#lady whumper

[melpomenelamusa]

The escape plan - Chimeras

~Original story~

Previous

CW: Pet whump, lady whumper, lady whump, multiple whumpees, mention cautivery, blood and injuries, drowning.

Fidi had come up with an escape plan. After several sleepless nights, creating various hypothetical scenarios and taking note of a variety of outcomes, she believed she had found the path that would lead her and Tigri to freedom.

The first step was to get rid of the collars. These had a tracker that meant that, as long as they were wearing them, Madame Lavenza would always have access to their exact location from her cell phone. But taking off the collar and throwing it away was easy. The tricky part was dealing with the electric chip.

As they had already experienced firsthand more than once, if the woman activated the electric chip before they could take off the collars, they would be finished. Being caught in the middle of an escape attempt was a severe punishment guaranteed. Fidi didn't want to imagine what Madame Lavenza would do to them in that case.

The chip was located on the inside of the collar, attached to the skin on the back of their necks, that was what made the electric shock have an immediate effect when activated through the remote control in the woman's possession. Fidi thought the best way to avoid being affected by the current was to cover the chip with something that would prevent the electricity from spreading to their bodies.

“Rubber is an insulator,” Tigri said. “We could find some rubber and put it on our necks before putting on the collar, to create something like a barrier between our skin and the chip. The thicker it is, the better the insulator will be.”

“Do you think we could use those rubber gloves that the cleaning staff uses to wash the bathrooms?” Fidi asked.

“They might work.”

“We could cut off the fingers, put them together, and create a sort of internal necklace, so that it would protect us. I can try to do something like that.”

During the time they could spend alone together, away from Madame Lavenza’s displays and requests, Fidi and Tigri dedicated themselves to collecting the materials they needed for their plan. Tigri managed to steal some gloves from the cleaning store, while Fidi distracted the staff by spilling juice on the fur rug in the lobby (it earned her a punishment, but it was worth it). Getting adhesive tape was much easier, Fidi only had to approach one of the servants and tell him that one of her sketchbooks had been torn. Without asking too many questions she was given a roll.

Using some thread and the tape, Fidi made two collars by joining together the cut fingers of several rubber gloves. The idea was to glue a piece of rubber over the chip on Madame Lavenza's collar and then place it over the rubber collar around their necks.

Wearing the rubber collar made the metal collar feel much more uncomfortable, constricting their throats; but they were confident that this homemade method would keep them safe from the cruel electric shocks, at least long enough for them to be able to find an opportunity to escape. They had no way of testing the effectiveness of their experiment other than by angering Madame Lavenza and earning themselves a punishment. If their method didn't work, then they would suffer for good; But if this one worked and Madame Lavenza realized something fishy was going on, she would check the collars and then they would be finished.

"We'll have to trust that it´ll work," Fidi said, trying to sound confident. "Hide the rubber collar in your room, in a very hidden place that the cleaning staff can't find."

The second part of the plan was to get out of the mansion. Right off the bat, that was almost impossible. There were guards watching the main gate 24/7, and during the night all the entrances and exits to the property were locked. They also knew that there were cameras on the perimeter, around the wall surrounding the big house. On their own, they would never be able to get out without being caught.

“That's why we'll escape when we're out of the mansion,” the girl said.

In the past, it was fear that had prevented her from trying to escape every time Madame Lavenza took her out of her cage in the mansion; but now it could be her only chance to achieve the long-awaited freedom.

“Wouldn't that be very dangerous?” Tigri asked, putting a hand to his chin, weighing the possibility.

“It's the best option I can think of,” Fidi answered, determinedly. “We'll have to escape during the course of the car ride. Trying to escape as soon as we leave the mansion will be a total failure, and trying to escape when we reach our destination will be the same thing.”

Fidi didn't find the idea of ​​jumping out of a moving car to be a tempting experience either; but if it was necessary to finally find her freedom, she would do it.

"What will we do after we jump out of the car?" Tigri asked. "If we're lucky and we don't get hit by a car coming in the other lane."

"Run," the girl replied. "Run as far as possible. Once we're sure no one is following us, we can look for your family."

Tigri's ears drooped down. Mentioning his family always made him melancholic and nostalgic.

"Okay. So that's the plan."

Madame Lavenza never announced her activities in advance, so every time she planned to do something with her "pets," whether it was a photo shoot, playing with dolls, going to a party or an exhibition, etc., she always took them by surprise. That day at breakfast, Madame Lavenza told them that they were going to a party organized by one of her friends, in a building on the mountain. Fidi and Tigri exchanged glances, knowing what that meant: the day to escape would be today.

After dressing in the elegant outfits that Madame Lavenza had assigned them, they put on the rubber collar and on top of it the collar with the chip. Fidi felt her hands sweating, not only from the gloves, but from anxiety. If the rubber collar didn't work...

She felt a friendly hand on her shoulder and saw Tigri smile at her. The boy's tail swished nervously behind him, but he tried to give his friend a confident smile.

They got into the car. Madame Lavenza, as always, sat in the middle of the back seat, Fidi on her right and Tigri on the left. The driver and a servant who accompanied them as a chamberlain were the rest of the people in the vehicle.

Fidi felt her heart pounding so hard against her chest that she feared Madame Lavenza would hear her. The car moved quickly through the city streets. The traffic was light, but cars came and went on either side of them. After almost an hour of travel, they reached the highway. The speed increased. The buildings gradually disappeared, replaced by views of fields, forests and mountains. There were no more cars around them; they moved alone along the wide asphalt road.

It was now or never.

Fidi turned to look at Madame Lavenza. The woman was leaning back in the seat, with her arms crossed and her eyes closed. Then she turned her gaze to Tigri. He was gripping the fabric of his pants, his claws out. A shaky exhale escaped the snake girl's lips and the tiger boy turned to look at her. Fidi nodded discreetly. He reached out and slowly unlocked the door. Her whole body was shaking with anticipation. She took a deep, deep breath, as if she was filling her lungs with oxygen for the last time.

"Now!" she shouted. She opened the door and let herself fall.

The pain was immediate. She hit the pavement with her right shoulder. She bounced and rolled like a ball of yarn a few times until she stopped. Fidi's mouth was open in a silent scream, as she felt the pain spread all over her side. The skin on her arms and legs burned. A harsh smell reached her nose and she felt the shreds of torn tights stick to the bleeding scraps on her legs, burned by the friction of the asphalt. She felt like it took her forever to catch her breath.

“Fidi!”

She suddenly saw Tigri at her side, helping her up. She hissed in pain, feeling as if her skin was tearing. She was dizzy and for a moment she thought she would throw up her lunch from a few hours ago. Tigri, on the other hand, had one of the lenses of his glasses broken, was limping on his left leg and was bleeding from a wound on his forehead.

“We have to go now,” the boy urged, helping her walk.

They hadn’t gone more than a couple of meters when they both stopped, feeling a slight tickling and a sensation of heat on their necks. The rubber collar had worked! But that meant that Madame Lavenza was upset. Very upset. They took off both collars and threw them away, before continuing to run, driven by pure adrenaline. They had no direction, so they just followed the street. They had to go far, as far as they could.

They came to a bridge. Several meters below them ran a river, which meandered into unknown and wild territory, getting lost in the forest. The empty road continued ahead, inviting them to continue. Suddenly they heard the screeching sound of tires against the asphalt and in the distance a black car appeared, approaching.

"I-it's her!" Fidi shouted, feeling panic turn her stomach. She and Tigri quickened their pace, running as fast as their injured bodies allowed them. When they reached the other side of the bridge they could try to go into the forest and thus lose their pursuers...

The car sped past them, thundering and ruffling their hair, then stopped in front of them and blocked the way. Two men with stern faces got out. From the back seat came Madame Lavenza. Her face was red with anger and her lips twisted in a grimace of betrayal.

“You damn animals,” she muttered, starting to walk towards them.

Fidi and Tigri started to run in the opposite direction. They immediately heard hurried footsteps behind them, catching up.

They weren’t going to make it.

“We have to jump into the river!” Fidi said.

The chimera children turned right, heading for the edge of the bridge. The river looked deep and its grey waters flowed fast and violently. Fidi was so scared that tears threatened to blur her vision. It was either the river or being captured again.

They climbed the railing, no more than a meter high. The breeze ruffled their hair and the roar of the waters reached their ears. Fidi looked at the sky and it seemed like an infinite, celestial canvas. The men who were chasing them stretched out their arms to grab them...

Fidi jumped. For an instant, gravity ceased to exist. She was alone, in the middle of a vast world, a terrifying and dangerous world, but one that could also be beautiful and liberating.

She had done it.

“FIDI!”

Tigri's scream made her turn her head just in time to see her friend's terrified face, as the men dragged him away from the railing, back to the road. Fidi couldn't answer his call, because at that moment she hit the surface of the water.

The liquid ran furiously up her nose, and the girl had to gather her willpower not to open her mouth and drown. She kicked, not knowing which way was the surface and which way were the black, abyssal depths. The current dragged her forward. Fidi waved her arms, ignoring the pain of moving her right arm, until she managed to get her head out and breathe the air from the surface. She tried to brush away the strands of her bangs that fell over her eyes and managed to make out the highway bridge in the distance, many meters behind. On either side there were only trees.

Tired, she fought against the current to stay afloat, while trying to swim to the shore. After several attempts, she finally reached an area of ​​the river where the flow was calmer and managed to stop on the shore, like a shipwrecked boat. She crawled across the sandy ground and let herself fall, spitting water. She felt cold. Her breathing was labored because of her sobs, while the tears mixed with the drops that already ran down her soaked body.

She had survived, she had managed to escape.

But Tigri had not.

And now her friend was condemned to live a hell a thousand times worse. 

Fidi cried, unable to do anything but lie weak on the ground, afflicted by the throbbing of her dislocated shoulder and the friction burns on her legs and arms. She cried until unconsciousness took pity on her and plunged her into a deep sleep, momentarily freeing her from the pain and the guilt.

To be continued...

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba @morning-star-whump @lancedoncrimsonwings @3-2-whump @whumped-by-glitter @string-of-broken-hearts @alyscat @oddsconvert @what-if-i-just-did @bacillusinfection @writinglittlepains

Thanks for reading!!! ⭐

[honeycollectswhump]

Porcelain Cracks

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, physical harm

Something is off today. Ashtray can feel it in his bones —not that it’s his purpose to make a judgement about the situation. He is only supposed to please his Mistress. 

Kneeling next to her, his golden collar connected to a leash held loosely in her hand. It’s picturesque, her beautifully manicured fingers tapping against the shining metal in something he can only hope is not annoyance.

There is no visitor today, a surprise given the collar, but he is still on his best behaviour. Mistress is only watching the TV, decorated in a golden antique frame to be hidden at will. Only his beloved Mistress could come up with such a perfect concept, combining her intricate style with the comfort of modern invention. He hopes her servants appreciate the design when they clean it. 

Mistress doesn’t seem to care much for it today though, just instead making a sound he’d never dare compare to a growl. Nevertheless, it makes him shiver. He can’t seem to stop, ever since she marked her own artwork —rightfully so!—, but he does his best to keep them under control. Barely visible to the eye, only noticeable when he is touched. 

And nowadays he rarely is.

Suddenly, she tucks at the chain, beckoning him closer. She blows her smoke into his face, drowning him out in the cloud, his eyes stinging. Finally, something familiar.

Instead of extinguishing her still-lit cigarette, she pushes his chin with a single, slender finger until he leans back, the posture tugging at his many scars.

As gracefully as possible, almost sensually, Ashtray lets his head fall back too, light blond hair spilling over his face, getting caught in his long eyelashes, his eyes closed. 

Suddenly, her nails trace the letters over his heart and they are sharp almost like—

like knives. 

Sharp, honed, new blades, with the single purpose of splitting Ashtray’s flesh with ease. 

Prolonged cutting he doesn’t dare call cruel, white lighting and red rivers. 

He is right there. All over again. 

It’s like his body reacts before he can, caught in a memory he should be grateful for if he wasn’t somehow broken.

The body flinches back, from his Mistress's holy touch.

For a moment, everything is silent. 

Ashtray stares at the ceiling, a horrible feeling of knowing washing over him. Whatever his Mistress did, rightfully, he never flinched. 

In the next second, his head snaps to the side, the loud bang of his Mistress slapping him echoing through the room.

Mistress is screaming at him, for the first time. He has never failed her before, not like this. And he can’t even comprehend her words. 

Whatever she is telling him is lost to his mind that he never quite understood. He only knows he is inferior in a way even an ashtray shouldn’t be, and he can do nothing to remedy that.

Tears pool in his eyes, as the servants drag him away from his still-shouting Mistress. When did he get so useless? 

When did his beautiful porcelain conditioning crack?

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,

@sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump

@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump

@saffitaffi let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Women In Whump Pt. 1

[firapolemos05]

"As far as your family knows, you're dead. Executed as another lowly traitor. So no, there won't be anyone looking for you."

Whumpuary 2025

Day 7 "No one is coming."

Day 15 Handcuffed

Champion taglist: @thewhumpywitch , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

[painful-pooch]

Earn My Screams

I have been far too excited to wait and so here is Chapter 3 of the Hostage Arc. I hope you guys like it! If you have any recommendations or ideas you want to see, my asks are open and I can maybe give a snippet to see if you like it hehe. Thank you all for your support and love!

Hostage Arc Chapters

Part 1 (Captain Down)

Part 2 (An Impromptu Farewell)

CWs: military whump, war, gunshot wounds, blood, injury, use of crowbar, violence, interrogation whump , stress position, broken bones

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

Bruno finds himself hanging from the ceiling, the breath knocked out of him as cold water is thrown on him, causing him to thrash and sputter regardless of the pain. Even doing so, the chains rattle along with him, and his gasps echo in the interrogation room.

"You're up. Good. Maybe you'll actually answer something for once."

He notices he’s bandaged up where he was shot, though they didn’t give him anything for the pain. Like hell they would have anyways. He took so many of their soldiers for putting him in this predicament, he is surprised he isn’t more injured besides the killer headache making his head spin. 

"Why did you come here and what were your mission details?" The man asks, green eyes locked with his own.

The porous ground has more character than his captor, and he has no intention in building any rapport. "Bruno Stenberg, USAF, ID number 052148656. As far as your next question is concerned, I am not interested in answering it."

Just as he thinks it can't get worse, a fist comes across on his face, the man snarling in retaliation. "Try again. Go on." Something from his voice tells him that he should probably listen and give him what he wants. 

Nah. It ain't that easy.

"I'm sorry. You're deaf. Bruno Stenberg, United States Air Force, ID number 052148656." There's a bloody smirk on his own face and he tilts his chin up in defiance. "I tried again, like you said."

There's rage behind the man's eyes and he grabs a fistful of Bruno's hair, getting right in his face. "You think this is some kind of joke, but I'm through playing nice." He drives a fist into his side where the gunshot wound is.

The amount of agony and pain that shattered his world forces a struggled, pained gasp, his knees buckling and forcing Bruno to solely hang from his shackled wrists. He bites his cheek from the inside to keep himself from screaming, and he feels the sweat building up at his brow from the exertion. 

The man looks pleased and keeps a hand in Bruno's hair, patting his cheek. "You can scream, dog. Go ahead." There was this smarmy ass look that Bruno hated, so he did the one thing he knew to do when in a predicament like this. 

He headbutted the man just right, his forehead connecting with the man's nose. An audible crunch is heard in the interrogation room followed by a scream. It is a small victory for Bruno, watching the man pull back to hold his broken, bloody nose. "You got to earn my screams, fucker."

The man looks to the right of him and nods, forcing Bruno to fall on his hands and knees. But before he can have a chance to realize what's going to happen, a swift kick is dealt right to his stomach, dropping him to his side. The captain grits his teeth and groans loudly, but he refuses to scream. They are going to work for it.

"I'll take over," a female calls out, and Bruno recognizes her as the woman who knocked him unconscious when he was first taken. 

The man with the bloody nose curses in another language and huffs, "I'm going to get him back for this, Katerina."

"Manolo, go clean your face. Blood doesn't suit you like this one. And don't worry-" she forces her boot over Bruno's head-"I'll handle him." His head is then slammed into the floor, and he can taste blood and feel his nose already bleeding from the impact. Wonderful. 

"You think you're clever, but we have all the time in the world. You should be terrified," she snarls down at him.

Bruno forces a laugh and swallows back some blood. Better keep some in his body than lose it, he thinks to himself. I'm terrified to see how ugly I look now. If I cracked mirrors before, then I would probably turn people to stone at this point.

He looks up at the woman, trying to get a good read on her. “I’m not clever. I’m just an idiot that manages to get the kill each time. I’m not going to be scared of you because that’s not something I am capable of. So go ahead. Make me bleed. Make me scream. Make. Me. Suffer.” He forces himself to stand up, staring her down while he can hear the guards behind him aim at him. The pain is radiating throughout his body, but he doesn't care. They will see what kind of a military man Bruno is.

She is clapping her hands and laughs in his face. “Oh, I am going to remember those words. You want to suffer, bleed, and scream? Fine. We can do just that." 

It doesn't take even a few moments to get one of the guards to pass her a crowbar, the woman's smile a gleaming reminder that she's a sadistic captor. Before Bruno can even brace himself, she swings and catches him at his side where the wound is. He falls to his knees from the shock of the hit, biting down on his hand to keep him from screaming. He can taste his own blood and his eyes lock with the woman's silver eyes just as she goes for another swing.

This one connects to his ribs and he bites down harder when there's a snap, tears springing to his eyes and already falling when he can't breathe in. There's so much pain and he doesn't realize he's on the floor because she struck him in the back. His cheek is against the concrete, eyes now focused on the tiniest ant a few inches away.

It's like he's suffocating now, waiting for his body to let him take air in, and when he does, he whimpers so softly into his bitten hand, not letting go. They want his screams? They are gonna earn them. 

"Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim..." ("Endure and be strong; this pain will be useful to you someday…") He replays his mantra in his head over and over just as the crowbar comes down on him again and again. 

He refuses to give in so quickly, and they haven't gotten him to scream, even when the woman is tired and everyone leaves him on the floor, bruised, bloodied, and weak. He didn't scream once, but the Captain never promised her he wouldn't cry. And so he did while he thought of his teammates back home.

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

Bru Bru tag list: @cpt-winters, @redd956, @straight-to-the-pain, @technom0ose, @actress4him, @whumperofworlds, @i-eat-worlds, @inscrutable-shadow, @gala1981, @thethistlegirl, @ocean-blue-whump, @noirineverysense, @steelandblood, @crash-bump-bring-the-whump, @kervl-klear, @cravesunconditionallove

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumpuary No. 3

Choice // storm // black eye

Whumpee was an idiot. She was a stupid, dumb, idiot and now she was going to die and it was all her stupid fault. They warned against women on ships, they said it was bad luck, but did she listen? Hmm? Did she actually heed the warnings and ill omens?! No!

She dressed as a boy, cut her hair short, wrapped thick bandages to suppress her chest — not that she had a lot of ampleness to her bosom — but still! Maybe if she had more than an appropriate level of bosom, she wouldn’t have played with the boys when she was a child, and would have worn pretty dresses and not ripped and ruined them climbing trees, or chasing cats in the forest and her brain would never have been filled with the temptation of the sea and now she was—

A strong wave cut into the ship and she was flung starboard, her sea legs failing her while her brain turned over and over on itself again because… she swallowed as she pushed herself into a standing. All of these men, the brothers she had got to know while working as part of the crew, she doomed them all.

She doomed them all.

“Whumpee?” Whumpee’s head snapped in the direction of the door. She didn’t hear it open in the storm. Caretaker stood in the doorway, his crystal eyes wide as he took her in. She wanted nothing more than to run into his arms and let him hold her while she apologised for bringing this storm upon them. “Whumpee… what are you doing down here?”

“This storm,” Whumpee said with bright eyes and a startled gasp. “It’s—” she grabbed her chest, the bandages suddenly too tight as a searing ache cut through her chest. She longed to cut through the blasted things and breathe properly for the first — and possibly the last time. “Oh gods. I did this… I brought this storm upon us.”

“What’re you talking about?” Caretaker demanded. “Whumpee, no man can control the weather nor the seas.”

Oh, she wanted to reply, oh that was true. No man could influence anything on something as tumultuous as the sea except a woman with her iron will, and her wiles that the skies and storms like to punish for daring to venture too far away from the life of parasols and proposals.

“I did—” Whumpee said, her inhales becoming more frantic and then another jostle of the ship and she was thrown forwards this time. Caretaker caught her, hands on her shoulders and pushed her to her standing, shaking her slightly.

“Whumpee! Now is not the time to lose your steadfastness. Trust the captain, trust me, have we ever steered this ship wrong?”

Whumpee’s chest loosened slightly. “No,” she said, looking up at him from below the rim of her hat.

Caretaker beamed his handsome smile down at her that made her heart quicken for an entirely different reason than panic. Something sweeter, something her sister Anne talked about when she started to court her future husband.

“Keep your balance low in your hips, drop your weight to your feet. Keep your eyes steady on the horizon and we’ll survive this.”

“Yes sir,” Whumpee said with a smile and a salute.

“Good,” Caretaker beamed. “Now, Captain said we have to—”

“PIRATES!”

Their expressions wiped clean from their faces, mirroring the horror on the other’s face. Caretaker frowned. “Pirates in a storm… that… it doesn’t—” he trailed off and then his head snapped up, eyes focused on Whumpee’s. “The Black Dread.”

Whumpee lurched forward when Caretaker turned and bolted up the stairs to the deck. “The what?!” She cried after him. She only barely caught herself on the door frame when the next wave struck the hull but then she smelled the gunpowder in the air and she blanched. She sprinted up the stairs after Caretaker and onto the chaos of the surface.

Winds howled, pulling at her hat and clothes, carrying the screams and orders barked around the ship but Whumpee wasn’t looking for an order to follow she was searching the sea with her sharp gaze. She didn’t see any sign of pirates.

Her eyes found Caretaker’s distinctive first mate jacket and took off after him over the deck, ignoring the shouts from her fellow crew mates to help tie the sails and secure the masts and life lines. She didn’t have a life line, either did Caretaker.

She didn’t think as she raced after him, up to the quarterdeck. He was speaking frantically, gesturing to the captain who had taken control of the helm. Captain’s eyes widened at Caretaker’s words that Whumpee couldn’t hear. A bang to the stern and Whumpee whirled on her feet.

It was hard to see in the mist and the fog, but she could’ve sworn she saw a glimmer of clear weather behind them. In the opposite direction than what they were sailing.

She ran up to the helm and interrupted their conversation. “Captain! We have to turn around!”

Both men’s heads snapped down to Whumpee.

“Who do you think you are, boy?!” Captain gruffed. Caretaker caught Whumpee’s gaze over the Captain’s shoulder and shook his head in warning.

“Please, Cap’n. I saw a ray of sun towards the stern, sir. If we turn around now we can outrun the storm and not—” another blow jostled the ship, but it didn’t stop after the wave struck. The sound of screams and creaking wood behind her drew Whumpee’s gaze.

The main mast creaked and groaned, threatening to split in half and fall onto the deck. “CLEAR THE DECK!” Captain ordered frantically. “All hands to the quarterdeck now!”

“Captain, it’s the dread—”

“Aye, I know who the blasted devil is,” Captain snapped. His steel gaze found Whumpee’s. He started to furiously turn the ship around until they were 180 degrees and sailing with the wind. “But soiling our britches won’t solve any of our problems, Caretaker, will they?” He gruffed.

Caretaker nodded resolute, his eyes slid behind Whumpee, then to Whumpee directly before he took off. “Whumpee,” Caretaker commanded. “With me. We’ll loose the sails.”

“You better be right, Whumpee.” Captain said as they turned and disappeared down the stairs, running through the throng of sailors and crewmen who were ascending the stairs. “By the Gods, Whumpee” Captain grimaced. “You better be right.”

A strong hand, big enough to encase Whumpee’s upper arm stopped her in her tracks. Whumpee’s eyes went to the owner. It was Struman, her bunk mate, his eyes hard. “Where’re ya going? Cap’n said to—”

Caretaker was at the bottom of the stairs and climbing the ladders to the sails. “We have to unfurl the sails, we’re sailing out of this storm. Caretaker’s orders.”

Struman nodded stiffly. He released Whumpee’s arm and gestured for three other crew men to follow him while the rest retreated to safety. Whumpee ran to the main sail on the starboard side and began to climb. She was small, swift and agile, her hands already calloused before she joined the crew. She wasn’t like Anne or any of her sisters with soft, dainty hands. And it was a good thing in a storm like this, giving her grip so she didn’t blow away. Her masculine muscles keeping her strong and steady as she ran across the beam and began to unknot the ropes securing the sail.

Caretaker was crouched down opposite her. He flashed her a handsome, charming smile as his ropes came undone. The salt and sea spray mixed with the rain and the wind pulling at his shirt and hair made him look more attractive than Whumpee thought a man needed to look. Why couldn’t she be pretty like Anne? Would he smile at her like that if she would act like a good wife?

Oh blasted! That’s not what she should be thinking about at a time like this! Her hands worked quickly and the sail unfurled down, material rippling against the wind as it shucked down and immediately caught the wind. She glanced back at Caretaker and sighed a sigh that was stolen by the wind. It wasn’t her fault he consumed her thoughts like that, she thought looking at him, Caretaker looked like a God of the sea, with his tanned skin from so many days spent in the sun on the ship.

Another crack against the sky and Whumpee flinched. Caretaker ran by her. A hand brushed hers. “Come on! To the deck.”

She turned and followed him. She would follow him anywhere, she realised as the wind caught his shirt and sent it billowing. He turned and dropped to the first rung of the rope ladder and looked up at her, his smile golden and Whumpee melted a little.

Then his gorgeous eyes flashed with a horrible, terrible danger and he screamed her name, but Whumpee didn’t hear it over the crashing sound behind her. The crack ripped through the sky. The mast wobbled and she slipped on the wood. She screamed as the mast turned and toppled. She grabbed a rope but it slipped through her fingers and she cursed as she fell. A strong hand grabbed hers as her feet slipped from the wood and were falling with nothing below her but the sea.

She screamed as her wrist snapped against her arm and her descent was halted. Caretaker. He… Whumpee was swung into the rope ladder and she cried out, gasping as it stole the wind from her chest.

“Caretaker!” Captain? Whumpee couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the clouds that roared like an angered beast; over the sound of the crack of canons; over the rushing sound of blood in her ears. “THE LADDER!”

But it was too late. The mast dislodged. The rope attached and it was falling. Whumpee and Caretaker tried to hold on as much as possible, shifting, trying to get to the deck but the mast fell too far out and they were dangling above the sea.

“Whumpee!” Caretaker screamed as her grip faltered. “Whumpee! Let go!” He ordered.

Let go.

Let go.

Just… just let go.

Why wasn’t she letting go?

If she let go she would drop into the water. It was the most logical thing to do. She just had to let go. She wouldn’t even hurt breaking the film over the sea. She was in the perfect position of a solider dive so…. Why….

Her fingers wouldn’t release the rope.

She shook with the wind, no. She trembled with the paralytic fear that consumed her blood and turned her muscles rigid and heavy.

“I—” she stammered. Wet eyes met Caretaker’s gorgeous gleaming crystals. “I—” but she never finished her sentence. Another car tore through the sky and her grip faltered and she fell with a yelp. She didn’t know if Caretaker followed, but she only had a moment of a gasp in breath before she hit the icy waters below.

She opened her eyes but the waters were black and she kicked her legs on instinct more than anything else. She broke the surface with a gasp, her lungs screeching at her and grumbling as she gasped. But the salt water entered her mouth and she spit it out as the rocky tides overwhelmed her and she was submerged again.

Something above them. Another crack and Whumpee glanced up. The mast fell now, falling towards them and Whumpee didn’t think. Her body pushed against the water and she tried to clear the hulk of wood before it crashed into her.

Too slow.

Something hard and unrelenting caught her ankle and she heard a crack throughout her body and she gasped, swallowing lungfuls of water as she was dragged below the surface of the angry tides.

She yanked her ankle forward and screamed into the water as it caught on something. She turned and tried to quiet her mind, she could free it. She could free it. Her eyes found the rope ladder it was caught in like a fish in a net. She hooked her other foot to the rope and yanked herself closer, knees to her chest as she grabbed the injured foot and pulled it free from the rope.

She unhooked her other leg and pushed up, her lungs screaming for oxygen. She pumped her arms up, she could see the light, see the sun, feel its heat and she let out a startled yelp as she surfaced again. The waves pulled at her bad ankle and she winced as she kicked with her good leg to keep herself afloat.

But there was no sun… they were still in the storm… but the heat? Whumpee gulped as more debris fell around her. Burning debris.

“Caretaker! Caretaker!” She screamed. Her bright eyes searched the sea around her but it was no good in the fog and the darkness. A hand found her shoulder and she screamed and turned. And two eyes made of crystal found hers and she weeped. “Oh Caretaker… oh, thank the gods you’re okay.”

“Whumpee! Are you hurt? I was looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m— I—” I love you, she shouldn’t say. Even if they were about to die. Right? “My ankle,” she finished pathetically.

Caretaker nodded. He searched the tides with his calm, eagle eye. “There,” he said, and he put a hand around Whumpee’s arms. “Hook your hands around my shoulders,” he said.

Whumpee blushed at the command, but she obeyed, happy he couldn’t see what effect his words had on her. She clung to him, she could feel his defined muscles in his shoulders and back as she clung to him. “Okay. Hold on. Don’t let go! No matter what. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir!” She screamed against the tides. Caretaker started swimming, and Whumpee locked her fingers together in front of him as he pushed against the frigid waters. They would freeze if they stood still, Whumpee realised as the chill of the sea seized her burning leg.

They reached a floating piece of debris from the ship, Whumpee couldn’t really make out what it was from. Caretaker unhooked Whumpee’s arms from him and wrapped them over the debris that acted like a rafter.

“Okay,” Caretaker said. His lips were blue from the cold. “I need you to wait here and—”

But Whumpee didn’t hear the final command. Another bang and something fell and Caretaker screamed and then darkness.

*~*~*~*~*

Whumpee woke up bleary eyed, only vaguely aware that they were being dragged somewhere. They didn’t manage more than a groan and a whimper before they passed out again.

*~*~*~*~*

A splash of cold water jolted Whumpee awake. She gasped reflexively, eyes open and mouth gaping like a fish. She went to her side and hit something solid. Whumpee frowned at the boots in front of her. They were some fancy looking boots for her crew and her arms weren’t responding to her commands.

She was on deck. She knew that. The waves quietly tippling them along.

“Get them up,” a voice commanded. Whumpee’s eyes widened as hands were upon her and putting her on her knees again. She yelped as her weight was put on her broken ankle and shot up on her good leg.

The sound of a pistol being cocked froze her in place. “Stay down, shark bait.”

“Please…” she said, biting her lip to stop from crying out in front of unfriendly sailors. “I— I hurt my foot, I can’t put weight on it.”

“Whumpee…” Whumpee’s head shot up at the voice but she didn’t see Caretaker in front of her. No, instead she saw a woman in an exquisite purple captain’s jacket and tricorn hat with a long, inky black feather that gleamed in the sunlight.

The woman smiled down at Whumpee. She crouched so she was at Whumpee’s eye level. Her eyes were unlike any Whumpee had ever seen. They were as radiant as the woman herself, enthralling Whumpee and leaving her speechless, but she also reeked of danger and pain so Whumpee cowered away from her despite her alluring beauty.

“Whumpee?” The woman purred, a soft hand found Whumpee’s chin and pulled her back so there was little distance between them. Whumpee flinched at her name. “Is that your name, sweet thing?”

“Get off of him!” Caretaker said somewhere to Whumpee’s right. Whumpee jerked her head in his direction but it didn’t budge, the woman didn’t release Whumpee’s head enough for her to turn and see Caretaker… but he was alive… he was alive.

Her eyes glazed as that realisation set in and she had to keep the relieved smile off her face this close to this beautiful lady with such soft hands for pirate.

Oh…

Oh.

The relief was washed from her bones and replaced with cold quick dread that flushed her body and made her shiver. The grip on Whumpee’s chin tightened.

“I asked you a question.”

“Y—yes, yes ma’am.”

“Tch. Ya hear that lads?! This young pup called your Captain ma’am!” A chorus of jeers and Whumpee flinched, but the woman wouldn’t release Whumpee’s chin from her iron grip.

“I’m sorry, Ma— I mean… Captain. I really— I didn’t mean any offence, I—”

The woman placed a dainty finger on Whumpee’s lips which instantly silenced her. Whumpee trembled as she stared into the woman’s eyes like coals that burned as bright as her inky feather.

“Whumpee is your name?”

Whumpee blinked. “Yes,” she squeaked.

“Your real name, darling?”

Whumpee shivered. “Y-yes.”

“Get away from him! He’s just a ship hand—” a dull thud cut Caretaker off with his own groans of pain.

“Please—” Whumpee pleaded, trying to turn her head. “Please…” but she didn’t know what she was pleading for. For the woman to release her, or not tell this group of hostile, male dominated sailors that she wasn’t in fact a man. “Please,” she whimpered against the Captain’s finger.

The Captain’s lips were painted a glossy red, so bold for a lady to wear, but Whumpee got the distinct impression that the woman in front of her was anything but an ordinary lady.

The captain pursed her lips. She released Whumpee’s face and stood. “This one comes with me to my quarters,” she announced. Whumpee flinched. “Wha-what?!”

A chorus of raunchy voices cried out in disappointment and approval. “You know the best pick of them, Cap’n,” someone said as Whumpee was hauled to her feet. She cried out as she put weight on the bad leg and Caretaker called her name again.

“Oh, whoops. I forgot about your foot,” the captain said with a smile that could cut through the hide of a whale. Whumpee gulped. “First mate, darling, be a dear and carry my loot back to my quarters, I will be there in a moment.”

“Wait!” Whumpee cried. “Wait, please! We’re peaceful, we’ve surrendered!”

More scathing laughter that boiled Whumpee’s blood. “Please! Just bring us back to—” Whumpee’s head jolted to the side suddenly. A warmth bloomed on her cheek as she righted herself, eyes shining at the woman in front of her. Did she just slap her? Only her governess had ever slapped her before and that was when she was a girl.

“First of all, sweet thing,” the captain said, grabbing Whumpee’s chin again and tilting her head up to look the startling woman in the eye. “You didn’t surrender, you were overwhelmed and invaded and now you are prisoners and spoils of battle well fought.”

“We were a trading vess—” Another slap. Harder this time. Whumpee cried out. “Oh, I love it when they’re mouthy,” she purred, as she stepped closer and planted a kiss on Whumpee’s cheek she just struck. Twice.

Whumpee went colder than she thought possible.

“Let him go!” Caretaker screamed as Whumpee was picked up and thrown over a broad shoulder. She raised her head, her eyes briefly met Caretaker’s wide gaze as he was wrestled back into a kneeling position. The Captain stepped between Whumpee’s eyesight of Caretaker.

She started to struggle, but it was a vain, pathetic effort. With her hands tied behind her back she probably looked like a fish on a hook. “Don’t touch him! Get off him!” She screeched, but the First Mate took her further and further away until the deck disappeared altogether as she screamed. “Let go of me! Get off of me you brute!”

First Mate threw her to the ground as soon as they entered the captain’s quarters. Whumpee saw stars as pain shot from her ankle up her leg and she cried out.

“Oh, the captain’s gonna have fun with you,” First Mate told her in a gravelly voice. “So pretty, too. She likes pretty boys, you’re exactly her type.”

Whumpee scurried back on her hands and her good foot but the first mate followed her. “But she always tires of them after a while, and when she tires of you, gorgeous, I’ll be next in line.”

Whumpee couldn’t speak she was that scared. There was nothing in her brain, in her body, nothing except whimpers and screams and fear and SHIVERS. Why couldn’t she do anything except tremble like a frightened dog?! She was stronger than this!

“You wait right there, shark bait, the captain will be with you shortly.” The brute turned and grabbed the door. Before he left, he stopped and chuckled darkly. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes half lidded and filled with something monstrous. “And when she’s through with you, you’ll wish you stayed with the sharks.”

With that the door slammed shut with a bang. Whumpee flinched. Then she waited and prayed that Caretaker was okay.

[whumpinthepot]

Hamster Interactive Story

Chapter 15. Photoshoot

Prev - Masterlist

Content: giant/tiny, nonsexual nudity, dressing/posing/handling like a doll, ptsd, fear, swearing, being kept against their will, pet trope, cages, dehumanization, power dynamics, baby talk, ableism, selective mutism, slight bullying, being filmed (lmk if i missed any)

Pov: Hamster

Poll Winner: Pirate and Mermaid

ART, WRITING, AND POLL UNDER THE CUT!!

—-

Today is the day Ashley wanted Soap to model with you. She didn’t mention what the theme would be yet, and when she puts you on the counter where the props are set up you can only gaze in wonder at the chest full of gold coins, silks, and jewels. It's as big as your cage, and you have to crane your neck to try to see the top of it.

There are wooden paneled walls put up around the set, presumably so Soap has nowhere to try to make a run for it. You look around while Ashley goes to retrieve Soap Scrub. The  costumes are there in two piles and you pick up a random scarf to look at while you wait. 

Ashley comes back and places Soap’s shaking frame in front of you. When he doesn’t move she nudges him in the back with her finger, causing a yelp from him.

She’s scaring him.

You have to protect him from her! she’s made her point already. You frown at her and put your arms around Soap protectively, looking up at her with disapproval. 

He’s warm, and still trembling. You tighten your grip and it's clear on Ashley’s face that she gets the message. Ashley bites her lip and looks away from you. That’s right, she would never upset you. You can stop her from scaring your friend. 

Soap doesn’t hug you back, nor does his shaking settle. You can feel him looking around for a place to run or hide. Of course Ashley blocked off all exits so you’re not worried about that. 

Slowly you let go of him, glance at Ashley who has backed off, and take his hand to guide him to his costume. He numbly and stiffly follows you. 

Now that you’re standing next to him you can see that he’s about a head taller than you. It makes your heart flutter for some reason. Not like the humans who tower in comparison, just a bit taller but still your size. You smile at him to reassure that you’ve got him. He’s safe with you. 

His nerve returns when you hand him his clothes, and his face twists up as if holding back a rude remark. His sour eyes say it all, and he doesn’t take them from you.

You push the fabrics into his arms, and when he pushes you back without a word Ashley clears her throat from above you both. 

Soap nearly jumps out of his skin, snatching the costume out of your hands at lightning speed. Suddenly it's like he’s racing a clock, keeping an eye on Ashley’s hands and face while he tries to figure out how this costume works. 

You’re ready to help him if he needs it, and wait patiently for him to get dressed, in what looks like a pirate costume. He struggles with some of the extra fabrics, unsure where they fit but so far he has baggy brown pants with rips above his ankles with a long shaggy grey jacket with no sleeves. 

When Ashley instructs him on what to do with the extra cloth he jumps and looks just about to cry. You want to go comfort him more, but Ashley scoops you in that second to help you get into your own costume. 

“You’re going to be the cutest tiny mermaid!” She kisses your face, and presents you with a shimmering orange and green mermaid tail that slips on over your legs. “You won’t be able to walk with this, so mummy has to help you with it, ‘kay?” 

You don’t answer because there's no need. She’s already helping you into it, along with tape to cover your bare chest. She shifts your hair over the tape to make it look like it's naturally covering any private areas, and mists your hair with water. 

She squeals at how cute you are and sets you down on top of the pile of treasure. Some of it tumbles down to the floor with a sharp clatter, and you don’t move in fear of falling. Ashley takes your glasses off, and the house is back to the familiar blurriness it always has been. You can still see where Soap Scrub is though, and you squint at him. 

Ashley is pointing and telling him to fix his costume, and before long he’s being guided towards the treasure chest to stand close to you. You can’t tell if he’s shaking but you can only assume he’s still on edge about the whole thing. Even if he got plenty of warning throughout the week. 

When Ashley shines lights on you two, you really become blinded, so you let her physically pose you how she wants for each photo. She doesn’t touch Soap at all which is a relief because you know that's what he’s really scared of. 

At one point Ashley tells Soap to climb up the coins towards you, and when he says he doesn’t want to she reaches for him as if to grab him. He scrambles away from her, and angrily shouts at her. “Alright! Alright. I’ll do it, don’t fucking touch me.” 

You’re flabbergasted and your jaw drops but he’s crawling towards you. He’s slowly getting clearer, and he looks so, so handsome. You lean towards him with a big smile, one that he doesn’t return, and then the coins slip from under his hand. 

The first coin causes the second to slip, then the one above that, and now you’re slipping off of the top of the pile with them. Everything falls with you, and kindly enough, Soap is the one that catches you when you fall towards him. 

Your breath hitches initially but once you’re able to suck air in you cry in fear. Even though it was a very slow, very anticlimactic, very short fall, it still made your heart skip a beat and your limbs freeze up. Your arm throbs with phantom pain from when it was broken, and you cling onto Soap for dear life, crying from shock. 

“Whoa, ugh. It's okay, Hamster. Stop crying,” Soap says, and pushes you off of him gently to sit up. He definitely looks uncomfortable but he lets you keep holding his hands. Until Ashley’s giant hand gets close, then he makes a break for it, and jumps a foot away from you. 

Ashley picks you up, and presses you close to her chest. “I’m so sorry honey bunny, was that scary? I would never let you get hurt again. You’re safe, it's okay. I got some good shots. How about we stop for today. How does that sound?” She completely ignores Soap Scrub and wipes your tears away with her soft finger. 

She puts you back into shorts and a tank top, but she keeps holding you against her chest while she cleans up. Her heart hammers against your cheek, and you close your eyes, relaxing until she puts you back into your cage for the night. By then you’re calm again, and thrilled to go talk to Soap Scrub once Ashley goes to bed. You want to know what he thought about the whole photoshoot. He probably hated it, but you’d like to hear his thoughts anyway. 

Ashley is watching the news, and you dully listen to it while laying on your back. Something about pet liberation, but you don’t care enough to understand it, it's boring. 

Ashley shows you some of the pictures before she goes to bed and you’re happy to see how beautifully they turned out. Soap’s grumpy demeanor actually played into the role quite well, and you do look beautiful with the shimmering tail. You’re excited to hear about the comments you get when Ashley posts them. 

Once Ashley’s in bed you happily climb out of your cage, keeping well away from the counter ledge, and rush to where Soap lives. 

He’s expecting you, and already leaning against the bars to greet you. “Don’t you ever get sick of her talking to you like you’re a baby?” 

You shake your head with a smile, and give him a chocolate chip. He deserves a reward for participating today. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly. “Do you know what conditioning is? If you looked it up in a dictionary your face would be there.” 

You don’t really, but you do know he’s being rude so you roll your eyes. You don’t care about his questions. You want to know what he thought of the whole thing. 

You point at him. 

“Right, because I can totally understand what you’re asking right now,” he retorts. He bites his lip while looking down and gets more serious. “Were you listening to the news earlier? I wonder if it's real… You know, people breaking into places to ‘rescue’ pets. Maybe they’d help me, or maybe they’d just make things worse. Who knows…” 

You’re shocked at his dialogue and shake your head in horror. You do NOT want that to happen. 

“Hamster, if you let me out you could come with me you know. You don’t have to stay here with her… I know you love her, but it's messed up. People don’t belong in cages. I don’t belong in a cage. I don’t want to be someone's doll. I don’t want her touching me all the time. I don’t want her making money off me, and dressing me, and taking away my freedom. Fuck, she doesn’t even like me.” He laughs out of reflex, and says, “With you it’s different. She’s nice to you, but she’s using you.” 

You feel bad. He still hasn’t adjusted it seems, and besides, he had a point. Ashley isn’t as nice to him for some reason, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to lose your only friend. You can’t let him go, at least, not yet, not while you’re confused and conflicted. Besides, Ashley is nice to you, and Soap is usually a jerk, so really why would you want to go with him? 

You shake your head sadly and look away from him. You need time to think about all of this. Maybe someday you would like to explore the world, but not today. Not when Ashley still needs you. You couldn’t imagine breaking Ashley’s heart like that. Not in a million years. Still, the thought of people coming in to ‘rescue’ you has you a bit shaken. Especially if they wanted to hurt Ashley in the process. You will have to actually start paying attention to the news before making any sort of decision. 

“Alright then.” Soap sounds done with trying to convince you. One last thing he mumbles before you leave for bed is, “You looked good in your costume today by the way…” 

You absolutely beam at the compliment and wave goodbye at him for the night. You think about everything while you swing in your hammock. If Soap was around for so long before Ashley found him, you wonder if more tinies will ever show up. The thought both excites you and scares you. 

—

Tag list: @frogkingdom @verkja @whumpsday @octopus-reactivated @marvel-gt @rsitb-second-account @fallen-grace-smd @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @kyp-the-spacekiwi @ilasknives @hollowgast1 @redd956 @zobodahobo @alittlewhump @blackrosesandwhump p @angst-after-dark @sandygarnelle @coppercoyoti i @kim-poce @mayisreallygay @smoll-stace @demondamage @vickytokio @whump-in-the-closet @shadowsnowdapple @whumpy-wyrms @re-whump @cypresscove @whumpninja @highlighterwhump @taters169

Clumping the tags together, Lmk if theres an issue with tagging! Also thank you @alittlewhump for helping me out with this chapter:))

[yet-another-heathen]

Wick's Whump Drive - II

This is a commissioned piece for @whumpsday, who was kind enough to participate in my ongoing whump drive for Palestinian aid.

Want in? Donate $5/€5 or more to ANY Palestinian fundraiser, send me the receipt, and I'll write a custom whump drabble for you, too.

Prompt: "Vampire whump."

[ I asked Mill to rate how brutal they wanted their whump on a scale of one to ten. They were brave enough to reply "close to a 10" 😈 To say I lit up was an understatement. I went waaaaay over the word count for this one: 1,963 words. DD:DNE ]

---

TW: vampires and molten silver don't get along well :) vampire whumpee, lady whumper, suffocation from stress position, dislocated shoulders, gore, burns, mind break, SEVERE internal injuries. immortal or not, this man will never be the same.

In all three hundred and forty-seven years of his life, never had he fucked up this severely.

It had been over a human.

Yes, that was a laughable statement coming from him; of course it had been over a human. He had never been able to grow out of his softness for the things he should have viewed only as prey.

It put him and the coven at risk. He knew this. And yet... how do you wring out the part of you that still sees yourself in their eyes? How do you ignore it? When it came down to it, sometimes that tug of humanity in his chest couldn't let go.

She'd taught him this lesson before.

...It would just take until tonight for it finally to stick.

He was roused by the sound of a blade rasping against whetstone. The thick, heavy chains from which his arms hung had long since collapsed his ribcage. He took in a single shaky, shallow breath, the first he had in hours, and blearily opened his eyes.

The stone floor and walls were spinning. Darkness crept in at the edges, narrowing his view down to the three sets of legs approaching. Whumper, always in her finest, balanced on immaculate red heels that clicked with every step she took.

"Ease the chains, Alistair," she said. "He looks like he's had enough."

Whumpee closed his eyes in a flood of relief. Alistair, who had remained behind to watch him through this slow torture, grunted in assent. Then with a rush of clanging metal, the tension on his arms eased.

Air rushed into his lungs, along with stabbing bouts of pain all through his ribs and chest. His first true inhale came back out as a horrible, racking cough, spattering the tiles in front of him with foamy, pink fluid.

He sounded like a man drowning, because that's exactly what he was. His lungs were filled with fluid from the inflammation of the stress position. In order to get air in, he first had to get all of it out.

Every cough sent lances of pain through his core. Outward across his chest, deep and sharp into the sockets of both dislocated shoulders. It had been so long since he'd felt a pain such as this.

When he finally was able to inhale without coughing, he sagged in his restraints. Pink fluid trailed down his chin, dripping to the floor between his knees. His arms were still elevated near his shoulders, but with enough slack that he could finally move.

Not that it mattered. Whumpee wasn't going anywhere.

A soft, cool hand settled against his cheek, and immediately slumped into her touch.

While he didn't have the strength left to speak, he silently mouthed the words he so badly wanted to say. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mistress. I didn't mean to— I'm so sorry.

"I know you are, dove." Her voice was smooth and cold as a balm. "You always are."

Another rasp of the whetstone, as Alstair continued sharpening his blade.

"But you've gone too far this time," she murmured. "You know that."

He tried to lift his eyes, to look at her, but his attention was called away by the others who had followed. Urlain and Samuel were recognizable from silhouette alone, gathered around the old coal-burning stove. Were those... welding gloves? His vision was still spinning, but—

"Have I lost your attention?"

The question made his stomach go cold. His eyes struggled upward to meet hers, able to summon the strength only by sheer will. The look she gave him still held an edge of amusement; he hadn't gone too far. Not yet. "Nn..." No, Mistress.

"Good. I would hate to have to repeat myself." Her hand fell from his cheek, and the loss of contact felt like heartbreak. She rose, and her heels ticked in a slow, poised circle around him. "We tracked down the girl you released. She'd almost made it back to her town by the time we caught up with her."

A distant, rippling scream echoed through the manor's corridors. One not of fear, but of agony. Whumpee's eyes widened with recognition before he could hold back the response.

He could hear the smile in her voice. "I believe that'll be her, now."

Whumpee wiped all emotion from his face, forcing his traitorous heart to still. It was that pull that had ended him in this place. He would not fall for it again.

"The others will have no trouble finding a use for her. After all, she'll be here for a while."

"B-ut..."

"Tell me, Whumpee. What have you taken from her?"

Whumpee felt his throat close, tears threatening behind his eyes. But he held them back and rasped out an answer, so quiet it was inaudible. "C'ln... dth..."

She grasped a handful of his hair, and wrenched his head back. "Louder."

He drew in a shaky breath, world spinning with vertigo. He swallowed once, twice, and forced himself to say those damning words. "...A clean death," he whispered.

After another moment of watching his face, she let him go again. "At least you know the words. Yet even after all these centuries, you still don't seem to grasp the meaning." Her heels slowed to a stop. There was, almost, an edge of regret in her voice. "I've never made you see the alternative. That was my mistake."

"Whumper... please—"

She whispered to him, so soft it wouldn't carry. "Even my favorite eventually runs out of chances." The words hung between them for a moment. Then she gathered herself, and lifted her head. "Urlain. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Mistress," she replied.

"Good. Alstair."

Alstair circled behind Whumpee. Then a knee shoved itself between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward to the ends of his chains.

Whumpee let out a shocked cry as the bones within his shoulders ground against one another, twisting even further out of place behind his back. It was a pain sharper than any other, and it only worsened as the seconds passed. The muscle and skin that kept them in place could be felt stretching, threatening to tear beneath Alstair's continued weight.

Alstair took another handful of his hair and wrenched his head back, baring Whumpee's throat. Whumpee opened his mouth to cry out. But before he could, something sharp and metal was forced past his teeth.

He felt it digging into the soft flesh behind his fangs. Recognition dawned a split second before the retainer was ratcheted open, the metal gag forcing his jaw open as wide as it would go. No matter how he tried, he couldn't dislodge it.

"Since you can't be trusted to feed like the rest of us, you'll have something else to fill your stomach."

When Whumper's silhouette once more came into view, Whumpee's eyes slid down to what was in her hands. Even his long-dead heart managed a single jolt when he saw what she held, and cries of alarm came pouring out of him as he thrashed in Alstair's hands, trying to back away.

A long pair of forged, iron tongs, within which rested a crucible of molten silver. It was aglow with heat, casting red-orange light back along the edges of Whumper's face.

Alstair tightened his grip, holding Whumpee still as she neared. The crucible was so close that he could feel the heat pouring off it. The air distorted with billows of heat, narrowing his entire world down to that one vessel.

"For your sake, I suggest you figure out how to swallow. You don't want this reaching your heart."

"NNNH- HH—"

She tipped the vessel over onto his tongue.

"AAAH!"

At first, the pain didn't even register. The moisture in his mouth turned to steam on contact, and the silver rushed across his tongue without ever touching flesh.

But when the metal met his throat, there was nowhere left for that heat to go.

The scream that exploded from Whumpee's throat splattered molten metal everywhere. It coated his lips and chin, spilling down the front of his chest.

She had known it would be coming, and Whumper stayed far enough away that not even a drop touched her clothing. But the crucible only kept pouring, and by the time it was spent there was no more air in Whumpee's lungs left to expell it.

White-hot agony crawled down his esophagus, burning holes in everything it touched. It pooled, heavy and tearing, into the core of his stomach where pain unlike any he'd ever imagined ripped at his insides.

It felt as though the fire were trying to tear its way out of him, because it was. Whumpee's world turned to ash, crumbling to darkness and uncontrollable, rippling agony. And still, still, he felt the moment when the steam and metal ruptured his stomach.

Silver and bile spilled into his abdominal cavity, skin distending as yet more steam built inside of him. He thrashed and clawed at his restraints. Every single instinct screamed at him to claw it out, GET IT OUT, even if it meant tearing open his own body to reach it. The sounds that came out of him were deafening and inhuman. Yet for all his hysterical strength, the chains held.

The pain built and built until that column of white-hot agony down his core was the only thing he could sense.

By the time the silver began eating its way back out through his abdominal wall, there was nothing of Whumpee's mind left. This pain wasn't something that could be lived through, even by him.

And yet he would.

He would.

He would.

That was the most damning punishment of all.

Metal split through the skin just below his belly button, hissing out through a blackened, yawning hole. The smell of soured, burning meat filled the entire room, making all but Whumper gag and cover their faces. Thick, slow rivulets of silver and gore trailed down his navel, hardening as they went.

Eventually the mindless, animal thrashing that overtook his body began to slow. To stiffen. The metal within him was cooling, solidifying into spikes of unyeilding armor inside of him. But even as the silver cooled, it continued, endlessly, to burn.

Above him, Whumper simply watched.

Whumpee's groans wheezed out into inaudible shudders of air as the minutes passed. What little of his vocal cords hadn't been destroyed by the heat were killed, perhaps permanently, by the sounds that had followed. Bloodshot, empty eyes stared thousands of miles beyond her where she crouched down before him. Every inch of him was shuddering like an earthquake, but something kept him from fainting.

"Leave us," she commanded the others.

The chains were tightened again. Alstair dropped the freshly sharpened knife to the tile and left it there, just far enough to remain hopelessly out of reach. He and the others then left them in silence.

She reached out to brush a strand of hair delicately from Whumpee's face, watching while he convulsed. She knew he wouldn't hear a word she said. And still, "It won't kill you, old friend. Not right away." Her voice remained soft, almost soothing. "If you manage to stave off the madness long enough, I'll hand you that knife. You can cut the metal back out of your body yourself."

A single droplet of silver flecked one of his fangs. She reached out, and released the gag from behind his teeth. His jaw hung open even after it was removed, locked in a silent, unending scream.

"The human will be staying with us until you heal. The others certainly won't run short on ways to keep her busy." One last, lingering touch to his face. Then Whumper stood, turning her back on him. "But when you are freed, you will be the one to finish what you started. It may not be a clean death, but it will be a merciful one."

[doumidas-whumps]

you can only bite her so many times! why not save some for later?

[this-violence-of-mine]

Iron Bridle

Valda just can't catch a break, huh? Trigger warning for swearing, blood, claustrophobia, and butchered mumbling lol. As always, ask to tag.

~

“You’re a rotten bitch,” Valda said, voice trembling as Rieka stepped away from her hunched and shackled form, the whip in her hand stained with blood. “May the Great Mother have mercy on you, you wretched thing, for I won’t be so kind.” 

Blood dripped and ebbed down her raw back, the trails cooling into a thick and tacky liquid. The pool of copper and crimson beneath her grew larger and larger as the days passed on, the scent of metal permanent and gagging. Her wrists and neck, rubbed raw by the ever-present, too-tight cuffs and collar, maintained permanent scars and stains as new wounds opened and old wounds reopened everyday.

Rieka tilted her head to the side, eying her. “Should I relay this to Selena? Let her know the sweet little bride she claimed from Weitheim still has a sour mouth on her?” She knelt down before her, her nails digging into her skin as she gripped her chin and forced her to meet her gaze. “How much longer do you think you’d be down here if she heard these words? A fortnight? A moon? Two moons if she’s grown frustrated, perhaps?”

With what little strength she held onto, Valda spat in her face. A fat glob of bloodied spit landed on her cheek and dripped down, following the sharp contours of her cheekbone and concave cheek. “I’ll kill you both. Flay you, boil you, cook you over a fire, even slit your throats just to be done with it.”

Rieka wiped the spit away with the back of her hand and cleaned it off in what little hair Valda had grown out since the shearing. “I’m certain you will. Why, I’m terrified! Great Mother, hark! Rescue me from Valda the Vacuous! Save Queen Selena and I from her horrid wrath lest we be ripped limb from limb!” She stood up. “Stop fantasizing about such things. It’s unbecoming of a consort.”

“I’m no one’s consort,” she spat, glaring up at Rieka, her gaze icy cold. 

She scoffed in response. “No one’s consort? Valda, you signed the marriage contract. By definition, you are her consort.” Lightly, she tapped her ribs with her foot. “Stop playing this foolish game and act as you are supposed to.”

If her glare could grow colder, it would’ve. “I’d sooner be rid of my left hand than allow that wretch to run my life and call me hers.”

She cocked a brow. “Truly? We could have that arranged, if you’d like.”

“I was being facetious, you fool.”

“Now your words are jokes, hm? Jokes are unbecoming of a consort, Fera. You should remember that.”

“I’m not a Fera,” she snapped.

“Yet you signed the contract binding yourself to her house. If I remember correctly, that makes you a Fera, regardless of your opinions on the matter.” She cocked her head to the side. “Or was that another joke? Another bit of facetious humor?”

Valda glared at her. “I hate you.”

“More humor and jokes, I suppose. You should be a court fool.” She patted her head like one would a dog. “I’ll see you at dawn. Tomorrow we’ll work on correcting your nasty habit of making threats and jokes.”

With no more to say, she left with her torch and whip, her wood-soled boots clacking against the stone floor of the dungeon. The door creaked open and slammed shut behind her. For one brief, resplendent moment, light, true and natural light from the sun, streamed in through the open door, illuminating the dust motes and catching on the chains binding Valda. Light. What a strange thing to desire above all else.

Valda lay on her side, adjusting herself until the new wounds were unbothered by her position and the white hot agony dulled into something she could almost ignore. Closing her eyes, she thought about the light and how it glinted so nicely against the metal and how lovely the dust looked while suspended in the air. 

When she finally fell into a fitful slumber, it was the light she dreamt of, the songs she’d sing in Weitheim, and the dances she danced in the town square with her sisters. She dreamt of wool dresses and cameos of the Great Mother and long hair braided into twin braids that fell over her shoulders. She dreamt of the wind and the sun and the warmth of a lit hearth.

It was the oddest thing when she awoke to the sound of the door creaking open. Tears burned her eyes and stained her cheeks. Had she been crying in her sleep? Was that truly even possible? She wiped the still wet tears from her face. Nobody needed to see that. One thing belonged to her and it was her pain.

The familiar thud of Rieka’s boots rang out through the dungeon, bouncing off the curved walls and hitting back at her as a reminder of the suffering she was to bear yet again. The boots stopped in front of her face, the leather shiny and the wooden heel freshly polished to reflect like glass.

“You’ve been weeping,” Rieka said, kneeling down before her and grabbing her face to force her gaze up. “Shame. I was under the impression you felt nothing but hate.”

“I wasn’t weeping you stupid bitch,” Valda mumbled, averting her gaze.

“Lying? That’s yet another unbecoming trait.” She patted her cheek. “No worries. We’ll finally correct this nasty attitude of yours.”

“You tortured me and Selena ordered it,” she said, glaring up at her. “This ‘attitude’ is deserved.”

“Queen Selena saved you and you repay her with threats, insults, and lies? She was kind enough to allow this reeducation in place of execution. You should be clamoring to kiss the ground she walks upon.” Rieka cocked her head to the side. “Truly, who do you think yourself to be?”

“The Kaiser of Weitheim.”

“Kaiser of ash and dust perhaps.” She turned and grabbed something obscured by her legs. “Well, nasty attitudes are killed by this fine piece of equipment. Perhaps we’ll also kill that delusion of grandeur.”

What she had in her hands was something Valda had never seen before, yet it made her stomach lurch and breath hitch in her throat. It was a mask with a metal plate sticking out where the mouth would be and several bands and locks to keep it in place.

“Dungeon dwellers tend to learn their manners once they spend a week in this,” Rieka said, holding it up. “Knowing you and your foul mouth, I suppose it may take a moon, if not more, to kill that wretched beast inside of you.”

Valda shrunk back as best she could considering the shackles around her wrists and collar around her neck binding her close to the floor. “Please,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs and her palms going slick “Not that. Not my voice.” 

Light and speaking. Those were all she had left.

“Please, Rieka. I’ll-I’ll be good.” She forced a shaky smile. “Just-just not that.”

“Now you change your tune?” Rieka smirked. “I’m ashamed we come from the same land. I certainly know this wouldn’t break me.” 

Rieka straddled her upper back and forced her thumbs between her molars, prying her mouth open. With one hand she kept it open, with the other she positioned the bridle around her skull and forced the metal bit into her mouth. The locks snapped closed, securing the bands and assuring there was no way it’d be pried off.

“If you behave, I might consider feeding and watering you in three days. Until then, reflect on your actions.” Rieka cocked her head. “Nothing to say? No insults? No threats?”

She stared up at her, eyes wide and pleading. Rieka was cruel, yet this was something new, something worse. She tried to say something, anything, but the metal bit pressed against her tongue only allowed a mumble.

“So strong-willed. Don’t worry, though. The bridle will kill that anger and defiance soon enough.” She patted her head. “No more biting and spitting, either. I think you should thank me for making you better and killing off those nasty habits of yours. Don’t you think you should be thanking me?”

Valda glared at her, tears burning her eyes and threatening to spill over. 

“Do it. Thank me. Say ‘thank you Lady Rieka for making me better.’” She cocked a brow. “Do you want to be kicked again? Whipped maybe? If you don’t, I suggest you thank me.”

Squeezing her eyes shut and trying to ignore the burning humiliation in her chest, Valda mumbled, “‘ank ‘oo,” around the metal plate in her mouth.

“That’s not what I told you to say,” she said, grinning. “I’ll give you one more opportunity before I go and retrieve your favorite toy. ‘Thank you Lady Rieka for making me better.’” 

“‘Ank ‘oo ‘abby ‘ika ‘or ‘akin ‘e ‘ebber,” she forced out, the words butchered.

“Good girl,” she said, patting her head. “I suppose the bridle is punishment enough. I’ll leave you to adjust.” With that, she stood and left.

The light that streamed in for only a moment did little to dull the humiliation and anxiety that now swelled in her chest. Light. Just light. That’s all she had left.

Valda, alone and silenced, clawed at the mask covering her face and the bands holding it in place. The metal tasted foul and bloody, the bands digging into her flesh. Her nails raked against her skin, tearing it open as she fought to desperately free herself from the mask’s iron grip. 

Her heart raced and her eyes grew wet as she struggled with the locks, the metal firm and unyielding. It wasn’t coming off. It wouldn’t come off. Her breaths came out in short gasps as her fingernails continued to work yet there was nothing to be done. The mask was staying.

The dungeon closed in around her. How could she be any more trapped than she already was? How could it get any smaller, any more restrictive?

And then it happened. The dam finally broke. For the first time in a long time, she wept. What else could Rieka take from her?

[sowhumpful]

Kinda obsessed with Sir and this twisted relationship.

[honeycollectswhump]

for the bingo card: human furniture?

-🪷

thank you for sending this ask!! and i hope you don't mind my late reply :)) it was so fun to write <3

the bingo card was made by @gentlelittlehorrors (i hope you enjoy what i did with your prompt)

[masterlist]

CW: dehumanisation, pet whump, burns

“Up!”

It’s the first thing Ashtray hears, the first thing he understands, while laying down under the table, letting the noise of conversations pleasantly wash over him. 

Up means he is needed, Up means he is going to be used and Ashtray is eager to be used. Recognizing a word makes his nerves tingle with happiness. Ashtray rarely gets talked to –of course–, and it's even rarer that he understands.

He gets on his hands and knees, crawling closer to the soft velvet voice of his beloved Mistress. From his point of view, Ashtray can only see her silky smooth dress, a slit revealing her elegantly crossed legs. 

Careful of the leash binding him to the table, he takes his place, kneeling right beside his Mistress. Only like this, he is allowed to look at her, Ashtray has learned. He turns his head towards her, waiting for another cue amidst the pleasant waves of her voice.

Ashtray knows few words, short hints like Up and Down, Good Boy and Punishment, Hands and Back and Tongue, but he is very proud of his collection. It makes him a Good Boy, he thinks, that he has learned to recognise the otherwise strange sounds. Ashtray strives to serve his Mistress, in the way he was made for, and in any way at all. 

“Hand out.” his Mistress says, and Ashtray is thankful he is such an attentive Good Boy to filter out the right words. He tries his best to copy her poise, even though it is so unnatural for a simple thing like him. 

Mistress didn’t say which hand or maybe Ashtray doesn’t know the word yet. He can only guess what the most logical answer would be and sitting at her left side, he has an idea. Everything should always be elegant, so as graceful as possible he lifts his right hand to rest on her thigh, just like she trained him to. 

He can feel the cigarette getting closer, even without seeing it directly, can feel it burning and sizzling against his skin. Despite this, Ashtray doesn’t flinch, just like expected of a Good Boy. His eyes never leave his Mistress’ face, drowning in the pleased smile she gifts him. 

Other owners wouldn’t smile at their Ashtray like that, but his Mistress does. She is gentle, and loving, and so beautiful that Ashtray knows he’d let her hold his hands in a fire just to gain another smile. 

Twisting the cigarette into his skin, his Mistress makes sure it truly is put out. Ashtray marvels at how responsible she is, even as it leaves an angry red crater that will surely leave a mark in the field of raised, almost perfectly round scars that coat his hands. 

After fulfilling his purpose, Ashtray lifts his hand back down again, barely conscious of the way his skin seems to be lit on fire. This is what he was made for anyway. He resumes his position next to his Mistress, both hands in front of his knees, still and Good, bathing in her presence until she will inevitably send him under the table, only to come out when he is needed. Maybe then, she will call him a Good Boy again and Ashtray wants to be a Good Boy so badly. 

If he continues to be a Good Boy, his Mistress will even provide Ashtray with cream so that the fresh wound won’t get infected. Another thing other owners wouldn’t do for their possessions.

Ashtray is so lucky to belong to such a kind Mistress.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Women In Whump Pt. 3 (But they're MY women ❤️)

[firapolemos05]

The Art of Sculpting

My piece for this year's @zineofgid . Hope everyone has a happy new year!

CW: slavery, pet whump, noncon touching (not sexual), dehumanization, lady whumpers, sadistic whumper, nonhuman whumpee, magical whump, tooth pulling, forced stripping, belting, restraints, sadistic use of chili oil, mentioned forced fighting, past whipping

Champion taglist: @thewhumpywitch , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

Champion.

That's what they're calling him now. 

The coveted title now his, just as Master Scarlet wanted. Another gilded symbol of glory for her to brag about. But only her.

Slaves were not permitted glory.

He'd gotten himself beaten bloody, defeating the previous titleholder, with no reward except an extra meal he struggled to stomach. His body was still sore, aches and strains making themselves at home in his muscles, bruises dotting his dark gray skin. At least the throbbing in his ankle had gone down. An unfortunate misstep during the fight tore a ligament.

His opponent had been left worse for wear, being dragged from the ring with broken fingers and a concussion (the stone floor cracked when he slammed their head into it). He refused to watch the aftermath, when the whip made them pay for their loss in blood and screams.

Didn't matter if they had a title or not. They were all prisoners. The whip hurt all the same.

“I asked you a question, pet.”

The voice's scolding tone jolted him back to the present, out of his reverie. The cold marble under his knees. The two women lounging on cushioned benches before him, a table topped with refreshments the tiefling wasn't allowed to touch. One woman with long blonde hair, lips painted blue. A stranger. The other a statue of crimson. Red hair, red eyes, and a taste for his blood. His captor. A frown directed at him.

“What did you say?” he asked, then quickly added, “M-master? I didn't hear you.”

‘Stop drifting off! You know she doesn't like to repeat herself.’

‘If this conversation were less boring, that'd be easier.’

He was lucky enough to catch her in one of her better moods. “Quite an exhilarating final match, was it not? Tell me, did you enjoy it, pet?”

Pet. Pet. Pet.

‘My name is Itzal.’

(How long has it been since someone called him by name? It's becoming a conscious effort to remember.)

“It was. . . exciting, Master.” There was no speaking ill of the fights. No complaining. Scarlet would know he was lying, but that didn't matter for this. His real opinion didn't matter and would only earn him a humiliating spanking. 

“It was a thrilling show, I was on the edge of my seat!” the other woman agreed. The Champion, Itzal, didn't recall her name. Isidora? Isotta? “I was sure he was going to lose when that half-orc hurt his leg but what a turnaround. You've got him trained so well, Lady Matar.”

Months ago, Itzal would've snapped at her for talking about him like that. He wasn't a fucking dog. Some feral animal to be beaten into submission.

He's a different person than he was months ago.

“I made sure he was well prepared for the ring when I first entered him. I know many of the other Society members like to keep their slaves untrained in combat, but I play to win.” Scarlet took a long sip of her wine. “Nowadays, we're working on his house manners. Required etiquette with guests. Such as paying attention when his betters are speaking.”

He flinched at the jab.

“And proper posture, stop slouching.”

He straightened his back, biting back a comment. The hard floor was not helping his injured ankle, nor his knees for that matter.

Isidora(?) marveled. “So obedient.”

‘Don't say anything. Don't make them mad.’

“He's getting better. Still a rebellious streak in him, though a far cry from how he acted before his first lashing at the ring a few months ago.”

Mouth shut, body still.

Itzal held his tongue, clenching his fists around the chain connecting them behind his back. He tried to ignore the phantom sensations of the whip ripping flesh. All he'd done was speak without permission.

“He has a little biting problem as well so I've been muzzle training him.”

“Biting? How uncouth. I hope he hasn't hurt you at all.”

(If only it was that easy.)

“Oh no, of course not,” Scarlet assured. “Just a handful of servants. It will be corrected with time.”

Isidora chuckled lightly. “Yes, I do recall you mentioning you preferred the defiant ones. My lovely finch hasn't given me any trouble like that.”

“He is a pretty little bird. The submissive ones have their appeals, but I have always enjoyed a challenge.”

Itzal could only assume the women were discussing some poor aarakocra and not an actual pet bird. They always did that. Talked about their captives as if they were simple animals and not fully sentient people.

Animals did not have rights.

The urge to tell them off was getting harder and harder to ignore. But as much as he wanted to open his mouth, that would only invite punishment, and Scarlet tended to be especially harsh with an audience. It wouldn't be worth it.

It wouldn't be worth it.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his mind.

Mouth shut, body still.

Slaves did not speak without permission. 

The way Isidora stared at him sent his gut twisting. Moving away or shrinking back were not available options at the moment. Body still. Body still. All Itzal could do to avoid it was not meet her gaze. “He truly is an alluring specimen. Let me see your eyes, Champion.”

He ignored her, against his better judgment. Her tone of voice didn't sit well, the hunger in the word ‘alluring’. He didn't want to look at her gawk. Didn't want to watch her inspect him like some fancy vase at a pottery market.

“Obey, pet,” his master warned (oh how he hated calling her that).

‘Just listen, damnit!’

He should listen. It wasn’t even anything too difficult. Just had to raise his head. It wasn't like he'd been ordered to kiss the polished leather of her boots. He could even focus somewhere that wasn't the woman's face. Her oversized, gaudy necklace perhaps. Just as long as she got what she wanted. What was with her sudden interest anyway? Did she-

“Hey! I gave you an order!” Isidora rose from her chair, indignance flaring. Her gloved hand clamped onto the tiefling's horn, wrenching his head to face her.

Some string within Itzal had been pulling taut throughout this entire meeting. Now it snapped. 

Isidora could certainly see his eyes now. Solid red burning with hatred.

She didn't act quick enough. He didn't regain control of himself quick enough. She was no fighter. Those dainty hands never worked a day in their lives. It was too easy. His teeth sunk into the soft meat of her forearm and suddenly all he felt was pain. 

A shrieking drill bored into his head and his mind was screaming. Was some of that his own cries of agony? Maybe, he could never tell over the white hot burn of what felt like his brain getting fried by a bolt of lightning. A broken rule. The slap that sent him sprawling to the floor paled in comparison. 

Itzal pressed his forehead to the cold tiles, the taste of blood yet to register on his tongue. It would pass. The pain would fade out. It was a minute of his head bursting under whatever spell Scarlet kept on him, but just that. A minute. Temporary.

“-brutish little mutt bit me!”

“I gave you a very clear warning, Isaura. Do you make a habit of manhandling every animal you've been told may bite?”

Something warm was trickling out of Itzal's nose. When his vision stopped scattering with black dots, he noticed red spots on the floor below his face.

“It’s a small puncture. With proper cleaning, it'll heal on its own. Won't even scar.”

“Oh gods, it's bleeding! I'm going to get rabies!”

“Don't be dramatic, you're fine. Do you honestly think I'd have him up here if he were rabid?”

Isaura’s (‘oh, that was her name.’) shrill voice pierced through the ringing in Itzal’s ears. She was so red in the face it looked like she'd been standing in the sun too long. It was strange to hear Scarlet take that chastising edge with anyone other than him. 

Not that he was complaining. 

Until that gaze turned on him and ice froze in his veins.

“Apologize.” It was not a request.

‘Do as she says. The punishment will be worse if you don't,’ that little voice in his mind pleaded. It was right. Rage was not something Scarlet displayed often. Annoyance, yes. Frustration, yes. But never the piercing cold fury Itzal sees in her eyes now. Her calm composure made it all the more terrifying. 

Yet his tongue was lead in his mouth. Set still by his own anger, his refusal to break and let himself be treated like this. He would not be sorry for defending himself against unwarranted touch. The only chance he's been able to.

So he said nothing. 

Until a flick of Scarlet's wrist summoned an item to her hand while the other wrapped around his throat. 

-

Seemed like today would become a learning experience for two.

The pliers made the work quick, a twist and pull, and the tooth came free. Tipped with blood and the echoes of her pet's cries. He crumpled when she released him, curling in on himself. Scarlet beholds the fang and turns to her guest.

Had the situation been different, and this little mess not a result of Isaura’s ill-advised stunt, she may have offered the tooth to her as a token of acquaintance. A souvenir for the visit.

She dropped it into a small glass to clean later, and whisked the pliers back to their pocket dimension.

“You're really…keeping that?” Isaura balked with unmasked distaste. 

Scarlet scoffed. The woman was so shameless with her inexperience. Her pet had been an inheritance, given to her already submissive and pliant. Of course she knew nothing of how to properly break one. “Do you take issue with my methods of discipline?”

As expected, she fumbled to remedy the perceived offense. “N-no, of course not, Lady Matar! I just-”

Scarlet interrupted her with a snap of fingers and the guard that'd been standing by approached. She gestured to where her little slave lay panting on the floor and summoned a belt to hand over.

“Tie him down. Thirty strokes.”

The tiefling's head jerked up, eyes wide, chin coated in blood. His gaze caught the belt.

“No.” He made a futile attempt to flee but didn't manage even two steps before the guard took firm hold of his bound arms. His protests continued as he was dragged writhing to the table set aside for this purpose. “Fuck, let go!” he tried to yell, but the words didn't form right around the throbbing in his mouth. 

“Watch closely, Isaura,” Scarlet spoke to the other woman. “This is how feral slaves are handled. Had your little finch not been already broken, this is how you would've been expected to train him.”

The ropes held up to her pet's struggles. They didn't let up as he bucked, kept him bent over, knees and tail tied to the table legs to stop any kicking.

He only paused his escape attempt when the guard ripped open the fabric of his pants, tossing the ruined garment away. She had a clear view of the flinch that shook his body, ears flattening, cheeks darkening with the indignance of being so exposed. 

“Pain can be an effective teacher, but for the more willful slaves, humiliation is often a suitable punishment in itself.”

And before he could brace himself, the belt buckle slapped across his bare backside.

Spanking had proved an effective method the first time she used it on him. Whomever his former guardians were, they'd been soft, never once raising a hand to him in such a manner. Quite irresponsible. 

It only took five strikes to make him lose the fight against screaming. Twelve for his swearing to turn into incoherent pleas for mercy. Eighteen for him to begin crying out apologies. But his master ordered for thirty strikes, so thirty he would get. The ropes did not give under his struggles, did not hear his pained whimpers. His rear and thighs become a canvas of crisscrossing angry welts. Some have broken skin and send rivulets of blood dripping down.

The guard furled the belt back up once it was done, handing it back to the master. After unfastening the ropes, unbothered by the slave's whines, he returned to his post. 

“This seems rather…messy, doesn't it?” Isaura commented, grimacing at the splatter on the tile with enough disgust to make Scarlet almost roll her eyes. Not bothering with a reply, a wave of a hand with the barest amount of magic restored the floor to pristine. 

If she thought this was messy, then she certainly couldn't stay for the rest of what was in store. The Matar estate is no place for the squeamish. 

“Look at it this way, Isaura. An untrained slave is like a lump of clay. Lacking structure and grace.” Scarlet grabbed her pet by his horns, just as the other woman had done earlier. This time he yelped as the movement made his pain spike, as his master pulled him upright. His tail curled around his waist to spare his modesty. “And like with clay, they require a skilled hand to sculpt them into something worthwhile. A firm hand to correct any imperfections.” With a slight shove, she let the slave fall before her guest.

The tiefling dropped hard, his knees hitting the floor with a thud and a sharp grunt. He hunched over, blinking back tears, body trembling with effort not to sit and put pressure on his wounds.

“Let's try this again,” Scarlet declared, nudging the toe of her boot into a welt on her pet's thigh. He choked on a wail and jolted forward until his forehead hit the tile. She did not need to say more, he should know what's expected of him now.

“I'm…s-sorry, madam.”

Good. He managed even with his mouth swollen.

“Sculpting is messy, lots of excess to trim off, lots of undesirable behaviors to train out. A true masterpiece requires time and effort.”

“I see now.” Isaura gave her hostess a respectful curtsy. “Thank you for showing me this, Lady Matar. I apologize for my unsightly behavior before. I realize I have much to learn.”

Scarlet smiled, putting on the mask of a patient instructor. “Indeed. But that is what us senior members of the Society are here for, to teach.” She gestured over to one of her servants, a quick order to fetch her guest's coat and hat. “Well this has been an eventful visit but I do need to continue some work. I'm sure you have other affairs to attend to.”

Isaura knew well enough to recognize her cue to leave. “Ah, of course. Thank you for having me.”

“Next time, I must insist you bring your little finch with you. I'd love to see him perform.” And it would do good for her pet to be made to compete. Promise punishment if he didn't behave just as well as the broken little bird.

The guard escorted Isaura out.

The little slave had found that lying on his side did not aggravate his wounds. Until Scarlet ground her foot into his tailbone.

“Sit up.”

He's letting his fear slip far more easily now. It's becoming easier to reduce him to tears. “But-”

She gathered the ropes. “Did I say you could talk? Isaura is a woman of delicate sensibilities. She wouldn't have been able to stomach this next part. Did you think we were done here?” She wrangled him back onto his knees, pinning his head down to force his back to arch. Then she tied his knees to his elbows.

Punishment is one thing. Making sure the lesson sticks is another matter entirely.

Scarlet addresses the servant, “bring me some chili oil.”

He was clever. She could see it in his eyes when he connected the dots. “N-no. No no wait! I'm sorry Master!”

“You will be soon enough. We're going to make sure your little stunt tonight never happens again.” The servant set down the jar and a basting brush on the table Scarlet stood beside. They were dismissed. 

“It won't! It won't!” He tried to crawl away, tried to roll onto his back to protect himself, but a tight grip on his tail halted the attempt. Kept his backside raised for easy access. “I won't do it again! Please!”

The spicy bite of the oil was already filling Scarlet's nose. “You certainly won't, if you wish to prevent this punishment in the future. Tonight however, you will take what you deserve like a good little slave.” She took the brush and soaked its bristles in the dark red liquid.

The oil seared into the tiefling's torn skin and his shrieks ripped through every room of the manor.

-

It was days before Itzal was able to sit again without his eyes watering. Over a week before the pain faded in full. That pain had been replaced with an ache in his neck, a soreness in his scalp, a sting in his cheeks. 

Master Scarlet got him well acquainted with having his horns jerked, his hair yanked, his ears pinched between sharp nails. She struck him if he so much as made an expression she didn't approve of, to the point Itzal feared he'd have permanent handprint-shaped bruises on his face. It got more difficult when she moved on to his tail.

Sculpting, she called it.

Trimming off the imperfections. Beating out undesired behavior.

His dreams brought him to a body that wasn't his. Cold and caged by red velvet museum ropes and its own immobility. Cold and unmoving like hardened clay. Onlookers who ogled with eyes too big and smiles too wide. Uncanny. Uncaring.

A week later, Master Scarlet brought him with her to a dinner party and those faces became reality. Everyone seemed to want a closer look at the new Champion. 

Itzal didn't dare resist.

[parasiticstars]

To Teach an Old Dog: #1

re re re re re re uploaded bc tumblr keeps fucking it up

TW: BBU/pet whump, casual mentions of dehumanization, institutionalized slavery, and suicide idealization, and me being very pretentious

Kavan’s back hurts. Of the numerous things wrong with his situation, this is what he decided to focus on in an attempt to stave off the impeding sensory overload— and this is the only familiar, non-Pet-fuckery problem he has.

The bit was fastened too tight and digs in the corners of his mouth. He can feel drool starting to crust his beard. He’s disused to the shoddy buzzcut his masters captors gave him in an attempt to make him presentable before auction; he'll certainly never take the feeling of hair on his ears for granted again. The ear tag is pulling on already mutilated earlobes, adding to a budding headache just behind his eyes. The concrete floors look and feel like they haven’t been cleaned ever. The auctioneer’s voice is solidly the fourth most irritating sound he’s ever heard in his life.

Alas, nothing Kavan attempts to focus on staves off the visceral, skin-crawling feeling of too much. No matter how many times the man gets shuttled in and out of auctions and captors like a head of livestock, he’ll never truly get used to the non-personhood, the sheer objectification of it all. Nor will he get used to an audience leering and inspecting him and the other Pets people around him like the products they’re advertised and sold as.

Nobody seems to be interested in him, thank god. Kavan’s getting too old for most people’s tastes— even as a labor Pet, being above thirty is automatically considered a liability, as if he’d crumple into dust the second he set foot onto a construction site or a plantation or wherever the hell else. Has he felt close to it? Definitely. But that didn’t mean he would; even though some places, water and breaks weren’t a given.

(Why would they be? Employers and contractors who use Pets rather than workers don’t need to abide by silly things such as OSHA and basic human decency.)

But regardless.

With the slowly increasing amount of times he’s talked about like his expiry date has run out, Kavan wonders when he’s going to just be taken out behind the shed.

He wonders if he’ll do it himself one of these days.

A prod to the small of his back forces him to straighten, making him nearly drop his sign in the process. His attention snaps back to the crowd, all crammed together in this dingy-ass building in those dingy-ass folding chairs betting on dingy-ass people.

Long had Kavan lost the naïvety that Pet owners were this special type of evil, so impossibly cruel and uncaring that they simply couldn’t be human. Regardless, the fact that everyone here is so unassuming still screws with him. He could hypothetically see any one of them, say, at a Starbucks bitching at the barista about their overpriced order, or shopping at Trader Joe’s, or working in their cubicle, or at a PTA meeting. That in particular jars him.

Nobody around them would know that said person was willingly participating in legalized slavery, lacking even the flimsy pretense of “rescuing” their aunt’s-grandma’s-brother’s-husband’s-neighbor’s-girlfriend’s-niece’s Pet or whatever else they’d want to virtue signal on their Facebook wall or status or whatever else.

(Are Facebook statuses still a thing? God, Kavan’s been out of the loop too long. He doesn’t even know how long.)

One woman in particular has set sights on him. Judging by the fine cut yet plain color of her coat, the disgusted-holier-than-thou glances she’d occasionally give whoever she was seated near whenever they did anything particular crude, the brand name Ceilos, she’s probably fuck-off rich trying not to look fuck-off rich. What would someone like her want at a low scale labor pet auction like this? Why is she eyeing him in particular? Why are her irises barely darker than #FFFFF?

Catastrophizing is, it seems, a very time consuming activity. It muffles the rest of the auction, the auctioneer’s droning that would soon settle the man’s fate, the assistant taking away the sign Kavan was holding and tugging at the rope attached to his collar.

He stumbles as he’s led off the platform and into the pen for inspection. Through the buzzing of his ears, the sound of heels clicking follows.

[melpomenelamusa]

Dollplay - Chimeras

~Original story~

Previous

CW: Lady whumpee, lady whumper, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, possessive whumper, non-consensual drug use.

"Little snake, have you ever played with dolls?"

Madame Lavenza never had real conversations with Fidi. She would just ask her "yes and no" questions, give her orders, or make a few comments like someone trying to chat with their pet, but never really expecting an answer from it.

Asking about the girl's opinion was a rare event, and it was even more unusual to ask about her past. Usually, the woman acted as if the snake girl had always been an object of her property, so Fidi was surprised when, during breakfast that day, her so-called "owner" surprised her with that question.

"Yes, when I was little," the girl answered.

Her parents were not in the habit of buying many toys for their children. Fidi remembered that she had a plastic doll once, which she got as a birthday present. She liked to create different dresses for her doll with scraps of fabric that her grandmother threw away, even with almond leaves and folded paper. Sometimes she pretended that the doll was her friend and talked to her. She took good care of her, brushing her hair every day and keeping her clean. Fidi loved her doll very much. Until one day one of her siblings beheaded her. Her parents didn't want to buy her another one.

“I feel like playing with dolls today,” said Madame Lavenza. “I have some new make-up packages that were sent to me, and since I am going to have dinner with my parents today, I thought it would be an excellent idea to take advantage of the occasion. I´ve been wanting to play for a long time.”

She pointed at Fidi with her fork.

“You will be my pretty little doll and you will accompany me.”

It wasn't a question. Fidi didn't feel like answering. She didn't want to imagine what Madame Lavenza meant specifically by being a "doll," but she knew that, as much as she wanted to, she didn't have the chance to refuse either. She nodded.

The woman smiled with satisfaction.

"In that case, get ready and do everything you have to do. Once the game starts, you won't be able to move or speak, because dolls don't move nor speak.”

Fidi returned to her room. The idea of ​​Madame Lavenza's game had her increasingly nervous. Was it something like a photo shoot, like pet shows? Anxiety wouldn't leave her alone.

Around noon, one of the servants knocked on her door.

"Madame Lavenza says the game is about to begin. Come out when you're ready.”

Fidi gathered her courage. She made sure she was wearing comfortable, presentable clothes, the golden collar around her neck, and went out into the hallway. She hadn't gone two meters since she left her room when an arm closed around her torso, pinning her arms to the sides of her body and immobilizing her.

“What?!”

Fidi kicked, trying to get free. Something sharp was suddenly stuck in her neck and the girl could feel an unknown substance entering her body through the thin needle.

The servant let go of her and Fidi felt herself losing her balance. From one moment to the next her vision became blurred and she felt dizzy and heavy. She barely took a step forward and collapsed on the floor, with her legs and arms asleep.

She felt the servant grab her leg and begin to drag her to an unknown place. Fidi couldn't see where, as unconsciousness took over her mind at that moment.

Fidi woke up feeling her whole body asleep. She slowly opened her eyelids. She was sitting with her legs stretched out on a large, soft mattress. Her back was leaning against the back of an elegant bed. There was only one place in the entire mansion that had such furniture: Madame Lavenza's room. Fidi tried to get up, but found that she couldn't move her body.

She lowered her head, frightened, but there was nothing tying or immobilizing her limbs; however, no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn't move, as if her brain had suddenly disconnected from the rest of her body. A sound of panic tried to escape her throat, but only a silent whimper came out. There was a piece of tape over her lips.

Suddenly Madame Lavenza appeared. She sat on the edge of the mattress and reached out to caress the side of Fidi's face.

“It's impressive, isn't it?," The woman said, sliding her gloved hand over the skin and pearly scales of the girl's arms. "It's a drug I was able to get my hands on for this one activity. It paralyzes the body, but allows the victim to feel eeeverything."

She drew out the vowel, as she dug her fingers around the snake girl's wrist. The girl let out a muted groan, instinctively trying to break free of the grip. It was obvious she couldn't.

Madame Lavenza giggled.

"Don't you remember what I told you? You're going to be a doll today, and dolls don't talk or move."

Fidi felt a wave of terror drown her. Her heart was beating frantically inside her chest. She felt herself starting to have trouble breathing.

Madame Lavenza took her by the arm and began to pull her towards a leather chair, located in front of a huge dressing table, on one side of the room. The girl, with her body paralyzed, fell off the mattress and found herself dragged along the floor as if she were a rag doll, unable to hold herself up, until she was placed in front of the mirror.

The woman took out the makeup: boxes with infinite shades of eye shadows, lipsticks, blushes, mascaras and skin powders, all from exclusive and luxurious brands. She spent hours applying and removing makeup to the snake girl, making her various hairstyles that she then undid again, and even cutting the ends of her hair and bangs with inexpert movements, as if she were a little girl playing with scissors. Fidi could do nothing but watch, like a static mannequin, the strands of fine black hair falling to the floor and into her lap.

Madame Lavenza changed Fidi´s clothes, putting her in a pink dress with a flowing skirt, white socks and red ballerina flats. On her head she put a huge silk bow. Around her wrists she placed golden bracelets that matched the collar on her neck. She painted shadows and blushes on her, which stood out against her pale skin in a cartoonish way, and on the adhesive tape stuck to her lips she drew a small heart-shaped smile with lipstick.

"You are so pretty," said Madame Lavenza. "All my belongings must always look beautiful. Image is everything in this world. Status and money too. That's why I can have a pretty little doll like you."

The woman pressed the girl's head against her chest, hugging her. That gesture, which could have been affectionate, was oppressive and possessive. There was not a shred of affection in it.

Meanwhile, Fidi focused her concentration on trying to breathe calmly through her nose and prevent the tears that were welling up in her eyes from falling on her face, ruining her eyeliner. She also tried not to see herself in the giant illuminated mirror in front of her, because if she did, she would only be able to notice the desperation and emptiness in her own gaze, contrasting with the fake smile painted on her face with lipstick.

“I'm going to get ready for dinner.”

Madame Lavenza put Fidi back on the floor, positioned so that she could only look straight at a wall, while the woman dressed and got ready on the other side of the room. Fidi's neck hurt because of her uncomfortable position. Her body still didn't respond. How long did the effect of that drug last? How much longer would it be before this nightmarish game ended?

They left the mansion at about six in the evening. A servant picked Fidi up from the ground and carried her to the car, where he placed her in the back seat, on Madame Lavenza's lap. By now, the girl was hungry, thirsty, and had a dry throat; but a voice in her head told her, almost with certainty, that she would not be able to eat a single morsel at this dinner. 

Madame Lavenza's parents were wealthy people, both successful in their own businesses. They had booked a private room for themselves, their two children, and their pets, in a luxurious restaurant. Fidi preferred private events, as she was embarrassed to have people see her.

"She's beautiful," said Madame's mother, looking at Fidi. The girl had been laid down on an elegant sofa, arranged like those girls in Renaissance paintings. "She looks like a porcelain doll! Only her eyes are a bit strange."

"What's the point of having pets if you're just going to leave them there still as an ornament?" said a man with cruel blue eyes. If Fidi wasn't mistaken, he was Madame's older brother.

The snake girl had never seen him more than a couple of times in all these years. He was accompanied by his own pet, a chimera boy with dog ears and a tail, whose real name Fidi didn't know. The other chimera child was sitting on his knees, next to his owner's chair. A thick spiked collar surrounded his neck and he always wore a muzzle that covered half of his face.

While the rich guys ate meat, drank wine, and chatted about trivial matters, Fidi took the opportunity to rest for a bit. The smell of food made her hungry, so she tried to distract herself by focusing her mind on other things. Although her position on the sofa was uncomfortable, it had soft cushions. She closed her eyelids and imagined she was anywhere but there, perhaps in a beautiful bamboo forest or next to a waterfall, listening to the soothing sound of water falling and hitting the stones below.

She became so lost in her thoughts that she fell asleep. She woke up when she felt someone pulling her hair hard.

“Mnh!”

"Remember when I used to tear out your dolls' hair?" The man with cruel blue eyes shook Fidi's head violently, as if he really intended to tear out her hair. "You would cry for hours and throw a loud tantrum."

"Yes, and then I would get my revenge by melting your plastic soldiers in the kitchen," Madame Lavenza replied, with an equally cruel smile. "Now let go of my little doll. I don't tell you how to treat your pets, do I?"

The man dropped Fidi's head in disdain. He began to walk over to where the other chimera child was, still motionless and sitting on his knees on the floor, and kicked him in the stomach. The boy fell back, clutching his abdomen, while his eyelids clenched shut and silent groans of pain escaped from behind the muzzle.

"I guess you're right. I have my own toys to amuse myself with," the man said, before launching a second kick.

"Don't be so harsh," said the mother to her son. "What did the poor little animal do to you?"

"Leave him alone," said the father, scolding his wife. "Graus can do whatever he wants with his belongings."

Dinner was over and they finally returned to the mansion. By this time, Fidi had already begun to regain some mobility in her fingers. A servant carried her to her room and dropped her onto her bed rather unkindly.

“Goodnight, little snake,” Madame Lavenza said goodbye, before closing the door. The sound of the deadbolt was heard, locking the door on the other side.

Once Fidi was able to flex her fingers and arm, she sat up and ripped the tape off her mouth, finally being able to take a deep breath and fill her lungs. Her body felt numb and sore, and her stomach growled for nourishment that she wouldn’t be able to get until the next morning at breakfast.

She stood up and walked to the bathroom, where she first drank water from the tap and then set about removing the layers and layers of makeup from her face. She took off the silk bow, the bracelets, collar, ballerina flats, socks, and dress. She put on her pajamas and threw herself into her bed. She hugged a pillow and felt the tears return to her eyes.

“This is better than the black market, this is better than living on the streets, this is better than…” She repeated the words to herself until the guilt sank deep within her heart and she fell asleep.

Next

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba @morning-star-whump @lancedoncrimsonwings

I feel a little bad for Fidi, but I admit that it's a lot of fun to make her suffer. The best (or worst) part is that this is just getting started. Oh, my poor girl… Thanks for reading! Here's a little star for you⭐