#no onscreen whump

[whump-me]

Obscure: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of Obscure, novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the completed novel on Patreon

---

Kirill

Kirill and Camille woke slowly together, crawling toward consciousness inch by cozy inch. They tugged each other unwillingly upward toward the lazy Saturday morning waiting for them. Kirill surfaced from dreams of fire. He gratefully emerged into the softness of her vanilla-scented hair against his nose and the arm she had draped possessively over his chest in her sleep.

Soft cotton sheets draped over the two of them like a lighter caress. They smelled like fresh laundry. Kirill eased his eyes open a little at a time. The first thing he saw was Camille’s expanse of long blond hair. Then, beyond her, the ferns he had brought a few weeks ago.

The ferns hadn’t died yet. Sunlight lay across their leaves in stripes formed by the Venetian blinds. The fronds drifted back and forth in the breeze from the air-conditioning vent. Like Kirill and Camille, they looked in no hurry to move fast on this long, lazy morning.

Camille opened her eyes with a groan that was half happiness, half reluctance. She blinked up at him and smiled. “I never knew your apartment was so comfortable,” she said, her voice thick with a half-asleep haze. The warm notes thrummed in his bones, threatening to send him drifting off again.

He smiled at her and tapped the tip of her nose. “It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen it.”

“No, but it’s the first time I’ve stayed over,” she said. “And I wasn’t really paying attention last night.” She gave him a teasing grin. Then the grin turned into a soft smile of pure pleasure. She flopped off him, onto her back, and moved her arms up and down like she was making snow angels. “It’s so… soft,” she said, with the tone in her voice that people normally reserved for a beautiful sunset or a sublime bowl of ice cream.

“What can I say?” he said, making a couple of snow angels of his own. “I like soft and comfortable.” And for now, that was true, because that was what Camille liked, and he liked Camille. Loved her, even—if love was the word for discovering someone whose company could fill the hole inside you for a few blissful months.

The silky sheets were as new as the ferns. The ferns had come after he had visited Camille’s apartment and seen the explosion of greenery she kept there. He had asked her what kind of plant she liked best. She had said ferns.

It wasn’t manipulation. Not in anything but the most benign sense. He wasn’t trying to get anything more from her than she already wanted to give. Someday, maybe six or twelve months from now, they would be done with each other, with no hard feelings on either end. Kirill had long years of practice at keeping his breakups amicable. And when that day came, the soft sheets and the ferns would find their way to the trash bin outside.

But while she was here, he would give her what she liked. Because what he liked, more than any sheets or plants or long lazy mornings, was making her happy.

Her, or whoever took her place once she was gone.

“I’m going to make a pot of coffee,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“No, don’t leave,” she said in a playful groan, grabbing his wrist.

He tensed without meaning to. The hand around his wrist felt like a cuff holding him down to a hospital bed. Back before they had known they could trust him. Back before he had shown them they could take him at his word.

Back when they hadn’t known what effect their injections would have on him—and how dangerous he might be once the drugs did their work.

But that had been a long time ago. He had no need of old memories. Not his own, at least. And Camille’s skin was soft as her finger traced the vein on the underside of his wrist. It was nothing like the cold metal of his memory.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. Camille, mistaking it for a sigh, answered with one of her own.

“Go,” she said with theatrical resignation, loosening her grip. “Someone has to take one for the team and leave this slice of heaven so we can both have coffee. I’m just glad it doesn’t have to be me.” She screeched to the middle of the bed and lay back with an angelic smile. She closed her eyes. “Wake me when the coffee is ready.”

He stood and looked down at her with a soft smile and basked in the glow of being exactly what she needed.

He unplugged his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and padded toward the kitchen on bare feet. In the hallway, to his left, was a blank spot on the wall where his running medals had hung. His last girlfriend, Amanda, had been into races. She liked the exertion, and she liked the competition. They had run a race together almost every weekend.

Back then, he had genuinely enjoyed rising at the crack of dawn to sweat his way through the morning. It had made Amanda happy, and that was what had made him happy. Now, with the lazy weekend glow of Camille settling over the apartment like a pleasant scent in the air, the thought of all that running sounded impossibly exhausting.

His phone rang as he stepped into the kitchen. It was the ring that meant work—not the soothing buzz he had assigned to Camille, but a shrill sound that cut through the air like a freshly sharpened blade. A little of his weekend haze drifted away. He frowned as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

“Kirill Catallo,” he said. He said nothing else. He knew better than to complain about it being a weekend. PERI called him whenever they needed him.

“We have a job for you.” The voice on the other end didn’t bother with pleasantries. Sandhya Ramachandra, his assigned handler, never did. Not since Kirill had shown up in PERI headquarters almost thirty years ago in shoes with holes in the bottoms and pants that didn’t reach his ankles.

He poured water into the coffee machine by rote. “Where am I going this time?” It wouldn’t be hard to explain the sudden trip to Camille. He always told his girlfriends he had some job or other that involved large amounts of travel, to cover situations like this. Camille thought he was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. But he wasn’t ready to end his lazy weekend just yet.

“No travel,” said Ramachandra. “This one is at headquarters. Convenient for you.”

He frowned, even though Ramachandra was right about the convenience. He lived near headquarters because he needed to go in for his mandated checkups every three months, and because PERI didn’t want to let him too far out of their sight. But he stepped inside headquarters every four months, as required, and that was it.

He never accepted jobs at headquarters. They knew that. They had stopped asking.

He knew what a job at headquarters meant.

“No,” he said as the last of the lazy weekend haze burned off. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know. But we need you.” Ramachandra’s voice was devoid of sympathy.

“You need me to get information from terrorists trained to resist interrogation, and to find where any but the most emotionless serial killers have buried their bodies. You have people for PERI business. People who aren’t me.”

“For this,” said Ramachandra, “we need you. And this is important enough that you can’t play the waste-of-your-talents card. This prisoner has been poaching talent from PERI for fifteen years. He has an entire network set up to change the identities of candidates and relocate them. We need that network located and shut down. We need you.”

“I don’t work with Enhanced prisoners.”

“Why not?” Ramachandra’s voice remained perfectly even, but Kirill read the challenge there. “You can’t say it’s beneath you this time. So what is it really about?”

Kirill understood the question underneath the question. Ramachandra had never outright accused him of having residual loyalties to his fellow Enhanced, but the insinuation was there every time he refused another headquarters job.

“I’m not trying to protect this person,” Kirill said, in a voice every bit as cold as Ramachandra had trained him to be. “You know better than that.”

“Then get in here,” Ramachandra said, and hung up.

Kirill shoved his phone back into his pocket.

His shoes were wet. Water ran in wide rivulets off the counter and onto the floor. He had filled the coffeemaker with twice as much water as he needed to make a pot of coffee. He was still filling it.

He stopped pouring. He blinked down at the puddle on the floor.

Then he softened his shoulders and his jaw. The lazy weekend smile returned effortlessly to his face as he walked back toward the bedroom to make his excuses to Camille. With any luck, she wouldn’t ask about the wet footprints.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

"How much time do we have before Eliot runs out of air?"

Leverage S05E13 The Corkscrew Job.

(Now with added fic!)

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Just went down a rabbit hole of YT videos about the lives of actresses in old Hollywood, and came out the other side watching Wendy Carlos demonstrate how to operate her synthesizers. I now have a massive crush on her.

[zhuoyichenpretty]

Ep 25 Commentary

“難受嗎？難受就對了[...]卓大人，你習慣就好。” Is it difficult to bear? Good [...] Zhuo Daren, you'd better get used to it. —Zhao Yuanzhou, Ep. 1

Oh my god what the fuck ep 25. Ohhh my god. I don't think I ever stopped going "holy shit oh fuck" for the entire forty minutes. My head is in my hands. Why is FoF experimenting with onscreen physical/emotional/mental whump at a frequency and intensity previously unknown to man? To my favorite character? 我前輩子得罪了誰？？(Who did I wrong in my previous life??)

Quote from ep 1 because I had just re-watched it earlier in the day and those words came back to me not with any particular use towards interpretation but just as a characterization of—all of this. It is indeed difficult to bear.

Spoilers incoming.

Also spoiler for how I feel about this episode in case the sound of me wailing in lament in the distance makes it unclear: It was probably one of the most effective episodes for me thus far, personally. It struck many, many chords and did not stop for breath at all.

Honestly I'm kind of at a loss for words because I really, truly, did not expect shit would get so much worse for ZYC so incredibly rapidly. The speed with which the situation deteriorated broke the fucking sound barrier (I'm exaggerating, I'm being dramatic, but jfc I wasn't prepared). I apologize in advance if any of my reactions become a little bit repetitive, there are only so many ways I can express continuous distress and shock and despair.

My stomach dropped during the watchman attack scene. I can't believe how effective it was for me, this moment coming at the heels of ep 24, how that episode was a whole meditation on the goodness of ZYC's heart, his gentle and sensitive nature, the reasons why everyone loves him, the way things are bad but they will not break us and we may lose heart individually but we will persevere together.

And then in one single moment, all of that is threatened and very nearly destroyed. I felt every one of ZYC's dry heaves.

This drama is not one I necessarily go to for subtlety of intention, so the fact that I really had no inkling how at-risk ZYC's irreproachability would be in the coming episode despite being very invested in his arc made it all the more shocking and well-done, personally. They set him up as high as they could so they could tear him down as thoroughly as possible in an instant, and I did not notice the set-up at all.

I also have to say, I really appreciate PSJ. How quickly she cut to the chase about what he'd seemingly done, how she'd said the things that aren't just hard to hear but also hard to say. Because that's exactly what ZYC will care the most about. It seems to me her righteousness helped keep his own intact. In such a moment of complete and utter vulnerability and devastation, her moral clarity is as terrible as it is necessary and true to ZYC's belief system, just when it is most susceptible to collapse. And I say this not to mean that I think he is culpable for the supposed attack, given how much discussion the show goes into about culpability or lack thereof when not in one's right mind, but just that I find PSJ's moral compass to most closely align with ZYC's beliefs as he has been carrying them out throughout the show, and she keeps him from contradiction in a moment when it may be on everyone else's mind to spare him from the double-edged blade of his own righteousness. (Also, I may be reading too far into WX's statement later on that PSJ protected ZYC with her decision, but it could be interpreted that WX agrees or understands that as well on some level.)

And the fucking fact that all this takes place in front of a shrine for the Righteous God of Virtue and Blessing. As I said, I'm speechless.

(Speechless, she says, as she continues to ramble.)

Ouughhhhhh the reversals. ZYZ draping the cloak on ZYC this time. Fuck. The dungeon. Oh god. The way ZYZ loses more and more of his facade of calm, even just from his somewhat tense but understated distress in ep 24 to this unblinking, almost unseeing stare at ZYC in shackles.

Also, I'm glad for the moment PSJ and WX have to themselves once ZYZ proves ZYC's innocence. The way we get to see them navigating a situation so dire together despite its potential to push them utterly apart. PSJ's near-silent delivery of "friend" fucking kills me. It's loaded with so much emotion that neither the voice nor the term can truly handle that weight. That's art to me.

And then oh god, the Tianxiang Pavilion scene. I don't even know what to say. How everything spirals completely out of control. How we literally watch ZYC's worst nightmares play out. WX's first shout, the way I don't feel like I've heard that particular shade of emotion in her voice up until now, even with everything they've been through. Honestly, each of their expressions as the mob began to jeer and before they were separated was so effective. Ying Lei's indignation, PSJ's alarm, ZYZ's agitation, WX's fury. And the palpable panic as the crowd surged around them and pulled them apart.

I've watched this whole scene three times now. Every actor is giving their all here, and it's so impressive because this isn't at all the usual context of their angst and heartbreak. This isn't a decisive battle over life and death. The range of tragedy stretches so far in this kind of fantastical drama and yet they are able to create such tension and emotion that the shock of that first egg thrown has all the impact of a fatal wound. And it's worse in some ways because it means so little to an outsider and everything to this family.

That rage and helplessness in WX as she wipes ZYC's face and asks who threw it, when she says if the crowd goes any further, they'll fight back—her delivery is so raw. When I heard her lines, I felt the fantasy genre completely slip away for a moment and it became absolutely personal. Like, this point is getting a little away from mere commentary so please forgive the brief aside but those are words I can hear in my own family's voices.

Then, watching the very last vestiges of ZYZ's composure fully crumble away in real-time. God, I wish I could say something more substantive about ZYZ's entire reaction because it's so so good but I'm feeling levels of angst I truly don't know how to convey, which is really saying something given how much of an essay I usually write despite claiming I'm speechless.

Just. The way this is the most desperate and near-breaking we have ever seen them, in a completely different manner than the grief that has come before.

Alright, and then, the juxtaposition of the mob and the cheering crowd around ZYC?—yeah, that's when I started sobbing. As I've said before, the effectiveness, the efficiency, of TJR's acting. The way we can read every emotion off of young ZYC's face: his awkward pride, his self-consciousness, his bashful happiness. Even though this is a memory only recently and fleetingly alluded to in the previous episode and this is a ZYC we have never actually met, we know him and all his mannerisms and expressions so well. He is so alive with his character and so familiar, and then we cut back and, god, how unrecognizable everything is now. That absolutely broke me.

Finally, ZYC and Li Lun's conversation. Again, so so good and again, not sure I can offer much substance in my commentary to do it enough justice. I've been writing this commentary for over three hours now, so if my coherence is petering out, I do apologize.

This is so much of what I wanted and didn't even know I wanted from them, simply because they've been kept apart by the plot for so long. To see some of this come to pass is so satisfying. For Li Lun to claw so desperately at ZYC and try to bring him down, what that means about how he views ZYC's role in ZYZ's life right now. That this is twofold, to ruin ZYC and to be understood, and how he can never get the latter if he is still holding onto the former, wanting to pull others into the abyss rather than seeking a way to perhaps be pulled out of it. Li Lun is so precise in his brutality towards ZYC, digging his fingers directly into the worst of ZYC's fears, and yet ZYC is so insanely clear-eyed and incorruptible and incisive with his words in a way Li Lun has never experienced or had to combat (ZYC, articulate king fr). And for all of Li Lun's bluster as he continually makes to take the physical and conversational upper hand, how quickly that becomes a pitiful immaturity when ZYC truly fights back (in defense of ZYZ). Yan An plays this part so well, when he's looking up at ZYC.

And seriously, talk about ZYC delivering just the most on point monologues to struggling characters ever (ZYZ, Bai Jiu, now Li Lun), and doing all that after the day he's had?? To be honest, I don't know what direction this conversation will push Li Lun. I can see it go either way because yeah ZYC just basically rubbed in his face how alone and pitiable he is and how he'll never get what he wants out of ZYC, but at the same time I've never seen Li Lun so close to understanding why he has ended up alone, nor look so desperate enough to not be that he might end up making a different choice for himself. And just as Li Lun is that mirror showing ZYC the darkness of the abyss, ZYC must be reflecting to Li Lun how bright the dawn could be. (Oh the inextricable nature of character foils.) Even though ZYC has denied Li Lun the understanding he wants, he has seen through Li Lun so thoroughly that that is an understanding in itself.

And then oh my god. The reverting to Bai Jiu's voice and body. One of the most top-tier narrative choices ever. Li Lun, deconstructed by ZYC completely, is really so unbearably young in his heartache.

Okay, I think that's all I have to offer. I'm so wrung out, and I apologize if the quality of the commentary declined in the second half, but I hope some of this was enjoyable to read!

[chocolatepot]

While I'm ranting about fandom, I have really mixed feelings about posts that are like "back in the day, we never cared about what anyone else was doing and you could write/draw/ship whatever you wanted with no backlash."

Because on the one hand, yeah, there was a much higher tolerance for dark content 10+ years ago, and I do miss that. Antis are bad, sui-baiting people for drawing cute art on one account and NSFW on another is bad, whump is excellent and I wish there were more of it.

On the other, said tolerance didn't exist everywhere and you're kidding yourself if you think it was a fandom-wide virtue. Ship wars were vicious and frequently involved judging female characters as sluts unworthy of $hero because they'd kissed another guy onscreen one time. There were plenty of places you weren't allowed to write anything but fluffy canon het or get judged. I think it mainly feels like there was some golden time of everyone being Okay With Anything just because we didn't have these massive sites where you were rubbing shoulders with everybody. On LJ, it was very easy to just interact with the other people who liked the same stuff as you.

And also on the other, the rise of antis/criticism of dark stuff/etc. went hand-in-hand with the rise of social justice awareness in fandom, and I have strong memories of people really resisting any analysis or discussion relating to bigotry or subconscious bias in canon or fanon because get out of here SJW! It's all made up and meaningless! Pretty much everyone was sorted into either the social-justice-aware camp or the called-people-SJW-unironically camp, and the former was going to be critical of what message your fic or fandom participation was carrying (in terms of sexist tropes, ship statistics, and so on) while the latter was going to be hostile to you saying you were offended or disturbed by anything at all.

I remember one time toward the end of Fandom_Wank (after UnfunnyBusiness had been split off to talk about conflicts involving -isms because people had come to recognize that not all drama is equal) when someone brought up an old wank involving people upset that in a particular fandom's AUs, the characters of color would frequently be turned into literal animals while the white characters were still human. Originally, they had been mocked because this was obviously trivial and not racist, it was just random chance which characters got turned into animals, etc. But at that time, post-RaceFail, everyone agreed that it was really messed up. And that's what I think about every time the "people used to not care about what you wrote" topic comes up.

[bizlybebo]

please izlys if you can fucking hear me ☝️ give the world more dakota cole whump in s3. it should be shown more onscreen how he is still not used to the physical limitations of a normal human body now that he doesn’t have the heart. he should be fuuuucked up and angry about the fact that it incapacitates him cause he used to be able to heal faster + endure more. he should be recklessly throwing himself into danger and getting himself hurt ☝️ and still continuing .

[whumpsday]

3 whumpy anime to check out this spring!

Go Go Loser Ranger is a heroes vs. villains anime where the villains are the good guys and the heroes are downright evil. Having wiped out all the powerful monsters more than a decade ago, the heroes keep the weakest monsters captive, to parade around and torment on a weekly basis while the public believes otherwise. Because they're immortal when hit with most weapons, they'll always reform to be hurt over and over again, despite feeling all the pain.

Footsoldier D is one of those weak monsters, an immortal shapeshifter made of dust, called a "duster". After escaping the heroes' arena, he forms a plan to kill the heroes and steal the few weapons they have that can permanently kill dusters, freeing the rest of his kind. Given that he has the constitution of a porcelain doll, he can't use strength to fight: he has to rely on wits, stealth, shapeshifting (despite knowing very little about humans or the outside world), and a shaky alliance with a double-agent ranger who seems to be taking advantage of him for her own gain.

Whump tags: villain whumpee, hero whumper, immortal whumpee

Watch it on Hulu, Disney+, or any unofficial anime site.

And if you don't have time to check out a whole anime, the Go Go Loser Ranger opening theme video is also really good, with fantastic visuals symbolizing D's struggles!

An Archdemon's Dilemma is a romantic comedy stuffed to the brim with popular whump tropes. Zagan is a demonic sorcerer who attends an auction for the possessions of another recently-killed sorcerer, when he sees that one of those "possessions" is an elf slave, Nephelia. Having had a destitute, harsh past himself, he feels a rush of sympathy and buys her way out, vowing to ensure her safety. However, Nephelia is terrified, believing she's about to be used as a sacrifice in a dark magic ritual. And unfortunately for both of them, Zagan is a socially awkward loser who sucks at communicating.

It's surreal seeing something that looks like it could be a caretaker-new-master whump fic as an actual, fully-realized anime. It definitely doesn't take itself too seriously despite the premise, leaning heavily on the "comedy" part of romantic comedy, and is mostly just a silly time with lots of whump-adjacent stuff thrown in. Fanfic-y to the point of "there's only one bed" being an actual line.

Whump tags: fantasy slavery (very pet-whump-esque in its tropes), caretaker new master

Watch it on Crunchyroll or any unofficial anime site.

The Grimm Variations is an anthology of horror retellings of several Brothers Grimm fairy tales. With each episode being written and directed by different people, it varies wildly in quality, with episodes ranging from laughably bad to incredibly good, but I'm here to talk about episode 2: Little Red Riding Hood.

The Little Red Riding Hood takes place in a dystopian future where the upper and middle class use virtual reality technology to augment their reality. One man, Grey, is tired of this and craves the real: specifically, the feeling of real blood spraying him as he murders countless women, his wealth and connections protecting him from consequences. But when this serial killer makes the mistake of targeting a woman called Scarlet, he finds himself on the other side of the knife. This episode is a complete and utter gorefest with multiple onscreen torture scenes.

This isn't even my favorite episode of the series, it's like my 3rd favorite. But episode 2 is the one with the gruesome torture scene, so it's the one that goes in this post.

Little Red Riding Hood whump tags: whumper-turned-whumpee, torture, gore

Little Red Riding Hood warnings: sexual assault, eye gore, fingernail gore, violence against women, major character death

Watch it on Netflix or any unofficial anime site. Orrrr if you just wanna watch the big torture scene without any of the context, it's on Youtube.

that's all I have for now :)

(P.S: Dungeon Meshi, while not really whumpy as a whole, is also currently airing and very very good and I might write whump fanfic for it at some point in the near future. Netflix or any unofficial anime site.)

[seth-whumps]

I know emeto is a no-go and that's totally fine, but is it alright to make any mentions of nausea / stomach pain in whump prompts?

It's been a long time since this ask was sent, but here's clarification: Specific or detailed requests are a no-go, and explicit or onscreen vomiting is a hard stop.

I am however alright with mentioning of nausea, or phrases like "I don't... feel well." If a request includes these, I will tailor my response to my comfort levels.

Thank you for checking in! I'll have asks and requests open again shortly, once I get through the 200 asks in my inbox for the dialogue game.

[whumpninja]

The Angel of Death, Part 3: Blood and Circuses

CONTENT WARNING: Buckle your friggin’ seatbelts, this one gets real nasty!

Featuring: cage match, forced to fight, vampire whump, mentions of (non-permanent) death, graphic descriptions of violence, muzzle, drugged whumpee, heavy gore, blood (seriously it’s a LOT of blood), violent onscreen death, extremely vague one-sentence throwing up, collar, dehumanization, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK THIS CHAPTER IS A DOOZY

It was out of sheer decency that Keola waited until Mr. Moody closed his office door before she laid into him. Her mother wouldn’t have been pleased to hear her yelling a man down the hallway of his own building, and that was the only reason she waited until they were in his office to shout “What were you even thinking?”

“I-“ Mr. Moody started, but Keola trampled him back down and kept right on going.

“You let me believe I would be doing medical work on a leopard or something, not a freaking vampire! I’m not qualified for that type of work, I could lose my job because of what you just did! And on top of that, you want said vampire to fight in your arena with a fracture in his leg? Are you insane? Completely lōlō?”

“What language is that?”

“Not the point!” Keola barked. “Mr. Moody, you tricked me. And I don’t know whether I should take it as an insult to my intelligence or my ethics. Did you think I would just be so overcome with emotion upon seeing an injured creature that I’d ignore the deceit it took to get me there? I don’t kiss boo-boos and make them all better. I do real, actual medical procedures that took hard work and training. And what I am not trained to treat? People. People like the one you’ve got chained up back there, and don’t you dare try to use the excuse of legal classification or that kind of nonsense! I am not licensed to treat your pet vampire!”

“He’s not a pet.” Mr. Moody’s voice had gotten oddly serious. He pulled up his sleeve and showed Keola a scar on his arm- a long, deep gash, healed into a dark rift in his skin. “He’s not a pet, Doctor. He’s a wild animal. I’ve seen vampires before. I have some other ones here for Saturday, and they’re pretty much like us except for the fangs. I’m not saying they’re people, but they’re not the way Angel is. Angel’s dangerous, take it from me. And that’s a good thing, I need him dangerous. But a doctor is used to treating patients that are calm and rational. A vet knows how to treat patients that aren’t. I don’t have another choice. Not with him.”

Keola blew out her breath. “I could lose my license, my clinic. You’re asking me to risk my job for these fight shows of yours.”

“If that happens, I’ll take care of it. I promise. I’m in good with the police force, they bring me the vamps to set on Angel. I can get them to look the other way. I just- I need you, Doc.” Mr. Moody ran his hands through his thinning hair. “If I lose him-“

Keola almost said no. She almost tore the contract in two and stormed out. She didn’t care if this man lost his brutal business. She didn’t care if he was ruined because she wouldn’t help him.

But she thought of Angel.

As terrifying as he was, he was hurt. He was scared, somewhere beneath the anger. He didn’t know what was happening. She couldn’t leave him to a man who would keep exploiting him with no regard for his well-being, who would make him fight with a break in his leg.

Keola blew out her breath and sat down heavily in the chair by the wall. “If I lose my clinic-“

“You won’t. I promise, Doc. If there are any consequences, they’ll fall on me.”

Keola took her hair out of its bun and redid it, twisting it around her hand. “What about Saturday? If you make him fight-“

Mr. Moody chuckled. “I don’t exactly make him fight, Doctor. He lives for it. Craves it. Born killer, my Angel. If I don’t let him get his exercise, he’ll attack anything that gets close enough.”

“Why?” Keola couldn’t help asking. “I’m not well-read on my vampires, but I don’t think most of them are that…feral.”

“Most of ‘em don’t have six-inch teeth either. Angel’s special. You should see him in the cage.” Mr. Moody snapped his fingers. “You should. Come on Saturday, Doc.”

“What?”

“Not in any official capacity, not yet. Just come as a guest. No charge- I’ll put you right at the front. You can get a feel for what kind of injuries you might be dealing with, and see how Angel fights. See how much he loves it.”

“Mr. Moody-“

“No, no, I insist. Here. VIP ticket.” Mr. Moody banged open a desk drawer and rummaged around, resurfacing with a red slip of paper in his hand which he pressed into hers. “And hey, if it don’t work out it don’t work out. No hard feelings. But just give it a shot, yeah?”

Four hours after she’d been picked up and taken there, Doctor Keola Ioannidis found herself standing outside a fight club with a ticket to Saturday’s show in her hand.

What did I just get myself into?

——————————————————————————

She wasn’t going to go. It was after dark, which meant she wouldn’t risk the sun. And her ticket was free- she’d checked the Colosseum Club website, and the little slip she’d been given would have run her over three hundred dollars if she’d paid for it herself. And taking the contract with the club meant sorely needed extra income to keep her little clinic afloat.

But she wasn’t going to go. She couldn’t. I can’t, Keola told herself over and over all Saturday afternoon. It’s against my code of ethics. Not to mention my own morals. I can’t sit happily in an audience and watch people beat each other black and blue.

She kept telling herself that she wouldn’t go all the way up until she was standing at the door.

The website had said that the main event would be at 9:30 p.m., and Keola had waited until nearly then on purpose. She was only going to observe Angel as a potential patient. That was all. She didn’t need to see…the rest of it.

There was a bouncer at the door, a big man in a too-tight shirt. He looked her up and down disbelievingly. Keola tried to seem like the sort of person that frequented mildly illegal fight clubs, but she knew it would be a lost cause. She shoved the little red slip at the man instead.

His eyebrows went up. “VIP seating? You?”

“Me,” Keola answered. “And I got that from Mr. Moody himself, so if you wouldn’t mind letting me in, I don’t want to miss the main event.”

A smile spread across the man’s face, and he held the door open for her. “Nobody does, missy. Trust me.”

Cryptic, Keola thought.

The little club that had been empty before was now full to bursting with people. And not your average barhoppers, either, Keola noticed- many of the patrons drinking at the bar were rather obviously wealthy. Yet they’d stooped to come to this dingy little club. How popular are these fights?

She didn’t really know what to expect as she made her way to the side door and down the concrete corridor that led to the underground arena. It had been relatively quiet before, but now it echoed with the shouts of what sounded like a very large crowd. As she neared the end, she heard Mr. Moody's voice, bellowing through a microphone.

"And it's victory for Nosferata, death for Overbite! What a show! What an ending! That's gonna be hard to clean up! Mr. Edwards, not to worry, we'll get your vamp regenerated and back on his feet in plenty of time for the next match. As for Nosferata, Ms. Winslow, you should be proud of her, that was one of the most brutal matches we've had in awhile!"

Keola entered the underground stadium and immediately reeled against the wall, gasping. Not from the noise- though that was certainly overwhelming, with the roaring crowd and Mr. Moody's foghorn voice. Not from the sight, though the sea of people in the bleachers was an impressive view.

It was the smell that hit her hard, made her press her head against the concrete wall and dig her nails in for all she was worth.

The smell of blood.

Not human. No, it wasn't the sweet tang of human blood. It was the sharp, acidic smell of vampire blood, and it was everywhere. Her eyes felt hot at the overwhelming smell, and she squeezed them shut, clinging to the wall.

How many vampires have died here?

"Are you all right, miss?" asked a voice. Keola snapped her eyes open and hoped they were green instead of red.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, smiling at the concerned employee. "Just a little dizzy, should've eaten something before I- Ronnie?"

Blue Goon was in black tonight, but she still recognized him. He squinted at her, and then his face cleared. "Oh! Hi, Doc- the boss told us he gave you a ticket, but we didn't see you at the opening so we thought you'd skipped. He'll be glad you're here! You haven't missed Angel, that's the last show of the night. Should be about a ten-minute wait." He held out his hand. "If you'll show me your ticket, I'll get you to your seat."

"Thanks," Keola said, handing over the red slip.

"Best seat in the house." Ronnie grinned. "The boss must like you."

Keola let herself be led through the bleachers to a box right in front of the ring, just above where she'd heard Mr. Moody's voice coming from. "I'll tell the boss you're here," Ronnie offered. "Can I grab you anything from the bar?"

"I'll take a Bloody Mary," Keola answered almost without thinking. "Dirty."

Ronnie winked at her. "Staying on theme, I see."

As Ronnie disappeared, Keola slumped into her chair and stared at the arena below her. It looked smaller now, surrounded by tall cage fencing. The floor had been covered with a thin layer of what could have been either sawdust or sand.

Whatever it was, it was doing a terrible job soaking up the blood. All of it was vampire blood, she could tell by the dark color- red so deep it was almost purple. The arena was splattered with it- the floor, the fencing, even a few spectators in the front had stains of blood on their shirts. The spectators were all human, and not a single one looked bothered by the violent sport they had come to watch. Many- mainly those in the front rows like Keola- seemed to have dressed up, in suits and pearls and silk gowns.

The Colosseum Club, indeed.

Ronnie appeared at her elbow with her drink just as the lights went down. "Enjoy the show," he whispered, and gave her another wink as he slipped out of the box. Keola took a sip of her drink and braced herself for what was coming.

A series of floodlights around the arena went up, and a spotlight shone down on Mr. Moody. He'd dressed up for the occasion in a gray suit, and he was beaming. "Hasn't tonight been incredible, folks?" he shouted, and the crowd roared back at him. "What a show! What a bloodbath! But we know you've all been waiting for our last match of the night, so I won't keep you waiting much longer!"

Keola heard metal creaking and leaned down to see a pair of burly men come out of a metal gate, dragging a vampire between them. She hadn't seen the earlier parts of the show, but from the sound of it, the vampires involved had been fighters.

This one clearly wasn't. He was dressed in street clothes, his face bruised. And he looked terrified. There was some sort of muzzle strapped over the lower half of his face.

"This is gonna be a good one, folks!" Mr. Moody announced. "Officer, what was this one's crime?"

One of the guards leaned into the microphone. "Tried to attack a woman outside her own restaurant," he said, his lip curling. The crowd booed, and Mr. Moody shook his head.

"Just because it's a restaurant doesn't mean your kind get to eat there, leech," he said. The other guard took off the muzzle, and Mr. Moody shoved the microphone into the vampire's face. "What's your name, bloodsucker?"

"M-Marcus," the vampire stammered. "But I-I wasn't trying to attack her, I just-"

Mr. Moody snatched the microphone back. "Didn't ask for a sworn testimony, vamp, I ain't a judge and these good folks sure ain't a jury." The guards opened a door in the cage and pushed Marcus through, slamming it behind him.

"But there'll still be an executioner." Mr. Moody grinned and held up his arms as the crowd cheered wildly. "Hey- Marcus, was it? If I were you, I'd start running."

Marcus threw a frightened glance around the arena and started to run, making for the other side of the stadium. A spotlight stayed on him. Mr. Moody let him have a few seconds before he turned back to the crowd. "And here it is, folks! The final match of the night! Marcus versus...the Angel of Death!"

A metal gate at the other end of the arena groaned as it opened. Behind it was darkness, and Keola squinted to see through it. As far as she could tell, nothing was behind the door.

And then Angel charged into the arena.

Keola gasped, gripping the edge of her seat. Whatever ferocity she'd seen from Angel in the basement was nothing compared to this. The vampire was snarling, practically foaming at the mouth. He looked like a rabid dog. His fangs were on full display now, the wires holding his jaw half-closed gleaming in the spotlights. His eyes were pools of glowing red, the pupils shrunk to nothing. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, his short hair dripping with it. He stumbled to the side, reeling like a drunken man, and dropped to all fours. Keola could see the way his chest heaved for every breath.

Drugged, she realized. Heavily.

Most of the crowd were on their feet now, screaming in excitement. Angel shook his head, twisting away from the side he was closest to. The noise must have been overwhelming to the senses of a full vampire- Keola was only a half-vampire and it was hard for her to handle.

And then Angel's head shot up, his eyes finding Marcus.

Marcus had started running for the opposite side of the arena, but as Angel took off after him Keola knew he didn't stand a chance. Angel stayed on all fours, clawing trenches into the floor with every bound. He was fast, too- far faster than Marcus, who didn't even reach the other end of the cage before Angel was on him.

Angel grabbed the smaller vampire around the waist, dragging him down. The pair rolled in the sand, Angel growling ferociously and Marcus crying out in terror. The whimpers of fear turned to screams of pain as Angel dug his claws into the meat of Marcus's shoulder.

As horrified as she was, Keola couldn't look away. Mr. Moody was bellowing commentary or something, but she couldn't focus on the words enough to know what they were. She heard the audience's shouts as if they were in another language.

And then- "Oh, we've got a live one!"- yelled Mr. Moody, as Marcus desperately kicked backward and slammed his foot right into the cast on Angel's leg. The leg buckled. Angel went down with a roar of pain, and Marcus stumbled away, bleeding from the claw marks in his shoulder and chest.

The vampire staggered to the edge of the cage, grabbing at the bars with bloody hands. "Please!" he begged, frantic, desperate. “Please, don’t let- no!"

Angel didn't let him get another word out. Marcus screamed in terror and pain as Angel grabbed him, claws digging in deep, and tore him off the bars, flinging him out into the sand. And then he was on top of the smaller vampire, tearing and slashing and trying with his bound fangs to bite. And Marcus was screaming and gasping and gurgling on blood. And there was the sound of bones being crushed, and flesh being ripped into, and the smell of blood was so much stronger now, overwhelming everything-

Keola leaned down, out of view of the arena, and was sick on the concrete floor.

I can't be part of this. It was too horrible. She couldn't come back to this place again and again, knowing what happened in that arena. She'd thought it would only be death. She'd never imagined the brutality of it- when she risked another glance into the cage, there was nothing left of poor Marcus but shreds of meat and bone and a pool of thick, dark blood.

And when he regenerates, they'll do it again. Vampires could not die unless it was through sunlight, silver, or a stake. No matter how thoroughly Angel destroyed his prey, they would come back to die once more. It was sickening. Keola had never been killed, had never had to regenerate- but she had heard it was painful. Excruciating.

The crowd was still cheering, and Mr. Moody shouted something about it being a great night and a good show. Keola managed to make herself look at Angel. Her brow furrowed.

The feral vampire still crouched over the remains of his prey. His chin dripped with gore, and as Keola watched he bent his head and rubbed his face in the sand, almost lying fully in the puddle of blood. He was gasping, pulling in desperate gulps of air as he tried to cover himself in his victim's blood. The wires at his jaw strained to keep his mouth closed.

For a few moments Keola had hated him, this monster of a vampire who she'd just seen murder one of their own with no remorse. But as she watched the guards grab him, bind his arms behind him, force him up and back through the gate as he thrashed and snarled in their hold, she realized something.

Mr. Moody had said that Angel was feral, a wild thing, so full of rage that he didn't have to be prompted to fight. But what Keola had seen just now hadn't been anger.

It had been hunger.

Angel, with his jaw wired shut, surrounded by blood, had been trying desperately to eat. He wasn't fighting because he was angry, but because he was starving. Vampire blood did nothing to sate a vampire's hunger- it had to be human or animal, something living. But Angel, drugged out of his mind and starved to the point of madness, only knew that there was blood.

Keola left the last two-thirds of her drink by her seat. She didn't want it anymore.

Ronnie met her at the end of the bleachers. "Hey, Doc!" he said, beaming. "What'd you think of the show? Oh, and Mr. Moody wants to see you ring-side."

Keola nodded dully, still too overwhelmed to speak. I'll tell him that I can't be part of this, she decided. He can find a new vet. I'm not going to sit by and let- all of this happen over and over again.

Ronnie escorted her through a locked door under the bleachers, to the space underneath where her box had been. This area was walled off, a tunnel of chain-link fencing and concrete. She realized that this was where the gate in the arena led- the corridor behind them must go all the way back to the cellar she had been in before.

Mr. Moody was just by the iron gate, several of his guards with him. Angel lay at his feet, his arms bound tightly behind his back, that chain leash and a solid metal collar around his neck, the other end securely fastened to a bolt in the wall. As Keola watched, Mr. Moody took a cup from a man she recognized as Red Goon and dipped his fingers into it. Smiling, he held out a hand dripping with blood. Human blood.

Angel lunged, the chain bringing him up just short of Mr. Moody's hand. He crashed to the floor, pushing himself up and trying again. Mr. Moody laughed. "All right, all right, here you go." He dropped to one knee on the concrete and held out his hand again, slipping his fingers in between the wires to let Angel lick the blood off them. "You did so well tonight," he murmured. "Sure gave 'em what they wanted, didn't we? Good boy, Angel."

Ronnie cleared his throat, and Mr. Moody glanced up. "Doc! I was hoping you'd make it! What a show, huh? A real thriller tonight." He beamed at her. "So? Do we have a deal?"

Keola had meant to say no. She'd been prepared to tell him that she couldn't do it, find someone else, it was too much.

But she couldn't look away from Angel, nearly choking himself on the chain leash for a few drops of blood off a human's fingers. He was angry, and dangerous, and savage- and he was starving and hurting and alone. And she couldn't leave him.

"Yes, Mr. Moody," she heard herself say, and saw herself extend her hand to him. "We have a deal."

When they shook on it, her hand came away sticky with blood.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds @softvampirewhump @scoundrelwithboba @rainbowsandwhumperflies @octopus-reactivated

@whumperfultime @pigeonwhumps @handsinmotion @starfields08000 @fleur-a-whump

@worstcasescenariolullaby

Masterlist

[whump-queen]

Do you have any OC’s or Whump scenarios that came along via spite? I know for me I get a lot of inspiration by eating traditional media where they imply something bad did/or is gonna happen, but then they cut right before it!! And I’m like “well I guess I’ll do it myself!!”

Is this pretty much the basis of fanfic yes yes it is but are there any specific instances you remember or want to mention?

Okok you want like specific instances??

How about when there’s a pretty servant boy but he never gets hit/hurt onscreen??

I’ve written a lot of servant whump and I really wish more media would explore the ~full potential~

Like, you’re telling me they never punish this guy??

They never just throw him down and beat the bloody shit out of him for fun?? For things that weren’t even his fault??

like.. He’s meant to take it. It’s literally what he’s there for.

You can beat him to the ground cuz it’s fun. Play mind games with your affection. Set him up to fail and then punish him anyway. Anything goes!

Don’t tell me you don’t wanna slap a pretty servant boy across the face with a couple rings on and hear him apologizing to you~

Leave a few nice bloody marks on his pretty face~ It’ll help him remember what he did.

You’re doing him a favor, really. helping him remember his place~

[whump-me]

I can’t be the only one here with an enduring love for lab whump that can be traced back entirely to watching The Secret World of Alex Mack as a kid.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Revenge Stream: Part Three

contains: broken bones, hand whump, gore, torture, guns, directly implied death wish

previous // next

•

“He won't be going anywhere for a long time.”

Your eyes are glued on the hammer in disbelief. As brutal as the previous tortures were, they weren't quite on this level. Shepard is hurting, but he could still get up and walk away after this. Taking a hammer to his knees though? That's the kind of thing that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Assuming they don't kill him by the end of the week.

Gabriel saunters up to Shepard, and the man in the chair seems to tense at his approach. Even his chest is still as he holds his breath. He has to know what's coming, but he doesn't struggle or flinch, doesn't even try to form pleas. It's unsettling. It's… wrong.

You sense what's about to happen a split second before all hell breaks loose. Gabriel raises the hammer, and Shepard suddenly lunges, wrists raw but free as he blindly grapples for the host, catches him, pulls him to the ground. His legs are still tied to the chair, slowing his movements but not stopping them. Gabriel lets out a startled cry, and the gunmen shout, but you know they won't shoot when the host is entangled with their target.

Shepard must know this too. His hands scramble up Gabriel's torso, clutching at fabric, reaching for his throat. One of the gunmen, Uriel, you think, reaches the pair before he can get a grip, landing a sharp kick on the side of Shepard's face and giving Gabriel time to free himself. 

He and Michael bear down on the captive, kicking, then punching, then forcing him onto his back, arms pinned, legs twisted at an odd angle and held there by the fallen chair. Uriel takes position above Shepard, rifle leveled at his head. He clicks off the safety, but the man on the ground doesn't flinch or try to jerk away. Instead he stops struggling. Presses his forehead against the barrel.

Uriel lets out a disgusted noise, cracking Shepard across the face with the butt of the rifle instead of granting the unspoken request.

“Hazlo,” he snaps, and Gabriel lunges for the hammer. 

There's no grace or intention in his movements, no build up. Just violence, pure and fearful as he brings the tool down on Shepard’s knees, again and again.

The man writhes under the impact, and even his scream is shocked into a halt for the first few blows.

It all happens too quickly for you to look away, and a spike of nausea courses through you at how wrong the captive’s legs look. Too soft, the flesh around the pulverized joints already red and swelling.

Shepard’s scream fades to a persistent whimper, and the gunmen release him. You figure that's it for now, and thank fuck for that. You really need a moment to clear your head. But then, someone clears their throat.

“Almost.” It's Lu. Through all the chaos, you didn't hear her enter.

“Almost?” Gabriel is rubbing his throat, seemingly shaken by the struggle. He sounds out of breath.

“Legs are only half of it.”

“Half…” he trails off. You can tell from his tone he's not enthused. “I don't know if I—”

“You don't need to. My turn.” Lu places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him aside and easing the hammer from his grasp. You hear her set it down off camera, hear the slight scrape of something against the wood as she selects a different tool.

Without a word, Lu steps back onscreen, drill in hand. Its bit is a nasty thing; a few inches long, make of thick, twisting steel. You can already picture it sinking into flesh, puncturing muscle and bone, and you physically cringe at the mental image.

Of course, the real thing is just seconds away.

Shepard is still writhing on the ground, unable to choke back his pained whine with the gag forcing his jaw apart. Despite the agony he must be in, he still seems to register Lu’s approach, trying to drag himself away, though his shattered knees prove it a useless endeavor. A fist lashes out as Uriel and Michael surround him, striking nothing before both arms are pinned once more.

Lu drops to one knee, the motion slow and painstaking, though the woman doesn't seem to mind. Her attention is on Shepard. She taps the drill bit against his palms, head tilting as the pinned man lets out a small, fearful cry. You get the feeling she's smiling under that mask.

“Alright, cariño,” she murmurs, her voice almost gentle. “Let's play.”

The whine of the drill pierces the air, a mixture of fascination and revulsion swirling within you as the bit pierces the skin, burrowing in Shepard's hand. His roaring scream drowns out all other sound, but Lu ignores him, calmly withdrawing her weapon, then plunging it in once more, crimson pooling in the man's palm.

You can't make yourself watch any more than that, your eyes fixating on the edge of your desk as the captive screams and the drill whines on and on. You're not sure how many times Lu has bored into him by the time he seems to fall unconscious, his scream tapering into silence, but when you sneak a glance up, she's still on his first hand.

You swallow, glancing away as she moves to the opposite side.

By the time she finishes, you're not sure if the man on the ground is conscious or not. His body is shuddering, breaths coming short and quick, barely moving when the gunmen let him go and return to their place behind the camera.

Gabriel moves forward, helping Lu to her feet. She nods to him.

“Bandage our guest. We don't want to lose him so soon.” They step offscreen together, but the host soon returns, a roll of duct tape in hand.

You wince as he kneels next to Shepard, tightly wrapping each knee in tape before moving to his damaged hands. He may be unconscious, but the man jerks at the contact. Once Gabriel is done, he addresses the camera.

“I think it's time we call it a day,” he says, his previously easygoing tone sounding like a mask his voice is wearing. “I trust you've all enjoyed yourselves. Keep an eye out for the next stream. Thank you, and goodnight.”

The screen goes black.

•

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Wait wait so if a zombie (undead) gets shot or decapitated and stops moving onscreen; does that count as an onscreen death even though the creatures in question are already dead? Because if that’s the case, I already have three onscreen deaths secured from my first movie.

[year-of-whump-tropes]

Tagging system

Required/strongly encouraged tags:

The official event tag is “#2025yearofwhumptropes”. This will be what I primarily rely on to find entries to reblog, so if you don’t use that tag it’s not likely to get reblogged here.

Tag it with both “#fandom” and the specific fandom if it’s a fanwork, or tag it as “#original work” if it’s an original work.

Use the relevant tags if your post has content that is intensely triggering (example: onscreen suicide) or potentially dangerous (example: flashing lights)

If your submission has explicit NSFW content, you MUST:

Tag it with “#NSFWhump”

Make sure any explicit content is under a Keep reading OR apply the “Sexual Themes” content label (“Mature” is too general to be very helpful! This is whump, we expect there to be some dark stuff!) You can do both but only one is required.

Tag it with the monthly theme, the weekly theme (if applicable), and the specific prompt used (if applicable). (Since you can fill any prompt any time during the year, make sure you tag it with the week/month the prompt belongs to, not when you actually post it if the two differ.)

Tag it for organizational purposes in the following format: #yowt25m[month number]w[week number]d[day number] Example: #yowt25m1w2d5 (for the fifth day of the second week of January)

Optional tags:

The format your submission is in. (Writing, art, photoshoot, etc.)

Any additional content warnings. Tags for common/major triggers or dangerous content are mandatory, as stated above, but I leave it up to you to decide how thoroughly you want to tag when it’s just for avoidance of squicks and the like. You’re strongly encouraged to be thorough but don’t obsess over whether you might have missed something.

"#participant post": I plan to put this on posts I reblog here.

Any other tags you want to include to help people who’d like it find the post (other tropes included, the characters involved if it’s fanwork, whether it’s ocs or nameless/generic if it’s original work, genre, setting, etc.)

Of course you can add any other tags you want, but when I reblog I’ll probably only copy over the ones that seem to serve some organizational and/or warning purpose.

Tagging incorrectly won't disqualify you from participating in the event, but it may disqualify your post from getting reblogged to this blog! (mainly because I'm depending on tags to find the posts and keep organized.)

[bubble-up]

I know you like Vi and Viktor more, but, since you were potentially open to Arcane request, would you mind doing something with sick or hurt Jayce? I honestly thought his whump moments in season 2 were spectacular and I crave more of it. I can’t believe, between season 1 and 2, we saw him throw up twice. I want to see this man miserable. Maybe he got food poisoning at some party or maybe he caught some nasty bug and he was trying to power through it because he has work in the lab, until he can’t hold on any longer and he just starts puking his guts out. Anything would do really.

Viktor should be there to help him of course.

Honestly this is so true man. Jayce throwing up onscreen twice? Amazing. Food poisoning/overworking on a stomach bug is a huge jam of mine anyway. I’ll be back with something for this.

[bemusedlybespectacled]

wait hold on

if as of 2x01 Izzy is missing only three toes (I think if it were the whole leg, Frenchie would have said that)

IS HE LOSING THE REST OF HIS LEG ONSCREEN?????

ARE WE GETTING CANONICAL IZZY WHUMP???????