#weird whumper

[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.”

[goforro]

thinking about a whumpee that just…doesn’t cry.

- their friends haven’t ever seen them display sadness, disappointment, or anything like that. anger, maybe, but never tears.

- whumpee who doesn’t cry when they’re rescued. Maybe they’re staring blankly, maybe they’re biting their rescuers, maybe they’re just quietly appreciative. whatever it is, they don’t cry.

- whumpee who actively avoids conversations that might trigger them. they’ll get up and leave the room if whumper’s name is even whispered. does caretaker follow them? how do they find them?

- whumper *finally* breaking whumpee. maybe they taunt caretaker while whumpee’s still in captivity. maybe it’s while they’re being carried away in handcuffs.

- “I won, Caretaker. Your little firecracker cried for me.”

- caretaker being in shock. denial, even. whumpee *cried*? maybe they don’t believe whumper at first, until they look over at a hysterical whumpee.

just. UGHHH. best trope hands down

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had grown aggressive, attacking the whumper whenever they came too close and snapping at anything that got too close to them. This meant that during their rescue, their rescuers had to restrain them just to get them to safety- but not before the whumpee injured plenty of people.

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon. And then we’ll be together, just you and me all alone, nobody to bother us”

[whumpsterfire]

thinking of one of my whump stories and like. I think brain damage is severely underutilized in whump. Like concussions are fairly common, but anything with just a bit more lasting consequences - memory issues, brain fog, issues with motor skills, loss or impairment of a sense (vision/audio etc), speech impairment...

I think brain damage would be something that should be explored more.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Revenge Stream: Part One

contains: Vic Shepard, red room setting, whumper turned whumpee, violence, beating, noncon nudity/forced stripping, adult language, third person POV

next

•

Normally it's common sense to avoid random links that pop up in your inbox.

Everything about it screams virus, from the restricted sender, to the jumbled string of letters and symbols that make up the link itself, to the subject line, a simple “gift for you”. Normally, you'd delete it immediately. Maybe report it as spam. But something holds you back. A single line in the message body.

Anyone for vengeance?

You're intrigued. It's not the typical line a scammer might use. After a few minutes spent wrestling with your own common sense, you decide to do the probably stupid thing and click on the hyperlink. The pull of your curiosity is just too strong to be ignored.

The link leads to a simple website with a layout that's almost laughably bad. Any sense of design is nonexistent, and the sole feature of the page appears to be some sort of livestream. Its screen is dark, but the timestamp in the corner is moving. Whatever camera it's attached to, it's rolling.

What is this? You wait a minute, watching the clock tick upwards, but nothing changes. Silence and a dark screen. Definitely not worth the risk of a virus.

Just as you're about to call it quits and close the tab, the screen floods with light.

A gloved hand fills the frame, holding what looks like a lense cap, silhouetted against a background of barren concrete. As the hand moves away, the room comes into focus, revealing a figure at its center.

It appears to be a man, barefoot and tied to a chair. He's slumped forward, graying hair obscuring his face.

You know you should feel dread. Panic, even. But instead, your interest only grows, and you find yourself holding your breath as the camera steadies. There's a small pop, and the audio of the feed crackles to life.

“This thing on?” a voice says, its owner stepping into frame. They're dressed in light grey sweatpants with a matching hoodie, a white mask obscuring their face.  “We've got oh… fifty, fifty-five guests by my count. Seems like a good place to start.” They move to the man in the chair, taking a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back, angling his face towards the camera. He's gagged with a twisted strand of cord, and his face is a bit cut up, but he seems alert. And pissed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Victor Shepard. If you're watching this, it's because he's fucked up your life in some way. Maybe he killed a loved one. Maybe he destroyed your company, or provided blackmail material that ruined your reputation. I dunno. Jack of all trades, this one.” They loosen their grip, and Shepard's head drops. 

“Point is, I'm here to make him pay. For you.” You can almost hear them grin behind the mask.

Your hands clench, eyes glued to the monitor screen. Fuck. This is a red room stream, isn't it? And a personal one at that. While this reveal should have you reaching for your phone and dialing 9-1-1, you almost feel… excited. You want to see more. Even if the link reaching your inbox was a fluke, there's no way you're backing out.

“Well,” the masked figure continues. “Let's get this party started, huh? What's up first?”

In the corner of the screen, a poll appears.

Strip him, reads the first option.

Rough him up, the second one says. A timer is kicking down beneath the buttons. Fifty-nine seconds.

Should you click one? Does it make you complacent if you do? You’d almost feel better if you didn't, like you're just an innocent bystander, watching something you have no real power to stop. And that makes it okay, right?

Before you can finish justifying it to yourself, the poll ends. ‘Strip him’ is the victor, fifty votes to eighteen.

The masked figure moves out of frame again, and you hear them click their tongue. “Hope you're not shy, big guy.”

When they move back into view of the camera, they're holding a knife.

“Gonna have to cut some of the ropes, but I'm not too worried about it.” They grab the camera, rotating it to face the rest of the room, and for the first time you see its other occupants, two figures clad in the same grey as the speaker. They're also masked, and each of them holds an assault rifle at the ready.

“Michael and Uriel over here got me covered if he tries anything. Really hope he doesn't though. I do wanna give you a show.”

As they spin the camera back around, you catch a split second glimpse of the speaker's working area. A slim laptop surrounded by what looks like a bunch of weapons and power tools. If those are all for Shepard, you don't doubt they will indeed be putting on a show.

They re-steady the camera and step back onscreen, closing in on the man in the chair. Their knife slides through the ropes around his chest with ease, and they fall to the ground in a heap. The figure shifts so they're not blocking Shepard from the camera's view, then begins a slice down the middle of his shirt.

They cut away the cloth—chest, shoulders, arms—before moving to his pants, but Shepard doesn't struggle. If anything, his body language seems calm. Placid, even, though when you catch a glimpse of his eyes you can see a sharp anger. You imagine the only thing keeping him in place right now is the gunmen on the other side of the room.

The pile of discarded scraps beside the chair grows, and soon the captive is stark naked. Under his clothes, his body is all lean muscle and old scars, the dark silhouette of some kind of bird tattooed on his chest. You don't doubt what the speaker—the host—said before. This guy seems pretty capable of ruining lives.

The host steps back, admiring their work. “There we go. A canvas at the ready. Shall we move on? What tool should I grab?”

In the corner of your screen, another poll appears.

Electric sander.

Switch.

Seeing an electric sander listed as a potential torture tool makes your stomach twist, but you can't tell if it's disgust or excitement that’s behind the feeling. Again, you only watch as the timer ticks down.

Three…

Two…

One…

To your relief, (or is it disappointment?) the switch comes out ahead.

Behind the mask, the host’s excitement seems to grow.

“Ohoho, we have a winner,” they say, and you hear a light clattering offscreen. When they step back in front of the camera, they're holding the chosen tool; a thick, stiff strip of leather, metal studding one end. They give it a test swish through the air. The sound gets no reaction from Shepard.

“How many do you think he's good for? The metal bits are gonna leave a mark.” The host moves behind the camera, and from their comments, you can guess they're reading through viewer feedback.

“Ten? I'd call that light. Oh, twenty five is more like it— a hundred?” They whistle. “Okay, that might be a bit high. The night is young.”

You scan your monitor screen. In the top corner, there's a little message icon, which you assume is how everyone else is communicating with the host. You briefly consider dropping a request of your own, but then they speak up.

“Let's go with fifty. Happy medium, eh?”

Your eyes dart back down, and you watch as they stroll towards Shepard, smacking the switch lightly against their gloved palm as they move.

“Brace for impact,” they say cheerfully, before cracking the implement across Shepard's chest. His head snaps backwards, a pained noise escaping him.

One. A giddiness is growing in your chest, eager to count down until the man's first scream. The host seems just as energized as you, attacking Shepard’s torso like they're beating dirt out of a rug.

Several seconds pass before they come to a stop, winded. Their arm drops, and they sidestep, letting the camera take in Shepard. His torso is covered in welts, bleeding in some places where the studs broke skin. Aside from a few pained hisses and grunts, he's been silent.

“Fuck,” the host says. “I lost count. What was that? Was that fifty? Forty five?”

They shake their arms, as if to loosen their shoulders.

“We'll call it forty.”

Snap!

The switch comes down, this time cracking across Shepard's face. You wince at the impact. That's gotta hurt. The host continues the attack. Their strokes seem slower now, not as sharp, but they're aiming high, striking him across the nose, cheek, collarbone. Forty eight actually drags a yelp out of the man as metal collides with a welt on his cheekbone, and your heart leaps at the sound.

Forty nine swipes the corner of his mouth, drawing blood, and then…

“Cincuenta,” says the host, letting the switch drop. “Not impressed, hm Vicky? We can change that.” They stroll to their workstation, and you hear the clatter of the switch’s metal tip hitting the table.

A moment later, a third poll appears on the screen.

Whip him, says the first button.

Cut off his tattoo, says the second. 

Holy fuck. That seems a bit extreme, but… fun? Maybe? The guy's a piece of shit, right? He probably deserves much worse. Right?

“Cast your votes,” the host’s voice rings out, and you watch as the poll goes live, the clock suddenly ticking backwards.

“What do you think will make him scream?”

•

[whump-bunny]

The whump community is so supportive and accepting of pretty much anyone that sometimes it genuinely shocks me when I come across a random post calling us freaks or weirdos.

It's like, "Oh am I supposed to be ashamed? Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of me and my mutuals reblogging pictures of beat up anime boys and having an amazing time doing so."

[secretwhumplair]

Whump prompt XIX

Two (more or less) friendly rival whumpers who keep stealing whumpee from each other.

For them, it's little more than a game. Do the whumpers compete in who can make whumpee more afraid? Or do they heal whatever injuries the other inflicted before they have their own go? Both?

And for whumpee...

Whumpee stuffed in a tiny, dark wardrobe, box, or other tight space to hide them. Whumpee tied and gagged in the trunk on yet another bumpy car ride. Whumpee desperately wishing for a reprieve from their current whumper but not like this, not them-

Whumpee marked as each whumper's property over and over and over.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

-

The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind. 

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance. 

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong. 

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it. 

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance.  “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself. 

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed. 

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue. 

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?” 

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

[whumpbees]

What do y'all's Whumpers/Whumpees/Caretakers' hands look like?

[whatiswhump]

Whumper kidnaps Whumpee, not realizing they were on psychiatric meds, thus inadvertently cutting them off.

They're horrified watching Whumpee go into withdrawals- anger, mood swings, vomiting, unable to sleep, agitation, losing touch with reality rapidly.

Whumper wanted to have some fun... not... this. They’ve barely even touched them yet!

[brutal-nemesis]

E&T: Caught in the Clutches of Lust

No im not sorry for any of this. cope and seethe

Btw I used a line from @painsandconfusion and @wormwriting's degradation starter list that I saved THREE YEARS AGO for this very moment. I am always playing the long game (⊙ˍ⊙)

←Previous - Masterlist

Ingredients: VERY creepy/intimate whumper, implied threat of noncon, a lot of noncon touching (unsexy but right on the edge), implied noncon kiss, unsexy nudity

Shiori?

No, it couldn’t be, she was a world away, she was human, he’d left her waiting by the fountain after the party and she’d moved on and forgotten about him, no reason to follow him here, into the depths of hell, looking exactly like she had the night of the party, jarringly out of place in her pretty dress, smiling at him like he wasn’t a blood-covered, unrecognizable version of himself.

And then he blinked, and all of a sudden it wasn’t Shiori at all, but Lythia, wearing the same yellow bandana that she always did while she was working in the palace gardens, the little black braids of her hair just as beautiful as he remembered. There was no pity in her dark eyes, like there had been the last time he saw her, looking up at him from the crowd while he was chained to that pillar, promising he’d be rescued after it was already too late. Actually seeing her hurt, and Erebus looked away for a moment, just a moment…

When he saw the woman in front of him now, his jaw dropped, eyes widening, his tense, burning hands finally relaxing.

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Her voice was just as he remembered, and she was smiling at him so kindly, her eyes soft, her gloved hand outstretched, she was here to save him, she’d found a way to bring him back, he was too tired and scared and stressed to do anything else besides surrender control to her once again, to take her small hand and follow her blindly towards the fate she’d chosen for him. She was squeezing his still-healing hand tightly in hers, but she could do whatever she wanted with him just as long as she got him out of this place.

“Well, that was easy.”

The voice wasn’t Shiori’s, or Lythia’s, and it certainly wasn’t Neteri’s.

Erebus jumped back, finally seeing the person next to him clearly for the first time. She-they?-smirked at him, bright purple eyes sparkling. Their white hair was long and wavy, partially braided back with impeccable precision. Gold jewelry and a low-cut black dress accentuated their natural beauty, seeming very out of place in this hellish world. Most striking of all, though, was their bright red skin, a shade that was very familiar to Erebus.

This was a lust demon, and she’d lead him right into her lair.

“You-how did-I-”

They laughed, deep and bright, obviously amused by his shock and confusion. “You only saw what your heart wanted you to see, darling. It’s not my fault you turned into a meek little lamb and followed me here.”

Erebus’s face grew hot. “Well I-I…” his wings sank behind him. He’d thought he was about to be saved. Like an idiot. She’d led him away from the bubbling pools and acrid air into a sort of cave, a furnished one at that. But now he was cornered in here, at a disadvantage in the cramped space. He swallowed and changed the topic, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

“Apologies.” She bowed slightly, the sort of bow people gave when they were pretending to show respect during negotiations, but then declared war a few weeks later. “My name is Asmodeum, and really,” they gave him a disapproving look, “I’d rather not fight with you. I heard you’ve defeated Somiaken and Vorath already, but I believe you and I could work something out without coming to blows.” They held their hands up briefly, but the way they watched him made it clear that their guard was still up. “So, tell me your name, now. Unless you’d prefer I just call you darling?”

Erebus very much did not want that, so he complied. “Erebus. But you didn’t really answer my question. What do you want, if not to fight me?”

Asmodeum sighed wistfully. “Well, I can tell that you’re the sort of person who’ll never agree to what I really want, but I believe something can be arranged. You see, I’ve been stuck here for Akumo knows how long with no toys to play with. So, I was thinking-”

“I-I’m not gonna be your toy,” Erebus choked, his throat feeling like it was closing up. 

“Ah, ah, ah.” Asmodeum wagged a finger. “Let me finish, dear. I could have my way with you quite easily, you know. It would be oh so effortless to drag you back into my domain proper and throw you into a pool of boiling water or lava and watch the show. However, I think your forced cooperation would make this a little more fun, and it would be nice if you behaved for me. So, if you let me do what I want with you, barring the most intimate acts, I’ll let you kill me once I’ve had my fill.”

“What happens if I don’t say yes?”

Asmodeum casually examined their nails. “I will take you by force and I will defile you.”

“D-defile?! You don’t mean…” Erebus quickly glanced down, and Asmodeum smiled wickedly.

“Oh, I do mean. If you let me play with you, I swear I won’t do anything of the sort. Call it an incentive. So come on, Erebus, get rid of your sword.” Erebus just tightened his grip on it, weighing his options. As much as he didn’t want to let this demon…play with him...did he really have any other options? He was exhausted, and there wasn’t much room in here for him to try and put up a proper fight. And more than anything, he really, really didn’t want to risk being...Despite the anxiety building in his chest, Erebus unbuckled the sword belt around his waist, setting it carefully on the ground.

“Fine. But if you so much as touch me there I’ll-I’ll make you regret it.” How would he do that? He wasn’t sure. But he just-he had to make it clear that he wasn’t surrendering. He was just…agreeing to play along. Just to get a break from fighting. He was okay with this. He’d be fine. He'd been through so much worse.

He'd be fine.

“I promise I won’t cross that boundary, don’t you fret.” Asmodeum walked over to him, kicking his sword out of reach as they took his hand. “First things first, you’re absolutely filthy. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Erebus pulled his hand out of her grasp. “I mean, I-I can do that myself,” he muttered. Asmodeum raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you can, but I want to wash you, dear. And right now,” she grabbed his hand once more, “I get what I want.” They pulled him along into a bathroom, and he followed reluctantly, feeling an odd sense of familiarity in just going along with this sort of thing. Their threat was certainly a motivator, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over completely on every little thing, right? He had to make it clear that he wasn’t happy with this, despite agreeing to it. She started filling up the bathtub with water, turning to him with a smile. “Let me strip you now.” 

“I-I’d rather-”

“Shhhh.” She placed a finger on his lips, her other hand starting to undo the ties on his shirt. “None of that, dear. I can’t get you all clean if you’re wearing these dirty clothes, now can I?” He looked away as they tugged his shirt off, hoping that they’d-nope, now they were going to try and take off his pants, too.

“You said you weren’t going to-to do that to me.”

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep your clothes on the whole time, you shy little thing. I just won’t touch.” Erebus stifled a whine as she pulled down his pants, and his underwear along with them. “There we go. You can get in now.” He did so, almost jumping into the warm water and crouching down, hugging his knees close and spreading his wings around himself protectively. They gently pushed his wings back, stroking his face as he glared at them with wide eyes. “There’s no use hiding when I’ve already seen everything, silly. I think I’m going to need to get these arms out of the way, hmmm?” They pulled out a pair of manacles, and Erebus’s stomach sank.

“Wait, I won’t resist just-just don’t-”

“Too late for that, Erebus.” She clamped them around his wrists, twisting the chain securely around the faucet. “Besides, you look absolutely darling like that, all helpless. Now, keep those wings out of the way or I’ll pierce them together.” Erebus’s wings sank in defeat, slowly moving back until they were behind him. There wasn’t any winning here, was there? “Good boy.” She grabbed a cup from the countertop and started using it to pour water on him, rinsing away some of the pieces of flesh stuck to his bloodied skin. After she lathered a washcloth with soap, she began to gently clean the dried blood off his face. He screwed his eyes shut, fists clenched as he tried to think about anything else. 

Even back when he was a prince, he’d hated being fussed over, preferring to take care of himself when he could. Asmodeum, however, seemed to have no concept of personal space, or just didn’t care. She had to work hard to get through the blood caked over most of his skin, leaning in close, starting with his face before switching to his hair. Their hands slid in, tenderly working through tangled bloody mats and massaging his scalp. He hated how nice it felt, how much it reminded him of the way Lythia always used to play with his hair, forcing himself to open his eyes and look at Asmodeum, to remind himself who was…

Lythia smiled at him sweetly, and Erebus felt his blood run cold. That wasn’t her, no matter what he saw, no matter how he felt. She wasn’t here. She was back home, probably still tending the palace gardens despite the change in management. Did she still think of him as she looked at all the places they used to laugh? Or could she not get the image of him screaming and sobbing up on that podium out of her mind, unable to remember any other version of him than the one he’d left her with? Maybe that’s what he deserved to be remembered as, since he’d hardly thought of her since that day, the memories too painful. 

Erebus shuddered when Asmodeum moved to his horns, which were always far more sensitive than they had any right to be. She seemed to be able to tell, continuing to stroke them long after they were clean, and as much as he wanted to ask them to stop, he was afraid it would only encourage them. At the very least, the disconnect between Lythia and his horns was enough to push the thoughts of her out of his mind, and Asmodeum changed back to their normal form.

Her hands finally slid lower, caressing his neck, fingers slipping under his collar, making sure the skin underneath was clean, pressing down against his throat every so often as they did so. It wasn't enough to really choke him, but the message was clear.

They moved onto his shoulders, his wings, his arms, his back. He caught their smile as they saw what his right arm really looked like, and her fingers traced his whip scars as they were uncovered. Dread started to pool in his stomach as she moved to his chest, scrubbing away, revealing-

“Oh, well isn’t this pretty.” They marveled at his brand, stroking the lines of the scar, pausing over his rapidly-beathing heart. “Too bad you’re already owned by someone else, huh? But I suppose they’re not here now, are they?” Erebus just bit his lip, refusing to make eye contact. The thought of his…of Neteri not being here hurt, and, try as he might, he couldn’t help but think of her, of the way she’d always protected him. He wondered how angry she’d get if she saw what was happening to him, or if she could feel now that someone besides her was touching him. He could imagine her bursting in, yelling at Asmodeum to get their hands off of him, unchaining him and letting him cover up before pulling him into a hug-wait wait what was he thinking she’d been his captor she’d hurt him and ripped him into pieces and kept him locked up but she'd promised to save him and he missed her.

“What’s wrong, darling? Is even this too much for you?” Asmodeum brushed away a tear he didn’t realize had been falling with her finger, her skin no longer red, but brown. He couldn't look her in the eye. Not while she wore that face. “Such a sensitive little thing.” Hearing those words in that voice was already bad enough. Erebus tugged at his chains, wishing he could rub away those stupid traitorous tears, because he wasn’t crying about Neteri or Asmodeum or any of this. 

Their hands plunged beneath the surface of the blood-clouded water now, and Erebus couldn't stop himself from tensing up as they scrubbed his stomach, glad the parts of him that were previously under clothes weren't as caked in blood as those that weren't. Still, there was enough to clean that she had an excuse for her hands to wander lower still, caressing his hips, his thighs, and now he was trembling, fists clenched, tears dripping even more steadily into the tepid, cloudy water, no one had ever touched him there, at least she was wearing her own face now, but please, please stay away from there, you said you wouldn't touch me there and if you do then why am I here why am I letting you do this why do I keep letting people hurt me if I just stood up for myself more if I wasn't such a coward maybe I'd still be-

"You're rather pathetic, aren't you?" Asmodeum mused as they cradled his face, turning him towards them. Erebus blinked away tears, just now realizing that they'd finished cleaning him, the tub already drained. He couldn't exactly argue, crying and shivering like he was, so he just swallowed and gave the tiniest nod as he pulled himself together, hoping it'd be enough to get them to move on.

With a satisfied smile, she unhooked his wrists from the faucet, but left the manacles on as she pulled him up and out of the tub. He tried to cover himself as best he could as they toweled him off, hoping they’d stop touching him or at least give him clothes soon. Thankfully, they did, handing him a small bundle, and upon unrolling it he found...a pair of shorts that barely reached his knees, and that was all. Once he’d put them on, she dragged him into another room and let go, crossing her arms. “Kneel.” 

“I don’t-” Asmodeum raised an eyebrow, and Erebus stopped himself. They were expecting him to obey their every little whim if he didn’t want to be...he knelt, staring at the floor. She circled him a few times, and he clenched his fists in his lap, hating how much of his body was on display. Not that she hadn’t already seen everything.

“You were just made to kneel, weren't you? Absolutely gorgeous." Erebus's face burned even hotter than before. All he could hope was that they'd be done with him soon, but he'd never specified how long this would go on for when he agreed to it, so this might last…He was such an idiot, why did he just go along with this without any negotiation?

Asmodeum stopped in front of him. "Well, what are you in the mood for, dear? Pain,” her hand slid under his chin, tilting it up, “or pleasure?”

“Please just-anything but-” he choked, and she just laughed.

“Anything, you say? Then, I think...I'm in the mood for this.” They grabbed his collar, yanking him up onto the nearby bed. Before he could even try to sit up they were on him, wrapping themselves around him, worming in between his shackled arms, forcing him to embrace her back. A shudder ran down his spine as her skin came into contact with his, her arms pinning him flush against her body, her legs tangling around his. “Have you ever been this close to someone, darling?” she whispered in his ear, their fingers stroking his hair.

“I-I, um, a few times but-” 

“Aw, and you’re still nervous.” Her hand ran down the back of his head, stopping at his collar. “It’s so cute how you still wear this. I’m sure you could get it off if you tried, so you must like having it on, huh? Do you miss your owner?”

“She’s not-I don’t-I just-it’s…” he screwed his eyes shut, “I can’t take it off, alright?!”

“Such a dutiful little pet-”

“I wasn’t h-her pet!” 

“You’re so adorable when you’re in denial.” They stroked his back, rubbing around the base of his wings. Erebus just opted for staring at the wall, hoping they wouldn't touch his horns. “Do you know how lust demons feed, my dear?”

“By eating…?”

“Well, of course, but not the same way you do. We feed off of humans, more specifically, their bodily fluids.” She smiled widely, showing off her fangs. “And I haven’t had a meal ever since being locked up in here. I normally get my fix a different way, but, to be considerate of you, innocent little boy,” they shifted until their lips were right next to the base of his neck, fingers pushing his collar out of the way, “I’ll settle for feasting on your blood.”

Her fangs sank into his neck, and he couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden pain. He tried to breathe in calmly through gritted teeth as she sucked on the holes in his flesh, drinking his blood. Soon enough, his ears started ringing, and lightheadedness crept in. He gripped the chain between his wrists just too feel something solid, glad that he was lying down, at least. By the time Asmodeum pulled away, licking droplets of blood from their lips, a dizzy haze had settled over Erebus. He closed his eyes, tears leaking out as she snuggled back into him, just hoping that this would all be over soon. In fact, maybe he would just...let the blackness take him...just for a little bit...so he didn’t have to be...awake…

Erebus’s mouth tasted like dried blood when he woke up, and Asmodeum was still wrapped around him tightly. She smiled when their eyes met. “Did you have a good little nap, my darling? I hope you don’t mind, but,” she gripped his chin, her thumb stroking his lips, “I had a little bit of fun with you while you were out of it.” A bit of...wait is that why his mouth tasted like-

“W-you-you can’t d-do that to me I-I don’t-” his voice broke, and he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, no matter how many fast little breaths he sucked in, just get away, get away from me stop touching me don’t do that to me please please I don’t want that you can’t do that to me you can’t you can’t I never wanted that not from you not from anyone and now now now I-I’m-I’ve been-

He felt something solid press into his hands, and he realized that Asmodeum was standing in front of him, and that was his sword in his hands, he was sitting up now and that was his sword and Asmodeum was smiling they were holding out their arms to him they were ready they were ready they were laughing they were coughing up blood they were on the ground there was so much blood how much of it was his he wasn’t sure he didn’t know they reached up and he backed away he had to get away he couldn’t stay here a second longer she was dead she was dead she was already crumbling away and he had to go he wanted to rip off his own skin he could still feel her touching him where where where were his clothes where was the key to these manacles he had to go he-

Erebus dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. He buried his face in his hands. 

And he screamed.

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump

@mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump

@unicornscotty @thebewilderer @kixngiggles @itallstartedwithharry @inky-whump 

@redstainedsocks @lonesome--hunter @his-unspoken-words @susiequaz12 @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog 

@whumpasaurus101 @patheticlittleguy @jadeocean46910 @whumpinggrounds @pumpkin-spice-whump 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @befuddled-calico-whump @whump-in-the-closet​ @pumpkinsncoffee​ @aryox​​

@vampiresprite

[oddsconvert]

I do have to say I love these two already

YAY! OMG thank you!!!! :D <33 That makes me SO glad because I've fallen head over heels with them too and they've been in my head for only a day or so! I've been sat here the entire evening fleshing out their whole story and background. I even have Evander's caretaker now!!!!!

[whumpinthepot]

Whumpee(r) who relies on caretaker so much that it takes up all of caretakers time and wears them down slowly until they can’t handle it anymore.

[wonderwhump]

Ok, I have to admit it. I’m a weird whump nerd, I read and write fanfiction, I enjoy all kinds of whump. Nothing new there. I know you are too 😁😈

Now I’m really sick (doc said most likely influenza, but I haven’t got the bloodwork back yet. He ruled out Covid, pneumonia and bronchitis)

Turns out I‘m even a sucker for my own suffering. Just for science. How does burning up feel? How does a 103,5 fever feel? How does the body go from shivers and chills to sweating my clothes dripping wet when I take a fever reducer? How does it feel to almost vomit from coughing violently? How does it feel to get up too fast and cough too hard so that you black out a second. How do wobbly legs and rapid pulse from high fever feel?

I don’t like being sick. I hate it. Of course! But since I‘m sick anyway, I can explore it, right. For science.

Is that fucked up?! 😂🫣

I‘ll try to sleep now. Cough depressant and Ibuprofen are in my system and I‘m in the sweating absurdly phase, which strangely enough lets me sleep. Depending on blood results they might put me on antibiotics tomorrow.

Have a good one, guys.

Talk to me! 😘

[generic-whumper]

I cannot write a “normal” whump story for the life of me. Every attempt has failed so far. (Yet I can read and enjoy human whump perfectly fine?)

Either my characters (whumpees, whumpers, and caretakers) are aliens/ non-human; or the whumpee is going to be a human with supernatural abilities because super-powered whumpees are apparently my weakness? There’s just something extra spicy about adding some mystical, magical, paranormal, and supernatural elements to a story that really scratches an ever-present itch in my brain.

Bonus points for supernatural elements and powers being allegories or symbols for the human experience, mental illness, or man-made issues like society and culture.

Please share your favorite non-human whump stories, I want to read them all!