#whumper pov

[the-bar-sinister]

me in real life: torture and murder are horrible and you shouldn't do them.

me in fiction: torture and murder are literally the two sexiest and most fun things you could possibly do and you should do them all the time.

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

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@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

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@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[mechdeer]

June of Doom Day 26: "When will you learn?"

Warnings: whumper POV, possessive whumper, captivity

Whumper had lost count of the number of times Whumpee had tried to escape. They weren't sure if it was impressive or pathetic.

"When will you learn?" Whumper asked, as they dragged Whumpee back from their most recent attempt. "You're never going to escape." It was almost fun, watching them try so desperately to get free; even more fun when they almost made it, and Whumper could swoop in at the last second and crush their hope.

Whumpee swore and fought and spat at Whumper's feet. Whumper didn't care. It didn't change the fact that Whumpee was theirs, and no matter how hard they tried, Whumper would never, ever let them go.

[withdrawingramen]

cw: implied past abuse (choking), stoic whumpee out for revenge, degrading whumper, female whumpee, very vague ptsd mention, whumper's pov Whumpee leaned in, a familiar deadpan look in her eyes. "I'm going to find one way or another to make sure you lose everything." There was rage in her eyes, the type that was once feral and dotted with fear now stifled with sophistication that she'd had developed over years. It unsettled him, just a bit. Whumper met her glare. "And I'm going to find another belt to choke you with." He smirked. No hesitation, no regret. He observed her eyes glaze over with the memory, and the scowl that followed. "You think you've got shit on me now that you've got money to walk around well-dressed? Don't forget who held the leash first." Whumpee didn't even bat an eye, but he could see her jaw tighten. God, it still pissed him off. The audacity of her to act tough, strong, knowing that the years he'd spent breaking her down still lingered in her head. "Go on, keep convincing yourself you're over it. All I need is a few words and I know just the mention of it will have you suffering for weeks." He wasn't going to let her think she had the upper hand here. In the end, she never did. Not then, not now.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Augusnippets Day 1: Brainwashing

CW: 2nd pov from whumper's perspective, brainwashing (obvi), general Gothic whump

In the shadowy dining room, whumpee sits alone, candlelight flickering across his expressionless face. His folded hands lie motionless in his lap. His eyes stare at nothing, two blank windows that open into emptiness.

Perfection. Just what you always wanted. A beautiful, flawless doll of your own.

“My dear whumpee,” you murmur, “I see all our hard work has paid off. You look exquisite.” Gently, you brush the back of your hand against his collar and down his silk vest. Its embroidery glimmers like stars.

Whumpee remains statue-still at your touch. Just what you always wanted.

“Not a single thought in your head,” you muse aloud, walking around whumpee to examine him from all angles. “Of course I can always change that if I want. But for now, this emptiness is—”

With an echoing crash, the door to the dining room slams open. Caretaker. The ferocious glint in his eyes delights you. Such a contrast to the magnificent blankness sitting before you.

“You’re too late, as usual.” You stride forward, shielding your precious whumpee from view. “I’ve already completed the process. And only I can reverse it. If I choose.”

“Then do it,” caretaker growls, drawing his weapon, “or I’ll make you beg for death.”

How silly. Threats mean nothing to you now, in the wake of your triumph. You step aside, revealing whumpee’s seated form, frozen and lifeless as if made of porcelain. Caretaker gasps and rushes forward.

“And why would I undo this,” you ask, gesturing at whumpee, “when at last I’ve created the perfect living doll?”

@augusnippets

[honeycollectswhump]

PLEASE aftermath of the shock collar piece?👉👈 back to normal? back to ashtray being loved and lovingly used for his normal standard purpose? so he knows he in fact didn't do anything wrong? and he's a good boy? MAYBE... MAYBE EVEN... merciful mistress mireille checking on him to make sure he's gonna be alright?🥺 because maybe she's worried she went a bit too far with all the shocks?🥺

-🪷

Citrine Kisses

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, cigarette burns, past torture (referenced)

When her servants carry in the ashtray the next day, no amount of makeup they have desperately seemed to apply can hide his condition. As Mireille lounges on her velvet couch, worth someone’s fortune, she can’t help but notice his sickly sweet, pale tone and the occasional twitch he tries and fails to hide. It’s unbecoming of such a luxurious good as him, laughable for the price she paid for him to be pretty. 

It almost makes her want to ring her stupid servants back and have someone, anyone, answer for ruining her scene with a pathetic excuse for a golden ashtray. And yet…

And yet she doesn’t. 

Despite it all, he still looks beautiful, doesn’t he? There is beauty to be found in his alabaster skin, no matter if it was caused by the thick collar around his pretty thin neck, which has still left imprints like two pricks of a vampire. The thought makes her laugh, elegantly like chiming bells, like candlelight and a passionate kiss. No, Mireille wouldn’t mind being a vampire.

Twirling a lush black lock around her finger, a cigarette between her lips, she leans forward, taking in the sight of her ashtray. If he were a diamond, she’d hold him in her hand against the light, letting rays of sun play with the rainbow. What happened yesterday, it too was like seeing a rainbow illuminate her walls, each gasping scream echoing in her mind like a marvellous symphony. 

Under her gaze, the ashtray goes still like a marble statue. He never raises his eyes, just like it should be. Silently worshipping but never being brash enough to gaze upon her. 

Mireille bathes in the knowledge that the ashtray’s biggest fear must be displeasing her. That is all he was made for after all. Maybe… maybe that is why he now holds himself differently, but it’s not like she could expect a simple thing like him to understand the aesthetic intention behind the shock collar, the joy and entertainment so unlike a punishment. Of course, the ashtray is too simple to get that.

It almost makes her feel bad, if only for the unappreciated amusement getting drowned out by his pleading devotion. He had been good yesterday, had been less an ashtray and more a diamond yet to be polished. She is merciful, Mireille thinks with a slight smile, and his pretty screams have earned him a reward.

Gracefully, she takes her cigarette from her lips, gazing at it for a moment, before delicately placing a hand on his shining golden locks. Immediately, the ashtray leans into her touch, imperceptively stretching himself to press himself into her palm. 

He was made mindless but a simple drawled “Ashtray” is enough to get his attention fully on her. Melting under her gracious touch, her thing turns towards her, lowered and on his knees. Mireille pets his head a couple of times, like she has seen with her friend’s lapdog. She much prefers love as an act of passion, of art and burning.

The ashtray shivers under her touch, as she lets her long fingers glide down his jaw and tilt his head up to meet her eyes. “You love that, huh?”, she chuckles, and that alone seems to give him to strength to hold himself straighter. 

“You’ve been a good boy, a very good boy. Your screams have been delightful, you’ve done so well.”

A hazy smile appears on his lips as if drugged, and for a moment she considers the fun in that. Instead, though, she holds out her hand, beckoning him to lay his hand in hers. Of course, the ashtray complies, it is all he knows, eager to please like a dog or something less.

Holding eye contact makes her ashtray flush sweetly, and he shivers again. This, she thinks, is also art. 

“You are my favourite toy, I want you to never forget that.” Mireille purrs, lightly holding his hand like a prince would a princess’, his fingers curled around hers. “A reward would only be fitting, don’t you think? Something to commemorate this?”

She turns the cigarette between her fingers until it feels right, before placing the glowing end of it on the ashtray's pale skin, pressing down until the citrine gets swallowed up by ash. 

Never once does he flinch, steadily looking at her. A practice of worship, the greatest price of them all.

Soon, when her servants wash away the dirty ash, a bright red spot will remain, burning through skin and tissue, a kiss his body will never be able to heal. And her ashtray, her stupid little ashtray, will look at it in doglike adoration, his most precious possessions are the scars she allows him, and he will be thankful. 

Sometimes Mireille wonders if the ashtray pities her servants for their lack of burning, wonders if her little lamb prides itself in the red scarf wrapped around its neck, telling a story of how the butcher will one day cut its throat.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw age gap, implied kidnapping, implied torture, intimate whumper, power dynamic 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

They glanced at the doorway, a cigarette between their full, pink lips. They raised an eyebrow and smirked at Whumper, blowing out a cloud of smoke before replying, “What makes you think I have a bedtime?” 

Whumper smiled and leaned against the wall next to them. Leaving enough distance between them to be casual. “I don’t mind,” they said, not answering the question. “I mean, we do all ages shows for a reason. I think it’s great for kids to see live music.” 

Big, innocent eyes narrowed into a glare. “I’m eighteen, actually. But thanks for your concern.” 

Oh, this one was going to be fun. “Sorry, you just look young is all. Didn't mean to insult you—maybe we could start over? I’m Whumper.” 

“I know, I came to see your band.” Another drag on their cigarette. “I’m Whumpee.” 

Whumpee. The name suited them perfectly. Whumper could imagine saying it tauntingly as they did horrible things to Whumpee. Or whispering it as they comforted them afterwards. Whumper didn’t expect to be so lucky tonight. “Well, Whumpee,” they said, testing it out. “I haven’t seen you at any shows before, but you seem cool. There’s an after party at my place if you wanna come.” 

The kid looked hesitant. “I don’t know, I have class in the morning.” It wasn’t a no. 

They watched Whumpee stub out the cigarette on the wall behind them and flick it over the porch railing into the grass. They imagined lighting one of their own just to put it out on Whumpee’s skin. They would probably scream so beautifully as it burned into their wrist or their neck. Delicate, unmarked skin. Oh, Whumper was going to have so much fun breaking them. “Your call,” they said with a shrug before closing the space between them. “But I'd really like it if you were there.” 

Whumpee looked up at them, visibly nervous but making no move to back away. “Yeah?” they breathed, seeming to catch the unspoken implication in Whumper’s statement. 

The other people milling around outside paid them no attention as Whumper placed one of their hands on the kid’s cheek, cold from the winter air. Their nose was red, too—how cute. “Yeah—come party with the rockstars. I promise you’ll have a good time, honey.” 

What Whumper didn’t mention was that once Whumpee made it to their house, they wouldn’t be leaving. Not for a very long time, at least. 

“Okay. I'll come,” Whumpee agreed without much convincing. God, they were easy.  

Whumper smiled, tucking Whumpee’s hair behind their ear. Fingers ghosted down their neck, picturing a collar around it. Imagining how that sweet, young face would look covered in tears. “Awesome. Let me pack up my equipment and then we’ll get going.” 

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper shivers with satisfaction watching whumpee go down in a heap on the ground, unable to do anything any more aside from curl in on themselves and groan. Whumper can't keep a smile from their face as they lick their thumb and use it to wipe a smear of blood off of their cheek.

"I did warn you," they remind whumpee.

[snakebites-and-ink]

(Belated) Febuwhump Day 7: alternate timeline self

CW: Restraints, captivity, replaced

It wasn’t fair. The other version of them had it so much better.

So Whumper had decided to do something about it. They’d figured out how to jump timelines permanently and gone over.

As for the version of them that was already there…well, Whumper didn’t want to hurt them, but couldn’t have them interfering. They had to tie them up and lock them away.

“Comfy?”

The other them, bound and gagged, scowled silently. But they seemed alright, just grumpy. Whumper blew them a kiss as they glared. They’d had their time in the sun, now it was Whumper’s turn to thrive. They headed out into their new life, leaving their other self safely shut away at home.

[justplainwhump]

They deserve it

This is a prompt fill for Day 3 of Whumpmas in July, @whumpmasinjuly-archive.

Set in parallel to the beginning of my BBU series Pet Safety, refers to the first two chapters.

Renee is just being a very creepy person.

Content / warnings: BBU, voyeuristic whumper pov, creepy/sadistic whumper, mention of (group) noncon, filmed whump, forced to watch, demeaning language, this is pretty rough in general. Also short pregnancy mention but that is in no way part of the whump, and not related to whumpee.

Renee has never told Cory, that she's paid WRU's refurb unit double to be sent the tapes of their pets' processing. He wouldn't understand, she wagered. Her husband had always had a soft spot for his plaything.

So she patiently waits until he is at work, before she puts on a record of Haydn's "The Creation" and then curls up on the couch to watch the tapes for a third time, just as the first soloist starts to sing.

They're vile, these videos, but it's that particular, thrilling flavor of vile, that makes the hair on her arms stand up and her heart flutter.

It's nothing sexual that she feels, as she watches Cory's pathetic little WRU whore writhe in the brutal hold of two sturdy Guards, underlined with Haydn's magnificent music. It's another sort of pleasure. Peace of mind, maybe.

The pet on the screen is in a disgusting state, covered in blood and come. One of the men in the video fucks her roughly from behind, the other lands punch after punch. And next to them, fixed to the white wall with clinical looking fastings, Renee's own pet, the good, perfect Rosa, cannot to anything but watch.

Renee smiles at the perfect composition of that ensemble. It's the same lazy, content smile she sees on her friends faces after a holiday or a day at the spa. She's ordered that treatment, after a short consultation with WRU Customer Satisfaction.

They deserve it.

Blanca deserves it for her audacity.

Rosa deserves it for her lack in loyalty.

Cory deserves it, for the too long looks he liked to spare for Blanca, for the lingering touches, for the barely veiled adoration of her whore body.

On screen, when the man pulls out, lets her drop to the floor like a wet rag only to make space for a fresh team, Blanca doesn't even react any longer. Pathetic.

Renee hums and takes a sip of that pricey, fizzy non-alcoholic peach drink she's bought just for this occasion and imagines it's champagne. She has to take care of herself and her body these days. Not too much stress, the doctor has ordered.

Good that she has just the way to unwind.

The video is silent, but it's easy to see that Rosa's cries must be devastating, as she witnesses the wayward pet get beautifully, perfectly ruined.

She'll never forget her place again.

Renee smiles fondly and rests a hand her rounded belly. There's a month or so still, until Rosa is needed back here, to fulfill the duty she's been purchased for.

WRU assured her that Rosa's loyalty would never be diverted again.

On the screen, a handler drags Blanca's lifeless body away.

"Bye bye," Renee whispers, and lifts the champagne flute to her lips.

Only Rosa remains in the white room, crying, strung up on the wall. Renee zooms in on her teary face and smiles softly. The video won't end for another 43 minutes. And, just like the last two times, Renee is not going to miss a second of it.

[lore-of-a-whumpee]

From the WHUMP ask game from the Questions for whumper no.11 for Dani plz :D

He’s adorable, honestly. He always tries to downplay his pain, he always cracks stupid little jokes and barely takes things seriously. I find it especially endearing whenever I rub his head or his eyelids because he just melts into it despite being fucking terrified of me. Something about seeing him shut his eyes and relax into it feels good, knowing I have that power over him, even if he tries to deny it. I like making him nervous and he’s just so cute when he’s scared out of his mind and overwhelmed. When his eyes go wide and his hands shake, or when he holds his hands above his head to shield himself and cowers, it’s just the best thing. I also like withholding something from him for a while, like food, and then finally telling him he can have it. The longest I made him go without food was a little over 2 days, and he cried when I finally let him have the bare minimum. -Dani

[overclockedroulette]

Hello tumblr dot com. Did I hear out-of-context VtM whump? Did I hear delusional whumper pov? Did I hear Finally Posting Fic Again After Three Years? yeah you're right i didn't hear any of that- WOAHH WHAT'S THAT UNDER THE CUT

(if you are in this campaign. i am looking at you directly em. i am trusting you not to look but Do Not Look or do i'm not your boss. but nonetheless foip foip foip unbelievable foip.)

anyway. who doesn't love evil deluded vampire twinks?

i call this one 'don't play with your food asshole'

godbless he's so cute

He’s started imagining things.

Not fantasising - that makes it sound a little too much like a, um, vulgar sort of imagining, and though in his time as a purely sexualised existence (the queer thing, no the vampire thing - though he finds it difficult to imagine that nobody has that particular fetish) he has become, he thinks, anything but a prude, his good Christian upbringing can’t quite reconcile active fantasising just yet - just… imagining. Picturing. Seeing, objectively.

Yes, he knows he uses that sort of thing as a front for luring prey to his apartment - but that’s just feeding. He isn’t deriving any fetishistic pleasure from it, no more than they are; it’s just like eating a meal. If you made out with the meal a bit first, to make it taste better.

Hm. There is, perhaps, a better analogy.

Either way, the manner in which he fantasises is neither fetishistic nor particularly Christian, so he’s losing on both fronts; when cleaning glasses or mixing drinks his eyes are able to wander, and when he has time (which is, admittedly, rarely), they are able to linger on the forms of his more… well-off patrons. Those who laugh in a particularly carefree manner, who wax fondly of lovers and family a little too loud, who walk with enough confidence to draw his eye - the gait of a person who has never suffered and doesn’t care to. The way that they walk, in particular, enchants him: upright and confident, or bouncing, or a half-skip, or a stride - utterly unlike that imperfect gait he sees in glitches and flickers in passing windows or in his shadow, utterly ignorant of the other side.

It’s that focus that helps him to see them in a different manner. It’s that magnetism that lets him picture their bodies feeble and crawling, soaked through with desperation, hauling their limp and bleeding selves across his floor and sobbing, begging with their eyes - the pain of running so great that it outweighs the need to survive like nothing ever outweighed his, and the fantasy reminds him that in everything he is, in spite of what has been done to him, he is better than them, and it’s a feeling he could get high on. And it’s that kind of thought that lets him get through a shift without launching himself across the bar and strangling the first person to mention a friend or a relative with any hint of fondness - or display a hint of an Irish accent; one or the other (he doesn’t hate the Irish, he doesn’t, but the accent is both distinctive and familiar, and it’s not like he has anything against the accent itself but he thinks he is well within his rights to find it uncomfortable, well within his rights, even if it feels a little reductive, but who cares? It’s not some moralising thing, just a slight discomfort, he doesn’t actually even dislike the accent; it’s fine; it’s a fine accent; just uncomfortable). Only once or twice has he actually gone through with the urge to mutilate, and though he promptly threw up and swore it off the first time, the inevitable second was unimaginably freeing. It took him at least a few extra minutes before the urge to run to the bathroom and puke blood into his sink overtook him entirely - so, clearly, he’s getting there.

(Is ‘there’ somewhere he particularly wants to get, though? He perishes the thought. At least it’s something he’s allowed to want.)

There’s something about the feeling of holding another person’s life in his hands that, were it not for the fact that it was his life he held so often, would almost certainly have him sympathising with Father Aiden. The feeling of slipping his hands down a person’s legs, of holding them taut with his teeth deep in their thigh, of the precision with which a hidden and carefully-sharpened knife glides through muscle and feeling tendon retreat like a snapped bungee cord, beneath skin and between his fingers. The feeling of clumsily pressing his thumb into the wound and scraping bone. That knowing feeling, when he looks into their eyes from below and knows it’s too much even to scream, and the sound that comes out instead when without glancing down, he cuts the second. That one’s clumsier - partially because he can’t see and partially because his hands are now shaking: takes a little sawing to sever completely, and makes him feel a little silly under the high. It’s his first time, he explains, like his audience is someone who can care, so he’s bound to be a little clumsy. He hopes they can forgive him, he laughs (like a nervous schoolboy), but knows they won’t. He asks them to stand. They refuse. He looks them in the eye and tells them to stand. He’s only once taken ecstasy, but he doesn’t think he’ll have to ever again. And that’s where he gets the idea to tell them to run, and realises when their bloodied hand falls limp against the pressed-in handle that he forgot to lock the door. Lucky break, then, that he got to them so quickly. He doesn’t make that mistake again, though he does lean over and expel that particular meal against his will, faint and shaking, when he sees their eyes roll back.

He finishes shaking that margarita, strains it out and salts the rim. The customer shyly asks for the lime on the side, and he apologises profusely, obliges, and even gives her an extra on the opposite side. It matches the bunny ears, he mentions offhand, noticing the visible hen-do attire; he laughs, she laughs, and he knows they’re tipping good tonight, though that wasn’t his initial thought. It really does look a bit like bunny ears. He could do something with that, next Easter - maybe with strawberry slices; something with chocolate liqueur?

He takes another order. The second time was clumsier still - well run dry of beginner’s luck, perhaps (though he did lock the door, this time!), or maybe just the consequences of thinking a little too hard; either way, his hand slips, and the victim kicks out against the pain even through the haze of the kiss - the blade scars his palm, and he is left facing an angry, fading man. What’s worse is that the man is bigger than him, that there are weapons in the room and he knows because he’s wielding one; he is very, very aware of how easily he can be disarmed.

He pressed his palm into his prey’s mouth and forced them down, he remembers. He held it there as if to gag him, and the way the look in his eyes shifted as the blood ran from his own palm and down its throat is a sight he has to press out of the forefront of his mind as long as he’s in public. He pours another round of shots. His glasses were askew, anyway - he couldn’t see quite right, not the full picture, and he doesn’t doubt that’s for the best.

Still pressing one hand to the kine’s lips, he used the other to adjust his glasses and press a single finger to his own.

Shh.

It stares up at him in wonder as he peels his hand away, which contorts into agony, not anger, when he slashes his heels as quickly as he can. He rings in an order. The sensation of blood-soaked hands running through well-kept curls presents itself to him, and he lets himself breathe it in before serving the next customer.

He didn’t finish drinking from that one - just put a few more clumsy wounds in it and let it bleed out naturally (maybe that’s why he threw up, but at the very least, it was slightly less to expel). He cringes thinking about what Father Aiden must have thought, cleaning up the body - though, he supposes that ‘looking like an amateur’ is about par for the course, when it comes to… being somewhat of an amateur, so he’s sure that he can’t judge too harshly. He’ll just remind him of the somewhat heavy-handed number of car accidents staged in his youth, if he asks; he isn’t the only kindred here allowed to be a little excessive.

He cleans a glass and assures a bejewelled patron that he’ll be with them in just a moment. He heaps some praise on their jewellery and then on their eyes, with a natural humility he could only dream of genuinely possessing. Two is a messy number, after all - and he’s certain he can do it better this time.

[ironwhumper359]

The Swan and the Songbird

An interactive whump adventure

Once, their love protected them. Now, it has doomed them both.

— — —

“Has he broken yet?” 

“No, my lord. He has remained remarkably resistant to both physical and magical methods.” 

“I see. I expected that might be the case.” 

“Worry not my lord, I have been developing some new runes that I plan to try at our next session, and I believe they will–” 

“That won’t be necessary, Kavenor. Your sessions with young Captain Lemont have finished.”

“I– my lord, you cannot be serious. No man is impenetrable; if only you give me more time to–” 

“If his mind had broken by now, I would have considered this mission a failure. He has proven his resilience to me, and now I intend to make use of him.”

“My lord?”

“Don’t give me that look, Kavenor. You are employed because of your arcane power and your lack of scruples, not because of your strategic thinking. To break a man and then simply discard him would be a terrible waste, don’t you agree?”

“Pardon me my lord, but how do you expect him to break at all without further torture?”

“I said that your sessions with him were at an end, Kavenor. Not that he would endure no more torture. There is more than one way to break a man. Now listen carefully, I have a new assignment for you.”

— — —

The men go their separate ways, and you must follow one of them.

Next

Author's Notes: This is an interactive story, where you the readers will at times control the point of view, the character's actions, and even major plot points. You do not control a single character throughout the entire story, so it's not quite "choose your own adventure" per say, it's more like you're the embodiment of the narrator, choosing where the focus of the story lies. I hope you enjoy!

[whump-since-2010]

Butterfly Whumpee - Decay

-

Aeva leaned against the arm of his chair, smoldering in silent fury. He had a destroyer under his thumb, his father was dead, the Servants who used to taunt and hurt him either swinging from Gallows or fled from the country, The Saltoris family an ocean of blood between cobblestones. His plan was going flawlessly. Everyone loved him, or at least they were too scared of him to admit they didn’t.

Aeva had never been one for kindness. It was trivial, and got you nowhere. It was difficult to be kind. And why would he choose the difficult option when it was hard to even drag himself to his feet in the morning? He’d felt that way when his father gave him his blind eye, and he felt that way when he sat on a throne of bones and butterfly wings he’d constructed with his own calculations and hard work.

But whatever it was, all of it, everything he’d done, destroyed and orchestrated, it wasn’t enough to chase away that hollow, sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d tried everything he could think of. Nothing worked. He’d fought, schemed, and murdered his way to the top, but it was still there. Lurking just where he couldn’t reach it. He didn’t want any more power than he had. Ruling an eighth of the island was enough for him.

But why wouldn’t it leave?

It dragged away every accomplishment he had, leaving him to fake a sunny smile as if his fingers weren’t dripping with blood as he was praised for what he’d done. It used to be only a heavy fuel for his hatred, for his father, for the world, for his house, and himself. But it couldn’t be satiated, no matter what he sacrificed to it. A creature that loomed in the shadows, consuming everything he touched and just waiting for the moment he gave in, and let it consume him. But he wouldn’t, even when he felt it growing, expanding against his ribs and making it hard to breathe and howling in his mind when he went to sleep.

The feeling grew every day, slowly consuming him from the inside out. It started when he took his father’s seat, and all he felt was numb. Not a fire, but an ocean like the ones the Saltoris family once sailed. Deep and endless, a mouth with no direction. Only an insatiable need, a potent desire. Something needed to change at that ball. Something big. He wouldn’t let it drown him.

It was a drastic move, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts, a grim smile crawling across his lips. Whumpee stood behind him, silent as he’d instructed.

He rose to his feet, glancing back at her, noting the eager buzz of her wings, anticipating his next order. “Come in.”

Six men filed into the room. The guests who’d asked for asylum at his gates. The spies. One from each family. Of course, spies issued without the Prince’s permission weren’t a legal practice, each family knew that, but had taken the risk anyway. His cold glare danced between them as he put his hands behind his back, Whumpee’s dark winged figure only barely visible in the sharp shadows, her bright reflective eyes monitoring their every movement.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?”

The Six infiltrators glanced at each other, before one, The Oleris family’s spy, stepped forward, bowing his head. “No, your grace, I am unfamiliar with these others, and for what purpose I may have been called.” Agreements murmured around the room, various respectful questions and bowed heads greeted Aeva’s remark. He fought off a scowl by forcing the smile to remain.

“It’s because all of you have lied to me.” He stepped forward. One flinched. Another glanced toward the window as if gauging an escape route, another narrowed his eyes at the noble, and another still; fidgeted with his sleeves. “And for that, there must be repayment. Don’t you think?”

Another of the Spies dropped to one knee. “What would you have us do, your grace? I doubt all of us know what lie we have done. Is there a way to redeem it?”

The noble hesitated, “There is one thing.”

The Spies glanced at one another.

“Bug?”

“Yessir?” Her voice slipped from the darkness, as graceful as the butterfly’s wings for which he prized her.

Aeva grinned

“Kill them.”

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Taglist: @sunflowerrosy @toyybox @countryhumans-whump @gekowo @miff6367 @piplupfluffwritingstuff2

[ziptiesnfries]

Persuasion, part 1

(Loosely based off of this post by @whumpshaped)

CWs: mind control, whumper POV, kidnapping, restraints

Everyone loved Gianna Jennings. Her friends said she gave the best hugs. Her fans adored her makeup tutorials, and even her most vocal critics had to agree that she was charming in person. Gianna wasn’t sure how old she was when she first noticed it—really noticed it. All her life, her family had adored her, and even strangers would bend over backwards to please her. She’d always been affectionate, so maybe that was why it took so long to notice: it was her touch. Any skin-to-skin contact made the people around her much more agreeable. The effects only intensified the more she learned to control it.

Of course, she never let it get out of hand. But what was a talent like this for if not to be used? It served her well with getting sponsorships when she launched her career as a beauty guru. Most of her job happened online, but after years of building up her charisma, she knew how to work her audience. She didn’t need touch to draw people in, but when it came to in-person contact, it certainly gave her a boost.

Having the whole world at her fingertips was lovely, but it wasn’t very exciting. She wondered what it would feel like to make someone hate her—really, truly hate her—and what would happen if, then, she used her powers on them. The thought of it was more than a little alluring. It sounded complicated, interesting, real.

She decided to go hunting.

After visiting the same club a few weekends in a row, Gianna had finally found her target. They were smaller than Gianna, and always wore short skirts and tank tops—the kind of outfit that would give her ample opportunity to use her powers. Every weekend, without fail, the target arrived at the club with the same group of friends and spent the entire time sitting in a corner, texting. They seemed utterly disinterested in everything around them, even their friends—although, given the interactions she’d seen, Gianna was hesitant to label them as friends. Others who tried to approach the target had been met with either apathy or outright hostility.

They were perfect.

Gianna had already been at the club for an hour, chatting people up, when her target slouched in behind their usual group of three others. One of them, a tall girl with long brown hair, looked similar enough to be related to the target—a sister, maybe a cousin—and she interacted with them the most. The other two, another girl and a boy, hardly spoke to the target at all.

Gianna watched as the group claimed a table, and the boy went off to the bar. The two girls sat next to each other, chatting and laughing. The target was already slumped down in their chair, eyes glued to their phone, their bleached bangs obscuring half their face. When the boy came back with the drinks, he only brought three, depositing two in front of the girls and one in front of himself. The target didn’t seem to notice or care.

Gianna kept an eye out as she circled the room. The three friends took a while to drain their drinks before they finally headed for the dance floor. The brown haired girl hung back for a moment, tugging at the target’s arm. The target yanked away, and although Gianna couldn’t hear across the club, it looked like they’d snapped at the girl. The girl stormed off, and the target was left alone.

Gianna took her time, idly circling the club before she sidled up to the target’s table. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” 

They gave no indication that they’d heard her. The blue glow from their screen reflected in their bored eyes and highlighted glitter on their cheekbones. She could just barely hear their response over the music. “Who said I was trying to be?”

Instinctively, her wrist twitched to touch their shoulder, but she lowered her hand quickly. She was wearing lacy, elbow-length gloves to ensure that there weren’t any slip-ups. She didn’t want to use her powers—not yet, anyway. She laughed. “That’s cute.” She leaned on the table, tilting her head. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

The target’s eyes flicked up. They scanned her face for a moment before turning back to their phone.

“I’m Gianna.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Really, though, what’s someone as pretty as you doing by yourself?”

Finally, they lowered their phone and gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “None of your business,” they said, enunciating each word.

It was like talking to a brick wall. Gianna could see why everyone who had spoken to them had given up. Even she was tempted to take off her glove and touch their hand, just to get them to open up a little. But she refrained; the whole point was for them to hate her, and it seemed like that was going well. She pouted. “Oh, come on. You don’t even have a drink. I’ll get you one, okay?”

As she headed for the bar, she thought she heard them mutter, “Don’t come back.” She grinned to herself. She couldn’t have chosen a better target.

When she returned, they hadn’t moved an inch. She slid their glass across the table, and they kept texting. “I don’t drink,” they said.

“It’s seltzer.” It wasn’t, and they’d know right away if they took a sip, but they didn’t even glance at the glass. She stirred her own drink with her finger and wondered how to provoke them. Clearly they weren’t interested in playing her game, and that was what she’d expected, but she needed the tables to turn in her favor a little if she wanted to take them home tonight.

“Don’t care,” they said dismissively. “I don’t take drinks from strangers.”

“That’s smart.” She smiled and rested her chin in her hand as she leaned forward. “But I think you deserve to have some fun. Don’t you?”

They shot her a scathing side-eye. “I’d be having a lot more fun if you weren’t—”

“Oh my god, Shelby!”

Their head jerked up, and Gianna turned to see the brown-haired girl from earlier approaching the table, her two friends in tow. All of them looked tipsy, but the brown-haired girl seemed just a tad more wasted than the others, casually gripping the table for balance. Gianna suppressed a grin as she turned to her target. “Friends of yours?” she asked innocently.

The girl didn’t seem to hear her. “Oh my god, Shelby,” she repeated, turning to the target. “Are you actually talking to someone for once? I never thought you’d—”

“Shut up,” they hissed, lowering their phone into their lap as they glared at the girl. “I’m not—”

“We were just having a little chat,” Gianna interrupted. She extended a hand over the table. “I’m Gianna.”

The girl shook her hand limply. “I’m Taylor.” She was talking too loud, even for the background noise of the club. “And that’s Anna and Tate. And of course you know my baby sibling, Shelby.” She squeezed their shoulder.

Shelby jerked away, their elbow missing their untouched drink by an inch. “Fuck off!”

Taylor pouted at them sarcastically. “Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?” She shot Gianna a suggestive grin.

“I said, fuck off!” They crossed their arms, their phone clutched tightly in their hand. “Can we just go already?”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “We just got here. Why don’t you go home with someone else for once? Loosen up, have a little fun!”

Shelby’s arms tightened around their chest, and they opened their mouth to protest. “I’d be more than happy to help with that,” Gianna cut in.

Blush rose to Shelby’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure you fucking would.” Their chair nearly toppled as they got to their feet. “Whatever, I’m calling an Uber.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “You’re such a killjoy.” They didn’t dignify her with a response before storming off across the club.

Taylor didn’t seem keen to go after her, and the other two hung back, exchanging uncomfortable glances. Gianna gave them all a sympathetic smile before she turned to pursue her prey.

She found Shelby near the entrance, tapping furiously at their phone screen. “Hey,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. They stiffened, but they didn’t turn toward her. “I’m sorry if I was being too forward. Do you need a ride home?”

Their back was still turned, but she heard them snort. “Like that’s not the most forward thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll take an Uber, thanks.”

She approached casually, sliding an arm around their shoulders. They stiffened as she leaned in close and murmured, “Come on, let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do.”

Her lips brushed their ear, and that was all it took. The tension melted out of their shoulders, their phone lowering. They were quiet for a moment before they cleared their throat. “I … guess you could take me halfway there?”

She squeezed their shoulder before letting go. They’d feel the effects of her touch for another few minutes, and she’d sneak in another dose along the way. Of course, she’d prefer not to use it at all, but Shelby was a difficult target. A little persuasion would be necessary. “I’d be glad to,” she murmured.

Gianna took off her gloves to drive. Shelby was quiet in the passenger seat, their face turned out the window, their phone all but forgotten in their lap. “What’s your address?” she asked.

They didn’t turn their head, but their voice still sounded a little distant as they said, “You can drop me off at the corner of Fourth and Fremont. I’ll give you directions.”

“Oh, no worries. I know where that is.” Her house was that way, anyway—just a little farther down. Maybe Shelby actually lived near her; that was an interesting thought. “I really am sorry about earlier, by the way,” she added. “I know I can be a little pushy. And your sister … well, she didn’t seem very nice.”

They blew out a sigh that lifted their bleached bangs, propping their chin in their hand. “Fucking tell me about it. She’s a real asshole sometimes.”

Gianna suppressed a grin. “Oh? What’s she like?”

“She thinks I should worship the ground she walks on just because she’s letting me live with her.” They rolled their eyes. “I’d appreciate the favor more if it didn’t come with so many fucking strings attached.” They cut off abruptly and glanced at Gianna. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“That’s alright.” The car was rapidly approaching the corner Shelby wanted to be dropped at. Gianna leaned over and laid a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of her power flow through her palm. “Are you sure you want to go home, then? Maybe it would be nice to spend a night away from her. She sounds so overbearing.”

When she glanced over, Shelby’s lips were parted, their eyes halfway glazed as they gazed out the windshield. “I, um …” Gianna removed her hand, allowing the poor thing to think a little more easily. They blinked hard a few times. “She is overbearing,” they admitted.

Giddiness rose up in Gianna’s chest, but she couldn’t let it show. She rarely allowed herself to play with people like this, but god, it was fun. “Well,” she said, in her best logical, concerned tone, “take a break from her, then. It’ll be good for you.”

The intersection passed by, and Shelby blinked again as they realized. “Where are you …?”

“You can stay the night in my guest bedroom.” Gianna’s voice was pleasant and soothing, trained to perfection. Her powers may have only worked through touch, but people always responded well to her words, too. “You won’t have to see your sister again tonight.”

“Alright,” Shelby agreed quietly. Their hands rested in their lap, their eyes forward. “Thanks.” Gianna smiled.

It didn’t take much longer to get to Gianna’s house, a quaint two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. It was a bit big for one person, but Gianna had always liked it, and the extra space came in handy for guests. Shelby was quiet and pliant as Gianna led them inside, a gentle hand between their shoulder blades. The lightest touch was enough to keep them relaxed all the way up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

Once they were in the room, Shelby paused, trying to gather their wits. “Ah … thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Of course.” Gianna smiled, her heart thumping. “Could you come in here with me for a moment?” She nodded toward the guest bathroom, attached at one end of the room.

They looked confused, but with her thumb rubbing circles between their shoulder blades, they followed her into the bathroom. She flicked on the lights and casually grabbed the pair of handcuffs she’d left on the counter earlier. Shelby looked even more confused at the clink of metal, and when they spotted the cuffs, they stiffened.

They made to pull away, but Gianna grabbed their wrist, channeling her power into the touch. Their phone cracked against the floor as they dropped it. “It’s okay,” she murmured, like she was soothing a frightened animal. Her heart pounded. She’d never done this before—never tried to calm someone over anything truly objectionable. She wasn’t even sure whether it would work. Shelby’s wide, fearful eyes flicked from the handcuffs to Gianna’s face, and she smiled at them reassuringly as she gripped their wrist. “It’s alright; you’re okay.”

Their mouth was agape, struggling to protest, but their body was like putty in her hands. One cuff clicked around their wrist, and Gianna gently guided them closer to the towel bar before looping the chain around and securing their other wrist.

“Good.” She removed her hands and stepped back to admire them, feeling giddy that it had actually worked. They twisted their neck after her, their lips still slightly parted, distress in their eyes. She scooped their cracked phone off the ground and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” Their bewildered gaze followed her as she shut them in the bathroom to wait for the effects to wear off.

Read part 2 here

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper savoring the reaction of whumpee as they merely describe all of the horrifying things that they intend to do to whumpee.

Whumper watching for every twitch and slight contraction of the pupils from a defiant, stoic whumpee.

Whumper enjoying a reactive whumpee's slack jaw, sweating, heavy breathing, whimpers, and even tears of anticipatory horror.

Whumper delighting in all the evidence of dizziness, nausea, pounding heart that their whumpee gives them.

They haven't even done anything yet, and whumpee is already giving them so much satisfaction.