#there might be a whumper in this series after all

[yannawayne]

if i bend under the weight + sun bleached flies

synopsis: tim's super! s/o gets hit with kryptonite and gets stuck under a building tags: gn! reader, blood, broken bones, needles, panic attacks part of my dc augu-whumpers series ; requests for this are open!

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PREVIEW.

"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with Kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

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Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

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You were a super.

A near-indestructible hero with strength beyond measure. People watched in awe as you deflected bullets, halted runaway trains, and shattered barriers that would have left ordinary heroes in ruin.

To them, you were an immovable rock, impervious to life’s storms, a being untouched by doubt or weakness.

You had grown used to this. You were used to being seen as strong, so much so that you rarely had backup on missions. You were often sent out alone, expected to handle every crisis on your own. After all, you were a super. You fought solo, without regret, without asking for assistance. You believed you could bear it all.

But now, you found yourself beneath the skeletal remains of a collapsed building, the wreckage pressing down on you with a force that should have been a mere inconvenience. Dust and debris swirled around you in the dim light filtering through cracks in the rubble. The once-sturdy structure groaned and creaked as if protesting your struggle.

Normally, you would have lifted the wreckage effortlessly, but something was terribly wrong with your powers. Your hands, usually so strong, trembled as they strained against the concrete. You could feel the weight of each individual slab pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground.

Kryptonite, you thought, the realization hitting you with a force almost as crushing as the debris. The last memory you remember is being hit with a green glow.

Whimpering, you took a deep breath, strands of damp hair fell over your eyes, clinging to your sweat-soaked forehead. The burn in your side, a sharp and unfamiliar sting, pierced through the usual numbness. Your breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale heavy with the smell of dust and despair. You had grown so accustomed to invincibility that pain felt like an unwelcome stranger. The once-mighty walls of your strength seemed to be crumbling, just like the debris around you.

There was a ringing in your ears, a harsh buzz that grew louder. You realized it was your communication link, crackling with urgency. You heaved, your head lolling to the side as you struggled to keep the building aloft. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the once-lightweight concrete now felt like it was made of lead.

"Supers? You there?"

Someone's voice echoed in your ear, Batman you think, steady and calm.

"Where are you? We need some backup here, stat."

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. Your eyes drooped, the weight of your exhaustion pulling them down. "S… Sorry. I'm in a situation right now. I can't provide backup. Might actually need some..."

There was a pause, a brief silence that felt like an eternity.

"How serious is your situation? I don’t think anyone will be able to help you for a while. Think you can handle it?"

You could hear the detachment in his voice, the cold, clinical tone that expected you to push through just as you always had. There was no urgency, no hint of concern—just an unwavering belief that you would somehow manage.

Belief that a super could hold their own.

You blinked away the growing tears, shifting your position slightly to alleviate the burning in your side. The ringing in your ears had subsided, replaced by the dull roar of your own heartbeat.

"O—okay. I think I can hold on for a bit." Your voice was barely more than a whisper, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

The comm-link clicked off, the abrupt silence leaving you alone with the weight of the world pressing down on you.

You struggled as you lifted the building, feeling the bones in your wrists start to give way under the pressure. A sharp, searing pain shot through your arms as the bones cracked, the sickening sound lost in the groaning of the collapsing structure.

Your palms were now raw and bleeding, cut by the jagged edges of the debris. Warm blood trickled down your arms and you heaved, throat dry.

Tears mingled with the sweat on your face, blurring your vision. You blinked them away, focusing on the task at hand. You had to hold on. You had to keep fighting. The world above depended on it.

Slowly, agonizingly, you managed to lift the building a few inches. It was a minuscule shift, but it was enough to make a difference. The weight shifted slightly, and you could see a small gap forming. With a final, desperate effort, you managed to lift the wreckage high enough to create a gap wide enough for you to fly out.

As you emerged into the open air, you collapsed onto the ground, your breathing ragged and uneven.

For now, at least, you had held on.

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"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

There was a cold, icy feeling sinking deep into Tim's bones as he heard the announcement through his earpiece. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat feeling slower and more labored than the last.

He quickly checked his location on his communicator. The display flickered with stark, cold reality—he was indeed the nearest to the scene, but still a grueling 15 minutes away. The distance seemed to stretch into an endless expanse, each second feeling like an eternity.

Without hesitation, he sprinted to his bike, his movements driven by sheer adrenaline. The cold, numbing fear was replaced by a burning urgency as he mounted the bike and roared to life. He maneuvered through traffic with reckless speed, weaving and cutting corners as if each second lost could mean a life.

As he drove, the cold, numbing fear slowly began to ebb away, melting into a fiery, scalding anger.

"Why the fuck weren't there reinforcements?!" he shouted into the earpiece, his voice laced with frustration and desperation. "Did no one think to check the fucking area? Is everyone just sitting around with their heads up their asses?!"

The bike roared beneath him, and his driving became even more reckless. Tim leaned into every turn, the engine's growl mingling with his furious breaths. He spotted a fence ahead, a barrier that seemed to mock his urgency.

Without a second thought, he gunned the throttle, launching the bike into the air. The bike soared, crashing through the fence with a deafening crack. Concrete and debris exploded around him as he slammed into the ground on the other side. The impact jarred his bones and rattled his teeth, but he barely registered the pain.

He tore through the final stretch of the city streets, his bike a blur of metal and fury. The wreckage came into view, a twisted maze of steel and concrete.

Tim skidded to a halt, his heart pounding furiously as he dismounted. He spotted you, hunched over right beside the collapsed rubble, your blood seeping into the grass.

Tim’s heart felt as though it was being torn in two as he saw the state you were in. His rage gave way to the deep, icy fear again as he rushed forward.

With trembling hands, he carefully rolled you onto your back, his gaze sweeping over your injuries.

Your face was ghostly pale, streaked with a grimy mix of dirt and blood. Each shallow, labored breath you took seemed to cut through the air with an echo of a sob. The severity of your injuries was laid bare—cuts and bruises marred your skin, each wound a painful testament to the violence you had endured. Blood pooled around you, a dark, crimson stain against the surrounding debris, making his stomach churn with a sickening nausea.

His eyes fell to your wrists, and he was horrified by the sight of them—clearly broken, twisted at unnatural angles.

He leaned down, his voice softening with a tender, almost broken affection.

“Hi, pretty bird,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Kryptonite,” you rasp out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know, I know,” he whispers back, his voice low and soothing. He reaches into his utility belt, pulling out a syringe with a green needle, filled with a bright, clear liquid. It was an antidote, a precaution he had hoped never to use.

Tim was always prepared for every situation, his mind a labyrinth of strategies and contingencies. One of the many things you loved about him. His meticulous nature meant that nothing was left to chance, and that care extended to you, his lover.

His hand was steady as he moved to insert the needle, but when you thrashed in pain, he realized too late that the entry had been rougher than he intended.

The sharp intake of breath you took, the wince that crossed your face—these were things he had rarely seen, and he realized just how fragile you were in this moment.

Tim had always relied on your metahuman durability, knowing that you could handle whatever force he threw your way, trusting in your strength without a second thought.

Then you screamed and cried, your sobs echoing through the night. The pain was unbearable, a relentless pressure squeezing you from every angle. Tim’s face crumpled in horror and panic, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of your suffering.

He administered the antidote with trembling hands, his movements hurried yet tender. The needle was pulled away with a gentleness that belied his growing panic.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, moving to comfort you. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt. Please, just hold on. I’m right here.”

His hands were unsteady as he brushed the sweat and tears from your face, touch as gentle as he could manage despite his own mounting panic.

Tim was losing his grip. The sight of you, so vulnerable and hurting, was terrifying and so, so, so unfamiliar, driving him to a near hysterical state.

The antidote began to take effect, the green glow from the syringe slowly dissipating as it worked to counteract the kryptonite’s effects. But Tim’s relief was fleeting. The urgency of the situation pressed down on him, and he realized with a jolt that he needed to get you to a safer location.

“Come on, pretty bird, I need to get you up,” he said, his voice quivering with desperation.

Each attempt to lift you was met with new waves of agony, your screams slicing through the air like a jagged blade. Your cries were heart-wrenching, each one a brutal slash against his soul, unraveling him with every tortured note. The dark, red stains seeped into his heart, a reminder of how he was failing you.

Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

With a desperate heave, he dragged you into his arms. You shuddered violently, your body wracked with ragged, sputtering sobs. Tim's heart squeezed with each gasping breath you took, and then, with a final, shuddering exhale, you fainted, your body going limp against him.

Panic surged through Tim like a tidal wave. His breath came in frantic bursts as he cradled you, trying to stay calm despite the overwhelming fear clawing at him. His hand fumbled for his comm device, his movements erratic and desperate.

He knew he had the skills—both medical and analytical—to assess your situation and manage it. His training had equipped him with the ability to stabilize injuries, evaluate critical conditions, and make quick decisions under pressure. But now, those skills felt useless against the crushing weight of his fear.

“Someone, please!” he screamed into the device, throat raw. "Help me!"

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[whumpy-wyrms]

Blood Runs Cold #2: You Poor Thing

previous | masterlist | next

content: captivity, cold whump, starvation, dehydration, begging, strangulation, mind control, blood drinking, non permanent death, defiant immortal whumpee, creepy vampire whumper

IT’S BACK!!! finally gonna start writing this series again, sorry for the long wait!!

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Aspen slowly opened his eyes, and once again, the first thing he noticed was how cold he was. But unlike being trapped in a thin metal freezer, Aspen was laying on a small mattress.

He curled into himself, shivering violently. After realizing there were no blankets to keep him warm, he sat up, but immediately felt the dizziness hit him. He groaned in pain, his head pounding and his body aching from his last death. His last death.

Everything that had happened the last day came flooding back to him like a punch to the gut.

He died. Twice— no, three times, apparently, though he didn’t remember the first time—

And he came back.

It hurt to think about— what any of this could possibly mean. Nobody could just die and come back to life! …But here he was. Alive and well. Aspen almost thought it could all have been one bad dream, if not for the dull pain in his neck. He traced his fingers over his throat, and felt two small scars from where the vampire had drank from. The vampire.

That thing was what had killed him- bit into him- tore him apart. And it said it would do it again. Aspen had to get out of here. He couldn’t stand the thought of being around that monster again, he couldn’t.

He took a deep breath and decided to start looking around the room he found himself in, though that didn’t help much since all around him was complete darkness, not a window or flicker of light in sight. The mattress beneath him felt rough and grimey; it definitely hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. Aspen put his hand to the wall to steady himself as he stood, feeling the chill and cracks of the cement on his fingertips.

He took a step, but heard a rattle of metal coming from the floor. He took another step, feeling a heavy weight and cold chill on his left ankle and he realized that he was chained to the wall. Shit.

Aspen tugged on the chain a bit, to no use. So he started walking anyway, wanting to see the furthest he could go. He walked around the room and held his hands out in front of him, trying to see if he could feel anything in the darkness. He eventually found a staircase, but could only get a few steps up until he reached the farthest the chain would allow him. He went around the other side of the room and felt a small drain in the concrete floor. Startled by the new texture under his bare feet, he jumped away, the chain pulling taut on his ankle and causing him to trip and scrape his knees on the concrete. He staggered up and collapsed back on the mattress in defeat.

And that was it. Nothing else in the room offered him much help, and he was stuck waiting in horrible anticipation. It was hopeless; there was no way out of here and he was going to be hurt by that vampire again.

He shook those thoughts away and decided to be smart about this. Sure, Aspen couldn’t actually die— for some reason— but vampires could. All he had to do was find… what was it? Silver? A wooden stake? Aspen never really had been too interested in vampires; he was more of a werewolf type of guy. And he didn’t even know they were real until now, whatever he’d heard about them in the past might not even be true. But nonetheless, he’d find a way to kill that bastard and reunite with Lyle again- wherever she was. He wouldn’t just give up.

. . .

Aspen didn’t know how long it had been since he’d woken up, or how long he had been waiting in the dark, laying curled up on that mattress. He realized soon enough that he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten in who knows how long, and definitely hadn’t drank any water. Oddly enough, he didn’t have to go to the bathroom. After all those deaths, he probably had nothing left in his system.

He also realized, after hours of laying on that mattress with nothing but his anxious thoughts, that the vampire hadn’t given him his glasses. It wasn’t like he needed them in this dark, but he still could hardly see normally without them. He also hadn’t given him his chest binder. He was just wearing his jeans and hoodie, not even a shirt underneath! That asshole. He didn’t know whether it was to humiliate him, give him less warmth, or both, or some other reason, but Aspen had never felt so vulnerable and defenseless.

The vampire had broken his phone, so he obviously couldn’t use that to call for help. Like the corpse that he was, he had nothing. Absolutely nothing that could help him. The only thing he could do was wait.

And after what felt like forever of waiting, stomach aching with unbearable hunger, Aspen heard the thud of footsteps coming from the ceiling above him. They walked slowly until they stopped by the stairs. The click of a lock echoed through the basement, and light finally flooded into the place.

Aspen sat up on the mattress, heart thumping rapidly through his chest as he stared ahead.

Finally, the vampire was back.

The vampire walked down the stairs, taking slow, deliberate steps that echoed in the silence. His wavy black hair fell down in his ghostly pale face. He wore a dark red dress shirt, the first few buttons undone, and a black suit coat hanging messily over his shoulders. Aspen gulped and hugged his knees to his chest, noticing the blood-red eyes peeking through the strands of hair and staring directly at him.

His captor reached the bottom of the stairs and stared down at Aspen, watching him tremble in fear.

“Hello, little corpse,” the vampire said, his voice sending a shiver down his spine.

Despite Aspen having so many things he wanted to say and ask— like let me go, I’m hungry, don’t hurt me— his words went dry in his throat. He felt acutely aware of his position; held captive, frozen in place under the vampire’s intense gaze, afraid that any movement or noise would cause the vampire to pounce and tear him apart again.

“What? Got nothing to say?” The vampire hummed, tilting his head.

Aspen swallowed and tore his eyes away from his captor, deciding to get a look around the now visible room.

The basement was not much larger than he had originally thought. Most of it was empty, but against the left far wall was a large metal table. It was hard to see without his glasses, but squinting his eyes, he could make out various dangerous looking tools and weapons hanging on the wall above it. The sharp blades were all covered in faded, dried blood. Higher on that wall, in the corner by the ceiling, was a small window, boarded up with wood that had looked like it’d been there for ages. Hanging down from the ceiling in the middle of the room were various hooks and chains. Dried blood faintly painted the floor by the drain.

That was it. It looked like everything in this place was just made to cause pain, to hurt him.

He looked back at the tools. They were too far away to get to with the chain around his ankle, but if he could somehow get his hands on them, he could defend himself.

Unless… somebody else got his hands on them first.

His eyes flickered back to the vampire, who had been following his gaze to the wall. He smirked.

Aspen’s heart plummeted.

“I see you’ve noticed my—”

“Don’t hurt me!” Aspen said, body trembling. “Please let me go, I- I—”

“Begging already?” The vampire mused, and started walking closer. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Yet?

“N-no, stay away from me,” Aspen said, backing up against the wall.

“Why would I do that?” His captor walked closer, boots thumping against the concrete. Aspen pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to hide as much of his body as he could, trying to make himself small. The vampire crouched down in front of Aspen and put a hand in his curly hair, gently scritching the top of his head as if he were nothing but a spooked animal. “You’re much cuter up close.”

Aspen trembled under the vampire’s touch, pulling away ever so slightly but being fully backed into the wall, there was nowhere to hide.

“How’re you doin’? You making yourself at home?”

Aspen just stared ahead, mouth agape, words caught in his throat.

“I asked you a question, Aspen,” the vampire hummed in a light tone, though his hand gripped tighter in his hair— a warning.

Aspen swallowed thickly, and said in a quiet, shaky voice, “I-I don’t wanna be here. Let me go.”

“Aw, is it really that bad? I even gave you a mattress and everything.”

Aspen frowned, shivering into his hoodie and wrapping his arms around himself. “It-it’s so- so cold down here. Just let me go.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” the vampire cooed, wiping Aspen’s tears with his thumb. He didn’t even realize he started crying. “I don’t care.”

Aspen sniffled. “I don’t even have my glasses.”

“Oh, of course. You need them to see?” The vampire’s voice was laced in mock sympathy.

Aspen nodded his head, looking up at him through his curls.

“Well, I kinda like it when you look all disoriented and confused. I might just keep you like this forever.”

Aspen’s heart dropped, his despair plastered all over his face. “Why are you doing this?”

“Aw, did you forget already? You exist only for me to drink that delectable blood of yours. You’re nothing but my food. You’re mine. I can do whatever I want to you.”

“B-but- but…” He was speechless. As he struggled to come up with something to say while his captor played with his hair, he saw the vampire’s eyes light up, smiling that horrible grin that showed his deathly sharp fangs.

“Oh, you’re going to be so much fun to break.”

“W-what?” He squeaked.

“We’re going to have so much fun together, Aspen. Just you and I. It’s been so long since I’ve had a human of my own, this place hasn’t had much use in ages, but not anymore. And since you can’t die permanently, I won’t ever have to hold back.”

The vampire’s gaze wandered back to the tools hanging from the wall and the chains hanging from the ceiling. Horrible visions racked Aspen’s mind. Visions of pain. Of agony. Torture. Death. It hadn’t happened to him yet, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. He couldn’t do it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stifle a sob. The vampire was too close. It and its fangs and claws were too close and it was touching him and he didn’t want to be here and why wouldn’t it just let him go?

“Open your eyes, Aspen,” the vampire said in a sing-song tone.

“Huh?” Aspen opened his eyes.

“I like to see the fear in my prey’s eyes as I feed. Makes the blood all the more intoxicating.”

“F-Feed?”

“Did I bash your skull in a little too hard last time?” Silas flicked Aspen’s head roughly with his finger. “Every night I am going to feed from you. And every morning, you will come back to life fully healed and regenerating more blood. The process will repeat itself. It’s simple. No more questions.”

“But I don’t- I don’t want this. I wanna go h-home.” He looked up at the vampire through his curly hair with tears in his wide, terrified eyes. His lips wobbled as he spoke so quietly that it was barely a whisper. “Please.”

“Oh, Aspen. You still think you have a choice. You’re so cute, it’s unbearable. It makes me just want to squeeze the life out of you.” The vampire thought to himself for a moment, before a mischievous grin crossed his face. “And I guess… I can do that, can’t I.” It was more of an observation to himself than a question.

“N-no.”

“Oh, I will.” The vampire broke out into a wide, maniacal grin, fangs looking sharper than ever. “Whenever the fuck I want to. How about now?”

Before Aspen could say anything, the vampire pounced. Inhumanly strong hands wrapped around his neck and shoved him against the wall. His nails dug into Aspen’s delicate skin, causing blood to drip down his throat.

“Ow!” Aspen gasped. “Stop- stop stop stop- please stop.”

The vampire suddenly squeezed his hands tighter around Aspen’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Aspen gasped for breath, but could no longer get any air.

“L-et g-o,” Aspen choked out, a whimper soon broken by his lack of oxygen.

He clawed at his neck, at the vampire’s hands tightening his grip on him, at the blood spilling from the small cuts, desperately doing all he could to get air. But his captor’s hands didn’t budge, they only pressed down harder on his throat.

Aspen’s mouth opened and closed, trying and failing to suck air back into his lungs. He tried to plead, to beg, but no sound came out. Dark spots filled his vision as his lungs screamed for air.

The vampire leaned in and started drinking the blood trickling down his skin. Aspen felt his hands squeezing tighter to get more to spill out, as if he were nothing but a living ketchup packet.

Tears fell down Aspen’s cheeks as he went limp in the vampire’s hold, finally losing strength. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to keep his head from lolling to the side and into the vampire’s grasp, to keep himself from slipping away into unconsciousness, into death.

The vampire squeezed his neck again, this time harder. A horrible crunching sound filled Aspen’s ears, and everything finally went black.

. . .

Aspen gasped awake, hands instinctively flying to his neck to get air- to stop the bleeding—

…That wasn’t there. There was no puncture wound, no blood, not even a scab. Just smooth scars over his skin from where the vampire had scratched him and drank from.

He took a deep, long breath, closing his eyes as sweet refreshing air filled his lungs. He breathed out, and in, and out again. A steady pace to calm his racing heart.

The room was dark again, and the vampire didn’t seem to be in there anymore. He must’ve left after Aspen… died. Maybe that was a good thing. Though, he was still incredibly hungry. And thirsty. And his captor was the only one who could give him that necessity.

He cringed thinking about the last thing he remembered, that moment with the vampire. He shouldn’t be so scared of him. He had to stand up for himself and fight back, that’s what Lyle would have told him if she were there.

He didn’t know what time it was or how long he waited for, but when the basement door opened again, Aspen swallowed his nerves and ran towards the stairs, wasting no time in going as far as the chain would allow him. He was standing on the second step and holding on to the railing, his left leg held out in the air a little bit due to the chain pulling on it.

“H-hey,” Aspen said, looking up at the vampire. “Let me out, I’m so hungry!” He pulled against the chain, not caring about the cold metal digging into his skin, and pushed his arms against the railing as if trying to heave himself up the stairs. “I can’t- can’t take it anymore! Let me go!”

The vampire was standing at the top of the stairs, his entire body cast in a haunting shadow from the light behind him, making him nothing but a looming silhouette. He took a silent step down the stairs, and another.

“Brave little corpse today, huh?” The vampire growled, his two red eyes glowing bright in the darkness. He seemed to be in a different mood today, one that sent a shiver down Aspen’s spine.

“I’m starving. I don’t care what you do to me, I just need food! Please!” Aspen cried.

He didn’t even see it coming.

The vampire pounced, leaping down the stairs and slamming his body straight into Aspen, sending both of them tumbling into the hard concrete floor. Aspen cried out in pain, his entire body hurting from the inhuman force pinning him to the ground. The vampire quickly stepped back and shoved Aspen into the wall by his mattress. After struggling to catch his breath, Aspen’s eyes went wide when he noticed the vampire walking towards him.

“W-Wait!” Aspen exclaimed. “Please don’t hurt me—” He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating another blow to the head. When that didn’t come, he blinked and saw the vampire crouched down next to him, inspecting the chain around his ankle.

“This chain is much too long.” Before Aspen could do anything, the vampire wrenched it through what had it fastened to the wall, effectively shortening the length Aspen was allowed to walk, leaving the chain only a few feet long now. Aspen could only move around the mattress, and that was it. “Much better.”

He was about to curl into a ball, but he remembered his goal. He needed to stand up for himself. He needed to show him that he wasn’t weak. He blinked back his tears and stared at his captor. “L-let me go!” he demanded. “I’m hungry! Really really hungry. I need food. You can’t just keep me down here!”

“Aspen,” Silas growled, turning to face him. “Are you really making me repeat myself again? You’re mine. My food, to do with as I please.”

His mind raced, frantically trying to come up with anything at all that could change his mind. “If you’re going to- to keep me here, you need to feed me! You can’t just k-keep me starving forever! It hurts! Please!”

“You haven’t died from starvation yet, so why would I waste time and resources letting you eat if you don’t need to? Seems like a big fucking waste to me.”

Aspen looked up, pleading with his eyes that were filled with anger and confusion. his breath hitched in his throat. It was getting harder and harder to be brave. “You ca-can’t do this. You can’t!”

“I can do whatever I want to you.”

Tears fell down his cheeks. “P-please!” he sobbed. “I’m begging you, is that what you want? Please. I’m starving, I—”

“Stop screaming. Holy shit, you’re insufferable. Did you know that?” The vampire turned away from him and started walking towards the other side of the room. “I usually love hearing the horrified screams of my prey, but today isn’t one of those days.”

“Wh-where are you going? —Wait!”

In a flash, the vampire was back to kneeling in front of him, shoving a piece of cloth into his mouth and tying it around his head, effectively gagging him. Aspen reached up to pull it out, but winced when his captor grabbed his wrist and roughly twisted his arms behind his back. The vampire tied his hands together with rope, and pulled it tight. Aspen whimpered as it dug into his skin.

He screamed through the gag, and his captor slapped him roughly across the face, shutting him up. His head shot to the side, and he whimpered as his cheek stung in pain.

Cold, inhumanly strong hands grasped at his shoulders as the monster bit down into his neck, ripping and tearing the flesh away like a deranged animal. He cried out, but there was nothing he could do to stop this. It wasn’t long after that Aspen’s world went dark yet again.

. . .

Time seemed to stretch on in one big blur. The vampire came to the basement to feed, to kill, and throw any and all kinds of hurt or pain into the mix that he wanted. No matter how much Aspen pleaded for it to stop, that only seemed to fuel the vampire’s cruelty. He mocked him for being weak, for being unable to do anything against him. His captor would either kill him or leave him alone in the basement until he came back hours later, alive but in no way living.

It was always dark, and Aspen didn’t know how many days were spent down there. He thought that if the vampire fed once a day, he’d been in the basement for at least five. Five days without food or water. Five days trapped in a cold, dark room with nothing but his worried, anxious thoughts to distract him from the agonizing pain. Not to mention however long he’d been in the morgue before this, however long ago he’d died the first time.

But he could be wrong; he really didn’t know how long he’d been trapped here for. It could have been a few days or a few months and he’d have no way to tell. He wondered if anyone was looking for him, or where Lyle was, or if he’d ever be able to see the sun again. Surely, he’d be rescued in no time. He was going to get out of here, he just had to wait.

He laid his cheek against the rough mattress, arms still tied behind his back and gag stuck firmly in his mouth. Even though he tried to stay optimistic, sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was his life now. Cursed to be trapped starving in a basement and used as a vampire’s bloodbag for all of eternity— and killed, over and over, that too.

He found the actual death to be somewhat… peaceful, as grim as that sounded. It was the only escape he got from the pain before he was forced back into the cold cruelty of the basement— of his life. It was an unwelcome distraction, but it was at least something. He always hated having nothing to do, being bored out of his mind. At least now he got a break every now and again.

Then, for the first time in days, he heard something new. Aspen’s ears perked up, listening closely to the faint, muffled noises coming from above him. Voices. Multiple voices upstairs. He stood up, despite his weak and starved body begging him to rest, and stumbled towards however far the chain would let him.

He shook his head vigorously, rubbing his chin against his shoulder and finally, finally getting that disgusting gag out of his mouth.

And then, he screamed. His throat was sore and raspy, dry from the lack of water, but that didn’t stop him. He called for help as loud as he could, hoping to get the attention of whoever was up there.

The voices suddenly stopped as Aspen’s frantic pleas rang through the air. There was a loud sigh, and the snap of someone’s fingers. Eerie silence filled the air except for the all-too-familiar footsteps walking towards the basement.

The door swung open violently, and Aspen flinched back at the noise, chain rattling behind him.

“What do you want?” The vampire hissed, flicking the lightswitch on and slamming the door shut behind him. Aspen had never seen someone look so angry. He cowered away as primal terror flooded through his veins.

“I- I, th-the people! There are people up there! Help, help! HELP!”

The vampire did nothing but stand there silently, staring at him with that creepy smile on his face. “Keep screaming, Aspen. See where that gets you.”

“But there’s… What…what did you do to them?”

“Mind control. Their dumb little minds don’t belong to them right now, and they certainly won’t rescue you.”

“You can… control people’s minds?”

“Of course I can,” his captor hissed. “And the next time you try to ask other humans for help, I won’t be so merciful to them.”

“Were they looking for me?”

The vampire couldn’t help but laugh. “No, they weren’t looking for you. They were looking for directions.”

“Directions?”

“Yes. We are in the middle of fucking nowhere, by the way.” The vampire took a step down the stairs. “And nobody will come looking for you. You’re dead to the world, already buried six feet under. And scream all you want, there’s no civilization in miles. That gag was just there to keep you from annoying me all night and day with your incessant whining. I almost never see people out here unrelated to my business.”

“But when I do,“ the vampire continued, “oh, you have no idea how hard it is to resist feeding on them. I’m glad you’re awake now. I deserve a snack for having to deal with those insufferable morons.”

“And you,” the vampire drawled, walking closer and causing Aspen to flinch back in fear, stumbling onto the mattress behind him, “deserve a punishment for spitting that gag out and trying to call for help. You’re mine. You do not try to call for help. You are not getting out of this. Get that through your thick skull before I bash it in.”

Aspen breathed heavily. The vampire was standing a few feet from him, but was more menacing than ever before.

“Say it, little corpse. Tell me you’re mine. I wanna hear it from you.”

Tears pricked in Aspen’s eyes, cheeks going red. “I-I’m, I’m y-yours.”

“And you’ll never try calling for help again?”

“N-No,” he said, shaking his head and sniffling.

“Good. Now enough chit-chat. C’mere.”

Aspen let out a sob and crawled forward, palms and knees aching against the cold stone floor. He crumbled in despair as Silas leaned down to feed again. Sharp fangs sank into the same spot on his neck, blood started flowing out and into the mouth of his captor. He grew even more lightheaded, squeezing his eyes shut and silently begging for unconsciousness.

…Only, death didn’t come this time. The vampire pulled away early, licking his lips and stepping back with a sour expression.

Aspen dared to peek an eye open and look up at him. “W-wh-what are—”

“Your blood. It’s not as good as it was before. What happened?”

“I-I don’t- I don’t know.” When the vampire yanked a hand to his hair, Aspen sputtered frantically to get his words out, wracking his mind for what it could possibly be. “M-maybe it’s- maybe it’s because I haven’t- haven’t eaten anything?”

The vampire stared at him for a moment in consideration. Then, his hand let up, and he stepped away. “Hm. I guess that makes sense.”

“Y-yeah, p-please, I really need food. I need it.”

“…I don’t have any human food here. I’ll have to get some the next time I go to town.”

“...Oh,” Aspen said quietly. “B-but you’ll still feed me? Th-thank you.” He looked up at his captor with hope in his eyes for the first time, and finally let his body relax, as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He’d finally get to be fed.

“Yeah. Holy shit, you’re pathetic.”

“C-can I at least ha-have a blanket in the meantime?”

“No. Can’t let you get too comfortable, can I? Or you’ll forget your place.” The vampire chuckled, patting his head in mock affection.

“But it- It’s so cold here…”

“If you’re suffering so much, why don’t I just kill you now and make the pain stop?”

“N-no, please don’t kill me,” Aspen whispered.

“Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“W-wait!—”

But he had already put the gag in place, and tied it tightly around his head, more so than before. Aspen let out a muffled whimper as the vampire walked up the stairs and out of the basement. The light was turned out, the door slammed shut, leaving Aspen in suffocating darkness once again. All alone.

His stomach growled. The cold bit at his bare skin. His throat ached with thirst and the lingering pain of the bite.

Maybe he should’ve accepted the offer.

— 

i’m not like super proud of this one but i think it’s as good as i’m gonna get it so here u go :3 future chapters will be better (and probably shorter), i’ve written a whoooole bunch of this recently and i’m realllyy gonna try to get regular updates now!! yayyyy

taglist: @inkwell-and-dagger @vidawhump @taterswhump @toyybox @andithewhumper

@creppersfunpalooza @bottlecapreader @whumpsday @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kisa-writes

@mintflavouredwhump @fleur-a-whump @starfields08000

let me know if you want to be removed or added to the taglist!

[chaotic-orphan]

Hiiii !!!!

May I please request where you write a story where a villain whumps a hero into loving and obeying them but then it backfires and the hero is a toxic lover and whumps villain outta possessive and obsessiveness ?

Thanks if you do !!! Your writing is literally SOOOO fire girlie 😭🔥🔥🔥🔥 I’ve literallyy been eating up the febuwhump prompts

Twisted Love

TW: lady Whump, lady Whumpee, male Whumper, yandere Whumper, intimate Whumper, creepy Whumper, hero Whumpee, villain Whumper, Whump love, but not consensual at all, kidnapped hero,

Please lmk if I missed any tags! 🙏

@xxgalgurlxx what a fun prompt! Thank you so much! It’s a series, I’m sorry, I can’t fit it all into one snippet!

*~*~*~*~*

Hero had just gotten back to her feet when her eyes trained on Villain raising his arm in front of him, fingers splayed. Hero didn’t have time to react as she was slammed backwards into the brickwork at the end of the alley. She let out an involuntary gasp, her back and ribs aching from the force of the impact.

Her mind was like sludge, moving too slow to react to Villain’s easy onslaught of attack after attack. Not to mention his stupid telekinesis that made everything he did effortless. Every fight easily won.

Villain didn’t even let Hero fall to the ground, instead she was held against the wall, feet dangling a few inches above the ground, arms flailing uselessly to attack Villain’s hold. She might as well have been fighting air, but Villain’s bone crushing grip didn’t feel like air. It felt like Hero was being squashed from every side, like Villain was squeezing a grape between his fingers.

“Give up yet?” Villain asked politely, advancing on Hero after Hero seized struggling, but it was all false. Everything about Villain was false. The politeness was just another layer of smug that Hero hated.

“Yeah, keep talking. You just know you couldn’t win in a real fight.”

The hand holding Hero squeezed tighter until Hero gasped out in pain, curling in on herself.

“I could just watch you all day,” Villain hummed appreciatively. He stopped two feet away from Hero, a passive smile on his face but his eyes… Villain’s eyes looked hungry and full of something that Hero couldn’t quite discern.

Hero threw her arm forward. Glinting metal turned over metal in the moonlight and stopped mid air, just in front of Villain’s cheek.

Villain smiled and tsked, grabbing the knife by the handle and turning it between his fingers with a dramatic sigh.

“That wasn’t very nice Hero,” Villain said, gently scolding her. His smirking eyes dancing with dark promise as be said, “someone should really teach you some manners.”

Another invisible hand grabbed both of Hero’s and pinned them against the wall. Hero jerked forward, trying to free herself but she had no grip on anything! She couldn’t even gain purchase on the ground because her feet were hovering above it.

Hero let out a frustrated groan as she kicked out, trying to dislodge herself in anyway. Villain’s eyes lit up at Hero’s renewed struggles.

“So feisty. So persistent,” Villain whispered. He was standing in front of Hero now and Hero blinked back her surprise, stifling a gasp. When had that happened? Villain grazed the tip of her knife from the center of Hero’s palm up her wrist and arm. Hero’s breath hitched when the cool blade touched her skin. “I bet I could make you grovel.”

That sent a shiver down Hero’s spine that she tried her damnedest to suppress. Wait, Villain was so close. Hero kicked out at Villain, but again, just before her feet made contact something caught Hero round the ankles and yanked them down.

Hero slid down the wall with a surprised yelp, eyes wide as her feet touched the ground and grew stuck there, her entire body immobile against the dusty brickwork behind her. Villain was taller than her, Hero realised as she swallowed, staring at Villain’s chest.

Villain brought Hero’s own knife up her shoulder and then throat, before pressing the flat of the blade up under Hero’s chin. The tip biting into her neck as he tilted Hero’s chin up to stare into Villain’s eyes, which sent a rush of ice through Hero’s veins.

Something primal in the back of her mind told her to run, to flee, to get out of there. That Villain was dangerous and a threat to her continued survival.

“God, look at you,” Villain hummed. With his free hand he reached up to cup Hero’s cheek, thumb stroking over Hero’s cheekbone. Hero did shiver at that, and jerk her arms back trying to escape the unrelenting invisible hold. “You are magnificent. That little spark of defiance in your pretty little eyes, the fear…”

“Get off of me, you creep!” Hero spat, trying to turn her head away from Villain, mostly to just stop looking at that dangerous glint in his smirking eyes. Villain didn’t let her turn an inch. The moment Hero’s head twitched to move, Villain brought the flat of her blade up to Hero’s other cheek, stopping her from moving.

“You know what Hero?” Villain said, leaning his face in close to Hero’s. Hero pressed her head against the wall, trying to get away from him, but Villain kept leaning in nonetheless until his lips were inches from Hero’s. Hero let out a quiet, powerless whine in the back of her throat, her heart thundering against her chest. Villain smiled, bone chilling and cold. “I think I’ll take you home with me.”

Hero’s stomach bottomed out. “No!”

Villain leaned in closer and for a breath-stealing moment, Hero thought Villain was going to kiss her. Instead Villain pressed his lips against Hero’s ear. Delighting in the shiver she couldn’t fight.

“Yes, little Hero. You’ll be my greatest prize. I’ll keep you suspended like this, like a trophy. Maybe in the entrance hall.”

“No,” Hero whispered, trembling against the telekinetic hold. The only thing that stood between Hero and her freedom. She flinched when she felt tears fall onto her cheeks. “Let me go, please,” Hero sniffed.

Villain pulled back, a grin on his face. “Now why would I do that, Hero?”

Villain stepped back, leaving a little distance between them, not as much as Hero would like, but enough. She couldn’t stop shaking, and she hated herself for it. Adrenaline was rushing through her veins like bolts of electricity, trying to feed Hero’s muscles and give her strength to flee, to fight, to escape.

It all just sat useless below the surface.

Villain let Hero’s knife swing down from her cheek and reached his hands forward. Hero slammed her eyes shut and looked away waiting for the blow to come.

Instead, a deep, rumbling chuckle sounded in front of her. Hero risked opening her eyes to see Villain sliding Hero’s knife back into its sheath on her thigh. His fingers lingering on Hero’s thigh. It made bile climb up Hero’s throat.

“Please, don’t touch me,” Hero pleaded, her voice so broken. So light. So terrified. Bargaining with a Villain!

Villain’s fingers drew up to Hero’s waist and lingered there. “Hero. Look at me.”

Hero refused. She kept her gaze stubbornly on the wall of the alley. Until that invisible hand was on her cheek and turning her head, against her will, to face Villain.

She swallowed and mustered up all her hatred into her glare when she met his dark eyes. Villain let out a breath, that same sickening smile on his face.

The snap of her cuffs being unclipped from her belt drew her attention down, but the invisible hand pushed her head back up to look at Villain. She let out a frustrated groan to his laughter.

“Come on, Hero. I can’t have you fighting me on the way home.”

“Go to hell!” Hero spat.

Villain grinned a lazy grin. “Only if you come with me, sweetheart.”

Villain reached his hand up to Hero’s wrist pinned to the wall, taking his sweet time in opening the cuffs. Hero knew what she was going to do before Villain even touched her. The moment he let the hold slip she was going to bolt for it. Slap him, push him, distract him, something. If she could reach her knife—

Villain put a hand on her wrist and she felt the telekinetic hold loosen. She shoved forward with all her strength. Villain’s eyes went wide, gaze cutting into her face but she just needed that moment of surprise. She felt the hold drop completely and she ducked under his arms, grabbing her dagger from it’s sheath and cutting Villain’s knee as she surged forwards.

Villain cried out behind her but Hero didn’t care. She didn’t have time to care. She had to make it to the mouth of the alley before he got his bearings. She felt the adrenaline surge in her calves, her lungs taking in more air, her heart beating more blood.

A hand caught her ankle. Hero was thrown forward by her own momentum, hands out to brace her fall. Her palms grazed against the stone, but she was already twisting her body, turning, expecting Villain to still be at the end of the alley. She could throw her dagger again and catch him.

It all went so well in her head.

She gasped when she saw those brown eyes up close. He was above her, knees on either side of her waist that pinned her beneath his body.

He didn’t look angry, just sickly entertained. He didn’t use his telekinesis. He used his own hands to pin her wrists to the ground above her head. She cried out when he slammed her dagger wielding hand against the pavement, once, twice, three times— again and again until finally she dropped it with a clatter.

“No!” She cried, struggling beneath him but he didn’t take his time this time. He snapped the cuffs open and the weight settled cold against her wrist. She could feel her powers draining, muting under the power dampeners. “No! Get off me! HELP! Somebo—”

Villain clamped his hand over her mouth, leaning his weight down onto it. She cried out, her free hand going to his, trying to dislodge it.

“A hero crying for help?” He asked with a smirk. “How ironic.”

Escape be damned. For one second she wanted to wipe that smugness off his stupid face.

She stopped fumbling with his wrist and instead slammed her hand up, palm first and aimed for his throat, his stupid adam’s apple.

Her hand stopped an inch away. Eyes widening as she watched it tremble. Villain pressed a kiss to her palm, then her wrist while Hero was powerless to push up or pull back. She let out a frustrated moan in the back of her throat as he laced his fingers through hers.

“Oh you are going to be so much fun,” Villain said, his eyes half lidded, smirk still on his face as he gazed down at Hero. “Now, are you going to promise not to scream or are you going to force me to knock you out?”

Hero huffed a breath out through her nose and Villain removed his hand.

“I won’t scream.”

Villain tilted his head. “Now why don’t I trust you?”

“Probably because you’re currently kidnapping me, you bastard!”

“Kidnapping makes it sound so romantic doesn’t it?”

Hero bucked her hips under him, revelling in the slight widening of his eyes at her sudden movement. Hero clicked her fingers and her knife summoned back into her palm. Hero had only a second to enjoy the familiar feeling before Villain was off her and yanked Hero to her feet.

Villain slammed the knife out of her palm, but she didn’t even have time to mourn the loss of it when Villain yanked her back, spinning her so her back was to his front.

Villain grabbed her free hand and wrestled it back into the other cuff, as if she wasn’t struggling at all. The sound of the cuff clicking closed was like the final nail in her coffin.

She froze for a moment, not being able to feel her knives around her. The weight of them on her body was a small mercy. It was such an uncomfortable feeling. As if her arm had just been severed, a limb taken from her.

It took a breath for her to acclimatise. Then she cried out in anger and slammed her head back. It connected with Villain’s chest, not even relishing the surprised breath she stole from his lungs she hook her leg around the back of his and slammed her head back again so they went to the ground. She rolled the minute his back hit the ground and got to her feet with a little difficulty.

She didn’t even have time to think of running before she felt that giant invisible hand grab her and pick her up, leaving her dangling useless in the air.

Villain was on the ground, turned on his side, elbow bent, propping his head up on his palm. That stupid smirk in his stupid eyes.

“Honestly, it would be wise of me to knock you out, but you struggle so beautifully that it would be a crime to not watch you try and stop me on the way home.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Hero promised.

Villain flashed her a grin. “I look forward to it.”

Villain was on his feet in a second, Hero’s knife in one hand. He gestured his hand down and Hero sunk to the ground in front of him.

“Now, open wide.”

Hero frowned at him. Villain grinned and pointed at his cheeks. “Say aah!”

Hero didn’t know what he wanted her to do, but she damn sure wasn’t going to do it if he wanted her to.

He placed his thumb over her lips and pulled down. “Come on now, Hero. Play nice.”

Hero opened her mouth to bite him but instead Villain pushed the hilt of her dagger into her mouth. Before she could spit it out she felt his real hand and his invisible one slam her chin up, forcing her to bite down on the handle.

“Hold that for me, will you?”

“Oohk—” she began but coughed as her tongue got caught around the hilt.

“Oh, be careful, Hero. Wouldn’t want you to choke now, would we?”

Hero wanted to scream, she wanted to fight. She wanted to be able to move her body and open her mouth, but she didn’t get any of that, not with Villain in front of her.

Villain put a hand on her arm, sliding down to rest on her wrist and steered her forward towards the mouth of the alley. “You are going to simply adore the boot of my car.”

[whumpninja]

I gave up pretending that this is still a short story. It’s a series now. It doesn’t have a title yet but whatever.

find the first two pieces on my masterlist!

Featuring: the vampire girls are their own content warning, bloodbag whumpee, vampire whumpers, maybe very slight pet whump?, escape attempt, caught in a trap, blood, field medicine, environmental whump, failed escape

venus flytrap

Will missed the sun. He'd never fully adjusted to his mistresses' nocturnal lifestyle, but he'd had to adapt at least somewhat. By the time the vampires stirred themselves, Will had usually been awake for at least a few hours. He liked to watch the sun fade through the trees, sitting as close as he was allowed to be to the entrance of the vampires' cave.

As the last drops of sunlight melted past the horizon, giving way to cold gray evening, the vampires awoke. Morgana or Selene were usually the first up; Lucy and Annabel slept the longest most days. Will was feeling much stronger now, nearly a week after the last feeding, but he hadn't missed the way the vampires' eyes had begun to redden slightly. They would do it again soon. He never knew what night they might decide to eat. He could only hope that it was always the next one.

Morgana, with Clover in her arms, came to the cave entrance. "Watching the sunset, darling?" she asked, leaning down to ruffle Will's hair. She'd been especially gentle with him for the last few days. It made him nervous.

"Morgana!" Lucy trilled. "Let me at that collection of knotted ropes you call hair, will you? I can't be seen in society with you looking like you've died in a ditch."

Morgana rolled her eyes, setting Clover down beside Will. The cat eyed him disinterestedly and settled herself down in a small black ball. "Now, Clover, don't be jealous of William," Morgana chided teasingly. "You know I love both my pets." Will flinched at the word. Clover yawned and tucked her head onto her paws.

"Mor-gan-a!" Lucy called.

The vampiress rolled her eyes. "Can't have a moment's peace, can I? Go and get your breakfast, William dear. All right, Lucy, I'm coming."

By the time the gray evening had turned to full black night, all five vampires were awake. Lucy seemed to be torturing Morgana and Selene, judging from the arguments and yells from the back of the cave. Annabel sat in her chair, stroking two of her rats, her eyes still half-closed. And Lilah perched on her heels, in front of Will- he'd been given a handful of blueberries for his breakfast, and now she was trying to see if he would eat anything else out of her satchel.

"How about this?" she asked eagerly.

"That's a rock."

"Oh, so it is. What about this?"

"That's a pinecone."

"Hmm. This?"

"That's a..." Will frowned. "A turtle? Where did you find that?"

"Down by the river. Does that mean you don't want to eat it?"

"Not particularly."

Lilah lifted the turtle, which clicked its beak in a way that suggested it was rather annoyed at having been stuffed into a satchel and hauled off to a dark cave. "Do you think it has blood in it?"

Will blanched at the thought.

"Bones and ashes, Lilah, leave him alone," Annabel chided the younger vampiress from her chair.

"The turtle or the human?" Lilah asked.

"Both, Lilah, for the love of blood. Whoever turned you must have been bit by a goose!"

Lilah shrugged and put the turtle in her satchel. "I'll take him back to the river, then."

"Not tonight, you won't." Lucy came out from the shadows at the back of the cave, pointing a hairbrush at Lilah like a weapon. "I need to see to those braids of yours."

Lilah hopped up immediately, satchel, turtle, and Will all forgotten. "Put my beads in them, Lucy! As many as you can!"

Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, of course, little sister, why should we want to be stealthy when we could be covered in baubles?" She grabbed Lilah's arm and dragged her into the dark.

Morgana appeared from a bend in the cave wall, dressed in a black lace dress, a cameo brooch pinned at her throat. Her brown hair hung wild to her shoulders, and she'd smeared ash on her eyelids. She looked dangerously beautiful, and Will shivered.

"What do you think, Annabel? Do I look like a coven leader?" Morgana spun on her heel, her skirt flaring out.

"You look lovely, dear," Annabel told her. Will noticed for the first time that Annabel had changed out of her usual pale blue dress and into a dark navy, and she'd pinned her gray hair up on the crown of her head instead of at the nape of her neck.

"Are you going somewhere?" he ventured to ask.

Morgana started, and then chuckled. "A hex on me, I forgot to tell him! We've got a party tonight, sweet one. Vampires from all over the colonies are meeting for a full moon ball. You don't mind watching the cave and caring for the rats and Clover while we're away, do you, dear?"

Will's heart had started to beat a little quicker. "How long will you be gone?"

"Oh, look at him, girls! He's nervous without us around, the poor lamb." Morgana laughed aloud. "Only a night or two, my sweet. We'll be back quick as a wink."

Lucy led Lilah proudly out of the shadows. The younger two vampires were dressed in dark red and dark gold respectively. Lilah's dozens of black braids were studded with golden beads and charms- moons, stars, rings, and spheres, all polished to a glittering shine. In contrast, Lucy wore no jewelry, her jet-black hair done in a complicated updo, her red dress cut scandalously low. She patted her hairdo and smiled. "Well? Don't we look nice?"

"Glorious," Morgana replied. "Where's Selene? We've got to be going."

"Right here." Selene leaned against the back wall, her face holding its usual severe look. She'd barely done anything to dress up, her hair in its usual braid, wearing a sensible green shirt and sturdy trousers just like she always wore. She'd added an accessory though- a black hooded cloak, which she'd pinned over her head and draped over her chest.

Lucy huffed, but Annabel nodded in approval. "We all ought to be wearing cloaks," she said. "It's a long walk, and past some farms."

"But my hair!" Lucy complained.

"Blast your hair," Selene replied, passing out more cloaks to the others.

Lucy gasped dramatically. "How dare you! Why, I ought to-"

Morgana waved gaily to Will as she shepherded her bickering coven towards the cave entrance. "Goodbye, sweet William! Keep the fire going for us!"

Will barely heard her over the pounding heart in his chest. They were leaving, all of them. For two days. With no one to watch over him except for Morgana's cat and Annabel's rats.

I can escape.

——————————————————————————

Will didn't dare try anything while it was still dark out. The vampires could return at any moment. He did his chores just as he would have if they were home, but his hands shook with anticipation- and not a small amount of fear. He'd resisted them as best he could when he was first taken, but he'd never made an escape from them. He'd been too afraid to try, knowing that they could chase him down in the darkness, and knowing what they would undoubtedly do to him when they caught him.

But now, now that they were gone- miles away, and not due back for another day- now was his chance!

Even when dawn turned the forest gray and then gold, Will didn't leave the cave. He wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been with the vampires, but he knew it was at least a year. They'd taken him when late summer was changing to early autumn, and it was early autumn again now. It felt strange to be the only one in the cave. The vampires had gone to similar celebrations for their kind before, but always Annabel or Lilah or Selene had been left behind to watch him. He'd never been alone.

They weren't even there, and he was too afraid to try an escape. "Come on, Will," he told himself, almost surprised by the sound of his voice echoing in the empty cave. "You've got to get a move on."

Nothing happened. It was as if he was frozen still, unable to move. Will clutched his head in his hands. "What's wrong with you?" he cried out desperately. "Up on your feet, look for anything useful, and go!"

This time it worked. Will stumbled to his feet and snatched up Lilah's satchel almost before he knew what he was doing. "Suppose I'll have to give myself orders now," he said to himself, and laughed a little at the thought. The sound of his own laughter brought immediate tears to his eyes. How long has it been since I laughed?

Lilah's satchel didn't have much in the way of supplies; it was mostly just bits and bobs she'd collected in the woodlands. Pinecones, rocks and leaves, a twig shaped like a heart, a crushed dandelion flower, the irritated turtle. There were a few more blueberries at the bottom, which Will was glad to find. The vampires didn't keep much food in the cave for him, often forgetting that he needed to eat too, or merely assuming he could eat something that he couldn't. Will quickly searched the rest of the cave, but there was nothing else. He secured the satchel over his shoulder in case he found anything in the woods.

"Time to go," he told himself. He wasn't sure where Annabel's rats were, but he waved a goodbye to Clover as he moved towards the entrance of the cave.

Clover lifted her head and watched the young human step hesitantly out into the sunlight, blinking her green eyes. Her mistress wouldn't like him escaping. But why should Clover bother herself about that, so long as Morgana returned for her? Let the foolish little thing get himself lost in the woods. She lowered her soft black head back onto her paws, dropping off to sleep once more.

Will didn't get more than three steps from the cave before he fell to his knees, pressed his face into his hands, and cried. The sunlight. It was so warm, so bright. He had missed it so much. If he ever had any chores outside the cave, they sent him out after the sun had already set, in the last gray light before darkness. Had he really not felt the full warmth of the sun in so long? He stood up, spreading his arms and throwing his head back, letting the golden rays fall over the whole of his slender frame. For the first time in ages, Will beamed with pure joy.

Leaves crunched under Will's feet as he took his first real steps away from the cave. The first thing he did was to go to the river, kneeling by the edge and drinking deep. He pulled the satchel around and took out the turtle, setting it on the bank. "You ought to be free, too," he told it. The turtle turned its head and looked at him with what he imagined might be thanks, before stepping into the water and swimming away.

Will took another drink and stood, wiping his mouth. He had realized that he had no idea where to go. It had been so long since he'd been taken that he didn't know where he'd been taken from. "I'll follow the river," he decided, speaking aloud just to hear the sound of his own voice. "People usually live near water."

Encouraged by the plan, Will set off resolutely along the riverside, quickly leaving the cave behind him. The walk was a peaceful one; the vampires had taken up their residence deep enough in the forest to make sure that the only people who might come near were the odd hunter or forager. The animals had rarely seen humans- they had little fear of the strange young creature wandering through their territory. A fawn even bounded within a few paces of him, gazing at him curiosity until its mother came and herded it away.

The sun beamed down gently on Will's back, pleasantly warm without being too hot. The grass and leaf matter was soft under his bare feet. He'd finished off the last of the blueberries, but there was plenty of water in the river, and he was used to going hungry. His chief worry now was direction- he had no way of knowing how far it was to the nearest settlement or town. As long as I follow the river, I won't be going in circles at least. And I'll have to come across people sometime. Will glanced behind him- the cave was long out of sight. And at least I'm headed away from there.

At about midday, Will had to stop for a rest. He was weaker than he'd realized, his legs no longer used to carrying him so far. He found a large tree standing on the side of the bank and settled himself underneath it, stretching out on the ground. It felt nice. For so long he'd slept curled on the rug by the embers of the cave fire, trying to keep himself warm. Now he could sprawl in the sun on soft moss, the beams smiling gently down on him. Will stretched his arms over his head and grinned back at the sunlight. So this is what freedom feels like. He pillowed his head on his arm and let his eyes drift shut.

When he opened them again, it was to darkness. For a moment he thought that it had all been a dream, that he was still a prisoner in the vampires' cave. But then he felt the moss underneath him, and came back to himself. It's only dark because it's nighttime.

Then Will leapt to his feet with a gasp of fear. It was night! The vampires would likely be on their way back from wherever they'd gone- they might have already returned to the cave. Either way, Will had very little time left. In a matter of hours they would be after him. He could expect no mercy if they caught him.

Will snatched up the satchel and ran.

The forest that had seemed so peaceful and welcoming in daylight now turned foreboding and dangerous. Will could see only what the sliver of moonlight deigned to show him. He stumbled over every tree root and rock, once even splashing into a puddle of water left in a hollow by the last rainstorm. He could not follow the river now. The vampires would know he'd probably gone that way, and they were much faster than he was. He fled deeper into the forest, cutting sharply away from the river, unsure what direction he was even going. His heart pounded with exertion and fear.

The night belonged to the vampires. He'd seen for himself how fast and strong they were. Once they were on his trail, he'd have to use all his wits to stay ahead of them. He shuddered as he thought what Morgana and Selene would do to him if he was caught. He'd die, that was obvious enough. Slowly and painfully, he'd die for this.

If they catch me, anyway. But if I can make it to a human town...

Will poured more speed into his flight, shoving through branches that lashed at him, stumbling over tree roots that tripped him, scraping his knees on rocks and twigs every time he fell. He couldn't keep up the pace for much longer- the rest under the tree had helped, but he was still badly weakened by the long year of captivity. Panting for breath, he at last let himself slow down as he pushed his way into a small clearing. There was a little brook running through it; gratefully Will fell to his knees and drank the cold, clear water. It helped to clear his head, too.

"They can't have caught up to me just yet, even if they are faster," he said to himself. "As long as I keep moving, they won't catch me. And I'll find humans eventually; there has to be a town close by. They won't follow me there. They can't."

He took another long drink from the brook and stood up, wiping his mouth.

A twig snapped in the woods behind him.

Will bolted for the forest at the other end of the clearing, his heart pounding madly. Driven by sheer terror, he ran faster than he knew he could.

He didn't make it very far.

A loud, metallic snap rang like a shot through the forest. It was echoed by Will's scream.

The boy fell hard, face-first into the rotting leaf matter at the base of a large oak. Gasping with pain and terror, he pulled himself up, almost falling at the lightning bolt of agony that flashed through his right leg. He knew what he would see before he turned to look.

Some hunter had set a trap beneath the tree, disguised under the dead leaves. It was one of the wicked metal ones, with sharp serrated jaws- jaws that had clamped securely around Will's ankle. Blood stained the metal like rust, trickling between the securely locked teeth of the trap.

Gingerly, Will reached for the jaws and tried to pry them apart. "Ngh!" He threw his head back and cried out as pain lanced down his leg. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, and again, but the trap was too strong and he was too weak. He had to let go at last, too much blood pouring out of the savage wound to keep at it. Sobbing with helplessness, Will crawled as far under the tree as he could, the chain on the other end of the trap tugging cruelly at the captured ankle.

The shards of moonlight had disappeared as clouds rolled in. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, and a light rain had begun to fall. Will tore a few strips of cloth from the edge of his tattered shirt and managed to wedge them around the teeth of the trap, staunching the bleeding. But he was still securely caught, and could not get out of it until whatever hunter had set it came to check on the catch.

The rain increased steadily, pounding down through the leaves of the oak. Will was drenched within an hour. Shivering, he curled himself into a small ball, careful not to move his trapped ankle. He had been so ready to make his escape, but it seemed as though the forest itself was trying to make it as hard as possible, like it wanted to keep him prisoner.

Will tucked his head under his arm, staring out at the raindrops dimpling the soil beyond the oak tree. "I'm going to make it," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Whatever hunter set this trap will be along soon, and he'll help me."

With that bit of comfort, Will managed to fall asleep, his arm shielding his face from the relentless rain.

When he woke up, it was morning, although so gray and cloudy that it seemed still like night. The rain had stopped, though more would almost certainly fall. Will sat up and changed the rough bandages on his leg, tucking the old bloodstained strips into the satchel that had thankfully tumbled close enough when he fell for him to grab it. He regretted eating the rest of the blueberries now; his stomach groaned with hunger. But there was no help for it; he'd have to endure until the hunter came to check his traps.

The worry that the hunter might not come back for days lingered threateningly at the edge of his thoughts. Will didn't know how long he could last trapped beneath this tree. The woods were wild- wolves and bears and wildcats roamed the deeper parts of the forest. One of them might see him as an opportunity. Despite himself, Will laughed breathlessly at the thought. "How many more creatures are going to want me as their meal?" he asked himself.

He glanced up at the sound of leaves crunching a little ways off. Someone was walking nearby in the woods! His heart pounding with wild hope, Will dragged himself out from under the oak as far as the chain would allow. "Please!" he called out, his voice hoarse. "Please, I'm over here! Please help! I'm caught in the-"

The words died on his tongue.

The figure between the trees turned in his direction. And it was not alone. Four more dark forms materialized from the forest to join the first at the edge of the clearing.

Will's heart stumbled over itself. He pushed himself back under the tree, though he knew it would do little good. Trembling with terror, he waited, tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes.

They knew he could not escape. They took their time, savoring his fear, arranging themselves in a silent semicircle around the tree. Morgana took the place in the front, standing over him, her face drawn tight with dark fury.

When she spoke, her voice was as icy cold as last night's rain.

"A long way from home, aren't you, William?"

[kabie-whump]

✧･ﾟ Ripe, About to Fall - Part 12 ✧･ﾟ

This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance.

Title from 'Liquid Smooth' by Mitski

Series

First | Previous

Summary: Athos holds a ball. Ventis may or may not escape.

Content: knives, stabbing, near-death experience, obsessive whumper, blood, jumping from high places

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“Here.”

Onthyes looked up from his meal as Theodore tossed a pair of thick, dark papers onto the table.

“What are these?” Gold-embossed writing flashed in light as Onthyes picked up a paper and examined it.

“Invitations to Athos’s next ball. One for me, and one for my friend, who will be visiting from the north on that night.”

Onthyes glanced up at Theodore, starting to put the pieces together. “He’ll surely recognize me”

Raising an eyebrow, Theodore reached down and tapped the writing on one of the invitations. “Not necessarily. See?”

Onthyes looked back down at the paper, at the word Theodore was pointing to.

Masquerade.

“Ah.” A smile tugged at his lips. Theodore was right; this could actually work. Onthyes might actually get to see Ventis again. “But I don’t have a mask.”

“Already taken care of. We’ll have them by the night of the party.”

-

Ventis felt so exposed.

Looking down from the staircase at a sea of masked faces, his own bare face felt so naked. Even the servants had their faces covered in simple black masks as they milled about with trays of food and drinks.

The ballroom was heavily decorated for the evening - dripping in floral arrangements of purple and red and shimmering gold. On the stage, a symphony of masked musicians manipulated golden instruments while an elven woman in a floor length gown stood in the middle and sang, her voice soaring effortlessly into notes hat made Ventis’s head pound. The attention of the crowd below had been drawn away from her and towards the appearance of Athos and his pet at the top of the staircase. Usually Ventis didn’t mind the attention too much. It’s what he had always craved as a child, after all. But tonight it made his skin crawl.

“Are you certain that I should not wear a mask tonight?” Ventis asked as he descended the stairs with his hand looped around Athos’s elbow.

“And hide your pretty face? Absolutely not. I don’t put so much work into your upkeep just to hide you away.”

Ventis suppressed a sigh as he and his master waded into the crowd of people, all parting to let them through. He caught every flash of eyes lingering on his body through the holes of their masks. Masquerade parties always seemed to inspire Athos’s guests to be even bolder in their actions, inspired by the anonymity. This one was no different, and Ventis resisted the urge to cringe away as hands reached out to brush over his waist and back as he passed through the crowd.

Athos, his own face covered in an ornate white bird-like mask, strutted across the room, seeming to bask in the attention that was only courteously directed to him for a short moment before it was eagerly turned to Ventis.

“Ah, is that my young pupil under that fearsome mask?”

Ventis glanced up, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of Theodore standing before Athos and him in a dark blue outfit and a golden mask in the shape of a dragon’s face. A little too on the nose, in Ventis’s opinion, but he held his tongue like a good accessory.

“Clever man,” Theodore said, his voice coming out slightly muffled through the metal. “Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Berlith.”

Theodore gestured to the man standing next to him and Ventis’s breath caught in his throat. He was tall, towering a whole head over Theodore. He wore fine red and gold garments, and his whole face was covered by an ivory mask in the shape of a lion’s head. A pair of ivy green irises flashed under the eyeholes, fixed on Ventis.

That had to be Onthyes.

Ventis lowered his gaze. Athos wasn’t stupid. It surely wouldn’t take much for him to catch on to the true identity of his guest, so Ventis would have to be sure to pretend to have absolutely no interest in the man.

“Welcome to Nimbria, Berilth,” Athos said, extending a hand.

Onthyes shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. This is a wonderful party. I appreciate the invitation.”

Ventis had to force himself not to giggle at the way Onthyes deepened the pitch of his voice and added a slight accent.

Thankfully, Athos wasn’t too interested in continuing the conversation. There were far more important people for him to greet and he took Ventis in tow.

As was the nature of any of Athos’s parties, the rest of the night began to blur. Ventis drank - not quite as much as his master but still enough to add a pearly sort of sheen to the world around him and a slight sway to his steps. The dancing went on and on, and Ventis lost track of how many times he was passed from partner to partner, each party guest eager for their moment with him on the dance floor. It was dizzying but Ventis did his best to keep up, smiling politely and barely able to keep his balance as he was spun across the ballroom.

Then his hand met a much larger, warmer one, and the world froze around him.

Green eyes shone down at him from behind a mask. A deep, whispered voice. “Hi there.

Ventis took a tiny step back in the breath between songs, trying to pull his hand away from Onthyes’s. “We should not-”

Onthyes kept a firm hold on Ventis’s hand, but somehow he didn’t feel trapped. Onthyes pulled him closer and wrapped a hand around his waist, more protective than anything else. “It would be suspicious if I were the only one here who didn’t want to dance with you.”

A new song started and they began dancing. Halfway through a spin Ventis craned his neck to locate Athos, who was chatting with some business partners over to the side with his eyes locked on his pet.

“He’s looking at us,” Ventis breathed once he was facing Onthyes again.

“It’s okay. Trust me. You’re safe. I’m dead, remember?”

Ventis’s breath hitched. The grief he had felt for Onthyes’s near loss was still an open wound. “Do not say that. I really believed that you were…”

“I know. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that I could not tell you myself. I’m just glad you’re okay. When we were caught I was so scared that he would…”

Ventis stared at Onthyes’s chest, chewing on his bottom lip. “I survived.”

“But he hurt you, didn’t he? Theodore said that-”

“I’m fine, Onthyes. Now please, you have overstayed your turn with me.”

Onthyes glanced around, only just noticing the dirty looks shot his way by others who were waiting to dance with Ventis. Clearing his throat, he released his hold on the genasi and stepped back.

“Hold fast, Ventis. You won’t be stuck here much longer.”

Ventis nodded silently.

It wasn’t another party guest but Athos himself who claimed Ventis then, taking his arm in a firm grip and pulling him away from the dance floor.

“That man…” Athos shook his head, his gri becoming painfully tight. “There’s something off about him. I don’t like him.”

Ventis glanced up at his master. The man would seem perfectly fine to anyone else, but he knew better. Athos was a mess. His hair was ever so slightly out of place, and there was a splotch of red wine stained into his shirt that he had yet to notice. Athos never let a spill go unattended to.

“Master, you spilled-”

Athos took Ventis by his collar and pulled until the two were nose to nose. Ventis let out a choked squeak, standing on his toes to accommodate the motion.

“Are you trying to distract me, pet? So you can run away again?” His voice came out almost like a snarl. His breath smelled of something much stronger than wine.

Ventis shook his head frantically. People nearby were quickly taking notice of Athos’s loss of composure. The orchestra began playing louder. Athos was never this out of control - not in public, at least. Ventis’s heart climbed into his throat.

“Master-”

“It’s him, isn’t it? He came back for you?!”

No. He must have noticed something suspicious. Ventis has never seen him so paranoid.

“It is just Berlith, master. You met him.” Ventis dropped his voice lower, leaning in closer to Athos. “You forget yourself, master. You have guests. Besides, Onthyes is dead.”

“I must see him without his mask.” Athos dropped his hold on Ventis and turned to scan the crowd, many of whom were now openly watching the drama. “Where is he?!”

Ventis too searched for a lion’s face towering above the other guests, but he was nowhere to be found.

“He must have stepped out,” Ventis said softly.

“Find him!” Athos demanded with a sweeping gesture to the nearest guard. “Quickly!”

Theodore appeared then, holding out his hands and wearing the same diffusing smile he always used when their father had his fits of rage. “Easy, sir. My friend just went to relieve himself, that’s all. If you would like to go check for yourself I would be glad toguard Ventis until you have satisfied your worries.”

Athos let out a growl, shoving himself between Ventis and his brother. “You’re in on it too! You’re trying to take him from me!”

“No, of course not!”

Ventis had never known a better liar than Theodore, but Athos could not be convinced. The man grabbed Ventis by his wrist in a bruising grip and dragged him out of the ballroom.

On the almost-run upstairs to Athos’s private quarters they passed pairs of guards searching every corner of the mansion, going door to door in an effort to locate the missing party guest. Ventis didn’t worship any gods, but he found himself silently praying to every one that wherever Onthyes had disappeared to, he would not be discovered.

Athos’s bedroom door slammed behind the pair, covering the thump of Ventis hitting the floor as his master shoved him inside roughly.

“This is what I get for not seeing Onthyes Ventura’s head roll personally,” Athos seethed.

Ventis didn’t bother standing up. He had been under Athos’s thumb for almost four years now, and he knew that he would just end up knocked back down.

“He’d dead, master,” Ventis whispered.

A harsh slap had Ventis’s eyes watering.

“You don���t know that! You’re just a dumb little pet - you don’t know anything!”

Ventis rose to his knees, carefully crawling closer to his master. He gripped the bottom of his robes, looking up at him openly. “Please, no one is going to take me from you. I love you, remember? I am yours.”

Athos stared down at him. Ventis thought he knew every one of the man’s expressions now. He thought he could read him effortlessly. But this was one he had never seen before.

“You are right, for once,” Athos whispered. His movements were dangerously calm as he stepped back from his pet and moved to his bedside table. He opened a drawer and rummaged inside, his hand emerging gripped around the handle of an ornate dagger.

Ventis’s whole body went cold with fear.

“No one is ever going to take you away from me.”

“Master?”

Athos moved quickly then, grabbing Ventis by his hair before he could try to run. He pulled his head back sharply, bearing his throat. Ventis squeezed his eyes closed, holding back a sob at the sensation of cold, sharp metal against the delicate skin.

“Please,” he whispered.

The blade stung as it pressed harder into his skin. “I’ve given you everything. I made you what you are, and this is how you repay me? By plotting against me? By bringing that… that ghost into my home?”

“No! I am grateful, I swear. Please, you don’t have to do this. I love you, Athos!”

Ventis flinched as the dagger pressed even deeper, cool blood dribbling down his throat. Then, the pressure lifted. He opened his eyes as the hold on his hair relented, watching Athos stumble back, the dagger still clutched in his fist.

“I… I hurt you. I almost…”

Ventis rushed to placate him. “No, no. It’s alright. I know you only do it out of love.”

“Love. Yes. I’m sorry, treasure.” He let out a shaky sigh, and Ventis almost gasped at the sight of tears dripping down his cheeks. All these years and he’s never seen him cry. “My love for you… it’s driven me to madness.”

“You just want to protect me. But you don’t have to worry, master. I am yours.”

It almost worked. In that moment, Ventis may have actually been able to calm Athos’s paranoia, if not for…

“There he is!”

“Ventura! Halt!”

Athos’s head snapped in the direction of the window at the sound of distant voices, his face twisting into an ugly rage. “I knew it!”

Ventis moved quickly, shooting to his feet and bolting for the balcony. His long robes gathered under his feet and he stumbled, crashing shoulder-first into the doors and falling onto the balcony floor as they opened under his weight. Athos followed, reaching Ventis as he used the balcony railing to pull himself to his feet.

Then, a white hot pain roared through Ventis’s side. He gasped, his knees buckling, then screamed as the dagger was yanked from his body. His vision blurred with tears but he could still make out the commotion happening in the garden below.

Onthyes, now without his mask, crossed blades with a guard. Two others laid unmoving at his feet. He dispatched the guard, then froze at the sound of Ventis’s scream.

“Ventis!” he called up to the balcony. “I’m here!”

Ventis coughed harshly, clasping a hand over the gushing wound in his side. Every heartbeat roared in his ears, and his vision flashed in and out with it.

“You’ve lost, Onthyes!” Athos shouted, his voice filled with a manic sort of glee. “You can’t have him now!”

“You can make it, Ventis! I’ll catch you!”

Ventis’s eyes went wide as he realized what Onthyes was asking of him. He couldn’t…

“You fool! He won’t jump. He’s too much of a coward!”

Ventis winced. It was true. He’d always been terrified of heights. The one time he’d tried to jump from this same balcony it has taken him many days of fighting himself before he had finally found the guts to even attempt it. And of course he had been stopped by Athos.

But…

Ventis coughed again, blood splattering against the white marble railing.

He was dying. Blood was pooling on the floor beneath his feet and Athos seemed to be in no rush to stop it and everything was going so cold. He if stayed here he would surely die. If he jumped…

There was no time to think. For once, Ventis had an opportunity to decide his own destiny. He could stay and die like a dog at his master’s feet, or he could try.

Mustering all of his strength, Ventis shoved Athos away. The man stumbled, clearly not expecting it, and Ventis threw himself over the railing.

Ventis had never flown before. He was supposed to be able to, in theory, but he’d never had the courage to try. Besides, with the nightspill suppressing his innate magic he was sure to fail in any effort he made to learn.

So he fell, dropping like a stone towards the garden below.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Next

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-whumpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet

@sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck @wounds-seen-and-unseen @3-2-whump

@looptheloup @lindsay00000008 @rainydaywhump @scoundrelwithboba

[whumpshaped]

so @oliversrarebooks' series captivated me to no end, and um. a certain. charming man mightve inspired. ..something

tw insecure ass carewhumper possibly turned whumpee??? guys i dont know, dehumanisation, human trafficking

Whumper was walking around in the auction house without much purpose or confidence. If it weren’t for the distinct red glow of their eyes or the shirt that covered up a decent part of their neck, one might’ve mistaken them for livestock, really. People paid little attention to them, and Whumper decided that was just what they wanted: a facade of social life without any of the obligations.

They barely checked on any of the thralls that were going up for sale. Most of them were mindless, anyway. Once they’d seen one, they’d seen them all.

That was, until their eyes landed upon the star of the show. And oh, a star he was.

They wanted to look away. They wanted to continue their aimless wandering, pretending they didn’t even exist, but they were rooted to the spot.

The human was dressed up in the most exquisite ball gown, but the garment didn’t even hold a candle to the wearer. He was far from mindless. His eyes were searching the crowd lazily, like he wasn’t a thing to be sold and bought, like he was the one on the prowl. Whumper almost wanted to go talk to him–

But another vampire beat them to it, stepping up to the human and making what must’ve been pleasant enough conversation, because he wouldn’t stop batting his eyelashes at her. Whumper wondered whether he’d do the exact same to them. Whether it was as practised as it looked. Whether they could earn some honesty, if they were to try their best.

The vampire woman took him by the chin, surveying him like one would a special doll for a special project; was it the right size? The right colour? The right fit for the dollhouse? Then she left like it was nothing, like she wasn’t about to think about him for the rest of the night. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Whumper was the odd one out.

The human said something to his vampire handler, and she gave him an amused smile. Oh, there was something so charming about everything he did, and it made no sense, he wasn’t a vampire, he wasn’t the one doing the charming, he–

Oh. He was looking straight at them now, and they were still staring like an idiot.

The human’s cocky grin widened as he looked them up and down, then tilted his head in a questioning, daring sort of way. Will you be standing there all night? Or will you come up and talk to me?

It was stupid. Why were they the one being nervous? Yet still, despite all that, their legs moved on their own, like he was pulling them on a string. They wanted to talk. They wanted to have him, really.

“I might change my mind about wanting to serve vampires, after all,” he told the woman next to him as they got closer, loud enough for them to hear every word. If their heart had been beating, it might’ve skipped a beat.

“Serve is a strong word,” Whumper muttered, nodding to the woman in greeting and receiving an encouraging smile in return. From this close, they could smell the human’s marvellous blood, yet another tether they weren’t sure they would ever be able to sever.

“Oh?” He caught their gaze, and Whumper suddenly felt like they very much wanted to be looking at something else, anything else. “Do you have a better word in mind, sir?” His voice was silky smooth, giving them all but the illusion of sincere curiosity with a teasing undertone humans weren’t meant to use, not when talking to vampires.

“I… Well, I just meant… There’s no need for such clear-cut dynamics, really,” they stammered out, and the human’s eyes flashed with intrigue.

“Isn’t there?” He was quick to adjust his demeanour, leaving behind every last trace of the faux-sweetness he’d had with the previous vampire, replaced by even more of that playful arrogance that had captivated them in the first place. “I’m but a mere thrall, sir, surely you don’t really mean that.”

“Well, if we tally it all up, I’d be providing the shelter, clothing, all the amenities, and from my understanding, more food to you than you would to me,” they explained quickly.

“And in exchange, I stay obedient and follow your every order, yes?” He paused, waiting for them to say no. Probably wanting them to say no. “That does seem like a rather clear-cut–”

“It doesn’t have to be,” they interrupted suddenly, and the human looked like a cat that got the cream.

“Well,” he said slowly, giving them another once-over. “With all due respect, sir, that sounds like a straight path to spoiling a human rotten.”

You would spoil me rotten, wouldn’t you?

Whumper swallowed, nodding a little. “I suppose it does.”

I would go hungry if you told me you disliked the feeling of fangs in your neck.

He rewarded them with an approving smile, and Whumper let out a breath they didn’t need. “I’m sure your thrall will appreciate all this leniency greatly, sir.”

[whumpsday]

Our Hell on Earth #1: Warm Welcome

Masterlist

content: demon whumper, demon caretaker/carewhumper, interrogation, torture, burns, defiant whumpee, caretaking, captivity

welcome to my next bigger series! it’s not gonna be nearly as long as K&J, but still way longer than my little miniseries. been having these guys in my head for years and MTAT finally gave me the push to put ‘em out there. hope you enjoy my new guys :)

@amonthofwhump​ March Trope-A-Thon Day 3: Spy/Military / Interrogation / Undercover Mission / Barracks/Training / Patching Up A Wound

Cedric flexed his fingers nervously, his wrists shackled directly to the arms of the chair. It was wooden, but a hard, sturdy wood: both uncomfortable to sit in for as long as he had been, and impossible to break, especially when he couldn’t gain any leverage. His head still pounded from where he’d gotten hit.

His ankles were similarly bolted to the chair’s legs, preventing him from anxiously bouncing his leg like he so wanted to, unable to see even an inch in front of his face in the pitch-dark of the windowless room he’d woken up in. He could hardly even tell if his eyes were open or closed.

He was so fucked this time.

It wasn’t like Cedric hadn’t gotten into some bad situations before, in his line of work. You didn’t exactly get into demon hunting if you held your life close to your chest, unwilling to risk it. But he’d imagined he might go out in the heat of combat, one and done. Not this.

There wasn’t much he could do but sit there. Infuriatingly, he could feel that his phone was still in his pocket, he just couldn’t fucking reach it.

He couldn’t be sure how long it had been when Cedric heard heavy footsteps in the distance somewhere behind him. Was the chair facing away from the door?

His suspicions were confirmed when the door opened with a click, finally letting light into the room. Cedric tried to turn his head and see, but the chair’s back was too high, and all he could see was dark wood. He looked forward instead, squinting in the dim light from the doorway.

It looked like an unfinished basement from what he could see, which wasn’t much, mainly just the wall. Anything of note in here was probably also behind the chair.

“Wakey, wakey,” came a deep, gravelly voice.

“I was already awake, asshole,” Cedric shot back immediately.

The low voice chuckled. “Oh, we’re going to have some fun together, aren’t we.”

His suspicions of being in a basement were confirmed when he heard the sound of the guy walking down stairs, slow and deliberate. The light flicked on, and Cedric had to squeeze his eyes shut, too bright after the total darkness.

As he slowly opened his eyes and eased them into the light, the guy came into view. It was apparent that he was a demon, which came as no shock. But he wasn’t the one Cedric had been fighting when he went down.

He was huge, for one. Seven feet easy, maybe more, which Cedric resented all the more at his cool five-three. The demon he’d been fighting had been maybe six-five tops, short for a demon, but quick. That was what did Cedric in: he was too damn slow.

Cedric glared up as his eyes adjusted. “Yeah, real fun. What do you want? Why am I still alive?”

The demon gave him an amused, condescending look, like Cedric was being silly. “Oh, not much. Just answer some questions for me and you’ll be on your merry way.”

“Uh, why would I wanna answer your questions if you’re just gonna kill me after?” Cedric scoffed.

The demon grinned, row of razor-sharp teeth gleaming. “We’ll get there.”

His eyes travelled lower, down to Cedric’s pocket. “Looks like Lack’s been slacking in his duties again, I should have already had this in my hand. Tsk-tsk. Going to have to give him a reminder to be diligent.” The demon reached down into Cedric’s pocket with a clawed hand.

“Hey! Don’t touch!” Cedric shouted, but the demon paid no mind, taking the phone out and carefully tapping the relatively-tiny screen.

He turned it around. “That makes for a good first question. What’s the password?”

Cedric took a moment to be thankful that he never used any of that stupid biometric crap on his phone.

Then he spit in the demon’s face. Well, he tried, but trajectory landed it on his chest. Close enough.

The demon gave that condescending smile again as he wiped it away. Cedric was beginning to hate that smile.

“Forgot to introduce myself. I am Drive,” the demon said, leaning forward. “And I have a lot of it. Here is how this is going to work. You give me the information I’m looking for- base location, names and locations of fellow hunters, the key to your phone- and the pain stops.” Drive reached forward and patted him on the cheek. “Understand, little one?”

“Gah!” Cedric pulled away as much as he could given his restraints, which wasn’t much. “Might as well give up. I’m not telling you shit.”

The words coming out of his mouth scared him more than Drive’s threat. If the demon gave up... he would kill him. Cedric knew that.

But he would rather die than rat everyone out. He couldn’t. He’d rather be tortured to death than know they were hurt because of him.

He knew that was no longer a hypothetical.

Drive grinned. “You’ll find I don’t do that easily.”

He snapped his fingers, a small flame coming to life at his fingertip.

Cedric’s breath caught in his throat. But he had to be strong, he had to. The other option was just unthinkable.

“Hmmm...” Drive contemplated, looking him up and down. “How about we start with that pretty face?” he sneered.

“Don’t fucking call me pretty,” Cedric growled.

Drive rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. No one will after I’m done with you.”

He grabbed Cedric by the hair with his free hand, holding his head in place and bringing the flame close with the other. “Last chance before we get started.”

Cedric could feel the heat from the flame, just barely kept from licking at his face. “Go fuck yourself.”

Drive laughed, wordlessly bringing his finger to Cedric’s cheek. He gasped as his face came alive with pain, increasing exponentially as the fire was held there. He tried to pull away, but it was a hopeless endeavor: the demon’s grip was iron-tight.

He couldn’t help but cry, the tears rolling down his cheeks doing nothing to quell the flame. His breaths came quick with panic, and he bit his tongue hard to hold back a scream, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. It felt like the flame was boring a hole straight through his face, the nerves there screaming at him to get away.

Drive held him there for a few minutes before sliding his finger down just slightly, moving the flame onto fresh skin to start all over again. Cedric let out a strangled cry of pain despite himself, chest heaving.

The demon tugged on his hair to tilt his head even further into the fire. “We can start slow. One piece of information and we’ll call it enough for the first day.”

“No,” Cedric squeaked, hating the way his voice pitched up like that when he was afraid.

“Then we’re going to be here a while. You’d better get comfortable.”

-

It was hours later when Drive finally decided to call it quits, extinguishing the flame. Cedric’s breathing was ragged by this point, half his face a mess of meticulously burnt flesh from just below his eye all the way down to his jawline, the other half a mess of sweat and tears. When the demon let go of his hair, he slumped forward, shaking.

“You know most humans don’t make it past the first day?” Drive commented casually.

Cedric didn’t have a biting remark to that.

“I’ll leave you to calm down. My assistant will be down in a bit to clean you up.” Drive smirked. “See you tomorrow.”

And with that, the demon sauntered back up the stairs, flicking the lights off and the door closed to leave Cedric in total darkness.

He let himself cry unabashedly now, pathetic little sobs that sent his shoulders bobbing up and down instead of strong, mostly-silent tears.

What was he going to do? He wasn’t alone when he got taken, so at least they knew he wasn’t just killed outright. They’d be looking for him. But would they actually be able to find him? He had no idea where he was. He might not even be on Earth anymore, they could have taken him through a portal. There’d be no chance of rescue if he was in Hell.

But the air was clean. It smelled disgustingly of his own burnt flesh, but it didn’t stink of sulfur. He’d never been to Hell, but he’d heard that about it. So he was probably still on Earth.

Someone would come for him. He had to believe that. Maybe they could track his phone, though Drive had taken it with him. He hoped that wherever he was, there was cell signal here.

The door opened again, and Cedric’s head snapped up with panic at the sound before he remembered what Drive had said. His assistant.

The lights flickered back on, the footsteps coming down this time lighter, confident. The demon who came into view was maybe the first Cedric had seen who probably wasn’t over a foot taller than him. He looked maybe six-one, if he had to guess. He sported a black eye and held a bucket full of various supplies, the handle resting on the inside of his elbow, his expression sour.

“Ouch,” he commented, giving Cedric a once-over.

“Yeah.” His voice came out more broken than he would like. “Ouch.”

“Here’s the deal,” the demon stated, putting his bucket down. “I’m not here to get information out of you. That’s Drive’s job, not mine. If you decide you want to talk, wait for him. I’m just here to make sure you don’t die while he does what he does.”

He took a plastic cup out of the bucket and left Cedric’s line of sight, the sound of a tap running soon following. When he came back, he shoved it in front of Cedric’s face. “Drink.”

He was more than glad to, the water amazing on his parched throat. The demon tipped the cup further as he drank, until it was all gone.

The demon pulled a tube of burn cream out of the bucket, squirting some on his fingers. “Hold still.” He reached for Cedric’s face.

Cedric jerked his head away, on instinct more than anything else. He knew it would probably be good to get treatment, but the thought of anyone touching his face right now, even the demons’ medic, was unthinkable.

The demon sighed, obviously annoyed. “It’s not going to hurt any more than it already does. Like I said, not my job. Hold still.”

“F-fine.” Cedric held still this time as the demon smeared the gel over his burn, the sensation cool on his abused skin. “Are you Lack?” he asked, remembering what Drive had said earlier.

“Yep.” The demon dabbed carefully under Cedric’s eye.

“Is it ‘cause you’re the lackey?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his situation.

Lack gave him an exasperated, deadpan look. “No.”

He replaced the burn cream in the bucket, pulling out some gauze and cling wrap and applying that over the wound. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

“Nah, that’s it.” Cedric flexed his fingers again, the height of motion he was really allowed.

Lack nodded, pulling a sandwich out of the bucket. It was wrapped in plastic and still had the barcode sticker on it. “I’m betting you want me to hand-feed you about as little as I want to do it. If I let your hands free, are you going to try and pull anything?”

Cedric would kill to be able to actually move for a moment. “No.”

Lack produced a key, inserting it into the shackles bolting his wrists to the chair and opening them one by one. Cedric stretched his arms up, relieved to be able to do at least that, even if his face still felt like it was on fire. He grabbed the sandwich from Lack, unwrapped it, and took a bite.

“Can I get more water?” he asked.

Lack eyed his still-shackled ankles for a moment, then conceded. “Sure, that’s fine.” He left to go refill the cup, taking the key with him.

Cedric leaned forward as much as he could, trying to reach for the bucket and see if there was anything useful in there, but it was a good foot and a half out of his reach. He quickly abandoned his effort before Lack could see.

Lack came back with a full cup of water, setting it on the chair’s armrest. “Do you take any critical medications?”

He doubted the demon would consider it critical, and he had bigger things to worry about right now. “Nope.”

“Good. That shit’s apparently annoying to get, and then they get mad at me for requesting it. Like they wouldn’t be even more pissed off if you died in the chair because I didn’t. Idiots.” Lack kicked the ground with irritation.

So Lack didn’t like his boss. Maybe Cedric could use that, somehow, but he wasn’t sure how yet. After he finished his sandwich and the rest of the water, Lack took the key back out. “I’m going to let you out of the chair so you can use the bathroom. Don’t try anything, because if you do, I’m going to have to watch you, and neither of us wants that. Drive’s right upstairs, you’re not escaping.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t. Sheesh.” The concept of running into Drive again made him feel almost ill.

Lack unlocked the last of his restraints, and Cedric did a full-body stretch when he stood up. Being locked into that chair for hours wasn’t nearly as bad as his burns, but it still took a toll. He turned around, finally able to see the rest of the basement.

His eyes immediately fell on a table pushed against the wall, terrifying instruments sat neatly-organized across it. Knives of all shapes and sizes and serrations, pliers, saws, a drill, a hammer and nails, and more. His stomach turned at the sight, knowing that it was likely meant for him.

He turned away, following Lack to the small bathroom on the opposite side of the basement. “Five minutes.”

Cedric nodded, throat choked up with nerves, and closed himself in the bathroom. There was no lock on the door. Even if there was, Lack could probably break the door down easily, and Drive definitely could. There was no window. Nowhere to run.

He stayed in the bathroom well after he’d finished washing his hands, letting the tap run until Lack knocked on the door. “Time’s up. Come on out.”

Knowing he didn’t really have any other choice, Cedric turned the tap off and opened the door. “You gonna put me back in the chair?”

“I’ll be back in six hours with more food and water,” Lack said by way of answer.

Cedric hesitated, staring reluctantly at the chair.

“Sit in the chair,” Lack insisted. “If it’s going to be a fight every time I let you up, I’ll have to figure out something that doesn’t involve letting you up. This is easier for both of us, so let’s just stick with this.”

“I gotta sleep in that thing? I don’t even get to lie on the floor?” Cedric whined.

Lack looked from his miserable face to the chair and back. “...I’ll see about getting you a pillow.”

He figured that was about as good as he was gonna get it. Cedric stalked back over to the chair and slumped down in it, too exhausted from his ordeal to try and fight.

“Thank you.” Lack locked his wrists and ankles back in.

-

taglist:

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[yet-another-heathen]

Invasion, Pt. III

1,165 words. Original Work: Luca and Garcia.

<< | Masterpost | >>

Kyle tries to figure out how to stay alive. Part three of a 'choose your own ending' mini-series, feat. one of Liliholm and Page's most notorious whumpers.

Special thanks to @paperprinxe, whose recent interest in the series inspired me to continue! Your enthusiasm is contagious <3

TW | aftermath of dog attack, whumper deciding whether or not to murder a 19 yr. old, plus sized whumpee, broken bones (graphic), aftermath of hand whump, nausea, severe injuries, preparing to fight back against your whumper even though it might be the (second) stupidest thing you've ever done in your life

The Girls sat politely, watching him as he paced back and forth. Their faces were still slicked with gore, smears of red painted across the floor beneath them.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. What the hell was he going to do? It was bad enough to think that some kid was gonna die because they'd signed up for someone else's dirty work. But this one was just some boy off the street. Some chubby little punk who had no clue what he'd been getting himself into.

Fucking hell. Talk about one stupid decision that gets you killed.

But Garcia couldn't just let him go. He made his living doing very, very illegal things for a very important man. One whose name and reputation was everything to him. Anything that could even theoretically get traced back to Mr. Garterrit would land Garcia in deep water. Even telling him that he had a body to get rid of would be enough to earn scrutiny, regardless of whether he had already tied up all loose ends. Leaving someone out there who knew where he lived wasn't even on the table.

Even if the kid was smart enough not to go to the cops, he knew his type. Poor. Overconfident. Desperate to prove himself to anyone and everyone who would listen—especially to the kids who had grown up on the street rather than just on the edge of it.

No. He might be smart enough not to go to the Uniforms, but that didn't mean he'd stay quiet for long. Then not only would this safehouse be compromised, but eventually someone would get wind of what had happened. You didn't do what Garcia did for a living without making yourself enemies. And when they found the kid, they wouldn't hesitate to tear straight through him on their way after Garcia. The boy would end up with a far worse sort of death than he could give him.

There wasn't a choice. Not really. Doing away with him now would save them both the headache. He already knew what he had to do.

So why the hell was he hesitating?

---

Downstairs, Kyle was mindless with pain. The bite wounds were crashing through him in wave after wave of agony, hands already swelling almost to the point of being unable to move. He sobbed as he finally rolled onto his side, and managed to get his broken arm out from underneath him.

As soon as the pressure was gone, his vision went white. He came to gasping and coughing and drooling blood against the dirty concrete floor, weeping so hard he could scarcely breathe.

Fuck. He was gonna die here, wasn't he?

This man was a fucking giant. Kyle stood about as good a chance of beating him in a fight as he did of digging his way out of this basement with his teeth. And yet he still found himself clinging to a refusal to die.

Unless it had fallen out in the dog attack, he still had his switchblade in his back pocket. The only problem was that his hands were so ruined that he wasn't sure he could even hold it, let alone make any use of it.

But he had to try. He had nothing else.

Every single increment of movement was pain. He slowly reached one hand behind himself, fumbling along the seam of his jeans trying to find his pocket. His fingers were so raw and torn that he couldn't feel properly, and at least one finger was bent at a sickly angle where it had been broken during his fall.

Kyle let out gasping, stifled whines as he finally found the lip of his pocket. He managed to work the tip of his finger between the tight layers of denim before remembering he was fishing around in the wrong pocket. The realization made him want to faint. It was on the other side, where he normally would have used his broken arm to reach. He was going to have to work his hand all the way around behind his back to get to it from this angle.

He let his good hand slump to the floor, taking a few long moments to let himself sob. He didn't even bother trying to do it quietly. He'd never been in this much pain in all his life.

He listened to the floorboards creak as the man upstairs paced. Whatever he was, whoever he was, Kyle was so far out of his depth that he couldn't think. Would anyone even find his body? Or was his gran'ma just going to think he'd run off and left her like she'd always been so scared he would?

The thought brought on another blinding wave of tears. He sucked in a few breaths between his teeth, then tried again to reach.

He'd always been a big kid, who carried most of his extra weight around his middle. He'd never cursed those extra few inches more than he did now. After a few more moments of straining to reach without moving his shoulders, he realized he had no choice. He took one hesitant glance down at his broken arm.

It was rotated around itself at a sickening angle, elbow and hand both facing the wrong way. He inhaled sharply and instantly turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. Blood rushed in his ears. His mouth tasted sour. And now that he'd seen it, the pounding, dull pain was even more impossible to ignore. It was all he could do not to throw up.

But he had to. He had to.

So he reached around and positioned his wrist under his broken arm. A few sharp inhales as he tried to gather himself, then he screwed his eyes shut and picked it up.

It was only a short trip to his lap, but every degree that the bone rotated was agony. He nearly dropped it halfway, fumbling it with fingers that couldn't properly close. But he managed to get it the rest of the way into his lap, letting it slip off his wrist with one final twinge.

It was only after he'd finished that his own guttural sounds of pain finally faded back into focus. Dark spots swam around the edges of his vision. His breaths came wet through clenched teeth. And more useless fucking tears were streaming down his face, burning where his left eye was already swollen shut.

Fuck. He didn't want to die down here.

There was another creak just outside the basement door. His heart gave a sickening jolt. It was louder. Closer.

He didn't have time to think. He twisted around, and reached. The handle at the top of the steps turned.

There! He could feel the bulge of the knife through the denim. He crammed his fingers into the pocket, heedless of his injuries, and grasped for the hilt. His bloodied fingers slipped off once. Twice.

Footsteps on the stairs. With one last surge of adrenaline, he got his fingers around the knife hilt.

next | >>

-----

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Love you all <33

[letstalkwhump]

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community! I’m Malice and I’ll be your host today. 

Here today to talk all things whumpy is the brilliant @whumpcereal!

It’s great to have you here! Let’s start with a fact or two about yourself  like your favorite color or favorite animal? 

My name is Kay, and I’m a high school teacher in my 30’s. Besides whumping unsuspecting gentlemen, my hobbies include reading a lot, belting out showtunes, cooking for people I love, hitting up new bars and restaurants with friends, and traveling. And since you asked–and as a teacher, I hate unanswered questions–I’ve recently realized that orange might be my favorite color, and I love gorillas. 

What does whump mean to you?

 It’s the sort of pressing-on-a-bruise feeling that is wrapped up in watching someone suffer and then be comforted. It’s the need for vulnerability and human connection. It’s watching Prince Philip get chained to a wall and not understanding why you find it so magnetic, but you do, haha! 

How did you find the whump community? What made you want to join? 

I was writing for the Newsies fandom (I know) during the pandemic, and one of my favorite authors tagged her epic work with “whump.” I clicked the tag on tumblr, and I found @lonesome--hunter’s Ezra almost immediately; I fell down the rabbit hole and never came out. After Ezra, I spent a good long time with @ashintheairlikesnow’s Danny and then @galaxywhump’s Wren. I realized that a lot of what I was putting in my own writing could be classified as “whump,” but I wasn’t sure how to join in the fun. I lurked for a while and then beta-ed for @darkthingshappen before I got brave enough to post my own stuff. But part of what motivated me to start posting was just how supportive and welcoming the whole community is. On AO3, you can get tons of hits but almost no real engagement; with whump, that’s totally different. It makes my little dopamine receptors ping. 

The whump community is amazingly supportive! Do you think your view on or the way you consume whump changed since you joined? 

 I am definitely a hurt/comfort gal. I can’t do the hurt without the comfort, and I need my whump to be strongly oriented in the characters’ feelings, whether we’re talking whumpers or whumpees. I struggle when a character is just getting the shit kicked out of them endlessly; I want them to have some relief, even if the relief is bittersweet or painful in its own way. I also find it easier to whump an OC than I do a fandom character, just because if they’re mine, I can build the kind of backstory that makes the whump reasonable. 

And your favourite whump trope?

 I do like noncon. Whump is a genre where I’ve really been able to explore scary things that have happened to me, and when a whumpee has an honest (and not needlessly gratuitous) nonconsensual experience, I gravitate toward it, especially if they’re allowed to explore the aftermath and how it makes them feel. I also love a mute whumpee–probably because I watched The Little Mermaid too many times growing up. Something about the helplessness of being trapped in your own body and at the mercy of others–hey, whumperflies! Captivity whump too, especially anything in the BBU. The BBU was one of my favorite discoveries when I found the community. It provides such rich opportunities! 

Captivity whump is so good! Would you mind sharing a favourite piece you've written? (the following pieces may contain non-explicit nsfw references)

Ooooh. Well, I guess I’ll choose one from each of my series. For Jack, my first and forever whumpee in Behavior Modification, and his caretaker, my wish-fulfillment fake husband, Joe, it’s this piece with their little girl. It’s something that I wrote in basically a single stretch one afternoon last summer, and I’m proud of it because it shows both how far Jack has come in his recovery and how much everything he’s gone through is still affecting him. It also shows how fierce of a protector Joe is, even though Jack’s got strength of his own. Plus, Hallie, their little girl, was super fun to create. She’s a feisty little thing, and I liked the idea of looking at such a dark, violent system through a child’s eyes. 

For The Kennel, it’s this piece which immediately follows my boy Will after his best friend Tommy is forced to assault him. It’s got the aftermath of noncon, plus it includes a lot of world building for my scary whumper, Doc, and his particular set-up. It really sets up the horror of the situation in which Will and Tommy have found themselves and also emphasizes the stories of other whumpees whose stories I’d love to explore (Justin and Tony, I’m looking at you). Plus, it gives Annie–who’s technically the caretaker in this story, even though she’s been abused herself–a chance to think about how she’s been raised and the way her father treats people. My favorite moment is when Will just breaks down completely, because we haven’t seen him do that yet. It’s a human moment, and he’s feeling so much less than human that it’s almost cathartic. 

And then, honorable mention to this piece where I crossover my two stories and let Jack help Will as his post-rescue counselor. I had so much fun with that reveal! 

Oh wow, I love the Kennel piece! You’ve broken my heart with Justin and Will! Would you like to share your writing routine  with us?

 I’ve actually been riding a bit of a block lately, but typically, I am an evening writer. No drinks or snacks, but usually movie scores that match the mood of what I’m writing. On good nights, it’s big blocks; on others, it’s just a sentence here and there (that’s been where I’m at lately). I try to write a little every day, but again, it’s been rough lately. Being a teacher at the end of the year is just as hard as being a student, haha. 

I can only imagine! Are some things easier for you to write? Anything you struggle with writing?

 I have an easier time writing recovery than I do straight whump, which is sometimes a bummer, because the whump community doesn’t seem to like recovery quite as much. So, I’ll pour myself into a recovery piece I have big feelings about, and then it won’t get quite as much traffic and engagement as when I’m roughing up the boys. I am very careful about how I write noncon. I think I do a decent job, but I try to approach it from a place of sensitivity to the person who is suffering versus engaging through violence alone. That can take a lot of time and thought and big feelings. 

And is there anything you're working on at the moment? 

I do have a fantasy crossover miniseries with Jack, Joe, and Ivan and @oddsconverts’ Josh and Felix that I’ve had a really fun time working on. I need to write a little intro before I post it. I need to go back to Jack and his intimacy consultations at WRU, and AU AU Joe and his reaction to the Drip. Poor Will and Tommy are in desperate need of attention; I need to get Will sold away so all the drama can increase. Maybe during summer vacation? 

Do you have a joke or pun you would like to share to spread some smiles today? I am only funny on accident. Just ask my students. ;-) 

Do you have any writing advice you’d like to share?

I’m great at giving advice to others, but absolute shit at following that advice myself. For instance, write for you. Don’t write for hits, likes, reblogs, etc. Just write what you want to read. Write as often as you can. During the pandemic, what got me back into writing after years of thinking about it was trying to write a little every day. Find you some writing friends who will get excited with you when there’s something you can’t wait to write about. 

Finally, would you like to give a mention to some of the amazing people in the whump community?

I already mentioned some of my favorites, but shout outs to @hold-him-down (whom I was lucky enough to eat very expensive risotto with this spring and whose Leo is one of my very favorite whumpees), @peachy-panic (58 Days is one of my VERY favorites), @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump (whose Wyatt has my whole heart), and @squishablesunbeam (I mean, Jesse? Come on!). My first friends in the whump community were @darkthingshappen (creator of my Benny baby), @oddsconvert (whose series are all so beautifully written that I can’t choose a favorite–she even made me like vampire whump–and who is my wonder twin forever), and @sparrowsage (go check out his new stuff!). 

Thank you so much for joining us, @whumpcereal ! It was a pleasure to have you here! 

And to all you lovely folks at home, have a whump-derful day!

[justplainwhump]

Styling

Felix gets Ali a job opportunity at WRU.

Loosely aligned with the Pet Safety Series. Follows [Felix].

Content / warnings: BBU, an outsider being drawn into the system, reluctant(?) whumper pov. BBU-typical dubcon/noncon implied at the end; not explicit. Something more about WRU demo pets.

Ali had left early in the morning, after their first night. But on the kitchen counter, Felix had found a wrapped up sandwich, a bottle of water and an Aspirin. A phone number had been written all over the sandwich bag. Let me know if you liked it - A.

Smiling, Felix had texted him a photo of his lunch in the park behind the facility, careful not to reveal the location.

Ali had replied with a photo of a sandwich just like the one he'd made him, not hiding his work place, a luxury hair salon down town. Oh, look what I'm having! It's a match.

One thing led to the other, one night to the next, and to Felix' own surprise Ali grew into a constant in his life, the light touch of his kisses, the warmth of his body, the smell of his cooking, the sight of his dark eyes drinking him in in the morning.

*

"You don't actually sell cars, do you?"

It was one of the days where Ali worked an afternoon shift, while Felix had to get ready in the morning. With one leg in the dress pants, Felix paused and turned towards Ali.

"Does it matter?"

"Depends." Ali stared at him, hesitating. "Is it people?"

"Depends," Felix replied. "Some would say so. It's a matter of definition, really." He pulled the pants over his other leg and zipped them close. A part of him was getting ready to run and not see Ali again. Would be a shame, really. He'd started to like him. "They were people once. They signed up for it though."

"Pets." Ali stated it without judgement, only mild curiosity. "You're selling pets. You work for WRU?"

"Mh." Felix met Ali's gaze. "Does it... change things?"

Ali squinted, lost in thought for a moment, before he shook his head. "You think it should?"

"I've had dates who got judgmental." Felix shrugged. "It's a pretty controversial business."

"We do have pets in the salon sometimes." Ali pushed himself up in the bed. "A handful of our clients own Guards or Romantics. They bring them in, too, and we style them. I don't judge." He picked up Felix shirt and tossed it to him. "I do judge you for lying to me."

"I would've told you," Felix said, catching the shirt, heart racing at the boldness of his next suggestion. "In fact, Ali, I think I might have a job for you."

***

Ali Beheshti was and had always been a cautious man. His parents had been refugees, and a lot of their mannerisms and fears had been passed down to him. Don't trust the system. Don't trust people who pretend to know what's good for you. Stick to your own business. Always know a way out.

The first time the gates of a WRU facility slid open for him and then closed behind you with a small hiss, he wondered how Felix Kane had made him so readily betray this very part of himself.

Then Felix jogged up to him with that easy smile of his that could light up an entire room, and Ali forbid his thoughts to venture further down that route.

"So glad that you could make it! Big day today. Important client, some heartbroken youtuber who's been talked into a bet that not even a WRU pet could make him not think about his ex. However this trial ends, our products will be on thousands of screens, and I want them to look great."

Ali slapped the large trolley that held his equipment, swallowing down the unease roiling in his stomach. "I've got my red carpet set with me. I can make them camera ready."

They stepped into an elevator, and Felix pressed a kiss on the side of Ali's neck. "You're a saviour."

"Thank me later." Ali gently pushed Felix away. "This is a professional call, remember?"

"Sure." Felix grinned and swiped his id over the keypad. "I will thank you alright, love."

Ali eyed the keypad. Designed to make sure nobody could get in without a permission. Or out. "These pets," he said. "They signed up for this, right?"

"'Course they did." Felix raised an eyebrow. "They all do. Otherwise it would be illegal, wouldn't it? The ones you're going to meet - our demo pets - they have heartbreaking pasts. They're so much better off with us than they've been before. WRU saved them."

"Then why does the security look like a prison?"

Felix didn't miss a beat. "Maybe it rather looks like bank? They're worth a lot. Them and us put a lot of effort into training them to be at their best. People want to steal them. Others want to liberate them. Idiots, really. Our pets don't want to be liberated." He cast Ali a warm smile. "They're very obedient. You're safe. You don't need to worry."

"I, um. Never mind." He had not worried about that. He was too sceptical, probably. Definitely. Right? His parents had just messed him up with their fear of evil governments and imprisonment. "I... Why don't give me a quick run down already? How many are there, what styles do you want? A story you want their looks to tell?"

There were eight in Felix' responsibilty, Ali learned, eight of the so-called Romantics, various genders, various ethnical backgrounds, various stories to tell. The girl next door, the buff teddy bear, the quiet enigma, the dirty little secret, the soft dreamer, the confident performer, the spoiled princess, the devoted servant. Ali didn't dare ask, how the roles were assigned. How the people they'd been before were moulded into these shapes. It all had happened before. They signed up for it. Felix just did the sales part. And Ali just styled them. It wasn't as if his real life clients didn't come to him with stories just like these as well. Just yesterday one of hie regulars had requested to be styled like "Sin itself". This was just another job, one that challenged him in the best ways, one that paid extraordinilarily well - and one that would do a favor to the man he'd love to call his boyfriend some day. A great chance, that's what this was. Nothing less, nothing more.

Felix introduced him to the pets, one by one. They weren't supposed to be in the room together, he explained, only with clients present. Having them bond, to influence each other, would mess with their carefully calibrated training. Ali didn't try to understand that; these intricacies of Felix' job didn't need to bother him.

All of the pets that sat down in the chair in front of him shared an extraordinary beauty. All shared a quiet obedience, and the same set of mannerisms. And all of them flirted with Felix, who just replied with a generous smile. This was the one thing that did bother Ali. But then again, when Felix looked away from them, and at Ali, to give some quiet pointers at what to do, Felix' smile shifted into another one, a more private, cheeky, honest one. These were pets. Ali was a person. It wasn't the same.

"That's Noor," Felix said, when he brought over the last one, a slim man with long black hair an almost ethereal elegance to his movements. He was pierced in his lip and eyebrow, and as easily to see through his fishnet top, also elsewhere on his body. Ali found himself wonder, if that was all of it. Then, if that was exactly what he was meant to wonder about. He inhaled softly, counted to ten, hoping to banish the faint blush creeping up in his cheeks. Or the thought, of how well Felix would know the answer to that.

"Good morning, Mister Ali," Noor said softly.

"Noor?" Ali raised a brow. "A Persian name?"

"He got here right after I met you." Felix smiled. "Couldn't stop thinking about you. So I named him in your honor."

"That's-" Ali frowned. Creepy, a part of his mind whispered. Sweet, another part insisted. "Special," he settled.

Noor slid into the chair in front of him, gaze cast down, not meeting Ali's in the mirror. What had Felix said in that first night? About one of his so called "cars"? Totalled, by a client. Had to be replaced. Noor must've been the replacement. How long would he make it, then? How long the others? Ali swallowed, reached for Noor's long hair instead, letting his hands run through them carefully. It was beautiful, smooth and heavy and soothing. Could need a little more conditioner, maybe. Better care for the tips.

"Noor's the dirty little secret," Felix said, almost affectionate. "I want his hair open, shining, but in a way that makes you want to grab it, pull him around by it, you know?"

Ali wasn't sure if it was the request that made him shiver, or the way he exactly knew the feeling Felix described.

"I do", he said, his voice cracking a little. "I can do that. I'll wash his hair first, add a little treatment."

Felix nodded. "He's been good. You can be gentle."

He'd been like that before, too. Advised Ali, on how gentle to be, as if the hair styling was a part of a regimen of rewards and punishment.

Ali had mostly ignored it. He was always gentle. It would make him a horrible hairdresser, not to take care of the people- humans- beings, in the chair in front of him.

"Sure," he said anyways, and gestured Noor over to the washing basin. He checked the water temperature himself - he'd learned already at pet number three, that they'd say the temperature was fine with perfectly content smiles and soft voices, regardless if it was scalding or freezing. "You good?", he asked, still, mostly from habit.

Noor hummed in reply, a soft, peaceful noise, as Ali gently started massaging his scalp under the warm water.

Ali looked up at Felix, leaning in the door with his arms crossed, watching them with a soft smile. "He's enjoying it," he observed. "I'd love to switch places."

"Later," Ali said.

Noor's shoulders seemed to relax, his breath slowing, as Ali's fingers deftly worked his temples. He wondered quietly, how often the pets received something like that. A reward like that. And what it was for. What being good might encompass.

"You look good together," Felix said. "My favorite pet. And my... favorite person."

"Shush", Ali hissed, unable to hide the blush in his cheeks. "We're working."

"He's asleep." Felix nodded at Noor. "You're doing wonders on him. And it's good. He needs to relax anyway. I'm not meant to do favorites of course, but he is the best of them. I bet he'll be chosen today."

"Quiet," Ali muttered. His favorite person. He hadn't expected how nervous these words would made him feel. "I can't focus."

"I find it hard, too." Felix winked. "I'll think about this picture all day."

Ali reached for the conditioner and decidedly stared down onto Noor's beautiful, ink black hair, determined not to let Felix' words overwhelm him.

Thankfully, Felix did vanish shortly after, probably doing whatever else he needed to prepare for the evening, and Ali could focus on his job.

Felix returned, just as Ali finished blow drying Noor's hair. The pet looked stunning - of course he did. Ali was good at his job, after all. He worked out some strands, artfully twisting them, before he spun the chair towards Felix. "What do you think?"

"Stunning," Felix said, gaze more on Ali than on his model. "There's just something missing, for that freshly fucked look I was going for."

Ali frowned, ready to lash out against that criticism, but Felix was faster, looking at Noor now.

"Noor, dear, do you like what my friend did?"

"Yes, Felix." For the first time, Noor did look up at Ali in the mirror, a shy smile dancing on his pierced lip. "He was very nice."

"I think so, too. And I think you should thank him properly, don't you?"

Noor nodded, and before Ali could properly react to the innuendo, even make sense of what he wanted, his mind lost somewhere between Noor's smile and Felix' voice, the pet swung himself over the chairs armrest and dropped on his knees in front of Ali, looking up at him from deep brown eyes. His teeth played with the piercing in his lower lip, and there was a small dimple in one cheek, when he smiled.

Ali was dizzy. "I-- I don't think-"

"I can't tip you as you deserve, this is a company invoice after all," Felix said. "But I - we - can make you feel good anyway. Believe me. Noor will blow your mind." He smirked. "Literally."

"I- I styled his hair, but-" Ali wanted this. He didn't want it. His pants were awfully tight suddenly, his mind blank. Fuck. He should've been prepared, right? Had he been? Did he want this? He wondered how that piercing would feel.

"I respect if you don't want it, of course, I do, I just thought..." Felix voice was soft. "My boyfriend deserves some relaxation, too."

There was a soft touch between his legs, a hand moving over to his zipper. Ali didn't fight it. Boyfriend. Felix called him his boyfriend. And he wanted him to feel good. Noor wanted it, too. And fuck, if Ali's body wasn't craving it as well.

Felix smiled and stepped in.

"Boyfriend, huh?" Ali asked, huskily, as he felt his pants pulled down, and soft lips wander down his hips.

"If you want to be?"

Ali nodded, unable to speak, and Felix's lips found his just in time for Felix' mouth to absorb the little whimper escaping him when Noor took him in.

"I love you," Felix breathed into their kiss, and whatever Ali's treachereous mind had been whispering was blown away entirely.

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 30: Rebellion

Chapter 30 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, broken whumpee, defiant whumpee, royal whumper, reluctant whumper, multiple whumpers, whumper who is also a whumpee, really not sure how to describe the whumper and whumpee dynamics here tbh, whumper POV I guess, fantasy politics, threats of death

---

Kezul

It was time.

Here was where Kezul would say that the time of cooperation was over. That Danelor could never what it was, no matter what its people desired. That it belonged to Kyollen Naskor now, and to the exalted Unmaker, and that it was time for everyone here to stop pretending otherwise and acknowledge defeat.

Here was where the Wolves would hold the members of the noble houses in place, and bring out the ones imprisoned in the palace. Here was where the Wolves would lead them forward one by one. And instead of taking the head of Vorhullin the Unmaker, Kezul would take theirs, one by one.

Here was where the rebellion would begin, and where it would meet its bloody end.

If only he could make himself speak.

This was the only part of the speech he hadn’t asked for Mir’s help with. Not because Mir wouldn’t have helped, blank-voiced, blank-eyed. But because he couldn’t bring himself to voice his intentions aloud. Not to Mir.

After today, Kezul would return home to be made equal with his brothers. He would return home as an extension of his father’s will. And really, that was all he had ever been born to be. His failure to do so was the source of all his childhood shame. It wasn’t even his own will conflicting with his father’s—he wasn’t sure he had ever had a will of his own. All he had ever had was the knowledge of his father’s will and the inability to carry it out.

What might it have been like to have something he had wanted for himself? A desire beyond proving himself? A desire his father hadn’t planted in his head?

For a moment, in the courtyard listening to Gyoras, he had seen what that might be like. There had been a handful of other moments, too, in the throne room with Mir. It was strange—he had thought he had hated every moment of it, listening to the weak prisoner’s demeaning advice, knowing that taking their advice was nonetheless his best option. And yet, when he looked back, he could see only in retrospect that in some of those moments, he had been… content. Content in a way he had never been in his life, except for a few brief times riding alone on his horse, with no expectations beyond strength and speed.

He tried to look straight ahead at the crowd as he willed his words to return to him. He didn’t even know what it was he was avoiding until he glanced to the side and his eyes landed on Mir. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he had successfully avoided meeting Mir’s eyes ever since he had come out onto the steps.

From where he was standing, it was hard to tell whether Mir was looking back at him. Mir’s eyes seemed to look everywhere and nowhere at once. They were flat. Dead. Like the eyes of a statue, or of a corpse. Kezul couldn’t tell whether they were seeing anything at all.

Was it Kezul’s imagination, or was Mir standing closer than they had been a moment ago?

His imagination. His conscience, rather. Speaking in Mir’s voice, telling him not to do this. Maybe it was that imagined voice that had a grip on his throat, keeping him from speaking.

Maybe he should have had his Wolves kill Mir in the courtyard on that long ago day, before Kezul had ever said a word to them.

Then Mir glanced at him—only for an instant, but it was unmistakable. A brief flash of life came into those eyes. The sight made something unnamable rise up in Kezul’s chest. He hadn’t known how much he had missed that sight—but the feeling that rose in him at the side of it wasn’t a good one. It was slow and thick like despair. It was prickly like shame. It had the hot restlessness of pure fury.

And underneath it all was a quiet but profound disappointment, because in the next moment, Mir’s eyes were flat and dead again, even as they continued looking at him.

Kezul turned away.

It was time. No more stalling. To wait any longer was to refuse to do his father’s will, and that was an impossibility. Or that was what he told himself as he tried to force the words from his throat.

The Wolves were growing restless. They kept shooting furtive looks at him, no doubt wondering when it would be time to execute the plan, and whether they were supposed to have acted already. Another moment of this, and people would start noticing the warriors’ strange behavior.

And yet the crowd was still quiet, apart from a soft murmur of confusion. Everyone was looking at him, and everyone was waiting. He saw resentment in some of their eyes, but for the most part, they only looked at him the way everyone had been looking at his father all his life.

That was what he had craved all this time, wasn’t it? The only thing he had ever wanted more than that was to see that look in his father’s eyes—and now he had both.

Was it genuine respect in the eyes of the crowd, or was it simply fear? Once, he would have thought it was easy to tell the difference. Once, maybe, he would not have understood the difference. Now, as he looked out on the waiting crowd, he wondered what it had been when he had stood at his father’s side in his childhood, when he had stared out at the massed crowds gathered before the exalted Unmaker. Had it been respect then? Had it been only fear? Has there been buried resentment underneath, for the ruler who understood only war, only conquest and defeat?

And today, all the respect or fear or whatever it was… it was a lie, whether or not the crowd believed it. He was no ruler. He might have come up with this plan, but it had been his father’s doing. His father was the one had waited until the right answers came from his mouth, carefully prompted by his disappointments and his silences, his lessons and his accusations.

But that was what he had been born for. To be a conduit of his father’s will. A few more short words, and a few minutes that would feel even shorter, and he would finally succeed where he had failed all his life.

But as true as that might be, he was wrong about something else. He knew it, with a heaviness deep in his gut, as he looked out on the crowd and hated the lie of respect in their eyes. He had told himself he wanted nothing. But even if that had been true when he had first come to Danelor, it wasn’t true now.

He wanted what he had asked Mir for the other day—what he had begged Mir for.

He wanted to rule—to rule his way. To rule Mir’s way. He wanted it because he liked the feeling of finally succeeding at something. He wanted it because he wanted to see that respect in Gyoras’s eyes again. But more than either of those things, he wanted to feel the way he felt when he knew he was doing something well, and doing something right.

He had told himself he had no desires. He had told himself that all his illusions of desire had melted away when his father had come to Danelor. He had told himself that, because it was more tolerable than the truth: that he had swallowed down everything he desired and everything he knew was right, because he was every bit the coward Mir had named him.

He was a worse coward than the prisoner who had hidden in a closet when in battle had come. When battle had come for him, he had shoved Mir into the path of the blades in his place. He was the one who shouldn’t be in the room with anyone of any consequence, lest he pollute their air. He should have been the target of the Wolves’ games in the courtyard, not Mir.

He should have been dead in the courtyard right now, arrows pinning him to a tree trunk. Not standing in front of a crowd, giving a speech, pretending to rule.

He took a breath—and as he let it out, he felt his words return. His chest tightened in sudden fear—there was the fear he hadn’t felt before, coming for him all at once. But he welcomed it. At least the fear was honest.

“You have extended your hand to me when you would have been well within your rights to slap my own away,” said Kezul. The crowd went silent again at the first word from his mouth. “Your desire to do what is right for Danelor at all costs is humbling—and it is one I share. I wish to continue our cooperation… if you are willing.”

He lowered his eyes to the crowd, as if he were kneeling in front of them, presenting his weapon. It was a message most of them would not understand. That didn’t matter. He had said what he needed to say.

The waiting Wolves on the steps shifted restlessly. They shot him—and each other—looks of confusion.

Kezul didn’t look at Mir. He didn’t want to see that dead eyed look in Mir’s eyes again. Better for him to imagine, in these last moments before his father had him killed, that Mir was looking at him with pride.

His father stepped forward, radiating authority in his every movement. Now Kezul could see how he had been holding back his natural aura of leadership to make room for Kezul to do what he was here to do. That respect the crowd had shown him had never truly been his. It had always been given to him by his father. Now his father was showing him how quickly he could take it away, how easily he could eclipse him once again and take back the throne that had always truly been his. He could do it with a few quick strides.

“Hold him,” he shouted to the Wolves.

Confusion from the Wolves—first at Kezul’s departure from the plan, then at the Unmaker’s order. Confusion from the four heads of the noble houses standing on the steps, and from the members of the crowd who had been in the know, or thought they had been—they had thought Kezul would order the Unmaker seized, not the other way around.

They hadn’t understood, of course. They couldn’t, not when they didn’t know the Unmaker as anything more than a fearsome figure from a distant part of the world. They hadn’t understood that no one could have done what they had expected. It had been all Kezul could do simply to defy him.

And what would his defiance gain him, in the end? He knew what was coming next. The only question was which gruesome death his father had in store for him. And what good would his defiance do for Danelor? No more good than it had done for him. He knew better than to think his father would simply retreat and leave Danelor be now that Kezul had officially failed his test.

And what of Mir? Nothing he had said to Mir about how much better they were in his hands than his father’s had been an attempt at manipulation. It had all been nothing more and nothing less than the truth. What would happen to Mir, now that Kezul had made his choice?

He had proved himself to be more than the coward Mir had accused him of being. In the moment, it had seemed worth it. Now, though… now, he wondered why he had bothered.

For a single frozen moment, no one moved. Kezul thought, briefly, that perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps they would all stand here in this tableau as the world moved on without them. It was, he thought, the best ending he could possibly hope for.

But of course that didn’t happen. The Wolves recovered from their confusion first. A dozen of them started toward him at once.

He might have taken out his sword and gone down fighting. He was no fighter, but even he could see where dying in one last bloody battle would be better than waiting for his father to choose the manner of his death. But the Wolves that reached the first were, of course, the Wolves who were standing closest… his Fangs.

He remembered that day in the courtyard, and he hesitated.

By the time he recovered his power of movement, they had disarmed him, tossed away his sword and knife before he could have fought back. Even then, he wasn’t so sure he would have if he could have.

Their hands weren’t as rough as he had expected. It seemed almost as if they were trying to be gentle with him. He could have told him how dangerous that was. If he had tried, he could have pulled away from their weak grip.

But he didn’t. What would have been the point? All it would have gained him was the ability to run—like a coward. To run straight into the arms of several dozen more Wolves, and—if by some chance he made it past them—to the crowd below. And despite his words, he knew there were many among the crowd who were not and would never be his allies. To them, everything that had happened since the conquest was weighted much more heavily than a promise of cooperation from one of the conquerors.

And who could blame them?

He didn’t fight. He let his Wolves hold him in place. One of them squeezed his shoulder—maybe in warning, but it could just as easily have been a show of support. When he glanced to the side, he thought he recognized Gyoras’s furs.

The show of support was, of course, empty. The hands didn’t let him go. But what else could he have expected? His Wolves knew their role, just as he knew his. They were conduits of the Unmaker’s will, nothing more. He had chosen to throw that away and become powerless. Even that had taken all the strength he had. He could hardly expect them to do the same.

In his mind, he heard Mir’s voice. If he won’t leave, then get rid of him another way.

Had he really done all he could do?

He banished the voice. Of course he had. Acting against his father was impossible. Those stronger than him had tried and failed. He was weak. A coward. A failure.

Kezul the Defeated.

But even as he pushed Mir’s remembered words away, he his eyes sought out Mir against his will.

Mir was definitely standing closer than they had been—it wasn’t his imagination this time. And in Mir’s eyes—those dead, empty eyes—he caught a flicker of life. Barely more than that—a tiny spark of surprise, that was all.

But it was something.

It would have heartened him more if he hadn’t known what would happen to Mir once he was gone.

He opened his mouth to speak—although he wasn’t sure what he would say. Would he apologize to Mir for what was about to happen? For all his failures that had led them both to this point? Would he simply warn them to run, run now, while they had the chance? If it wasn’t too late. If they still had enough life left in them to do so.

But before he could speak, his father raised his hands to the crowd, in the same way Kezul had mere moments ago. And despite the crowd’s confusion, despite their rising panic, the shouts quieted and the restless bodies went still. Such was the power of the Unmaker’s aura.

His father spoke. “My son seeks cooperation,” he said. “But what my son wants no longer matters. As of now, he does not have the power to make pronouncements about the fate of Danelor. He is no longer a child of my blood, and he no longer sits on the throne of Danelor. There is no Danelor, and it had no throne. There is only Kyollen Naskor, and its only ruler is the one standing before you now.”

Murmurs rose from the crowd again. But even now—even when the rebels in the crowd should have been gathering their weapons—their voices were muted, and their movements were hesitant. Kezul, from where he was standing, saw no flash of metal. His father held a kind of sway over the crowd that Kezul could never have hoped to achieve. Even when they had listened to him, they had never listened quite like that.

Now he could see that the respect the crowd had given him had only ever been a pale imitation of what his father could command.

Once, he would have been jealous. Once, he would have studied his father hungrily, still under the impression that this was something he could learn if he only tried hard enough. Now he felt no hunger. Nor did he feel unworthy. All he felt was pity for his father, who only knew this, who mistook it for the skills of rule. And he felt fear, fear for the gathered crowd and everyone else in the Danelor who would suffer for it. And, of course, for Mir.

Not for himself. It wasn’t death he had feared all along. It was taking that final step, crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. Losing all chance at his father’s approval for good.

Now that he had lost that chance, he couldn’t imagine why he had ever wanted it.

His father wasn’t done speaking. “These would-be usurpers,” he said, waving a hand toward the four heads of the noble houses on the steps, “will die for their presumption in trying to steal back the Danelor throne. Their schemes may have worked on my son, but they will not work on me. And as for my son…”

The hands holding Mir seemed to tense as his father’s voice paused.

“As for my son,” his father continued, “he has defied the will of Kyollen Naskor, and as such, he shares in their crime. He will be the first to die.”

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @sunshiline-writes @annablogsposts @whither-wander-whump @seaweed-is-cool @bloodinkandashes @sonder35 @cakeinthevoid @looptheloup @paperprinxe

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[shywhumpauthor]

Okay time for a vote

Lab/experimentation whump—cages, collars, long cold nights, leather restraints, scalpels, drugging, ivs, dumped onto tile floors (9)

Villain whumpee—torture in the name of justice, forced surrender, multiple whumpers, carewhumper, stress positions, heavy restraints, power suppressors, muzzling (10)

Hero Whumpee—extreme torture, cold floors, basements, makeshift restraints, failed escape attempts, microphones and communicators, heavy boots, crushed fingers, tears (2)

Whumper turned Whumpee—desperation, heavy torture, disproportionate retribution, reluctant caretaker, ice baths, head shoved under water, gore, stress positions, regret (6)

Multiple whumpees—double the fun, defiant and broken, harsh punishments, soft comfort, gently brushing away tears, forehead kisses, quiet resentment, pet whump, collars (1)

All possibilities for Whumpuary. I’m going to do all the days, so 10 parts, shorter series but I’ll try to make the pieces a bit longer. Might be more installments depending on where it’ll be left off after I finish the official prompts. Might not be too much plot, but a lot of whump. Tell me which you’d like to see!

(Not gonna post the ask responses, for the sake of spam, but I’ll add the tallies)

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Nobody

CW: Choking/strangulation, whumper as whumpee, guns, brief dubcon and gore mentions, brief gendered slur towards the end

For @amonthofwhump day 11: Strangulation

You can find more Nanda on Jameson’s masterlist

-

He was stupid, really. Just fucking full-on stupid. No excuse for it, no reason, no understandable explanation for what he'd overlooked. Forgetting to check one single room in the enormous house. Losing track of one person for just a few seconds. Not even his assigned target. 

Just one single man in one single room that Nathaniel Benson hadn't accounted for.

One stupid mistake, and now he's on his back with heavy hands closed tight around his neck, gasping for a thin thread of air he can just barely pull into his lungs. 

This asshole, with a face like a thumb that got delusions of grandeur, is going to kill him and dump his body and Nanda's brand new house will go to some chump who doesn't even deserve it. 

"Let… go-" He hisses, but honestly, he doesn't even know if this guy speaks any English. There's no reason for Thumb Face to know it, they're deep inside the borders of another nation across the breadth of the world. But he says it anyway.

It's pure instinct, and just as stupid as forgetting to check that room. Like the guy will just decide to pull back, whoopsie-doodle, guess I'll stop trying to kill you since you clearly don't actually want me to… 

As it is, the guy only sneers down at him, and leans forward. His weight on Nanda's stomach keeps him pressed into the floor, just a few feet away from his gun. 

He could fix this, if he could only reach that gun. Just a few inches too far away. Just a little too far. 

Just far enough. 

Bright white bursts like fireworks flash in his vision, his body pleading with him for oxygen he can't provide. Between those sparking lights, he can see the snarling expression of the man who will soon murder him, his teeth far too white to seem real, sweat beading up on his forehead over a pulsing vein. 

I am going to die at the hands of a man who looks like a child drew him while blindfolded. 

His fingernails scrape and scrabble along the man's thick forearms, gaining purchase but no strength to pull him away. He's already torn long red gashes, but none of it moves the man at all. 

If only he could reach his fucking gun-

His vision grows dark at the edges, heart pounding, desperate to force what oxygen he has left to his brain to keep it working for as long as it can. 

The darkness is growing… 

Who will even miss him? After he's pitched into some dark river and found by police who see no identification on an anonymous corpse? Who would notice when Nathaniel Benson never comes home?

No one. No-fucking-body.

He has a brand-new, entirely empty six-bedroom house with a cleaning lady paid by automatic draft who has never seen his face. It would take a year for the drafts to stop. He has a series of one-night stands with cute boys who come their brains out under his whip and his dick but never want to fuck him twice to show for every time he's tried to find someone with tastes like his own who won't tell a safeword as soon as things really get fun. Phone numbers that won't pick up if he calls. Pretty men who leave when he enters the bar. 

He has a sister who would mourn him, but he only speaks with Sammie once a month or so… oh, and nieces and nephews who might remember him for a couple of years. He has parents who pretend he never existed until he's right in front of them…

Who would miss him? 

Christ, who would even pay for the tombstone? Or even be notified if anyone did identify his body? One stupid mistake and his life stops like it never began. 

Nanda finds just enough air to grunt, but when he tries once more to breathe in, the bastard's thumbs on his windpipe and his fingers closed tight leave no room. 

The air stops in his mouth, over his tongue, sits there like a weight or the name of a lover he doesn't have. 

The guy's wearing a V-neck sweater and when he leans over so far his stomach is pressing to Nanda's chest, he sees a flash of light on dull metal through the growing darkness taking over his vision. 

He doesn't think about it. Thinking is getting harder, it would take too long to think it through. Instead, he pulls his right hand back, jams it up under the guy's shirt, and pulls the gun awkwardly out of the underarm holster he's wearing. 

He's nearly gone, he can't see anymore. His heart pounds in his temples and ears and he hears absolutely nothing when his finger pulls the trigger, once twice three times, the gun kicking back into his own stomach, over and over. 

He's not even sure if he really fired it - or just hallucinated it - until the hands on his throat go slack and then fall away, as the man slumps to the side, half-on and half-off of Nanda.

He coughs as his throat whistles with new breath, head spinning from the lack of and sudden overwhelm of oxygen, laying limp on the cold hard floor. 

The man with his thumb-shaped head coughs, too, but it doesn't do him any good. He'd coughing in a thick, wet way that tells Nanda he shot through his lungs, or at least through one. 

Nanda manages to shove him off the rest of the way, and with agony starting to throb behind his eyes, he rolls onto his side and then onto his hands and knees to crawl to the place his own gun had fallen. The thumb man's gun in one hand, his own in the other, he turns around to face the dying asshole whose hands he can still feel like ghosts clinging to his throat. 

"Fuck you," He says in a rasping, whistling thin reedy voice. "I wasn't even h-here to kill you."

He raises his own gun, a wonderful familiar weight, and fires. 

The man's head abruptly loses half its bulk and now it isn't shaped like anything at all. But the wall behind him is painted a beautiful bright red streaked with grayish-white. 

Nathaniel Benson slowly drags himself to his feet, holstering his own gun, stumbling down the hallway. He checks his watch, closing his eyes as the world lurches around him when he tries to focus on the numbers. 

The target will be home soon. 

He has two hours to clean this mess up if he wants the kill to be according to his original plan. Or, he supposes, he could brew some tea, clean up his fingerprints, and kill the bitch when she walks in the front door after the opera. Or just after.

Let her see her thumb-lover's body, first. Let her mourn him. If she even does. He’s not sure how anyone could mourn someone who smelled so much like beer cheese dip without pretzels.

Still, give the target a couple of hours to discover him.

Then kill her. 

Nanda leans back against the wall, his own sweat trickling down the back of his neck to disappear into his shirt. 

Get the job done. Get home.

And then go find someone who will do anything he wants and still miss him when he's gone. 

-

@finder-of-rings  @endless-whump  @arlinthesnep  @thefancydoughnut  @newandfiguringitout  @doveotions  @pretty-face-breaker  @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow  @boxboysandotherwhump  @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes  @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump  @whumpiary  @orchidscript  @nonsensical-whump  @outofangband  @eatyourdamnpears  @hackles-up  @grizzlie70  @mylifeisonthebookshelf  @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp

[kabie-whump]

♡ Febuwhump Day 29: Not Allowed to Die ♡

@febuwhump

omg last day! I'm done! That being said I accidentally wrote two for this prompt. I decided to post this one but I might do the other later cause it's about Solstice and I love them.

So here's another little thing to go with my series, 'Ripe, About to Fall.' Takes place some time before Onthyes shows up.

Content: pet whump, ! suicide attempt ! , intimate whumper, jumping off a balcony attempt, defiant whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, drug addiction/withdrawls, non explicit dub-con (or non-con depending on how you see it), transactional sex

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Not so fast, little bird."

Ventis yelps as Athos's hand snags his arm and pulls him from the railing of the balcony.

"No!" Ventis grabs the railing, holding himself there as Athos tries to drag him back inside. "Let me go!"

Suddenly, Athos stops pulling and pushes on Ventis's head, causing his face to hit the railing so hard that he blacks out. When he comes to he's sprawled out on Athos's bedroom floor and the man is locking the balcony doors.

"Did you really think you could escape like that?" Athos asks as he returns to Ventis, grabbing his horn harshly to pull him up to his knees. "That fall would've killed you!"

"I know!" Ventis snaps back.

Athos's face goes from shock to rage faster than Ventis can comprehend. His hand flies, striking Ventis across his cheek and leaving a cut in the wake of his ring. Ventis's head snaps to the side but Athos uses his hold on his horn to pull it back to face him.

"Stupid boy. You would really rather kill yourself than spend another day in luxury?"

Ventis averts his eyes, earning a hand on his jaw, squeezing too hard. "Look at me," Athos demands.

Ventis looks, his eyes filling with tears.

"You aren't allowed to die," Athos hisses in his face. "Not unless I want you to. Your contract states it very clearly."

"I hate you," Ventis snarls. "Death would be better than having to look at your ugly face all day."

He's slapped again, then shoved to the floor. He curls into himself as Athos's foot slams into his ribs and leaves him gasping for air. After a few more kicks Athos grabs Ventis's wrist and drags him over to the bed where he cuffs it to one of the posts at the end.

"You're sleeping on the floor tonight," Athos says as he secures the chain. "And no nightspill until you learn to be grateful for what I do for you."

Fear rushes through Ventis and he can't help but let out a sob. He can't go through withdrawals again. It hurts too much. "No, please. I'm sorry." He reaches for Athos, catching the edge of his robe and pulling on it. "I'll make it up to you. I'll be good, I promise."

Athos sighs, reaching down to pet Ventis's hair. "I wish you would be this sweet to me when you aren't in trouble, dearest."

Ventis stares up at him, batting his lashes. "Please, master," he says again. "Let me show you how good I can be for you."

Athos cups Ventis's cheek gently, smiling at him. "You're finally learning the way of things here. I'm very proud of you, treasure."

Ventis takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what is to come. He's willing to take a few moments of discomfort tonight to ensure he won't have to go through withdrawals tomorrow. It's worth it, even if this man disgusts him.

Just a few physical acts and he can avoid punishment completely.

Except when it's over and Athos is satisfied, Ventis is banished to the floor again. and when the next morning comes Athos ignores Ventis's pleading looks and the nightspill box remains firmly locked.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Ventisposting taglist (aka a list of people who i want to bake cookies for):

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet @rainydaywhump

[the-whumpening]

Meet the Character Monday #3

Ash - Tigerverse (The Caged Tiger, The Freed Tiger, The Pet Tiger)

[Image ID: A sketch of my OC Ash. The drawing is a shoulders-up portrait of Ash smiling and facing to the right side of the screen. As this is supposed to be before The Caged Tiger, his hair is shoulder-length and he is uninjured. His left eye is blank as if clouded by a cataract. He is shirtless and his muscles are clearly visible. The whole piece is done in shades of orange. /End ID]

(Ash smiling! Wow! Yes, it's possible! This drawing is representative of what he looked like right before his capture: happy, healthy, without major scars, but after he lost his stripes/tail/ears.)

Basic Info:

Name: Moss Pelt (Ash) Catteau

Age: 26(ish)

Birthday: Spring? (Aries) Ash doesn't know his specific birth date

Height: 6' 4" (193 cm)

Hair: Black

Eyes: Green

Favorite Color: Green or orange

Gender ID and Orientation: Is very comfortable as a man but has never thought about it (much more concerned about his status as human vs beast), is attracted to both men and women but once again never put much thought into it. If it needed a label, he might say he’s “my partner”-sexual. While I also wouldn’t call him “poly” per se, he’s not strictly monogamous in the traditional human way.

Pronouns: He/him (never, ever “it”)

Other: accidental autistic rep (oops), tiger-human hybrid creature

What's Ash's role in the story? Ash is a human(ish) barbarian and the protagonist of the Tigerverse series. He is the current partner of Evius, who was previously romantically involved with Ash’s whumper: Ozmund Greenthorn. Ash was originally created as a character for an ongoing DnD campaign, though the stories on this blog mostly divert from the canon of that game.

Fun Facts about Ash:

Due to his tiger heritage and upbringing, Ash can communicate with cats and (with some effort) most other animals. He’s also picked up bits and pieces of other languages based on whomever he interacts with most (including a little Elven from Kane and Infernal from Evius).

Ash, like all tigers, is red-green colorblind. He only learned this after being with the party for some time—he didn’t realize he had orange fur. In fact, Evius’ coppery tiefling skintone doesn’t look much different to Ash than his human disguise. He can, however, distinguish shades of blue and yellow. (I’m just now realizing he probably doesn’t realize Mouse’s hair is pink. Bummer.)

Even in his human form, Ash has heightened animal-like senses which often overwhelm him. For that reason, he tends to dislike crowded areas and sticks close to Evius or Kane in the city.

He does not have a barbed penis, but man do we love to joke about it lol

His intelligence is kind of paradoxical. He didn’t have any formal education, and just about everything he knows about the “civilized” world came from Kane, so he’s not exactly “book-learned.” But, for the same reasons, he doesn’t have a lot of social knowledge either. His intellect is mostly centered around his knowledge of the natural world and survival, as well as his keen skills of observation and problem-solving. When his intelligence increased from the mindflayer tadpole, it mostly just made it easier for him to learn things and put concepts together; it didn’t impart any factual knowledge on him. Almost like he had ADHD and got adderall for the first time lol

That being said, he did become more aware of all the social rules he hadn’t noticed or cared about before. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed at being seen nude because now he could put together that not everyone was as comfortable as him and that most people felt some amount of shame about nudity. It also helped him finally connect the pieces that his attraction to Evius wasn’t just platonic.

Hilarious corollary: Hsa (what the tadpole named itself) has experienced the world through Ash since it was implanted. Meaning, it has felt everything Ash has felt and seen everything he’s seen. It knows all his thoughts and feelings. It has seen aaallll of Ash and Evius’ . . . interactions.

Biggest Secret: Ash would love to have a big family and lots of babies. He’s even fantasized about being pregnant—he’s still a little shaky on exactly how humanoid biology works. (And Evius’ player has forbidden me from writing mpreg fanfic boooo)

[montammil]

For a cold cold eyes request maybe Lawrence slapping Marshall and immediately regretting it?

Ok, I may have gotten a little carried away and made it part of the series. I hope this is okay!

Cold, Cold Eyes - Part Four

CW: Slapping/hitting, parental whumper, infantilism, mentions of murder, failed escape attempt, food mention

...

After a few weeks, Lawrence really thought Marshall would be starting to come to terms with his new living situation, but Marshall has just been so difficult lately. He doesn't understand why. He thought after enough love and affection, Marshall would see that he only is looking out in his best interest, but apparently not.

"I'm not asking much of you," Lawrence points out. "All's I'm asking is that you sit down with me, and we watch something together. Just one thing, and you can go to bed."

Huffing, Marshall adds, "And you want me to cuddle with you."

"Well, I'd love that, but if you don't want to, I won't force you to." Lawrence thinks Marshall is rather lucky he isn't forcing him to cuddle with his father. Doesn't that prove how much of a good father he is? "Just one movie."

"I'm tired. Can we just do this tomorrow?"

"Nope, we're watching a movie now." He pats the spot next to him. "C'mon."

A groan comes from the young man's mouth, and he does so, but not before muttering, "You're insane."

"Stop being fussy, buddy. A single movie won't kill you."

Marshall groans, but obeys and sits next to him. His expression makes it obvious he doesn't want to, but Lawrence convinces himself he looks content.

He settles on something he knows Marshall will like, which is something about Spider-Man. He knows Marshall thinks every little thing he does is to treat him like a baby, and maybe it's true, but he knows Marshall's fixation on superheroes isn't something he tried to encourage, unlike most other shows and movies. He's glad Marshall has some kind of childish interest, it makes things easier. No way would he allow his son to watch horror movies!

Lawrence gets tired after a while, and looks over at Marshall, to notice he's already asleep. He laughs quietly to himself, because he only looked at Marshall five minutes ago to find he looked wide awake and focused. He wraps a blanket around the both of them, but still doesn't cuddle him. Marshall's a light sleeper, anyway.

Maybe a small nap wouldn't hurt. Lawrence doubts Marshall would try to escape after last time. He closes his eyes. …

Marshall wakes up thirty minutes later when he feels someone against his shoulder. He opens his eyes and is about to wince, but stops himself when he notices Lawrence is asleep. He waves a hand in front of his face to make sure, seeing for any kind of reaction, only to get none.

He glances back at the TV, to see the movie is over, and the screen is black now. It feels so quiet, one creak on the floor might wake him. He stands, holding Lawrence's head up with his left hand, grabbing a pillow with his right to support the older man's head. He slips his hand from underneath his head, then carefully backs away, rounding the corner of the wall. He sneaks up on the hallway and walks past the dining table and towards the entrance of the house.

He tries opening it, internally screaming when it doesn't open. Obviously. He looks around for a key, hoping Lawrence doesn't have it with him. If he does, Marshall knows he won't have the courage nor stupidity to try and get it.

Marshall checks to see if Lawrence is still asleep, to see he is. He goes next to Lawrence's room, hoping he can find a key there. His heart is beating faster than ever in fear he'll get caught. He goes to his room and starts looking around as quietly as he can, nose wrinkling in distaste when he finds several pictures of him in the drawers, most when he doesn't even notice he's being taken pictures of, like when he's eating or asleep. Weirdo.

That's not the only pictures, though. He finds pictures of two other people. A girl with long brown hair, slightly darker than his own, and she looks to be around eighteen, maybe nineteen. There's some photos of Lawrence with her. Marshall can tell she's uncomfortable, even with the fake smile she has on. Some pictures she looks genuinely happy in, but they're not in his house.

The guy has long blond hair in a ponytail and darker blue eyes than Lawrence, but doesn't look like he's related. He also looks to be around his mid twenties. He looks angry in each photo, emotionless in others. There's no sign of Lawrence in the pictures, but there's no doubt he's holding the camera.

Marshall gets nervous, because there's no doubt in his mind these two came before him. He can't dwell on it for long, or he'll lose his chance. He puts the photos back, and carries on, feeling even more jittery.

Crawling under the bed, he digs through boxes and bags to find nothing there, either. He's desperate at this point. There has to be a key somewhere! He exits the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he can. He tries to think next of what to do, if maybe he should just smash a window open, but then…

"What'cha looking for, kiddo?"

Marshall whips around, eyes widened, tears welling in the corners, he stutters out, "Uh, nothing. I-- I was just looking around, y'know, um…"

"In my room, huh?" Lawrence strides closer to him, his icy blue eyes staring him down. "It's not nice to snoop in your dad's room like that."

A sudden swell of anger comes in Marshall's chest. "I can't tell if you genuinely think that or if this is just some game to you. You aren't my dad, and I don't know what gave you that idea, but you aren't!"

Hurt flashes across Lawrence's face, then quickly replaced by anger. He clenches a fist, taking another step closer to Marshall. "Watch your language, and watch how you talk to me. I'm your father, I think I deserve a little more respect, don't you think? Apologize."

"No, I don't think I will!" Marshall stands his ground, fists clenched as well. "You aren't my father, you never will be, you're just a crazy, delusional man! I bet I'm not even the first person you kidnapped, right? Did you kill the others? I saw pictures of them."

Jaws clench in rage, and before Marshall can blink, he gets hit so hard he practically falls into the wall next to him. He doesn't register what happened until he looks up at Lawrence with a surprised expression. He never got slapped by the man before. Stabbed, sure, but he wasn't expecting this. Even Lawrence looks shocked from what he did, his eyes as wide as Marshall's.

Lawrence's mouth is agape for a moment, and he tries stepping towards Marshall, to which the young man yells, "No! Don't touch me!"

It breaks Lawrence's heart, because Marshall sounds more scared than anything. He takes a shuddering breath and says, "I am so, so sorry, sweetheart, I didn't… I'm just sorry. Can I see your face? Please?" He puts on the most gentle voice possible, even if he knows Marshall gets even more aggressive when he coos at him like a wounded animal or a crying newborn.

"I just wanna go home," Marshall cries quietly. He lifts his gaze up to the taller man. Tears drip down his cheeks and to the wooden floor. "Please."

Lawrence sighs. "You know what the answer is, kiddo. You're already home." He's relieved when he sees no blood or bruise on Marshall's face, but he wouldn't be shocked if it appears soon. He reaches out a hand and wipes his tears, to which Marshall just squeezes his eyes tightly in response.

Tears continue streaming down Marshall's face as he whispers, "Who were those people? Please tell me."

"It's no big deal. They were just friends," Lawrence quickly says, and pulls Marshall to his feet. "Lets get you to bed. You said you were tired."

Marshall knows he's lying, but he doesn't push it. He really is tired. He's so tired he doesn't even care that Lawrence is carrying him, so tired he doesn't even realize he wraps his arms around his neck.

When Lawrence makes his way to Marshall's room, which is just a few steps away from his own, he gently deposits Marshall into his bed, tucking him in.

Lawrence cups his cheek, running a thumb over the forming bruise on his cheek. "I really am sorry, Marshall. I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry. Can you forgive Dad?"

Still, Marshall can't help but cringe at his wording. He just nods.

"Thank you so much, honey. I love you so, so much." He kisses his forehead. "I'll stay until you fall asleep. Tomorrow I'll make your favorite banana pancakes, and we can forget this all ever happened. Right?"

Marshall imagines when he says all, he means literally all of it. "Okay."

He won't be forgetting this any time soon, though, even if Lawrence offered him an infinite supply of banana pancakes. The question that keeps ringing in his head is, who were those people? and, are they still alive?