#pitting whumpees against each other

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Dead Ringer, part III

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part II) The foreshadowed and promised caning. August is punished by Keats and loses any progress he might have made in making a friend. Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt. Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, degradation, manhandling, implied past noncon, burn mention, implied starvation, punishment (caning). Whumper pitting whumpees against each other and being a bully.

“It’s been a spell since I’ve seen you, Fionn,” Keats said, his back to August as he fingered Fionn’s bowtie. “I truly wondered if I’d gotten it right with this new one.” He circled Fionn, keeping an open hand pressed to his throat as he moved to stand behind him. A python holding its prey. “Isn’t he just perfect?” He leaned down, just shy of putting his chin on Fionn’s shoulder so their faces lined up as they regarded August. 

Or, rather, as Keats did. Fionn started ahead unblinking, unseeing. 

Their master must have been wise to his absence but rather than turn angry, he smirked and winked at August conspiratorially. “I think—” He pulled Fionn closer, forcing him to stand taller by the hand at his throat, and placed the end of the cane between Fionn’s feet. “He’s even better than the last.” 

Fionn’s expression crumpled, something of a whimper escaping his lips. His hands at his sides were trembling fists. 

Keats laughed, the movement shaking both of them for how close together they stood. His hand at the top of the cane between Fionn’s hips pulling him nearer still. 

August averted his eyes, all too aware of Keats watching his every move, feasting on his reactions as encouragement. 

“My, my, you have been missing me, haven’t you?” Keats continued, too loudly for it to be an honest exchange. All of this was just another game. “Poor wretched thing…”  

How long had Fionn been up here alone? How long for him to be melting into the embrace as if it were salvation and not something wicked?

Some years ago, August had stumbled upon a tangle of limbs at Elmwood. A footman who’d always given him sour glances with one of the stablehands whom he wouldn’t have been able to pick out of the lot of them. He’d turned and run, abandoning whatever errand he’d been sent on and later refusing to return to complete it when he was discovered skulking in the servant’s hall. The footman had taken it on to make August’s life miserable, a display of influence and power, to dissuade him from becoming loose-lipped. 

He didn’t realize that August was afraid to even admit to seeing the depravity, fearing any association with it. They’d all been warned about perversions at the workhouse. Had once watched a pair of boys whipped bloody on the racks before being dragged to prison for the crime.

With little to look forward to after the workhouse, the boys often occupied themselves ranking the various types of labour they might find themselves indentured to. Among the worst were mining for the stories of being buried alive; factory work that would cost fingers at a time; being shipped to America only to drown on the voyage; and digging sewers whilst knee-deep in shit. 

It was a taunting game to assign these wretched fortunes, same as it was an indulgent fantasy to allow themselves to wonder at being chosen by a tradesman; a farmer who’d never had a son; or a shopkeeper in the city in need of an assistant. But after that day, they had been armed with the ultimate derision, born of their shock and fear: Handsomer boys could be bought by twisted men and damned to suffer Hell twofold. 

So, August was more than relieved when Keats said, “None of that today, Fionn.” Though the promise in his admonishing tone made August’s stomach flip. Fionn shivered as he was released but remained standing at sharp attention. “I’m not sure if August has informed you, Fionn, but he made a mistake earlier today and we agreed that the natural course of punishment would be the cane—”

“Sir, I thought—” The slap surprised August, a flash of pain on his cheek that brought tears to his eyes. 

“You will learn to hold your tongue and speak only when invited.”

He clenched his fists at his side. 

“Where was I? We agreed the transgression was deserving of the cane. I’m sure you’ll agree, Fionn.”

“Yessir,” came his well-trained reply, face betraying no emotion.

August swallowed. He hadn’t imagined they’d formed any sort of understanding in such a short time, let alone some sort of alliance, but it still felt like something of a betrayal for Fionn to simply accept this course of events. Perhaps it was purely self-preservation, which August ought to imitate rather than resent. 

Their master tapped the end of his cane on the floor. “On your knees now like a good boy.” 

There was less shame in simply sinking to the floor. At the very least, he’d be able to hide his reddened face from—

Keats snapped his fingers and August found himself hanging by his bowtie and collar, the oaf holding him from behind. He scrambled to put his feet back under him and straighten, reflexively gasping in a breath as he did, though he wasn’t released. 

“You are slow,” Keats observed, grabbing August’s chin in a bruising grip. He turned his head left and right, inspecting him with those beady eyes. “I hope you’ll wind up being worth all of this trouble.” He released August and stepped aside. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

Fionn was on his knees. 

“What?” August should have expected the slap this time. Tears spilled down his cheeks but he did his best to ignore them. “He didn’t do anything. Sir, the…mistake was mine, the punishment should be as well.” Keats raised his hand and August cowered as much as he could with the lackey still gripping his collar.

Keats let his hand fall. He paced back and forth like he was having a constitutional through garden instead of threatening his kept boys, cane tapping along with his heels on the hardwood. “You were agreeable downstairs. You thanked me so graciously for sparing you from the cane.” 

“Sir, please.” His voice notched higher, made thinner by the pressure on his throat. “I didn’t understand this to be what it meant. I never meant for—”

“You are astonishingly dull-witted.” 

“Please, sir. I’ll gladly take the cane myself. He shouldn’t have to pay for my error.” Fionn hadn’t even spared him a momentary glance and August couldn’t blame him. There was little chance they’d find camaraderie after this. 

“An admirable sentiment and certainly meaningful as we are learning that your shortcomings far outnumber your strengths.” August felt his cheeks burn, his blood boiling with hatred for this man who was so visibly sated by the suffering he could cause. “Perhaps next time you will employ more of your limited discernment to make a better choice.”

He seethed, holding tightly to his anger rather than dissolve into hot tears of defeat. He wanted to scream, to lunge at Keats and beat him with his own cane, but he couldn’t take a step – let alone hope to best two bigger men. 

Keats was smirking. “Yes, best not to fight and make things worse for poor, old Fionn.” At that, Fionn let his face fall, just for a moment. Keats turned to see what August was observing but Fionn had already fixed his expression, returning to emptiness. “I was planning to be merciful. Rather than strikes to equal the worth of the item you lost me, just one for each hour that you’ve been here, succeeding only to disappoint.” 

August couldn’t help but be relieved. It had to be less than ten, maybe fewer than six. Things really had gone downhill rapidly. Fionn had told him it was fixed, which explained how it all turned on him. He felt even guiltier. Fionn had tried to help him. Perhaps if August apologized enough, when this was over, explained that he truly had never intended to pass off the punishment and—

“Unfortunately, I have no way of telling the time…” Keats raised his hands in a theatrical shrug, cane swinging, hooked over one of his open palms. “We’ll simply have to take the whole day. Twenty-four hours.” August struggled against the hand restraining him, struggled to stop himself from swinging and kicking out. Keats grinned. “Perfectly reasonable, don’t you think, Fionn?”

“Yessir,” he whispered, no different than before but now he looked so small and frail kneeling there, Keats looming over him. August squeezed his fist tighter, fingernails biting into the burn on his palm, pain radiating up his wrist.

Keats raised the cane. August wondered how Fionn managed to stop himself cowering or flinching. His obedience was frightening. Their master swung the cane up. August held his breath—

And Keats let the cane fall. “Can you count as high as twenty-four? Or shall poor Fionn have to take responsibility for that as well?”

August gaped at him. Fucking—

“Well?”

“Yes, sir,” August grit out. “I can count to twenty-four.”

Keats raised his eyebrows. “I hope for Fionn’s sake this isn’t more of your unfounded arrogance.” He turned his attention back to Fionn. “Jacket and waistcoat.”

Fionn removed the layers until he wore only his white shirt, buttoned up to the same fucking bowtie that was being used as a collar on August. He painstakingly folded each item before placing it beside him. Keats didn’t wait for any further sign once he had straightened again. 

The cane whistled through the air and came down with a crack on the center of Fionn’s back. 

“One.” August had almost forgotten to say anything. “Two—”

Keats wound up for every blow, putting his whole weight behind it. By the fourth, Fionn seemed unable to kneel upright and had sunk onto his heels, starting to bow forward. He was breathing through his teeth, tears streaming down his face, but he hadn’t made a sound. 

Halfway, Fionn was doubled over, an even easier target with his back horizontal. His spine and shoulder blades caught the worst for how much they protruded. Keats delivered the blows even faster now that he didn’t have to pay so much attention to the angle. 

When Keats landed a blow across the back of Fionn’s neck, the boy finally cried out. His scream cut off with the next and then he was breathlessly whimpering. Keats paused to wipe his brow with a handkerchief and spared August a grin that made him want to be sick. 

“—Twenty-four.”

The air rang without the sounds of the beating. Keats was breathing heavily, more so than Fionn who hadn’t made a sound for some minutes and remained, still as death, curled on the floor. 

Keats wiped his brow again, letting his handkerchief fall in a flutter to the ground when he finished with it. “You’ll still have plenty of time to think, to make sure this really sinks in.” He stepped closer to August, too close, so that he could feel his breath on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure you’re grateful for my merciful hand to guide you in bettering yourself.”

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud and spit in his face, but clearly a spoken answer was expected of him, judging by the oaf shaking him. “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing to be done about the bitterness that was evident in his tone.

His master chose to ignore it, straightening his jacket as he headed for the door. He paused in its frame, turning to look at August again, though he didn’t address him. “Fionn, be glad that you’ve no need for such corrections.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Fionn croaked obediently, using his hands to push himself up just enough to bow his head at Keats. 

August’s lip curled in distaste and Keats grinned, winking at him. He was glad Fionn couldn’t see the judgement he so poorly contained even knowing Keats had only elicited the response to get a rise out of him. 

He didn’t breathe any easier when he was shoved away from the lackey’s grip. Nor when he and Fionn were locked back in alone. Even as the seconds stretched into minutes since their footsteps had disappeared, he still stood there rigidly, fingers balled into fists, seeing red. He thought of all the freedoms he’d enjoyed at Elmwood. His own time to walk into the village or on the meandering paths through the wood. The small shelf of books in the servants’ hall they could borrow from. Even at the workhouse, there’d been scraps of newspapers, empty cupboards and deserted corridors to hide away in, and his best friend. August really had found himself in Hell on earth.  

It was Fionn that finally snapped him out of it. He whimpered, trying to unfold himself to replace the rest of his uniform. 

August rushed to help him.

“Please,” Fionn whispered, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Please, don’t.” 

Of course not. August was the last person he’d want to help him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing it was no concession.

He retreated to the mattress Fionn had approved earlier, lying with his back turned to give the other boy what semblance of privacy he could. He stared ahead at the greying wood of the eaves and wondered how long it would take for him to match Fionn not only in looks but in spirit as well.

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning

[unforgivenn]

SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#1 :THE BEAST'S PET

Next/Masterlist

CW: abduction, captivity, slight whump, coercion, power dynamics, pet whump, drugging, defiant whumpee, swearing, dominant whumper, slavery

Noah woke to the jolt of the wagon hitting a rut in the road. Darkness surrounded him and he could only think he was blindfolded. The cloying scent of sweat and fear clinging to the air like a suffocating shroud. Disorient and groggy, he blinked away the remnants of his sleep, his senses gradually coming alive to the harsh reality. He suddenly sat up frantically shaking his head as if the tightened blindfold would somehow magically fall off.

"H-Hey!! Let me out of here!!" His body ached from the unforgiving jostle of the wagon, every bone protesting against the place he was in right now. Chains rattled with each bone-jarring bump in the road, a chilling reminder of the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, tethering him to a fate he dared not contemplate.

"Where are you taking me?!!" Noah's screams only grew louder when no response was given. His heart beating so fast as if it would jump out of his chest. "ANSWER ME! SOMEONE!" He quietened when he heard a "tch" near him.

A deep, South American accent cut through the darkness like a blade, sending a shiver down Noah's spine. "Didn't expect him to wake up this early. And he's awfully loud," the voice mused, its casual cruelty sending a chill through the air.

Noah's heart pounded in his chest as he felt a rough hand grab his arm, the sting of a needle piercing his skin sending shockwaves of numbness coursing through his veins. Just then he heard whines around him. There were people. More people like him. Gradually, the numbness from the injection site started to spread.

Noah tried his best to speak something. Something that could catch the attention of other people there. He felt confused.

Who were these people? And where the hell were they taking him?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abruptly, the cart lurched to a halt, the sudden cessation of movement sending Noah sprawling against the unforgiving floor. He woke with a small cry of pain, his heart hammering in his chest as he listened, breath held in fearful anticipation.

Footsteps approached, heavy and purposeful, accompanied by the jingle of chains and the murmured voices of unseen captors. Noah's pulse quickened, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach like icy tendrils of dread.

Two muscular arms went under each of Noah's underarms holding him up.

"Where are you taking me?!" he cried out, his voice raw with fear, but his captors remained silent, their faces hidden in the shadows.

One of the guys patted Noah's head leaving him more enraged.

All of a sudden, he was thrown to the ground before he was being manhandled to be in a kneeling position with multiple chains on his neck, ankles and wrists holding him in place allowing his captors to have full control over him.

As the blindfold was ripped away, Noah blinked against the harsh light, his eyes adjusting to the sight of his surroundings. It seemed like some sort of a court room? His mind was still clouded up from the drug that was given to him.

"W-What the fu-" A harsh slap shut him up.

"Shush. The young prince will be here any second" Prince? What the fuck was happening?? He wanted to question more but knew better than that. It felt like a scene right out of Hollywood.

Suddenly, he saw the men around him which he thought were most probably the guards bowed down to a young man. Noah raised his head up as to see who it was before a rough hand in his hair forced his head back down only allowing him to see the man's piercing green eyes. The man whom they called the "young prince" stayed quiet. The tension in the room visibly increased before a deep voice spoke.

"Leave us." The guards were quick to retreat from their position and going out of the court room. Noah was about to get up from his kneeling position before flinching at the harsh voice. "Stay still slave!"

"Slave?!" Noah's voice wavered with disbelief, but the harsh slap that followed left him reeling, his cheek stinging with the sting of humiliation. He heard the man tutting.

"Oh dear" He sighed. "It's going to take a lot of time to break that swearing and defiance from you.. But.."

The man grinned, the smile no other than a vicious beast's. He leaned closer, his teeth barely just grazing the other's ears before he whispered. "Oh how I'll enjoy seeing you squirm and beg me to spare you" Noah's body practically froze, terror filling his eyes.

Desperation clawed at Noah's chest as he dared to question his captor's authority. "W-Who are you...?"

But the prince's response sent a chill through his bones—a predatory grin twisting his lips as he whispered promises of torment and submission.

"I'm Andrey. Son of Viktor Kozlov," the prince declared, his name a whispered curse that echoed in Noah's ears. "You will address me as 'sir'."

Noah's blood ran cold as the weight of his situation settled upon him. This was no mere kidnapping—it was a descent into a nightmare from which there would be no waking.

As the reality of his situation sank in, Noah's world spun on its axis, his mind racing with unanswered questions and unspoken fears. With each passing moment, the weight of his captivity grew heavier, a suffocating shadow looming over him, threatening to consume him whole.

Noah only knew this was going to be one hellish of a ride. And only god knew when it was going to end.

Taglist: @anutz1234 @ash-reh @miireux134 (Let me know if you want to be added <3)

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Whump Prompts: Multiple whumpees

Content: Forced to watch, forced to hurt, multiple whumpees, PTSD/trauma, restraints, punishments, caged, [implied] dub/non-con.

Multiple whumpees bonding over trauma.

Sobbing into each other's shoulder after some particularly intense torture.

Whumpee A begging their whumper to hurt Whumpee B instead because they just can't take anymore.

Alternatively, Whumpee A begging their whumper to hurt them instead of the other.

Forcing the whumpees to hurt each other.

Forcing the whumpees to please each other.

One of them wants to escape, but the other won't let them because then they'll be alone.

Tying them back to back with each other.

Forcing them to beg for the other to be hurt.

Two best friends getting separated as punishment for something they did.

If one of them fucks up, they all get punished because they're a team. It opens the door to pitting them against each other.

Locking them both in a tiny cage. Forcing them to squish against each other. Perfect for two whumpees who don't like each other.

Similarly, two whumpees who don't like each other trying to get the other into trouble.

One of them saving what little food they have so the other can eat.

One of them getting pampered and loved on while the other has to sit and watch.

Stitching two whumpees together.

Alternatively, cuffing them together.

[shywhumpauthor]

Two Weeks of Whump—Day Three

Car Battery // Scalpel // Alcohol

Masterlist

Cw: medical whump, deranged/mentally ill whumper (not outright stated, heavily implied, intended), noncon nudity (not sexual), noncon touching, torture, kidnapping, restraints, noncon drugging

“No- no no, don’t do this! I- I’m serious, stop!” Whumpee spat, twisting their limbs against the thick cuffs until deep bruises began to drag across their wrists. “I’ll fucking- I’ll kill you! Don’t fucking touch me!”

Despite the anger behind their tone, fear flickered behind Whumpee’s wide eyes, letting Whumper see straight through to them. The terror disguised as tension in their muscles, terror clinging to each breath.

They just hummed, a delicate rhythm only audible to themself as Whumpee’s screams and threats filled the silent lab. A dark, unfinished basement turned into a theater. Curtains of plastic draped neatly over the walls and shelving units, bright fluorescents installed across the ceiling to sharply illuminate every detail across the room. New equipment, pristine metal shone in the light, sharp shadows cutting across the floor.

Whumper moved the specialized lamp to the side of the table where Whumpee lay strapped to, still thrashing heavily and fighting their restraints. They flicked the light on, adjusting the long neck so the light was spilling down across Whumpee’s exposed torso, illuminating every inch of pure, untouched skin.

Whumpee’s chest shuddered, breath hitching as Whumper lay a gloved hand on their abdomen, feeling the muscles tense under their fingertips.

Their fingers danced over to Whumpee’s inner elbow, double checking their IV and smoothing down the medical tape where the edge had begun to peel up against their clammy skin.

The basement was cold. Whumper didn’t feel it much, below their scrubs and surgical gown, but they could see the goosebumps along Whumpee’s arms, the shudders that wracked their restrained form. They were naked, the sheared tatters of their clothing Whumper had cut away a few minutes prior peeled away and discarded into the waste bin just by their feet. There was a thin surgical drape laid over their lower half, but it hd been disrupted by the squirming.

With a gentle, steady hand, Whumper reached down and fixed it, pulling it back into place.

All good.

They gave Whumpee a soft smile, dragging their hand up and across the captive’s midriff, tracing a line up the center with the tip of their nail.

Whumper pulled their hand away and stepped back, resuming their humming as they made their way across the basement to a deep basin sink, where they turned on the water and began scrubbing their hands with sterile antibacterial soap.

It was as if they didn’t hear the screaming at all. Completely indifferent to the threats and the pleads and the begging as they dried their hands with a clean blue towel, before grabbing a face mask and fitting it over their mouth and nose.

They stepped back towards the sink and began washing their hands for the second time.

“Please! Please I- I won’t tell anyone! Just- just let me go!” Whumpee sobbed, slumping back against the cold metal table, the struggling having only exhausted them. Tears slid across their temples, the lights above them blurring as they tried to fight back the cries.

The running water suddenly fell silent, and Whumper stepped away from the sink again, moving to a small rolling tray off to the side. They slid on a pair of surgical gloves, and began to unload metal tools from a silver case. From their position, Whumpee couldn’t see what they were really holding, only glimpses of the light reflecting off the blades.

A cold, heavy feeling settled in the pit of their stomach, and Whumpee let out a small sob, twisting their head to the other side so they didn’t have to look.

Whumper finished arranging the tools, delicately placing the final scalpel on the clean tray, sliding the table over and locking the wheels in place just next to where Whumpee was restrained. They tugged the gloves off and tossed them into the waste bin, and returned to the sink for their third and final hand wash.

The room was eerily quiet, the running water blending with Whumpee’s sniffles, Whumper’s hum filling any silence, yet the room seemed to snuff out every sound. Whumpee could hear their heartbeat, the blood pounding in their ears, hands curling into fists, nails biting into their palms as they tried to calm down their rising panic.

The water turned off, and Whumper dried their hands, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

Their footsteps were deafening as they walked back to the table, pausing over Whumpee’s body. The captive shuddered, unable to resist the instinct to raise their eyes to Whumper, whispering one last “please..”

Whumper didn’t blink, taking the scalpel delicately in their hand. They pressed their other hand to Whumpee’s sternum, tracing their fingers down to the bottom of their ribcage.

They brought the scalpel to the skin, letting the blade rest against flesh for a moment as they hummed the final few notes of their song.

Then slowly, they dug the edge deep into the flesh, and dragged the blade down.

————————————————————

@promptsforyourwhumpfic

[3-2-whump]

Out of the Corner of My Eye 

<prev next>

TW/CW: whumper former whumpee, military whump, nightmare/flashback, PTSD, murder (technically manslaughter?) of a character that's there for all of two seconds, scars, noncon stripping, doing stuff to unconscious whumpee (not inherently sexual stuff though), creepy/intimate whumper, whumper with baggage

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

Thomas jolted awake from his bed, pulse thrumming like a jackrabbit and his breaths coming in shallow and rapid like he had just run a marathon. Everything was dark –why was it so dark? He quickly got his breathing under control and took in his surroundings. I’m home, he realized gradually, I’m in my apartment, in my room, in my bed. He sighed in exhaustion, dragging his hands over his face.

The nightmare had taken him to Afghanistan again, to a flash of light followed by the loudest sound he had heard in his life, to Young Tony –his little brother– lying dead in the dust and debris-

No, don’t dwell there, Thomas told himself. He pushed himself out of bed and blearily shuffled to the bathroom. Taking out the familiar bottle of pills, he shook out two tablets for himself and filled up a glass of water to wash them down. No amount of water would wash away the bitterness those pills imprinted on his tongue. He wandered back into the bedroom.

It isn’t even dawn yet, Thomas thought. Shouldn’t I try to go back to sleep? It took one look at the tangled, sweaty sheets for him to realize he didn’t want to try. He didn’t want to go back there.

He opened the bedroom door and quietly stepped out to the living room. His eyes were instantly drawn to a human-shaped form passed out over his couch. He approached the unconscious person carefully to get a closer look, all tiredness quickly forgotten as his senses sparked to life in the face of this unknown danger.

Thomas breathed an audible sigh of relief when he realized it was only Khaled. The boy had been sneaking out and staying out later and later, much to his annoyance. (They really should talk about that at some point, he reminded himself.) He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes; it looked like he had just enough energy to take his shoes off at the entrance and wander over to the couch before passing out on top of it. A silvery puddle of saliva was forming under his parted mouth and onto the couch cushion. It might’ve just been the darkness, but his face looked unusually pale.

Thomas leaned over the boy to get a pulse. He found it, thrumming slowly and steadily under warm skin, unlike…

In life, he and his little brother seldom got along, both being born of different fathers and a neglectful mother. Grandpa Tony, the one that truly raised them, only served to drive the wedge between the brothers further as he pitted each grandson against each other, forcing them to compete for their grandpa’s approval and eventually his title. Thomas saw through the bullshit much earlier than Young Tony ever did, which was part of the reason he ran away from the family in the first place. He never would have guessed his straight-laced little brother would track him down in his self-imposed exile, nor would he have expected his brother to follow him into the USMC and eventually to his death. Yet he did, and he died, and the motherfucker that took him would pay.

“Just let me talk to the suspect, just ten minutes, please, just ten minutes,” a younger Thomas begged. He still had fractured ribs that made every breath he took a living hell, and a concussion that made his head swim if he so much as moved too quick. But they had finally caught the bastard that blew up his squad –his comrades, his friends, his little brother.

The suspect was just a kid, no older than his brother was, with the baby fat barely shed from his cheeks and scarcely a hint of facial hair on his chin. Thomas began to cycle through all five stages of grief as he stared at the teen in front of him, though his mind hinged onto the denial, anger, and bargaining part of the cycle. Regardless of age or fine features, this kid was responsible in some way for Young Tony’s death, and damn him if he didn’t make the little bastard answer for it.

The suspect’s tear-filled dark eyes widened in fear as he backed further away until he was up against the wall. Thomas pushed his way into the boy’s cell and hauled him up by the shirt collar.

“You son of a bitch!” The boy made a satisfying little gasping sound, jerking in his restraints as the man’s fist met his stomach. “How could you?! You’re just a kid!” Thomas hit him again, this time in the face. “I don’t believe it, could someone like you really kill my squad?!” The boy was begging through bloodied lips in a language Thomas didn’t understand. “There’s no way, there’s no way! How could you?!”

Somebody should have stopped him. Somebody should have stopped him before he went so far. To this day, they never could be sure whether the boy in the cell was responsible for the bombing or not, but at that moment, to Thomas, he might as well have killed Young Tony with his bare hands. He hit him until his knuckles were warm and tacky with his blood. He slammed his head against the wall of the cell as he threw him around like a rag doll. And then, with both hands on that slender throat and a bit too much pressure-

Someone finally stopped him. It was too late by then. The suspect was dead.

In the darkness of the early morning, it was uncanny how closely his Khaled resembled that poor kid he murdered. Maybethat was why he got him.

“I’m sorry. I never thought I would take it this far,” Thomas whispered. He was partially addressing the sleeping boy, and partially pleading with the spirit of the boy from his past. He gathered Khaled in his arms and carried him to his room. It was reassuring to feel how warm he was, because warmth meant life. He laid Khaled out on the bed and debated whether to change him out of his clothes or leave him be. Khaled’s usually a sound sleeper, he reasoned, and nobody likes to sleep in jeans. Besides, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? Not that Thomas intended to ask for either as he began the careful work of stripping him.

Khaled unconsciously leaned into the touch as he gingerly peeled the clothes off him. He exposed the jagged scars across Khaled’s back as he pulled the hem of his shirt up. It was so easy to inflict those scars onto him if he just imagined Khaled was that boy. His eyes traced over every line, counting them in his head and naming them for every man he’d lost. That one’s for Callahan, that one’s for Trémeaux, that one’s for Martinez, that one’s for Tony-

A small, breathy moan came out when Thomas accidentally grazed his nipples trying to get his shirt off. It made his heart melt a little, while at the same time sending a familiar trickle of heat down below. “Not now,” he murmured, “but fuck, you make it sound tempting.” Thinking about the dead boy while committing acts of somnophilia on his living one was not high on the man’s ‘kinks to try’ list. He covered the now-exposed Khaled with a thick blanket and tucked it snugly around him.

“You were supposed to be my penitence, you know.” His index finger traced along Khaled’s cheekbone, just under his dark eyelashes. “You were supposed to absolve me of the sins I committed,” he sighed, “but here I am, sinning against you in the process.” He laid himself down next to the sleeping figure, spooning him like a lover. “So much for atonement, huh?” His lips lightly grazed the shell of the boy’s ear, right above where his own initials were inked in blackish blue. “But, now that I’ve had a bite, I can’t seem to stop consuming you. Look what you do to me,” he murmured, “How could I stop, now that I know what you taste like, feel like? I’m obsessed.” 

“But no amount of fucking you is going to bring that boy back to life,” he sighed, as if realizing this truth for the first time. “It’s not going to undo the fact that I killed him, is it?” Understandably, Khaled did not respond. He leaned over to press a light kiss on his temple. “I’ll let you sleep now,” he promised, raising himself from the bed to leave. He glanced back one more time before he exited the bedroom.

“I’m sorry.”The sleeping beauty didn’t respond. Thomas closed the door.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Drugged Hero Whumpee used as Party Favor at Villain's Party part 10

Warnings: living weapon whumpee, torture, blood, medical whump, forced betrayal, friend pitted against friend, forced fight

“Sorry… but you need rest to recover. And I know you well enough to know that you'd stay up all night and run yourself ragged trying to find a way to escape.”

“Darn right… I would have…” Shadow’s voice faded into a mumble as the tranquilizer took over, plunging her into unconsciousness.

She woke up later feeling unexpectedly well-rested -- she must have needed sleep more than she'd thought. The cuffs on her wrists and ankles were gone, the places where she'd rubbed her skin raw already healed over thanks to her powers, leaving pale scars in their wake. She sat up, and immediately felt dizzy and nauseous. She waited for the spell to pass before checking her arm.

Barely noticeable, was the faintest blue light, pulsing at regular intervals and lodged deep in her flesh. She had to squint to see it. The tracker, she knew. It would make it so much harder to escape. It wasn't long before the heavy steel door sealing her in the room opened, and Ava came in.

"Where's your 'master'?" Shadow asked with a hint of condescension upon not seeing Archenemy on her heels.

Ava didn't bat an eye. "He's awaiting your arrival. He wants to test the limits of your healing powers, and has already prepared a room for the experiments."

"Wonderful... just wonderful," Shadow grumbled under her breath, but reluctantly dragged herself to stand and follow Ava out. She noticed that Ava hadn't even bothered to cuff or restrain her in any way, and it was unsettling how confident Ava was in her ability to stop her if she tried to run or fight. Shadow knew better than to even try, keeping her head down and trudging after her once-close friend.

It was Archenemy's sadistic voice that alerted her to the fact that they'd arrived at their destination. "I was wondering when you'd finally get here. Did you get sidetracked or something?"

"No, sir," Ava responded simply. "I brought her as requested."

Shadow stood tall next to her, posture stiff and defensive, packing every ounce of venom she could muster into a fierce glare that could wilt the petals off of roses. Archenemy merely laughed, clapping his hands in delight. "There's the hero we all know and love!" He teased mockingly. "So full of fire."

Shadow's eyes darted around the room, assessing her surroundings. She made note of the two henchmen in the corner, one wielding a wooden bat, and the other a long dagger. Strangely, they weren't wearing the usual protective gear all of Archenemy's guards were required to be in. Instead they wore simple everyday clothes like normal civilians.

Two full-suited men stood next to each of them, holding an arm to keep them in place. Shadow noticed that the two armed henchmen were... trembling. They looked scared. But why? She heard the door behind her close, trapping everyone inside. Something was wrong.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @lavenderhousesposts

[avvail-whumps]

A prompt if you're ok with it: whumpe being bitten and turned into a vampire, having a painful transformation. Then they're starving for blood but its conditioned so that they don't move. As a kind of test or punishment?

But then they're allowed to feed and they desperately drink from their sire?

Feel free to ignore if u don't wish to do it! Thank u in advance if u do.

content warnings: vampire whumper, past vampire turning, vampire whumpee, blood drinking, conditioning, captivity

Once, kneeling on the floor like this was one of the most painful and uncomfortable things Whumpee had experienced under the vampire’s so called ‘care’.

The numbness, the stiffness, the horrible pins and needles, and the pain so agonising they could barely walk for hours afterwards. But after hours, days, months of being bitten and succumbing to mind numbing pain, Whumpee was starting to realise they’d had it easy.

Their sire had strolled in.

Wiped the sweat from their forehead, carded a hand through their hair that almost made them keen.

Their senses were so alert, so enhanced that even the smallest of touches hurt. The smell, and the hunger, was the worst part of it all.

The whumpee’s stomach felt as though it was tearing through itself, chewing at the tissue just to satiate the agonising hunger. But kneeling here was something Whumpee was used to. It was something they knew to abide by, lest a punishment be worse.

Whumper pulled their hand away, admiring their panting newborn as they fought against the ravenous hunger.

“I think you deserve a little reward, don’t you?”

Whumpee’s stinging eyes squinted, staring up at their sire with a pleading expression. Their dry throat swelled the moment they saw the knife glinting in Whumper’s hand, and it seemed to tighten when it sliced through their palm.

The scent hit them first. So hard it was like being thrown into a brick wall.

Whumpee’s nose flared, and their eyes lit up, something primal ripping through them. They were so close to jumping onto their feet and lapping up at that blood just to ease the pain, but they couldn’t move.

They stayed locked in place, kneeling.

Whumper hadn’t told them they could move. They hadn’t said anything.

The whumpee mewled, eyes desperately wide and begging. Was this a test? Did the whumper want them to drink, or were they doing this on purpose?

Agony tore through the pits of their stomach. The smell was getting stronger, and they could feel a cold sweat beading on their forehead, breathing getting shallower and shallower.

“Sire...p-please,” they choked, nails digging into their legs hard enough to draw blood as they itched to feel the liquid sliding down their throat. Whumper offered them nothing but a smile.

The blood in their palm slid along the skin, hitting the ground. Other red droplets followed afterwards, creating a rhythmic dripping sound. Every time it hit the floor, it seemed to rock the whumpee’s skull.

Each time, it was getting louder, and louder, matching the pounding of their heart, the sound of their blood rushing through their veins, the ringing in their ears, and god—they couldn’t take it anymore.

“Come here, Whumpee.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

They couldn’t feel their legs as they staggered to their feet, pain seizing their muscles. They crashed into the whumper’s arms, but wasted no time on latching onto their hand and gulping down as much blood as they could.

It was like ice, relieving a horrible fire in their stomach. They nearly moaned at the euphoric taste, melting under the vampire’s soft touch, running their hands through their hair.

“What a good little thing you are,” the vampire drawled, but Whumpee couldn’t hear over the sound of their own feeding.

[whumpdoyoumean]

It's This or That Thursday, the day where I pit two tropes against each other and you vote for your favorite! Feel free to discuss in the comments/tags/reblogs. Have a favorite gif or fic which illustrates your point? Share that, too!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

reflection

prompt: "just a little more"

whumpee: lech wicinski

fandom: slough house

hiii everyone this is a missing scene from joe country ft. my beloved lech. it's basically an exploration of what happens in the bathroom and after, and bc of that it's pretty graphic self-harm adjacent kinda stuff and also includes brief suicidal ideation. please be mindful of that, but otherwise i hope you enjoy :)

Lech stares at his reflection in the pitted and green surface of the mirror. Stares at the letters carved into his cheeks, as though they’ll have changed somehow since he last got a glimpse of them. 

They burn, each letter individually, the painkillers Catherine had given him earlier having all but worn off already. It fucking hurts. 

And there’s nothing for it but to make the pain worse. 

Lamb’s razor in hand, he tries and fails to take a deep, steadying breath. It’s like shaving, he tells himself. 

Except it’s really fucking not. 

The blade is incredibly sharp, cutting into his flesh easily and with no resistance. The pain isn’t immediate, but lags behind the action by a few seconds. Then it begins, burning and hot, as fresh blood trickles down his face. 

He doesn’t want to do it again. It hurts. 

But there is nothing in the way of an alternative. 

He keeps going, cutting over the letters that already stand out against his skin. His face quickly becomes a mask of blood, his hands and the handle of the blade grow slick with it, it stains the sink and drips onto the floor. 

He moves mechanically, not paying attention to the pain. Just a little more, he tells himself, every few seconds, every few cuts. Just a little more, and the word will be obliterated. 

Except it’s still fucking there. He keeps hoping that with the next slice of blade across skin, the word will disappear, buried forever beneath tens of other marks. But he keeps catching sight of those letters. 

It takes an eternity. By the time he’s really sure that all traces of the original lettering on his face have been destroyed, he can barely even see the cuts for the blood. 

He drops the blade into the sink and the noise is deafening. 

Lech braces trembling hands against the porcelain, rests his forehead—the only part of his face not coated in warm blood—against the mirror, and cries. 

The tears burn their way down his face, making the pain, already nearly unbearable now that he has stopped doing anything, unspeakably worse. For a fraction of a second he thinks again about picking up the razor and ending it all, right then and there, but he doesn’t so much as move. 

He’s done this. He won’t let it be for nothing. 

He pushes back from the mirror. The sight of his face is shocking. He barely recognizes this man as himself. Bitterly wonders what Sara would say, if she saw him now. Imagines comfort, an apology, it’s going to be okay. Then thinks of her voice, bitter and vindictive, it’s what you deserve. 

He washes his hands. They’re still shaking. 

Washing his face is harder. He doesn’t entirely trust the towel hanging on the wall, and so he sort of sticks his head under the faucet, cups water into his hands, prays that the plumbing is reasonably looked-after, and carefully washes away the blood. 

Which fucking hurts, just like everything else. The water runs red for ages, and Lech vaguely wonders whether it’s possible to bleed out through one’s face. But finally, the bleeding slows and seems to stop. 

He straightens back up. The face in the mirror is relatively clean, littered with angry red cuts. He can’t decide whether it looks more or less like his own than it had before. 

Lech looks away from his reflection. Rummages in the cabinet beneath the sink and finds a reasonably well-maintained first-aid kit (thanks, once again, he’s sure, to Catherine). He locates a tube of antibiotic ointment and more large plasters, as well as a small packet of painkillers. 

He swallows the pills, then washes his hands once more before applying the ointment. It stings and burns and he blinks away tears, tips his head back to give them nowhere to go. 

He affixes the plasters to either side of his face, then levels his gaze with the mirror. 

The man looking back at him is pale and miserable. His eyes are rimmed with red and filled with a mixture of exhaustion and pain. His skin is the wrong shade, as if he’s ill. There are unidentified bits of rubbish in his hair and on his clothes. But the cuts have disappeared beneath the bandages, and Lech recognizes himself, a bit. 

He rinses off the razor, snaps it shut, and then makes his way to Lamb’s office. 

He drops the razor onto the desk, and Lamb looks up at him and nods, the barest acknowledgement of the damage he must know Lech has inflicted upon himself. 

Lech turns to leave, though there’s really nowhere for him to go, but is stopped by the sound of a door opening behind him. 

“Lech?”

Catherine’s voice is gentle, and he thinks of earlier. Of when she’d sat over him, cleaning blood off his face. Of her insistence that he get the cuts seen to, of her concern for his ability to live like that. Of the silent handing over of painkillers, loose in her hand, the maximum safe dosage. 

He turns around, slightly. 

“Have you thought about going to the hospital any more?”

He shakes his head. He probably could go, now, and no one would know what word had been spelled out across his skin a few hours ago. But the nagging fear remains, that someone, somehow, will be able to tell. Plus, he lacks the energy. He thinks he might lie down right here on the floor of Lamb’s office, if he wasn’t reasonably certain that Lamb would kick him, again. 

Catherine frowns. “Come in here?” she asks, gesturing to her own office. 

Lech follows, for lack of anything better to do. Catherine pulls the door shut behind him, then gestures to a chair. 

He sits, and she sits down behind the desk. He can feel her eyes on him and does his best not to return her gaze. 

“What did you do?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “What I had to.”

He chances a look at her face, and knows she knows what he’s done. 

Her expression is concerned and perhaps a bit pitying, but not disgusted. 

“Do you have anywhere you can go?” she asks. “You must be wanting a shower and some sleep.”

He wants nothing more. But—

He shakes his head. There’s nowhere. 

Catherine nods, as if she’d been expecting this. Businesslike, she stands up, gathers her things. 

“Come on, then,” she offers. “I’ll take you to a hotel.”

Her voice is soft and kind but there��s a note of authority behind this that makes Lech think that he had better not say no. Besides, if he refuses, he’ll be sleeping at Slough House once again. The thought of this is enough to make him want to weep. 

They end up at a mid-range hotel not altogether far from Aldersgate Street. Lech stands behind Catherine, eyes fixed on the floor, while she negotiates with the man behind the desk. He can feel people staring at him. He supposes, like Lamb had told him, that he’s going to have to get used to it. 

A few moments later, he’s in a small room on the third floor, and Catherine is standing in the doorway. 

“I’ll see whether I can’t fetch some of your clothes and things,” she offers. “And I’ll come round after work.”

He’s too exhausted to protest this kindness, to question how she plans on getting his things when she doesn’t even know where he lives. He just nods. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, as she turns to leave. 

She says nothing, just gives him a kind of sad smile, and then shuts the door. 

Alone, Lech strips off his filthy clothes, turns the shower as hot as he can stand it and then a little more, and stays beneath the water until it runs cold. 

After, he has to replace the plasters—Catherine had given him a whole stack. He avoids looking in the mirror as he does so, only meeting his own eyes when the cuts have been once again hidden away. 

Lacking any clean clothes, he wraps himself in the complimentary robe, then staggers towards the desk, where a phone and small menu sit, waiting. 

The hunger has intensified, combined with the alcohol and painkillers, and twisted itself into nausea. He orders room service without letting himself think about how much it costs. While he waits, he forces himself not to so much as sit down, out of fear that he’ll immediately fall asleep. 

When the food comes, he eats it so quickly he barely tastes it at all. It’s not quite enough to fully get rid of the hunger, but it helps. 

After, at long last, Lech collapses into a real bed, and immediately falls asleep.

thanks for reading! i've been wanting to write this for a hot minute and was looking at today's prompts like 'wait a minute i can make this work' lol. i had a good time with it, hope you enjoyed!

[moa-broke-me]

Two whumpees + a whumper who tries to pit them against each other, specifically fight over food and water, but they're friends/partners so it doesn't work, and they just get sicker and sicker, thinner and thinner, and whumper wonders if maybe they've gone too far. Wouldn't want them to die, after all. That's no fun.

[spookyboywhump]

I really love whump scenarios where there’s multiple whumpees and they have to work together and they get along and develop close bonds and relationships and I think that’s neat. But I also really love whump scenarios where there’s multiple whumpees in captivity and they just fucking hate each other. They will gladly sabotage the other. They will throw the other under the bus for no reason at all. Whumper doesn’t have to try to pit them against each other, they’re doing that all on their own and whumper doesn’t even have to lift a finger

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Another Strike

Masterlist

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, starvation/isolation as punishment, beating. Whumper pitting whumpees against each other and being a bully.

August wasn’t very good at waiting out his week-long punishment in the attic. 

By the fourth day, he thought he would go mad from staring at the same walls and eaves. Shivering on the thin mattress, hunger gnawing at his belly and only fistfuls of snow to stave off thirst. Fionn hadn’t so much as glanced at him, let alone spoken to him, since the caning. All his walking-dead-ringer did was sleep. Or at least that’s what he pretended to do while August was awake. 

So, August started pacing. 

The full length of the attic. Making a narrow circle as wide as the steep angle of the roof would allow without having to stoop. Back and forth, back and forth. 

He once saw a lion at the fair down in the village square. The older boys from Elmwood had goaded him to stand nearer and nearer the bars of its cage but the beast had no eyes for him. Focused only on pacing back and forth in its prison where it had already worn a track into the grass, heavy paws treading an endless tight loop. Eventually, he’d wrapped his fingers around the bars to the ill-intentioned approval of his audience but the lion never paused. The rest of the servants peeled off while he lingered, feeling sorry for the poor creature. 

August nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to find Fionn sitting up, staring at him. 

Colour rose to his cheeks and he felt himself wilt under Fionn’s gaze. “I—I’m sorry,” he said lamely, “‘twasn’t my intention to wake you.” Just another strike to add on top of the previous twenty-four mercilessly beaten into him for August’s mistakes.

Fionn shook his head, eyes already falling. “It’s too late.” His voice was barely a whisper. 

Hopelessness welled up in August’s throat, carrying with it the tide of shame and dejection he’d held at bay until his eyes filmed with tears and there was no way he could open his mouth without crying.  

But Fionn didn’t want his worthless apologies and he hadn’t been speaking of disrupted sleep anyway. Keats burst through the door and within seconds, Fionn was on his knees again and August was gasping for breath because the lackey charged with holding him this time did so with all four thick fingers down the back of his shirt collar. 

As though no time had passed at all. 

Except for some reason, Fionn took off his shoes and stockings this time, and Keats shoved him so he fell onto his hands and stayed there. August’s stomach dropped as Keats pulled off his belt, doubling back the thick leather but when it rained down on Fionn it was not at all where August expected.

Keats drew blood before August could pull himself together to voice any manner of protest, it trickled down Fionn’s bony ankles to disappear into his trousers. Droplets of it sprayed onto the walls and ceiling with each swing of the belt. 

Fionn eventually fell onto his elbows, holding his head. He cried out in time with each lash, sound muffled by his arms, but somehow still managed to keep his feet in the air for Keats to whip. 

Again and again and again. 

August had never even started counting and now he was too afraid to speak. He couldn’t make this worse with more thoughtless, impulsive stupidity. He had already made everything so much worse.  

He flinched when something landed on his cheek and, even though he knew what he’d find when he lifted a hand to his cheek, he was unable to mask his distress when his fingertip came away stained with Fionn’s blood. 

Keats winked. 

Just as quickly as they came, they went. Without a single word.

After a few beats of silence, August made a half-start toward Fionn. If only to fall onto his knees and apologise or help him find a way to lie comfortably. But as if he could sense August’s intentions, Fionn turned to glare up at him, hatred plain as day on his tear-stained face. 

August backed away, biting his lips together and willing himself not to let any of his own undeserved tears fall. He folded himself against the far wall, facing the corner and hugged his knees to his chest. 

Even he could understand what was being left unsaid, by Keats and Fionn alike. 

He was entirely alone here.

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass

[firapolemos05]

Whumpmas in July

Day 1: Introduce yourself

Howdy everyone! This is my first time participating in a whump event. Can't guarantee I'll hit every day, but I've been meaning to post more of my work.

💜 Name: Fira

💚 Pronouns: they/she/he

💜 Blog established: December 2018

💚 Reason for URL: It's the name of one of my main OCs. Been using her as a pen name for a while.

💜 Favorite season: Fall, Spooky Season 👻🎃

💚 Fav whump tropes: captivity, whipping, defiant whumpee, brands, wound tending, magical manipulation, hidden injuries, sensory overload/deprivation, dehumanization, put on display, etc.

💜 Finished works: My adhd brain often makes it hard to complete projects, but I do have one story completed:

Still your heart, so much to prove - oneshot featuring my original characters Narcos and Scarlet. In the underground of high society, rich masters find entertainment in pitting their captive pets against each other in cage fights. The Champion is not as privileged as most may think.

💚 Projects in progress:

Scenes from Xitanae: This is more of a collection of works I want to build as a side blog. Xitanae is the homebrew world I've been creating for D&D over the past few years. Most of my OCs fit into this world in various locations. I have both whump and non-whump content planned for this.

No devil hides beneath my bed: a direct sequel to Still your heart, so much to prove. More Narcos whump, but much more intense (18+, noncon). I aim to post it for Whumptober.

Various fanfiction wips

💜 Fandoms I write for: Fairy Tail, Demon Slayer, Twisted Wonderland

[a-crumb-of-whump]

A New Beginning #19: Food

Masterlist | AO3

Content: Blood (for the sake of feeding), injuries/wounds (for the sake of feeding), begging, starvation, forced feeding (kinda?), vampire whumpee.

Ryker is seven in the first section and 15 in the second, but no actual whump appears for him :) Feel free to ignore this chapter if that's not for you.

-

“...You drink blood, right?” 

Carlos glanced over at Ryker from his spot on the floor. He’d be lying if he said the question hadn’t taken him aback a little, particularly coming from a seven year old. The boy, however, seemed unphased by the topic, draped over the side of his bed with his favourite squishy toy in his hand. 

Eventually, the vampire settled on a tentative nod. “Vampires drink blood, yes. Does… that scare you?” 

“No!” Ryker rushed to assure him, and Carlos was not above admitting that the small tightness in the pit of his stomach released itself the moment he said it. “‘m not scared. I just- I never see Mom or Dad give you any blood, ‘n’ that makes me sad because you deserve to eat like the rest of us.” 

“You shouldn’t be sad,” Carlos quietly protested. As sat up and struggled to cross his legs beneath himself, Ryker climbed off the bed and rushed to sit on his lap. “Did you know that vampires are also immortal?” 

He heard a small gasp. “Really? That means you can’t die, right?”

“Mmmhm.” Carlos let his chin come to rest on the boy’s head as he leaned back against his chest and dropped his toy to play with the vampire’s long, lanky fingers. “Blood is optional for us. We… we could go forever without eating if we wanted, but it doesn’t feel very nice.” 

The boy tilted his chin up so they were looking at each other. “What does it feel like?” 

“Have you ever gone a long time without eating? Does your tummy ever start to hurt when that happens?” 

Ryker responded with a nod. 

“Well, that’s what it feels like for us.” 

For a moment, everything was silent. Ryker continued to fiddle with Carlos’ hands and was obviously pondering the information that had been given to him. Carlos was curious as to why it had suddenly become a topic of interest. 

“Would you like some of the blood that’s inside me?” the child offered after some time. His voice had gone quiet and he still had his eyes trained up on the vampire, curious to hear his response. He looked as if it was just the first solution that he could think of, not something he’d fully considered. “I don’t want your tummy to hurt all the time, ‘n’ I have plenty o’ blood to go around!” 

Much to his own surprise, Carlos’ response was instant and firm. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“That’s not your problem to worry about,” the vampire shook his head. He tightened his grip around Ryker’s waist and offered him a strained smile, ignoring the sudden aching in stomach as he thought about what it would feel like to finally sate his hunger for the first time in years. There were a time where he would have done anything for even the tiniest drop of blood. However, as he looked down at his small friend, he realised that would now be a lie. 

“...I’ll survive without it.” 

Truth be told, the child looked as if he wanted to protest more. Carlos felt guilty, looking down at his saddened face as he struggled to understand why he wouldn’t accept his help. 

No matter how guilty he felt, however, he was confident in his answer. Ryker was off limits to himself or anyone else, and he’d make sure every vampire in the state knew it if that’s what it took.

“Okay,” he eventually mumbled. 

Though he tried, Carlos couldn’t resist asking as he watched the boy shut his eyes and lean further into him. “Are you upset with me?” 

“No,” he shook his head, and after some wriggling he stood up and wrapped his small arms around the vampire’s neck. Carlos didn’t hesitate to hug him back. “Not mad at’chu.”

Carlos gave a rare smile. A small but genuine one that was hidden against Ryker’s shoulder as they hugged. He knew he didn’t deserve such kindness. Not from Ryker, not from anyone. 

That didn’t change how nice and warm it made him feel inside when he was treated like an equal. 

-

Despite Carlos’ initial refusal, Ryker continued to offer as the years went by. Every couple of months, they’d have the same conversation over and over again, and with each conversation the answer was always the same. 

“I can survive without it. It’s okay.” 

It was the only thing Carlos was determined to say no to, no matter how much the human insisted and how many disagreements they got into as Ryker got older and more aware of how much his friend was suffering. 

Sometime around Ryker’s fifteenth birthday, however, the boy began to notice Carlos struggling more and more with everyday tasks. He was struggling to even get out of his pet bed at times and couldn’t clean or do anything Ryker’s parents expected him to do, which inevitably resulted in punishments the vampire didn’t deserve. 

Ryker was sick of it. 

It was late one evening when he finally managed to find time to drain some blood into a cup. An extensive amount of research had been done behind his parents’ and Carlos’ back over the past several days, and he was hoping that with the blood already there and ready, Carlos would see no reason not to accept it. 

Once it was done, he covered up the wound with a bandage and pulled his sleeve down before sneaking off to find the vampire while his parents watched a movie in the living room. Really, the only risk that came with doing this was knowing there was a chance that his parents might find out. They were so unbelievably against feeding their poor vampire, and they certainly wouldn’t be happy knowing their own son was the culprit.

It came as no surprise to him when he finally found Carlos passed out on the bathroom floor after being told to scrub the bottom of the shower. He carefully placed the cup of blood down on the edge of the sink and helped the vampire to sit up straight again, letting him lean on his shoulder for support. 

For a moment, he wasn’t even sure whether he’d actually passed out or if he’d just fallen asleep until Carlos managed to force his eyes open for just a moment to see what was going on around him. 

“Hey,” the human greeted quietly. “‘s okay. Just me. Sit up and lean against the cabinet for me, please.” 

There was a small whimper as the vampire tried to obey. “‘m sorry,” he whispered, shakily slumping against the cabinet doors as Ryker reached up to grab the cup. “Pl’se forgive me.”

“I’m not Mom and Dad,” Ryker gently reminded him. He pressed a hand to Carlos’ chest to hold him there and used to other to manoeuvre the cup closer to his lips.  “Listen, I need you to drink this, okay?”

There was a quiet protest. Pale, bony hands reached out to push the cup away from his face, but Ryker had the upper hand this time. 

“Drink it,” he repeated, firmer than before as he pushed the vampire’s hands down with his free hand and tilted the cup upwards just enough for a trickle to slip its way past Carlos’ chapped lips. He wasn’t surprised to see that the small drop was enough to send the vampire into a craze. Before too long, Carlos had taken the cup into his own shaky grip and downed the entire thing, a few drops dripping down the sides of his face and along his neck. 

With a small frown, Ryker used a damp face cloth to wipe his neck down before his parents saw. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered the moment he saw Carlos start to cry. “I made this decision on my own. You don’t need to feel bad. How- how do you feel?”

The vampire handed the cup back to him the moment he was done licking the last of the contents out of the cup. “Better. Tha-ank you. Thank you. I haven’t- haven’t felt this full in so long.”

Ryker offered a smile and placed the cup back on the sink, running a hand up and down Carlos’ shoulder. A part of him wanted to apologise for forcing him into drinking it, but after seeing how much better he looked already, he figured it’d been worth it. 

“Good. Consider me feeding you a ‘thank you’ for all the things you do for me, okay?”

Much to his delight, Carlos didn’t protest this time. He simply nodded and slumped back against the cabinet again, seemingly just enjoying the moment of relief from the constant pain in his stomach. 

He’d have to do this more often, Ryker realised. Carlos didn’t deserve to go hungry every night. 

-

@alexkolax @emcscared-whumps @espresso-depresso-system @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @roblingoblin285 @sacredwrath @some-thrilling-heroics @stabby-nunchucks @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @trans-writes @whump-blog @whumpsday @whumpshaped @whump-things @whumpycries @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thekittyburger @choppedflowermuffinchild @whumpdreamz

[quietlywhump]

Iiiiif i might add onto this...

Consider putting all the sacrifices you gained up against each other in a death pit/ death match where they fight until only one remains...

Naturally one of the highlights would be those twins having to fight each other to the death (or both die), or whumper versus their own whumpee, caretaker vs whumpee, whumper vs caretaker.... and naturally all the whumpees' reactions are beautiful for broadcasting!!

The winner is told they'll be set free. But is really your next lab rat for experiments with new intimidation/ torture :D

Nope. Nope nope Please no I can make uh. Uh. I can fight with a sword, and i make really good ice cream? Just take my twin ;-; [starts running] -Twin Anon

*shoots you with a harpoon gun and reels you in*

no takebacksies

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Drugged Hero Whumpee used as Party Favor at Villain's Party part 17

Warnings: living weapon whumpee, torture, blood, forced betrayal, friend pitted against friend, forced fight, stab wound

There was another slicing pain in her chest as the dagger was suddenly yanked out, and Shadow crumpled into a heap on the floor when Ava let her go.

Shadow barely had the strength to look up at Ava's face, trying to read her intention. The bloodlust was still there, clear as day, but there was also a flicker of... recognition? Hesitation? She couldn't tell. She could feel herself start to heal, and still Ava just stood there like a statue, standing over her like a predator but making no further move to attack. It was like she had frozen in time.

"What are you waiting for?!" Archenemy snarled from across the room. "Kill her and be done with it!"

Ava twitched back to life at the order, crouching down next to Shadow and resting the tip of her dagger on her chest, this time directly above her wildly racing heart. One push down and it would be over. Shadow would die, and stay dead.

But again, Ava paused. Shadow placed a trembling hand on the hand holding the blade to her chest, grim acceptance in her face. "If you have to do it... do it. I understand," she whispered quietly. She realized now that Ava was physically shaking, looking torn between mindlessly obeying orders and something else stopping her mentally.

"Are you... really my friend?" Ava growled. "You're not lying?"

Shadow shook her head. "No, Ava... I’m not lying. I am your best friend, we've fought side by side with each other for over a decade, remember?"

"I don't remember," Ava rumbled, eyes narrowing. "...But for some reason, I believe you. I'm not sure why."

"It's because a part of you knows the truth," Shadow croaked. "Ava, please, wake up. Come back to me. Archenemy is using you as a weapon. But you have a choice."

Ava's expression twisted with anguish, torn, and she glanced over her shoulder to where Archenemy was watching expectantly, searching for instruction, a clear path of order to follow.

"Hey... eyes on me." Shadow gently cupped Ava's jaw and turned her head back to meet her eyes, redirecting her focus back to herself. "...Can I trust you like you trust me?"

"I don't trust you," Ava growled firmly.

"But you do," Shadow said softly. "Otherwise you wouldn't be hesitating, and giving me an opening to kill you first. Some part of you trusts that I'm not going to take advantage of your pause. Some part of you trusts me."

Ava couldn't seem to find fault with that logic, as her eyes darted to the side where Shadow's blade was well within reach, yet Shadow hadn't made a single move to retrieve it and defend herself. "...And what does it mean if I trust you?"

"It means Archenemy will no longer hold power over you. You are free. You are not a mindless weapon. Trusting me is a choice. One that you can make, because you are a person, Ava. You are Old Hero." Shadow stared up into Ava's face, and saw a subtle shift in her expression, some of the cloudiness in her eyes dissipating, though not entirely.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove