melpomenelamusa

[melpomenelamusa]

Hello there! I have made a prompt and I was told that a certain character of yours might perchance be perfect for it…definitely not hinting here, oh no, I would never…

https://www.tumblr.com/whumpninja/793610118051905536/so-wikipedia-has-some-interesting-things-it-turns

OMG, IWHDBDYSKDIBDUDJDIDJDJSHSNDYD

I've been wanting to write something whumpy with Fidi about snake charmers for months, but I've been stuck for ideas!

I think this is my divine sign to not give up on the idea and write something related. There's so much potential!!! 🤩🤩🤩🐍

And thanks for thinking of me and my oc, hehe ^^

[melpomenelamusa]

Saved By A Killer #4: Safe

SBAK Masterlist | Comfortember 2023 Masterlist | @comfortember

~ Comfortember | Day 1: Safe ~

Content: Weapons (knives), aggressive whumpee, morally dubious caretaker, fear of recapture, PTSD/trauma.

-

Though he tried his damned best not to, Eli’s anxiety only got worse with each passing hour that Cohen was gone. He tried to distract himself with books and shows and anything else he had within reach of him, but nothing seemed to ease his jumbled thoughts and the constant restlessness settled within his body. 

And then he finally saw a car pull up in the driveway nearly three days after Cohen had left. Between his spot on the couch and the fact that it was dark out, the only thing he could see was headlights shining obnoxiously through the window and into the kitchen. It caused his stomach to lurch and his fingers to tighten their already-deathly grip around the knife in his hand, and he hastily scrambled to his feet before the driver could even kill the engine. 

His bottom lip trembled noticeably as he crept towards the front door. He sucked in a deep breath and pressed his back up against the wall beside it, legs feeling as though they were seconds away from giving out on him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to cry and scream and make sure everyone knew just how much he hated them. 

The footsteps on the front deck were what did it. They reminded him all too much of Lucas’ footsteps. The ones he heard every day for a year.  The ones that told him he was about to experience a world of pain, and nothing he said or did would change that. 

So he lunged the moment the door opened. The scream that tore through him as he aimed his knife was enough to wake up the entire street, and it wasn’t until the intruder had a firm grip on his wrist and his jaw that he was forced to look up at their face. 

“You’re not them,” he pointed out the obvious, his voice drenched in disbelief as his trembling hand slowly released the grip on the knife. “They haven’t found me.” 

Cohen let out a deep breath. Despite the stoicism, Eli didn't miss the way his shoulders slumped a little as he relaxed.

“Give me the knife.” 

Despite the tears now falling freely down his face, Eli begrudgingly gave it up, still held in place by Cohen’s grip on his wrist. It was only when the weapon was completely out of his hand that the man let him go, though a comforting hand now sat on his shoulder as he stifled a few noises of distress. 

“Are you mad?” Eli couldn’t help but ask, though every part of him dreaded the answer. “I’m sorry. Ple-ease don’t hurt me.” 

He felt himself visibly wince at just how hypocritical that sounded out loud. Cohen must have heard it, too, though he merely rolled his eyes in response.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he shrugged as the two headed down the hallway towards his room. “My fault for trusting a traumatised stranger with a knife.” 

Stranger. Had their fragile relationship not yet progressed past that stage? Something about the fact that he thought they were a little closer than they were made his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, and ducked his head to avoid looking Cohen in the eyes.

It was only when he heard the older man chuckle that he forced his gaze up again. Cohen was standing in the doorway to his own bedroom, examining the large net of blankets and pillows that Eli had created for himself using his bed.

“I see you made yourself comfortable,” he commented with a small smile.

If he’d known Cohen was coming home, he would have torn it all down immediately to avoid the embarrassment of having to explain why it was there, but it was too late for that. 

Much to his own irritation, Eli found himself apologising again. “I’m sorry. I can take it down now.” 

There was a small pause as Cohen thought about something. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was leaning against the door frame, lips slightly pursed in concentration. Eventually, however, he shook his head and took a deep breath.

"I don't want to change the sheets tonight anyway," he concluded. "So... take my bed tonight and I'll take yours. We can fix it all up tomorrow."

Eli hated how pathetic he felt. His usual snarky comments seemed to die in his throat before he could say them, and there was no teasing smirk on his face. Just a look of sheer delight that was no doubt visible as he stared up at Cohen's rather exhausted expression.

"Really? You don't mind?"

He shrugged. "Until you do something to break my trust, I don't mind a lot of things. I assume you kept your side of the deal?"

"Yes," Eli nodded a little too eagerly. "I didn't go near anything but the bed."

Cohen smiled. "Perfect."

-

Despite having someone else home, the nightmares he'd been having continued well into the night. They were all in different settings, with different crowds of people watching, but the one thing that never changed was his tormentor's face. No matter where he was, Lucas was always there to loom over him and remind him of his place. No matter how hard he cried or how many people were watching, not one of them felt compelled to help put an end to his miserable existence.

He must have been particularly distressed during the fourth one because when he woke up, Cohen was trying to nudge him awake without taking any of the blows coming from his flailing arms.

"Stop!" he wailed in between sobs, unable to distinguish Cohen's face enough in the dark to feel safe. "Please, please, I'll do whatever you want, just make it stop!"

His chest spasmed with his attempts to breathe. It was too hard to get in a decent breath of air, he felt like he was choking.

"Elias," Cohen spoke firmly, his groggy voice a clear indication that Eli had been the one to wake him up. He had no idea what time it was but it was definitely not long enough for him to have had a decent sleep. "It was just a nightmare. Stop trying to fight me or you'll injure yourself."

Despite how terrified he was, Eli slowly started to obey. Teary eyes stared up at the shadowed figure, Cohen's face only becoming more clear as he blinked his own tears away.

As soon as he was sure it was okay, the man sat down on the edge of the bed and awkwardly ran a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. "The movies 'n' the books I've read suggest I should ask you if you want to talk about it."

Eli couldn't help but laugh tearily into his pillow. "No, but thank you."

"Fair enough." Thankfully, Cohen had a smile of his own now. "I don't like talking about mine either. I do feel it's important to remind you that you're safe. I'm very good at what I do, which means I'm more than capable of keeping us both safe, and I will not hurt you. Yeah?"

"So... you're not mad about being woken up?"

He had to resist the urge to flinch when the man gave his shoulder a squeeze as he stood up again. "No. I'm not mad, but I am exhausted. If you need me, I'll keep my bedroom door open so you can get inside, alright?"

That was comforting. Enough so that Eli finally felt himself start to relax enough to feel his own exhaustion creeping up on him. He didn't respond, but he offered to halfhearted smile as Cohen slipped out the door again.

Surprisingly, no more nightmares occurred that night.

-

Whumptember 2023 taglist: @topsheepstudent

SBAK taglist: @kiss1t0ffm3 @latenightcupsofcoffee @make-it-gay-please @nyooom @pigeonwhumps @pixelated-whump @strawberry-whump @whumped4whumplover @whumpsday @whumpshaped

[melpomenelamusa]

chapter 7 — a foe named trust (pt.3)

Cws: Referenced abuse, referenced violence, implied death. Actually, not much :P

Masterlist || previous

That night, Espada dreamed of Cláudio.

They tossed and turned all night. The memories were so hazy by now, that every time they spun on her mind like this, they got more confusing than the last.

Cold auburn eyes and a mouth twitching in disgust before being covered by its own blood followed them into conscience.

It awoke in the middle of the night, a slight thread of frustration building up inside it as it blinked itself awake. Not again, they thought. Nervously, she tried closing her eyes. Not sleeping would make them tired. Being tired would make her make mistakes. And making mistakes would get it—

Espa covered its head with a pillow, trying to shut down the remnants of the dream to go back to sleep.

The rough, calloused hands that grabbed their hair and tossed it to the floor.

The rough, soft hands that handed them sweets and didn’t linger nor hurt.

The thin, buzzy black hair and the piercing brown eyes that always pinned her right in the spot.

The short, coily hair and the warm, brown eyes that’d close in a smile and make her shoulders relax.

The dream (because it wasn’t a nightmare, not really, it would—it would be stupid to call that one, wouldn’t it?) was mixed up with recent memories, and all it served was in making Espa’s head turn. Those thoughts weren’t all about the handler, they were about...

About Ciça.

A weird feeling settled at the bottom of its stomach. They didn’t like this. They didn’t know what to do with it.

Drawing from recent experiences, the weapon quit going back to sleep. Sure, this wasn’t as bad as before, but they were suddenly too awake to try and go back to bed. They tidied up the mattress the best they could in the dark, slid their feet into their shoes and mindlessly grabbed a belt to attach some knife to.

Her room’s door opened up, silent. It sighed in relief when it didn’t see anyone, forcefully releasing the tension on its muscles.

...A short night walk wouldn’t hurt.

Passing through the kitchen, it caught sight of the clock—three and a half AM, so it wouldn’t take long for morning to come—before turning back to the laundry room on the back to grab the key. Well, if Ms. Ann was still keeping it there.

Before she could find out, however, Espa’s eyes were drawn by a dark figure curled up on the floor.

They stopped, silent as not to wake them.

It was Gisele.

She seemed to be trembling slightly, hugging herself in her sleep. It dazed Espa. Oh. Gisele would probably have liked to have a blanket. The floor seemed a bit cold for someone like her. Espa bit its lip.

They took care to make their steps extra silent as they grabbed the key in the weak light—uh, Miss didn’t get hold of her old habits, really. They should’ve expected it—and walked back towards the living room.

“Hey.”

The soft, hoarse mumble made a chill run down its spine and Espa almost jumped.

They turned back. The servant had woken up.

“Where are you going?”

Espa’s eyes darted around her face, trying to catch signs of any expression in the dim room. Sleepy. Hair messy and flattened on one side. Eyes barely open and slight confusion. Nothing accusatory.

Oh, yeah, they breathed out. Gisele probably didn’t care about the rule it was technically breaking.

“Night walk,” she answered, as low as she could for the woman to still hear her. Gisele still seemed to take a whole minute to let the words actually sink in.

“Are you sure?” She slurred. “Isn’t that like... won’t you get in trouble?”

Espa bit its lip. They didn’t answer.

Gisele stayed quiet for one more moment.

“Oh, I know,” she rubbed her eyes, yawning. “I’ll cover you.”

The weapon’s head snapped back at her.

“Sorry?” It murmured.

“The handler can’t know, right? She wakes at like, six, so if you’re not back by then like—” she hesitated, “like that one time.” The memory almost got a flinch out of Espa. “...Then I’ll distract her so you’ll not get in trouble.”

Oh. Espa looked into her eyes. That was...

Incredibly dangerous and stupid to do.

But something warm buzzed up in their chest, and Espa couldn’t bring themself to say that out loud.

“Be careful,” they said in the darkness instead, nodding to Gisele. “I’ll be fine,” it added. Servants were too frail. If Ms. Ann caught her covering something fishy, Gisele would be beaten to a puree.

Espa would just be quick and not take long on their walk. Just something to tire their body enough to finish sleeping.

“And thank you,” it added softly, turning the handle.

The night air was heavenly, and the city was mostly empty. Espa breathed in deep, allowing the chilly breeze to caress her mostly bare limbs. It hadn’t bothered to get out of its pajamas, but—the soft click clack of the heels on the asphalt made a nice rythm—it had put its boots on this time before going out.

Ann wouldn’t need to know about this, of course. It wasn’t exactly a transgression of the rules, Espa wasn’t any bad weapon to go running off or anything. Ms. Ann might just take that badly and feel hurt if she knew. So, really, there was no harm. Besides, getting to know this town better was important, for the mission.

After staying still by the empty road for a moment, watching the branches on a greening tree sway with the wind by the sidewalk—it was blooming flowers, ones that looked red in the sparse moonlight—Espa bit its lip and decided to do something mildly stupid.

It’d been a while since she’d gone out for one of these. It filled their mind with calm, oppressive thoughts replaced by the fresh air. There was no rush as Espa took in the still night, redoing the steps that she’d done about twice before, towards a little park around the block.

The blue slider with chipped paint didn’t look that old in the dark, and the yellow lamps were still lit by this hour, casting warm light over the street. Espa walked around the corner, idly going up the street to find a slightly familiar neighbourhood.

Not too long after, it found number 11.

It looked silent and somber at night, nothing like the warm little house they remembered from the past week. Almost as if the building was deep in slumber itself. They almost giggled to themelf with the thought. This street was not very narrow, definitely large enough to allow two cars to pass by at once. The asphalt on the road was dark and smooth, not a ragged stone path like some of the ones she’d seen around here. Most houses—though it was hard to tell in the dark—were a bit old, some with freshly painted facades and others with old and rusty metal porches. Espa catched sight of a little path in the back of a house, going towards there out of curiosity. It went around the block, and walking a little more—click clack, click clack, they allowed their boots to sing, lazy—the weapon found herself staring at the facades of yet more houses, backs turned to the ones behind. Oh. Neat.

The air slowly shifted to a more blue tint, and the sky slightly lit up. Hm. It was getting early. Now would be a good time to head home.

Going back the way she had come from, she was faced with a familiar figure—someone she might or might not have been allowing into her mind all day, so it was far too easy to recognize—, of the one woman that had been plaguing her thoughts.

Ciça yawned at herself. 

She wore a nightgown and was just opening the front door into her frontyard, carrying a blanket—no, too thin and oddly-shaped to be a blanket. A bedsheet—in her hands and unfolding it to stretch it on the breeze, walking to a little clothesline, a few meters from the entrance, and proceeding to hang it, not noticing the weapon watching her as the night faded into a new day.

--

Oh, Jesus. Ciça brushed her eyes, tired. She’d so cleverly slept with a cup of juice by her bedside table and splattered it on the bed while tossing and turning over the night. She’d woken up a bit after, feeling awkwardly wet and sticky, only to find the remnants of the mango pulp all around the lilac bed linen. It had already been quickly washed by the tap in the backyard by the garden, but the clotheslines were already stuffed full back there—the rain didn’t allow the laundry hanged prior to dry, so it was still too busy to have space to hang it up—so here she was, using the one by the front instead. It was almost dawn already, and this would completely ruin her sleep schedule, she guessed. The woman sighed. That’d suck. She had the gym tomorrow. Damned mango juice.

Suddenly, she caught something by the corner of her eye.

The woman almost let the clothespin drop to the ground.

The kid watched her across the porch.

Ciça halted in befuddlement. What was she doing here? No, what hour was it, again? But then, the memories of their last encounter a few days ago flooded her mind—the bruises, the reluctance to allow Ciça to see them as if she’d get in trouble for letting anyone know about them, the sorrowful gaze in her face before they parted—and her mind started coming up with terrible scenarios to explain it, one worse than the other. She shook them away.

When she noticed Ciça was staring back, the girl perked up. She wasn’t wearing that yellow cape this time, only a very loose-fitting—and thin—white button shirt and small shorts, no sign of the cute blue bandana she wore before, either. Ciça tried not to linger in the slightly darker patches of skin covering her arms. The kid didn’t look at her, seeming embarrassed.

“Good morning,” Ciça tried, voice soft. It felt like it'd be too obnoxious to disrupt the calm sunrise with the loudness of a normal tone. “How... are you doing?”

That got her to finally fix her gaze on Ciça’s. The woman tensed a bit. Her wide and watchful black eyes were a bit unnerving.

“Good morning.”

The kid stayed silent for a minute then, seeming to regret her very existence in the moment. Ciça narrowed her eyes at her. Did she want to say something...?

A flash of some strong expression took over her face, surprising the woman. Oh?

“Ciça,” she bit her lip. “Miss. You—um, you said I could come over, yes?”

Ciça blinked. “Yes? If you wanna,” she added.

The girl averted her face, then turned back. The horizon started lighting up behind her.

“I can’t go out of the house all the time,” she dragged her foot on the ground. “I’m not allowed. She can’t know about it,” the kid mumbled. Ciça’s eyebrows raised, expression going soft. Not allowed to go out? She gripped the bedsheet tighter on her hands. “And I—and I can’t keep drawing attention. That’s bad,” she looked up at Ciça, seeming anxious. As if she was asking for permission.

The woman lowered her eyes. So no asking questions, huh? She couldn’t help being put on edge. Whatever was going on with this kid was fishy. Whatever problems she had going on at home... Ciça didn’t like to think about it. She pursed her lips.

But... she could do that. The kid obviously wanted to trust her. And Ciça—she could be a solace for her if that was what she needed. She couldn’t just leave it. Could she?

A little smile fell over her face. Ah, well. She sighed, Ciça already knew what her answer was. She’d already given it. Besides, what harm could it cause?

The kid, who seemed to only get more apprehensive the longer Ciça took to respond, almost jumped when the woman looked back into her eyes. She smiled.

“Then I won’t ask a single question,” she said. “You’re welcome here.”

Her eyes seemed to glimmer. The frown on her face vanished.

She said something too low for her to hear, but Ciça could sort of guess what it was. The girl had the same expression as back at the supermarket, when the woman offered to read her grocery list.

Thank you.

“By the way,” Ciça remembered, going over to the porch and opening it with the key she kept near the balcony, under the plant pot. She unlocked it and faced the girl, leaning on the white bars of the little gate. “Can I ask just this one?”

She tilted her head, seeming ever so slightly taken aback. Ciça swallowed down her nervousness and asked it:

“Could you tell me your name?”

That seemed to surprise her. She bit her lip, and the composure surrounding her seemed to waver as she seemed to consider it. Ciça gave another smile, awkward. Uh, it was okay if she wanted to give a nickname or a fake, she hadn’t wanted to say it before either—

“Espa,” she mumbled. So low Francisca almost didn’t hear it again. Across from them, the day had started to come. “My name is Espa.”

--

Ms. Ann had gone out again.

“I’ll grab the last things to fix my laptop,” she said. “The mission will resume soon.”

It felt like a weight on its chest was lifted. Finally, the trouble they’d caused would be fixed. Espa would compensate Ann, and everything would go smoothly again.

It glanced at the digital clock in the kitchen. Early afternoon. They yawned a bit, not having gotten the perfect amount of sleep. A little thought immediately sprouted in their mind, but they quickly dismissed it. That would be too risky. They weren’t sure when Ms. Ann would come back. Espa could... just leave it for now.

“So? How was it?” Gisele suddenly slid onto her side, talking in that harsh and crude tone since the handler wasn’t home to berate her. “Your night walk?”

They suppressed a sigh.

“It was good,” she glanced at the door. The very dangerous thought of asking for the servant to try and cover it while it sneaked out in case Ann came back crossed its mind as well, but Espa quickly repressed it too. They merely allowed their lips to curl up just a little. “It was a good walk.”

Previous // Next

Taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @c0zy-drag0n @whumpawaydarling

[melpomenelamusa]

Nafas

Content: living weapon whump, "it" used as a pronoun, dehumanization, sensory deprivation, conditioned whumpee, manhandling, dissociation and daydreaming, captivity, mentioned whipping, military scenario, institutionalized whump, magical slavery, implied multiple whumpees.

<- previous | (chapter 3) | next (soon) ->

(Curse of Withering masterpost)

Cyrus's body shakes awake as the door's mechanisms whirr and clank open. He always forgets if it is because the door actually makes the cold floor shake upon opening, or if the sound of his handler coming in scares him so much that his body hurries to wake him up as fast as possible.

When the den's door actually fully opens, Cyrus is already on his knees as far from it as possible; a few steps away. His small blanket and pillow left where he was napping.

There is no recognition or sound from his handler as he shows his empty palms, then turn them palm down for further inspection. Sometimes silence from Mr. Wilson is the best answer he can ask for.

The last thing he wants is to start the morning with bad behavior.

Well, he guesses it is morning. It's morning for him, who always considers it morning after waking up from a long nap unless told it wasn't.

Mr. Wilson could just use the tray's little window space to give him food. If he was delivering it himself, it must have been to check how Cyrus behaves. And he wants to behave well.

Maybe he'll get to keep the blanket and pillow for one more night if he behaves well enough.

"Hands down, Wither. Mealtime," Mr. Wilson announced, putting the plastic tray on the floor. Well, it did seem like a morning meal. Or it was a night meal, but he felt like he slept for longer than an afternoon nap. So it must be morning.

Unless the meal's planning changed. It did happen often enough, with all the supplies's inconsistency.

...He would settle on morning.

"We have somewhere to be after. You have five minutes to finish this," Mr. Wilson said, once again breaking his rumination.

Oh. His empty stomach churns a bit at it, but... it's okay! When he has to use his magic, Mr. Wilson asks if he can keep the food down, so it's probably not that. And if it is, indeed, morning, then it's probably not a medical appointment either, because morning appointments need fasting, so he wouldn't be eating.

It may be reward time. Mr. Wilson would be more scowly if it was punishment time.

It's probably reward time. Yeah. Must be.

"Yes, sir," Cyrus says, just loud enough to be heard.

When Mr. Wilson closes the door behind him, his mental clock starts counting.

5 minutes to go.

He always starts with the strange brown bar, since it's usually what gives him a bit more energy. It also usually tasted the worst, so he washes away the taste with the rest of the meal.

He pulls the one bread roll in two with his hands and flattens the insides, so it's like little bowls for him to scoop the beans.

4 minutes to go.

The bread with beans tastes a little better than the bar, though it's still... not tasty. But someone must have woken up really early to make the bread, and people must have worked hard on planting and growing and harvesting and cooking the beans, so he makes an effort to smile and say, "Thank you for the food."

Obviously, they couldn't hear it. But it was good-mannered to express gratitude out loud.

By the end of the first bread half, he counted down to 2 minutes and 18 seconds.

He hurries and ends the second by the 1 minute mark.

It gives him enough time to drink the water, being careful not to rip the paper cup accidentally, and push the tray to a corner.

When the door opens again, he's back at the farthest wall, on his knees and presenting his empty hands for inspection.

Mr. Wilson does more than inspect. He uses that heavy, stiff handcuff around his willing wrists. Cyrus would feel relieved for it— for being able to still move his fingers to go out instead of having them stuck in the metal gloves— if he didn't recognize the pill gun in Mr. Wilson's hand.

Yeah, it was morning.

"Open," Mr. Wilson says, holding Cyrus's head still by his loose hair.

There's no space for disobedience in Mr. Wilson's voice, and there is no space for disobedience in Cyrus's mind.

His handcuffed hands stay down on his lap when he gags on the gun, and then on the pill. He doesn't cough until he's sure it passed his throat, because Mr. Wilson doesn't let go until he's also sure.

Two coughs later, he is given the same command. And gags on the second pill all the same.

He's given a few seconds to blink away reflexive tears and cough it out before the next command comes, "Close. Keep it closed."

Cyrus really h- deslikes the muzzle.

It presses too tightly on his mouth and jaw. It's too cold at first touch. It's still difficult to breathe through, even with the semi-open space with a cloth for the nose. And it shines in anxiety-yellow if he even whimpers.

At least the collar and capsule and all the other equipment stay in safe-blue unless something actually goes wrong. Of if he does something wrong and has to be punished for it. With the muzzle, however, his heart takes a leap every time he sees that anxiety-yellow, waiting on a punishment, just for nothing to happen.

The only good side of the muzzle he can see is that it helps him hide. It's easier to deal with shame when no one can actually see his face.

The nullification glasses are a bit scary; it makes him anxious not being able to see, but on the bright side, it isn't uncomfortable! It has a thin foam that protects his eyes from the cold, at least. And he doesn't have to see when the glasses, or anything else, flash anxiety-yellow.

As always, he behaves while the glasses click together with the muzzle.

At least Mr. Wilson doesn't push the earplug in. Being allowed to keep hearing is a good thing, even if it's just to hear orders.

"Forward," the order comes sooner than he expected, but he knew it would come eventually.

Cyrus bends forward, head down, and feels the weight of Mr. Wilson's hand over his collar before it even touches. He's able to disguise the shudder he gets from it as the effect from the needle entering his nape from the collar.

It only takes a second for his body to become too heavy to keep upright, but he knows Mr. Wilson won't let him hit his head, his handler always catches him when he falls.

"Breathe," echoes in his head, voice coming from too far, too drowned in the ringing in his ear to inspire urgency.

A cold feeling, familiar and hostile, travels his cursed veins until it's everything he can feel.

"Wither. Breathe," it's still not urgent-toned, but it's stern. Also familiar and hostile.

When he finally draws in breath, the feeling is gone, and all it left behind was a tingling around his neck.

"Back with me?" Mr. Wilson asks from too close, and Cyrus instantly tries to answer but finds no voice. Right. The muzzle.

He nods instead, matted hair brushing against the glove keeping his head safe from an injury.

"Good. Get up," and then the hands change from their place under his head and on his shoulder to his upper arms, getting him up themselves.

Even expecting it, he still flinched at the sound of the door opening.

He would like to know where they were going, but it is for his handler to decide when he gets to know anything.

"Behave," Mr. Wilson warns, as if Cyrus still needs it.

On the way to wherever it is they're going, there isn't much to focus on besides their footsteps. Usually the hallways and places he has to walk through are emptied for that purpose alone, there's very rarely anyone else close enough for him to hear.

The footsteps are relaxing, though, so there isn't reason to be sad about it.

He knows when each tap on the floor will happen and with what force. His steps are soft, socks making almost no sound, while Mr. Wilson's shoes make a loud noise he's sure would alert anyone around that his handler is close.

He always wonders if that is purposeful or if Mr. Wilson has been taught to make himself loud just as Cyrus was taught to make himself quiet. He wonders if Mr. Wilson, like him, forgot how to act any other way.

A familiar gloved hand finds the vulnerable curve of his neck under the collar and squeezes. His body reacts before his mind has time to think, halting his steps and standing still.

"Leg up," comes the order along with hands on his calf and ankle.

His thoughts halt again when shoes are placed under his feet. He only wears shoes outside of the department. If he was still in his uniform, no prep talk, no showering, in the morning...

He was being taken on a walk around the lake.

Cyrus is glad for the muzzle on the few seconds a smile tries to form on his lips; Mr. Wilson isn't fond of him smiling. It's understandable why, he isn't either.

Somehow, his happiness must have been apparent anyway, because when a hand comes back to his upper arm, it is accompanied by a stern, "Behave."

Even through the fabric above his nose, he can smell the fresh air, can feel a soft, cold breeze chilling his skin, and it is one of the only times he doesn't mind the cold.

The glasses are taken off before he can feel too restless, and a hurried attempt to look at the world surrounding him leaves his eyes watered.

It's very early in the morning, early enough that the pretty-purple and sun-yellow still meet on the horizon, casting bright and vivid shades of pink and orange on sparse clouds. His lungs forget to take in air before such a view.

He had forgotten it was the beginning of autumn. He had forgotten the stubborn leaves, still holding on to a green tone, reflected the sun and sky so beautifully.

He never wanted to look away.

"You only get 15 minutes. Take the time to walk around, you can stay still in your enclosure."

The flinch is so violent it makes his bones shudder.

He had forgotten pretty things like the sky could coexist with the violence and fear the world swam in, that he swam in, too.

Mr. Wilson doesn't touch him, he only follows behind with a metallic chain connected to Cyrus's collar.

The distance between them is enough for him to forget the violence and fear again.

In the distance, soldiers and their families walked around, as did some staff members and some handlers, with and without their Unwilling Gifteds.

The open space around the lake was so big he felt cowed in himself. Like the world was too big to be safe, with too many people and lives coexisting, too many things to see and to take in.

It was easy to unfocus his eyes and let them drift down to the flowers around the beautiful crystalline water of the lake.

The chilly breeze could barely swing around the dahlias. Sweet love, he remembers them being called; dahlias sweet love. They reminded him of honeycomb, specially under the orangy light, but it was too delicate to be anything but flowers. Artemisias grow close to the dahlias, protecting their steam from bugs.

Around both, like little spots of white, there was... he would remember. It wasn't a hibiscus, nor jasmine, no... Mx. Mayfield used a name that immediately reminded him of flowers and gardens, what- Gardenias! Yes, gardenias like gardens, that was it. Small white gardenias.

He couldn't remember what type exactly, but when Mx. Mayfield seems in a good mood, he'll ask again.

The little dots of yellow in the middle of each gardenia were adorable, and they went well with the yellowish tone of the dahlias' middles.

Almost hidden in the midst of white gardenias, there were spurts of alyssums. Like the dahlias, they had "sweet" in the name, but he couldn't remember the rest of it. How many times had he asked Mx. Mayfield for their name and forgotten it after a little while?

Cyrus stops his walking to look back at his handler, with the best pleading eyes he can muster without appearing to be "playing cute". Mr. Wilson didn't seem fazed by it at all, but he never does, so Cyrus may still be able to convince him to allow it.

"What is it?" the voice seemed a bit softer than usual. Cyrus may have a good chance.

He lets his body lean towards the flowers as they lean towards the sun. His hands twitch with the need of touching, but that he wouldn’t do. He only wanted to be closer, to smell them, to kneel on the grass and feel the rising sun reach him-

"Don't play cute," his handler scolds, voice stern once again.

He forgot to pretend he couldn't hear the earlier softness. Forgot to hold back a bit of his yearning.

But somehow Mr. Wilson still relaxes his grip on the chain and says, "Keep your hands away."

It is, once again, too hard to contain the need to smile, and Cyrus is glad for the muzzle. His eyes must shine too brightly, though, because Mr. Wilson gives him the "behave" glare.

His pants are just thin enough that he can feel the soft dirt and itchy grass pressing on his knees, and it's so comfy that he doesn't mind the pain from falling on his knees too fast.

The sun is finally reaching past the lake and the flowers, and when it hugs his body, he melts so quickly it feels like he could sleep.

He could stay the whole day here, comfy and warm under the sun, feeling the honeyed scent of the flowers, hearing the gentle sounds of wind and animals that don't care for his cursed nature enough to stop in their course.

Cyrus barely notices when his forehead grazes a dahlia, but when he does, a full-body shudder makes him melt further, and he leans further, like he saw cats doing on hands that pet them.

The overwhelming need to be touched makes him want to cry.

He craves it so badly he almost leans into the grip on his upper arm.

Almost.

His fear is too strong to be overpowered by anything else.

"Time's up."

The need to cry grows stronger, but he gets up obediently without being told to. He steps back without being told to. He angles his head for the glasses without being told to.

He hoped the easy obedience would get him some indulgence and leeway to look around one last time.

Darkness blocks the sun too fast anyway.

His obedience doesn't waver. His handler decides when he deserves indulgence, not him, and he got plenty of it today already, he shouldn't be greedy.

Cyrus starts shaking a little from cold when they're out of the sun, but he's grateful for being allowed in the sun for some time on the first place.

He goes back to counting their steps again as soon as they start walking.

... and they stop way too soon for them to have arrived.

"Are you fucking kidding me," his handler complains under his breath, and Cyrus stiffens up. What was wrong? Was it him? Did he do something wrong?

"Hey, Wilson! What's up, man? It's rare to see you taking your gifted for a walk," a voice he doesn't recognize says, and Cyrus cowers a little, almost reluctant to follow when they walk a few steps further.

"Morning, Grace. I take it really early, makes it easier to clear up the way," Mr. Wilson's voice is casual, but Cyrus notices a subtle note of annoyance in it. The kind that says it's a scolding under sarcasm. But that's for Cyrus; if Mr. Wilson is talking to another human, then maybe the tone means something else.

It makes him tense anyway.

"Why is the way closed, and why are these things here? Cleaning duty is not now," his handler continues.

"Well, it's not supposed to be now, but sometimes they slack off. In their defense, though, I heard an UG fainted after a whipping and another UG saw it and freaked out, so they might be cleaning that. And if it was as chaotic as I heard, makes sense the cleaning and medical crew left things on the way," the voice is cheerful, almost chirpy. Handlers aren't usually chirpy this early, maybe she's another staff member. He's just glad she's not talking about him anymore.

"Whipping in the hallway?" Mr. Wilson asks, and Cyrus flinches at the clipped tone.

"Mhm, but I'm not the one that told you, yeah? Sometimes handlers slack off too, it's fine," she has a pretty laugh, Cyrus thinks, and she sounds older than Mr. Wilson, "Are you on schedule? I can get you in, the cleaning guys won't mind much, the morning is all a report mess anyway, one more protocol breach won't harm anyone."

"... Alright, just-"

"No way! Wilson, so good to see you! It's been so long since you visited us!" An even more cheerful voice interrupts Mr. Wilson, and Cyrus flinches away from it. "Wow, is that the wither thing? Man, took me years to actually see it! Why does-"

"Please step back," Mr. Wilson doesn't seem half as happy to talk with whoever this is.

"Oh, sorry! My bad. It's just... isn't it a kruinae? I thought only aggressive species could be withers. I heard some people saying it was a kruinae, but I didn't believe it, it's just not a good fit, right?"

Cyrus is so hunched in himself he might turn into a ball. He can feel the eyes on him, and he wants to hide away, he doesn't want to hear this talk again, he doesn't want to-

"Hm." Mr. Wilson moves him a bit so he can rest against the wall, and the hand from his upper arm changes to hold his bound wrists, ensuring they stay still there.

"... Should I treat that as a no? A yes?"

Miss Grace laughs at the same time Mr. Wilson sighs, but they both sound distracted.

"Ian, do you need something? No one is supposed to stay nearby the Wither right now," his handler's voice is right in front of him; he must be hiding his view partially from Mister Ian.

"You're near it. Grace is near it too."

"I'm its handler, and Grace has a reason to be here, you don't. Shoo."

"Shoo? I'll tell auntie you shooed me away!" Cyrus can easily pick up the mocked offense, so Mr. Wilson must have caught it too.

A few seconds of tense silence follows the words, and Cyrus can't help but squirm a bit. Mr. Wilson also caught that, and the grip on his hands grew painful.

"Fine! My bad. Your glare is worse than the general's..." the voice sounds so moody it sets off all alarms in Cyrus's head. If he ever used that tone with Mr. Wilson, he would be punished so badly.

Is that his fourth flinch during this talk? Fifth?

"Why is the goggle's light switching from yellow to blue so much?"

One more flinch to the count.

"It's nullification glasses. And that's it blinking," Mr. Wilson answers.

Cyrus is too self-conscious to keep on blinking. He can perfectly picture the anxiety-yellow around his glasses with each blink, and it feels wrong to keep doing it.

"The wither?"

"What else would "it" be?"

Mr. Wilson pulls him forward, just two steps, and Cyrus hears some papers being scribbled. He recognizes the sound of his handler's signature being written.

"I don't know, those scientists do freaky things. Wouldn't put it past them to do a blinking goggle."

"Nullification gla-"

"Glasses, yeah, got it. Sorry," Cyrus flinches again. It's so bad-mannered to interrupt Mr. Wilson, but that's a person, they can, "Why does it switch colours when it blinks?"

"So we know it did." Mr. Wilson somehow sounds even more impatient than before.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"None of your business, Ian. Go on your way, we're on a schedule. Have a great day, Grace."

Even though the grip returning to his upper arm is way harsher than before, Cyrus is glad they're finally going away from the talk.

They head to the shower hall first, and Cyrus makes himself look as apologetic as he can while blinded and muzzled when Mr. Wilson complains about his uniform being dirty. Doesn't seem to matter anyway, he's half sure Mr. Wilson wasn't even really talking to him.

When he's left alone to shower, he pretends his half-numbed hands aren't his, closing his eyes while massaging his scalp.

It makes him lose the little time he has to try and detangle it under the water with shampoo, but it's worth it when the itchiness to be touched goes away.

When he's left alone in his den, he pretends again until his arms hurt from it. So he closes his eyes and pretends the feeling, too.

He pretends the sun and the flower's smell to make it comfier.

Then he pretends the soft lullaby, and the birds flying, and the grass under his body.

Cyrus only notices his play-pretend lulled him to sleep when it's time to wake up again.

-

Nafas (Persian - نَفَس)

Means breath, the air we take into and release from our lungs. It also symbolizes life and spirit.

"To catch my breath," as in to have a moment of respite.

-

Chapter's taglist: @whump-till-ya-jump @floral-comet-whump @paingoes @bonbonbobomb @inhurtandincomfort @half-duck @lumpywhump @loonybun @scoundrelwithboba @enteredin2eternity @justanotherchangeling @ichortwine @c0zy-drag0n @weibun-art @melpomenelamusa @sacredwrath @whoooompp @catnykit

Send an ask or comment on this linked post to be added to one of the taglists, or to switch taglists! :D

-

[melpomenelamusa]

is there a particular reason why you decided to age up the characters a little in the cyoa?

I've read some people saying that my characters were too young to whump them for their liking, so considering that the cyoa is a game and I want the majority of people can play it, I decided to age them up a little 😅

Besides, this cyoa is an AU, so it doesn't affect the main story in any way ;)

[melpomenelamusa]

Hello!! I hope you're having a great day!!

I just have a quick question

I'm reading your Chimeras series for the first time and I'm loving it!! But lady whump makes me a bit uncomfortable. Would the whole story still make sense if I skipped those chapters?

Hi!!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying my story! 💜

Unfortunately, the characters’ storylines do end up connecting at a certain point in the plot, so skipping chapters might make some details or situations get lost or feel more confusing :c

However, if you’d like to keep reading about my dear boys suffering, I’ll leave here a list of the chapters with the strongest Lady Whump so you can skip them if you want:

Main story chapters

Always pretty 🐍

Dollplay 🐍

The show must go on 🐍

A matter of pride Pt. 1 🐍

Pity Party Pt. 1 🐍

Danger in the forest Pt. 2 🐍

Danger in the forest Pt. 3 🐍

Extra chapters

Holiday surprise: Christmas special 🐇

Febuwhump DAY 21: Put on display 🐍

Cold 🐍

Bunny Dreams 🐇 Part. 1 Part. 2

Neon Bunny Dreams 🐇

No air 🐍

Special chapters and AUs

WOW Birthday whump DAY 4: Come and save them 🐍

Venom extraction: 2nd POV whumper 🐍

Punishment 🐍

Danger in the forest (Bad Ending) 🐍

[melpomenelamusa]

I just came here to tell that I already started writing the first drafts of Chimeras Season Two and OMG, writing the chapter where the origin of Elafi's birth is finally revealed is so AKSJDKAJSHDHJHASDJAHU I'm fangirling all by myself XD

[melpomenelamusa]

Do people dread their teen/their children's teen years bc of a fear they'll become Chimeras, or is it such a rare thing it doesn't enter most people's heads? Are there any superstitions on ways to prevent becoming a chimera child?

Hi!!! Thank you for the ask!!!

This is a very interesting thing! According to statistics, approximately 1% of the human population becomes a chimera. Most people can go their whole lives without ever meeting or even seeing a chimera child in real life, so for many it’s not something that really crosses their minds, and therefore they don’t feel the need to take any preventive measures with their children to avoid them becoming chimeras.

In the case of people who do feel disdain toward chimeras, it’s different. Many consider chimeras to be some kind of “curse” or “divine punishment,” and believe that when a child turns into a chimera, it may be some form of punishment for the parents or the family (some even believe that the child is some kind of monster). Things such as raising children “too liberally,” letting them spend too much time around animals from an early age, or even allowing them to interact with other chimeras are, among other things, situations that these people believe could lead a child to become a chimera—so they try to avoid them at all costs.

Others turn to religion, asking their deities to prevent their children from becoming chimeras through rituals such as wearing amulets, prayers, and even animal sacrifices. There are also certain “supplements” of dubious origin circulating on the market that claim to prevent a child’s transformation into a chimera. These are often quite expensive, though not particularly popular.

Unfortunately, the so-called “chimera effect” still has no official explanation, and it occurs spontaneously regardless of a child’s sex, culture, upbringing, socio-economic status, appearance, genetics, health, or family background. For this reason, most people prefer to remain indifferent to the matter—until one day they have the “bad luck” of seeing their own children affected.

[melpomenelamusa]

CHIMERAS CYOA - Part 4

~Original story~

Masterlist | Previous

CW: Pet whump, restraints, bound and gagged, muzzled, nonhuman whumpee, deshumanization.

~~~~~~~~~~~🦌🦌🦌~~~~~~~~~~~

You begin guiding Elafi to your bedroom.

The clattering of his hooves against the ceramic floor makes you realize that you’ll have to get used to that sound from now on. Or maybe you could put socks on him, or some kind of little shoes. You don’t know yet—perhaps that’s a decision for later.

You open the door and step inside. Your room is quite austere, furnished only with a double bed covered by a brown quilt, a wardrobe holding all your clothes, a trash bin, a laundry basket in the corner, a dresser, and the sliding window that opens to the backyard.

On the right side is the bathroom door, and on the left, the closet.

The closet is nothing more than a rectangle of 1 x 1.50 meters and 2.10 meters tall. You had emptied it completely, preparing it for the occasion. On the left wall you had a vent installed that lets in fresh air from the garden and ensures ventilation. At the top, there’s a thick horizontal metal bar, and at the bottom sits a dog bed, the largest one you could find at the pet store.

It may not be the prettiest or softest, but it looks comfortable enough and serves its purpose. You’re not some kind of monster who would make your new pet sleep on the bare floor.

You drag your pet inside.

“Lie down,” you order.

The deer lets out another sob before obeying and sitting in the middle of the dog bed, his knees tucked tightly against his chest.

You take the end of the leash and tie it to the metal bar. It’s long enough so your pet won’t choke if he lies down.

“There,” you say, before crouching in front of him.

Elafi looks at you with tearful eyes, his brows slightly furrowed. You take his face in your hands and give him a gentle squeeze.

“You’re so cute!” you remark.

“Mmh!” he complains, pulling away from your grip, only to curl up tighter on the dog bed.

He really is a calm pet, you think, just as the seller had said. During the entire trip he didn’t try to attack you, even when his teary eyes shot sharp looks your way.

“Don’t like your new bed? Get used to it, because you’re only allowed to sleep here, and you’ll stay here unless I say otherwise, understood?”

Elafi doesn’t respond or make any gesture of wanting to.

You stretch out your arm, wrap your fingers around one of his antlers, and tug his head down so you can whisper in his ear.

“Understood?”

“Mn-nh!” he replies. You let him go.

Suddenly, a loud growl from your pet’s stomach catches your attention, and you see him pin his ears flat against the sides of his head in embarrassment.

“You must be hungry,” you say. “Tell me, are you hungry?”

This time, Elafi immediately nods. Oh, what it is to be a poor starving creature...

“Well, you don’t look that hungry,” you add with fake indifference. “I suppose I’ll just leave, then...”

“Mmnh!”

The deer calls out with adorable little noises, now looking up at you with a pleading expression.

“Show me you’re hungry,” you say firmly, standing up and folding your arms.

Elafi lets out a desperate whine before shifting his gaze around the room. After a few seconds, he begins to squirm and reposition himself on the dog bed, now kneeling. He bends his back and lowers his head until his antlers touch the floor in a kind of bow.

“Mmnh,” he repeats, in a pitiful tone.

It’s a good thing your pet can’t see you right now, or he would notice the growing smile on your face.

“Well, I suppose you’ve convinced me,” you reply. “You’re my pet and I’m your Master—how could I deny you something as basic as food? So, stay here and I’ll bring you something, alright?”

He nods again.

You step out and head to the kitchen. Now that your pet is home, it’s time to prepare a proper diet for him. Luckily, you had already stocked up your pantry during your last trip to the supermarket, so you have everything you’ll need to feed him for at least two weeks.

You take out the dog bowl you also bought (Should you have his name engraved on it?) and prepare to fill it with food.

*This choice will define Elafi’s entire diet.

Taglist: @illarian-rambling @eggy16 @bacillusinfection @lady-wallace @tildeathiwillwrite @3-2-whump @inhurtandincomfort @oddsconvert @cepheusgalaxy @sir-fenris @dr-abitat-blog @whumpyangstydestruction @mudpuddlenl @sootheandsavage @scoundrelwithboba

[melpomenelamusa]

@writersmonth 2025- Day 31

loyal | university- Callisto

Their Sacred Vow Masterlist

Callisto

"I think it's time we discuss your future."

Callisto tensed, crossing her arms. "And what do you mean by that, Grandmother?" she asked slowly.

Lifting her chin, Grandmother gave her a cursory look. "Don't you think it's time to let that unfortunate woman go?"

A cold feeling sank into her chest like a knife. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come now, Callisto," Grandmother said with a huff. "Your wife may be a noble by blood, but she has no title, no land, no ties to anyone-"

"She has me." Callisto growled.

Grandmother's gaze sharpened. "That isn't how it's done, child."

A hand on her shoulder kept Callisto from lurching forward to do something she'd regret. It didn't stop her from looking furiously at her mother, who just met her eyes tiredly.

"Your grandmother does have a point, hun." she said, the exhaustion in her voice ever-present. "It would be better for everyone if you divorced Evangeline and remarried. Your brother has already proclaimed his vow to remain unwed, as well as his lack of being able to reproduce. You're the future of this family, Callisto. Of course, we won't abandon Evangeline, but you should give this some thought."

Callisto brushed her mother's hand off, trying to level her breathing. They- This-

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then opened them again, speaking as level as she was able. "I am loyal to my wife. If love isn't enough to remain wed for either of you, then as far as I'm concerned, she's my family now."

Then she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

Assorted Scenes Pt1; Assorted Scenes Pt2; Assorted Scenes Pt3; Miscellaneous+Deleted Scenes; Masterlist

Their Sacred Vow taglist:

@whumperofworlds @melpomenelamusa @writinggremlin

Also, if possible, if anyone could support me on ko-fi, that'd be much appreciated! Only within one's means, don't go broke to help me out.

[melpomenelamusa]

Saved By A Killer #3: Three Days

Masterlist

Content: Recovery, separation anxiety, abandonment issues, morally dubious caretaker, suicidal ideations, [mentioned] cannibalism, [mentioned] vivisections, [mentioned] torture, [implied] lab whump, [implied] multiple whumpers.

Tags make it sound really bad, nothing happens. Eli just has a meltdown.

-

Eli knew it was inevitable. At some point, Cohen would have to accept another job and leave him to his own devices until he returned. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Only a week had passed and the man was already preparing to leave for several days. It was daunting and he hated it.

As Cohen cleaned his weapons and got himself ready, Eli chose to hide beneath the thick covers of his new roommate’s bed and sulk the entire time, much to Cohen’s amusement. 

“Somethin’ wrong?” he finally asked after Eli’s third dramatic sigh. Setting his knife down in his lap, he adjusted his position to glance behind him, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. “Hm?”

“I don’t want you to go.” 

It surprised him to see Cohen’s gaze soften a little. He tentatively peered up at him from behind the safety of the blanket, doing his best to hide the fear prodding at him each time he thought about being alone. At least he knew he was safe when Cohen was around, as much as he hated admitting that he was already becoming dependent on someone for safety. Who knew what would go wrong while he was gone? He very quickly decided the worst case scenario would be Lucas’ friends coming after him. They’d no doubt discovered Lucas’ corpse by now, and the thought of what they would do if they ever found where Eli was hiding sent a prominent shiver up his spine. 

“What are you scared of?” Cohen interrupted his thoughts, a slight tilt to his head as he leaned back against his hand. It wasn’t like him to look this… approachable. Eli had gotten so used to the gruff exterior and the lack of warmth within his presence that it was a little hard to believe there was more to him.

He huffed quietly, pulling the blanket further over his shoulders and staring bitterly at the sheets beneath him. “All of it. You refuse to put me out of my misery and then leave for several days while the dozens of people close to Lucas are still out there, no doubt looking for me. I don’t feel fucking safe. What if they find me while you’re gone? Do you know the shit I had to go through before you found me? The dozens of experiments they performed on my body, the- the “surgeries” they gave me, and the amount of times they had me eat parts of my body? Mind you, the cannibalism was light compared to some of the alternatives!” 

Suddenly, it was getting hot and harder to breathe under the suffocating weight of the blanket. With a small noise, he angrily kicked it away, trembling hands shoved into the pockets of his new hoodie as he stared directly into Cohen’s wide eyes. It really was the first night all over again. He just wanted someone to understand. He wanted someone to acknowledge the pain and the terror he was feeling. Wanted someone to tell him that it was okay to feel the way he was feeling instead of looking at him like he was crazy. 

He sucked in a sharp breath of air, toes curling into themselves as his memories began to become more vivid. It felt as though he was reliving them all over again. The countless nights he spent on those cold wooden floorboards, the constant fear that threatened to suffocate him every time he heard Lucas’ footsteps getting closer - it was all too much. 

“I don’t want to go through that again,” he sobbed quietly through gritted teeth, the realisation that he had begun to cry only just settling in as the tears blurred his vision. “‘n’ at least I know I’m safe while you’re around. Once you go, I’m vulnerable. Anything could happen. I don’t fucking know how to fight. I don’t have any weapons or- or experience, like you. I am completely defenseless.” 

The silence that settled between them as soon as Eli stopped talking was awkward, to say the least. It was obvious that both of them felt it. Cohen had taken to fiddling with his knife again, though he hadn’t turned away yet. He seemed deep in thought and angry. Eli struggled to tell if it was towards him or something else. 

The palms of his hands were sweaty when he reached up to wipe at his eyes. Everything was too warm and uncomfortable and the space between his reality and his past seemed as though it was beginning to merge within his head. 

It took a moment for Eli to realise that Cohen had stood up and was leaving. He hadn’t said anything since before Eli’s outburst, and it only further confirmed the idea that he was upset with him. 

“Wait,” he whispered in between whimpers, more tears pricking in the corners of his eyes when Cohen stopped to look at him from the direction of his walk-in closet. “Where are you going? I’m- I’m sorry. Please don’t go.” 

“Not goin’ anywhere. Just gimme a second.” 

Then the man disappeared into the closet. Eli brought his knees to his chest and pressed his back up against the headboard as he listened to the faint rummaging coming from inside, and when Cohen finally emerged once more, he was holding a knife made of silver. It looked ten times more fancy than any of the tools Lucas ever owned. He supposed it easily could have been, too. Cohen took great pride in his large collection of weapons. 

“Here,” he said simply, holding the knife out towards him by its blade. Despite his glaringly obvious confusion, Eli accepted the gift, wrapping his trembling fingers around the handle while the other hand reached up to wipe at his eyes for the dozenth time. “Keep that on you, yeah? If someone attacks you, aim it and strike without hesitation. I don’t care if they never see anything again. I don’t care if they end up paralysed. Hell, I don’t care if they die. If someone is out to hurt you, they deserve whatever the fuck they get.” 

Eli had never been given anything to use for self-defense before. Things were purposely taken away from him just so he didn’t have anything. For once, someone was giving him the chance to feel less powerless. 

“Mine?” he quietly clarified, slowly bringing the object close to his chest to stop Cohen from possibly taking it away from him again. “You mean it?” 

Cohen gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Yours. Just…” He let out a sigh. “Consider saying goodbye first, if… if you do decide that this world isn’t where you want to be. Do we have a deal?” 

For a moment, all Eli could do was stare directly at the hand Cohen was holding out to him, both of his own still gripping tightly onto the knife. He… finally had a choice? He got to choose what happened to him? It felt like a fucking miracle. 

He gave a teary smile, releasing the knife with one hand to shake Cohen’s outstretched one. It was a warm and comforting grip in contrast to Lucas’ painful one. One that made him consider the possibility of touch perhaps not being as bad as he thought. He did miss it. He missed it a lot.

“I think I can make the two months,” he whispered as he stared rather blankly at their grasping hands. “Of course, if you think you could stand me for that long. I… I know I’m erratic and emotional and on the verge of being completely broken as a human being.” 

He nearly jumped at the sound of Cohen’s sudden laugh. He didn’t do that often. It was a pleasant enough sound, once he got over the initial scare it gave him. He even found himself smiling along with him after a few moments.

“You’re not so bad,” he shook his head as he sat back down. Eli brought his knees closer again to allow him some more room, head resting against his arm. “‘sides, it sounds like you’ve been ignored for quite a long time. I can’t blame you for just wanting someone to understand.” 

“Yeah.” He squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to ignore the growing lump in his throat as he stroked the wooden handle of his new knife with his thumb. It was surprisingly calming; the soft texture turning out to be rather comforting to focus on. “It sucks.”

When he turned to look at Cohen, the man seemed to be considering something; eyes scanning his own bedroom as if he was looking at it for the first time and his lips slightly puckered, something he often seemed to do when he was thinking. 

Eventually, he took a deep breath and placed his own weapon down again, along with the cloth he was using to clean it. “If it would help…” he began to talk slowly, as if still trying to figure out if it was something he wanted to say. “My bedroom has locks on the door and the windows. I could change the sheets and the bedding before I leave and let you use it for the several days that I’m gone. Would that be of any interest to you?” 

Eli frowned. “But… but you said your room was off limits when you’re not around?” 

“I did,” Cohen shrugged. “But I also understand what it’s like to not feel safe in your own home. Why do you think I’ve got so many locks in my room? They weren’t there originally. I had them manually put in a few months after I bought the place ‘cause I couldn’t sleep. That’s also why everything else, apart from the front door, has no lock.” 

He had been wondering about that. The fact that Cohen also felt unsafe brought him an odd sense of comfort and anxiety at the same time. What did he have to be scared of? Was it something that applied to him, too? Was the unsafe feeling he’d been experiencing more justified than he thought? 

Eli shrunk into himself a little, swallowing thickly. “You’d really be okay with havin’ me in your room?” 

“Sure.” He sounded more confident this time, and it relieved Eli to know that perhaps he wasn’t going to go back on his offer, after all. “‘s long as you don’t go sniffing about where you’re not supposed to. I don’t care where you look when it’s in communal areas, but this is my private space. closet and all of the cupboards are off limits. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Eli nodded. 

At first, the title he’d used hadn’t really occurred to him. It was natural at this point - at least, more so than calling people by their first name. However, he did notice the frown that had settled on Cohen’s face and the shift in demeanor, presumably a way to make him seem less gruff and closed off. It surprised Eli that he was self-aware enough to even realise what had caused it, let alone making a change in his behaviour.  

His face was becoming hotter and hotter with every second spent in silence. Eventually, he shuffled towards the edge of the bed and stood up, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie further over his hands to make himself feel and appear smaller than he was. 

“I will let you get back to packing. Let me know when you’re leaving.” I want to say goodbye one last time. “Wanna make sure you leave before I decorate your bed with my blankets and pillows.” 

Cohen snorted and rolled his eyes, already picking up his knife once more. “Sure thing, little snoop. See you in a bit.” 

-

About an hour later, the man was just about ready to go. He had his keys in one hand and a small bag of what he assumed was weapons and equipment in the other, and Eli couldn’t help but smile as he watched him struggle to slip on his boots. He was somehow one of both the coolest and dorkiest people he’d ever met. 

“‘m headin’ off now. Don’t answer the door for anyone and keep it locked, especially if you decide to leave. You have my spare key, yeah?” 

Eli rolled his eyes. “Yes. Go.” 

“Good, and are you sure you’re going to be okay while I’m gone?” 

No. I’m fucking terrified. I want you to stay. 

“Yes!” he insisted, practically swatting the man out the door before he could say another word. If you stay for another minute, I might not have the strength to let you go. “I will be here when you get back. Go!” 

Cohen laughed, already stepping off the porch with his bag slung over his shoulders. This time he didn’t look back as he tossed everything into the car and got in himself, and not long after the car’s engine came to life. 

He was grateful, in a way, that he hadn’t looked back at him. There would have been nothing more embarrassing than letting the smug bastard see him cry all over again as he pressed his face up against the window facing the driveway. 

Three days, he thought to himself as he anxiously chewed on his bottom lip. It’s just three days and he’ll be back.

-

@kiss1t0ffm3 @latenightcupsofcoffee @make-it-gay-please @nyooom @pigeonwhumps @topsheepstudent @whumped4whumplover @whumpsday @whumpshaped

[melpomenelamusa]

Karma’s Bitch - 19

Previous / Next / Masterlist

Tags: female whumper, male whumpee, pet whump, shock collar, chained, threats of mutilation, razor (shaving), panic attack, conditioning, restrained, threatened noncon

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It’s been a week now. He kidnapped her on Thursday night. He was tased unconscious just a few hours later. He spent three days chained up in the dark, left to slowly die, until he was willing to do anything to live. Now he’s spent four days as her pet, being tortured.

Four days. God, how has it only been four fucking days? How has it already been four days? Everything feels blurred together. It feels like just yesterday he was a regular guy, living life on his terms. It feels like he’s been trapped here for at least a month of nonstop torture and brainwashing. His sense of time is definitely fucked up from being kept in the basement.

It’s been a week since anyone has seen him. It’s been a week since he’s seen anyone but her.

He watches her as she cooks. Not even an hour ago, she was holding a knife to his throat with sadistic, fiery bloodlust in her eyes. It had been terrifying. Beyond terrifying. He still wasn’t sure whether she looked like she wanted to kill him, fuck him, or eat him. Hell, probably all three.

Now she’s using a knife to chop carrots, humming cheerfully as she does.

How does she switch from being psychotic to normal so quickly?

“Did you know that it takes about as much force to chop through a carrot as it does to cut off a finger?”

“Uh. No?” His hands curl into fists.

“Well, now you do.”

Okay. Normal…ish, horrific trivia aside. God, why does she know that? What the fuck does she do for a living, chop up bodies for a cartel?

What does she do? He abruptly realizes that he knows practically nothing about her. He doesn’t even know her name. It hadn’t mattered to him that night. All that mattered then was that she was hot, and she was alone. He didn’t bother with introductions, and well… neither did she, when the tables turned.

Instead, she told him to call her his master, and that’s what he’s been doing ever since.

Why does she want to be called “Master” anyway? She’s a girl. Shouldn’t she be called Mistress? That’s kinda weird, now that he thinks about it. It’s like calling her Mr. Whatever-her-name-is instead of Ms.

Does she not know that? No, she’s gotta know that. There’s no way she doesn’t know that. Maybe it’s another one of those weird feminist things.

Well.. she seems to be in a good mood - though he knows from hard-learned experience that can change very quickly - so maybe he could just.. ask?

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he can actually make himself say it, and even then it comes out as a nervous squeak. “M-Mistress?”

The rhythmic sound of the knife chopping comes to an abrupt halt. “No.”

He flinches, immediately correcting himself. “Master. Sorry.”

She sighs, and though she doesn’t turn around, he can hear the eyeroll in her tone. “What?”

“I was just.. um. J-just wondering… why you didn’t tell me to call you mistress. You’re a girl.”

“Really, I’m female? I hadn’t noticed.” Her response drips with so much sarcasm it’s practically caustic before her tone evens out and she shrugs, matter-of-fact, “I don’t like the sound of mistress.”

Okay then. Guess that’s about as fair of a response as he could have hoped for. At least she was only sarcastic instead of threatening him over it.

“What’s your name?” He asks softly before he loses the nerve for it.

She chuckles, resuming her work on the carrots. Each chop thunks loudly against the wooden cutting board. “And why do you suddenly want to know?”

He has a feeling that saying “because I hadn’t thought about it until now” will piss her off, so instead he stammers, “Be-because I should’ve asked you that night?”

“Oh yes, that night. How could I forget. Sure. Would you have asked my name before or after you shoved me in the trunk of your shitty car?”

“I - I don’t know.” My car’s not shitty…

“You didn’t care.” Chop. “You didn’t give one fuck.” Chop. “You saw what you thought was easy prey.” Chop. Chop. Chop.

He flinches each time the blade hits the cutting board. “I’m - I’m sorry.”

“And now that you’ve found out that you’re the prey, my name matters to you?” She scoffs, slamming the knife point-down into the wood before turning around to glare at him. “No, pet. You don’t get to know my name. You don’t deserve to know my name. As far as you’re concerned, my name is Master.”

He shrinks back against the wall, ducking his head with a whimper of submission. “Yes, Master.” Oh god she’s walking over to him, did she pick up the knife? Is she going to cut him again? He’s too scared to look up. “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me.”

She lets out a very annoyed sigh, but she doesn’t hurt him. She grabs him by the hair instead, firmly yet not painfully forcing him to look up at her. “Jake, you need to focus your attention on being a good dog for me, and not on reminding me why I made you my dog. I like you when you’re being a good boy, and if I like you, I don’t want to fucking slaughter you. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

He doesn’t say another goddamn word until she sets a bowl of food down in front of him, and even then it’s just a meek “thank you, Master.”

“Good boy,” she praises him as she ruffles his hair. Without even thinking about it, he relaxes, tilting his head into her hand. It’s just so nice to be petted instead of tortured. Being good feels good.

Then she steps away, she stops petting him, and he hears himself whine about it. A chill runs down his spine, and he stares down at his bowl in frozen horror.

Oh god.

He didn’t mean to do that.

He wasn’t playing along.

It just happened. If only for a few seconds, it happened, and he hadn’t had any control over it. Just a little praise and a gentle touch reduced him to a submissive, obedient pet.

She’s training me. And it’s fucking working.

And it only took four.. fucking.. days.

The realization isn’t just horrifying, it’s humiliating. Is he really this weak? For god’s sake, he’s… he’s a man! He’s supposed to be stronger than this! He should be fighting back, damn it, not lying down and taking it.

And what if I had fought back? What if, when she took the gag off and asked if I wanted to live, I’d told her to go fuck herself? What if when she told me to call her “Master”, I’d said that I’d rather die than be her bitch? I would have died. I’d probably be half-rotten by now. It doesn’t fucking matter whether I have a dick or not, does it? All that matters is that we fought for dominance… and I lost.

Her voice cuts through his devastated inner monologue. “Aww, are you waiting for permission to eat, Jake?” Blinking, he realizes that he’s been sitting still for at least a full thirty seconds, staring blankly at the food, Now she thinks that he was waiting for permission. “Go on, you can eat.”

And from now on she’ll expect me to wait for permission before I eat anything. Great. He resists the urge to sigh as he reaches, automatically, for a fork beside the bowl, only to grab at nothing.

Right. Because dogs don’t use forks.

They don’t use their hands to eat either, now that he thinks about it. Shit. Well. Whatever. It’s not like he has any dignity left anyway.

He crouches down on all fours and takes a bite. Oh, damn, maybe it’s just because he’s starving, but it tastes so good. The first time she’d fed him, he’d been so hungry he barely even tasted it. He doesn’t even remember what it was, other than yellowish. Eggs, maybe? Last night was canned soup, which was alright. But this?? Sautéed chicken, steamed carrots, and white rice should not taste this good, but after nearly a full week of nothing but gags in his mouth - real food, homemade food, is nothing short of heaven. He moans softly, eyes closed.

“Good boy,” she purrs.

He very nearly chokes. Fuck.

Eating like a dog without making a mess, he realizes with no small amount of discomfort, will take practice. It also doesn’t help that he hasn’t shaved in a week. He wound up with rice in his beard.

As soon as he notices that, he feels his face flush with humiliation. God, he looks like a freak right now, he’s sure of it. Bad enough that he’s literally naked and collared like a dog, but now he’s also some disgusting naked weirdo with food all over his face.

His skin crawls just from thinking about it.

Oh, ew, she’s… she’s not into this, is she?? Sure, there’s the humiliation - he knows damn well that she enjoys doing that - but forcing him to eat out of a bowl and get food all over his face because of this fucking beard that he doesn’t even want, is all of that intentional?

“Ugh. Gross. Alright, the facial hair’s gotta go.”

Oh. Well, at least there’s one thing they agree on. That’s a relief.

She even lets him do it himself - handing him the razor with a brief but effective warning. “Try anything, and tomorrow I’ll feed you your own fingers instead of carrots.”

He doesn’t doubt that she would, and it takes him a little while to calm down so his hands stop shaking.

It’s honestly a relief, shaving. It’s something normal. Something that he has full control over and doesn’t hurt. He feels a twinge of regret when he eventually sets the razor down, wishing that he had taken a little longer. He should have dragged it out as long as he could.

At least now, when he looks in the mirror, he looks like himself again, as long as he ignores the lingering black eye and the collar around his neck.

As long as he doesn’t look himself in the eyes.

“Oh, now that is so much better. There’s the pretty boy I decided to keep.”

She takes the bandages off of his wrists and looks them over.

“They’ve healed enough. Nice.” Next, she turns her attention to the word she carved into his arm, and chuckles darkly. “Now this could actually be healing too well. I might need to do a few touchups on it.”

He winces, and reflexively - unsuccessfully - tries to pull his arm out of her hands. Of course, for her, carving the word “Bitch” into him once just wasn’t enough.

“Please don’t,” he whispers, trying not to think about how there’s a razor right there and she could pick it up and there’s not a god damn thing he could do about it and - and - his chest tightens and he gasps for air, shaking and overwhelmed - there’s a razor - she’s going to cut him - he can already smell the blood -

Her hand wraps around his chin and tilts his head none-too-gently away from the sink, forcing him to look at her face instead of staring at the razor in wide-eyed paralysis.

“Don’t have a panic attack again, I’m really not in the mood.” Her dry, thoroughly unimpressed tone cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “Not tonight, anyway. I’ve got something else in mind for tonight.”

Another wince. Oh god. That doesn’t sound good.

“Something.. else?” He asks tentatively, unable to keep himself from glancing back at the razor.

An evil smirk is the only warning he gets before he finds himself being dragged by the collar to the bedroom.

Oh. Oh god. Is it -? It is. It’s gotta be.

Now he’s not - he’s not crazy. She’s hot. Of course he still wants to have sex with her. At the same time, he does have at least half a brain, and it is screaming for him to run like hell.

He’s not crazy, but she definitely is.

She’s going to do things to him. He’s not sure exactly what, but if it’s anything like the rest of the shit she’s into, it’s going to hurt like hell.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he begs, as loudly as he dares with the collar around his neck. “Please, Master. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, you don’t need to hurt me!”

He whimpers helplessly as she locks a pair of matching cuffs around his wrists and uses them to chain him to the bed, arms spread.

Oh shit, wait, is she going to force him to wear the bark collar too? What if he can’t stay quiet enough?? He’s going to get sexually tortured and electrocuted?!

“At least turn off the collar, please!”

Her head cocks to the side as she smiles. “No. But if you’re really worried about how much noise you’ll make, I do have a new gag for you.”

It’s a bone. It’s a fucking dog bone. An oversized, cartoonish white silicone bone that she promptly stuffs in his mouth like a bit gag and buckles tightly in place.

He groans, head falling back against the pillow in defeat, and closes his eyes with a muffled sob. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Her hand runs possessively down his side, and he shudders. A low, terrified whine slips out, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“What’s the matter, pet?” Her tone is low, seductive, cruel. Sadistic. She’s enjoying watching him panic. “You don’t think it’s going to be hot, now that you’re the one on your back?”

He shakes his head, whimpering breathlessly. I didn’t do this to you!! God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wanted to, but I didn’t actually do it!! This isn’t fair!

As if she could read his mind, she laughs in disdain. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you think I’m being unfair? What was it you said that night? Something like ‘you were going to cry and beg, and then we were gonna fuck’, right? Well… you’ve cried and begged plenty, so now.. I’m just following your original plan, aren’t I? I think that’s more than fair.”

Whatever she was going to say - or do - next is interrupted by sudden music a second later, muffled as though in a different room, and she pauses in surprise, going still to listen.

It’s a vaguely familiar tune, too, one that has him reaching out instinctively as though to grab something, only for his wrist to tug against the cuff. It’s a ringtone.

A phone call. Oh thank god. Maybe he’ll finally catch a break. He opens his eyes slowly, cautiously, to watch as her facial expression turns to a deeply annoyed snarl.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she growls, hands slowly closing into fists. “Now? Now? Jesus Christ. Fine. Stay.��

She points at him accusingly before she turns to leave.

Yep. Staying. Got it. In her absence, he lets himself relax and focuses on taking deep breaths.

Hopefully it’s her dad calling again. Or her mom. Anyone, really, as long as they’re chatty enough to keep her on the phone for hours, and hopefully by the end of it she’ll be tired and she’ll just want to go to bed and she won’t do anything else to him. Hell, even if he has to spend all night tied to the bed - at least he’d get to sleep in a bed. God, please. I just need a break.

He listens intently as the music keeps going… and keeps going. The phone couldn’t have been that far away, isn’t she going to answer? She’s going to answer, right? She has to! It’s the middle of the night, it’s not like it’s some scam caller - the only people who’ll call someone in the dark like this are people who have something important to talk about, something urgent, something that will hopefully mean a really long phone call.

Oh god why isn’t she picking it up? It’s still ringing!!

The phone finally falls silent a few moments later, followed by nothing but silence for a few more moments, until the bedroom door swings open to reveal her with a phone in her hand and an expression on her face that he can’t quite identify.

Is it anger or… worry? Her mouth is set in a straight thin line, eyes narrowed and brow slightly furrowed.

The phone in her hand, he realizes with a chill, isn’t hers.

It’s his.

“Well. Turns out I didn’t hear quite a few texts these past few hours.” Her tone is perfectly even and he really, really does not like it combined with the look in her eyes. It’s starting to look much more like anger than worry.

He whimpers softly. Oh, shit.

“Guess who suddenly wants to know why you aren’t answering your texts… or your calls… or why you’re not at your apartment?” She smiles, unpleasantly, as she drops his phone onto the bed and pulls out a pocketknife instead, flicking it open with a snap. “Kenzie. Now, I did go through your phone on that first night, to get a feel for your situation. This Kenzie… your ex girlfriend, I believe?”

He nods weakly, unable to look away from the knife in her hand that she’s casually spinning between her fingers like a baton.

Kenzie? Kenzie texted me? Why?? She cheated on me and then she fucking dumped me, why - why the hell is she the first person to realize I’m missing? Why her??

There’s a part of him that’s hopeful - someone finally realized that something’s wrong! Someone noticed that he’s gone! He might finally have a chance at being rescued.

But that little flicker of hope is nothing compared to his terror, because now she knows too. How far is she willing to go to keep me? Pretty damn far, clearly. And she’s pissed off already…

“So, now I may or may not have a problem, don’t I, pet? Do you think she’s going to look for you? Maybe she wants you back…” she trailed off into silence for a second, blade still twirling. “Hm. Too bad. You’re mine. It would be terribly unfortunate if it would have to come to this, of course,” she adds with a shrug that makes him suspect she doesn’t feel any regret about what she’s about to say. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I? Either she backs off… or someone is going to die.”

Oh, fuck.

————————————————————————————

@melpomenelamusa @galactic-worm @whump-me-harder @hyper-real-hedgehog @user-583 @violent-ultraviolet @sootheandsavage

[melpomenelamusa]

Saved By A Killer #1: Just Two Months

Masterlist

Content: Rescue, morally dubious caretaker, stranger caretaker, death wish, begging, death (of a semi non-important character), blood, restraints, gags, grief, [non-sexual] nudity, platonic bathing, wounds/injuries, false accusations, caretaker isn't the best but he's trying.

over 5k words... oops.

-

He hadn’t heard it at first. 

The sound was barely audible, muffled by the only locked door in the cabin that separated a supposed bedroom from the living area. Though, as Cohen started to get closer, it morphed into something resembling a gagged cry. 

“Shit,” Cohen mumbled, reaching out to fumble with the door as he glanced back at his most recent target’s corpse, Lucas Wade. It lay sprawled out across the carpet, staining all its surroundings crimson with each passing second. “‘nother victim of yours, hm?” 

The corpse said nothing in return, its dead gaze staring directly at him as he took a few small steps back and prepared to kick the door down himself. Usually he was smart enough to bring a lock pick or two, but it was becoming apparent to him now that he hadn’t been as prepared for this job as he thought. 

It had to have been an old door with how little effort it took to kick inwards. The entire cabin was, now that Cohen thought about it. Chipped wood everywhere, broken floorboards and ones that caved inwards when stepped on, and there were even several crucial doors inside the house that didn’t lock or even fully close in general. Apparently this was one of the few doors that did work just fine, considering the state of everything. 

At first, it almost seemed like the room was empty. Cohen took a moment to examine the blood stains on the walls and the floor, along with the shattered glass windows and the shards now scattered across the floor. Had they escaped somehow? 

And then he heard it. The same muffled cry from before, only louder this time and longer in duration. Cohen turned his attention towards the bed that sat in the corner, eyebrows furrowing the moment he realised there was a bare foot sticking out from under it. 

“That a corpse under there?” 

Despite the obvious gag in their mouth, he was able to make out a sarcastic, gargled ‘yes’ that made him laugh. He knelt down beside the bed frame, taking a moment to tuck his knife away inside his back pocket before resting the side of his face on the floor. 

“Well, aren’t you a sorry sight?” was all he could think to say. 

This had to have been Lucas’ last captive. A young adult, barely looking over the age of twenty one, wrapped in barbed wire with a ball gag stuffed in his mouth. Either Lucas had hidden him beneath the bed or he’d managed to weasel his way underneath it himself. No matter who did it, there was no way to pull him out again without causing him an intense amount of pain. 

So, he begrudgingly got back onto his feet and began to drag the frame out from its spot himself, revealing a little more of the captive’s battered body with each pull. Before too long he’d pushed the entire thing into the center of the room, giving him room to both see the state of the boy’s body and to get them both out of there when the time came. 

As soon as he was able to, Cohen knelt down beside the victim once more and slid one of his hands beneath his head to lift it up. However, all his movement paused right as his fingers made contact with the metal.  

“You’re not gonna bite me if I undo this for you, right?” 

He received a frantic head shake, followed by more tears. Satisfied with the answer, Cohen undid the buckle at the back of his head, still supporting him as best he could with his other hand, and finally tugged the ball out of his drooling mouth. 

The boy let out a small sob, still restrained by the barbed wire wrapped around his torso, hips and ankles. “You- you killed him? Is he finally gone? Please- please tell me he’s gone. ‘s been so many months, you don’t understand-”

“Hey, hush. It’s all over, yeah?” Cohen offered him a tight smile as he cupped the victim’s tear-stained face in his hands. “If you give me some time to cut this wire, I’ll even let you see for yourself. Y’can spit in his eye or whatever it is you wanna do.” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he babbled in between sobs, too caught up in his own relief to even notice that Cohen had begun to carefully untangle the lengthy bits of wire. It wasn’t even tied together by anything - the only thing that held it in place was the fact that each bit of barb had been pushed into his skin, preventing him from moving at all without experiencing a world of pain. “He kept pro-omising to kill me. He kept telling me that- that this was the last time I’d ever have to feel pain again ‘n’ then it would just- it’d keep on go-oing. Over ‘n’ over ‘n’ over again.” 

Cohen gave him a sympathetic look. “That must have been hell for you, huh? What’s your name?”

“My- my name?” The boy paused for a moment to think about it, struggling to resist a wince as each barb of wire was individually plucked out of his skin over time. Although Cohen was attempting to make this as gentle as possible, there was absolutely no way to avoid causing him pain all together. “Elias, I think. ‘s been so- so long since anyone called me by my na-ame, you know? He- he always called me someth’n’ new every week until I- I didn’t r’lly know who I was an’more, b-but I never forgot my name. Not entirely.” 

“That’s impressive. Stay still for me, yeah? Tryin’ to make this as painless as possible. Do you have any family or friends who could take you in if I took you back to the city?” 

“I had my mom,” he managed to respond. Even Cohen could tell the fresh wave of tears that welled in his eyes were for her. “But she died a few months before I was taken. I ha-ave no one else.” 

Shit. “Okay.” The man let out a tense sigh, attempting to create a picture in his head of the new living arrangements if he decided to take him home with him. It was beginning to seem like the most likely option. “Lemme think on it for a moment.” 

“Ca-an you just kill me?” Elias begged as soon as the opportunity arose. “You- you can do that, right? I have no money to pay you with b-but- but… oh, I’m so tired of living. I just want it to be over. Please?” 

Admittedly, Cohen considered the possibility. This was a young man who had no doubt been through and witnessed horrors that even he couldn’t comprehend, begging him to take his life. He understood, and in most cases, probably would have just done it. 

But…

“I’ll tell you what,” he started, only pausing to set the first set of wire aside before beginning on the next one. “Let me take you home with me. I’ll make you a nice home-cooked meal, get you some clothes and tend to these wounds. You could even have a bath or a shower and wash the last of this place off you. Give it a go for, let’s say, two months. If we reach that day and you still find yourself wanting this, then I’ll do it. Promise.” 

To say Elias looked devastated would have been a complete understatement. Whatever hope he had drained from his expression and he continued to cry, even louder than before. 

“Ho-ow can I trust you’ll keep your promise?” he asked in between sobs. “Why can’t you just do it? I’m begging you, please! It’ll only take a minute or two!”

“I know. I know it’s selfish of me and I know there’s nothing I can do right now to make you feel better about the situation but I want you to at least have a go.” 

Finally, the second piece of wire was off. This meant that Elias was able to move a little more with what little strength he had. Unsurprisingly, he used the opportunity to reach for the knife in Cohen’s back pocket, a frustrated scream emitting from the back of his throat when the man easily grabbed him by the wrist. 

“What on earth was your plan there?” he shook his head, only releasing the boy’s wrist again to move himself down to his ankles. One more wire to go and he was free to move around as he pleased. “Look, I get it. I’m chronically suicidal, too, and you know what? It fucking sucks.” 

“Please don’t follow that up by telling me there’s people out there who love me ‘n’ all that bullshit,” Elias mumbled as he wiped furiously at his eyes. “I’ve heard it all before ‘n’ I don’t believe it.”

Cohen snorted. “I don’t believe it, either.” 

That got his attention. He slowly uncovered his eyes bit by bit, stifling another sob as he stared up at him from where he lay on the floor. “Why are you still alive, then?” he whispered hoarsely, the edge in his voice slowly replacing itself with genuine curiosity. “What is so good about this world that you decided to stay?” 

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.” Cohen gave him a pursed-lipped smile and shrugged. “I don’t find joy in many things anymore - or, I guess I never really have. The only thing that’s ever made me feel like it might be worth living is making life for other people a little less sucky, hence my line of work. May not be the most morally sound way of doing things but it gets the job done.” 

Elias’ eyes widened, not to Cohen’s surprise. “So- so, you kill people for a living?” he asked in disbelief. For a moment it looked as if he was going to blow up at him, but eventually the boy’s face broke out into an awe-filled grin. “That’s so fucking cool.” 

A little while later, the last bit of wire finally came off. It’d taken fucking ages to get through but the look of unbridled relief on Elias’ face as he examined the open wounds that wrapped around his body was worth it, Cohen thought. He doubted he could even comprehend the amount of pain he’d been in, and would continue to be in for the next week or two at least. 

“So,” he began as he stood up off the floor. Elias immediately looked up at him, his face still covered in silent tears as he expectantly waited for more words. “Do we have a deal, Elias?” 

The sound of his own name caused the boy to tear up all over again, and despite his previous objections to the idea, he gave him a small nod. “Yes,” he whispered, obediently lifting his arms as soon as Cohen bent down to pick him up off the ground. “Only two months… I can do it.” 

“That’s the spirit, and hey; my name is Cohen.” 

“Cohen…” He let the word quietly roll off his tongue, resting his head on the man’s shoulder as the two finally left the bedroom. “I’ve been stuck in that room for weeks… ‘n’ it almost feels a little surreal that I get to finally leave. Is that-” Cohen felt him stiffen and glance over his shoulder at the dead body of his captor. “Holy shit. He’s really gone. You- you killed him.” 

Cohen hummed. “Told you. Need anything before we go?” 

“No.” Elias was quick to shake his head before letting it come to rest on him once more, clearly exhausted from the mere effort it took to hold his head up at all. “J’st wanna get outta here.” 

Cohen’s car was hidden a little ways into the bush. The entire way, Elias clung to him like some sort of koala or sloth, desperate for any kind of contact. Although he didn’t dare say it out loud, the man was not afraid to acknowledge that the guy was absolutely covered in filth. It took a lot out of him to ignore how dirty he was becoming the longer he held onto him, and he made sure to put a towel down on the passenger’s seat of the car before setting him down, too. 

“‘m sorry,” Elias whispered in reference to the fabric beneath him as soon as Cohen got into the driver’s side. “It’s been months since I last got to wash myself.” 

“I can tell.” The man was quick to tilt his head and offer a crooked smile. “You don’t have to be sorry. Sometimes I’ll go several weeks without showering and I’ve got one available to me, so no need to be ashamed.” 

The boy let his head come to rest against the window, his gaze still on Cohen as he weaved his way through the trees until the tires finally hit dirt. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, being watched so intently, and he made a conscious effort to focus solely on the road ahead of him rather than what was going on in the passenger’s seat. 

It wasn’t until they were back on the main road less than five minutes later that Cohen allowed himself to relax completely. He took the opportunity to glance to his right, only to find Elias staring intently out the window. Thanks to his own reflection, it wasn’t hard to see the tears glistening in his eyes. 

“You okay there?”

The boy sniffled. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seen the sky or- or the trees or anything even remotely resembling nature. I always took it for granted before everything that happened, but now I feel like I’ll ever get enough of it.”

Cohen couldn’t help but ask. “How long were you there for?” 

“Nearly a year, I think. I- I was taken out of the house on occasions, but I always had to wear a blindfold or a bag over my head until we were at his client’s house. I assume it was so I never knew exactly where I was.” 

“Forgive me for prying, but client? What did he do that warranted clients?”

The boy spoke through clenched teeth, clearly struggling to keep himself from breaking down all together again. “Clients were what he called the people who paid to have me for a certain period of time. Anywhere from fifteen minutes to several days - if they had enough money, I was theirs to abuse. The only rule was that they couldn’t kill me, and if I asked them to then they were within their right to punish me as they saw fit.”

Unable to find the right words, Cohen simply shook his head, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as the image involuntarily popped into his mind’s eye. A part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing in refusing his request to kill him then and there. He’d always been a firm believer that if someone wanted to die, it was only right that they got to make that choice, and yet the thought of giving in to Elias’ request before the guy got to experience life outside of captivity again just didn’t seem right. 

Cohen had always been grateful to be living on the outskirts of the city. There were never hundreds of cars on the roads and the scenery was far better than any city had to offer. Not to mention the animals that came to visit each morning. If he woke up early enough, he could watch the sun rise and the deer grazing by the treeline opposite his house. Not a day passed by where he wasn’t happy with his current living circumstances, and he was admittedly rather excited to be showing it to someone he knew would appreciate it just as much as he did. 

“I think you’ll enjoy it here,” he told him as he opened the passenger side door. Elias gave nothing but a small, tight smile, still clearly a little irritated by the fact that he was still here despite his earlier statements. Cohen was quick to scoop him up out of the car, one arm supporting his behind while the other hugged his shoulders to keep him close. 

He was not surprised to feel the boy’s head come to rest on his chest almost immediately, followed by a low-sounding whine. “You must be exhausted,” he murmured in an attempt to empathise with him. “Why don’t I run you a warm bath and you can spend some time cleaning yourself while I make some food? Do you have a favourite meal?” 

“...I always liked pasta, before?” Elias whispered, subconsciously fisting Cohen’s hoodie in his hands as the man struggled to unlock his front door. “If I could have anything I wanted in the world, it would be that.”

He almost looked relieved when Cohen smiled encouragingly down at him. Instead of putting him down on the couch, he made his way to the bedroom first and carefully set him down on the side closest to the door. 

“I think I have some angel hair pasta that I can cook, for sure. That’s a great choice,” he praised. “What about clothing? Do you have any preferences there? I have a little bit of everything, so feel free to browse what’s available in the wardrobe while I get the water running.”

Elias nodded, though made no conscious effort to move. Instead, when Cohen came back from the bathroom a few minutes later he found that the guy had fallen asleep hugging a pillow to his chest, and a deep sigh escaped his lips as he wandered over to his wardrobe and picked out some clothes himself. He supposed Elias would be doing quite a bit of sleeping over the next few days. It was concerning to think about the last time he must have had a proper sleep without all the constant pain. 

So, he waited until he had an outfit set up by the bathroom basin and a towel hung on a hook before waking the boy up again with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. It took a few tries but eventually his eyes started to flicker open, followed by a single terrified shriek that soon morphed into a sob when the man grabbed hold of his wrist to stop him from hitting anything. 

“You’re okay. It’s just me,” he soothed, gently resting the guy’s hand back down on his stomach as soon as he knew it was over. “You fell asleep a few minutes ago, remember?” 

Elias sniffled. “I- I guess so? You didn’t- I- I thought you were gonna… gonna hurt me. Di’nt mean t’ throw my fist at you.” 

Really, it wasn’t as if he could have done much harm in the state he was in, though Cohen didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he lightly ruffled Elias’ hair a little before beginning to help him onto his feet, curious as to how he’d fare on his own. Surprisingly, between the two of them they were able to make it to the bathroom in less than a minute, and Elias gave a triumphant smile as soon as he was leaning against the sink. 

“I- I’m not sure I can get in,” he admitted quietly after some time spent examining the tub. “‘n’ is the water gonna hurt?” 

Much to Elias’ clear dismay, Cohen nodded. “Unfortunately, but I promise it’ll get better eventually. Your wounds - particularly the ones left from the wire - are already infected. Whether you get into the bath or not, they’ve still gotta be washed before I bandage them.”

Truthfully, Cohen had been expecting more of a fight. However, it wasn’t long before the boy warily nodded, reaching out a hand for some support. 

“I know it sucks having to rely on someone so much,” Cohen said as he helped him strip out of the last piece of clothing - his underwear. They were damp and torn in multiple places, leaving them to be of little use to him now. It was not hard to see the look of embarrassment on Elias’ face as they were tossed aside to be thrown out later on, but Cohen hardly left him any time to dwell on that as he lifted him off his feet and carefully lowered him into the tub. “Give it enough time and you’ll be independent enough to do what you like.” 

“I know,” he whispered defeatedly, his entire face suddenly twisting up in pain as the water began to make contact with his injuries. Cohen felt his fingers dig into his arm, sharp, uncut nails threatening to draw blood each time he held on just that bit tighter. “Hurts!”

Cohen forced himself to smile. “Yes, you’ve made that very clear. It’ll ease up soon but you gotta try and relax until then, okay?” 

Although it seemed to take a while, Elias’ expressions eventually started to soften, as did the grip on Cohen’s arm. He was quick to pull his other sleeve over his hand to dab away the spots of blood that appeared when it was let go completely. 

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?” he asked, his voice quieting to match the change in atmosphere in the room. “If you’re happy enough alone, I might go make a start on that meal I promised. You can call me when you’re done and I’ll be back to help you get dressed. Otherwise, I’m also happy to sit here and keep you company.” 

There was a moment of hesitation before he mustered his response. “Uhm… is- is it weird that I want you to stay?” 

“Not at all,” Cohen shook his head, and with a small grunt he lowered himself down onto the cool tiles beneath him before resting both his wrists on the side of the tub. As soon as they were within arm's reach of him, the boy took hold of them and started to examine each faded cut, bruise and scar he’d acquired over the years, occasionally trailing a finger along one of them to see where it ended. They were parts of Cohen that he’d always been embarrassed by, but it seemed to be nothing short of intriguing to him. 

“I have hundreds of scars on my body,” he eventually whispered. “It’s kinda cool to meet someone who has them, too.”

While he had tried his best not to focus on them too much, Cohen was not oblivious to the scars that were present on Elias’ body, most of them being at least a little infected while the others had healed over a long time ago. It couldn’t have been the first time someone had used barbed wire as a way of restraining him either - there were multiple faded outlines of the same marks that were now fresh on his skin, though some of them still looked more recent than he would have liked. 

“Yeah?” He couldn’t help but smile, allowing his fingers to curl around Elias’ when he gently sat his hand upon them. “I try to keep ‘em hidden most of the time. Not many people wanna look at something so conventionally ugly, and it also isn’t really good for business.” 

Elias looked as though he couldn’t disagree more with his statement. It was almost amusing watching his expression morph into one of obvious disapproval, and he began to trail his fingertip along another one. 

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” he absentmindedly shrugged. “Scars are only as ugly as we make them out to be. I like that they hold stories we might not even know we had with them.” 

Huh. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

After he reached the end, the boy looked back up at him and smiled something sad. “I don’t always like mine either. Sometimes I wish I could make them go away, but if I can’t help the fact that they’re there, then I figure it’s far more beneficial to find reasons to like them instead of finding reasons to hate them. Does that make sense? I feel like I might be rambling… just a little. Today has been so long and stressful.” 

Cohen felt himself sigh. “I could not agree more.” 

-

Within a few hours, the two of them had a steaming bowl of pasta each and had sat down together on the couch in Cohen’s living room. The place itself didn’t really have much to offer, but Elias seemed content enough leaning against the arm of the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders and his entire body hunched over to try and savor as much warmth radiating from the bowl as he could. 

Meanwhile, Cohen had several search bars open on his laptop, all of them with articles relating to whom he assumed was Elias’ mother. They shared the same last name - he’d been smart enough to ask him about that as he cooked dinner, and it appeared that she died a few months before he said he was kidnapped. Not to mention her nineteen year old child that all three articles said went missing not long afterwards. 

But the paragraph that confused him most was the one that mentioned her murderer, who they said had supposedly gone into hiding afterwards. 

“Lucas killed your mom?” he blurted before he could stop the words from spilling out. Almost immediately Elias’ entire body stiffened, fingers tightening around his half-empty bowl despite the heat still going strong. Even for him, it wasn’t hard to see that he’d hit a sore spot, and in an extremely foolish way, too. 

The boy tilted his head a little in an attempt to see what was going on on the screen, his face falling even more when Cohen shut his laptop screen before he could get a proper look. “How’d you know about that?” 

 “I wanted to learn more about what happened.” 

“...and you wanted to do that through the media rather than me?” There it was. That same look Cohen had already seen so many times just in that cabin alone. Something that resembled a mixture of anger and hurt. Except, before, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He wasn’t sure he could say that now. “It’s ironic, really. Nobody ever wanted to hear my side of what happened back then, either.” 

Despite his inner voice telling him to just apologise, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They were such simple words, and yet neither would come to him when he tried. 

So, instead of spending several minutes trying to speak what words wouldn’t come, he slowly sat up and set his laptop down on the coffee table in an attempt to show that his attention was now all on him. “Upsetting you was not my intention, Elias,” he quietly assured him, and the sound of his own name once again had him looking up through teary brown eyes. “I didn’t realise it was so important to you.” 

“Wouldn’t it be to anyone?” he asked irritably. “It was fucking horrible. All of it. I bet you missed all those articles speculating that I was the one who killed her, too.” 

Cohen frowned. “People really thought that?”

“Of course they fucking did, and you wanna know why he had me in his filthy little hands soon after he killed her? I wanted to clear my name. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to be able to step outside just once without being shunned for the things I didn’t even do.” 

“So…” Cohen’s eyes squeezed shut as the realisation finally dawned on him. It made him felt sick. “You went to find him.” 

“Yeah, I did.” 

When his eyes finally opened again, he realised that all the anger was gone. He was no longer the picture of fury, struggling to have his own voice be heard over everyone else’s theories and speculations. Instead, he now looked absolutely heartbroken, as if any grief he should have felt at the time was finally beginning to make its way to the surface.

“Nobody gave me a chance to stand up for myself,” he whispered bitterly after a quiet minute or two. “Nobody asked how I was or- or if I was handling the death of my own fucking mother okay. Nobody fucking cared that the answer was no. I could not have been more alone, and- and eventually I decided that if I died trying to prove I was innocent, then it was probably for the best anyway.” 

“...’n’ I guess I was too upset to consider all the other possible scenarios.” 

Cohen forced himself to nod. A weak attempt at showing that he was still listening, even if he wasn’t responding to what was being said. Truthfully, he had no idea what to say. Everything he thought of was either only going to make it worse or a completely pointless addition to the conversation. 

“I believe you” was the phrase he finally settled on. Not long afterwards Elias appeared directly beside him, his bottom lip trembling as he suspiciously examined his facial expression for any underlying lies or hints of sarcasm.

Eventually, his shoulders began to slump a little as he relaxed. “You do?” he whispered. 

“Yeah.” He gave a firm nod. “Got no reason not to. Besides, I’m not really in the right position to be judging people on that sort of thing even if you had, now am I?”

Much to his relief, Elias’ face shifted into one of slight amusement. “At least the people you kill are guilty of something,” he mumbled as he tiredly pressed his forehead into Cohen’s arm. “My mother was a good person. Did nothin’ to deserve the fate she got. I miss her more and more every goddamn day.”

Albeit awkwardly, Cohen forced his arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him a little closer, allowing him to fully collapse against his side as he started to quietly weep all over again. “She never would’a let me do something so fucking stupid.” 

All he could do was give a sad smile, gentle fingers rubbing soothing circles into his back as the tears continued to fall down Elias’ grief stricken face.

“I… I got you,” he spoke slowly. Truth be told, he was possibly going to end up simply quoting all the most common phrases of comfort from his favourite books until he calmed down if this continued. He knew nothing about looking after another person, apart from the physical aspect of it. 

He wondered how the hell he was supposed to make it through two months of this without constantly messing up. 

-

Taglist:@kiss1t0ffm3 @nyooom @pigeonwhumps @topsheepstudent @whumped4whumplover @whumpsday @whumpshaped

Ask to be added or taken off <3

[melpomenelamusa]

Per your recent post: Carlos gagged and put into a freezer!

~ Gagged / Locked in a freezer ~

Content: Burns, gagged, cold whump, [mentioned] multiple whumpees, vampire whumpee, mouth whump, pet whump, restrained.

Finally got around to this!!

-

“You still think you’re fucking funny, huh?”

Carlos whimpered, pressing his face into the concrete floor beneath him as his master undid the rope he was about to use to tie him up. “I didn’t do it,” he rasped. “Didn’t- didn’t burn your clothes. I would never, never dream of it. Please believe me! It was one of the other pets, I- I swear!”

With a dissatisfied sigh, Master unmercifully dug the heel of his boot further into the vampire’s back to prevent him from moving. “You know I never appreciated your lies, but blaming a fellow pet for your bad choices?” He paused, roughly yanking Carlos’ arms behind his back. “Sickening.”

Carlos sobbed brokenly into the ground. It was no use. It was never any use. He couldn’t count the amount of times Master’s beloved pets had purposely gotten him into trouble, knowing that he would always take their side over his. Neither the pets or his master liked him. The only reason he was here to begin with was because his previous owner had paid good money to get rid of him.

Something told him the same thing was going to happen all over again very soon.

After roughly tying the vampire’s bony wrists behind his back and doing the same with his feet, the man practically dragged him up the stairs by the hair and towards the kitchen, ignoring his pained whimpers and cries as the side of his body hit each step.

“Now, originally, I was thinking of simply letting you starve for a few days,” Master informed him, “but then you decided to lie to me. Now, you get to starve and spend several days in the walk-in freezer. Sound like fun?”

The man didn’t give him any time to respond as he yanked the metal door open and threw the creature inside, letting his body slide along the icy floor until he hit the back wall. It was the only reason he ever let the floor turn icy. To throw his pets across the floor and watch them crash into things. He didn’t even care that it was a struggle to walk across.

Carlos tearily watched as Master reached into his back pocket and pulled out a gag. It was made out of leather, with a silver bar attached to it that went into the victim’s mouth. He supposed that in the eyes of the man towering over him, it was the perfect punishment for a vampire. It truly was agony, and often left him completely unable to speak by the time he took it out again.

“Open wide,” he ordered firmly, shoving the bit into Carlos’ mouth the moment he opened it even a little. The vampire let out a sharp cry, but didn’t dare protest further. After all, he could always make it worse. “That stays on until I come back to get you, got it? If I find out you’ve taken any of that off or tried to escape, you’ll be thrown out into the sun instead.”

A shiver ran down Carlos’ spine and he let out another quiet sob, feeling the sides of his mouth and his tongue already burning from the metal pressed up against his mouth. He was sure his entire tongue would be burnt off by the time he was allowed to take it off, but that didn’t matter. Anything was better than the sun.

Master gave him a smile as he stepped out of the freezer again. “Be good and maybe I’ll come get you a little sooner.”

With that, he shut the door; engulfing the terrified vampire into complete darkness without another word.

-

Send in a number and an OC!

[melpomenelamusa]

"you got me a present?" whumper asks, gasping softly.

henchman nods and smiles, "picked it out this morning, as soon as i saw it, i knew you'd like it"

whumper bends down and tilts their head at whumpee, who's tied up on the floor with tears spilling out of their eyes.

"i love it"

[melpomenelamusa]

CHIMERAS CYOA - Part 3

~Original story~

Masterlist | Previous

CW: Pet whump, restraints, bound and gagged, muzzled, nonhuman whumpee.

~~~~~~~~~~~🦌🦌🦌~~~~~~~~~~~

You decide the best option is to put your new pet in the trunk.

The sharp tips of his antlers still look somewhat dangerous, and although your house—the place you’re heading to—is in the middle of nowhere, you’d rather not risk your new pet seeing the route and trying to escape in the future. There are some things where it’s much better to keep the surprise.

“Put him in the trunk,” you say.

“MMMNH!”

Elafi screams in terror through the gag, staring at you with panicked eyes and shaking his head frantically. In a desperate attempt to flee, he tries to run, but the chain between his ankles severely limits his movements. The men working at the black market who are accompanying you quickly catch him, lift him as if he weighed nothing, and shove him into the small space of the trunk you’ve just opened.

Without wasting more time, you pull a couple of objects out of your duffel bag before tossing it onto the backseat. You set about swapping the metal shackles around the deer’s ankles for new leather ones, identical to the ones restraining his wrists. To finish, you use an extra coil of rope to tie his ankles and wrists together behind his back in a hogtie.

“Perfect!” you say, dusting off your hands. “No kicking at the headlights for you.”

“Mmmh!”

With big, tearful eyes, Elafi looks at you while struggling against his restraints. It’s useless—his whole body is firmly bound and secured. Adorable, unintelligible squeaks escape his throat in a desperate plea; you can almost hear his heart pounding wildly inside his chest. But you’ve already made your decision.

“Don’t worry, sweet Elafi,” you say, wiping a tear from his face, “soon you’ll be in your new home.”

And with those words, you slam the trunk shut, plunging him into darkness.

You get into the car. The engine purrs pleasantly as it starts, and you begin your drive.

The road is deserted at this hour of night, far from the bustling, bright, and crowded city center, so you drive calmly, passing only a couple of vehicles along the way. You switch on the radio and entertain yourself by singing your favorite station’s songs at the top of your lungs. Now that the buying process is over and you’re finally heading home with your new pet, you couldn’t be happier.

At one point, the road curves sharply. You, driving a bit over the speed limit thanks to the excitement, take the turn roughly. The car skids over the asphalt, tires screeching, before safely returning to the lane. During the maneuver, you hear a loud thud against one of the trunk walls, and you can’t help but chuckle at the thought of what your “new package” must be experiencing back there.

Amused with a touch of malice, you make another sharp turn into the opposite lane, empty at the moment, and you’re delighted when you hear a second thud from the rear of the vehicle. This could be a fun game. After a few more of these little “games,” you continue driving normally until, finally, after an hour, you arrive home.

It’s an old family property, known to very few. It consists of a one-story house with a garage and a yard that’s nothing more than a wide square of dirt and sparse grass surrounded by a brick wall. The property borders a forest, and the nearest city is twenty minutes away by car. That, along with internet, phone, water, and electricity, makes it the perfect place to live.

And the perfect place to keep your new pet.

You park inside the garage and don’t turn off the engine until the metal gate has closed behind you, blocking any way out. You step out of the vehicle, circle around it, and open the trunk.

“We’re here.”

Trembling and pressed against the right wall of the trunk is Elafi, whimpering and trying to make himself smaller. His hair is tousled and messy. His breathing is ragged, and his flushed face glistens with tiny beads of sweat. He lifts his head, and you spot new tears trailing down his cheeks, but his gaze hardens the instant his large brown eyes meet yours.

“Don’t be a crybaby. On the contrary, cheer up! We’re home! From now on, you won’t have to worry about riding in a car again, unless I think it’s necessary.”

You pull out the Swiss Army knife you always keep in your pocket and cut the rope hogtying the deer. Carefully and slowly, you help him climb out of the compartment. Elafi stands shakily on trembling legs, nervously looking around. There’s not much to see in the garage, but you suppose the coils of rope and repair tools hanging on the walls might seem intimidating to him.

You tug on the chain attached to the collar around his neck as you head toward the entrance door.

“Come on, I’ll take you to your new place to stay.”

You begin dragging the deer into your home. Your house is fairly simple: it includes a living room, kitchen and dining area, three bedrooms (your own, your study, and a guest room), a service area, two bathrooms, and a basement.

Since you’d been preparing for days to buy a chimera, you had already set up the perfect space where your new pet would stay and sleep in the house. You tug him along and start guiding him in that direction.

Taglist: @illarian-rambling @eggy16 @bacillusinfection @lady-wallace @tildeathiwillwrite @3-2-whump @inhurtandincomfort @oddsconvert @cepheusgalaxy @sir-fenris @dr-abitat-blog @whumpyangstydestruction @mudpuddlenl @sootheandsavage

[melpomenelamusa]

Whump Prompt #2: Jewelry

because i haven't seen much jewelry in whump (please tag me if you use these!)

(tw: kidnapping, restraints, torture, minor injury, piercings, trauma)

After Whumpee is captured, their necklaces and bracelets are ripped away by Whumper because even those could turn into weapons

Whumpee waking up in the middle of their capture (in the trunk of a car/transportation vehicle/belly of a plane) and frantically trying to get to their earrings to use them as lockpicks or weapons of some sort, while their restraints hold them back

Alternatively, Whumpee waking up in the middle of their capture knowing they're doomed and taking out their earrings so they can't be ripped away, unhooking necklaces so they can't be choked, taking off rings so their fingers can't be dislocated/broken when Whumper goes to take it all off anyway

Whumper pulling Whumpee closer by the chain of their necklace/bracelet, maybe breaking it in the process. Whumpee doesn't really fight because they don't want their things to break

Whumpee having a magic pendant/bracelet that keeps them slightly safe or enchanted against harm, but only to a certain extent, and Whumper soon learns all of the charms loopholes, hurting Whumpee even more

Whumpee not wanting to have their jewelry taken away because it helps them stim/is a sentimental item/makes them feel like a person etc. and fighting to keep it, resulting in a scuffle that injures them

"Oh, you want to keep it so bad? Well, I can wear it for you, don't worry." Whumpee freaking out because now their favorite things are tarnished by Whumper's touch

Whumper giving Whumpee jewelry to mark them as Whumper's possession, threatening to brand them if they don't wear it--"Well, there's always a more permanent solution, Whumpee..."

Whumpee being on such good behaviour they get their old jewelry back

After Whumpee is rescued, maybe their old things are lost/destroyed, and Caretaker takes them shopping for new jewelry, helping them pick out things that will make them feel human again

If it's been long enough, Whumpee might even have to get their piercings re-pierced because they've healed, and Caretaker sits with them, soothing them as unfamiliar hands touch their skin, because this is what Whumpee wants, but they also freak out at being touched so intimately

Alternatively, Whumpee being so traumatized they can't wear necklaces/watches/bracelets anymore because it reminds them too much of the shackles and collars Whumper used on them