright kitchen lights.

“There you are. You're alright, it's okay,” he soothes.

The hero lets Jasper relish the contact a moment longer before gently returning his hand to his own chest.

Jasper swallows the whimper at the loss.

Miguel lets out a long-suffering sigh. It gives Jasper whiplash how suddenly the familiar weight of anxiety settles back in his chest.

“I don't like doing that, man. You know better than to be in the common areas after your curfew, and you definitely know better than to talk back, bud. I don't wanna have to punish you, but the rules are rules for a reason. Yeah, they're to protect the team, but they're also to protect you. What if you'd had another episode with your powers?”

He decidedly doesn’t think about the ‘episodes’ Miguel is referring to. Still, the disappointment in his savior's voice hurt almost as much as the electricity. His eyes flood with tears as guilt settles like a rock in his stomach. The hero was right. He knew the rules, and he agreed to them. Anything to stay. Anything to be good.

His voice breaks, small and shaky, as he says, “I-I'm really s-sorry, Mig-guel.”

The villain’s not one hundred percent sure what exactly he's sorry for, but, fuck, is he sorry.

“Okay, that's alright, don't cry. I think you've learned your lesson. You're fine.” 

The words should be comforting. The edge to his tone, however, is not. Jasper blinks hard to clear the tears, not wanting to annoy him. That was another thing his father didn't like.

Miguel brings him back to the present, asking, “Why are you cleaning the floor anyways? That's not on your list for this week.”

Jasper swallows hard past the lump still in his throat. He’s afraid of what Chase will do to him if he tells Miguel and Miguel decides he doesn’t like that. However, he’s more “Chase s-said I should be busy all the t-time to k-keep me out of trouble…”

Miguel hums in thought, ever casual as Jasper trembles on the floor below of him. 

“I actually like that idea. We wouldn't want you getting bored. You'd be helping the team out a lot too, taking some work off our plates so we can train more. I'll work on the new chore schedule in the morning.”

Jasper bit his lip. He could read between the lines.

“A-and, my training?”

“We can reduce it some,” Miguel says, thoughtful. “I know you've been struggling to keep up.”

He makes it sound like a kindness, voice full of sympathy. No matter how gentle the tone, Jasper has to blink the tears from his eyes again. He knew he wasn't the strongest or the most capable, but that was the point of training. He'd never be good enough to redeem himself without the chance to train.

Miguel sighs again and stands. He suddenly reaches towards him. Jasper has to carefully control the urge to flinch, not knowing what to expect from the movement. He never knows what to expect.

Miguel simply holds it out towards him, however, expectantly. It takes Jasper a moment to realize he's trying to help him up. He takes the hand after that moment's hesitation and wavers on unsteady feet as the blood finally rushes back into his legs. He blinks spots from his vision, gripping Miguel for dear life until he's sure he's not going to pass out.

The hero gives him an easy smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder just a bit too hard. He nudges him in the direction of the bedrooms.

“You look tired, man. I think it's time for bed,” he all but coos.

It sounds like a caring gesture, or at the very least a joke. Jasper knows it's an order.

He dutifully mumbles, “Goodnight,” before making his way to the door slowly. He knows he probably looks like a newborn fawn as his jittery body tries to carry him to his bed.

“And Jasper?”

A slight jolt of anxiety stops him as he turns back to his leader.

“If I catch you out past curfew again, we're going to have an issue worth more than a little jolt, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the villain says, too tired to bite back the honorific once totally engrained in him.

He doesn't notice the way Miguel preens at the submission.

“Attaboy, Jasper. Goodnight.”

The praise rings hollow after the night's events, but as he makes his way back to his room, dead on his feet, he allows the praise to warm him. 

He'll take what he can get.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

jasper doesn't deserve this :( but he will get more >:)

tags!! lmk if you wanna be added (or removed, I added some extra people)!!

@whumpsday

@sergeant-jasper (yo i didn't even realize lol)

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@crystalrose141

@aloafofbreadwithanxiety

@paingoes

@elizaisnotokay

@quaggasus

[whumpitisthen]

Abhorrent

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CWs: blood, gore, death, fear, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, religious themes, nonhuman whumpers, power dynamics, gay ass deities

“But, but you — please, My Lord, if, i-if your, um, Y-Your Divinity allowed us just one more month — a few weeks even! I’m sure we could come to a, a-uh, satisfactory agreement between the — ”

“I do not care.”

Crack. One final, choked wheeze herds out the soul from his body, and the garrulous suit falls silent. With just a single flick of his hand, three cervical vertebrae snap at once, shattering with enough force to allow for the shards of bone to dig their way deep into the man’s pharynx and trachea, letting blood gush forth to ensure his demise. The corpse smashes its nose bloody on the way down, drawing a new pool of red for the table cloth to swallow up, losing consciousness before it could suffocate fully.

‘You bore me.’

That was what their God had said before this, to the diplomat before him, right before the flesh was rent sliver by excruciating sliver off their body; now lying facing the most recently made corpse.

The human sitting right next to them had failed to endure the maddening scene and got up in a mindless panic to run, aiming to make as much space between themself and the gory execution as possible. Grim halted their plan barely three steps in and dragged them away into the shadows. He came back without the body, licking his fingers clean.

‘No imagination at all…’

That time, the Lord had looked away with a heavy sigh, an air of disappointment about him. Then, the german-tongued politician started vomiting blood, then lungs. The demon king did turn back to face him again; to watch him die. The body is still resting, cold, in a pool of its liquified organs.

‘Your time is up.’

That one was Grim's handywork; an eager, vicious attack delivered in a split second. He had aimed a perfect diagonal slice from the right shoulder to the left hip, splitting the human in twain. What is now two halves of a bloody mess on the floor could hardly string together a single sentence with Death looming above it, slowly counting the seconds like a sentient guillotine. His Lord hoped that the imminent threat would help the mortal come up with something more creative to say, but alas…

The demon almost looks vengeful as he watches each mortal become part of the gory decor, lining them up one by one to join the corpses — apt revenge for wasting his time. Coming into this parley, His Majesty had expected a little more desperation, and a little less arrogance. It seems that even after over three centuries of direct unholy sovereignty, conquest and subjugation, humans would still rather hold their belief in the God that had long abandoned them than to give reverence to the God standing right before them; who is merciful enough to let the brazen bunch continue their pathetic existence despite their frustrating lack of succumbence and endless hubris.

A battle of pride; that's what it always comes down to. Their human pride is just as tenacious as his own; a double edged sword, a hindrance and vantage at once.

“Utterly dull,” — he says, shaking his head disapprovingly, only once blood stops gushing forth from the most recently dead man, — “all of you are so utterly, utterly dull. Three hundred years, twelve generations, over eight tenths of your previous land taken or razed, your existence allowed purely of my own careful design — and you still don’t get it. You refuse to understand.”

If there were any humans composed enough not to show perturbance up until now, their stone exterior breaks at the absolute dissatisfaction that has soaked into their Lord. His almost anger is felt clear as day in the very air that surrounds them, raising the hairs on their arms in wicked goosebumps and causing an unnatural sensation of static and taunting whispers to invade every mortal mind.

A displeased overlord is a special kind of danger; the kind that incinerates nations and enslaves the innocent on a whim. But forget all that — at the rate this conference is going, not a single human is making it out of here alive. One could wonder, if these people are so important to the workings of human society, how will the rest of them adapt to their sudden absence?

Grim yawns. What are humans if not the most freakishly adept at acclimatisation? They were made to bend, they will figure it out.

The shivers and terrorising voices only last a few seconds, shushed by the demon lord's composed exhale. There are still so many of them, perhaps only the first few would be so untoward with their approach. Every word that came out of their pathetic mouths angered him, bringing him ever closer to erasing their entire race in one final torrent of infernal destruction — no, that would be an awfully rash decision from a man known to be the most patient. He can shape them, he can mould them, just as well as any of his own creations. They will yield eventually. He just wishes their stubbornness would fade.

He would never admit it out loud, not even to himself, especially not around Grim… But every trait that he sees in these mortals — this endless pride, obstinacy, wit, devotion, will, — they are his own. A curse, a punishment, a reminder. It originated with him, reflected back at him millennia later, and it absolutely infuriates him to no end. He cannot stand seeing himself in these specks of useless dust.

He wills the next mortal to stand and present their stance and queries, dared to implore their overlord to aid them and their nation; but their solemn monologue about how insufficient land and a lack of reliable resources bottlenecks their agriculture and has now lead to civil unrest, millions starving, rioting on the streets, stealing, killing, drawing their ire closer to their beloved benefactors’ estates, and how that has left their governing officials no choice but to plead for a mitigation of the sanctions placed on their people by their benevolent, omniscient ruler,  — and that is as far as he can bare to listen to this dry speech of utter selfish incompetence.

There is a painful lack of proper respect, Grim finds. All demands and no pleas. So official, yet so incredibly unserious. He can't help likening them to a circus of clowns in expensive suits, sitting around in their little clown cars debating their little clown problems.

It feels like humans have truly forgotten how to beg. No; maybe these ones have, but begging is in a mortal’s nature. They had just grown so accustomed to having a God that never answered them that now that someone more worthy came to take its place, they don't even believe he is one. Or they would rather pretend otherwise.

Either way, he doesn't really care about any of this. Instead, Grim finds his fun in circling the long row of seats on either side of the crowded dining table. Slow steps, a cold gust of air on the backs of each nervous mortal waiting their turn. He passes time inspecting their souls, bumping their feet or ghosting a hand along their shoulders to keep them in check, see their reactions. Backs ramrod straight, limbs pulled in, heads down, breaths thin. Like little soldiers.

He slows to a stop behind one; the one he likes most. A small woman, with big circular glasses and a mess of autumn-coloured hair held up by a single hairband. She is quivering, her hands hidden between her thighs as she sits nearly motionless; so unassuming, so afraid to bring any kind of attention to herself, that it only makes her stand out that much more. He is certain, now that he has watched her for a while, that she isn't the leader of anything, only a puppet sent in place of someone much more important. That, or she is wiser than any other mortal partaking at this diplomatic feast and babbling about things that do not matter.

She shudders and flinches at the chilling breath she feels on her cheek, hunching her shoulders up high. Her eyes squeeze shut before she could catch a glimpse of that terrifying canine skull he wears as he leans down, tilting his head to take a closer look at the circles under her eyes, the soft, natural colours of her makeup proving far too vibrant for her steadily paling face. He is curious what language she speaks, what her voice sounds like. One of those silver claws lifts to scrape her cheek, carefully lifting a lock of that soft, wavy hair to gently tuck behind her ear. He does not hurt her, he doesn't even try particularly to scare her, and that only makes her all the more alluring when despite that, she nearly whimpers, struggling to draw breath, like he's squeezing the very air out of her lungs.

She reminds him of his tormented little fawn. So little, so sweet, so easy to frighten. Stays still and quiet, merely hoping that she won't be hurt, no fighting, no running. Her soul vibrates with life, lighting up her otherwise morose expression with vibrancy in her green eyes. It makes him want to take her away, lock her up somewhere, make her scream, make her his. He smiles fondly behind his mask, and reaches past her to grab a fine looking piece of meat off the plate in front of her. It drips with a generous coating of blood, dripping down the bone of his mask as he lifts the flesh sliver above himself, pulls the mask to the side and drops the delicacy onto his tongue, savouring it. It tastes real enough, though reality is a funny concept when it comes to his Lord.

In the Nowhere, time passes a little differently. There is no certain way to tell its passage, no logic to its rhythm. It fluctuates seemingly randomly, going faster one moment, then slowing to a near stop another. He cannot be sure, but Grim does have a running theory hypothesising that the imaginary time of these temporary worlds is forced to bend to His Majesty's whims. In here, a dimension created by him and occupied by guests, the natural order of things is whatever he wants it to be — and what is time but one thread of a given reality interwoven into the intricate lace of the creator's mind.

It amazes Grim, that even with such magnificent power as to be a source of creation itself, His Majesty still finds the time to spend on the smallest, most insignificant of things, and often would rather use it to morph something already existing, as opposed to creating something entirely new. To each their own, he supposes. The Lord's personal projects do always end up to be something entertaining if nothing else, no matter if they are some scrawny thing he picked up off the side of the street, or if it’s the most incredible, incalculable, phenomenal masterpiece a God like him could come up with built up with endless care piece by piece from nothing.

It has been a while since his Lord has had a project. The last one has shattered long ago; a boring husk that became incapable of imperfection, or emoting for that matter, thoroughly emptied out until they became a lukewarm body without a soul, or opinion, or anything at all, left to listlessly wander their master's mansion and clean the halls over and over again, wheezing slow as if perpetually suffocating. Grim tried to put a little fear into them once, hoping to elevate the rhythm of their heart a little, but it was like they were dead already, grey with a lack of life behind their eyes, blinking slow, wholly uninterested in anything he had to offer that wasn't death. He remembers his Lord calling them a great disappointment.

He wonders if his newest gift will fascinate the demon enough to keep his focus for a while. He counts on the angel’s arrival being somewhat of a sentimental topic to his old friend.

Deep in his thoughts, the Reaper suddenly feels something. The scent of blood in water. His ashen skin shivers with its intensity. A sound; a wave of something strange, vibrant, beguiling, sorrowful. A soul crying for him. Screaming for him. Someone he knows?

He slows to a stop from his absentminded stroll and listens, looking around as if to ascertain the direction of the sad wailing. He feels his Lord's attention on him, ever careful of his premonitions. His bloodhound sensed something he cannot, and that is rarely a good sign.

The Lord waves a hand, shutting up the human diplomat's ceaseless rambling. — “What is it?”

Staring straight up at the ceiling, Grim listens for the cries, but they are much too hard to make out. He can’t tell exactly what's going on past the shadowed walls of this domain. His ears are filled with cotton. Letting his chin down, he hums. — “It appears I have somewhere else to be.”

“Is that so?”

“Somewhere important,” — he continues, more so to himself. He turns to his Lord, all but ordering, voice cold, but his tone still lifts towards the end, as if only patiently inquiring; — “open a gate.”

His Lord raises an eyebrow. This sudden change is completely unprecedented; a far cry from his unburdened, carefree Reaper. What has made him so worried so suddenly? — “What could be more important than being by my side?”

That pulls a laugh out of Grim; a little incredulous, a little genuine, but spine chilling all the same. — “The details of my duty are of no business to you, My Lord.”

Then, black smoke envelops him, catching him as he bonelessly falls back into it, swallowed up and gone. He disappears for only a moment; the next he is walking out from behind his Lord’s impressive throne. Bracing himself on the back of it, he leans down to murmur, his fangs peeking out from under the mask just so, smiling wickedly. — “So draw a gate for me. I may just be inclined to return sooner if you do.” — He giggles then, a mischievous sound. — “I know you don't like being all alone with these scary mortals. I'll hurry right back to your side, Your Majesty, you need have nothing to worry about.”

Even if he was considering opening a gate for him, he definitely won't after that mockery. Grim knows as much; but he cannot hold himself from playful jest. And nevertheless, he had just about enough of this senseless race to find out who can come up with the most boring way to beg their God, and by his calculations, he may have annoyed the Lord just enough for him to not mind Grim's absence too much once he leaves.

Sure enough, the demon narrows his eyes in slight contempt, not looking very amused — can he never take a joke? He then puts on an easy smile. — “I think you can find your own way there, wherever it is you must go. Clearly, you do not need my help.”

Grim’s fanged smile disappears as his Lord's own only grows when he lifts a clawed hand to take hold of his bloodhound by the chin, bringing him close enough to whisper in his ear. — “If you wanted to leave so badly, you could have just told me. I am more than used to your flippant nature; I know your thirst never leaves you long enough to think through a single thought in your head. Go home and grab yourself a snack, my ravenous Reaper, I won't stop you.”

His surprise is quickly replaced by a toothy grin, low laughter bubbling out of his throat. That shiver raising the hairs on the back of his neck; a familiar, pleasant electric current spasming under his frozen skin. A shaky breath slips out from behind his teeth. 

Under the mask, Grim's eyes flutter shut. His Lord is a dangerous, foolish man to flirt with Death in such a fashion. Truly dangerous indeed.

He can't resist grasping a hand around his old friend's wrist with unyielding strength, lifting those clawed fingers away from the possessive hold on his chin. If his grip hurts the demon lord at all, he doesn't show it. He then turns the offending hand and returns it to his lips. He presses a gentle, slow kiss to the black veins pumping the same black blood as his own steadily through them.

Blood void of any adrenaline, fear or anxiety. Playing with fire, tempting fate, and not an ounce of healthy cowardice to be found in those onyx eyes.

His Lord's smug faith in his Reaper’s loyalty annoys Grim greatly — almost as much as it captivates him.

“Abhorrent,” — he decides, a finely chosen word of farewell. His old friend smiles as if he called him beautiful.

With that, cursed black smoke envelops his body in a gentle embrace, disintegrating his form to mist until there is nothing left. The Lord's hand remains floating surrounded by Death’s frigid breath, leaving an echo of phantom touch on his skin long after the air inexplicably warms, sighing in relief with every mortal to announce the Reaper's departure.

<3

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[loonybun]

ok screw it oc introduction be upon ye

hi guys this is Rosé!!! I do have an in depth thing regarding his relationship with Adonis (another character of mine) and his whole transformation on my other blog so if you’d like to read that in more detail it’s right here.

CONTAINS: Cults/religion/sacrilege (evangelical nature), religious trauma and guilt, shunning, old timey homophobia and religion-based intersexphobia, historic stuff and some fun facts about the 1920’s, verbal abuse, manipulation, coercion, power dynamic (god and mortal), a really shitty partner and a shitter relationship, body horror, chronic illness, attempted suicide (multiple times multiple methods including overdose), rot and decay of the body, and love potions but for all the wrong reasons.

Rosé, formerly known as Roe Labat, was born in 1898 and raised in an evangelical cult. Ironically enough this has actually nothing to do with the wings and whatnot. That’ll come later. Being both intersex and albino, he was never truly accepted by the people around him. Some were kinder than others, sure, but it was all out of pity. In their eyes, he was already damned to an eternity in hell for the simple sin of existing.

He was a very docile and quiet child, rarely ever stepping out of line regardless of circumstances. He lived inside of the church, as his parents didn’t want responsibility of him. From an early age Roe understood that he was not something worthy of love, as even God had forsaken him. He was cared for out of obligation rather than actual genuine love, having religion almost constantly drilled into him.

When he was 18 (1916), he ran away from the cult’s village. He figured that he’d never make anything out of himself within it, and never be able to prove himself. Roe was also sick of being a burden. He had never been able to make friends due to the constant ostracism, and even though the people he was around changed to be a lot more open-minded, this remained a constant throughout his life. He started living in New Orleans and often frequented various parades and bars. Also he learned that he was queer and that messed him up for a bit. Despite being forsaken, he still tried his best to be a good follower given his circumstances, but the more he learned about the world around him, the looser his faith became.

Roe took an eventual interest in the “pansy performers” (drag queens in the 1920’s), though felt a lot of guilt and shame regarding considering the concept as a career. The more he thought about it though, he realized he didn’t have much else to lose.

He was a natural performer, able to say and do just the right things in just the right ways to provoke a positive reaction from the audience. Considering the more niche community at the time, he never really drew in big crowds, but what he had was enough for him to live off of in a nice 3 room apartment. He was able to afford relatively nice clothes for his performances when they weren’t provided, and quickly became skilled at makeup and wig styling. He also began dying his hair (yes hair dye was a thing in the 1920’s) and using mascara and heavier makeup in order to conceal his albinism, just because it drew some unwanted attention here and there. While he rarely encountered any trouble with the law, he had a few close calls given what he was doing was pretty illegal at the time. homophobia am i right…

Around when he was 24-25, he met “Don”, who claimed to be a cab driver, yet was almost always dressed to the nines in stylish and at times anachronistic clothing. They hit it off very quickly, relating over the strange feeling of being isolated from their peers. They started going out together soon after. It was Roe’s first real relationship, especially with another man, so to say he was a bit nervous would be putting it lightly. Regardless, Don was always very kind to him and patient with him. He was a bit suspicious of Don though since he was always very dodgy about his home life and really any personal details, however he just assumed they came from similar situations. Roe did theorize where his money was coming from and thought him to either be a bootlegger or a member of the mafia, though he never brought it up because in full honesty he didn’t care too much. He was already head over heels and a little illegal activity wouldn’t stop that.

The last thing he was expecting was Don— or rather, Adonis, to claim he was actually a god. And really really wasn’t supposed to be talking with Roe but just couldn’t help himself. Roe was shocked to say the least, and a little incredulous, but Adonis was very quickly able to prove he was telling the truth. Roe, despite having his entire worldview and years of his life shattered by this one man, decided to try and make things work between them. And it did, for a while. The gaps in Adonis’s visits made more sense now, since he couldn’t be away for too long without the other gods getting suspicious. And it was nice to not have secrets. Roe was able to open up to him about his childhood as well, and Adonis provided sympathy for him.

But good things can’t last forever. As time passed, their relationship grew progressively worse. Adonis got upset over increasingly small things, and while Roe understood his perspective and tried to accommodate him, it didn’t mean he was exactly pleased about it. Adonis began to grow concerned over the prospect of something happening to Roe. After all, he was mortal. Frail. Weak.

His solution to this? Well, get rid of the mortality. Roe wasn’t exactly on board with the idea, considering he quite enjoyed being able to perform and live in the city, and accepting Adonis’s offer would make that nearly impossible. Adonis was persistent though, bringing up the idea at any time despite how many times Roe tried to gently shoot it down. Roe eventually grew tired of this cycle and hesitantly accepted. Adonis claimed that this would make things easier— They could see each other more often, they wouldn’t have to hide, the chances of his whole relationship with a mortal being found out by the one person who could end his existence from breaking the rules moved close to 0, no real drawbacks! for him.

this is where the stuff in the post i mentioned earlier comes in. if you’ve already read it, yeah it gets bad. if you haven’t, here’s the brief explanation.

given the fact that mortal bodies aren’t exactly capable of handling literal godly essence, Roe’s body began to decay and break down. At first, it mimicked some sort of disease. His skin became dry and flaky, and his body felt oddly hot and uncomfortable. Painful sensations overtook his body and became almost constant. By the time things started melting and his organs began to fail, he already knew it was too late to reverse any of this. Any hope of continuing his career or life normally vanished completely. Adonis, however, was very happy about this new development! It had worked! yippee! so so much fun. Of course, he obviously remained as sympathetic towards Roe as possible, regardless of any underlying excitement.

Roe became agitated and frustrated because of the amount of pain he was in and how much he had lost. He wasn’t able to leave the house anymore. He began to snap and lash out at Adonis, picking a fight or making a snide remark whenever possible. Adonis hadn’t exactly seen this coming, but he still kept trying to de-escalate things, often in the form of telling Roe that he was acting unreasonable or hysterical (smart move!). Despite all of this, they stayed in their relationship. Roe was too terrified to be alone, knowing that whatever was happening to him would completely destroy any semblance of respect people had for him, and Don because he wanted to see it through.

Their fights got worse until Adonis finally snapped back, calling Roe an “ungrateful cunt” for not appreciating the love and support he’d oh so generously provided. He made it clear to Roe that nobody would recognize him as human anymore. Nobody would love or care about him. He’d be a freak to anyone other than him, so he’d better stop complaining or he’d lose him too.

This got through to Roe, and he stopped shouting. In fact, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. It hurt too much to speak, to move, to breathe. Every step was agony. His body had contorted beyond recognition. Was it even worth it to continue like this? Would this be what the rest of his existence was like? Did he really want to live if it meant being in constant, unbearable agony?

Even if the answer was no, he hardly had much of a choice. He tried more humane methods at first. Overdose, drowning in the bathtub, smashing his head against the wall— Nothing worked. He was still alive. He was still alive. Why was he still alive? Was he alive? Was this what it meant to live?

He got more desperate. Stabbing at his stomach, burning his flesh, only it would only leave little splotchy marks that quickly faded. Or so he thought.

The area around the wound he’d made on his stomach began to rot, eating away at any organs or skin or muscle in its path. Eventually, his entire torso from the bottom of his spine to the top of his pelvis was gone save for his spine and a few bits of spare viscera.

When Adonis returned, he wasn’t happy to see what Roe had tried to do. He became incredibly upset with him for trying to leave the relationship in the only way he possibly could. Still, as long as Roe promised to stop, he’d forgive him. Roe obliged.

The fact that Roe wouldn’t talk to him became a source of frustration for Adonis. It felt intentional, spiteful. And it hurt. Every single question was met with a dulled response, as if he barely heard him. As if he hardly cared. It became a bit like spending time with a rock when he stopped responding all together. No matter what Adonis tried, he couldn’t seem to get Roe to react. It was at that point he realized that both physically and mentally, the person he’d fallen for was gone. Far, far deep down, he knew it was his fault. But still, there was hardly any point in staying. Roe would probably rot there forever, and what good would it do to watch over that?

And so he left. Roe realized that it was permanent maybe only a week or so later. Initially, he blamed himself. If he had put in a little more effort, he could have tried to respond, but the pain was too much to bear… The pain— The pain that had begun to fade now. Maybe a month after Adonis left, Roe began to regain his mobility, his strength, and while he was still in pain, it was no longer unbearable. It seemed more like a dull nagging now. The fog that the loneliness and agony had inflicted upon him began to lift as well, and all of that guilt quickly shifted and simmered into pure hatred.

Hatred that the new immortal would begin to inflict upon the world and the ones surrounding it. That would continue to build for years with only the set goal of revenge against the man that had wronged him. And while it cooled over time into a tepid resentment, it never truly faded. He was able to continue with life, though hardly on the same plane, confining himself to a dimension that only certain desperate souls could access. Souls desperate to save their relationships, souls desperate to have their so-called beloveds fall for them, wretched, vile souls. And he’d help them regardless. After all, what’s a worse offense to a love god than bastardizing the craft? Who cares if a few… Hundred lives get ruined? It’s fun to watch. It’s not his turn to suffer anymore. And he won’t be made a victim again.

ANYWAYS more extra info i DONT think i put on the other post but dont rlly wanna check:

Adonis is the god of Lust, Beauty, and Vanity

Roe took on his stage name Rosé after his transformation to distance himself from his past

Rosé has been collecting magic. For what purpose? Let’s not worry about that.

Rosé has the abilities to siphon magic and the life force from people. He doesn’t do this often unless something catches his eye that he wants to harness. It does mean he’s incredibly powerful though.

Rosé’s main abilities he gained directly from Adonis’s essence or whatever include being able to alter the emotions of others (he can force people to think certain ways and even do certain things), pocket dimension stuff, and object conjuring.

Rosé has a lot of side hobbies but his favorite is cooking. He really likes savory dishes, but he also likes sweet things.

Rosé is able to travel between different dimensions and such, and only exists as a “god” in (this) one.

Rosé has built up a reputation among a lot of magical creatures. None of them are quite sure what he is or how he seems to defy certain laws of existence but most see him as a relatively trustworthy supplier for love potions.

Every so often Rosé gets bored and chooses to single people out to mess with. Maybe he should stop doing that.

Rosé is VERY prone to breakdowns, and while he’s mostly able to stay professional, if someone’s around him for a prolonged period of time and something causes him to spiral he regresses into an incredibly different and much more desperate person.

Rosé (name aside) considers himself a liquor connoisseur (RED FLA) and does collect rare alcohols. he does have a tendency to drink heavily but considering his body can’t really process food or drinks it sort of just magically disappears. he is a talkative and very mopey drunk though. like will start full on venting about his life story.

He’s friends with Aisling!!! Friends is a very strong word!!!! Maybe the wrong word!!! But they they hang out sometimes and Aisling seems to enjoy his company a lot even if he can’t really understand why he keeps coming back if not out of fear or trying to use him so he keeps his distance. Aisling is honestly just worried about him and has sort of been able to slowly break down that Rosé maybe isn’t as absolutely terrifying as he first thought and is indeed just very. very lonely and maybe even a bit pathetic

[3-2-whump]

Tear-Filled Noncon (Mutual!)

it's a working title, I'm bad with titles

Continuation of this idea

Art here

TW/CW: because this is a continuation of the previous noncon idea, a lot of the same warnings will apply. Rape/Noncon, intimate whumper, obsessed whumper, domestic violence (including brief head trauma), some degradation, inner thoughts that go a bit dark. If I missed anything, pls let me know!

He turned the key slowly in the lock, opened the door as quietly as he could, and closed it equally as carefully behind him. Whumpee’s eyes swept over the living room. The apartment was quiet and dark, dimly illuminated only by the city lights in the window. More importantly, the door to the master bedroom was closed, with no light peeking out from underneath. Whumpee sighed in relief; he’d gotten away with it.

The next breath caught in his throat as he was body-slammed into the door. A large hand pinned both wrists above his head when he tried to defend himself from the unseen force. The other hand yanked his head back by his hair, eliciting a surprised yelp of pain. “Where were you?” a warm breath hissed in his ear.

Whumpee squirmed under his master’s punishing grasp. “I-I can explain-”

“Like hell you can!” The hand in Whumpee’s hair drove his head forward and smashed it against the door. Sharp pain unfurled in the back of his skull as stars danced across his blurry vision. “Your curfew is midnight at latest, and it’s nearly two in the morning,” Whumper's angry voice thundered past the incessant throbbing in his head. The hand on his wrists tightened into a bruising grip. “So tell me-” Whumpee cried out in pain as the hand in his hair pulled harder. “Where were you?”

“You’re hurting me!” Whumpee gasped.

“Well you’re hurting me!” Whumper let go of him at once, only to throw him to the floor of the entrance. Whumpee landed hard on his side. He reflexively tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but within moments the man had flipped him onto his back to better climb on top of him. A loud ripping sound punctuated Whumpee’s whimpers in the darkness as his shirt was torn clean in two. “Coming home late at night, with no regard to my rules, and smelling like a cheap motel –wait…” Whumper’s eyes zeroed in on a necklace of hickeys that rested on the young man’s collarbone. He slapped him, once, then twice, then again. “Who gave you those hickeys?” Slap! “Who were you sleeping with?!” Slap! “Well, answer me, whore!”

Whumpee shook his head, the tears streaming down his face as he continued to beg for mercy. “Clearly you’ve forgotten who you belong to,” Whumper huffed. “No problem, this just means I’ve got to remind you!” He brusquely unbuttoned Whumpee’s pants and pulled them and his boxers down the young man’s trembling thighs. Whumpee’s pleas of “no, no, stop, please, stop” went entirely ignored as he was flipped onto his stomach. His begging took on a frantic pitch as his body started visibly shaking. He’d never been taken from behind before, and this new position made him panic.

“You don’t deserve to be fucked like a person, so you’ll take it like the wanton little bitch you are!”

“No, no, stop, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, no, I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!” Whumpee wailed as his hips were wrenched up from the floor and Whumper entered him without any prep or lube. The man was not gentle, far from it. Quick, desperate thrusts punctured him deeper than he was used to. It was the roughest he had ever been with him, unquestionably, feeling less like having sex and more like being torn in half. Stubbornly enough, Whumpee’s body reacted to these more intense sensations all the same, especially when the man on top of him continuously slammed into that sweet spot inside of him.

“Look at you,” Whumper commented derisively, a hint of bitterness in his gravelly voice. “Hard as a rock already, you slutty thing! You’d be happy with just anyone’s cock inside your ass, wouldn’t you?” Whumpee’s cheeks colored in shame as a shaky moan interrupted his pleas. “But you shouldn’t be; you’re mine!”

He felt a thin, warm fluid trickle past the cock pummeling his hole. The man above him crushed him further into the carpeted floor. “I own this ass, and it is mine to fuck,” he screamed, “you got it?! No one else’s, just mine!”

He didn’t have to see behind him to know he was bleeding. At least it makes Master’s thrusts a little less painful, he thought. That feeling of morbid relief alone made him cry even harder. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Why am I not enough for you?!” Whumper’s voice wavered with emotion. His angry thrusts turned sloppier as he continued. “Damn it, and damn you! I gave you everything you could ask for; I gave you everything you could have needed! I fed you, clothed you, made you into the man you are today, so why?! What are they giving you that I’m not?!” The man’s voice caught on the last question. Whumpee felt small wet drops of liquid fall onto the nape of his neck. Tears? He realized with horror that Whumper was crying as he was raping him.

“M-Master, I-I’m sorry, please-”

“I said, shut up!” He pulled Whumpee back by the hips until he was flush with the older man’s pubic bone, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside him. They stayed in that position for an uncomfortably long time. Suppressed sniffling sounds filled the entryway, and Whumpee knew they weren’t all coming from him. Whumper eventually pulled out, leaving his hole gaping and obscenely oozing cum. He settled on the floor next to Whumpee and repositioned them both onto their sides. “I love you, boy,” he murmured as he pulled him closer to spoon him. “I don’t enjoy hurting you, boy.” The tension gradually left Whumpee’s body as he accepted the forced cuddles. The man planted a kiss on the back of his ear, right above the barcode tattoo that marked him indelibly as property. The kiss was wet and tinged with sadness. “So why do you make me hurt you?”

-

Because what we do –no, what you do to me- is not supposed to feel good. How could it feel good? I didn’t want it, I don’t want it, and I will never want it, so why does my body betray me every time? What if it’s because you’re right? What if this really was my true purpose? To be nothing more than a pair of holes to fill and a body to break under yours? What if I am all those names you call me because I think this feels good?

And, what if I act out, do all the things I know will test your patience and make you rough and uncaring so that it finally hurts? So that it finally doesn’t feel good, and I don’t have to ask if my body and my mind are on the same page about me being violated? What if that’s why I make you hurt me? Would you stop? Would you hurt me more? Would it even matter?

-

That is everything Whumpee wanted to say. Instead, through a throat ripped raw from screaming, he rasped, “I don’t know.”

[springwhump]

Name: Amos

Pronouns: He/him

Sexual Orientation: Evil Homo

Height: 5’8

Would they say ‘fuck’: No, feels it’s too vulgar. If angry, then yes

Character Summary: Amos is the god of the unconscious, with his main deific domains being life, death, and dreams. He is rather arrogant and manipulative, with a flair for the dramatic. He adores his favorite pet Phoenix, whom he both spoils and uses as stress relief.

Fun Facts:

Prefers Victorian-esque clothing and architecture

Melodramatic Bitch

Likes controlling others