light-me-on-pyre

[light-me-on-pyre]

despite everything, whumpee still takes pride in their hair. they use all their energy to maintain it, they struggle to spend more than a few minutes on it and it's getting too long to keep healthy so they have to go to caretaker and ask them to cut it

[light-me-on-pyre]

The Lavender Desert

Free Birds and Fiddlers

Cw: brief mentions of every traumatic thing to happen to Kevin up to this point, mentions of noncon, mentions of minor whump, mentions of character death, electrocution, recapture

~~~

It all happened so suddenly, the warehouse was surrounded. The police with their lights and their bullhorns, demanding the surrender of everyone inside.

As the firefight broke out, Kevin sought a vantage point. If he could find a place to hide, he could take a few out by surprise. Men trained with guns rarely look up for their prey.

But as he descended on a pair of cops otherwise behind cover, his swords drawn, he was thrown to the ground and hell itself ripped through his body.

It crackled like fire he's never heard, locking his body in a way he never thought possible. He didn't realize how much it hurt until it paused, and each seizing breath ached.

He tried to get up but couldn't. Cops were bearing down on him now. He realized it was a net entangling him. He tried to pull it off, but as his fingers grasped the heavy wire, he was once again shot through with piercing pain.

He screamed, then. He couldn't let go of the net, but he could scream.

He kicked as hands made contact with him when the shocks ebbed. His swords were useless, tangled in the wire, so he disengaged them with dual clicks. He kept the hilts, triggering a hook to fly out and embed itself in the guts of one of the men. He reached for his knife, ready to stab another, before he was sent seizing again.

It felt longer, this time.

He started courting the idea he wouldn't get away this time.

He pushed it down and with trembling fingers shot a smoke flare. It had a compound in it that attacked the eyes and noses and throats of anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with it. Kevin as a young trainee knew from experience how unpleasant it was. But he was older now, and knew the importance of a secure battlemask in combat.

The surrounding cops were not so fortunate to have had this lesson beforehand. As the tacky, stinging, smoke exploded in a cloud around him, hands left him, and the shocks returned.

They were definitely going longer now.

It was as if every fiber of his being was torn apart atom by atom.

He writhed, knowing capture now was inevitable. He didn't know how to stop this. Every move he made was swiftly immobilized.

He wasn't getting out of this a free man.

As soon as he regained a semblance of control over his limbs again, he scuttled his gear. There was a set of levers to flick, and the gas that powered his flight gear was emptying from the canisters with a slow hiss. There wasn't much he could do about the physical mechanics of the gear, but he wasn't going to leave it to them in a ready to use state.

This action was met with another series of seizures, but it was done.

There was more of them now. Thick leather gloves pinned him in place under the net as the crackling pain continued to course through him.

They were shouting, they were shouting the whole time, telling him to surrender. They should have known by now he was always going to go down fighting. He's yielded enough.

White spots danced in his vision, growing brighter and brighter, until he fell limp under their hands.

~

He was 10 years old again, standing on a foggy morning at his father's grave.

He was 12 years old, feeling cuffs tighten around him for the first time by uncaring hands, and dragged away from his home.

He was 15, backed into a corner of a cell by a officer who promised his family's safety, if only he kept quiet and let him do what he wanted to him.

He tasted flesh in his mouth, and then blood as he bit down, forcing himself to his feet. He felt again the chains of his wrists wrapped around the throat of his torturer, bringing him to his knees.

He gasped, sand crunching into a fresh bullet wound as he landed on his back at the base of a wall at the time he thought tall. He saw the lightning, unable to move, unable to get up and run from the freshly created monsters. He surely thought in this moment he would die.

He was 24 again. He saw before him his best friend falter and fall in battle. He felt the bow and strings under his fingers as he played while the salvaged corpse was put to flame.

He was 26, being pushed onto the bed by a trusted friend. He could already feel the needle that would incapacitate him, the whip, the burning iron that would soon mark him, but still he couldn't stop himself from being guided onto that bed.

He was 29, feeling the panic rise in him as he was backed into a wall, his exit blocked. How despite his efforts, he ended on his back, imprisoned in the room he once called home.

He felt the cold as he ran through hostile woods, ignoring the likely injuries from having just been tackled from his horse.

He smelled the salty sea air of spring as he gazed out over a cliff, feeling the apprehension that comes with knowing someone is watching.

He felt the agony of his calf being pierced through, wrenching the wound as he hung by it in the thin air.

He tasted the salt when he hit the water anyway.

He was 30, being led back onto the boat that brought him there. The makeup itched but he dared not touch it. The boat rocked but he dared not be sick. The prisoners were marched out, but he dared not object to their likely deaths.

He was 31, with a stolen horse and a life he was finally starting to relax into in his wake.

He was 33, a faceless former comrade beneath him, drowned in a sea of blood.

He felt the numerous hands that pinned him down as he was torn open, choked, too weak to fight back. He felt the shame curl his gut as he knelt, offering himself up in a bid that maybe this time it wouldn't hurt so much.

He was 36, locked in an empty solitary cell, for the crime of attempting to end his sentence early with a torn bedsheet and a slight ledge.

He was 43, the cuffs digging into his wrists as he was dragged away from the place he finally secured work from that didn't care he had a criminal record.

He was 45, bleeding out from a bullet wound in the gut. He surely thought in this moment he would die.

He was 47, hearing that familiar swish above his head. He felt the rage in his heart as the intruders were brought to their knees. He felt the satisfaction to see them bound and gagged for once.

He was bearing down on two cops in the midst of a firefight, when suddenly he was thrown to the ground, every nerve set alight by a crackling fire.

~

He knelt, shivering in the middle of an endless desert. This- wasn't a memory.

He had never seen a sky like that. Instead of stars, countless lavender streaks of light illuminated the sky, washing the sand in the glow. They all coalesced at one point, a single large pillar behind him-

The coordinate.

He didn't know why he stood, why he shuffled towards it. This wasn't a place he was supposed to be. So why did he feel so at peace?

He reached out to the light, and he was sent back through another sea of memories.

~

He was 9, childhood fiddle in hand, his father teaching him and his brothers some history lesson through song.

He was 10, his father's friends regaling the wake with stories of his life.

He was 15, being picked up out of the sand by that wall and pulled to safety.

He was 16, feeling steel slice the nape of a bound titan for the first time.

He was 17, sitting at the edge of camp, where the jungle of hanging flowers bloomed, feeling the warm breath of a fellow comrade as their lips met.

He was 19, finally being sworn in properly, donning for the first time, a mask awash in a personalized flair of green and gold.

He was 22, grown fiddle in hand, playing songs of history he knew by heart in a room full of comrades and friends.

He was 23, waking up next to a trusted friend. He felt the promise he would soon make on his lips as he leaned into the warm embrace for just a moment longer.

He was 26, crying into the arms of a comrade, wrecked by his recent ordeal, feeling the pain slip slowly away as gentle fingers combed circles through his hair.

He was 29, laughing with comrades over some joke one of them told, as a summer breeze rustled the trees around them.

He was 30, tasting the small cake he was given for his birthday. He had waited before everyone had left him alone to even acknowledge it, but once he was, it was a welcome break in the monotony.

He was 31, sitting at a pub table with fellow farmhands after a hard week's work, one of them telling the tallest of tales. The corners of his mouth pulled as he realized he was starting to find peace again.

He was 43, hearing his own language spoken casually on his native soil for the first time in over 30 years.

He was 47, standing in an abandoned shipping container in an old warehouse near the docks. The commander of the regiment of the Bronze Lily sat, bound before him. "I had never meant to hurt you," He said. "I only ever wanted you to be safe, to come home."

And as Kevin slowly woke from the dream to feel the cuffs on his wrists, he knew what he had to do.

Masterlist

[light-me-on-pyre]

previous //

cw: prelude to noncon, manhandling, degradation, NSFW themes, taunting

§|°|§

You move to grab Kiv.

He's still out of it, only flinching away with a stilted gasp as you grab his ankle and drag him backwards towards the bed. You half-expect him to fight you as you move to lock your arms around his torso and haul him onto the mattress, but he's surprisingly limp, one hand clutching at his collar.

Whatever. He's still breathing, you don't care how well. 

He lets out a raspy whine when you heft him onto the bed, eyelids fluttering closed, brows pinching together. You idly run a hand up his leg, trying to snap back into the moment. The fact that you almost killed him shouldn't be a mood killer, but the nerves that come with knowing you narrowly avoided a lot of trouble definitely are. You wish you could tell your own brain to fuck off. There's still fun to be had, and you don't have all night.

Frustrated, you grab at your junk, trying to bring back your boner. With your other hand, you grab a fistful of Kiv's hair, shaking him until he's letting out cries that sound more like whispers, his face contorting in pain.

“Wake up, bitch. I'm not done with you yet.”

Kiv's mouth tightens, teary eyes cracking open. Can he even talk? Doesn't sound like it, you must've fried his vocal chords. You let him drop, feeling your cock twitch as you deliver a backhand that cracks his head to the side. A little better.

Fuck that, it shouldn't just be a little. You paid for this. You won't let a little scare ruin it for you. You should make the most of the situation, find something fun about it. You're good at that. A smile pulls at your mouth as you get an idea.

“Alright,” you say, letting your dick hang free. “Guess I'm gonna fuck you now.”

Kiv doesn't react like you'd hoped. No flash of dread or pleading eyes. He just lays there, limp and resigned. You let out a frustrated sigh as you flip him onto his stomach. 

“Here's the deal. If you want me to stop at any point, just ask nicely, and I will.” You chuckle. “Cross my heart. But in return, you'd better show some fucking respect. If you don't, I have to punish you.”

Kiv doesn't respond, the only sign he's even still conscious the growing tension in his shoulders.

“Like right now,” you say, feeling the glee return to your voice. “Can I get a yes sir?”

Kiv squirms on the mattress, his head angling towards you, lips moving, but little more than a squeak coming out. You hold your hand to your ear exaggeratedly.

“No? Come on, I'll give you one more chance.”

He grimaces, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows, pain crossing his face at even just that. Again he tries, and again it's barely a wheeze. His teeth clench after the attempt, a tear springing free when he squeezes his eyes closed. Afraid or frustrated, you don't care. You're back on track.

“I can't believe this,” you say mockingly. “I make an effort to be nice to you, and you don't even try. Guess I have to make you pay for that, huh?”

Your eyes fall on the room’s hidden panel, the hot spot for ordering toys and torments to a suite, and you walk over to it, leaving Kiv trembling on the bed.

§|°|§

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[light-me-on-pyre]

I totally just had a whump dream.

Whumper had mob boss vibes but in a dnd-esque fantasy setting. Whumpee was more of a local hero type and was infiltrating Whumper's group, but got found out? (That part was a little fuzzy.) At first Whumpee was totally defiant and was fighting against Whumper and all his underlings, and got hurt for it of course.

Then it got to the point where Whumpee decided it wasn't worth the pain and he broke all at once. He called Whumper "sir" unprompted and "master" after a little hinting. Whumper ordered Whumpee to crawl over to him. The ground was sharp so he did so slowly and carefully at first, but when Whumper told him to hurry up he did, because an actual punishment would do more damage and hurt worse.

Whumpee was pet whumped and kept on a leash tied to Whumper's chair. Whumper called him "the dog" when talking about him and "puppy" when talking to him. He wasn't treated specifically like a dog, just a general pet whumpee, it was more of an evil nickname thing.

Whumpee was given a daily pill they called his "meds" but it was really a drug to make him all spacey. He took it without resistance and eventually got to the point where he'd beg for it if he wasn't given it, because it was better than the shame and guilt of his compliance with Whumper.

There was a rescue attempt which Whumpee protested and fought against somewhat, but was drugged and conditioned enough that they were able to drag him away by the leash. They were caught and Whumper was surprisingly understanding when Whumpee said he hadn't wanted the rescue.

To my unconscious brain at least it was soo good.

[light-me-on-pyre]

I learned about the Karpman drama triangle and...this is just whump roles

[light-me-on-pyre]

Millitary type whumpee who refuses to call whumper 'sir', because it's an actual term of respect and accepting authority, but it can be convinced to call whumper terms generally considered more embarrassing, like 'master' because it's a play-pretend word.

[light-me-on-pyre]

Hi hi hello

I come from another dabble which was fucking Great

May I ask for "Darling"?

You absolutely may! Here's a waking-up-in-captivity scene for you:

--

"Morning, darling."

It's... hard to hear. The lights are dark in the room, so Whumpee struggles to open their eyes, finding them sluggish and heavy. Rough sleep, they suppose.

"Are you awake?"

They reach blindly to the side, for their loved one, imagining the softness of an early morning. It's always a comfortable thing to witness--Caretaker's hands brace their face and kiss their forehead and call them 'darling' in that sweet, syrupy tone.

Except, when they move, their hand stays still.

Their neck aches something furious, and they blink, shaking out the pain, but--something is wrong. Their wrists are clasped together against their will. Their eyes blink open, finally, slowly.

"There you are, sweetheart."

The eyes they stare into are not soft. Not gentle. Whatever bare light is here, in this cold, unloving place, casts too little on this stranger's face to recognize them.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

Cold ice cuts through their spine. The care in that word is sneered, and condescending, and horrible enough to flinch away from.

This isn't Caretaker.

--

vote for coughing up blood before this poll closes, send me proof and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!

[light-me-on-pyre]

The normally soft-spoken and kind Princess has a truly awe-inspiring array of swears and insults. Annoy her enough and you will bear witness to the vocabulary of the royal family and a drunk sailor being used in perfect unison.

[light-me-on-pyre]

Thinking about a human unconscious and bleeding and broken and being turned into a vampire to save its life without consulting it. Thinking about the decision to turn it being partially made by another human. Thinking about that human offering themselves up to be its thrall as they're the reason it needs blood in the first place, and how could they let it starve anyway? Thinking about increased vampire lifespans, and outliving your thrall, your lover. Watching them grow old, and sick. Starving yourself so they can keep their own blood and recover. Begging them to let you turn them. "Didn't you ever think that maybe I don't want to be alone anymore either?" But the human's right, you can't save everybody. Or maybe this one's immune somehow. Thinking about being saved but being unable to save the ones you love.

Thinking about your autonomy being ripped away for your own good, but the decision maker wouldn't make that decision for themselves.

[light-me-on-pyre]

So... we all know vampire slaves are great. It's just a fact. Vampires as slaves are amazing.

Now... human -> vampire / vampire with human origin being sent to another humanoid race's town as a thank you gift to said race's/town's chief/mayor/leader. (Elves, goblins, orcs, dwarves, anything.)

The leader takes this vampire without knowing the slaves humans keep are all vampires. The gift happens at night, and the vampire's fangs are filed down to look human. For this I'll say vampires only need blood for their vampiric powers (turning into a bat, healing, very fast, ect) and they can otherwise survive off sleep.

Now into what my brain made with the idea.

Vampire gifted to an orcish tribe and is used just for cleaning. The vampire's master didn't know Whumpee was a vampire so tried to feed them human food and got upset when they refused (hurts their tummy, makes them very sick)

Vampire explains and shows their damaged fangs and their master offers to feed them with a kill (like... a boar or something)

Apart of the idea is vampires can only feed on sentient/humanoid and feeding from their master or from their master's hand. So, after the orc figures everything out and the vampire has a few small wounds on hands/knees from chores the big bad orc gives himself a lil cut to feed his darling pet.

Pretty soon the vamp's fangs regrow and the orc lets them feed from him more frequently and they get suuuuper loyal and it's *cute*

Anyway, might do a short interactive story from one of their POVs if y'all are intrested.

[light-me-on-pyre]

First Save Start.

Second Save Start.

Third Save Start.

Previous.

Next.

Taglist: @light-me-on-pyre

[light-me-on-pyre]

Whumpees with regenerative powers that don't care about getting hurt anymore.

They're used to the pain, there's no point trying to avoid it to them.

The only priority is the mission. Getting knocked out would compromise the objective but what's a couple of stab wounds if they can still get the job done? they'll worry about the stitches once they get everyone else back to base.

[light-me-on-pyre]

Sticking to the Deal

Free Birds and Fiddlers: Dragon AU

Cw: prelude to noncon, enslaved whumpee, compliant whumpee, non-human whumper, gags, magical brands, mild death wish at the end

~~~

Kevin shivered as the blankets were pulled back and a weight settled into the mattress behind him, sinking him into its ensnaring claws. A tail curled around an ankle to pull apart his fetal position, his arms repositioned from where they shielded his face to be pinned to his chest.

He was so tired, it wasn't hard to let himself go limp in its clutches. It was easier this way. This way, it would let him adjust his position just enough to not stress his body in the act of laying still.

Maybe tonight it was just as tired as he was. Maybe tonight it would let him get some real sleep.

The dragon murmured pleased things, nuzzling against Kevin's neck. He soon felt the serpents tongue flick across his lips, and he parted them dutifully. He felt the thing explore his mouth for a moment before letting out a small whine and turning his face upwards, hoping the monster would give him a moment to speak.

This small request was granted when it pulled away, opting instead to graze his ear with its teeth. "Mhmm?" It asked, almost mocking.

"Please, master. I've been good today." He hated how the words felt on his own tongue, but he hated having to feel what made them necessary even more. "Please, you promised. Please let me rest."

The dragon let out a thoughtful hum, "I suppose you did entertain my court well tonight."

The compliment curled Kevin's gut the ways such comments always did, as if his voice was meant only for the whims of his tormentors.

A clawed hand slipped between his thighs, turning him gently onto his back, scaly limbs boxing in his own. The ring gag was retrieved from behind a little door in the headboard, and he accepted it without complaint.

"You have been so good for me lately, pet," the dragon said, tracing the rune burned into his temple, making it burn as if being seared with it anew. "A pity it took so long to get to this point."

Its voice grew distant and his vision fogged as the spell took hold. He knew this was something he begged for, he knew it was better than the alternative.

He still wished the dragon would stop bothering to reverse the spell in the morning.

[light-me-on-pyre]

Pirate Whump

salty air and harsh wood rubbing on wounds, making them worse.

manual labor as a punishment, scrubbing the deck all night until whumpee’s back aches and their knees are raw.

lashings. good ol’ lashings.

Whumpee, an important passenger on another ship, gets captured by pirates and taken hostage.

tossed in the brig, a dark, dingy, cramped space with chains and metal bars.

drowning!

a sword pressed against their throat as they’re presented to the captain. (forced to kneel??)

Forced to join the crew and doing their chores with shackles on their ankles.

Strapped to the main mast, exposed to the elements (and the cut throat crew) and completely at their mercy.

Stuck in the crow’s nest (especially during a storm)

A new peg leg. Might seem silly but I’d like to see YOU laugh while walking on a chunk of wood with a newly healing leg stump.

cant think of anything else rn but feel free to add on!

my taglist is open by the way ;)

@toads-and-gremlins

@whump-till-ya-jump

@herhighnessthegoblinqueen

@scoundrelwithboba

[light-me-on-pyre]

to me the appeal of pathetic vampires is similar to the appeal of stupid cats. you have the teeth and claws to rip through flesh to your heart's content, but here you are. paw stuck to a quilt. staring woefully with eyes the size of saucers to get someone to help. same goes for a vampire failing miserably to use a touchscreen because his fingers are too cold.

[light-me-on-pyre]

I offer you “devotion”

And in return I offer your martyrical tendencies:

--

"Stop doing that," Caretaker hisses. Their fingers are shaking against the bandages. "Please. It's like you're trying to get yourself killed."

Whympee scoffs, fond. "I'm fine. I didn't die. Yeah, I may need you to patch me up, but I'm still kicking."

"I hate patching you up." Their face colors, instantly. "Wait, no. I don't--not like that, just--"

Amused, Whumpee smiles. "Really? That's oddly charged. So kind, Caretaker."

"I just! Not, hate. No. It just." They sigh, and lean forward to rest their head on Whumpee's shoulder, shoulders shaking. "I don't like seeing you hurt, okay? Please come to me if you do get hurt. But stop being so reckless, you know?"

Whumpee puts an arm around them. "I'm sorry. You know I can take it better than anyone else. I'd rather me get hurt than you."

"That's not fair," they murmur. "I don't want you to die for me. I don't like that kind of devotion."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

They both know Whumpee won't stop. Whether that's apologizing, or throwing themself in harm's way. But for the moment, they just breathe in tandem, and pretend the bandages and the scars don't exist.

--

vote coughing up blood in this poll before it closes, send in proof and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!

[light-me-on-pyre]

When Whumpee misconstrued one of Caretaker’s questions/concerns/casual comments to be something they are sorry for/ should be apologetic about or that Caretaker meant for them to stop doing that thing or was being demeaning about it.

“You’re bleeding!” “Sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t get it on anything!”

“Does your ankle hurt?” “I can still do the [thing Caretaker asked if they wouldn't mind doing]. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“You’re sniffling…. Are you crying?!” “I promise I won’t be loud! I just can’t stop! I’m sorry!”

“You’re breathing a bit loud. Is your rib hurting again? … WHY ARE YOU HOLDING YOUR BREATH?!”

“Your room was a bit warm today. Is that how you like it? I sleep hot so I would end up sweating all night with my heater on that high.” (A few nights later) “C-Caretaker? Is.. is it alright if I t-take the blanket from the couch to m-my room t-tonight?” “Of course! How are you still cold when you're room is so hot? Are you feeling well?— WHY ARE ALL YOUR WINDOWS OPEN?! ITS WINTER!!”

“You sure are hungry! Looks like your appetite is coming back.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take too much. I won’t eat tomorrow to make up for it.”

“Your hair looks different!” “I know… I'm sorry. I didn't really like it in [old-Whumper’s-favorite-style] so I changed it. I’ll change it back though, 'cause I know it makes me more pleasing to look at. I’m sorry.”

"Why are there bandage wrappings in the garbage?" "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to take your supplies without asking! Its just that one of my stitches opened up and it wouldn't stop bleeding."