#“like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon”

[serickswrites]

Except the Moon

Warnings: captivity, torture, touch starved, loneliness, self sacrifice

Whumpee hadn't bothered to get out of the makeshift bed they had made in the room Whumper locked them in for the last several days. And they knew it had been days based on the progression of light and changes in the night. But they couldn't be bothered any longer. They had been here for so long. So terribly, terribly long. And they just couldn't care anymore.

When they had volunteered in Caretaker's stead, begged Whumper to take them instead, that had thought that Whumper would hurt them until they died and that would be it. They didn't think they would be locked in a room, alone, for weeks with no one to talk to, touch, or even see. All they had was the small window near the top of their cell where they could see the sky, the sun, and more often than not, the moon.

They had screamed and hollered the first several days they were there. Beat on the door. Tried to scale to the small window. But it had all been to no avail.

They had thought that Whumper would come for them then. Begin their torture then. But Whumper hadn't. Other than the slat opening in the wall and food appearing at regular intervals, Whumpee had not seen nor heard from Whumper since Whumper threw them in the room.

And they were so terribly lonely. They had nothing. No one. Except the moon. "I wish Caretaker was here. Not here instead. But here with me," they whispered to the moon. In the last few days, they found themself talking to the moon, hoping she would listen, but not daring to hope she would grant their wish.

Whumpee knew all they had to do was beg Whumper to make it stop, to trade places with Caretaker, and they would be free. But they couldn't do that. Though they longed to be seen, to be heard, and most of all to be touched, they couldn't do that. They couldn't let Caretaker be tortured like this. Or like anyway.

And so they would stay. Alone in this room with no company, except the moon.

[ceethewriter]

Migraine

fandom: law & order SVU

relationship: barisi

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

Rafael shut his eyes against the brightness of the moon through the slatted blinds. He’d close them if his head didn’t pound and his stomach churn with every movement.

Sonny would have closed them for him, but Sonny had left after the row. Perhaps this time it would be for good, and perhaps that was for the best; Sonny deserved better.

Rafael still murmured his name, for all the good it did.

Then Sonny’s soft voice on the other side of the bedroom door cut through the pain in his head, and the ache in his heart. “You in there?”

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #3

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, torture, gore, burns, captivity, begging, death wish

@whumptober Day 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” / Solitary Confinement / “Make it stop.”

takes place during section four of chapter 15, Hunger, when the hunters leave Kane outside for a week.

-

The sun finally, finally set. Kane was used to having little idea of how much time was passing, but he was excruciatingly aware of it now. Day two of his punishment done.

See you in a week.

Five more to go.

For now, he had the night. It didn’t help much, not anywhere close to enough time for his broken body to heal the deep burns traversing his whole body, but at least he wasn’t actively burning under the sun anymore. The silver of his restraints barely registered against the giant mass of charred flesh his body had become.

His face melted together, his eyelids and lips each sealed shut. He could not stare wistfully at the night sky offering him a moment of refuge, nor could he cry out for mercy. There was no one he could call out to, anyway.

He’d never hurt more than he hurt right now. They’d never left him out for two days before. Kane had no idea how he was going to survive a whole week. He wished he wouldn’t. He wished he would die, could die.

But he couldn’t. He had to keep going, taking all the pain the hunters decided to hoist onto him, no other option available.

The night felt as short as the day felt long. Kane needed more time than it gave him, but despite his desperation, the sun rose come morning. He tried to scream as it licked his mangled skin once more, the sound caught in his sealed-shut mouth.

Make it stop! Please, please, I’m sorry! I’ll do anything, please let me back inside!

No one came.

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2023 | No. 3

“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

1899 s01e02: “You’re not real.”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[firapolemos05]

No devil hides beneath my bed

Part 1, Part 2

@whumptober | Ao3

No. 3 "Like crying out in an empty room, and no one's there except the moon."

No. 9 "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days."

CW: NSFW (minors dni), noncon, captivity, pet whump, mind control, forced kiss, forced arousal, past whipping, licking wounds, mentioned death of a minor, multiple whumpers, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, object insertion (used to hurt and punish), spanking, bath scene, nudity, forced stripping, disassociation, restraints, future forced prostitution, whumpee injures whumper, begging, non-human whumpee, 'master' as a title, thoughts of self-harm, muzzles

(This fic is a direct sequel to my other story Still your heart, so much to prove so I recommend reading that before this. And of course Please Mind the Content Warnings.)

Tonight was not a fight night, so the Champion was rather alarmed when the silence of the dark cell was broken by the approaching footsteps of several people. Perhaps there was an event he'd forgotten? Did Master have company tonight, someone she wanted to show him off to? Was she angry?

The notion made him shiver as his blood ran cold. He thought he'd been good since the last time he was punished. Memories flooded back from that horrible night at the fighting pit. A too-young body lying cold. The bite of shackles and Master's whip. The wounds on his back were still sore.

It's why he was here, in a cold, dark stone box rather than his more comfortable quarters. His disobedience had cost him that privilege. He scrambles off the pallet serving as his makeshift bed, pushing himself to his knees as the door begins to open. But it was only a couple servants and one of the manor guards.

"You are being summoned to meet the master’s guest. She has ordered that you be presentable."

Most of the tension and anxiety drains out of the Champion’s shoulders. Ah, so it was just some company for the night. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He wasn't in trouble. Master wasn't angry.

He rises to his feet, following them down the familiar corridor to the baths. If he was being displayed to a guest, then he needed to look his best. He may be a fighter who got himself covered with blood and bruises for other's entertainment, but outside the caged arena, all he was was Master Scarlet's pretty little trophy. And pretty little trophies shouldn't be soiled with dirt, or unkempt hair, or the smell of old stone that enclosed his cell.

None of them speak a word, not during the walk, and not when they enter the bright, cold marble room. The servants because it was unnecessary; they knew the procedure. The Champion because he was not permitted to speak to them. Or at all, and he learned long ago what doing so without permission would get him. The guard takes post at the door while the other two strip the tiefling of the sparse fabric adorning his body. The enchanted gilded gold shackles chaining his wrists, along with his golden collar, are left untouched. 

The hot water is a rare comfort. It chases away the chill of the stone tiles where he kneels, glittering black streaked with bold white. The servants pour the water and lather various scented oils and lotions into his skin and hair. 

There was once chains dangling from the ceiling, forcing him upright as they hosed him down.

He lets his mind drift off. The air smells of roses and apricots.

He'd snap at any hands that drew close, until they forced a muzzle over his head and sedatives into his bloodstream.

Indifferent hands scrub a bit too rough at his still healing back. It hurts, he doesn't dare move.

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It's far from the worst bath the Champion has ever had. He at least now has the privilege of being allowed to clean his lower half on his own.

He buries the memories back down.

One moment the warm steam curls up his skin, and he lets himself get lost in the feeling of being somewhere else. Someplace with no chains, cages, or whips to assault him. Someplace he can finally see the sun as much as he wants.

Then the next moment, he blinks and there's the touch of smooth, cool fabric. The water is gone, and he's standing as the servants dress him. By now he's already accustomed to the disappointment. Pants of sheer black chiffon embroidered with tiny red gemstones secured with laces up his thighs. Opaque black cloth with golden thread hangs from his waist, front and back. And finally a sash of red silk, set across his lower back before looping around to criss-cross his chest. The gold hooks fastened to either end clipping onto his collar.

It's certainly on the more revealing side of outfits Master has made him wear. But if the tiefling's opinions had mattered at all to her, he wouldn't be here.

Then came the jewelry. Dainty gold chains and more red gems. Draped elegantly around his arms, hips, horns, and tail. Tonight's guest must be expensive clientele if Master is decorating him this much. But they're finished with preparing him, so perhaps the Champion can finally get this meeting over with.

A lift brings them up to the main part of the manor, the churning of the mechanisms a pleasant break to the absent voices. Its doors open, and their master is waiting for them. All three kneel upon stepping off the platform.

With the Champion’s head bowed low, he feels his master’s eyes rove over his form, before she gives a pleased hum. "Good work with him, you two," she praises the servants. "You are dismissed. Follow me, my pet."

She leads him down one of many hallways, lined with various artworks and shining sconces. It's unfamiliar, and while he's supposed to keep his eyes cast downward, he can't help but take in the decor. Usually when Master presents him, he's brought to the dining room or the parlor, or some other gathering area for guests.

She stops at a pair of wooden doors, and once opened, gestures for him to enter.

It's one of the guest bedrooms. 

A crackling fireplace bathes the space in a warm glow, colluding with the darkness leaking in from the night outside the windows and balcony doors. The glow lights up the rich browns of the wooden furniture, carved with ornate motifs that must be the bane of whomever was tasked with keeping them polished and free of dust. His eyes are immediately drawn to the large four-poster bed. The columns at its corners taper to spire-like points above the canopy frame, from which hang silk drapes of burgundy. A cushioned bench sits at its foot, and a plush rug of intricate patterns ('looks like Muthamian make,' says a far-off point of his mind) spans the area of dark hardwood surrounding the bed.

"Ah there he is." The voice pulls the Champion’s attention back to the opposite end of the room. A figure rises from an armchair in front of the fireplace, and years of training make the tiefling drop to his knees, eyes down. "My my. You have my compliments, Scarlet. This is quite the ravishing introduction."

Something about the man's tone doesn't sit well. It twists a knot in his stomach. He can't pinpoint exactly why, it's not like this was the first time someone made condescending remarks towards him.

"I figured this would be to your liking," Master replies. One of her fingers strokes the spikes on his horns, flicking a dangling gemstone. "You did mention wanting to see him in red."

Footfalls approach, and black leather shoes with gold buckles enter the Champion’s vision. A snap of fingers tells him he should look up. Pale stockings, slate blue pants rising high on the waist, a white dress shirt frilled at the collar and cuffs, and a smiling face framed in brown hair. In his hand was a wooden cane with a curved ivory handle.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, Champion," the man greets, words rolling with a thick Mężnydzik accent. Short, rounded ears speak human and high-quality clothes plus a well-trimmed beard speak high class. "Ivan Mitreski, I am an associate of your master."

"It's nice to meet you, sir." The Champion’s reply is automatic.

"Ivan here is rather new to the business with the fighting ring. He was witness to some of your most recent matches."

"Indeed, I was quite impressed. Though it's a shame you weren't able to handle killing that last dark elf fighter."

The comment feels like a slap to the face. Why did he have to remind him of such a failure, a horrible act he was forced to commit?

"His disobedience did come as a surprise," Master states, the coldness of her words further chilling his nerves. "But he won't be foolish enough to repeat such an offense, isn't that right, pet?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why don't you show Ivan what happens when you disobey." She snaps her fingers again and points down.

The tiefling bites his lip and quiets the part of his mind that bristles with humiliation. He hated this command. Lowering his chest to the floor, he crosses his shackled wrists to rest his head on, then raises his hips with an arch of his back. With nothing but a single sash of silk over his torso, there was barely anything to hide the tender stripes now on full display.

He awaits Ivan to make some sort of remark, relieved that he at least didn't have to see the man's face. But instead he was nearly jolted out of his skin as Ivan touched one of the wounds.

"So sensitive."

He wishes he could bite him. Touch still stings.

"If there’s anything else you find yourself desiring, feel free to ring one of the servants. Though come straight to me if he gives you trouble."

'Wait, what?'

"Of course, Scarlet. Again you have my sincerest gratitude for this."

And without a single regard for her pet's confusion, Master turns and departs the room. The Champion was left breaking position to stare at the closed door in bewilderment. 

Master never left him alone with a guest.

'What's going on?'

"Your master has allowed me to spend time with you for a little while." Ivan sits on the bench in front of the bed, cane to the side, and gestures for him to come closer. "Don't be shy now, I'd like to talk with you."

The expression was soft, inviting. A warmth washes over him, easing his nervousness and tension, and he crawls over to kneel in front of the man. Ivan just wants to talk with him, almost no one ever wanted to make conversation with a slave. This would be a nice break from the norm.

"What would you like to talk about, sir?"

"I'd love to hear more about you. Tell me, how did you come to be Scarlet's fighter?"

He usually didn't like to think about this, the memories were often unclear, but with clarity began tragedy. But Ivan wanted to hear what he had to say, so it'd be rude to not answer his questions. "I don't remember everything, sir, but I did something unlawful and got caught. Master says she brought me here as punishment."

"I see, I see," the man nods, no judgment in his tone. "And how long have you been here?"

Another one he didn't know for sure. Prior to the fighting ring, Master had him held under some sort of spell that left him nothing more than a feral animal. Time and language meant nothing. He had no idea how long she kept him like that. "A few years. Sorry I don't know the exact number. But I do know I've been brought to the fights for about four years."

"And from what your master tells me, you became the Champion not too long after joining. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

Simple questions like that Ivan asks him. Back and forth they went. The man asked him his age (Master says he's in his early 20s), if he had any family (not anymore), where he grew up (the outskirts of Altruek Atea). The question if he'd ever been in a relationship before seemed a bit off, but when he answered in the negative, Ivan didn't press further, so it was probably harmless.

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

That catches him off guard. Without thinking, he looks up and Ivan is leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, leveling the tiefling with a strange smile. He doesn't scold the Champion for making eye contact.

It was a compliment, right?

"N-not really. Master sometimes calls me that, but not in a serious way."

"Well that's a shame." His hand reaches over and brushes a lock of black hair behind a pointed ear. "I'm positive you'd be quite popular, little devil."

The touch was gentle, affectionate even. He should’ve detested it. He always did when Master touched him like that, a controlling caress meant to remind him of his place. But somehow this felt different. This stranger . . .no, Ivan's hand and words didn't frighten him. This was the first normal conversation he's had with another person in years.

"Thank you," he replies, as that was the polite thing to say.

Ivan smiles some more, then pats his thigh. "Why don't you come sit with me here?"

He . . .he wanted him to sit on his lap?

"Master says I'm not allowed to sit on the furniture."

"Oh I'm sure she won't mind as long as I'm allowing it, right? Plus she's not here right now, isn't she?"

That did make sense. If Ivan is requesting him to sit with him, it must be okay in this case. And yes, Master had left them alone, with the order to call her only if her pet was being disobedient.

He doesn't want to disobey Ivan.

Rising to his feet, he walks closer. He'd been expecting to simply sit on the man's leg, so he jolts in surprise when Ivan takes hold of his arm and waist and pulls the tiefling onto himself.

"Relax, Champion."

That was a little hard to do now when he was straddling the man. This seemed too close, too . . . intimate. "Is. . .is this what you wanted?"

"Yes, you're being very good, Champion."

Good, Ivan had said. That was reassuring. He wants to be good. So he continues to be good and not move when an arm wraps around his waist. When a hand cups his chin.

When Ivan purses his lips and angles his face towards his. The pressure of the hands holding him told the Champion he should allow himself to-

'What are you DOING?!'

A bubble bursts. A sudden brick shatters the veil that was the charm spell from his mind. Just in time for his wits to scream at him to get away and his body to respond.

It was a trick. A cruel lie.

He shoves at Ivan's chest, pushing the two of them apart. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact as he fell, but that hardly mattered now. Putting distance between them, the tiefling scrambles back, then faces the man with a snarl.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The moment those words leave his mouth, he realizes he'll be made to regret it.

Ivan's face holds no trace of that once kind smile. Only cold disappointment. 

"Well then," he begins, standing up and dusting off his shirt, as if the Champion pushing him somehow dirtied it, "I had thought you would've liked to have this the easy way but it appears that isn't the case."

His hand traces a sigil in the air, one all too familiar, and for the second time that week, the Champion feels his mind shut off.

The average charm spell is valued for its subtlety. It falls over the mind like a friendly embrace, the warmth of an inn, a pair of rose tinted glasses. Most people won't even recognize the change until the spell lifts, and certain mages could make it so that their victims won't find out at all.

But a dominate spell holds no such features. It does not need to be subtle. It forces itself onto the mind like a muzzle and cage, locking down the conscious so that the body is a pliant little puppet.

So the Champion can't question it, can't fight back, when Ivan orders him to crawl forward. A hand grasps his jaw and the tiefling is incapable of resisting when Ivan leans in and presses into him with a possessive kiss, devoid of the faux affection. A tongue worms into his mouth, and even through the spell he tenses with revulsion, a small whimper escaping.

Ivan purrs into his ear when he withdraws. "Oh I'm definitely going to enjoy you tonight.” He turns away to drag the bench away from the bed before facing him again. “Be a good boy and kneel right here for me, facing the wall. Arms raised."

His body moves on its own, against his will. He takes his place on the mattress as commanded, lifting his arms over his head without a word. He can only wait in terrible silence as Ivan fixes his shackles to the canopy frame. The man then retrieves several cords of silken rope, tying his ankles to the bed posts. Even his tail was restrained to his leg to keep it out of the way.

The spell goes as easily as it came, allowing the Champion’s awareness of his predicament to set in.

Trapped. Vulnerable. Exposed. 

Too similar to the position he found himself in mere days ago. The ache in his back grew into a throb until he could practically feel the stone pillar against him and smell his own blood.

"Wait." At this point, Master Scarlet usually wouldn't allow him to beg. The damage had been done and he needed to be taught a lesson. But Master wasn't here and maybe Ivan would show mercy. "Sir please, I'm sorry I re-. . . I disobeyed you. Not the whip again, please, anything but that. I can't-"

A hand on his horn pulls his head back, and he cuts himself off to bite back a pathetic sounding mewl as Ivan licks a wet stripe up the shell of his ear. "You beg quite nicely, little devil. Rest assured, I don't intend on lashing you."

The Champion’s thoughts are caught between distrust and relief. He wants to believe him. He can't begin to imagine how painful it would be for his wounds to be assaulted so soon after. That punishment had been agony, he can't handle it again. Is Ivan telling the truth or only trying to lure him into a false sense of secur-?

Something touches his thigh.

His gaze shoots downward and Ivan is undoing the laces in the silk.

"What are you-?" he begins to say, fear tainting his voice, but the man presses a finger to the tiefling's lips and orders him to be quiet. The undone threads bare more skin from thigh to hip, and soon the pants are tossed aside. 

It's when the black cloth is removed, with the red in quick succession before he can protest, that the pieces fall together into a vile puzzle. 

No.

The revealing outfit, Master leaving them alone, the charm spell, the lurid stares and honeyed words on his looks, the kiss, the fact that he is now naked as the day he was born with his legs spread.

No. NO!

"Oh did you figure it out?" The damning chuckle accompanying that question took a sinister tone. A harsh squeeze of his ass shocks the denial right out of him.

The Champion jerks away, body trembling in revulsion and terror. "Don't touch me!" But he can't go far, and the bindings hold tight.

Hands latch onto his hips, and Ivan pressed up against him. To the tiefling's dismay, he can feel the man's hardened member against his thigh. "Let's make something clear, little devil. Your master has given me full permission to use you to my desire. So I have full allowance to touch any part of you I want. Understood? So I have a question for you."

He's prepared to ignore it, or say some lie or refusal depending on what the question is. But then Ivan runs his finger up the length of his tail.

"Is it true tiefling tails are quite sensitive?"

An unfamiliar sensation rushes up his spine. His breath hitches in his chest. A strange heat begins to build up within him.

"Judging by that reaction, I'd say my presumption is correct." And Ivan continues his caresses with a heightened vigor.

What is this?

His tail is sensitive, and each stroke is sending jolts of . . .some feeling throughout his body. It makes him shiver and bite down on his bottom lip, the heat in his face darkening his cheeks and ears. It pools in the region between his legs and he tries to close them to no avail. His toes curl. He can't even thrash his tail to dislodge the offending hand, whose fondling is clouding his mind into fuzz. His brain keeps saying this is wrong, invasive; he doesn't like what this sensation is doing to him.

So why does it feel good?

Each time he tries to pull away, some semblance of his body resists him, tries to lean in for more of this pleasurable touch ('No, this is not pleasurable. You're not enjoying this.') He tries to ignore it. Ignore the touch, ignore the hands and chains. Instead he bites his lips until blood drips down his chin, digs his claws into his palms until they bleed, and focuses on the pain.

And it almost works, if the fingers hadn't been replaced by a tongue.

The Champion's vision floods with blurry stars and the sound he makes is some cross between a gasp and a moan. He would feel ashamed and disgusted with himself if his senses weren't being overwhelmed by his tail being licked and nibbled and dear gods one of you please burn that fucking thing out of Ivan's fucking mouth.

"Oh, you like this don't you? That won't do."

He wishes he could tell the bastard to go fuck himself. This was nothing likable. This was wrong and violating. But unfortunately, he was having a hard time convincing his body of that. He refuses to look down and see how else his body is responding to it. He doesn't even hear the second statement over trying to stop himself from whining and panting like a dog in heat.

When the mouth leaves his tail, it's a breath of relief. Until he lets out a pained yowl as it introduces itself to the wounds on his back.

Saliva stings abused flesh and the Champion writhes in agony. Ivan begins with a stripe across the small of his back and works upward, aiming for all twenty-five. Meanwhile his hands resume their torment of the tiefling's tail, assaulting the poor creature's body and mind with a simultaneous barrage of pleasure and pain.

"S-stop, pl-please!"

"But you taste so good, little devil."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want any of this. But the touch won't stop.

The whip would be preferable to this, and that terrifies him.

Each stinging lick sends him squirming, arching his back desperate to escape. With every movement, the dangling jewels mock him with their chimes. They only entice his assailant on further. Further. A painful stripe running between his shoulder blades. Strokes at the base of his tail that almost make him break. It's maddening. 

And then a single digit slips under to edge the rim of his entrance. 

NO!

The Champion tosses his head back under a surge of panic, and the tip of his horn catches Ivan right in the face.

The hands release his body with a grunt of pain as the man stumbles back. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Ivan hold a hand to his bloodied cheek and lets himself bask in the satisfaction. Serves the bastard right, he wishes he gouged out an eye.

But that vindication soon melts away as reality comes to slap him in the face with the enormity of his actions.

He hurt one of Master's guests.

Oh gods, he hurt one of Master's guests. 

The dread returns in full, and only grew when Ivan composes himself and levels the tiefling with a knowing look.

“I- I didn’t mean-.”

“Save your breath. We both know that’s a lie.” He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the wound. “Now I am going to go fix this little mess you made, and when I return, it will be with your master."

"Wait!"

Ivan exits the room, ignoring the Champion’s protests.

His gut twists into a knot. If he wasn't chained up like this, he would've crawled into the smallest space he could to hide.

It's been years since the last time he lashed out. The last time he'd bitten a woman's hand for yanking on one of his horns. The punishment he received for that kept him from ever repeating that mistake again. Until now.

Master's going to be furious.

Whatever's going to happen next will be horrible.

It's futile to try and break free, but he tries anyway. He yanks at the chains holding up his arms, tries to wriggle his legs free of the ropes. Hopes that something will give.

Nothing.

The dread takes hold, squeezing at his insides like a snake constricting prey. The fireplace continues to crackle, yet soon there's more sounds filling the Champion’s ears. It takes a moment before he realizes what he's hearing is his own hyperventilating breath and the rattling of chains from how violently he's shaking. Terror takes root and his fear and anger feed it.

He doesn't know how long they keep him waiting. It simultaneously feels like both eternity and a brief moment.

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

The Champion’s never been the religious type.

'Dear gods.'

The door opens.

Maybe now's the time to try.

'Please don't let this happen.'

"Did you think that just because I'm absent from the room means you can ignore the rules, pet?"

Ever since Master Scarlet first captured him, her voice always felt like icicles stabbing into him. Sharp and cold. Even her words of praise held an icy undertone he could sense under the mask she placed over her apathy.

Scoldings felt like getting trapped in a blizzard.

"It was an accident-" A force he cannot see slaps him across the face. 

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

He snaps his mouth closed, burying the hopeless frustration far down so it wouldn’t show. It was always a gamble with her. Sometimes she would ask the tiefling questions expecting an answer, others were only rhetorical. It was up to him to guess the difference.

"Besides, it doesn't matter if it was an accident or not. You're in no place to strike my guests at all. So you are going to apologize to Ivan, now."

His training egged him to submit. He messed up big time and punishment would be worse if he didn't say he was sorry. But anger clawed up his body like a cornered cat. Why should he have to apologize to the bastard? Ivan stood besides Master, puncture wound nowhere to be found, not even a blemish. That only further boiled his rage. Years have gone by without him managing to lash out, and now that he did, there's nothing to show for it? Ivan's wound is gone without a trace, yet the Champion has scars (from far more painful wounds) that will last the rest of his life.

It's not fair.

Does Master know what Ivan's planning to do? Maybe he should tell her. Perhaps she'll stop Ivan to prevent her pet from getting damaged like-

' "Kill the girl." '

No. She wouldn't care.

She definitely knows already. Ivan no doubt has informed her. She doesn't care. She forced her Champion to kill a little girl, of course she wouldn't have anything against this. She doesn't care.

He forces down the rage. The injustice. Forces it down into the deepest pits of his gut. He can't show it. Getting angry is showing disrespect. Hissing his words is showing disrespect. Giving an apology that doesn't sound genuine is showing disrespect.

He growls with venomous sarcasm, "I'm sorry for hurting your fragile pride, sir."

He's not sure how his grip slipped. 

By the way her eyes narrow and fill with disappointment, Master doesn't find it funny. "So easily you forget your lessons. Did we not just have this discussion the night of your recent fight?"

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It doesn't even target him, but the Champion senses her magic take. The shackles above him unhook from the canopy frame and suddenly he's being pulled forward by an unseen force. He falls onto the mattress, arms outstretched, and is helpless as the chains magically meld into the headboard. The position leaves no doubt as to what is meant to transpire.

He won't let himself feel regret. The bastard doesn't deserve it. But the little voice in his head still yells at him. Calls him an idiot for not obeying. 

The bed is soft. Far more comfortable than anything he remembers sleeping on in his life. It feels nice against his face. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could lose himself in the rare luxury enough to drown out everything else around him. Like with the bath. 

A hand grasps onto his horn and his head is pulled back so he can face his Master standing beside him.

"Let me make this clear, since you're having trouble remembering." Her finger presses into his side and traces a shape. The Champion can't see, but he knows exactly what she's touching. The branded initials of his master’s name seared into his flesh. "What does this mark mean?"

That definitely isn't a rhetorical question. There's an answer that his training won't allow him to forget. "It means I belong to you, Master."

"Good. And given that fact, it should be obvious by now what you are. I own you, pet. You are my slave. You have the title of Champion in the ring because I trained you. You fight for the entertainment of your betters since that's your purpose. To obey your master and entertain however your betters wish you to, whether it be fighting, being a pretty little server, or more private favors. Do you understand?"

His blood runs cold. 'Private favors.' A sugar-coated term for sexual favors. 

Did-

Did that mean this would be a regular thing now? Would there be more people than Ivan who would use and violate him? More pain and more punishments if he refused or didn't satisfy? More-

He feels sick.

In his panic, he forgets to answer Master's question. She snaps her fingers. He senses Ivan behind him again but he can't see what-.

A sharp yelp rips from his throat. 

Something is pushed inside of him. It's cold and hard and covered in some viscous substance. His body instinctively tenses around the foreign object, that strange heat already beginning to sink in.

"If you continue to defy your purpose, expect to receive this punishment more in the future."

This-.

This heat isn't the same as before with his tail. It lingers in the area it started and intensifies. It festers first into a sting, then a burn.

"Take this, Ivan," Master says as she hands over a flexible metal rod, the correction device she often uses on her pet. Said pet barely notices through the tears filling his eyes. He clutches onto the sheets with a desperate but futile wish for escape. 

His insides are on fire.

What the fuck did they put in him?

"Strike him."

The rod cracks across the top of his right thigh, an acute twinge that gets drowned out by the burning spike as he tenses against the fiery intrusion.

It hurts in such an intimate way. He should’ve known; the rod by itself was too easy a punishment. 

"First question: what are you?"

The moment he requires to register the question is taken as hesitation, and upon the next strike, the pain only grows worse and worse until it’s an effort to keep his words coherent. “S-stop!"

Smack!

"What are you?"

"Please, I'm sorry!"

Smack!

"Make it stop! Master, please!"

So this must be what the Infernal Hells are like. How ironic that a being of fiendish blood faces his own hell on the mortal plane. Devils did always like to scope out evil, and Master Scarlet had enough of it to last an immortal life. Hellfire would be a measly candle compared to the sear that tears through him.

"What are you?"

He can't even try to turn onto his side, the way his legs are bound won't allow it. The rod strikes an already tender welt and he howls. 

"A sl- a slave," he finally chokes out, because this is too much. He'll do whatever Master commands to get this to end.

But the rod falls down on him again and Master repeats her question. So the Champion cries out the horrible word again because that is the right answer, isn't it? It has to be, there's nothing else it could-

Oh.

"I-I'm your sl-slave!"

There's a pause as Master acknowledges the correction, and her frown lifts into a pleased grin. "Again, louder."

Tears streaming down his face, he screams as the agony flares once more. "I'M YOUR SLAVE!" He wants this to end, he can't take it anymore. 

Pathetic. Weak.

"Good boy. Second question." 

He hates her. There is not a single fiber of his being that doesn't roar with contempt for this woman. He mentally prays to every god he knows to curse her with an excruciating death.

"What is your purpose?"

A far off point of the tiefling's mind hears this and thinks, 'To rid this world of you someday.' It's a wishful thought, wrapped in a fantasy. It barely registers to him through the fire.

"T-to obey a-and entertain!"

Smack!

All he can focus on right now is the pain and doing what his master wants.

"Say it the right way, pet."

"I'M TO OBEY AND ENTERTAIN!"

His face hits the mattress, and it takes several seconds of heavy, uninterrupted breathing and no more strikes of the rod for him to realize Master finally released him. It's over. His breath is short and ragged, throat full of cotton. He tastes salt and iron from his tears and ruined lip. His wrists probably don't look very good either from how much he tugged on the chains. He doesn't want to know what his ass and thighs look like right now. The rod doesn’t usually draw blood, but there’ll definitely be some nasty marks that’ll swell.

Another sudden touch startles him, and he doesn’t have the energy to stifle the whimpers as that awful whatever-it-was is pulled out of him. He nearly cries again in sheer relief as that burning presence fades. 

"You have thirty more minutes, Ivan."

That picture of relief is shattered. Ivan is still here. Ivan still hasn’t finished with him. This isn’t over yet, they aren’t done hurting him yet. This man is still going to rape him.

"Oh that should be plenty of time," the man replies, unfazed by the tiefling's broken wail.

"I would hope you have some form of covering, or else that cream will give you a bad night as well."

"Worry not, I've come prepared." 

"Good. Have him repeat his rule until he no longer hesitates. Let me know how he performs."

With that final damning note, Master Scarlet made her departure. And Ivan turned to the battered and crying slave before him, cruely brushing his thumb over a welt before unbuttoning his pants. "Well, little devil, it's just you and me. I'm still waiting for that apology."

The Champion buries his sobs into the bedsheets.

----

They chained him up and muzzled him for his second bath.

He didn't want any more hands on him. No more touch.

But since when did the Champion’s desires matter?

The water could wash away tears, blood, and other bodily fluids. It could not wash away bruises and bite marks that were definitely going to scar. Soreness and pain where it shouldn’t be. Nor could it stop making him feel sick, wrong, filthy, disgusting, weak.

He's back in his cell, lying on his palette curled up in a tight ball. Not a scrap of clothing adorns him, only the dainty little jewels that, with his hands bound behind his back, he isn't able to rip off.

He isn't able to rip at his skin either. To tear away soiled flesh and let blood chase away the phantoms that wouldn't cease their tormenting caress.

Master had stopped by minutes ago to tell him the news. She would be hosting a dinner party in a couple nights, and he would be present. 

She informed him of its purpose. 

The events of tonight weren't going to be a one-time occurrence. 

[oxideblack]

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

In The Depths

new take on an old concept but i <3 s5 so i will never stop writing about that

ao3

Prompt: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” / Solitary confinement

Fandom: Ninjago

Characters: Lloyd Garmadon, Morro (mentioned), Kai (mentioned)

Summary: Lloyd is alone. He thinks?

Trigger Warnings: blood, possession, self-harm

436 words

There was gunk building under his fingernails. He didn’t know where it was coming from — maybe it was connected to the intense itch of the bones in his forearms. Like his skin was pulled too tight over them. Like whatever was inside of him was taking up too much space. 

He looked down at himself, realizing what exactly it was. Something different. Rough, gritty liquid that was — it was — vibrant and hot and what was the word — what was it…?

He searched his mind, but it felt about as empty as this place. Huge, blank, and nothing else. 

Color, his inner dialogue said helpfully. Red.

Color. He barely remembered what color even was. But it was different. It was beautiful. And he needed more.

He raked his nails across his arms, desperate now, not only to get the squirming itching creature beneath out, but to see more of that color.

Red was something. It was something… something important. It brought to mind a face and a voice he couldn’t remember quite right, but they were there anyway. It was good. Red was good. He needed more of it.

Pricks of it beaded along his skin, angry itching underneath. The red under his nails continued to increase. It smeared over his fingertips, over his palms. Sticky, wet, warm, like fire…

Whatever vague recognition that may have been there was chased away by It. His arms were forced apart from each other, stuck behind his back by some unseen force. The red was fading, like it had never really been there at all. 

“...oyd please, I know you’re still in there, you can fight him!”

That was… oh. Oh. He snapped awake, fighting to the surface of his mind, shoving on the barrier that kept him isolated. The world snapped into vibrant clarity.

“Kai—” he gasped, actually seeing for the first time in — he didn’t know how long. Where were they? Why was everything still white, still cold, still — snow. They were in the snow.

His brother’s face softened, letting down his guard. “Lloyd? Is that really you?” he asked, lowering his weapon.

His body reacted against his control, drawing his own sword in an effort to strike Kai down. Lloyd couldn’t stop it before he was being dragged back down, kicking and screaming as he was drowned out of his own head.

He landed somewhere deeper than before, colorless, lightless, and stuck in a straitjacket that left him unable to move an inch. His life faded from memory, trickling away like a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

The world was empty, just like this place.

[foreverchangingfandomsao3]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Alpha-17 (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Boil (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Waxer (Star Wars), CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, Clone Trooper Trapper (Star Wars) Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Whump, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Hug, CC-2224 | Cody Gets A Hug, Hallucinations, Solitary Confinement, Happy Ending Series: Part 3 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Cody wakes up in a room with no way out and no one else. How long does it take until he cracks?

My fill for Whumptober day 3: No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

[sometimesraven]

A Deep Bruise You Can't See

Whumptober No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” Journal |

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisiton POV Character: Female Lavellan Whumpee: Lavellan

Now that she can no longer rely on Solas to save her from her nightmares, Lavellan is having to find alternative, healthier methods to cope with the PTSD she received from her time as Inquisitor.

AO3 Link

The sensation of falling. Stone and snow and debris raining down like the sky was collapsing in on her. Radiating pain as the ground rose to meet her; cuts and bruises and fractured bones so sudden she could barely pinpoint where they were through the pain.

Limping across endless frozen ground. Only cold, empty remains of campfires to guide her. Unless it was the same fire? Only the Gods knew at this point. The chill was so deep in her bones that it numbed the pain of her struggling limbs as they trembled and dragged. Still no sign of her fellows. Of anyone.

Exhaustion settling in her chest. Only the snow and moonlight illuminated the darkness around her. This was it. She would never find her way. The darkness would swallow her and she would remain as bones in the mountains; lost for eternity.

Cold sweat coated Miriel's forehead as she slowly awoke, the fear and cold chasing her into the waking world like it was clinging with clawed hands to her shoulders. She groaned, disoriented -- her heart beat like war drums in her ears, body still trembling; the comfort and warmth of her bedclothes following sluggishly behind the ghostly sensations of her dream.

Automatically, she reached out beside her. Her hand rested only on empty space, disappointment squeezing her chest tight enough to steal her breath as she realised nobody was there. Nobody would ever be there again. No dreamwalking ancient elf would pull her from her nightmares and into his arms. She was alone with her memories and the demons that haunted her sleep.

So, with a groan, she wiped the sweat from her scarred face and pushed herself out of bed. Padding groggily to her nightstand, the cool satin of her chair pillow against her bare buttocks provided the grounding sensation she came to rely upon as she sat and opened her journal.

"Haven again," she spoke aloud, part of the routine she developed for pulling her mind out of the dream entirely. She focused on the scratch of her quill on the page as she continued. "I can scarcely understand the purpose of these dreams. Given perspective, Haven's loss was the least of the terrors I experienced as the unwilling leader of this Inquisition. Perhaps it is the loneliness. That was, after all, the last time I felt truly alone until now. I know I should not think of him, gentle spirit of my page. I know he is long gone. But his absence haunts my every moment. I foolishly came to rely upon him to save me from my own mind. What now do I do when the demons come? How am I to survive the torment of my own history, knowing the weight of my ancestors' fate now lies within me also?"

Lavellan fell silent, reading and re-reading her own words as she always did, until an answer fell upon her mind -- the answers she had come to believe came from the page itself, no matter how false a children's tale that was. At the bottom of the page, she silently scratched five extra words.

One Day At A Time.

[lithium223]

[youphoriaot7]

WHUMPTOBER - DAY 3 / DAY 6

— like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon / do or die, you’ll never make me, because the world will never take my heart

[recording, made to watch, journal, solitary confinement | “it should’ve been me,” “make it stop”]

title: i will follow you into the dark characters (pov): mike & pac (& fit) word count: 7,918 relationships: pac & mike, gen. warnings: chose not to use archive warnings. teen & up audiences. anxiety/panic attacks. ptsd.

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober Day 3:

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon." 

Journal | solitary confinement | "make it stop."

Fandom: Voltron

Prompt used: All

Soooo this ones a little intense- at least to me as I write this. Its never specified but Lance is alone for awhile, so tread carefully just in case. I think I may do a continuation on one of the other days for this one so keep a look out if you like this one.

TW for self harm, and Torture

...

There was little light in the room. He'd tried to figure out where it was coming from, scratched at the lips in the walls until his nails were broken and bleeding. He'd decided they simply glowed. 

There was no window, and the door disapeared- no it blended in, it had to be there still it had to, it could just be gone that made no sense- after that first day. That first day when he'd woken up, confused and in pain, and had a strange alien come in and speak to him. He couldnt tell you everything they said, broken translator glitching every couple words or other sentence. But it was an experiment, and a punishment. 

Lance wanted to go home.

"Journal entry uh… whatever. The water and bread like stuff appeared when I passed out again, I dont remember falling asleep… It tastes weird, but they got angry when I didnt consume it before… the walls are still glowing… or maybe it is dark and Im going crazy… how many days has it been journal? Why… what did I… its not like your gonna answer anyway…" 

His head hits the wall with a solid thump, the sound better than when all he can hear is bodily functions, so he does it again. And again, until his ears ring and his head aches, and the noise has blended in too much to be different and he stops. His heart and head beat to the same toon, he holds his breath to stop hearing the inflation of his lungs only for the beating to get louder. Frustrated tears come to his eyes as he releases the breath in a shout, which turns into an angry yell as he turns and pounds his tender fists into the wall.

Its not the first time, there are smears of blood- old and new- from his many little moments. He thinks hes allowed such moments after all, locked up for who knows how long with no interaction. He cant even talk to Blue, the thin connection in his soul the only thing telling him shes okay. In the beginning, he equated his moments to Keith, when he went ham on the training gladiatiors. But now… staring at his ruined fists, and wall still intact besides the smears, he feels as pathetic as ever. 

He knows for a fact the rest of the team would have found a way out by now. Pidge's curiousity and spite always leads her to solutions of some kind. Hunk would have found out how this box worked and rebuilt it ten times over. Keith would have samuraied his way out of course, and Shiro would probably find this childs play. But really the main difference… is they arent him. Lance did something wrong. Lance was stupid and weak and easily caught. Lance hasnt been able to find a way out. Lance- is referring to himself in third person. Again. 

He deserves to be here. The team hasnt found him yet, blue is out of range, and Lance is being punished for something. He wouldnt want any of them in his situation anyway, theyre probably off saving the universe still, probably relieved hes gone. He… he hopes theyre getting enough sleep. That Pidge isnt stuck with her face in a screen, refusing to sleep. That Hunk isnt spreading himself thin, and bottling things up. That Allura is recharging her quintessence, and taking care of herself and not pushing too hard on her own mind and the teams. That Coran isnt lonely and doing everything by himself. That Shiro is remembering to laugh and relax and chill. That Keith isnt isolating himself and training to death and… 

He misses them.

Lance thought that… even if he never saw Earth again, never saw his parents again, thatd at least, the last thing he saw would be his friends- his space family- safe and alive. Not some creepy alien, or the four same walls, but the people he cares about. He knows… he knows he wasnt their first choice. That Blue deserves better, the team deserves better. But… he still loves them so much. He just wanted to know they were okay. 

A stinging sensation disrupts the static ache hes fallen into, his motions drag like paper through water and he looks down at his arms. His nails, brittle and broken and cracked, have still managed to drag angry red lines across his arms. Blood and that watery fluid have bubbled to the surface in some areas, and he feels a detached sort of dissapointment. His nose whistles.

The not bread and the ucky water have appeared again. Hes on his side, he doesnt remember falling asleep, from how tired he feels, hes not even sure he can call it that. He knows they get mad when he ignores the susstenance, but he can only stare at it blankly. What was the point anyway? If he was just gonna keep waking up here, he didnt want to anymore. 

He thinks he counts for moment, to determine how long it takes them to get mad, but when he tunes back in to his own brain hes simply repeated the same line of lyrics over and over. He cant recall the song, or any other lyrics, and all its really doing is annoying him, but he cant find the energy to yell at his brain to stop. 

'One. I can count to one. Two. I can count to two. Three. I can count to three. Four. I cant count no more. I can only count to four, I can only count to four, I can only count fooouuuurrrr-'

The room brightens and Lance tenses as a noise fills the room. But the noise was always there, a ringing in his ears, but it grows louder and higher until everything is screaming. He hold his hands over his ears, finds a warm wetness with undertones of crusty, his mouth is open his throat feels shredded, hes curled up as much as his ribs will allow- they poke out, he can see where theyre wrong, they warp as the noise increases. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, tears streak his face, he cant see anything, theres red in his blurred vision before it whites out completely, a warmth below his nose. Shivers wrack his tense body as the cold he'd been trying to ignore sets in bone deep.

"P'ease…m…m-make it… st…stop…" 

He doesnt know when he went limp, eyes open but seeing nothing, the ringing is everywhere, the feeling of liquid drying on his skin makes him itch, but he cant even twitch. 

"M'ke it st…stop. Make eh stop… make it stop." A sob from deep in his chest, voice hoarse, everything hurts. "Make it stop please." 

He couldnt even tell you if he'd actually spoken, or if wordless noise escaped a ruined throat. The pounding of his heart, the ringing of his ears, nothing seemed to exist past that. 

Warmth on his cheek, he must be crying again… 

Pressure on his back, his shoulder thanks him for rolling over, he cant recall doing it.

Something touches his neck. 

He flinches violently, surprising himself and whoevers touching him. He throws his arms up, his back now against the stupidly familiar walls.

"Make it stop! I dont want to anymore! Just kill me already, Make it stopmakeitstopmaKEITSTOP!!"

Something rumbles in his mind, loud enough to block all the stupid noises, filled instead with crashing waves and warm sand, foreign yet familair. 

"Lance." He flinches, he can only half hear what was said, head in a fishbowl of water and one ear clogged, but it was definetly his name… 

"Leandro, please look at me hermano." 

Tears bubble in his eyes as he realizes what this is.

Hes lost it completely.

Hes halucinating now. Maybe it really is finally the end-

"Lance please." It sounds so broken, she should never sound like that-

He looks up. 

The door. It did exist, lying in sparking pieces as it is. Shiro is in the doorway, face drawn in concern, galra arm still smoking from whatever he used it for. Behind him Keith is glaring down his sword at something Lance cant see. Infront of him however, curled up in the too small room, knees an inch from his own, back bowed so his head wont hit the ceiling, arm brushing the smaller one next to him. Two sets of warm eyes, wet with tears and dark with bags, look at him with mournful sadness and yet, tentative hope, relief. 

The tears spill over, his lips wobble as he sobs,

"Make it stop please. I cant handle it if youre not really here. Please." 

"We're here buddy. Hermano, we're here. Give me your hand Lance, I promise we're real." Hunks voice wavers with emotion, Lance knows he's seconds from breaking down. 

"We're late, but we're here Lance. Please." Pidges voice is small, hand held out beside Hunks, both tremble. 

Lance is going to regret it. He is. He's gonna regret it. 

His hands- cold, achey, maybe broken, filthy- meet the warm calloused palms of his friends. He slumps forward like his string have been cut, but the two dutifully catch him. Warmth. Not from blood or tears, but from real people. Lances eyes slipped closed, feeling safe for a moment, if he wakes up alone… at least he got to see their faces one last time…

>>next

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 3 - Querencia

This takes place during Lili's facility days, somewhere in the midst of chapter 3.

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps , @bookworm2107

Masterlist

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Contains: minor whumpee (16-17) but it's only angst not physical whump, lady whump, implied imprisonment, insomnia

.

.

The moon is bright tonight. It must be full, or close to it. Liliana can’t tell for sure, she can’t ever get the right angle up through the small window at the ceiling to actually see it, but the way it’s lighting up the foot of her bed definitely makes it seem like a full moon.

She sits up, curling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, staring up at the window. It’s probably been at least an hour since the lights turned out and all the doors were locked - by her best guess, she doesn’t have a clock - but she can’t sleep. That’s not unusual. She has a hard time falling asleep most nights, or she’ll wake up randomly in the middle of the night and not be able to go back to sleep. She doesn’t have the option to turn on a lamp or the overhead light to do anything like read, though, so she just stays in bed and stares at the ceiling or the wall…or the dark expanse outside the window.

Tonight, the moonlight spilling across her bed reminds her of being a child. She was always fascinated by the moon. Normally, when she was really young, she’d be tucked into bed before it was dark enough to really see the moon, but sometimes she’d stay awake as long as she could so that she could peek out her curtains and catch a glimpse of it. Her Mamà taught her the little poem one night, when they were coming home from somewhere late and Liliana was enamored by the moon ‘following’ the car. “I see the moon, and the moon sees me…”

Even when she got a bit older, she would sometimes pretend that the moonlight would keep her safe from harm. Whenever the soft white light would come peeking through the blinds onto her bed, she’d crawl to the other end and curl up, letting the lines fall across her face and imagining she could feel its warmth.

Slowly, quietly, she does the same thing now. The battered metal frame of the bed squeaks as her weight transfers. She wiggles around until she can wrap the thin, scratchy sheet around herself in this new position, then settles into place and blinks up at the window once more.

She can just see the bottom portion of the moon. She’s bathed in its light, much more so than when it was shining through her blinds, but…she doesn’t feel anything. 

There’s no warmth. There’s no protection. The moon isn’t magical, it’s just a cold, unfeeling light, looking down at her struggles and heartache with apathy. Back when she was a child, pretending it was something more, she was already safe. She had nothing to worry about. She was lying in her cozy bed on top of soft blankets, surrounded by her beloved plushies with a family who loved her just down the hall.

But the moon didn’t keep her safe, and neither did anything else. And trying to bring back a little bit of that lost childhood while lying on a rock hard mattress in a cold room locked from the outside feels completely ridiculous.

Sitting up abruptly, Liliana moves back to her pillow, curling on her side with the sheet pulled up to her chin and her back facing the window.

[starliight-whump]

Solitude

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

Contains: Solitary confinement, psychological torture, hallucinations. Self inflicted injuries, captivity, female whumpee, blood, vauge reference to past trauma/abuse.

Amara hated white. It had never been one of her favorite colors, but now she fucking despised it. Here, in her cell, it was the only color her world consisted of. The walls, floor and ceiling were white, and so were the mattress with suffocation proof sheets on the floor, as well as her clothes. Hell, even the food she got was more or less white. A gross white mush, or white nutrition shake, served on white plates or in white mugs. It was always the same, and without windows not even the light changed, making it impossible to tell the passing of time. Had she been here a few days, or a week already? More? Felt like a long time, at least. The minutes and hours seemed to stretch out into an eternity.

She had tried to escape at first, of course she had, but with the power dampeners around her wrists she was not nearly as strong as she usually was and the attempt had ended in frustration. Amara had been determined to not let it get to her, to prove to her captors that they wouldn’t be able to crack her, that she wasn’t something to be broken, but it was getting to her. The neverending whiteness, the silence which was just barely broken by the opening of the hatch in her door when she was given food. Even then, no one talked to her, and she didn’t actually see the person slipping the food through the hatch. Hell, for all she knew, it could be a robot delivering her food. The lack of things to look at and things to do was unnerving and maddening, her burning anger had simmered down into an ember, replaced by a restless anxiety. Despite having nothing to do but to lay around and rest, Amara found that she struggled to sleep. 

Heart racing, Amara pushed herself to her feet because she couldn’t stand sitting still a second longer. Too tense, like a bowstring pulled too taut, ready to snap at any second. She began pacing the floor and each of her footsteps were so loud, accompanied by the loud drumming of her heart. How was it so loud? Didn't make sense… As she paced, Amara chewed her bottom lip and fidgeted with her sleeves, white just like everything else.

"Get out, get out, need to get out." Amara mumbled to herself in a quiet, raspy voice. She fucking hated this room. Her skin started crawling and the hair of her neck stood on end as the feeling of being watched washed over her. No. Amara could've sworn she heard a second set of footsteps behind her. Then she caught something in the corner of her eye, the shadow of a person. A whiff of perfume…

Amara whipped around, heart in her throat as she expected to see someone, the enemy. No one was there, yet the scent of perfume persisted. Floral and familiar, like wild roses.

Her wild eyes darted around the empty room. "Where are you?!" She screamed into the white void.

A few seconds of silence, then the void replied. 

"Little Amara, so weak." A cold laugh followed, and the scent of roses overwhelmed her.

Amara's eyes widened and she flinched. That voice…. "N-no, you can't. You're dead!" She stammered, fear entering her voice.

"Such a disappointment. Pathetic."

The coldness of her mentor’s voice still managed to scare Amara, even though she had been dead for five years now. "Nonono, shut up!" Amara shut her eyes and clasped her hands over her ears; fingers tangling in her hair. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" She mumbled desperately as she kept moving, trying to get away. 

But the voice didn't stop. Disappointment, pathetic, weak, it  kept repeating; echoing around the room. Then, it came from behind her.

"You'll always be that weak, pathetic little girl. Good for nothing." 

"Shut up!" Amara whirled around and saw the hazy image of a person, a face she'd seen in her nightmares. Out of pure instinct she lashed out the only way she could; balled her hand into a fist and smashed it hard against the mirage. Then her hand hit something hard and pain flashes through it, but she threw another punch for good measure. The pain intensified and the room went quiet, taking the scent of roses and the shadow with it. Once again, Amara was alone. Or rather, she always had been… Everything was as it had been. Or… not quite.

Amara's eyes fell on the smear of red on the wall, such a stark contrast against the white. She glanced down at her throbbing, bloodied knuckles, then back at the wall. Despite the pain, Amara couldn't help but to smile. Finally some color.

@whumptober-archive

[how-much-for-a-whump]

WHUMPTOBER day 3:

Prompt: "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

Acı Aşk 1. Bölüm

[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPTOBER 2023 - 03: "Like Crying Out in Empty Rooms; With No-one there Except the Moon

Whumptober 2023 Navigation Post

Journal | Solitary Confinement | "Make it Stop."

This was fun! But it took a while, whoops ^-^' But that's just what happens when you put too much on your plate I suppose lol. Next, I am going to write some real, proper mer whump :)

CONTENT and WARNINGS: Disordered eating, domestic abuse (mother against adopted son), broken bones, a vague death wish/regret of survival, so much self-loathing, dehumanisation, minor animalisation (it's mostly just the dehumanisation), dissociation and entrancement, nonhuman whumpee

wc: ~2.5k

ANOTHER STARLESS NIGHT

Pete felt so, so stupid.

In the mornings, Kate would always take care of her mail and various bills and budgets over her first brew of the day. While she was busy, she would never acknowledge Pete, even if he spoke to her. He knew he should’ve taken that oppourtunity to eat his first decent meal in days, but, as always, he was a weak, mewling coward that was too afraid to even face her. He needed the energy for the coming night, he should’ve been building up his reserves for days, but he didn’t, not even when the hunger pains grew so severe that they left him retching on the floor.

Stupid.

He did try though; multiple times, he had crept from his room toward the staircase, and each time, he never got past the first couple of steps before the throbbing of his darkening cheek reminded him of what awaited if he drew her ire.

Each time, his heart would start pounding, tearing the air from his lungs.

Each time, he fled and hid under his bed, burrowing into his pillows and blankets like a damned toddler afraid of the dark.

Pete stifled a sob, cheeks burning with salty tears and shame. He had never been so afraid, so pathetic; he’d never felt so utterly useless. All he was, was a burden. He couldn’t do anything for himself anymore, not even the simple task of descending the stairs, reheating some leftovers, and coming straight back up.

Timmy would offer—Liz too—to coddle him, to lie to his face and say that he wasn’t weak, he was just unwell and recovering. They’d say for him to be easy on himself, but it had been months. He hated that; he hated this feeling.

He sniffled, whining, hating himself for being so… so…

What kind of friend would use the people that cared about him?

Pete reached for a pillow and curled tightly around it, pressing his face into its soft fabric so there was no chance Kate could hear him cry. He laid there until his body had nothing left to give, and wallowed in his misery a while longer, too drained and sore from his efforts with nothing to replenish the energy or tears he just wasted.

The hunger pains had faded overnight, but a dull, empty ache persisted, and the jut of his shoulders and ribs into the hard, wooden floors served as a morbid reminder that he wasn’t going to last much longer; he needed something, he was so hungry.

As if everything else wasn’t enough, a sharp, persistent pain throbbed behind his eyes.

Pete groaned. He needed water, too; he was parched; but the mere thought of it made him sick with fear. One single drop from a clumsy sip was all it would take to earn him another bruise, and that was if he was lucky.

On the nights of the full moon, he was never lucky.

The moon…

A heavy sense of dread loomed over Pete, its stifling weight twisting and crushing his heart. Every time, it would take his mind and destroy any healing he managed over the month. He felt trapped, like nothing he did was ever enough. It laughed in the face of each feeble attempt to regain his former health and independence.

Just make this hell stop, please…!

Some pitiful survival instinct must’ve kicked in, because at last, as if on its own, Pete’s body untangled itself from the nest of blankets and pillows he’d built and pushed himself upright on thin, trembling legs, picked up his cane, and staggered to the door.

He stared at his hand as it rested on the doorknob. The knuckles of his cane hand went white. The sharp tips of his claws clicked and slid easily against the brass; he hadn’t trimmed them in weeks. His breath stuttered in his chest. If he was fast, maybe Kate wouldn’t notice.

Pete took a slow, deep breath, and steeled himself, cementing in his mind what to do, and not to screw up: he would eat a little food, drink some water, and come straight back up. He wouldn’t linger, he wouldn’t bother Kate with more than his presence, and then he would be gone, locked in his room safe.

…As safe as he would ever be…

The thought felt too optimistic. Nothing ever went well for him, but before he could psych himself out again, his mind conjured tantalising images of the leftovers he would find waiting for him in the fridge. His mouth watered and his stomach growled at the prospect of Kate’s stew. He found himself halfway down the stairs before he could stop himself, and soon, he was downstairs, padding through the hall to the kitchen. The only sounds that gave him away were the soft tap of his slippers, and the dull thud of his cane. Thankfully, there was no one in the kitchen to hear his approach.

The terrace seemed quiet… almost too quiet.

A furtive scan of the kitchen and one more glance down the hall confirmed that Kate was nowhere to be seen. Before long, Pete sat at the peninsula, picking at a small bowl of warmed stew and a slice of buttered bread, and sipping carefully at a cup of water. The taste of the stew was unparalleled on his starved tongue, especially when it soaked into the soft, fresh bread and mixed with the butter. Even the first few bites filled him with a comfortable warmth he had not felt since he was last at Timmy’s.

He really should’ve eaten faster.

“You didn’t ask before you took.”

Pete jolted at the harsh voice and turned to find himself squarely under Kate’s withering glare. Even leaned against the wall at the kitchen entrance, her presence oozed malice.

“M-m’am, I—I’m s- I’m sorry, I was ju—j—”

“Shut it. I don’t care about your excuses. In a hurry to feed your own greed is what you were just doing. You know better than to steal; I raised you better than that, even if you are a demon,” she spat.

Pete shrunk under those hard, brown eyes, stung. He may’ve been taller, but he certainly didn’t feel like it; all he wanted to do was disappear under his dressing gown’s hood and flee back upstairs to the safety of his bedroom.

He didn’t though, he couldn’t, not when he was frozen to the spot, daring not even to breathe without her say-so.

“What brings you down here anyway?” Kate asked curtly, “You haven’t had the gall to show your face for days, so. There must be a reason.”

The knot of dread that sat in Pete’s stomach abruptly tightened. There were so many different answers and excuses to skirt the truth warring for his attention that he couldn’t pick any single one to force from his dry, tight throat.

“Answer.”

“I’ll—I-I’ll just—go—” he stammered, moving his stool and abandoning his half-finished bowl, I w-won’t both-bother ye, s’rry ma’am, I—”

“It’s the full moon tonight, isn’t it.”

The words died on his tongue.

The colour draining from his already pallid face must've shown his terror, because she knew without his answer that she was right.

She glanced at her watch, and then fixed her darkening gaze on him.

Pete wished he was faster.

He wished he wasn’t so useless.

Kate was around the peninsula in a heartbeat, taking a fistful of his streaky, ratty auburn hair and forced his head low.

Pete cried and tried to turn away, reaching for the bench before he fell, but Kate’s strength was no match for his starving body. His fumbled attempts at reaching for his cane before she dragged him too far only resulted in it clattering to the floor. He had nothing to support him as he staggered, trying and failing to follow her brutal lead to…

The cellar.

“No, nonono, please!” Pete begged, “Please don’t--!”

“SHUT IT,” Kate barked, tightening her already painful grip on Pete’s hair until he stopped babbling his stupid, pointless pleas. As much as he tried, he couldn’t choke down the dreadful whimpers and cries that his body made regardless.

Pete tried desperately to relieve the strain, but between his injured leg’s complete, agonising inability to take weight, and Kate’s cruel pace, he had no choice but to grab her arm instead.

She hissed a furious insult, voice dripping with venom.

Warmth beaded on Pete’s scalp and a trail of glimmering blood slowly inched its way past his hairline. The terrible sting of the new wounds brought tears to his eyes.

Kate did not let go. Instead, she stopped in front of the cellar door, dragged Pete upright, and set his world spinning and his ears ringing with a vicious slap.

Pete yelped.

A thin stream of blood dripped down his reddening cheek; her ring must’ve caught.

Kate let out a furious breath, seeming to calm; her furious, hateful look cooled, but she wasn’t done with him yet.

Kate released Pete’s hair and reached past him.

The cellar door, it was right behind him. He was leaning on it. Panic shot through Pete, but she opened it and shoved him in with such sudden force that Pete stumbled back, missing the step. He instinctively reached out and caught Kate’s arm in a grip far tighter than before in a desperate attempt to catch himself. Before he realised, he had pulled Kate forward and his claws sunk through her cardigan and pierced her skin, tearing four deep claw-marks into her arm.

Kate shrieked.

Pete’s heart stopped and he released his grip immediately, causing him to fall and hit the stairs awkwardly with a thud and an impact that threw him into a harsh tumble the rest of the way down until he rolled limply to a stop. He lay stunned at the bottom of the stairs, numb until the fall caught up with him and new pain exploded all across his body at each point of impact.

He barely noticed his ability choking his breath and mangling his low, pitiful keens over the blossoming bruises that throbbed on his shoulders and hips, the hot, angry pain that dotted his back where the edges of the stairs collided with fragile scars, and the white-hot agony that set every nerve in his injured leg on fire.

Was he still spinning? Pete’s mind told him that he was motionless on the floor, but his body told him otherwise.

Through hazy double-vision, he could see Kate’s silhouette in the doorway above. He couldn’t make out her expression, but he was sure she glowered on her failure of a phony son, hating him and wishing punishment on him as she watched him shallowly gasp in his pitiful fight for air, clutching her arm.

His gills flared in another failed breath, visible past their coverings.

“Tch,” she hissed.

I’m… I must look hideous… like this, he thought, I am.

The wet was on his hand; blood.

It was her blood on his hands, he realised dimly, wiping it off.

Suddenly, his chest released, and he drank in the dusty air with a deep, horrid gasp.

Everything hurt.

Though the agony in his leg faded, he couldn’t help but choke out short, hoarse sobs as his bruised and cracked ribs quickly made their displeasure known, punishing him with blunt but intense jabs of pain.

Slowly, Kate prowled down the stairs, still holding her arm. Blood had seeped through her sleeve, staining the pretty whites of her clothes red.

Pete knew what she wanted, but why she didn’t thrash him then and there as a precursor was beyond him. Maybe, she thought he’d been punished enough.

“Get in the cage. Or I’ll drag you in myself,” she growled.

It didn’t matter that the last of his strength gave way when Pete tried to pick himself up, he had to take this mercy and obey… even if that meant he crawled like an animal.

He ached in despair at the thought. He didn’t survive for this.

Had he known this was the home that awaited him if he survived that man, he might just have given up. But… what had he expected…?

There was no floor in the cage, only a harsh metal mesh identical to the sides that bit into the skin he couldn’t cover with his dressing gown. He couldn’t remember dragging himself in, but he collapsed, panting. His body must’ve sensed the thin safety the walls granted and kept moving; he wouldn’t—couldn’t be struck until he was let out again.

Click.

Kate’s thin fingers wrapped around the small padlock that looped through the gate and locked the cage shut.

Pete sobbed, but Kate ignored him, climbing the cellar stairs and pulled the door closed behind her. For one fleeting moment, she seemed to hesitate, lingering in the darkened threshold.

Pete wished he was good enough for her, human enough, so that she would love him again, and he could wake up every day and come downstairs for breakfast without fear, so they could sit together and chat over tea or a movie, like they used to. Another shuddering sob wracked his body.

“’m s’rry,” he whimpered.

Alas, there were no stars in the cellar ceiling; only pipes that glimmered with condensation.

Pete made her bleed. There was no going back, she would never forgive him.

The door closed with a soft click, and Kate was gone.

 In the dim, Pete curled in on himself with a sniffle, and wrapped his arms around his belly, imagining someone was there to hold him close and whisper softly to him that everything would be alright. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could trick himself into thinking he was in Timmy’s bed, cosied up with his back against the cool, terrace wall, and his head nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

The hole in Pete’s heart that Timmy’s presence usually filled remained dark and cold, shattering his little dream before he could trick himself into believing it was real.

By the weak, orange-tinged light that shone through a single window at the end of the cellar, he could tell it was late afternoon. It wouldn’t be long before moonrise. Anxiety nibbled at his nerves. Without a clock, there was no telling how long he had. He didn’t know what he would do, or what punishments he would earn, and that scared him deeply.

He just wanted Timmy there to sooth him and assure him that it wasn't anything he’d truly regret when he became lucid again.

It didn’t take long for the window to darken, and for Pete’s thoughts and fears to slowly slip away until he was just a desperate, mindless creature, that strained weakly at its confines for even a drop of moonlight to touch its long-starved skin.

He stayed like that, lost in the trance’s stupor, until the moon set just after dawn, leaving him to slump and fall unconscious at last.

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