#whumptoberday4

[whumpinggrounds]

Want You to Want Me

i have been STRUGGLING to write for @whumptober2021 but here is my attempt at the hunger + begging prompts, feat liam and delilah because they’re just so much fun :)

tagging @hearse-song, @brutal-nemesis and @whumpy-writings - please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

CW: big whumpee, tiny whumper, female whumper, noncon touch (nonsexual but pushing it), noncon drugging, starvation, dehydration, cuts and blood, begging, control issues

She’s sitting next to him again, running her fingers over his torso. In the chill air of the cabin, her fingertips represent five spots of fleeting warmth, dragging over Liam’s skin. He still hates it. She’s running her hand up and down his chest, from his throat to his navel, casually, almost carelessly, like she’s petting him.

Liam may not have any power here, but he can at least pretend he has dignity. Groaning, he lifts his head to peek and sees her warm smile as she gazes down at his chest, not seeming to care whether he’s awake or not. Glaring at the ceiling, Liam lets his head drop back down, hitting the ground too hard. Damn. That was a mistake. Now his head throbs even harder, thrumming with pain like his skin is stretched too tight over his skull. It’s felt that way for…for a long time now. Sometimes Liam thinks it’s the drugs she’s still putting in his water. Sometimes, he thinks it’s because he can’t remember the last time he had enough to eat.

With an effort that seems herculean, Liam tries to roll over, away from her, but his muscles ache at the request and respond far too slowly. When they finally do, and he flips over on his stomach, Delilah just scoots closer, closer. Now her hands, both of them, are roaming over Liam’s broad back.

“Stop it,” he whispers into the floor, hating that he’s too much of a coward to make her hear it. “Stop touching me.”

“What’s that?” Delilah’s voice comes a little quicker today, a little more aware. She’s not having one of her dreamy episodes, where she calls him by the wrong name and giggles through his torture. Liam doesn’t know if that’s less or more dangerous.

“Nothing.” His voice is heavy, still a whisper. Clearing his throat, wincing at the way it aches, he tries again. “Nothing.”

When she speaks, Delilah’s voice is light, but now instead of fingertips, her nails drag lightly along the skin of Liam’s back. “You sure about that?”

The scrape of nails doesn’t much hurt, but the greater threat there makes Liam swallow. “I…I just…what’re you doing?”

His voice comes out whispery, but she’s leaned in close to hear. A lock of long brown hair slips out from behind her ear and splays across his back. It itches. Liam is maddeningly aware of it, just a single piece of hair tickling over his shoulder. When Delilah leans back and laughs, Liam is so relieved he sighs into the floorboards, forgetting to stifle the sound.

Luckily, Delilah isn’t listening. She’s back to waking her fingers over Liam’s shoulders and down his spine. “You’re so…muscle-y.” She sighs it, then giggles a little. “That’s not a word, is it?”

Uncomfortable, Liam shrugs, feeling the way her fingers ride the movement of his skin. His mouth is drying out, the way it always does when Delilah pays too much attention to his body. He’s glad that he’s facedown, that she can’t trail her fingers along his waistline, the way she likes to do.

“I don’t like the word ripped,” Delilah confides, and now it’s just her pointer finger, scratching along his skin in a way that might be oddly pleasant, if it didn’t make his skin crawl. “You’re just…strong. You’re built like a real man, you know that?”

Face contorting with his discomfort, Liam squeezes his eyes shut and keeps his forehead on the floor. When he doesn’t respond, Delilah brings her finger to a halt over his shoulder blade, where muscle forms a thin layer between scapula and skin. She taps the pad of her finger there, like she’s searching for some structural weakness.

Then she digs her pointed fingertip in.

“Ah!” Liam gasps, grunts through his teeth, startled by the sudden, sharp starburst of pain. It’s specific and piercing, pitiful compared to some of what he’s felt here, but still a sensation his body longs to escape. His muscles tense, spasm, contort – but he doesn’t move much, just squirms against the floor, panting. For one thing, the manacle around his ankle is already stretched to its limit. For another thing, Liam can’t remember the last time he was this sore, this weak, this tired.

“What do you think of that? How strong you are?” Delilah’s voice is light, wheedling. Hazily, Liam tries to pick through the words, the intended meaning, desperate to know what she wants him to say.

“I…I don’t know.”

With a huff, Delilah drags her sharp little fingernail down Liam’s back. He can feel the skin part for her, the way blood wells up and runs in thin lines down his back. It’s little pain. Tiny pain. The starvation is worse, the gnawing need in his stomach. The choking was worse. This was nothing, this tearing pain. Better to take it than to invite something worse.

He wonders why, if the pain is so little, so light, why he’s still trembling against the slick wood floor.

Beside him, Delilah continues unaware. From what he can tell, she’s painting patterns on his back using the blood on her fingertip. “Didn’t you work for this body?”

Against the floorboards, Liam’s face flames. This body.

“Where’d all these big muscles come from, hmm?”

Liam clears his throat. “I…I, um…sports?”

The word hangs in the air like a joke. Liam’s cheeks are bright red, hot where they press against the grain of the wood floor. The work of his life, the thing that had brought him the most satisfaction, and a good deal of the happiness he’d felt so far – in the silent, chill air of this cabin, it sounded like…nothing. It was nothing.

“Sports?” Delilah repeats, her voice doubtful. “Really, now?”

Liam’s eyes fall shut. No, he wants to tell her, it’s not fucking sports. It’s not eating and not drinking and it’s you, you sick twisted fucking bitch.

“I…” Liam’s voice fades like the wind. “I don’t know.”

A snort from Delilah. “You don’t know, do you?” She tips her head. “You don’t know anything.”

“N-no.” He rests his cheeks against the floor and prays that she’ll drop it, she’ll leave him alone, she’ll let him fade into easy semiconsciousness for a few hours.

No such luck. She runs her nail over the furrow in his skin that she’s already made, and he draws in a shaky, startled breath.

“You’re a big strong man. You’re telling me you don’t have a brain to go with that?”

Swallowing, Liam shakes his head, nose brushing the floor. “I, um, I guess…not?”

She smacks him in the back of the head and Liam’s nose hits the floor hard. His hand comes up to clasp over the bridge of it, guarding his face a little too late. “You guess not? Come on, now. Do better.”

“What do you want me to do?” Liam’s frustration comes out finally in a hissed, desperate whisper. “What do you want? Jesus Christ, why am I even here?”

There’s a vicious satisfaction in Delilah’s voice as she answers. “Because I wanted you. Because I deserve a prince.”

“I’m – I’m not that.” Liam’s voice is panicky, rushed. Reaching across his back, Delilah grasps his shoulder, digging each nail in and holding onto him hard. “I’m not – you don’t want – I don’t know you-”

“You do, though.” Delilah fairly sings it out. “We went to school together.”

“I don’t – I don’t remember that, I’m sorry, please-”

Another cuff to the back of his head. “Don’t beg. It makes you sound weak.”

Liam’s head races. Does he want to sound weak? Does he want to sound pathetic? Will it make her leave him along, or will it make her hurt him more? Before he can decide, before he can move, before he can open his mouth, Delilah’s hand is in his hair, hauling his head back so hard he thinks something in his neck is going to snap.

“The only thing you should be begging for is me,” she intones, her voice gone hard and silvery. “Don’t you want me? Don’t you love me?”

“N-no-”

Delilah’s hand twists in his hair, and Liam whines. “You want me. You love me.”

“No!”

Growling, Delilah shifts closer, and lays her free hand on Liam’s throat. He goes still, though her cold, delicate fingers are hardly a real threat. The fear is the threat, fear that makes him go cold and shivery and weak.

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter how many muscles Liam has. He’s weak.

“You want me,” she says softly, as if reminding him. “You love me.”

“Yes.” Liam’s voice comes out strange, hoarse, unfamiliar. “I love you. I want you. Please. Please, I, I want you, I love you, you’re my, um, I’m y-yours, I’m your, um, your prince, I…”

The words dry up as quickly as they came, a flash flood with no real force behind it. Head still hauled back by her fingers in his hair, he stares at the wooden wall in front of him with no real hope. “I want you,” he repeats hollowly.

“Good.” She lets his head drop, and Liam slowly returns his forehead to the floor, trying hard to breathe evenly. “Good. Now we’ll have to see if you deserve me.”

[koficlouds]

Whumptober Day 4 Dead On Your Feet

Fandom: Youtuber Egos

Characters: Septiscape Henrik, Joline, Baby Emma(the child), the egos

Relationships: Henrik/Joline

Triggers: Pregnancy death, infant death, uterine rupture, premature death

Prompt: Can’t Pass Out

Henrik stood by their usual waiting spot, the same stargazing hill they met by all those years ago. Today they were on their way to the Mindscape’s Hotel Inn. They’d be meeting up with the other egos to have some fun and have a small vacation. 

His wife, Joline, had been going on about how much he really needed this break. He wouldn’t lie, but he was pretty excited about this mini vacation he’d have. Around 6 months ago, Joline discovered she was pregnant with their first child. And they had already planned the name for the little one. 

Emmaline or Emma, if it was a girl.

Ryder, if it was a boy.

When the others had found out about the pregnancy Chase had recommended they plan a get together some day, and today was that day.

“Henny!” A voice called. When the German turned, he smiled, seeing the woman he’d fallen in love with all those years ago walking up to him. ��Are you ready to head on over?” Henrik asked, to which he got the positive response in return. 

And with that they were off.

A few days in, while Henrik and Joline were out bird watching, Joline started to suddenly feel a lot of pressure. But how was that possible, the baby shouldn’t be born yet. It’s only been 6 months.

Just as soon as it passed, her water broke. She lost her balance and collapsed, only to be caught by her husband before her head hit the ground. “Joline!” Henrik had a worried and concerned expression on his face, nervous.

Joline put on a reassuring smile, weak at it’s best, on her face. “I..I’m fine Henny...Ah!” She felt a strong contraction, worrying her German husband even more. “No you’re not! You don’t just collapse if you’re alright!” 

She looked up at him, her face pale with fear and confusion. “W-We need to go..the..the baby’s on it’s way..!” His face paled with the same fear and confusion as hers when those words left her mouth. But he rushed her to the hospital, deciding he’d call the others once the baby was born.

During the labor, Joline started having several complications, causing an emergency C-Section to be done. Words cannot describe how much Henrik’s hands were shaking. His phone blowing up with calls and texts which he simply ignored. He could not possibly leave his wife on such occasion, or more plainly; he couldn’t bare to leave his wife to fend for herself or die.

Henrik had finally cut the umbilical cord, and removed the placenta. He quickly stitched Joline’s abdomen up and left her to rest as he went to clean and make sure his baby girl was healthy.

While doing so, he heard it. The sound of the heart rate monitor. 

It wasn’t beeping.

It flatlined..

The one thing he dreaded to hear, occurred during the situation he was scared of. He set his now daughter, only family member, Emmaline or Emma in her small crib. Rushing over to his wife he paled. Her eyes, which used to be filled with life and the nicest deep brown eyes; now pale and lifeless just as cold as her skin. He’s lost her. No pain could compare to what he felt that moment, but he had to pull himself together, for his daughter; for Emma. 

Since the newborn was premature by 3 whole months, she had severe breathing issues and heart palpitations. She’d need to be under heavy watch. 

Time flew by, and before he knew it. It was 3 in the morning. He hadn’t been sleeping well due to his anxiety so his eyes were heavy as he attempted to keep himself awake. He wasn’t going to let himself fall asleep, he couldn’t pass out. Not now, not yet, not until he knew she’d be alright. He’d stay up for days if he had to. He’d to anything if he needed to.

By four, he could slightly feel himself passing out. The last thing he heard was the sound of little Emma’s soft cooing noises in front of his desk.

“I can’t...pass..out...not yet..” He mumbled under his breath, head on his arms before his eyes started to flutter shut and sleep took over his body. “Can’t..pass out...” It wasn’t even a whisper anymore, he was out like a light now. And it was silent.

He woke, a good 8-9 hours later, and heard nothing. No cooing, no babbling. Not even the sound of faint newborn snores. Only dead silence. 

.....

He passed out that night, and she died when he was asleep. 

.....

.....

.....

That would be a guilt he’d never forget..or forgive himself for.

[whumpinggrounds]

“Do You Trust Me?”

very very late entry to day 4 of @whumptober2021. new characters because maybe i should start 5 new WIPs right??? right

themes will be medieval whump, environmental whump, etc.

CW: uhhh some angst???

The stiff velvet of Prosper’s formal vest is making his arms itch, even through his tunic. The uniform is uncomfortable, a little too tight. It had been tailored over a year ago and Prosper has done a lot of training since then. The fabric groans a bit at the seams as Prosper shifts.

Beside him, Prosper’s mother squeezes his arm, and the young soldier can’t tell if she’s trying to reassure him, or herself. When he sneaks a glance at her, Prop sees she’s already fighting back tears. She’s taking the deep, slow, measured breaths she always takes when she’s trying not to break down. By now, it’s a sound that Prop knows well. A deep, slow ache starts in his chest.

Up in front of all the crowds of people, the king is droning on about honor and duty and justice. Prosper knows he should be paying attention, but he’s heard too many of these speeches already. Too well trained to defy in any meaningful way, Prop lets himself tune out, instead spending his time scanning the assembled crowd. Before the king’s low, sonorous voice has stopped, Prosper has idly dreamed up four different ways to defend the king from an attack on any side.

In the deepest, most secret part of his brain, Prosper has dreamed up twice as many ways of killing the man sitting next to the pontificating ruler.

When the speech finally comes to an end, Prosper comes to attention without giving any indication he’s been ignoring it. His mother jostles his arm, and when he sneaks a look at her, she’s aiming a strained smile his way. She lifts her eyebrows and Prosper knows the question she’s asking.

Ready?

The impulse to sulk is in him, the impulse to fold his arms and toss his head and stare her down, answer with the empire’s own truth. Do I have a choice?

But it’s his mother. It’s his mother, and she’s not any happier about this than Prosper is. He offers her a smile, and then when King Lorcan calls his name, Prosper stands.

The rigid parade posture comes to Prosper like second nature. His back is ramrod straight, shoulders rolled back, palms pressed flat against the sides of his thighs. In his head, his sister’s voice plays, Reverie calling him her little toy soldier.

It still hurts to think of Reverie. Prosper blinks the memory away and marches forward. Heavy pile maroon carpet crushes beneath his feet and Prosper can’t help thinking idly of how stupid this all is – the fanfare, the exposure, the inherent danger of carrying a dinky pretty little rapier, rather than his flail, or his staff, or his broadsword. Gods above and gods below, Prop doesn’t even have armor on, just stupid fancy fabrics that convey his new, unwanted status. As he marches through the ranks of bright-eyed nobles, it becomes easier to remember that none of that matters. There are no threats here. The only threats are the ones that the crown prince will ride out and create for him.

At the end of the carpet waits the king, standing on the dais beside his son and his wife. The crown prince and the queen, Prosper corrects himself silently. He’ll be too close, from now on, for the kind of casual disrespect he’s always allowed himself before. The king is standing with the queen on his left and the crown prince on his right. A perfect royal portrait. Prosper bites down hard on his scowl.

When he reaches the lowest step of the dais, Prosper drops automatically to one knee, bowing his dark head and stretching his right hand forward in mute supplication. Sword hand extended empty before the king, he waits for the majesty’s word.

“Knight Prosper has already distinguished himself, despite his youth.”

King Lorcan’s voice rolls through the room, authoritative, deep and booming. The perfect voice for a monarch.

“Without fear of death or injury, he has covered himself in glory.”

Prosper wonders if, in the back of the hall, the mention of death has set his mother to tears. He remains where he is, stock-still, posture perfect, frozen.

“As the foremost knight in the land, as the foremost knight in his generation-”

It takes all of Prosper’s energy not to snarl at that, not to gnash his teeth. As the foremost knight in the generation left alive. The king’s forgotten a crucial part of that equation, but he would, wouldn’t he?

“-it is time to award him the highest honor one such as he can receive.”

Taking a deep breath, Prosper steels himself, schools his face into studied, cold indifference.

“Rise, Knight Prosper, first son of the royal guard.”

Like clockwork, like a mechanical doll, like a little toy soldier animated by strings, Prosper rises from his knee, comes to stand before the king, eyes turned up to fix on his face. He keeps his gaze there, stubbornly, until the crown prince steps into his line of vision.

The other man stands on the step just above Prosper, so that the knight has to keep his head tilted up to look in the crown prince’s eyes. The prince’s eyes remain mild, his face set in a small, easy smile. Prosper burns to see it, burns with the desire to bury his dinky fucking rapier right in the stupid royal’s gut.

“Prosper.”

The crown prince’s voice is gentle, friendly, far too quite for the massive reception room. Not to mention – he’s supposed to say Knight Prosper, and he should know that. Gods above and below know that he’s done this enough times. With effort, Prosper nods, and keeps his face free of the longed-for scowl.

“Prosper, will you take my hand?”

The crown prince has his arm stretched out, his right hand crossed in front of him and reaching. Wordless, unflinching, entirely upright, Prop stretches out his right arm and clasps the prince’s forearm, high up, just below his elbow. When the prince returns the favor, Prosper grinds his teeth to hold in the waiting scream.

The king’s sonorous voice rings out, and relief makes Prosper’s grip loosen the tiniest bit. “Knight Prosper, first son of the royal guard, you are hereby called Knight Primary, first adventurer of the kingdom, pride of our army and guard of my son. Do you accept this duty as it is charged to you?”

“I accept.”

“Crown Prince Griffin, you are hereby given this knight, to guide and to use, to travel with you as your sword, your shield, your shadow and your second self. Do you accept this life as it is given to you?”

“I accept.”

When the king was speaking, Prosper could lift his gaze to him. Now, he has to return his eyes to the level brown gaze of the crown prince. He fights the downward tug of his lips as the crown prince clears his throat, and once again, speaks far too softly. “Will you fight for me, go along with me, guide me and guard me, as long as we live and breathe? Will you travel with me, adventure with me, and follow where I lead?”

Hand gripping tight to the crown prince’s forearm, Prosper opens his mouth and lets the words flow out. “My sword is yours, and the hand that holds it. My shield is yours, and the arm that bears it. My skill will be your weapon and my body will be your shield. Forever after you will be first to me, and as long as I live, I will follow where you lead.”

With what seems like genuine gratitude, the crown prince dips his chin. The look in his eyes makes Prosper hate him more. “I take you and I trust you, knight primary.”

“I am yours to take and trust.”

The words taste like ash in Prosper’s mouth, but it hardly matters. The king has already stepped around them, and with the completion of the vows, he taps the flat side of his own ceremonial blade against the two clasped arms. “Thus, they are sealed,” he declares, and all thought is lost in the sound of the cheering, uproaring crowd. It’s a good thing knights are supposed to be stoic, because Prosper can’t muster so much as a grin in the midst of all the cheering. He releases the crown prince’s hand and steps away, prepared to retreat to the ten paces allowed him.

Before he can do that, the crown prince grabs his hand. Prosper badly wants to shy from the contact, but instead he just freezes, eyes downcast, and waits. “Prosper. Hey.”

“Yes, Crown Prince?”

If Prop knows the prince as well as he thinks, then the man above him is rolling his eyes. “Please, Prosper. Will you call me Griffin?”

“If so ordered, your majesty.”

A barely restrained sigh, that Prosper can still somehow hear, over the sound of the babbling crowd. “Then consider it an order.” Prosper bites back a scowl and replies with a curt nod. He still won’t look at the crown prince – Griffin, if he’s to insist on being called that.

When Griffin speaks again, his voice is soft again, almost imploring, and the overpowering urge to hurt him surges up in Prosper once more. He wants the prince to shut up, grow up, stop being so soft-voiced and vulnerable in public all the time. Instead, he gets this.

“I know you’re probably scared. Or, or, or worried about this, or maybe upset. But it’ll be a good thing, Prosper, for both of us.” Prosper can hear the smile, the foolish blind faith in the crown prince’s voice. “I trust you.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Prosper mumbles, disobeying two orders as he all but wrenches his hand from Griffin’s grasp. The crown prince tries to follow him, but Prosper melts into the crowd, hanging back at the exact right distance that won’t earn him any reprimand. Lost in the shuffle, he watches Griffin give up, shift back into being the crown prince – turning side to side and smiling, waving, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. All the while a hate burns in Prosper, a rage so deep and sick he thinks he feels his fingers shaking where they twitch by his rapier.

He’s too well-trained to do it. Prosper knows that, and apparently, Griffin does too. Griffin said he trusted Prosper, and well he should. What he didn’t ask, nor the king, nor the vows, was if Prosper trusted him, which Prosper is ready to answer with a loud, resounding, hall-filling no.