#whumper flies

[thewhumpiestcolourisred]

hang in there

[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!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

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.”

⋅────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────⋅

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.

 ༻⊰───⋅

"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!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

[holidayinhell]

The Laundry Room

Characters: creepy/intimate Whumper, captive Whumpee CWs: captivity, noncon (mostly implied but eh), sexual/noncon nudity, food denial, discussion of amputation, classic whump shiz

In the early days of his captivity, Whumpee was allowed to sleep on the couch in the basement. Now he spent his days chained up on the floor of the wash room, tethered to the column in the center of the laundry room with a radius of no more than twenty feet to roam about. The cold of the cellar was inescapable. Sometimes, late at night, he would secretly turn on the dryer on its lowest setting and press his face to its warmth. It was one of the only good things left in his life anymore. Now all he had to look forward to was the sweet release of sleep and laundry day once a week.

“Whuuuum-peeeee!” Called a singsong voice from the top of the steps.

Whumpee swallowed. No matter how many times this happened, he was never prepared for it.

The wooden steps creaked in protest under Whumper’s heavy boots. The tall man rounded the corner of the basement into the subterranean laundry room, where he found his favorite captive chained to the central support beam, exactly where he’d left him.

“Got a little something to keep you busy.” Whumper grinned, dumping the contents of the laundry basket he was holding onto the floor. “Turn around.”

Before he finished giving the command, Whumpee had already presented his captor with the zip ties securing his wrists behind his back. Normally Whumper would remove the binds the moment he got home, but he'd had already been back for hours. Maybe he was busy with something else. Or maybe he did it on purpose.

Whumper retrieved his switchblade from his pocked and flipped it open.

“So I saw something on the news again today.” Whumper informed his captive, snapping the plastic ties with his knife.

“Apparently someone found an old hat in the woods. They think that it’s one of yours. It started another search for you, if you can goddamn believe it, and it’s even bigger than before. There’s helicopters and scent tracing dogs and all.”

Whumper unbuckled his belt, sliding the leather strap through the loops of his pants. “That’s some crazy persistence, all for one person. Like, move on with your lives, people. What’s it been, a whole year now?”

“Ten months.” Whumpee replied weakly, rubbing the red marks on his wrists.

“Shietttt, has it really been that long? I was just kidding.” Whumper said playfully, his voice laced with something sinister. “Well, you know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun.”

Fun. Is that what this was?

“I’m just glad they haven’t given up hope yet.”

Whumpee knew he’d misspoke the second the words left his mouth.

“Wrong, Whumpee.” The air went heavy. Whumper shot a disdainful glance at Whumpee, his eyes narrowing with contempt. “People need to stop searching. They need to give up already.”

Whumper was still clutching his leather belt in his hands. For the sake of his physical wellbeing, Whumpee decided to ignore the comment completely.

“Uh, so separate these by color, then?” Whumpee asked as he pawed through the dirty laundry on the floor, desperate to change the subject.

Whumper’s mind was still on the search. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, like usual. Remember to run the sheets—“

“On delicate mode?” Whumpee finished his thought. “Mhmm. Got it.”

Whumpee busied himself by sorting through the dirty laundry pile while Whumper loomed by the room’s entrance. Whumpee watched him cautiously from the corner of his eye. The sociopath was silently brooding, his eyes fixed on Whumpee’s form.

He wished Whumper would fuck off and go back upstairs.

Doing laundry once a week was one of the only tasks he was allowed to do, and as depressing as it was, he actually looked forward to it. It was one of the only things he had to keep himself entertained with. 

In the early days of his captivity, Whumper had allowed him to watch the small tv in the basement living room and provided him with an endless supply of magazines and books. And to think, Whumpee thought he was a prisoner back then. Like most everything in Whumpee’s life, his privileges had been taken away one by one. 

Whumper removed the tv within the first month. He never gave Whumpee a reason why. Next were the books. Then the couch. And soon enough, Whumpee found himself chained to a pole with his wrists zip-tied behind him for ten hours at a time, praying that his captor would at least remember to feed him that day.

Whumpee started a pile of lights, darks, and colors, sorting each garment into its designated pile. Whumper remained in the doorway and watching his captive intently, his presence entirely unwelcome.

“So, um. Did you make something good for dinner?” Whumpee piped up, breaking the tension of the silence.

Ever since he’d been captured all his brain would fixate on was food, and the only thing he could think about currently was the sumptuous meaty smell that had been tantalizing his tastebuds for the past hour.

“Mmm.” Whumper nodded, crossing his arms and stepping into the room. “Roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Garlic bread too, just from the store.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened hungrily.

“No leftovers I’m afraid.” He added.

“Oh.” 

Whumpee crumbled in on himself. That meant no dinner tonight.

Whumpee opened the cabinet above the sink to retrieve a box of detergent. He popped off the lid and scooped the plastic measuring cup into the powder, leveling the mountain of excess with a swipe of his finger.

“You should wash your clothes as well, Whumpee.” The tall man remarked from across the room.

“Uh, yeah. I will.” Whumpee agreed, continuing to avoid eye contact. He placed the pre-measured cup of detergent on the counter, turning to gather up the sorted pile of white clothes from the floor. He chucked them into the washing machine, sprinkled the soap crystals on top, and closed the lid.

He really wished Whumper would go away now, but the tall man stood firmly in place. Whumpee knew where this was going.

“I said you should wash them, Whumpee. That means to take them off.” 

Whumpee stiffened. God fucking damn it. 

Not right now. Not that he wanted to go through this shit ever, but Whumper seemed to be in an especially odd mood this evening.

Whumpee did as he was commanded. It wasn’t worth the fight. He lifted his pale blue button-up over his head, not bothering to unclasp the buttons, and tossed it into the pile of colors. He removed his socks and pants and did the same. Finally he stood in nothing but his white boxer-briefs, awkwardly shimmying them down his thighs until they slid down his legs and hung at his ankles. Blushing, he stepped out of them and walked over to the washing machine, chucking the underwear into the load of whites as it filled with water. 

A chill rocked his body when Whumper approached from behind.

The larger man pushed his hips into Whumpee’s back, pinning him squarely against the machine as it hummed to life. “Mmm. I should make you walk around naked all the time. Don’t you think?”

“It, uh… it gets really cold down here.”

“Psht.” Whumper draped his arms around Whumpee’s neck. “So I’ll buy you an electric blanket. That’d be nice, right?”

“Sure. But, please, I really do need my clothes.”

Whumper’s arms traveled down the sides of Whumpee’s torso and trailed inwards to find his ass. One hand delivered a crisp smack, which immediately left behind a glowing red mark. He smiled, scooping a buttcheek into each palm, jiggling what little flesh was there.

“Your ass is so tiny.” Whumpee quipped.

Yeah, that’s what happens when you average 400 calories a day for nearly a year.

“Yeah. I’m pretty skinny now.”

“You look good like this.” Whumper purred into his ear as he delicately stroked the length of Whumpee’s back. “But I do miss the ass.”

Time to go away now, Whumpee thought. Please, please just go the fuck away.

Whumper smacked Whumpee’s ass again, scooping it up and grinding the denim fabric on his crotch against the thin man’s perfect, bare skin while caressing his neck with his hot, wet tongue. He took Whumpee’s earlobe into his mouth and suckled it lightly, biting down on the soft flesh with only a tiny amount of pressure.

“Mm, you have goosebumps.” Whumper murmured with a self-satisfied grin. “Did that turn you on?”

Two of Whumper’s fingers traced the curvature of his ass and found Whumpee’s entrance. The digits dabbed at the hole gently, teasing and prodding the skin but never pushing inside. The firm touch sent an involuntary shiver up Whumpee’s spine. Whumper smirked at his reaction and nibbled at the side of Whumpee’s neck.

He was so cold, the warmth on his neck felt good. But nothing else did.

“I keep thinking,” Whumper cooed, Whumpee melting into him for heat. “Maybe it’s finally time to give your friends closure. Feels cruel to keep dragging things out like this. They need to stop looking for you.”

For the first time in months, Whumpee felt a vague twinge of hope. 

“What? You mean that you’ll--?”

“What I mean is, they’ll be looking for a body.”

Oh. Oh no.

“W-what?” Whumpee stammered. He twisted out from under Whumper, his chain rattling against the floor as he side-stepped his captor. “What does that mean?”

“I feel a little guilty about it. The search for you has been going on for ages, and now they’re bringing out helicopters and shit? That’s a waste of taxpayer money. The cops could be out there doing real good.”

“No. What did you mean by ��body’?”

“I was thinking we could chop off one of your legs or something. Maybe just a foot.” 

“No!” Whumpee shrieked. “You can’t!” He delivered a feeble push against Whumper’s chest, pivoting out from underneath him. His heart was pounding in his ears so loud, he pressed his hands to cover them and doubled over in fear.

The reaction took Whumper by surprise. “Bad joke.” he offered, placing a calming hand on the other’s shoulders. 

It wasn’t a joke.

The tall man rubbed his captive’s back until Whumpee’s breath finally evened out. It felt like a betrayal, the way his body responded so well to Whumper’s comforting touch. He jerked away from the sociopath’s reach.

Whumpee blinked incredulously at the man, his cheeks burning with anger. “Don’t.” he spat.

“What?”

“Don’t you fucking dare--”

“Excuse me? Don’t I fucking dare do what?”

“Don’t fucking joke about mutilating me!” Whumpee shouted.

“Hey.” Whumper cautioned. “You’re being too goddamn loud right now.”

Whumpee was frenzied, his chain skittered around as he paced around in a tight circle, pulling at chunks of his hair.

“How long are you going to keep me here?!” Whumpee demanded. “How much fucking longer!?”

“As long as I goddamn like.”

“Just let me go. Just please…” Whumpee pled tearfully, his emotions see-sawing violently between anger and complete despair. “You got what you wanted from me. Why won’t you let me leave…?”

Whumper shrugged. “It never was a part of the plan.”

“Fuck you!” The captive yelled. “I fucking hate you!”

“Whumpee.” Whumper warned with a stern finger, “it’s time to shut the fuck up.”

“I HATE Y—!”

Whumper grabbed a length of chain from the floor and yanked it towards him, forcing Whumpee to the ground by the shackle around his ankle.

Whumper continued pulling the chain into himself, dragging Whumpee’s body across the cold cement floor with every tug. It all happened too quickly for Whumpee to process.

“I should bash your face into the concrete again.” He growled, standing over his collapsed body. Whumpee could taste blood in his mouth. “But I’ll give you one last chance. I guess I didn’t say it explicitly enough last time, so hopefully this time it fucking sinks in: you are here to stay. There will be no more talk of kidnapping, or rescue, or freedom, or fucking escaping. No more of that. You’re here. You’re mine. This house--no--this room, is your whole fucking world, and I am your god. Get used to it.”

Whumpee lifted his head slightly and shot a fiery glance in Whumper’s direction.

“You better wipe that look off your pathetic face while you’ve still got one.” Whumper flicked his switchblade open.

He lifted one of his boots and rested its rubber sole on Whumpee’s back, pressing him into the floor. Brandishing the knife overhead, he commanded Whumpee: “Show me why I choose to keep you around. Remind me that you haven’t fucking forgotten your sole purpose in life, or I’ll saw your leg off right fucking now.”

Face-down on the floor, Whumpee let out a sigh so small only he could hear it.

He knew what he had to do. He didn’t have any other options. Silent tears rushed down his cheeks and fell soundlessly to the floor.

And so out of self-preservation, Whumpee thrust his hips into the air and pushed his face to the floor, his bare ass on full display. He shifted weight into his palms and spread his legs out, his dick and balls tumbled forward, swaying slightly while he found his balance. His hands reached back behind him, blindly tracing the outsides of his thighs, following a line up and over to the round cleft of his butt cheeks.

Choking down a sob, he forced his ass apart. He disgracefully presented his hole before Whumper’s shining, ravenous eyes.

The captor’s jeans fell to the ground. The man dropped to his knees, settling himself in the space between Whumpee’s open legs. 

“When I’m done with you, you are going to fucking thank me like your life depends on it.”

The sudden, high-pitched beep of the washing machine pierced the quiet of the room, signalling that the washing was done. 

Whumpee didn’t dare move an inch.

“And after I’ve filled you up,” Whumper’s hot breath hit his ear. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly which limb to cut off.”

((more Whump oneshots))

[defire]

Some more sarcastic/defiant whumpee quotes and stuff:

Content: whipping, branding

Whumpee, as whumper comes in: "You looked better in the stocking mask."

"You think you're funny, whumpee?" "No, I think YOU'RE funny."

Whumpee forcing a chuckle as whumper approaches with a whip. "Oh. More of... That. Very creative."

Whumpee sobbing, "you don't think if I knew, I'd have told you? Look at me! Do I look like I'm handling this?"

Watching whumper approach with a brand and licking their lips, "look, whumper--and I'm not trying to hurt your feelings--but you catch more flies with hone--" whumpee breaks off into a scream as the brand sinks into their flesh

Painful silence as whumper slowly approaches whumpee with a riding crop, pauses for effect. "You just gonna stand there staring at me, or are we gonna get to the torture already?"

"count." Lash. "At least you're not making me kiss you." Lash. "I said count!" "This is more fuuuun fuck! Fuck you!"

Whumpee panting insults raggedly between screams

"ahhhh fuck!" Whumpee gasps a few breaths to add "soft as granite, you are."

Whumper enjoying the jibes. "Come on whumpee. I know you've got another one in you." *Hits them again*

That laugh groan that people make when they're kind of apalled at how much that hurts but they have a sense of humor about it... Turning into desperate cries with tears

"we're both having so much fun, whumpee, I'd hate to end this early." (Whumper trying to get whumpee to beg them to stop) "did you never play a videogame? There are other ways to have fun!!"

"look at me." "Come on... I don't wanna see your ugly face."

That moment when the sarcastic remarks stop, whumper walks close, lifting wet hair from whumpee's face with the handle of the whip.

"How about now?" Whumper says. "Got any more smart comments?" Whumpee, silently sobbing, shakes their head.

[mycrimsonwritings]

kintsugi #12

---

“Now, Whumpee. You are going to call me Master.”

Whumpee's eyes flies to his Caretaker’s eyes – equally startled – the stark anxiety he sees spiking a distant panic in himself.

His Caretaker never worries.

Fingers dig into Whumpee’s chin, pulling his face away from looking towards his Caretaker.

“Mn, no Whumpee. Don’t look at him. He can’t help you now.”

The truth of the words make his blood run cold, and his tummy tighten in knots. His gaze flickers up to cruel eyes; vision suddenly blurry.

“Do you understand, Whumpee?”

Whumpee nods, hoping his Caretaker will forgive him.

“Tsk, little Whumpee. I expect you to answer me clearly when I ask you a question.”

“Yes – Master.” Whumpee croaks, the word unbearably painful to utter.

Whumper laughs, “Good pet.”

---

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[all-the-gory-details]

(4 da requests) whumpee in a cell thats infested with maggots? maybe there are decaying/rotting things in their cell, and the whumpee is trying desperately to avoid becoming the maggots next target?

TW: Body horror, death, dead bodies, maggots, flies, decaying bodies, violence, captivity, possible mcd, really icky imagery

🚨If you're squeamish about bugs and/or body horror, don't read this please!!!🚨

It was the smell that hit them first, when Whumper had shoved them through the cell door that first night. They couldn't see the mutilated bodies strewn across the floor, and they wouldn't until the sun rose the next morning, but they knew what filth they were sitting among.

What else could smell like that?

The corpses were old, mostly decomposed into soft, brown mush, indistinguishable from one another. Whumpee curled up in the cleanest corner and tried not to think. They kept their eyes on the door to the cell.

Whumper wouldn't leave them down here for long, would they? As awful as it was sometimes, they were valuable. Whumper wanted them, needed them.

They wouldn't be abandoned.

They didn't start worrying about the flies until the second day, once the shock of their nee situation had turned to a deep, writhing dread.

Of course there were flies. It only made sense.

But the fact didn't truly sink in until they spotted the wriggling, grey worms digging into a pile of meat, devouring the decaying flesh.

They tried to keep the flies off. Their own wounds were mostly covered by dirty, grey bandages, but they couldn't go an hour without checking them obsessively for maggots.

The first time they found one, half buried in their mangled leg, they almost threw up. Their insides squirmed as they dug the insect out, squishing it and wiping the remains on the floor.

They didn't want to end up like the bodies around them. They didn't want to die, but more than that, they didn't want to rot. To decay slowly in this cell, body filling with maggots until it wasn't even recognizable as a body anymore.

They wished with every fiber of their being that Whumper would come back. They would be grateful to be beaten and ridiculed again, if only to stay out of this wretched, infested cell.

But Whumper wasn't coming.

Whumpee was just one person. The maggots were many, and they were everywhere.

Fighting the rot was always a losing battle.

[unforgivenn]

SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#1 :THE BEAST'S PET

Next/Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jen-with-a-pen]

ALL TIED UP - ONE

Series

summary: Steve can't remember what happened lat night, but his body sure does. Regret is the worst hangover of all– even more so when you can't remember what you regret.

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 955

chapter warnings: vague memories, indications of trauma, bruises, insomnia, dissociation, derealization, non-sexual nud1ty, mention and description of vomiting, anxiety attack, crying

a/n: So... this happened. the original wip was a one-shot inspired by this year's Whumptober Prompt #17: COLLAR, "LEAVE ME ALONE!"; as well as Alt. Prompt #15: RELUCTANT WHUMPER. I was going to use an idea I've had for a long time, but then I wrote... and wrote... and wrote... and now we're here. I struggled deciding on an idea for this and am thinking about also writing a separate work with Bucky, but I might also maybe be planning one from the readers POV, and maybe kinda sorta joining the two together and seeing where it goes. we'll see! I hope you enjoy

The most specialest of special thanks to two of my loves @vonalyn and @lunarbuck for helping me flesh out this idea and enable me in my destruction ♥ i owe you both a beefy alpha soon

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always ♥

Saturday, currently.

The alarm clock on Steve Rogers’ bedside table blares louder than it usually does.

Steve is already awake, however. He’s been awake for hours, lying in bed, staring unblinking at the faded white ceiling of his frat house bedroom. His eyes are bloodshot, the corners crusted from one part insomnia and one part tears. His body aches. Every muscle, every bone, feels like he’s been beaten senseless.

He doesn’t remember when he stopped crying.

Finally, he blinks. Slowly, unevenly, inhaling deeply. He holds it for a moment, the pressure in his chest providing some semblance of feeling in the numbness throughout his body. An exhale forces its way out of his lungs once the pressure begins to burn. He wills his hand to move, dropping on top of the alarm clock and his room falls back into silence once more. His hand falls limp off the nightstand as he drags it back to his side.

In a blur of his very few– and very failed– attempts to sleep that night, Steve remembers the second time he woke with a shout halfway out his throat. The navy blue comforter had tangled up in his sprawled limbs, the sheets being an entirely different mess at the foot of the bed. He’d thrown all of the covers on his bed onto the floor around three in the morning, when he succumbed to the threat of nightmares and insomnia, forced to lie awake.  

His skin feels filthy, coated in scum and shame. Cold sweat beads on his forehead, neck, and back. His clothes– an old t-shirt he dug out of his closet and a reused pair of boxers– cling to him like a second, heavy skin. He needs to shed it, tear it off his body, claw it off until he hits bone. Everything feels suffocating as his tired brain swims with flashbacks to the night– the disaster– before. The shouts. The people. The sweat and tears. 

The sex.

The thought of the word itself– and all connotations now attached to it– is enough to send a lurch through Steve’s stomach. It comes to a rolling boil, ready to spill up and out his throat, a touch of acid burning the back of his tongue. He scrambles out of bed and sprints to the bathroom down the hall. The door flies open, lights flickering on as he slaps a free hand not covering his mouth at the light switch. He falls to his knees at the front of the toilet and heaves, instantly discarding the contents of his stomach into the bowl. He gags once, then twice, as tears stream down his face and neck. Strong hands grip the rim of the bowl like a vice, an anchor, to hold himself steady as he trembles. Curses echo off the porcelain and back up at him as he spits a final time, flushing and slumping against the cool acrylic of the bathtub. Part of him hopes he didn’t wake up the rest of the house, but another part hopes he did; he hopes that his retching reminds them, too, of what happened. 

Like they would fucking care.

Steve wipes his mouth. Clammy skin catches on his chapped lips. He groans, his heart racing, the room spinning, as he attempts to gather himself. The grimy feeling remains on his skin; his hands feel especially filthy. He inhales, shaky, and grabs onto the side of the tub. Despite his build– muscular and fit and usually capable– he struggles to stand from the floor. Once on stable feet, he shuffles to the bathroom door and pushes the button on the knob. The door locks with a soft click. He double checks by jiggling the handle. Nodding to himself, Steve turns to face the mirror, sliding off his damp t-shirt and boxers, dropping them to the floor. His hands morph into tight fists at his side, hard gaze remaining fixed on the nickel-plated faucet of the sink. Shame gnaws at him, at his insides, at his soul. 

He can’t even face his own fucking reflection. 

Half-moons cut into each of his palms, fingernails digging into flesh; it's a sorry attempt at trying to ground himself. He chews at his lip and cheek, a copper taste coating his tongue when the tissue becomes raw. Eyes shut, face screwed tightly, he pivots his head up. He forces his eyes open, his gaze instantly met with a stranger.

He doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror. There are still-red, still-raw scratches panning across a hard chest and running down the abdomen. Bruises are strewn sporadically down arms and shoulders. The occasional bite mark becomes visible when the man moves his arms, rotating them, inspecting them in the mirror. Focus shifts to the groin. Claw marks, desperate and haphazard, litter thick thighs, the strands of raw red leading up to his dick. Flaccid. Still sensitive. The body mimicking Steve’s gestures doesn’t seem real. It isn’t him. This shitty replica, beaten and bruised– it isn’t him. 

Finally, his gaze shifts to the face.

Steve’s mouth dries up immediately, the lump in his throat growing bigger, thicker. Swallowing quickly becomes impossible. All blood drains from his face. His limbs lose feeling. He doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t remember– he cannot fucking remember.

Surrounding Steve’s right eye, swimming in sickly colors in the tender flesh of his cheek and temple, lies a blackened, bruised eye. Purples and blues and greens are painted around his swelling lid; the skin is still tender and throbbing. He brings his hand to his face and traces the wound delicately, as if he’ll further mar the skin on his own body. He flinches at the lightest touch against it. 

It hurts as he starts to cry.

[forwhump]

Don’t Do This

a/n; I was gonna try and take a couple days off posting ‘cause I felt bad for being way too much but I’m addicted to the panicky feeling that a new post gives me & I could only hold out for one day :’) hello again

I wrote this world in drabbles so that’s a big part of the reason it’s getting posted in drabbles but the conundrum I’m having now is that two or three of them are now actually following the plot & the rest are all just completely random so WHAT is the rhyme or reason here ?? there isn’t one buckle in

here’s another random ♡

(introducing the rest of the unit ! fun fun fun)(I’ve created a universe that’s just so much fun for everybody involved)

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, disfigurement, life altering injuries, rape, noncon, guns, graphic depictions of violence, gore, transphobia, misgendering, psychological torture, torture, amputation, humiliation

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper, super soldiers, punishment

word count : this one’s long as hell, like almost 4K words, that’s why you’re getting the heads up <3

Good days, in a place like this, are far and few in between.

Most days are wrought with some kind of torment, haunted by something unimaginable. Silas’ day to day can be averaged out to mutilation, brain surgery, training exercises — a game of slaughter for the soldiers — and field tests — a game of slaughter for Silas.

Silas doesn’t have a lot of good days.

When he does, they just make him tense.

It’s like something is missing, and how fortunate it is that the missing piece is some kind of agony but Silas finds himself bracing for it all the same.

They’re sprawled across the common room, across the couches and the mismatched carpets, and Silas isn’t in surgery, nobody else is in training, their wounds are all healing. Silas is dwarfing the loveseat but Wren had fit himself into the spot at his side and he’s so warm next to him that it’s a good day. It makes Silas’ fingers twitch. Something’s just —

Something isn’t right. It’s electric, and it prickles at the back of his neck. He’s already looking at the door when it chirps to life; a keycard is accepted, then a fingerprint, then the vault lock is unsecured.

Silas was right. Something’s wrong.

The door grinds open and a cavalry of soldiers explode into the room like a swarm of flies. It’s an ambush. They move quickly, covering the door and the perimeter of the common room, shouting over each other, shouting commands.

They flood through the common room, guns pointed towards them.

Wren’s small hand finds Silas’ quickly and Silas squeezes. He helps Wren to his feet as guns are aimed into their faces and soldiers shout at them, commanding and militant, “on your feet, asset! On your feet!”

They’re herded into a row, which gives Silas a cool, uneasy feeling he doesn’t let show on his face. Standing next to each other, they’re too drastically different in size to hold hands in any practical way, but Wren keeps close at his side, fingers woven through Silas’ sleeve so tightly his knuckles are white.

It gives Silas a pang of — not of reassurance, because it’s next to impossible to ever be reassured in a place like this, but something a bit more akin to resolve. Something’s wrong, but it really doesn’t matter what it is. If Wren’s in any sort of danger, Silas will raise fuckin’ hell. No harm will befall even a hair on his little blonde head as long as Silas has something to fuckin’ say about it.

He shifts, only slightly, shielding Wren behind his arm just as Point saunters into their unit, hands behind his back, at ease. He walks with casual, unhurried footsteps, pacing up and down the line of them, and he’s quiet for a long time. He stops once in front of Wren and Silas doesn’t like the way he looks at him.

“Assets,” he greets finally, loud and commanding. “It has come to my attention that this unit has been causing me some trouble. Again.” He stops, turns to face them, arms still at ease. “One of you,” he says, “has been feeding some information to the big guy —“ he points at Silas “— that we suspect will make him extremely volatile. That puts us in danger, and that just won’t do, will it?”

Point looks down the row of them before he settles on Wren, close against his back. “And it was you, wasn’t it?” He asks. “You weren’t a very good girl.”

Wren inhales sharply at his back and Silas isn’t sure if the race of his heartbeat is Wren’s or his own. Something cold starts to trickle down the back of his neck, just as cold as whatever’s started to frost over the inside of his ribcage.

“I asked you a question,” Point says.

Wren’s fingertips dig into Silas’ arm so hard he probably draws blood. “No,” he breathes, so soft it’s barely audible.

Point grins at him. “No?”

“No,” he insists, just as soft. “I’ve never — no. They don’t — they don’t know.”

His eyebrows lift. “They don’t know?” The way his smile spreads wider across his face is grotesque. “My,” he says. “Didn’t this just get a whole lot more interesting?”

“Please,” Wren whispers.

The way Point grins at him makes Silas’ stomach bubble. He pushes Wren behind him entirely. “Fuck off.”

Point’s gaze flickers up to Silas’ face, almost appraising, before that awful, grotesque smile spreads across his face again. “That’s why you’ve got such a soft spot for her,” he says. “She never told you she’s a whore.”

Wren inhales sharply and Silas is going to rub that smile off Point’s face with the concrete floor.

Before he gets the opportunity, Robin says, “it was me.”

He doesn’t break line, he doesn’t change face, a proper and trained soldier. But, “I talked to Silas. Wren didn’t know.”

Point turns his head before he follows the movement of it, stalking the line of them to Robin.

Wren’s older brother, the familial resemblance is undeniable; they have the same white hair, the same dark eyes, the same cheekbones. The difference between them is that Wren is a person, soft and warm, and Robin is a super soldier. He’s big and he’s broad, his hair cropped short above his ears. When he isn’t in combat, he wears round, dorky glasses. He’s always scared the hell out of Silas and Silas doesn’t quite know why. Not much else scares him.

Robin had come to him maybe a week ago, and he hadn’t said much. He didn’t know much, even. Wren hasn’t really been…himself, he’d said. More than usual. He won’t tell me what’s going on with him but I was hoping you would…keep an eye on him. He trusts you.

He really didn’t even need to ask, because Silas was always keeping an eye on Wren but Robin was worried about him and Silas knows more than enough how that feels.

He keeps his chin up as Point approaches. Wren is shaking at Silas’ back. “You?”

“Sir,” Robin agrees.

Point hums thoughtfully. “This unit is just full of surprises today, isn’t it?”

He just barely looks at his men, tipping his head towards Robin. The militia descends on him, shouting and aiming and threatening, getting Robin to his knees, hands behind his head. Two of them hold him there, kneeling on the concrete as Point stands in front of him with a grin.

“Asset,” he says. “You have been charged today with inciting violence.”

“No,” Wren breathes. “No, please —“

“Normally,” Point says, grinning wider, not turning his head, “the punishment for inciting violence is execution. But we’ve made exceptions for the freak,” he explains, his eyes flickering to Silas, “so we’ve decided to show you mercy. You will get to walk away.” And he grins, flicking his wrist, and a buck knife slides out from his sleeve and glints tauntingly in the fluorescence. “We just need to make absolutely certain you are no longer capable of inciting violence in our facility. Precautions need to be taken.” With his other hand, he grabs a fistful of Robin’s white hair and he drives his knee into his windpipe.

Robin chokes, gasping for ragged breaths as Point takes a step back, just far enough that he can boot Robin in the face and throw him off his knees, onto his back. From there, Point stomps down onto his face, and the pitch of the gurgling noise that Robin makes gives Silas goosebumps.

“Today,” he announces, “we will take your tongue. We will no longer have to worry about threats of violence, and you will be used as an example to your unit. We don’t make empty threats. We will not have any more insurgence in this fuckin’ place, do I make myself clear?”

“Please,” Wren breathes, peeking out from around Silas’ arm and Silas tries to shield him again but he’s stubborn, he’s insistent. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Point looks at him and he looks for a long time. It makes all the hair at the back of Silas’ neck stand up, and he holds out an arm, not shielding Wren, just blocking him, just in case. Silas can see the idea form in the way that Point’s face lights up, cruel and delighted. He clicks his tongue at Wren, angling his head, some kind of signal. “Bring the girl over here,” he commands. “I want to be inside her while I cut out her brother’s tongue.”

“No,” Robin grunts, with the wet strain of somebody bleeding down the back of his own throat.

“No,” Wren breathes, taking a quick step back.

A wall of black tactical gear and assault rifles closes in on him quickly, and Silas moves without any hesitation or conscious thought at all.

He pivots. He’s gentle, he’s so gentle with Wren as he pushes him behind himself and barricades him from the nightmare cavalry. Wren’s hand finds his arm so tightly that Silas’ bones grind together and it’s his resolve. He won’t let anything happen to Wren — he can’t. Over his dead fuckin’ body.

Robin — whatever. Silas could take him or leave him. But he means a lot to Wren, and Silas won’t let Wren down.

“I fuckin’ dare you,” he spits.

Give lifts his gun. “Stand down, asset.”

“Tell you what,” Silas says, lifting his chin. “If you get me down, I’ll stay down.”

Give aims his gun towards Silas’ dick. “I don’t think that’ll be too hard.”

But the funniest thing about these soldiers is that they know Silas. They were here for his creation. They’ve witnessed every field test. They know what he can do. They know exactly what he’s capable of. When Silas needs to be escorted from the unit they’ll argue amongst themselves, throwing weight and rank around, about who has to stand in front because none of them want to put their backs to him.

They’re scared of him. They’re right to be, but they’re scared of him. But there’s something in this unit — maybe it’s because Silas is corned and drastically outnumbered, but it makes them cocky. It’s like they forget to be scared.

They should always be scared.

Silas rips the gun out of Give’s hands and shatters every bone in his face with the base. He drops into a limp pile of limbs and Silas can’t tell if he’s breathing. He struggles, sometimes, with how little it actually takes to kill a human being. Overkill, sometimes, but he’s never tried to tone it down.

“Asset!” Preach bellows, and Silas hooks his foot behind his ankle, sending him sprawling. Once he’s on the ground, Silas drives his heel down and right through the centre of his face. He hits concrete, and bone tears through his sock and bites open the bottom of his foot.

He’s rewarded with a knife between the ribs.

It’s whatever, it’s a knife to the ribs, it’s definitely not Silas’ first. But it hurts, of course it fuckin’ hurts, it hurts all the way through him and deep into his chest and he rips the knife out of his side with a roar. Rock, still standing close at his side, exhales an, “aw, fuck,” before Silas gives him back his knife. He brings it up, through the underside of his chin, into the roof of his mouth. Blood pours out of his face like a faucet had been turned on. He hits the ground with a noise like a splatter.

This time, he’s rewarded with a bullet to the face.

It isn’t lethal, but Silas is still shot in the face.

His cheekbone shatters on impact and he goes completely blind on his left side. For a second, for only a second, the world around him blurs completely, but it happens for a second too long. Silas sways, and when the vision clears in his right eye they’re all close, they’re all way too fuckin’ close.

“Back up,” he snarls, but then everything blurs again and their hands are on Wren and they’re trying to wrench him from his side.

“NO!” Silas roars.

“Silas!” Wren cries. He reaches for him, and Silas grabs him quickly by the hand.

While his arm is outstretched, Need strikes, and he breaks all the way through Silas’ elbow with a buck knife.

It crackles with pain for barely a moment before Silas stops feeling anything in his arm. It falls to his side, useless and limp, and Silas quickly reaches for Wren with his other arm but Silas thinks he might be losing a lot of blood and quickly isn’t quick enough.

Wren is hauled away as Silas is surrounded, guns aimed at all his most vital spots, fingers on triggers.

Wren fights, begs, struggles, but Tide and Vineyard make easy work of dragging him across the concrete. His wrists are tied behind his back, and when they drop him at Point’s feet, they drop him on his back, his hands trapped against the concrete. There’s something really helpless about it and it makes Silas really nauseous. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

Point lifts his boot and presses it down against Wren’s throat, holding him there.

Silas doesn’t snarl so much as his chest makes some kind of noise, something low, like some kind of predatory animal. The barrel of a gun is hoisted, cold, against the nape of his neck, a warning.

“This is getting just fuckin’ ridiculous,” Point snaps at the room at large. “Ridiculous! All of this fuckin’ trouble! For some whore!” He looks down at Wren and tells him directly, “you are not worth all this fuckin’ trouble.”

Something akin to hatred knots in Silas’ chest, something akin to hatred but something so much stronger, something he doesn’t have the words to describe. It’s heavy, and it’s restless under his skin. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

Point coils Wren’s braid around his fist and drags him over to Robin as Wren cries. Robin tries to protest, makes a hiccuping sort of sound, but he doesn’t speak. He probably can’t. He’s drowning.

“You people have been giving me a lot of trouble,” Point announces. He props Wren’s head up against Robin’s chest. “I’ve earned this.”

Wren sobs and it’s the single worst sound that Silas has ever heard. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

“Please,” he begs, “please, please. Don’t do this. Please.”

Point grins at him. “You know how much I love it when you beg.” In a single, fluid motion, he hauls Wren’s joggers down his thighs.

The knife is still pierced through Silas’ elbow. He takes quick stock. He can still use one of his arms and he can still see from one of his eyes. He’s probably still at an advantage over a regular, human soldier.

Except Hal is swarmed, too. Not the same as Silas, because Hal’s a little more human than Silas, but he’s swarmed, and still, he shoves a soldier out of his way by the side of his head as he shouts, “you can’t do this!”

Point looks up quickly. He kind of scans the room before he settles on Hal. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t fuckin’ do this!” Hal cries.

“Stand down,” a soldier warns him and Hal pulls that guy’s knees out from under him.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” He protests. “This is fucked up!”

Point looks down at Wren for a long time, who cries quietly and doesn’t look back. Finally, he leans over him, up to Robin, and pries his mouth open. Robin doesn’t fight him. He doesn’t even hiccup this time.

Point eases his tongue from his mouth and severs it with a flick of his wrist. Stepping over Wren and Robin, he sidles up to Hal, getting right up in his face. “Which one are you?”

“Singh,” Hal answers. He adds, mocking, “sir.”

Something flickers in Point’s jaw. “Singh,” he agrees. “They tell me you’re not very bright, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. I will choose to believe it is ignorance and not defiance that has made you think you have any right to stand up to me or to tell me what I can’t do. You do not. I can do anything I’d like. I can do whatever I want to you people. Do I make myself clear?”

Hal doesn’t deign that with a response.

Point flicks Robin’s tongue into his face and bellows, “do I make myself clear?”

Hal doesn’t flinch, but he closes his eyes.

Point delights in it. “Soldier,” he says, and when Hal looks at him, he goes on, “you know to look at a superior when they’re talking to you.” He looks at Vineyard. “Both eyes. Left and right.”

Vineyard nods.

Hal says, “what?”

The swarm is back at him in a second and it’s bigger this time. They force Hal onto the ground, onto his back, they pin him there by his arms and his legs and his wrists and his chest and his chin. Tide holds his eyelids open.

Hal thrashes. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? This is bullshit!”

“You should’ve known better than to misbehave,” Point says.

He hands Vineyard the same knife he’d used to amputate Robin’s tongue. Vineyard flips it over in his fist, and straddles Hal’s chest. Hal thrashes again, trying to throw him off. “Get the fuck off me! You can’t do this shit! This is fucked!”

“What did I just say?” Point snaps. He snaps his fingers, and Vineyard carves both of Hal’s eyeballs out of their sockets.

He screams the whole time.

He screams himself hoarse, and when Vineyard climbs off of him, when the swarm depletes, he’s a pile on the floor, head down, and Silas can’t tell if he’s still conscious.

“I am getting sick,” Point spits, “sick of the behaviour from this fuckin’ unit. You are livestock. You are property. You belong to me. You have no power here. And I’m delighted to let you know, livestock, that you aren’t even our best. You aren’t special. If you can’t learn to behave yourselves, you will all be put down, and our efforts will be relocated to another unit and you will not be missed. Except the girl,” he adds, mostly to Wren, standing over him again. He winks. “What a waste of such fuckable meat. We’ll keep her in the barracks until we get bored of her. She will be kept busy.”

Wren sobs and Silas’ fingers twitch. His arm is hot with bleeding.

Point crouches down above Wren again and makes a sound, a mock sigh. “I was really looking forward to fucking you while I cut his tongue out,” he says, pulling his joggers the rest of the way down, “and now I’m really disappointed. So you’re gonna have to make that up to me.”

Wren sobs again. His voice is trembling as he begs, “please, please. Please don’t do this. Please.”

“Be good,” Point tells him, and there isn’t even any mocking amusement in it. “I’m already disappointed. Don’t put me in a bad mood.”

“Please,” Wren sobs.

Point pulls him a little closer, pulls his head off of Robin’s chest. “Be a good girl,” he says. “I’m not asking.”

His hands find Wren’s waist and Wren wails. “Please.”

Something shifts in Point’s face. His bad mood. “Just be a good girl!” He cracks his fist into Wren’s face so hard that the back of Wren’s head ricochets off the pavement before he goes completely, unsettlingly still. His cheekbone is already bruised as Point snaps, “fuck sake.” With a grunt, he spits in Wren’s face. “Dumb bitch.” As he stands, he looks right at Silas. “Not as much fun fucking her when she’s not awake to fight me off.”

Silas is a violent person, but the kind of violence that Point stokes in him is something like nothing else Silas has ever experienced. It’s dizzying, not a thirst but a lust, and Silas doesn’t just want to kill him but he wants to eviscerate him.

He makes it half a step closer before the soldier standing closest, Vienna, lifts his gun and shoves the barrel tight against the bottom of Silas’ chin.

“Stand down.”

Silas doesn’t even have time to remove the knife from his arm. Silas grabs Vienna around the throat and crushes every bone in his neck with his other hand. He’s dead before he has time to react.

Two gunshots are the soundtrack to his body hitting the concrete. The pain registers a moment later.

It explodes through both of Seven’s kneecaps, one at a time, a white hot sort of pain that seeps into the marrow of his bones and hurts from the inside. He drops to his knees, and fire licks up into his hips, his chest, it churns his stomach with something hot and acidic that crawls up the back of his throat as he bellows.

Point lowers his handgun. “He told you to stand down.”

“Eat shit,” Silas seethes, and Point fires another shot into the already shattered plate of his right knee. The way the pain ripples through him knocks the wind out of him, and Silas groans through his teeth, breathless.

“Down, boy,” Point says. Silas snarls as he saunters closer, gun raised but almost mocking in its brandishing. “You embarrass yourself, you know,” he tells him. “Losing all this blood for the sake of the fucksleeve. This is a waste of your talents.”

Silas snorts at him. “Get fucked.”

It brings back Point’s grin, and he points at Wren’s limp body. “Like your little girlfriend’s going to be?”

Silas rips the knife out of his arm. He means to throw it, but he doesn’t get that far.

He gets shot in the face. Again.

It blows everything to darkness for a second and when Silas comes back to himself he’s on his back, looking up at Point, illuminated ominously by the fluorescent lights.

Point grins down at him again. “For constant belligerence,” he says, “left leg. Below the knee.” He holds out a hand, and Vineyard hands him an axe. “I’ll do the honours. Shame the girl isn’t conscious for this one.” He turns the axe in his hands, brandishing it dramatically before he hoists the end of it towards June.

“Tollier,” he says. “Any grand, heroic gestures for this one before I amputate his leg?”

June looks at Silas like she might try.

He shakes his head against the concrete.

She looks at him for as long as the moment will allow. Still, she doesn’t look away when she whispers, “no.”

“Hmm,” Point says. “Good girl.” He looks at her with an almost genuine approval. “Two fingers from your left hand for general insubordination,” he orders. “But I’ll let you pick which two fingers.”

Vineyard’s grin glints in the overhead lights.

Silas is sure June screams, but it sounds like his ears are full of water and he can’t hear much of anything else.

Point grins, wide and maniacal. It’s the most evil Silas has ever seen him look. “Brace yourself, big guy,” he says, and he leans in real close to make sure Silas can hear him. “This is really going to hurt.”

[iwritewhump]

"You're nothing without me." + hero whumper + basement

day twenty-three of whumptember

1323 words

warnings: intimate whumper, broken skin, kidnapping, falling down a flight of stairs, hanging from the wrists, throwing up, descriptive gore (specifically a cracked skull)

~

Hero makes herself seen by Villain and strides into the alleyway with him. She tilts her head and looks around. “Is this really where you want to do this?” 

Villain nods and closes the gap between them. He sighs, “I wish we didn’t have to do this. But I know you’ll never leave me alone. So let’s get it over with.” 

His lip quivers and he takes a deep, shuddering breath before taking a step away from her. Slowly, he reaches for his dagger and wraps his fingers around it. 

The cool metal warms under his hand and he pulls it from its sheath. Hero smirks and raises her fists, showing off her brass knuckles. 

She throws the first punch, hitting his cheekbone. Blood beads out and runs down his face. He hisses and holds his sleeve up to the cut, pressing on it to try and slow the bleeding. 

She lands another blow, this time on his arm. The blood runs down to his fingertips and blood drips onto the ground. 

She smirks and takes a step closer, just close enough for him to bury his dagger in her shoulder. She roars and shoves him back. He stumbles and falls to the ground, dazed from the hit. 

He regains his footing and holds his arms out in front of his face. He looks behind him and wishes he’d chosen a spot that gave an opportunity to run, but all he can do is fight. 

“Regretting your decision?” Hero taunts, grabbing Villain’s arm. She buries her nails in his arm until he drops the dagger. It clatters to the ground and Villain gasps. 

He backs up against the wall. The sharp ridges of the bricks behind him dig into his back as Hero presses up against him. Inhaling through his teeth and bracing for the impending impact, Villain closes his eyes. 

Hero cups his cheek with her hand and strokes his bleeding cheekbone with her thumb, “So scared.” she whispers. Her voice sends a shiver down Villain’s spine. “Poor thing.” 

She takes his hand and pulls him away from the wall and leads him out of the alleyway. 

Villain’s too tired to fight her, he lets her pull him out of the alley, away from his dagger and to her car. 

She opens the passenger door and stands him in front of it. “Get in.” 

He blinks and starts to duck into the car. Hero shoves him the rest of the way in, hitting his head on the roof of the car.  Villain groans as she leans over him to buckle him in the seat. She lingers there, one hand on his thigh and the other tracing over his chest. 

“My lucky day,” She whispers, pushing herself with the hand on his thigh. She walks around the front of the car and gets in the driver’s seat. The car speeds off and Villain leans against the window, keeping an eye on Hero. 

Hero inhales sharply and turns to look at Villain. Her hand creeps over to his arm and she finds his hand. Waffling their fingers together, she squeezes his hand and pulls it to the center console. 

“I expected you to put up more of a fight,” she says, almost singsong. “You must’ve wanted to come with me.” 

Villain doesn’t pull his hand away. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine he’s back home. “I’m tired of all the fighting. I figured it was time to…” 

“Give up?” Hero suggests. 

Not give up. Anything but give up. Stop fighting, retire, throw in the towel, quit. Not give up. 

“Yeah,” Villain says, “I guess. Besides, it felt like a natural ending. You’re getting more and more support, more people are opposing you. My job is done.” 

Hero scoffs, “What job?” 

“Nothing,” Villain says, his face turning white. “Forget I said anything.” 

Hero squeezes his hand and slams on the brake. He flies forward, forehead hitting the dashboard. She pulls to the side of the road and parks the car. “What. Job?” 

He shakes his head and looks out the window. 

“You can tell me now or I’ll beat it out of you.” she threatens. Villain stays quiet and Hero starts driving again. She glares at Villain, trying to pry into his mind and figure out his secret, but he doesn’t give anything away. 

Hero pulls the car into the garage and pulls Villain out of the car. She drags him behind her and down the stairs, not caring when he loses his footing and falls past her. She lets him tumble, a mess of legs and arms flailing down the stairs to the concrete bottom. 

She takes her time getting down the stairs, carefully stepping over Villain. He’s knocked out, blood seeping out of his reopened wounds and new ones from the fall. She grabs him by his collar and pulls him further into the basement. 

~

Villain wakes up with his hands above his head. He groans groggily and tries to move, to lower his arms and sit down, but all he manages to do is stumble in place. He looks around, getting his bearings and sees Hero sitting on the ground in front of him. 

She pushes herself to her feet and stands in front of Villain. 

“Do you want to tell me what you meant in the car?” she asks, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him towards her. 

When he doesn’t respond, she shoves him away from her. His feet lift from the ground and all his weight is held by his wrists. Villain cries out, tears springing from his eyes. 

“Ok!” he screams, “I’ll tell you!” 

And Hero doesn't know if it’s because his hands are purple, or his arm and cheek are probably infected, or he fell down an entire flight of stairs, but he broke easily so she counts it as a victory. 

“Superhero hired me. He knew you needed help building your reputation so he paid me to lose a few fights.” Villain sighs and shakes his head. “I tried to get out of it as soon as Vigilante surfaced, but Superhero said it wasn’t enough. So I kept fighting-kept losing.” 

Hero shakes her head. She backs away from Villain, anger hardening her face. “You’re lying to me!” 

“Why would I do that?” 

She stares at him, face turning red. Her arms cross in front of her and she bites her cheek. Villain tilts his head and finds what he hopes is his opening. 

“I could’ve beaten you. At first. You were weak and it took so much restraint not to ruin you. I made you strong. I made you who you are. You’re nothing without me.” he spits. 

Hero charges him and shoves him back, he goes flying to the back of the room. 

There’s a sickening crack when Villain’s head hits the wall. He swings forward again, feet dragging behind him the whole way. His head hangs forward loosely as blood drips from the back of his head onto his face. It collects at his nose and trickles steadily onto the floor. 

Hero gasps and pulls away, blood getting on the toe of her shoe. “Oh god!” 

She screams, backing away from Villain. Her hand covers her mouth and her stomach turns as Villain’s body slowly turns so his back is facing her. The back of his head is cracked open, fragments of his skull stick out of his flesh. 

Hero vomits and runs out of the basement. She trips up the stairs, falling forward and splitting her lip. She hurries the rest of the way up and pulls her phone out. She dials 911 and her finger hovers above the call button. But how would she explain anything to them? 

And they can’t get her the answers she needs. She shakes her head and deletes the number, instead clicking on Superhero’s contact. He has a lot to answer for.

[gr8butnotstr8]

Dare i say homelander's character always was kind of heartbreaking but after this episode I just- i don't think i have the words to properly describe my thought process but i'll try.

He's not just a whumpee turned whumper.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, right? Well that's it, until it's not just this.

Ever since he was born he's been nothing but feared, often even revered: not really like a god, at least not in a christian way, more like a lovecraftian abomination. He has never known humanity.

I repeat:

He has never known humanity.

When that scientist (Barbara) tells him his need for love and approval is too deep and too human for him to ever get rid of it he softly replies that oh well then it's good he's not human. And I mean, he isn't completely wrong is he? You cannot place the shackles of divinity upon a child and expect them not to succumb to the burden of your lowly, human, fearful gaze. How can we ever dare to demand him not to feel superior to anyone else when the first notion to be drilled in his head was that he's too powerful to be loved. Or at least to be only loved. Love tainted by fear is not what he's seeked all those years, even if he may not realize it. He craves approval, he craves genuine affection, to hold the gaze of another without seeing that glint of terror creeping out to meet his eyes, because it's always there. Even the most devoted hometeamer knows, deep inside their head, that Homelander's very nature demands they fear him. Sure they think it's just the respect they owe him for protecting them or whatever, but it really isn't. It's just the natural, human reaction to something that looks human but really is so far above human that you can't help but tremble. A weird kind of uncanny valley.

And so here he is. A god. In a horrific way yes, but still a god, and to try and mix - taint - his divinity with human wants? That's blasphemy. The mortals that tortured him when he was but a child, that shaped him into this wretched being yearning for satisfaction (such an alien concept, so beyond his reach) now must pay.

Humiliation of the flesh follows, because mere humans can't withstand what he was put throught, and as they die like flies he forgives them. Their sins have been forgiven. They have reached atonement not much in death but in the ways they died. In the tortures they put him throught.

Homelander is a "god born of man" and to free himself of the taint of humanity (and so mortality, which is his greatest fear) he needs to destroy his creators.

Anticlimatic, I know, but tragic nonetheless.

The paradigm has been flipped:

"God creates man, man destroys God" has now been reversed.

His yearning for love, his human neediness, has been shattered when he freed himself from his wretched notion of humanity.

Humans created him and made him of divine nature, then dared to call themselves his equals, then they brutalized his body to study its strenght and test its limits. How arrogant of them, to presume there'd be limits to such a thing.

In the end of this deeply nonsensical yapping i think homelander is truly cursed to never be happy, because he will always be in a cage and can only choose which one. He can accept his humanity (and the schackles that comes with it) and the inherent weakness of it, but that will never make him happy: he's too convinced he's a god, he believes in his own myth, his only religion (he is after all the only man in the sky).

Or, he can trascend humanity and become the fearful entity he was always destined to be, without human needs of love or approval he can be the ultimate arbiter of the planet. But that too comes with schackles, i'm afraid.

How could a divine being, basically a god, ever achieve satisfaction? Happiness? These are human matters. To give up humanity he has to give up on these goals too.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Revenge Stream: Part Four

contains: violence, gore, burning, torture, adult language, red room setup, revenge whump, broken bones, whumpee turned whumper, burning/gore in image

previous // next

•

It's a few days later when the next link shows up, and when you click it, you're once again face to face with Shepard. This time, he's dangling from his wrists, looking much worse for the wear. The blindfold is gone, but the gag is still in place, and you have to wonder if he's gotten a break from it at all. He's acquired new bruises, and you can glimpse lash marks criss crossing his back. Considering the state of his hands and knees, you almost hope he's unconscious.

After a couple seconds, Gabriel steps into frame, a taser in his gloved hand.

“Welcome back everyone! I trust you missed me. Just like last time, we have plenty of fun little toys for Vicky here.” He pauses, tossing the taser in the air and catching it. “All we need is a little help from you to decide what comes first.”

Gabriel circles Shepard, as if pondering what tools to offer up. Seeming to sense his presence, Shepard's eyes flutter open, just for an instant, before drifting shut once more.

“I'm thinking we either do the taser,” Gabriel begins, tapping at his masked chin, “or bring Uriel over and have him practice his boxing.”

A sharp laugh from Lu comes from offscreen. “You do try. But it's not enough.”

Gabriel's head shoots up. “Huh– what do you mean?”

“You want to punch him?” Lu is striding towards Shepard. “Tase him? You have the man at your disposal. You know the things he's done.”

The host seems to deflate a little. “I—I know. I'm sorry, I just—”

“You are still soft,” Lu interrupts. “It's alright. It's to be expected.” She moves out of frame, leaving Gabriel behind, looking unsure of what to do. 

In the corner of your screen, a new poll appears.

Burn him with a hot iron, the first button reads.

Break another bone, reads the second.

Jeez. Lu doesn't play around, does she? How personal is all this for her? She seems intimately familiar with Shepard's misdeeds, but isn't that a prerequisite for this kind of job?

The poll wraps up, burn him taking the victory, and you hear the door to the room open and close. After a few moments of silence, Lu returns, a bucket in hand. A few metal rods poke out from it, and you can see a faint orange glow radiating from them. She sets the bucket a few feet from Shepard, gesturing for Gabriel to turn him around before stepping off-camera once more.

The host obliges, rotating Shepard until his back is fully facing the camera. Under the lash marks and the bruises, his flesh is heavily scarred. It looks like he's definitely been whipped before, and his lower back is already littered with burn scars. The sight of them—combined with the knowledge of what's about to happen—almost makes you feel sorry for the guy.

The feeling is misplaced, right? You heard Lu, Victor Shepard has done horrible things. He deserves everything she's doing to him. Right?

Lu moves back into frame, holding a knife. You barely have time to wonder why before she's slicing into Shepard’s back, making a deep cut over the left side of his ribcage. The man lets out a weak cry at the blade's touch, but manages to quiet himself.

Gabriel faces Lu, his head slightly cocked. “I thought you wanted to burn him?”

“I do,” Lu replies, reaching for one of the rods. She lays a stiff-fingered hand on Shepard's back, just above the weeping cut, and lines the glowing iron up just below it.

No fucking way.

Your hand flies to your mouth as she thrusts the iron into the open wound, prying the skin back with a thumb as the other hand pushes the hot metal deeper.

Shepard’s scream sounds inhuman. He thrashes against his restraints, head arcing back as Gabriel struggles to hold him steady. Lu seems undisturbed by the sounds he's making, patiently working the iron under his skin. You wonder vaguely how the fingers pulling the wound open aren't getting burned. The metal is still a molten orange, hardly cooled down from its tempering.

Shepard hunches forward suddenly, dry heaving. All his weight is on his wrists, feet digging against the ground like he's trying to run in his pained delirium.

At last, Lu yanks out the iron, pulling a good deal of muscle fibres and burned blood with it. Shepard’s form is limp before her, but she doesn't seem to care, setting the iron back into the bucket and reaching for the knife.

“Stop, stop,” Gabriel finds his voice, shoving Shepard’s unconscious body away as he scrambles towards Lu. 

“Stop?” She doesn't turn around. “You want me to stop?”

Gabriel shakes his head, wobbly on his feet. “You can't— I… it's too far.”

“Nothing is too far for him.” She grips the knife tightly in her left hand. You can see the glove on her right has charred where it came too close to the iron.

Gabriel clutches at his hood. “Mom, please—”

Lu’s head snaps up at his words, and he balks.

“I didn't mean—”

“Out,” Lu says sharply. “Get out. Now.”

What the hell?

The host doesn't say another word, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to exit. Once the door closes, Lu sighs, shaking her head. The knife still tight in her hand, she nudges the bucket aside with her boot. Standing on her toes, she reaches for the rope securing Shepard to the ceiling, severing it with a swift cut. Shepard falls hard, crying out when his destroyed knees hit the concrete, though he remains unconscious.

Lu turns from him, moving towards the laptop. “Let's move on,” she says, quickly typing up a new poll. Your mouth is dry as you read the next options.

Destroy his left leg with the hammer.

Let him try to fight for his freedom.

Maybe you're dazed from watching the iron burrow into Shepard's back, or maybe you just don't care anymore, but you click the second button before you realize what you're doing.

Shit. 

You watch the time tick down, a weird anxiety filling you as you realize the option you chose is coming ahead.

It wins by one vote. Your vote. And… you don't know how to feel. Did you save him from the worse fate of having his leg crushed? Or are you shielding someone who shouldn't be protected? Fuck, you shouldn't have voted at all, but it's too late for that now.

Lu tilts her head as she reads the results. You can't see her expression, but you get the feeling she's smiling.

“Hm. This should be interesting.”

She stiffly lowers herself onto her left knee next to Shepard, knife in hand. His eyebrows are drawn down tightly, and he squints up at her, something almost like fear in his expression as he eyes the blade. But she doesn't turn it on him this time. She only saws away the ropes binding his wrists.

“Wake up Victor,” she murmurs. “Do you want to leave?”

His eyes drift shut, and she slaps him.

“Answer me. Do you want to leave?”

Shepard lets out a shaky breath, and gives her a single nod.

“I thought so.” She waves her hand, and Uriel steps forward, looming over them both.

“I will let you go if you can beat this man in a fight. Hm? Does that sound fair?”

At her words, Shepard’s expression tightens, but he again gives her a nod. He probably knows he has no other choice.

“Good. Collect yourself. This is the only chance you will get.”

You already know it's a losing battle. Lu wouldn't have offered it if she thought he could win. But even if Shepard is aware of that, it doesn't seem to be stopping him. You wince as he drags himself to the wall and painstakingly forces himself to stand, his face screwed in pain. How he’s able to move at all is beyond you, especially for a lost cause like this, but… maybe he doesn't see it that way.

Maybe he truly believes he stands a chance.

Uriel doesn't assume a fighting stance, doesn't charge in with his fists raised. He simply walks towards Shepard, his arms at his sides, shoulders relaxed.

Once he's within a few feet, Shepard darts forward, but his legs buckle beneath him, and he topples to the ground with a hiss. Uriel doesn't even flinch at the flimsy attempt, calmly pulling back his foot as if to kick the downed man—

—and suddenly stumbling as Shepard pushes himself forward, wrapping both arms around his leg and rolling. It comes out of nowhere, the injured man moving faster than you would've thought possible, and Uriel is caught off guard. He crashes to the ground beside his opponent, and Shepard scrambles onto him, bringing in both duct taped hands and driving them together into the side of Uriel's head. 

It's enough to daze the masked man, but not for long. He bucks his hips, unbalancing Shepard and sending him back onto the concrete, gasping in pain from the impact. Perhaps instinctively, Shepard aims a well-placed kick at Uriel's jaw.

It's a mistake.

The blow connects, but the man catches his ankle and pulls, dragging Shepard closer before driving a fist into his shattered knee. He howls at the impact, back arching in pain. Uriel climbs on top of him, straddling his hips as he seizes a fistful of tangled hair and bashes Shepard's face into the ground.

Despite everything, Shepard is still weakly trying to get his arms under him, still fighting. Uriel slams his head into the concrete a second time, and the man's body goes slack.

Offscreen, you can hear Lu laughing.

Uriel stays on top of Shepard, keeping him pinned while he awaits Lu’s command.

“He’s a prideful bastard,” she muses. “And I think he needs a lesson, hm?”

The masked man nods.

“You decide,” she says after a moment, then adds, as if it's an afterthought, “leave him alive.”

Uriel gives another silent nod, sliding off of Shepard and grabbing his hips, forcing him back onto his broken knees. His body jerks at the shift, and, as if seized by a final burst of desperation, he lunges forward, his bare chest smacking against the concrete. His hands claw at the ground, and Uriel scrambles after him, grabbing at his hair once more. A frantic swipe from Shepard catches whatever the camera's been set on, and it tumbles to the ground with a crash that makes you jump.

The camera is pointed at the wall now, offering no visual of whatever's going on. The audio, however, is intact.

You can hear the meaty thumps of flesh colliding with flesh; each met with a weak grunt from Shepard. There's a scraping noise— maybe he's being dragged back again? It's followed by the sound of more heavy blows. A yelp turns to a wail that turns to a low whine, interrupted every now and then with a sharp gasp.

What is he doing to him? The moment seems to drag on forever, and your eyes are locked on the screen, waiting for the moment the camera is righted. You need to see what's going on, what's just happened. Not for any sense of care for Shepard, though you do almost pity the man at this point. It's your own curiosity that's burning you up.

“Good man,” you hear Lu murmur as Shepard's cries begin to weaken. “Sit him up. Get him something to drink.”

The camera is lifted, returned to its proper place, and your eyes find Shepard almost immediately. He's been propped up in a seated position against the wall, clearly unconscious. His body shudders with pain, muscles twitching and jerking under his skin, his head lolling to the side. You look for any new wounds, but with the layers of everything he's already accumulated, it's difficult to tell one set from another.

Uriel steps into view, a plastic bottle of water in hand. He twists off the lid, grabs a fistful of Shepard’s hair, and dumps it into his mouth. Shepard chokes on it, hunching forward, retching, gasping, trying to breathe. Lu clicks her tongue.

“Slower. We don’t want to lose him so soon.”

Again, Uriel nods at her command. He waits for Shepard to catch his breath before seizing him once more, this time by the chin. He tilts his head back, pouring a trickle of water into his mouth. This time, Shepard manges to to swallow most of it, his eyelids fluttering like he’s almost aware of what’s going on.

Behind the camera, Lu speaks. “Suficiente. I would like a moment with him.”

Uriel hesitates. “Alone?”

“Alone. I think I can handle him. No te preocupes.”

You think he might protest, but the masked man leaves without a word. The room is silent for a long moment in his absence, Shepard shivering in the aftermath as Lu moves to stand over him. Instead of reaching for a new tool or announcing the next poll, her hand goes to her hood, pushing it back to reveal dark, silver-streaked curls. The mask comes off next, and the face underneath is lovely but scarred, with hardened eyes.

She's revealing her identity? Why? Isn't she worried someone might find her? You get the feeling you already know the answer to that; there are very few things in the world this woman is afraid of.

She stiffly lowers herself into a kneel beside Shepard, then, to your surprise, she unfastens the gag and eases it out from between his teeth.

Her captive lets out a groan as his chin dips forward, eyelids fluttering. Lu gives him a sharp slap, and his brows tighten, eyes drifting open.

“Do you recognize me?” Lu asks simply. Understandably, Shepard takes a moment to reply, his gaze hazy and distant.

“Should I?” he asks in a hoarse voice, words distorted by either pain or his weakened jaw muscles. Likely both.

Lu’s expression doesn't shift. “I didn't think you would. You’ve had hundreds of victims. Thousands. You destroy lives and take your money and forget.”

“Isn't this…” Shepard lets out a shaky breath. “Bit hah— overkill for revenge, mm?”

Lu lets out a short laugh, grabbing his chin. “You call this overkill? You don't even remember what you did to me.”

His eyes start to close again, but they snap open when she gives him a shake.

“Mm… maybe y’could refresh my memory.”

Lu drops her arm at that, reaching for the glove on her opposite hand. “I can help you remember, but I do not think you will like it. All it will do is show you I'm far from through with you.” The glove slips off, and she holds up the bare prosthetic for Shepard to see. Disoriented as he seems, his eyes widen slightly as he takes it in.

“This was a gift from you,” Lu says, then reaches for the hem of her left pant leg, pulling it up. There's a glint of metal, running up to her knee. “This too,” she says.

A look that’s almost fearful crosses Shepard's face as she continues.

“When I am done with you, you'll never hurt anyone again.”

Her captive almost seems to shudder at the promise, but finds his words after a moment. “Never again?” he mumbles. “Then why--hf… why not kill me now?”

At that, a smile crossed Lu’s face. “But I don't want to kill you,” she says, slowly getting to her feet.

“I want you to wish you were dead.”

•

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 11

YOU CHOSE: SINK INTO PINK- LET IT RING.

Pink feels more comfortable being himself. By following your objective, your character has a better gauge of his emotions. In turn, Chase is slipping away.

OBJECTIVE: BE GOOD FOR PSEUDO.

taglist: @skid-row-seymour @the9645archives @welcome-to-the-whumpfest let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

Masterlist.

cws: suicidal ideation, self harm in the form of hair pulling, scratching, and hitting, hypnotized whumpee, brainwashed whumpee, captivity whump sort of??, scars, blood, unreliable narrator, non- human whumper, one non- human caretaker, major distress in whumpee, hallucinations, sedation, let me know if i should add more!

my apologies if there are errors. i was too excited to get this part out and i had time today so i wrote it at work!

. . .

The phone buzzes, buzzes, buzzes on the counter, until it falls still on the surface.

Something in his chest dies a little once the screen goes black. He feels like he should’ve known her just by looking at her, and the fact that he let it go to voicemail just proves how far his mind has gone away from him. He drags his fingertips down the screen, tracing where her facial features once were. He wonders what her voice would’ve sounded like. What her hands would feel like in his hair, how his name might’ve fallen from her mouth like he was meant to be hers.

His thoughts begin to swim with wonder and ache, fingertips still on the phone in hopes it will begin to buzz again. He feels the phantom of it, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing…

It takes a few moments to register the buzzing isn’t coming from his fingers, but rather, his head. Deep, deep in his head, until his vision begins to blur at the edges and he is overwhelmed with dizziness. His back crashes into the counter, feeling the familiar presence of Pseudo’s hypnosis taking over his mind.

The puppet’s hands fly up to grip into his hair. His eyes shut tight and he breathes heavy and fast, waiting for the magic to subside. It’s instinct to fight it, to resist it just enough as he sinks into the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets. Desperate hands claw at his scalp as the waves of hypnosis consume him. He can feel it burrowing down his throat, pushing against his eye sockets, leaking out his fingernails. His nose begins to bleed from both nostrils from the sudden weight of it all, but he doesn't have the strength to notice it.

“Pseudo,” Pink desperately cries. “Too much, too much, my head hurts..!"

Pseudo feels so close. He feels so tangible, as if he were standing right beside the puppet, fingers carding through his hair. Pink takes a peek at the room to see if his friend is actually there, but is met with solitude.

“Stop fighting it,” comes Pseudo’s voice. It’s soothing, calm, milk and honey and sugar and hugs. The noise shakes his head around, as if flies are stuck in the space between his skull and his brain. “It’s a reward, pretty. Take a deep breath and let me help you…”

Pink sobs upon hearing his friend’s voice. It hurts, and he misses him, and it hurts because he misses him, and it hurts because it's too loud and too much and he can’t think. But he wants to hear Pseudo talk. If this is how it has to be right now to hear his most precious friend, then he'll take it.

“Come now. Settle down, baby.”

As much as he wants to keep disobeying to hear that wonderful voice, he must obey when a command is given. He smashes his forehead into the heels of his hands one, two, three times, and then breathes deep, just as he was told. He lets himself relax, lets Pseudo pour magic into his head until all his thoughts are mush. Until he is relaxing against the counter, until he can’t even lift his fingers. Until the only noise he can muster is a sigh.

“There you go,” Pseudo croons. “Good job, dolly. Keep this up and I’ll be back in no time.”

And just like that, his friend, his heaven, his honey and milk and sugar and hugs, is gone.

The hypnosis prevents him from feeling too sad about it. Pink is left limp on the ground, head lazily propped up against the cabinet that he leans on. The entire world is fuzzy and bright, and his limbs feel as if they weigh one thousand pounds each. But he doesn’t mind, because it was a gift from Pseudo. A reward for being a good puppet and staying away from things he doesn’t need anymore.

It’s not long before Marvin and Henrik are rushing into the room, desperately trying to coax him out of the spell he’s under. They speak to him and shake him and hold him, but it takes him a few minutes to actually understand what they’re trying to do.

“Follow my finger,” Henrik commands. His voice is stern, but full of worry. The puppet obeys, feeling joy upon the praise that’s soon to follow.

“He’s getting worse,” Marvin says, one hand on Pink’s forehead. The doll practically bleeds Pseudo’s magic. “Pink. Do you understand me?”

The puppet stares at his reflection in the glass of the oven. His pupils are blown to the point his irises are barely visible, and his smile, oh, he never thought he could smile so wide!

Something soft is pressed against his nose, something wet drags down his chin. The blood slowly disappears as his doctor friend tends to him like a newborn kitten.

“Chase.”

Pink looks at Henrik. His smile slowly turns to a frown. He doesn’t like that name.

“I need you to respond to us. Can you understand what we say?”

The puppet nods. “Yes, H- Henrik.”

Words bubble into his ears, then bubble right back out. The puppet responds to questions, but forgets what they were talking about a few seconds later. It’s just a series of little tests he has to pass anyway, so what does it matter?

“Do you feel better?” asks Marvin, taking his hand away from Pink’s forehead. His nose has suddenly stopped bleeding, but his shirt and neck are still covered in red.

“Y…yes.”

Henrik looks pleased. Another test passed.

“Good,” the doctor throws away the dirty tissues, and washes off his hands in the sink. “We should get you cleaned up now.. You need a shower, my friend.”

“And new clothes,” Marvin adds, smelling the strong copper lingering in the air.

“Really?” Pink feels more in his senses now, the world a bit less blurry. “That sounds so.. nice… so nice, so nice…”

His friends agree, and help him get ready to bathe.

. . .

Pink stares at the faucet, trying to remember the instructions on how to work it. Henrik just taught him, and he forgot. He keeps staring at the bath and looking behind him at the cracked door, where the doctor hovers behind the wall. Eventually, he tries his luck on how to turn it on, and sticks his hand in to check the temperature once the water sprays.

“Ah!”

Henrik peeks inside, worried eyes scanning for more blood. “Are you okay??”

Pink looks back at him, then back to the water. He holds his hand in it, face slowly twisting up.

“It's cold, Henrik.”

“Do you remember how to make it warmer?”

The puppet keeps holding his hand in the cold. It starts to freeze, freeze, freeze, turning his skin red and making his fingers stiffen.

“Chase?”

“Pink..” the puppet whispers. It comes out like a plea. Please don't be mad at me. Please don't use that name. “Pink, Pink, Pink..”

The doctor frowns.

He approaches his friend slowly, finally able to look at his face. A gentle hand comes to guide him away from the water.

Pink snaps out of his little trance, holding his now cold and wet hand to his chest. It hurts, but a part of him likes it. It makes him feel closer to Pseudo.

He finally looks up at the doctor. With his voice still soft, he asks, “Can you help me?”

“To make the water warm?”

“With a bath.”

“You want help.. with a bath..?”

Pink nods. “Pseudo always did it for me, and I, um. I don't remember how.. don't remember, don't remember..”

For a long time, Henrik just looks at him. Pink feels compelled to look away, wondering what's going on inside his old friend’s head. Did he say something wrong? Is he acting funny? Does he smell?

The worry is soon boiled out by the hypnosis left in his mind, and then, Pink doesn't remember what he was worried about.

He reaches his hand in the water.

“Ah…! That’s cold, Henrik..”

The doctor frowns. Why is he frowning? Did he say something wrong? Is he acting funny? Does he smell? Did he give a command that Pink didn't hear?

“What did you say?” Pink asks, holding his now cold and wet hand at his chest when Henrik guides it out.

“Nothing, my friend. You want help with a bath, yes?”

Pink nods, that sounds wonderful! Henrik has good ideas.

“Okay. Ah…” the doctor closes the bathroom door.

Step by step, the doctor helps the puppet get comfortable with the water temperature, lets the bath tub fill up, and helps him undress. Once uncovered, Henrik’s eyes scan every inch of his friend, looking at every cut, every whip, every burn, every dig and bite and tear and-

“Henrik?”

Pink stands covered only by a towel on his bottom half. His eyes are wide and concerned- is he in trouble?

“Why- why are you angry? What did I do?”

The doctor looks into Pink’s eyes, then down at the ground. A deep breath ventures into his lungs- in, and out- and the puppet mimics the noise, unsure what to do.

“You are okay,” says Henrik, pushing up his glasses as he returns his gaze to his friend. “I’m not angry with you.”

He gestures to the bath, forcing his expression to soften to ease the puppet’s fear. Pink watches his friend’s other hand close in and out of a fist, in and out of a fist. It trembles, then hides away behind his back.

“Let's get you cleaned up, yes?”

Pink nods, and discards the towel to step into the bath.

. . .

A few hours later, and Pink is dressed in clothes he happily didn't pick. This time, his pants are checkered black and white pajamas, with a white t- shirt with the outline of a red heart on the pocket. He paces the living room as dinner is cooked in the kitchen, minding his own and daydreaming that he's back in Denmark. Both Marvin and Henrik seem completely occupied, minus their little check- ins every 2- 5 minutes.

In his pacing, Pink begins to slide his socked feet on the hardwood floor. He feels like a little kid, and it cracks a smile out of him while he runs one way, slides another. Runs one way, slides another.

He gets to the bookshelf at one of his stops and picks up a black photo book. Part of him wants to put it back, the other begs to see the photos inside. The part of him that died when he let that phone call go to voicemail gets the better of him, and he sits down on the ground to look at the pictures.

He sees Chase, surrounded by strangers.

The girl on the phone is a common face. She smiles so wide, with blushing cheeks and hair that gets cut or dyed every few turns of the pages. At one point, he sees himself in Chase, with pink hair and a big smile, but no scars. The pretty girl eventually has pink tips dyed, and his heart soars when he sees it.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, tracing her cheek with his thumb.

He wipes his eyes.

When did he start crying?

Another page turn, and he sees a baby, held in his arms.

He feels like he's been shot in the chest.

Another turn, another, another, the baby grows up to be a little girl. She holds bugs and wears fairy wings, with a big, gap- toothed grin. Her hair is blond like the pretty girl’s, but not pink like his.

Pink wipes his eyes again. His stomach hurts. His chest hurts. It's getting hard to breathe.

Another turn, and he sees another baby. This time, it's a boy, but he doesn't grow as big. The last picture he sees is the pretty girl kissing one of Chase’s cheeks, the little girl kissing his other, and Chase kissing the baby’s head. The date at the bottom says it was taken about 7 months ago. Is that how long he's been gone?

He turns the page again, hands trembling and eyes blurred with tears. The rest of the album is blank. They left room for more memories.

More memories. More memories. Pink can't even remember the old ones.

The puppet stares at the picture of the family, feeling as though someone had just cut a hole in his chest. He touches each of their faces, shaking, shaking, shaking. A tear hits the back of his hand, and his breath picks up.

“Oh, dear,” says Marvin, slowly approaching. Henrik follows, a pitying frown plastered on his face.

“Wh- whhh- who-” Pink stutters, pointing at the picture. He chokes on a sob before he can speak again. “Who are they?”

Marvin kneels down to Pink’s level. He looks off at the bookcase, while the puppet keeps staring, crying at the picture.

“Who do you see?” asks the gardener.

“A- aa-” Pink wipes his eyes, digging his knuckles far too roughly into the tears. He drags his hands down his face- deep breath, deep breath.

“Ch- Chase, and a p- a pretty girl, a little girl, and- and a baby..”

Marvin nods. He reaches out a hand to feel the page, the book. A tear.

“...That's you-”

“No…”

Pink’s lip quivers. He looks up at Henrik, who looks like he's in mourning.

“Your girlfriend..”

“I don't- that's- no…”

Pink looks back at the photo.

Marvin tries to give him a moment to settle down, but it does no good.

“And… your children.”

“No… nooooo, no, nononono..”

Pink shakes his head almost violently. He feels like his heart has been ripped out, chewed up, and stomped on. He feels a grief so overwhelming, so horrible, his whole body tenses and trembles.

“No,” Pink slams the book closed. “No, no, no, that's not me, they're not mine!”

Henrik tries to step in. “Chase-”

“PINK!” the puppet shouts.

His hands are soon to meet his head, pulling his hair, hitting his skull, clawing at his eyes. He feels so much pain, so much ache, he just wants to die. He needs Pseudo to fix it. Pseudo can fix it, Pseudo can make it better, Pseudo can make it go away.

“Not me, not me, not me!!” the puppet sobs. “Not mine!! Make it stop! Pseudo! Pseudo, make it sto- hop!!”

Arms all around him. Warmth all around him. Marvin and Henrik restrain his arms and hold him close, hushing him, holding him, rocking him.

“Shh,” says Henrik. “It's okay, deep breaths, yes? Deep breaths.”

Pink holds onto them as best he can, melting into Henrik’s shoulder to sob. He pleads, and pleads, and pleads, “Make it stop, make it stop..”

The doctor pets his hair. “Hush, shhh, okay. It's okay. How about some medicine, yes? It will make you feel better…”

The puppet sobs again, nodding. He’ll take anything. He'll do anything. “Just m- make it stop..?”

When the puppet has settled enough to breathe, Henrik gets up to retrieve a little white pill and a drink of water.

“Here, my friend. Take this...”

The puppet eagerly does as he’s told. He craves for more commands, desperate to be the toy and not the forgotten father.

. . .

Within 30 minutes, Pink has calmed down. He hasn't spoken a word since the pictures, which seems to concern both Henrik and Marvin. But he doesn't have the energy to mind. Whatever medicine he took has pulled all the anxiety out of him and stuffed it in the photo book for tomorrow's problem. For now, he can stare into space and ignore the ache that threatens to consume him once it's worn off.

After he’s picked at his food, he feels more, and more, and more drowsy. It takes effort to climb the stairs to bed, but he's thankful to have Marvin to help him to the room he’s staying in. The gardener tucks him in, and leaves the bedroom door cracked open. A small, white, walkie- talkie looking thing is snuck into his room by Henrik, and Pink vaguely recognizes it as a baby monitor.

Oh, God. Baby. His baby.

The puppet covers his mouth to hold in his sob, but something snaps him out of his ache before he can properly feel it.

“Pink.”

The puppet looks around. No one is here.

“Pink. Over here.”

Pink sits up, heavy as bricks, and his eyes land on a photo stuck on the wall. Another picture of a stranger he doesn't recognize entirely, but hasn't forgotten entirely.

“There you are. You need to get out of here.”

Pink frowns. He doesn't have the drive to speak, so he just shakes his head.

“Yes. You do. Don't you want to see Pseudo? They're just making you sad here.”

The picture beside the first to speak raises their objection. The stranger in this photo looks more familiar, but much, much younger. A teenager.

“No!! You need to figure your shit out. Pseudo tricked you.”

Pink rubs his eyes, glancing at the baby monitor. Is this real? It has to be, right? Maybe Henrik just isn't hearing them talk because they're farther away.

The first picture spits anger in their words. “Pseudo saved him! Pink belongs in Denmark, safe and sound and taken care of. Not torn apart by these imposters.”

“Well Chase belongs here, in England.”

Pink covers his ears. The pictures pierce through his hands, worming their voices through the cracks between his digits.

“Go look for Pseudo. Tell him you're ready to go home. Tell him you're ready to be good.” 

“No! Stay here, look for Chase! Find out what he's been hiding from you!”

“Look for Pseudo!”

“Look for Chase!”

The puppet rocks himself, tugging at his ears as he weighs his options.

[frantic-fuck]

Snakelet - Chapter 7

@augusnippets Day 10 - Begging for Mercy @augustofwhump Day 12 - Anger

Word count: 500

Masterpost

Content: Nonhuman/vampire whumpee, implied lab whump + murder, implied torture, reluctant whumper stops being reluctant

~

"O-oh, geez."

Nerium flies into Ziri's field of view, and even as muddled as his mind is, he can tell they look nauseated at the sight of him.

"That— that should be enough. Let him down."

Whoever's been whipping him — he stopped keeping track — sighs and severs the ropes suspending him from the ceiling. He doesn't bother getting up after he collapses.

"I really am regretful that you got caught up in this, Ziri. I just have one question, and then you'll be left alone until we return you, alright?"

Mustering all his strength, he rasps, "Mhm."

"Do you know anything about Rosemary?"

"...who?"

"My sister. Rosemary. Janessa's stupid Izzet League took her a few years ago. I'm hoping saving her will be easier if I know what happened afterwards."

As hard as he tries to scour his brain, he may as well be trying to read a blank piece of paper. He shrugs apologetically.

"Please. Come on." They fly right in front of his face. "She looks like me, except older, and her hair's a little darker, and..."

They continue describing her, and slowly but surely... a memory flickers. The last time he saw a pixie. It might've been her.

"...Mhm."

"YES! Good! Where did you see her? What was happening to her?"

He painstakingly tries to fan the flickering flame of a thought.

It's not filtered through blue. He saw her in person.

She was much smaller than him. He wasn't a snake.

He thinks... he remembers her voice. Talking to him. He was talking back. When would Janessa have allowed that?

...Oh.

Fuck.

As more memories of Janessa's "extreme size lessons" trickle in, how difficult it was to operate on her tiny body, to drain her blood, to not break down when she cried over the sibling she missed so dearly... Nerium's expression darkens.

And Ziri finally remembers something else.

Some pixies can read minds.

FUCK.

"F— forgive me. Please, f—"

"Release me from the promise."

He trembles as they stare him down, any trace of sympathy replaced with absolute fury.

"I-I can't—"

"It is not FAIR to force me to return you to your sibling when YOU KILLED MINE. RELEASE ME!"

It's not fair. None of this is fair. To him, or Nerium, or anyone. But fair or not, he just... can't. He can't lose his only guarantee that this hell will end.

"You know what? Fine!" Nerium sneers. "If you think you're above acting fey, why don't we see if your body agrees, hm? Iron is no longer prohibited."

His most recent assailant gasps in excitement, in stark contrast to his own overwhelming dread.

Here he was thinking it couldn't get any worse.

"Believe me, snake, it can." They turn to the assailant coldly. "I think it'll take a lot more to get through to her, actually. Don't bother holding back."

"Pl— please. Please, mercy. Please." Ziri desperately reaches towards them as they start flying away.

"If you want mercy, you know what to do."

[whumping-valentine]

🦌 Fawn and Hunter - Part 2 🦌

"Hunter's Cabin"

Content: hunter whumper, whumpee caught in bear trap, carewhumper, creepy / intimate whumper, non-con touching (non sexual), vegan whumpee forced to eat meat, whumper has Killed People

About 1,400 words

I have no idea where all my inspiration for this mini series came from but I'm obsessed and it broke me free of my writer's block, so I'm going to make the most of it! I literally have 30 parts planned for this and shit is going to go OFF THE WALLS. I dare you to predict what's going to happen. Do it. You'll never guess it right.

I'm determined to write a part a day, so excuse my writing quality. I view this as a challenge! 30 days to write (or at least draft) a novella.

But anyways, here's part 2! It'll be typical whump stuff for a while before the wild shit, so enjoy! Once this mini series is complete and off my chest, I'll finally post stuff on Valentine, Vittoria and Rosa!

       The deathly quiet woods caused whumpee's heart to drop, and a chill ran through their veins. The forest running quiet was no good sign, and always meant grave danger... So, where was it?

       Whumpee could only stare down at the leaves that scattered the ground as the hunter carried them off through the woodland. The weight of the trap bore down on them and their poor ankle, pulling and shifting with each step whumper took. As time ticked on, they turned their head to the side, and spotted a disheveled wooden cabin. Whumper approached the building, unlocking the old door with a set of jangling keys.

       The door creaked open, and the rancid stench of meat and death filled the air. Paired with the present scent of cigarettes, it caused a less than favorable array of smells. Whumpee tried their best not to barf down the hunter's back, pinching their nose and covering their mouth. Flies were all over the house, buzzing and zipping around, landing on the deer carcasses that hung on hooks from the ceiling. Throughout the wooden walls were all kinds of guns and mounted animal heads on display. Whumpee felt like they were suffocating… but maybe that’s just because they were holding their breath.

       Each step the hunter took caused the wooden floors to loudly creak and crack, some of the only sounds next to the flies. Finally, they turned on a lamp with a click, then set whumpee down on a hard wooden chair. Whumpee’s face was flushed from tears both from pain, and from irritation from the smell and air quality. Whumper sat in a chair across from them.

       Using tools, they pried the heavy metal trap free from their leg, causing a built up breath of relief to leave whumpee as silent tears continued to fall from their cheeks, their heart racing. Whumper removed their torn, bloodied boots and socks, and rolled up the pants of their overalls. They proceeded to wipe their still bleeding wounds clean, which went deep, even cutting into bone. Whumpee braced themself as they saw the hunter pull out disinfectant, wincing as the chemical sting burned into their flesh.

       “Healing hurts, doesn’t it?” The hunter broke the silence, their tone almost malicious, just like the slight smile that crossed their face.

       “I… I guess?”

       Whumper chuckled at the response, “How cute. Hold your leg up.” They said, and pulled out a roll of cloth bandages, wrapping it around their foot, ankle, and leg, finishing their work with a pat, causing a jump and a yelp from whumpee, and another chuckle from whumper. They stood up from their chair, not looking away from whumpee as a small smile stayed plastered on their face. It almost looked… admirable?

       “Why… why do you keep looking at me like that?” Whumpee asked, looking up at them with wide, big, scared eyes.

       Whumper tilted their head, “Oh how could I not? Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

       Whumpee was so frightened they couldn’t move. They were always told they were cute, but they never thought the same. They've always hated their appearance. They would've never thought they’d be practically kidnapped over it…

       Their hair was a soft, muted auburn color, a mix of red and brown. It was short and messy, in the awkward mullet stage of growing it out. They had big, green eyes and wore circular glasses atop a blushed red nose, their cheeks covered in freckles. They were wearing a baggy brown sweater, which was now drenched in sweat and covered in dirt and leaves. They were only about 5 feet tall, but under whumper’s watching gaze, they felt even smaller.

       Whumper was much taller than them, maybe even a whole foot taller, and it made whumpee very nervous. Their hair was long, dirty, and greasy, and whumpee wondered when the last time they showered was. They had lots of greys in their hair, and big, dark circles underneath their brown eyes.

       “You seem frightened,” whumper said, a slight tilt to their head, "what's the matter?"

       "What do you mean what's the matter? Y— you— you— you've— you—!"

       "Don't hurt yourself, now." Whumper condescended, "Though I will say your jitteriness makes you look extra cute."

       “Well… it… it's not my fault, I— I have GAD… Like— you know— anxiety. And— and I have to take medication for it— and—!” Their hands started shaking, their fingers twitching. The nerves in their palms flared, and they tried to massage the feeling away with their thumbs.

       Whumper grabbed their wrists, causing whumpee to let out a gasp. They sat down in their lap, and moved their hands from their shaking wrists to their shoulders, pushing them back firmly against the chair.

       They whispered in their ear, “You should feel lucky that you’re pretty, else you wouldn't be breathing."

      A shiver went down their spine. "What... what do you mean?" They asked, heart continuously racing.

"I don't take kindly to strangers is all. But I think I could to the cute ones like you."

Whumpee stared at them, confused as they furrowed their brow, "Who even are you?"

       "Who knows? Not you, that's for sure. You'll call me Hunter. I'll call you Fawn. Sound fair?"

       “I— I have a name...”

       “I don’t care.” Hunter said, firm but not harsh. "I'll call you whatever I please. I think I've earned the right to name you, no?"

       "What makes you think that?"

       "Well, you stepped into my trap, did you not? I think then, by the rules, that makes you mine. So I get to name you."

       "You— you're crazy!"

       "I've lived by myself in the woods for 10 years, I'd be shocked if I were sane." They said, then stood up, and ruffled the captive's hair before fixing it. They brushed their hand down their face to their chin, forcing the stiff, tense Fawn to look up at them. "You hungry?"

       "… No… not… particularly." Not in these circumstances.

       "Mm, that's too bad. You'll be eating once a day regardless, but it's hardly time for dinner yet. You can help me make it in the meantime, wouldn't that be fun?"

       Fawn wanted to argue back and say no, but couldn't find the strength nor bravery to let out a single word. Hunter grabbed them by the wrist and pulled them to their foot, making them hop to the kitchen where they sat them in another chair. Thankfully Hunter's definition of "help" seemed to be "sit and watch me do it" but that didn't mean the scene in front of them didn't disgust them.

Fawn was forced to watch Hunter skin a deer, cut it up, and cook it. A thousand things flew around there head, but among one of them was their earlier statement. If Hunter hadn't found them attractive, would they be in the deer's place? Were there others before them who were?

They were so lost in thought they didn't realise Hunter had tried to talk to them. They looked up at them, "Huh?"

Hunter looked displeased, and repeated themself, "It's time for dinner," they gestured to the table.

       "Oh. I, um. I— I don't eat meat."

       "Well, you're either going to eat it, or you're going to slowly starve to death." Hunter stabbed a piece with their fork, and held it up to Fawn's face, "Which will it be?"

       Fawn stared at their captor before reaching out for the fork with soaking hands. Hunter pulled it away.

       "Ah-ah-ah! Nope! Hands down." 

       Fawn blinked their eyes and reluctantly pulled their hand back. They were flushed red with anger and embarrassment as Hunter fed them. The taste on their tongue nearly made them barf on the spot, nevermind having to chew it. Hunter sat down with them, satisfied. Bite after bite, sharing the same fork, the both of them slowly worked though the plate in front of them.

      "That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Whumper cooed as they fed them the last bite, relishing in delight at the disgust and shame that covered their captive's face. Fawn refused to speak.

       "Well, it's getting late, little fawn. I think it's time we get you to bed." Hunter said, standing up. "Lift your arms." They commanded, and Fawn obeyed. Hunter picked them up like they were nothing more than a toddler, carrying them towards another door. To Fawn's dismay, it was a door to a basement. They felt Hunter's grip on them tighten as they felt them tense up.

       Hunter's heavy boots stomped down the stairs as the two went down into darkness. Fawn was suddenly dropped from their arms, letting out a scream as they collided with a firm, tattered mattress that sat on the concrete floor.

       Hunter caressed their scared face, leaving a kiss on their forehead before leaving, going back up the stairs, shutting the door. Fawn hears the click of a lock, and is left in both total silence and complete darkness, all alone.

A/N: Fawn having GAD and being on meds is 100% self-inspired. I have no idea how I ever functioned before medication, anytime I forget to take them I feel like I'm running a marathon. Also does anyone else get in anxiety in their hands? I never know how else to describe it, I just know people look at me like I'm nuts when I say "my hands are anxious" lmao. I also get "nose-freezes" rather than brain freezes.

[sleepy-dog-boy]

First foray into pet whump with a new oc, a half-demon called Tiger. Proudest lil shit y’ever did see but also terribly starved for affection

——————

Tiger starts out as a defiant whumpee

Growling, hissing, spitting, leaving every “training session” with a snarled insult.

Whumper feeling like they’re making absolutely no progress. Tiger doesn’t care about injuries, he laughs about punishments, goads Whumper into getting mad at every chance he gets.

Eventually, though, he gets tired. Whumper tells him to sit, he rolls his eyes and plops down, following an order for the very first time- albeit lazily and half-hearted.

Whumper freezes for a moment before giving him a scritch and a “…huh. Good boy.”

Tiger freezes now, realizing he… doesn’t hate that. He sits up a little straighter, fixing his posture, blinking up at Whumper with an unreadable expression

That’s when Whumper realizes they’d been going about this all wrong- you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

Whumper decides to push it. “Lay down,” they command, the same way they have many times before to no avail. Much to their surprise, Tiger slowly, hesitantly, drops to lay on the ground. He’s still poised to get up at a moments notice, not entirely sure why he’s doing this, but he followed the order, and he did it right this time.

Whumper immediately praising him, ruffling his hair, scratching behind the ears. Tiger being unable to stop himself from grinning and leaning into it, forked tail swaying happily.

When Whumper steps back and commands “roll over”, Tiger’s on his back without even thinking about it, dark eyes flicking over the upside-down face of his master.

Of course that gets him more pats, more “good boy!”s, even a tummy rub that gets a snort-laugh out of him.

No amount of pain could force him to do anything he didn’t want to, but he’s quickly discovering that he’s not above performing for a reward…