#I like having multiple whumpees in my stories

[clickerflight]

The Lion and the Mouse - Part 3

Master list

Part 2

This is where the lion comes in >:3

Content: Villain whumpee, vigilante whumpee, hero whumper, tiny whumpee, bruised, blood, split lip, broken ribs, cramps, hogtied, gun, no shots fired

...................................

Vigil returned to the base after a very nerve wracking day of pacing around his safehouse and not doing much else. He had thoroughly checked his shoes and there was no Kai to be found. He felt sick to his stomach, imagining that an ant had gotten him and started the endless death cycle, or that he was small enough that he was well and truly dead now. He should have gone with the first plan. Sure, there was more of a chance of getting caught, but at least he could have been certain that Kai was in his sleeve. 

He glanced at the corner where Kai was supposed to wait for him and unsurprisingly found nothing. So, he trudged on into the base, trying desperately to think of where Kai would have gone. If you were a tiny man, where would you hide?

The vents would make sense, but they were probably too cold and Kai didn’t have any clothes. What if he had froze to death? Or starved to death? Or-

“Morning, Vigil,” a dark voice said from behind him. 

Vigil turned and found Leshy staring at him with a death glare. “Oh, morning. Sorry, I was thinking about what we were doing today. I wasn’t really told-”

“You’ll be sparring with me today,” Leshy informed him. “In the 5th training room. Be there in an hour.”

Leshy stormed off as Vigil said, “Oh, okay, then.”

Vigil knew what was coming. He wasn’t an idiot. He was going to take a beating for taking away Leshy’s toy because the hero was as childish as Vigil’s youngest niece. Thankfully it would be just a beating since everyone seemed to believe his story of ‘I stepped on it by accident.’ They even watched the footage and Technical agreed that it was an accident. 

Still, Vigil couldn’t keep back the creeping fear that he was going to be discovered. 

He was slow to get ready, changing into his sparring uniform with loose pants and a sleeveless top, but he was still there on time as he wrapped his knuckles. 

Leshy was waiting for him, shoes already off and hands wrapped. Vigil finished quickly, slipping off his own shoes and socks before standing at the other side of the training room. 

Without a word, the two took up positions and got started. Leshy was powerful, attacking in huge overpowering bursts, obviously used to having teammates step in when he needed a break. Vigil, who often worked alone, was smoother, drawing out the fight to exhaust the hero. Leshy got his second and third wind, but after that, Vigil was quick to snake an arm around his neck and push him to the floor, holding him in a pin as Leshy struggled to get out. 

After a moment, Leshy relaxed and Vigil let him go, standing up and shaking out his arms. 

“How many rounds?” Vigil asked as Leshy got up, rubbing his neck.

“Two more,” Leshy replied, digging in his bag for something. Once Leshy was ready, the two faced up again. Leshy attacked with less vigor, drawing it out a little more and matching Vigil’s pace. Vigil kept up well enough, but Leshy, now that he was applying his energy correctly, was much harder to deal with. Leshy jabbed with steady punches and grabbed for Vigil a couple of times, so close that Vigil nearly went down. 

Then it happened. Leshy moved in, forcing Vigil to step back and with the speed of a striking snake, Leshy hooked his legs out from under him and was on top of him, trying to get him in a pin. Vigil moved to get out, more flexible than Leshy, but Leshy was much stronger than him. Vigil tapped out when Leshy pressed his arm to Vigil’s throat hard enough to cause spots. But Leshy didn’t move. Vigil tried tapping out again, the sound of blood pounding in his head rising in volume alongside his panic, but Leshy didn’t move, instead reaching back and grabbing something from under his shirt. Vigil caught sight of glittering metal, and then a gun was at his head, a couple of clicks sounding as the safety was turned off and the gun was cocked. 

Leshy let up on Vigil’s throat a little and he gasped for air, the spots clearing away, but he didn’t move to get out of the pin as the warm metal stayed pressed to his forehead. Leshy seemed to be waiting for Vigil to speak so, once the pounding faded and the silence had stretched on tensely for a few minutes, Vigil relented. 

“Leshy,” he said in a warning tone. 

Leshy’s grin was something that belonged in nightmares, wide, toothy, and feral. “Did you let my pet go on accident, really?”

“You saw the tapes, and how I reacted when you killed him,” Vigil replied with a fair amount of disgust. “You’re stupid if you think I did.”

His pre-planned excuse had apparently hit just the spot of believability as Leshy relaxed slightly. “Thank you for the honesty, then, but I’m afraid we don’t have any villains to take my frustration out on, and Technical said that if I hurt one of the sidekick’s again I’d be off the team forever. Course, I didn’t get his permission for this, but I don’t mind asking forgiveness once I feel better.”

Leshy got off of Vigil, still pointing the gun at his head. “Roll over.”

Vigil did so carefully and put his hands on the back of his head like he knew the next order would be. 

Leshy chuckled. “Good dog. You’re all trained and everything.”

Vigil growled, ready to turn again and prove Leshy wrong, but a knee came down in the middle of his back and sticky, calloused hands wrenched his arms behind his back. 

“None of that, now. I promise I won’t kill you. This beating won’t be anything like what I hand out to the villains, even. Just enough to relax, you know? And if you breathe a word of this to your pretty little union, I’ll leave this team and find you again. I know how you fight, now. I don’t care what toys you have. I will take you and I will beat you until I break you. Plus, I won’t have any obligation to keep you alive afterwards.”

Vigil forced himself to take deep, slow breaths. Just withstand a beating or two. He could do that. He’d done it plenty of times before. 

“Get up,” Leshy said, standing back and presumably pointing the gun at his back. 

Vigil rolled to his side and did so slowly, watching the gun move with him to stay pointed at his face. 

“Move your arms to the front,” Leshy said, grinning with each command he gave. 

Vigil took another slow breath before stepping through the cuffs one leg at a time till his hands were at his front. 

“Good. Now, arms up and close your eyes.”

Vigil did, and the gun was placed on his chest. If he was shot at this range he knew he’d be dead. The gun pushed him back a few steps before he was backed against a wall. There was a clinking sound and Leshy’s hot breath on his face. Vigil turned his head, trying not to breathe in Leshy’s air as the man locked something into his cuffs, keeping his arms above his head. 

After a moment, Leshy’s presence was gone and Vigil opened his eyes, watching the man go and toss the gun back into his bag, cracking his knuckles as he returned. 

“I’ll betcha I can bust your lip in the first try,” Leshy said with a sadistic smile. 

Vigil’s flesh crawled with each word, but he did not respond as Leshy said, “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

…………………………………..

When the lights went out, Kai was ready to venture again. He stepped out of the vents and went back to the kitchen. He was taller now. Not big enough to need his new cloak yet, but getting there. He was back to the size he’d been before Vigil crushed him and glad for it. He still wouldn’t be able to reach the rungs of the drawers, but it was better being bigger. 

He scavenged up crumbs again, delighted to even find bits of turkey that had fallen to the floor. He was feeling much better now after having eaten and the chance to get water and sleep. He’d even found a leaky water fountain when he’d been traveling through the vents and had his fill there. 

He ate on the way back to the vents, planning where he was going to go from here. He might start traveling into rooms, seeing if he can find tools. He’d need another cloth to be his bag and blanket when he switched to wearing the one he had now, and he’d need something sharp and some string. 

After thinking about it, he decided a bathroom would work best for finding what he needed. He quietly ate the rest of his food in the vent, deciding who would be the best for this. He could still get in and out through vent gaps so that wouldn’t be a problem, though it was getting to be a squeeze, so he’d need to decide quickly. 

Nautilus was a very sound sleeper and more prepared than the rest. Plus, he might have a razor blade hiding around. Kai remembered him talking about how he groomed his facial hair the ‘proper’ way. 

So, Kai navigated the vents, looking out through the grating to be sure he knew where he was. Soon, he was at Nautilus’s vents. He squeezed through and, after climbing the slats, he reached the knob that would open them a bit farther. He tried for a minute, but he was still too small to really do so. Still, he managed to crack them a bit more by hanging his weight on one side before falling to the floor. With that done and crossed the bedroom. It didn’t take forever, but it was still a good trek. In the bathroom he looked up at the counter. There was a stack of washcloths that he could already see, solving one of his problems. The issue would be getting up there. 

The shower curtains were slid to one side nearer to the counter, and thankfully the outer layer hung outside the tub. His hope that Nautilus’s ‘proper way’ of doing things would mean he would have a second curtain like this. 

So, Kai grabbed hold of the curtain leaving his bag on the rug in front of the sink, and climbed. He was tired by the time he got to the counter, and his hands and legs trembled, but he had the strength to fling himself onto the counter, wincing when the movement caused one of the curtain hooks to move and squeak slightly. 

There was no sound from the bathroom so Kai grabbed a washcloth and dragged it over to the edge. It was heavy and annoying. He contemplated leaving it here for another night, but he got it over the edge and that was that. He’d have to deal with it now. Some poking around revealed a small container of dental floss and a pack of razor blades. He soon pushed them over the edge of the counter, letting them land softly on the rug below. He looked around one more time to make sure there was nothing he’d want to grab on the way out and leapt for the curtain, sliding down it much easier than climbing up. 

He had to make three trips across the floor to get each of the items to the vent, and the floss pack nearly didn’t go until he figured out how to pop it open and get the roll of floss out of it. He shoved the container behind a box under the bed so it wouldn’t be found and disappeared back into the vents, happy with his night of foraging. 

Once he made it back to his patch of vent, a quiet place with a small blockage of what had been a mouse nest at some point that kept it a bit warmer. Kai admired his new tools, excited about each of them. He was still too small to wield the razor blade, but he was already thinking about tying it to a stick and having a little weapon, or at least something he could kind of use to grapple things with. 

He spent the rest of the evening napping and braiding the floss into rope that would hold him as he got bigger. 

…………………………………..

Vigil still hung in the training room. He didn’t sleep, merely staring at his aching feet as blood dripped from his open mouth. His mouth and lips were badly cut. Leshy had indeed been able to break his lip on the first punch. And the second. And the third. 

Vigil couldn’t really breath through his nose. It hurt too much at the moment, so he let his mouth hang open and drip onto the floor. He blinked slowly, his face aching. His ribs hurt too, but he was good at ignoring them. They felt bruised, not broken. His shoulders had burned for hours as he hung there, but now his arms just felt numb and cold as the blood had a harder and harder time pumping all the way up to his fingers. 

The lights turned back on, but when he lifted his head to see the doorway, no one was there. He lowered it again. The lights must be on timers, then. He wondered how long he’d have to wait before he saw Leshy’s smug face again. 

The answer was not too long. Leshy came in with a smile. He had a glass of water in hand and Vigil watched him approach, glaring through the sweaty hair that had fallen into his eyes. 

“Morning,” Leshy said with a huge grin. 

He held the cup to Vigil’s lips and Vigil got in two swallows before he had to snort to keep water out of his nose and the rest was dumped on his head, ice cubes and all. 

He gasped at the shock of it, shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes as Leshy laughed. 

“Come on, big guy. You’ve got this,” he said, backing up to set the cup down. “Just a couple more days. I have to go out on a mission later, so I’ll be nice and let you down…. What do you say?”

Vigil’s lip curled at the patronizing tone, but Leshy’s stance grew firmer and his eyes set in a cruel expression, waiting for Vigil to speak. 

“Thanks,” Vigil spat. 

“Not so hard now, is it?” Leshy said with that same nightmarish smile. “I need to get my warm up in before I let you down. Be ready.”

And with that, the beating started. Leshy had a weapon this time, a metal pole he twirled around in pretty showy circles before slamming it into Vigil’s legs or ribs. By the time he was done, Vigil definitely had a broken rib or two, and his knee ached, not broken, but something was definitely damaged there. 

Leshy turned away, as though to leave when he whirled around, slamming the pole into Vigil’s stomach. The Vigilante coughed, nearly losing the water he’d swallowed earlier. Leshy watched, smiling as Vigil coughed and bent over as far as he could with the way he was hanging. 

He reached up and undid the lock, letting Vigil fall to the ground, curling around his stomach and ribs. 

Leshy undid the cuffs around Vigil’s wrists, pulling them to Vigil’s back and relocking them. He locked the chain around the metal pole before cuffing Vigil’s bare ankles to the pole as well, hog tying him effectively. 

“There, that should keep you here,” Leshy said, ignoring Vigil’s sharp gasp as something immediately started cramping in the left leg. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

And with that, Leshy left again. 

Vigil writhed in agony as the cramp turned into a charlie horse, and he grunted and pressed his face into the floor, letting the pain of those bruises act as a distraction. It was hours before it faded away, and Vigil was left sweating and shaking on the floor, his not so numb shoulders complaining about the position and his injured knee joining in. 

After a few hours he heard the door open and there was a soft squeak. 

Vigil twisted his head to see one of the sidekicks, the younger one, he was pretty sure, standing there. They stared at each other for a moment before Vigil opened his mouth. 

“Please, help,” he whispered. “I won’t tell him it was you. I’ll say I got out on my own.”

The sidekick stared at him, frozen and silent.

“Please,” Vigil said again, putting some urgency into his voice. 

The sidekick dashed in, giving Vigil some hope before it failed as the sidekick grabbed whatever he had been sent in for and left just as quickly, shutting the door behind him. 

Vigil slowly set his face back down on the floor with a low sigh. “Fair enough,” he murmured, and he closed his eyes against the fluorescent lights, ignoring the mirrors that lined the one wall, repeating back his misery to him.

Part 4

@whumpsday

[whomeidontknowthem]

Stitched lips

Content warning: slavery, implied sexual slavery (no actual discussion of any of it here but it is what it is), torture, body modifications, dehumanizing language.

Shout out to @whump-in-the-closet for giving me motivation to finally write this scene down with their wonderful prompt.

“…you can go fuck yourself! You, and your fucked up fantasies and your bitch of a wife, you can all go fuck yourself! Fucking monsters in a human skin, when I get out, I’ll make sure you survive for years until you fucking beg me to stop and then never listen, you pieces of fucking despicable shit!”

Ayzan panted, gasping for air after a tirade that was met with heavy silence and an even heavier gaze. It hurt — everything did — their jaw from being forced open with a gag most of the time, their throat from how each word felt like shards of glass across too dry and overused skin, their back and left arm where patterns of cuts and burns coiled around their skin, still fresh, crossed out by chaotic lashes made by a less caring hand, their knees from kneeling and joints from being forced to bend too far for far too long. It hurt, and had hurt for so long they could barely remember the before.

Emrose watched, face contorted in deep displeasure. He tilted his head when no more words came and Ayzan felt the belated panic rise up in their throat, chocking whatever they could add before they even attempted to speak.

The lord didn’t touch them. He only turned around and left, not sparing a single word of explanation or a threat, and it was so much worse. Ayzan thrashed in their binds the moment the door closed, testing the ropes to the new jolts of pain from where they dug in their skin, grating it red and raw. Nothing gave. They whimpered, overwhelmed by fear, helpless in the face of it. Whatever was going to happen, it was too much. They couldn’t go through that. They just wanted to go home — why had Kiris still not found them? Why, why, why, why?!

They heard the voices before the steps before the creak of the door. Feedali’s tilting phrases, sweet and light as they always were, urging the lord to think again. She begged him to reconsider. To not do to Ayzan whatever he was planning. They thrashed again even as it led to nothing but more pain.

“Please,” they begged the moment the couple came in. “Please, I didn’t mean it— I’m so sorry, I won’t speak like this again, please, I didn’t— I’m so— please don’t hurt me again, please please please—”

The lady spared a quick stroke down their cheek as the two passed them by, and Ayzan leaned into the touch. They hated it usually, hated the fake comfort she always gave before sliding a knife across their skin, how she always wiped their tears when the burning pain got too strong but never stopped no matter how they screamed and begged. They needed it now. Needed her to convince Emrose to change his mind. They felt like they were drowning, body fighting for breath so hard they chocked on the air.

“Dear, you see how scared it is. It really knows what it’s done wrong!” Feedali chirped, following the lord. “Perhaps something less permanent is a better idea? You can lash it as much as you’d like! You know how much I love when it sings for me.”

“I’m tired of it’s incessant talking,” Emrose cut her off. He brought a small table closer and placed something on it. Ayzan craned their neck, pleading words falling from their lips without ceasing. No use.

Something metal glistened in the lord’s hands as he pulled it out of the box. He put it at the table and took something else instead. “Open your mouth,” he threw an order. Ayzan immediately clenched their teeth. The ropes didn’t let them back away no matter how much they wanted and tried. “Open,” Emrose repeated. Ayzan shook their head, trying to catch Feedali’s eyes, to beg her silently to please please please please stop this. Emrose pinched their nose shut and painfully squeezed their jaw with another hand.

“Dear, you wouldn’t spoil all of my fun like this, would you?” Feedali hugged him from behind.

He shook her arms off, “Shut up, you too. It’s not like I’m stopping you from playing with it. It just needs to learn its lesson first.”

Ayzan saw her nose crinkle in disappointment at that as their lungs contracted in search of oxygen. They blinked back tears and clenched their jaw tighter even as Emrose’ fingers dug into the skin around it with bruising strength. Feedali stepped closer, brushing hair off of their forehead. “Come on then, pet. You’ve heard your master — you need to learn your lesson. It would only be easier for you if you relax. Come on.”

They didn’t. They held on, through the growing burning and the black spots before their eyes, through the pain and terror they refused to relax. They didn’t want a lesson. They didn’t want to know what was in store for them. They wanted it to end. Needed it to end. Gods, why couldn’t it already be over?! They couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t go on like this any longer!

It felt like they blacked out, and the moment their grip on their body faded just a bit, it acted against their will, gasping for breath. Fresh, tasty air finally flooded their chest, and immediately after they felt their jaw forced wide open something pushed inside their mouth, filling it and pressing their tongue down.

They couldn’t breathe again — they gagged, throat spasming to push the intrusion out, but there was no use as now their mouth was kept shut by the same unrelenting hand. Their lungs tried to suck in air again, and the fingers finally lifted from their nose. It only made the gagging worse. Half-delirious, they felt Feedali’s fingers on their cheek, caressing and tagging on something. They heard her voice, low and soothing, “Shhhh, you’re okay. You’re okay, just breathe, come on. Come on.”

Ayzan did, or at least tried their hardest, with slow and careful breaths, trying to force their body to relax. They felt fingers on their nose again and panicked, but Feedali only helped them blow it. They sobbed, grateful for her gentleness and overwhelmed by it. Tried opening their jaw, only to feel something hold it in place. Some sort of a strap? Was this it? Was it over?

The hope shuttered the moment Emrose stepped into their field of view. Ayzan saw the glistening of metal. They jerked back and whimpered and struggled and failed to speak. Feedali cooed at them. Emrose was not impressed.

They didn’t manage to see the instrument clearly before the lord was lifting their chin up and pressing something cold to their skin. Ayzan couldn’t get away — they couldn’t get away, couldn’t even beg them to. Tears streamed down their face and were brushed aside. They struggled to breathe through their nose.

The needle pierced through their lip with no warning.

Ayzan’s eyes flew open, Emrose tugged and demanded, “be still,” and they felt a string move through their flesh. The second wave of piercing pain came all too soon, as did the third.

“You’re not doing it evenly!” Feedali complained.

“Then do it yourself,” the lord snapped.

Ayzan barely processed the shifting before them, the pain and fear pulsating through their body. Their head was momentarily released and they desperately shook it, groaned and prayed to be understood. They’d learned their lesson. Please, they had, it was not necessary, please please please, why couldn’t they just let them go.

“Hold it for me, dear, won’t you?” Feedali asked and Emrose obliged. Ayzan stared at her as she smiled and turned the needle around before their eyes. “Hold still,” she addressed them sweetly. “We wouldn’t want to do it all over again if you thrashed around too much, would we?”

They didn’t want to do it even the first time. They hated it. They needed it to stop. Gods, please, why couldn’t it just stop.

Feedali cooed and smiled and talked comforting nonsense at them as the needle went through their lips mercilessly, up and down and then tug until it’s tight, and tug again to secure it with a knot. Up and down and tug, up and down and tug, and in the end they had no strength to even whimper, just crying in silence, body shaking with each puncture.

“Leave a gap for it to drink,” Emrose advised. Feedali agreed enthusiastically. She went to the very edge of their lips, tugged and tied it and Ayzan thought it was over. They hoped it was over, it had to be over, it had to.

The needle pierced them again, farther from the edge. “It’s a better pattern like this, isn’t it?” Feedali commented cheerfully. Emrose said something Ayzan couldn’t catch, but he also sounded satisfied. Ayzan cried and prayed for it to be over.

It went on slowly. It ended abruptly. They couldn’t remember half of it, and came to only when Feedali patted their cheek and praised them. They moved their mouth a bit and were met with a sharp pain. They cried.

“It must be thirsty,” the lady guessed. They didn’t catch the discussion that followed after. They heard laughter.

Something pressed to their lips — hurt, hurt, it hurt so much — past it, pushing them apart — hurt — just enough to squeeze through. “Open your teeth,” Feedali asked. Ayzan tried to. Their lips moved and it hurt. “Suck,” she encouraged them. They tried to — it was hard, with their mouth still filled so they couldn’t move their tongue even a bit. They gagged again, and they coughed when the water went down the wrong way. It hurt. They couldn’t even drink. They struggled to breathe. They hated it, hated it, hated hated hated hated it.

They barely felt the ropes around their limbs loosen and would have fallen over if not for someone’s arms lowering them down gently. “Look at it,” Ayzan heard Feedali coo above them. “So exhausted! I must admit, it was an ingenuous idea, dear. They’re so cute like this! And the gold looks so nice. I will definitely miss their voice, though.”

Ayzan’s hands were free. They moved one up, to their face, and felt thick blood caped around their chin. They moved further, to the lips. Ran a finger across them, pausing at each stitch and barely conscious of the pain that came with each movement.

Their lips were sewn shut. Barely a gap to press anything through anywhere but in one place, and even there barely a bigger straw could fit. They tried to force them open, and then tugged at the metal thread, scratched and tried to force the gag out, and wailed, and pulled so hard something tore, warm blood pouring in their mouth and down their chin both.

They felt their hands pried away from their face and tied together behind their back once more.

They curled up, crying helplessly, wretchedly, wishing only for this to be over. Clinging to the last bits of hope that it could be over, one day. That Kiris would find them. That they could survive until then. It had to end. It had to, had to, had to, had to. They needed it to end. It hurt so much.

A lash fell heavily, cutting across their back and their tied arms, and a few times more.

“Bring it to the dungeon until it remembers how to act,” Emrose demanded, voiced overflowing with disgust.

Ayzan felt something crack in them. They didn't resist being dragged away.

[floral-comet-whump]

consider institutionalized living weapon whump. mmmm. I will now explain this autism fueled hyperfixation that has been going on and off for me in the last 3-5 years

content warnings (all fictional): general whump stuff, child abuse, child soldiers, living weapon whump (kinda), conditioning, discussion of genshin impact (since I'm not tagging this post as genshin in fear of normal genshin likers on tumblr stumbling onto whump and not knowing what it is, therefore whump likers who dislike genshin and have the tags blocked would still view this (maybe. idk how tag filtering works)), multiple whumpers/carewhumpers, multiple whumpees, fantasy whump, briefly mentioned eating disorder

OKAY so back at like 2020 or 2021 I was ACTIVE in the genshin rp scene and one of my friends made a fatui oc that, due to being the only survivor of a snow blizzard, was adopted into the fatui and raised to be a soldier! also this was before inazuma's release so shoutout to [unnamed bc we fell out of touch so I don't know if they'd like to be named] for predicting the house of the hearth!

anyways their oc was not only an absolute BANGER, but also sparked what I now realize was whumperflies in 14 yo me! so I copied it with my own oc. also had the stellar idea to think that if [friend's oc] was integrated, why not make it a whole program? badabim badaboom fatui orphanage. I shit you not the first thing I came up with is that the rejects get sent to dottore

uhhhh as stuff came out and someone leaked a fatui orphanage then the secret shrine maiden quest came out I TWEAKED. my oc got updates. leaks about lyney (and lynette) being from the hoth(house of the hearth) brought me back after I'd gotten bored. I desperately held myself back from telling everyone their surnames. I listened to their leaked voicelines. I read their stories.

it was not as bad as I envisioned in my head. fym arlecchino saved them!! white knight white knight!!! fym they're not sleeper agents!!!! fym freminet has a job he enjoys that is in no way related to the fatui?!!?!!! free time and healthy hobbies on my extremely fanonized interpretation of a fictional orphanage we previously only had teeny tiny crumbs about?!?!?!!!;1!?!

arlecchino releasing made me fully give up on the vision I'd originally had on the hoth. I generally do actually like the canon hoth, but I was super attached to this whole miniature concept I'd invented and shared with so many people.

so I'm making my own child soldier orphanage!!!

CONSIDER CHILD SOLDIERS IN WHUMP. WITH CONDITIONING. consider telling children that have nowhere else to go (and whumper KNOWS they have nowhere else to go) they can either join the military or continue whatever they were doing. consider training and conditioning them. consider reminding them where they'd be, had carewhumper not taken them in. consider "letting them off easy" via punishment, or threatening to put them to other use.

consider teaching those children happy lies of doing good, and shattering that reality when they dare be ungrateful and try to run away. consider always making the expectations on them clear. consider the bonds these children will form both with each other and carewhumpers. parental whump my beloved. consider living weapon whumpee that isn't an on-field combatant. consider living weapon whumpee who's allowed to be a person as a reward.

consider living weapon whumpee who was previously rescued from a different kind of whumper and is just perfect for molding into a killing machine. consider orphans children willingly volunteering for the military because the program is well known. consider generations upon generations of this where previous whumpees retire to work in the same orphanage so that they'll never have to move out, prolonging the cycle of violence with promises of family. and that family isn't even false, just conditional.

whumpee who was rescued from a vampire thrall trade and is constantly reminded where they would've been had carewhumpers not been so generous as to rehabilitate them. ungrateful little thing, always reacting so slow, cowering from the vampires the carewhumpers have taken in as if they're the same one, either hoarding food or immediately wolfing it down.

whumpee who was abandoned as a child and came in to a place they knew they'd be accepted, but gradually realized the danger behind it and tried escaping. they were brought back and thoroughly disciplined. it's obvious that they're using a facade once one simply reads their file or asks them, but that doesn't matter so long as they're obedient.

a whumpee turned carewhumper that sees nothing wrong with what they're doing. they were raised this way, and though it was very scary, so is life in general. they certainly wouldn't have survived in this world without this orphanage, and much less by being coddled. the children brought here have all had difficult experiences that have scarred them, they can't be treated like normal kids.

that's all the ocs I have thought up for it rn soz

yeah!! will also be in a typical high fantasy setting because I prefer it a whole lot more.

I'm honestly unsure of what to call this thing. I can't really go with the house of the hearth. at some point I internally called it erysimum institute because I read destroyer and the name beldam institute just sounds rlly catchy. also erysimums symbolize faith in unfortunate situations which I think fits perfectly. but the loneliness/shyness part of wallflowers (a prominent type of erysimum) is a little less fitting.

I'll definitely change the name because I want it to be as original as it can be!! probably to some kind of flower meaning rebirth or smt but idk.

p.s: it would have art!!!

[whumpsoda]

I have this scene of Marshall deeply enthralled but still remaining defiantly quiet until eventually a Dr starts talking to him like he’s a scared child and a part of him opens up

Like “close your eyes if you don’t want to see the needle, love” or just explaining what everything they’re doing to him like “this won’t hurt you, see? you wanna touch it?”

he does so, and eventually once or twice asks a distant “what is thaaat?”

As of now this is not canon to the story, just a fun little extra :3

cw: vampire whumpers, multiple whumpers, vampire whumpers, hypnosis, hypnotized whumpee

——————

Marshall blinked, gradual and slow, the world blurring around him. He frowned hard, slouched down in his seat upon the table with his arms crossed like an irritated child. 

Seated beside him, Evangile rubbed her thumb over the skin of his shoulder in sweet, soft, circular motions, accompanied by the subduing dizziness of enthrallment. She ever so often supplied little whispers of calming, hypnotic nature, ones that were working toward quelling his ever present temper.

“It’s just a regular old shot, okay my dear? Nothing to be afraid of.” She gave him an unwelcomed scratch below the chin, Marshall’s muscles much too weary under the weight of enthrallment to escape her touch.

“Shh… shot…?” Even through the heaviest weight of a daze he recalled not wanting to go to another new doctor - or any doctor at all for that matter - but a shot? The fact only made the tense in his stomach churn worse.

“Yes, a shot.” Her gaze was fixed on the clock, watching and waiting for their appointment to begin. “It’ll be so quick and easy, you won’t even feel it.”

“Hmph.” He dug deeper into his seat, his expression of displeasure deepening.

“Well hello there!” The door swung wide open, the frame of a tall and lanky doctor striding in. They walked right up to Marshall, flashing a fang toothed smile, prompting him to take his sluggish limbs and shift away from them as much as he could. “A new thrall of yours, I presume?”

“You could say that.” Evangeline returned their grin.

With bright and excited energy their focus popped back to Marshall, spinning the thrall’s head in circles. “You can call me Dr. Belle, I’ll be taking care of you today. And your name is?”

He was already well aware his tongue didn’t work well under enthrallment, slow and weighted that turned his words to slurred mush. “Muh… mmm… Mar… shall…”

“A lovely name!” They exclaimed, rummaging through the tools they had brought along with them. “Now, I’ll go nice and slow for you okay? I can tell you’re a bit closed off, and I understand completely. I promise to tell you just what I’m doing, understood?”

Marshall nodded, studying the plate of mysterious tools he’d never become familiar with.

“Here, first I’ll wipe off the area so it’s nice and clean, okay?” They brought along in their fingers a white blob he failed to recognize, and Marshall promptly recoiled just a smidge.

“Wha’s thaaat…?” He pointed, an expression of innocent fear with a tinge of curiosity creeping over his face. 

“Just a wipe. Would you like to touch it first? It won’t hurt you, it just might be a bit chilly.” Marshall’s face reddened, shaking his head as he blushed with embarrassment. How was he so stupid?

Marshall sat quiet and calmly as the doctor cleaned off his skin, just until a jar sat across the room caught his eye. “That… is… ‘s that a lolli… pop…?” He gestured toward it, eyes sparkling with childlike wonder.

“Why, yes it is! I give them to my best patients. All the good thralls get one.” 

“What… about meee…?”

Doctor Belle booped his nose gingerly, a kind gesture that sent his mind reeling. “I guess we’ll have to see how well you do, don’t we? If you’re a good boy I guarantee you’ll be deserving of one.”

“Oh- okay. Okay.”

“Now, I’m going to do the shot, alright? It’ll only hurt for a second, just a little pinch, like this.” They held his skin tight between two fingers, just for a second, mimicking the feeling of the aforementioned shot. “Is that okay?”

“Y- yes. Mhm.” Marshall knew he’d been through many before in his lifetime, but in such a state a foreign kind of wariness was seeping through him. “Can… can you count…?”

“Oh, of course. Ready?” Marshall nodded, turning away drowsily to look at Evangeline, whose vampiric aura was tenderly strengthening its hold over his mind. “Close your eyes if you don’t want to see the needle, love. Now, one, two, three.”

Marshall sipped in a filling, woozy breath.

“Oh, how wonderful! Practically no squirming, and none of that terrible screaming some of my other clients enjoy. Such a good boy you are.” Marshall blinked in surprise as the vampire patted his head, barely having felt any sort of affliction at all. His head swam with the two vampire’s mixture of hypnotic bliss, a small smile forming over his lips.

“You should see him out of enthrallment.” Evangeline remarked. 

“What’s that I hear? Are you naughty in your normal state?” Doctor Belle placed their hands on their hips in a disapproving motion, and Marshall quickly and lazily shook his head.

“N- no! No! ‘M… ‘m a good boy…!”

“Well you were very good for me.” They skipped over to one side of the room, picking up the jar and returning to flaunt it in front of Marshall. “Which flavor do you like? Watermelon? Bubblegum? Cotton candy?”

“Cottonnnn… candyyyy…” he slurred, ensorcelled happiness clogging up his brain as he popped the candy into his mouth. “Thank youuuu…”

“You’re very welcome.” They said, with one more pleasurable pet to the head.

——————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @justletmereadmywhump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @thelazywitchphotographer @whumpin-on-a-prayer

@legokiwi

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpshaped]

I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO ANSWER AFTER 40 MINS

probably has been written before but I'm not that much into whump.community that much anymore (just your blog and zome posts recommended) but

whumper is an unhinged whump writer and whumpee is some random soul he found on the streets. or could be a gore artist who's too paranoid to use shocksites for references(not me). or musician whumper needing painful screams or cries or crazed whislers in their music but can't find any they like.

artist whumpers in general. my beloveds.

- teeth anon

i was keeping this thinking i would write something for it but i think im just gonna do a list

artist whumper uses whumpee for references of

stress positions

anatomy in general

bruises

blood

injuries in general

the human body from the inside (cut off pieces, vivisect that fucker)

different bodies (do they have multiple whumpees? or do they just force whumpee to eat more/starve/work out?)

musician whumper uses whumpee for references of

screams

whimpers

crying

singing! kidnap a singer whumpee

yelling

really any sound you can draw out from a human

any musical instrument, kidnap famous musicians!!! more famous musician whump!!!

also maybe check out my silly orchestra whump

writer whumper uses whumpee for references of

how torture affects a person

how captivity affects the brain

how starvation etc. affect a person

how humiliation/dehumanisation affects someone

honestly go read my silly story about a writer whumper

sculptor whumper using whumpee

as a model

as a base for their sculpture (encase that fucker in wax or marble or clay or-)

as a live accessory

as part of a bigger composition

as an assistant?

as a live piece. chisel off some skin

whumper into fibre/wire arts who uses whumpee

as a mannequin

as a pincushion

as base for their embroidery

as a dress-up doll

as a live accessory (crochet a little cage for ur tiny whumpee, trap tiny whumpee in a pendant/earring)

[kabie-whump]

Oh! You're willing to take whump writing requests? 👀

If so... could you write a Whumpee and Caretaker getting into a bad argument, and Whumpee storms out, only to be kidnapped and not heard from ever since? And Caretaker feels SO GUILTY to the point they blamed themself for arguing with Whumpee over something so trivial? It's okay if not, but ever since reading your bandit story, I would love to see more stuff from you, especially if you're up to writinf my favorite tropes! :O

-- @whumperofworlds

Yeah absolutely I'll write that and I'm gonna make it Onthyes and Ventis :)

~~~

Onthyes hands Shayah Ventis's journal when she opens the door. "Can you give this to Ventis, please?" he asks. "He left it at my place."

Shayah takes the journal slowly, her brow furrowing. "He's not here, blondie. I thought he was with you."

"What?"

Ventis doesn't have a place of his own so he's constantly bouncing between Onthyes's and Shayah's respective homes on a whim. If he isn't with Onthyes he can always expect to find him at Shayah's.

So where is he?

"He left mine late last night. I thought he was coming here."

"You didn't go with him? You escort him everywhere."

Onthyes feels his palms start to sweat, his heart racing. He never lets Ventis go out alone, especially late at night. The genasi bitches at him about it all the time but Onthyes always insists, knowing that Ventis is a bright sparkly beautiful target for lowlifes of all kinds. Even now that he's finally gaining control over his magic Onthyes has never left him out on his own.

But last night, when Ventis had stormed out with a literal cloud thundering over his head, Onthyes hadn't followed. He'd said he wanted space, and for the first time Onthyes had given it to him.

Shit.

"We had an argument," Onthyes admits. "He didn't want me to go with him."

"That's never stopped you before."

"I know!"

Shayah's eyebrows climb higher on her face at Onthyes's raised voice. She steps inside, grabbing her cloak and her bag, and then joins Onthyes outside and locks the door behind herself.

"Come on," she says. "We're gonna find him. If we're lucky he's just shacked up with some handsome stranger and he'll be on one of our doorsteps soon."

That would not be lucky at all for Onthyes. The idea makes him feel sick. Even if Ventis doesn't offically belong to him the thought of him going out and finding someone else to sleep with feels so so wrong.

They comb through all of Ventis’s favorite places: the library, the tavern, the market by the harbor, all to no avail. They even wander by a dingy little nightspill den just in case the fight had been bad enough for him to relapse but luckily they don’t see him there either.

By the time night comes Onthyes is in a state of panic. He can’t decide which possibility is worse: that Ventis decided he never wants to see him again or that something happened to him.

Oh gods, what if something happened to him?

What if someone grabbed him off the street? What if his withdrawl-induced hallucinations returned and he wandered off, chasing shadows into the middle of nowhere?

(Click here to travel to an alternate timeline!)

A week goes by. Onthyes doesn’t rest. He becomes obsessed with searching for any sign of Ventis, but every passing day of finding nothing brings him closer to the verge of insanity. Shayah has to force him to eat and rest on multiple occasions.

One one such night, Onthyes dissolves into exhausted, guilty tears on Shayah's couch.

"It was such a small thing," he chokes out, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. "He'd met some new friends and he liked them but I thought they seemed like trouble and I was scared that he'd relapse if he wasn't careful with who he saw. You know how hard it was to get him sober the first time so I really didn't want any of us to have to go through that again but he took it as me not trusting his judgement-"

"To be fair, we shouldn't trust his judgement."

"But you know that's a cruel thing to say. Especially to him. Especially when he's just started being able to trust his own mind again."

Shayah sighs, tipping her head back and blowing out smoke from her pipe. "I know, blondie. I know."

Onthyes scrubs the tears from his eyes. Moping around isn't going to help him find Ventis, but Shayah has forbidden him from going out searching again tonight.

"It's all my fault," he whisperes. "I felt hurt cause he didn't appreciate that I really just want to keep him safe. But I should've followed him anyway."

"He'll turn up."

And he does turn up that same night in the form of an exhausted and bloodied body collapsing against Shayah's door in the dead of night, the sound rousing Onthyes from his fitful sleep on the couch.

~~~

Might continue this later :)

Ventisposting taglist: @scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet @rainydaywhump

[a-living-canvas]

Introduction

You can call me anything you want. I'm a socially awkward person. I like the concept of cannibalism as a metaphor of love. I like the intimacy shared between Whumpee and Whumper. 

I really appreciate all the ideas people sent me. It's cool and gory. I just still don't have the ability to write those prompts yet. And thank you to those who always supported me and sent appreciative and loving comments about my writings. It always makes my day and keeps me motivated to write more stories.

~

Masterlist

(so you don't have to scroll all your way down)

Intimate/creepy whumper

A Raw and Tender Crime (vampire whump)

Be Mine

Burnt Matches (multiple whumpees)

Carcass Weight

Comfortable Grief

Crushed Cranberries

Caramel Curls (forced infantilization)

Cacophony

Eerie Echoes (my personal favourite)

Fingerprint

High Tide Heartbeat (romantic whumper)

Into Your Bloodstream

July Is A Wound

Little Italy

Luna Moth

Pause, Breathe and Proceed

Puddles (diary whump)

Routine (diary whump)

Slipping Away

Sequoia (touch-starved whumpee)

The First Crack of Snow

Teeth and Bones

Unwanted Love

Whispering Wind

:::::::::::::

~

Sadistic/Cruel Whumper

Absolute Obedience

A Source of Wonder (masochist whumpee)

A Sadist and A Saint

Broken Hourglass

Blurry Pictures

Blood Orange Liqueur

Buttercup

Decay

Fever Dream

Glued Intestines

Indelible Ink

Moth

Moon Milk and Paper Stars

Masked Madness

Overripe and Falling

Pomegranate Stains

Reeks of Someone Else

Ribs Made of Glass

Sacred Heart Tattoo

Sprinkles of Stardust

Shadows of The Ordinary (autistic whump)

;

~

Caretaker

Ancient Veins

An Act of Mortal Love (overprotective caretaker)

Cosmic Love

Counting On Fingers (love this onee)

Darling Fool (Bad Caretaker)

Gift-Wrapped Sorrows

Leaky Fine Print

No Trace of Tomorrow

Wildflowers

How Do You Spell Home? (Stockholm Syndrome)

The Sweetest Caramel

~

Side Stories

Dark Euphoria

Monkey Board

~

Whumper turned Caretaker

Whiskey and Roses

Saccharine Skin

[rizzoto-whump]

Introduction

Hello! It's been a while since my last introduction, so I thought it's time for a new one.

You can call me Rizzo! I've changed my username from rizzamacka-whump to rizzoto-whump. I've been active in the whump community since 2021.

I really enjoy whump, and I don't have specific squicks or triggers. Here are some of my favorite tropes:

Physical whump: Torture, beating, biting, noncon—you name it. I just like to see Whumpee with blood and bruises on their skin.

Military whump: Whump with a military setting has a ton of potential. I like to see a pathetic Whumpee in uniform or the war criminal Whumper. In my own OC world, a Whumpee is accused of a coup d'état by the government, leading them to a labor camp.

Older Whumpee: Yes, yes, yes. Easier to hurt, and a fragile body, especially if they have a younger whumper with abundant stamina ready to hurt them.

Multiple Whumpers with a single Whumpee: Taking turns to torture—hmmm, so tasty.

Reverse power imbalance: I don't know why, but I love this trope so much. Something like a richer, older Whumpee paired with a poorer, younger whumper. Maybe this trope isn't very popular, I don't know, but I just enjoy it.

(Please, if you have a story like that, comment—I want to read it!)

Most of my content will be art/fic, and simple whump prompts. Especially with art/fic, it will contain my OCs:

James Zhang (40, Whumpee): A good and kind Colonel, loved and respected by many people.

Ronald van den Berg (21, Whumper): James' subordinate, also a war criminal.

Okay, that's it! Let's enjoy more whump, fellas!

[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. 

[whump-place]

Yahani and Melkien.

. . .

Another story! :)

Honestly I don't think I can post this regularly, but I really wanted to write something with this plot so I'll do my best :)

. . .

Content: villain whumpee, hero whumper, abuse of power, multiple whumpers, stockholm syndrome, mention of past sexual abuse.

1-Routine.

Villain stands up. Again.

Couldn't they just stop for a day? Take a rest, maybe?

A swift kick to his ribs made him fall to the ground and his mind go blank for a second.

Of course they can't. They are having so much fun.

"Oh~ Crying so soon?"

Ah. Hero was there too.

A small smile forms in Villain's face. Hero was there, that was good.

The small relief he felt was taken away when one of the other heroes stomped her boot on his stomach. The air abandoned his lungs for what felt like an eternity.

.

The morning beating had become a routine, not that Villain ever got used to it, but at least now he knew what to expect. It never got easy, though, the pain was always the same, the humiliation, even the starvation were now part of his routine, but it never got easy.

It has been a long time since Villain last tried to defend himself from the heroes so all that brutality wasn't necessary to make him obey, the moment he got to their hands he knew full well that the only thing he could do was pray that he wasn't killed right away.

He knew that what he did was bad, and he had accepted his fate, ready to spend the rest of his days in a cell. What Villain wasn't ready for was for the heroes to keep him for themselves.

"W-where are you taking me?! Hey! This isn't-!"

"Of course this isn't the prison. After all you did, did you really thought I was going to let you rot in a prison cell? I have better things planned for you."

The memories were blurry, something that Villain was eternally grateful for. He didn't want to think about what happened that night, he would rather have his mind erased, to be dead, but Superhero would never allow him such mercy.

No, now in his cell the only mercy he ever got was from Hero.

.

After the heroes left, Villain went to the half bathroom in the corner of his cell to wash his face and get dressed.

The small aid kit that the heroes bestowed monthly was one of the few mercies he got for good behavior a few months ago; when some heroes had broken his ribs and his nose, they almost took out his eye too but he was lucky enough to just get a scar, that day Superhero allowed him to have one.

Villain sighed, and decided that a band aid was enough for today, he wasn't that bad and he couldn't afford wasting any painkillers just because a broken rib. No, he had to save those for really bad days.

"001, open now"

A voice called from outside the cell's door and Villain hurried to open.

"You are late, again." Villain nodded, his head bowed. Guard sighed, handing him his tasks for today.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever. I have some painkillers in my locker, you can have them after lunch."

Villain nodded once again, grateful that he was offered some painkillers that wouldn't cost him days of starvation. He just had to make it to midday and he would get them!

"Well, well. What's this?"

Hero's voice startled both Villain and Guard. When did he even got there?!

And just like that, Hero grabbed Guard's shoulder and got closer in a half hug, his wide smile showing all his teeth.

"What are you two doing?" Hero purred on Guard's ear. Oh, no.

"I-i was just-"

"Mind your own business, Hero." Guard didn't wait another second to push Hero's hand off his shoulder like it was a spider or some other poisonous animal.

Villain yelped. The last time Hero and Guard started something things didn't end well for anyone, and less for Villain who had to clean all the mess.

Villain took a step closer, trying to make Hero pay attention to himself instead of Guard.

"I'm sorry, sir. I was just about to read the list of my tasks for today, sir."

He tried. Maybe Hero was in a good mood and that would be enough. He hoped that would be enough.

"Is that so?" Hero's smile shows nothing but kindness, but his voice sends chills down Villain's spine.

"Then why are you lazing around, mhm? Is that what you call 'be useful'? Because if that's so then I can ask Superhero-"

"No!"

A slap made Villain come back to his senses and cover his mouth. He didn't just yell at Hero..., right?

"I-I'm..." Another slap. This time harder than the first one.

He didn't need another word to understand. He snapped his mouth shut, allowing Hero to pull his hair and drag him to another place.

The last Villain could see was Guard's frown. They both knew this wouldn't end well for Villain.

Villain allowed himself to cry once he was out of Guard's sight. Hero must have noticed because his smile grew wider.

"You are going right to Superhero. Let's see if you keep talking to your superiors like that, you fucking waste of space."

[lthrboy]

About Me

Hi! I'm Esper (he/him). I've been a super longtime lurker but only recently decided to share my whumpy ideas with everyone.

I'm pinning this post as my intro to the world. My masterlist of writings can be found below.

Click Here For Masterlist!

I have a couple writings and some interesting prompts now!

I dont write very often at all, as I'm quite busy. For now, here's some of my preferences in whump. Expect to see these reflected in my future works.

Likes

Interrogation

Military whump

Lab whump/medical setting

Sadistic, insane, creepy, intimate whumpers

Multiple whumpers

1st person whumper POV

Prison setting

Military uniforms

Torture for fun

Basically every physical torture method under the sun (always looking for new ones too!)

Permanent bodily harm

Dismemberment (one of my absolute favorites!)

Blood

Fingore, eye gore (the more the merrier!)

Psychological torture

Dislikes

Female whumpee (if whumper is male)

Writing about sexual activities

Minor whumpee (under 18)

Bodily waste (including vomit)

Whumper turned whumpee

My blog will be centered around a whumper (yes, you read that right) by the name of Justin Li. He's an interrogator for Xenokore Industries, a paramilitary organization based in Salt Lake City that does "dirty work" for the US military (alternate history thingy). His current job is with the anti-espionage department, which interrogates enemy spies and political prisoners. He loves his job, although maybe a bit too much (I'll give him a proper intro later, where you'll find out why, and some of his ulterior motives as well).

This blog will be a collection of stories and drabbles about our beloved Justin. Not all of them will be directly connected, often just simple excerpts from his life. I hope you'll enjoy this whumpy collection.

Disclaimer: I also don't really know how to use some of tumblr's features lol so I'll see what I can do. This is my first ever non-reblog OC post! I'm really bad at tagging shit too so my blog might seem pretty messy at times.

[whumped-by-glitter]

💙 for the ask game, and 🔮, specifically can you talk a little about public humiliation since that's in your pinned post? that's one of my favorite tropes too <3

💙- I've been into whump since forever, especially starting around middle school. Funny story is, I didn't discover it was a thing until like 2 months ago when I was researching some concepts for Dasa. I discovered it on Pinterest of all places.

🔮- I have a few absolute favorite whump tropes, but public humiliation has a special place in my heart because it can enhance many other tropes. Oh, whumpee, you don't like being whipped? You'll like it even less in a room full of people laughing at your screams.

Also, I have gone through it myself (a lighter consensual form obviously) at both kink events and in basic training, It's intriguing what it does psychologically.

Additionally, I noticed an audience, or multiple tops or MTIs, created an escalation, either through wanting to show off or encouraging each other. An event would draw out longer where otherwise a single "whumper" (or MTI or Dominiant) would eventually lose interest or steam.

I just find public humiliation so fascinating in general, though.

Feel free to shoot me a private message to chat more about it if you would like! I always love hearing other perspectives!

Ask Game

[the-whumping-hour]

Day 1 - Helpless

@febuwhump day 1!!!

CW: Mean caretaker (who is caretaking against his will), said caretaker making whumpee cry, multiple mentions of drug abuse, one mention of broken glass, one mention of broken bones, little hints of classism and ableism, annoyance at whumpee's fidgeting. 

Notes: Top ten men who break the Hippocratic oath by being fucking losers. Happy Febuwhump Day 1!!!! As this challenge continues, I may link related stories together. For those who are new, welcome to the hellscape! 

***

They’re still awake. Of course they’re still awake.

And sure, Seiah may be a medic, clinically certified and all, but hell if it means he can’t be pissed off at Felic Fucking DiMaggio.

“You got percs?” That idiot, the little whiny rat quietly digging a hole into the sofa cushion, hadn’t talked in almost fifteen minutes, which Seiah had hoped meant they’d be falling back into half-sleep soon enough. No such luck.

“No,” he snaps, hazel eyes tinged with streaks of insomnia roll up at them over his laptop. “Forty minutes and you can have more meds. I’m trying to study.”

Back to silence. Or almost— he swear he can hear threads ripping with every quiet tap of Felic’s fingernails against the seam. Just because it’s an old couch doesn’t mean anything. Just because they’re a 'friend' doesn’t mean anything. 

“Do you need a stress ball or something?” He’s trying to be nice. He really is. 

“You got one?” They still sound seconds from crying, or maybe that’s just the city drawl, thick in the back of their nose like they’ll hack it up with a hairball. They sound sick, look sick, they always look sick. Sick when they’re tweaking in meetings and sick now, bits of glass and two fractures in their leg and still they’re acting like they’re using every little scheming wrinkle in their brain to act normal. Not normal; something worse. Someone competent, or well-off, or anything other than a leech tagging along with the Rift Guard to seem like a savior.

And they reek like burning plastic.

He digs through his desk drawer. “Best I’ve got is a box of paperclips.” It leaves his hand with a rattle, a tinny sound that makes Felic twitch their head with a grimace, as the box hits their leg and falls into the cushion divot. They seem to paw it like a cat. “I can check the bedroom, but I need Gabe to rest…” he trails off.

“Nah, ‘s fine, ‘s fine.” They’ve maneuvered into some other horribly contorted position, leg still dangling off the couch like something dead. He hopes they’re content. He swears, if they’re not… but no, now it’s back to his pediatrics assignment, back to… reading this same section, again, and...

Holy fucking shit.

They’re using the paperclips. To pick at the fucking couch.

“No. No, you know what? Screw this.” Maybe it’s that stupid ugly couch, or his own lack of sleep, or how disgustingly pitiful they look in an oversized hoodie and bandages down an entire pale, skinny leg. “Done studying. Not even gonna try. Is that what you wanted? You want my attention? Gonna keep me up another three fucking hours because your tummy hurts when I don’t let you take every pill in this city?”

Maybe he should’ve thought that through more. Maybe, but it’s too late. Sue him. If this bitch wakes up Gabe, if they disrupt the final second of peace anywhere in this world at all—

They’re crying. No, no, no.

Shit, they’re crying.

“Felic.” His whisper-yells get more frantic. “Felic. Felic. Felic, hey, no, Felic, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I’m just tired, we’re all tired, Felic please,” out of his chair and onto the ground in front of them, they’re shaking like a leaf, no sounds but little sob-hiccups as their hands twist and wring themselves in their sleeves. They really are some helpless little thing, a pigeon stuck in a storm drain. “Look at me, look, I’m not mad at you. I’m not mad at you. Calm down, calm down, just, I didn’t even do anything Felic, please just do this for me please…”

A knock at the door. Gabe.

“What’s going on?” His voice is rough with sleep, hair falling in curls over his eyes. And Seiah loves him, he loves him so much, but the look on his face when he sees Felic. As if they deserve it. As if the rat deserves any of this. “Did they have a nightmare?”

“They were never asleep at all, actually, which is—“

The glare Gabe gives him shuts him up quick.

“You need to give them space.” He motions Seiah away, impatient yet calm, locking eyes with the hairball having a breakdown on the couch. 

“No, listen, everything’s fine.”

“Clearly it’s not,” he retorts, still as calm as ever. “Go get some rest, Seiah, I’ve got this.” 

“We need to talk about this later.”

“Yes. Later. Shh,” he motions, and now he’s back to Felic, and it’s like Seiah isn’t here at all. Is this what his fucking job at the Rift Guard is? Keeping the rats on a leash?

Well, there’s no reason to stay here anyways. Seiah rises to his feet, computer abandoned, boyfriend preoccupied with a little bitch. 

Whatever. It’s not even a nice couch anyways.

He shuts the door. 

[whump-me]

Hello! Call me Zee (they/them). I like whump and I write stuff. I'm a long-time connoisseur of whump, and use this blog to share and collect the things that strike my fancy. Writing-wise, I’m a jaded veteran of the indie publishing trenches, and I’m here to use my powers for evil by writing stories as dark as my whumpy heart desires. In my other life, I've published a whole mess of stuff under a different name (it's not a secret--you can find links on this blog if you dig, or just ask), but I'm in the process of moving my overtly whumpy writing over to the pen name Lux Thorn. (Call me Lux if you don't want to remember multiple names--I'll answer to it.)

I write some prompts and shorter stuff, but my heart belongs to long-form fiction. Expect defiance, torture, twisted and adversarial psychological intimacy, damage both physical and mental, and a lot of death. My longer stories will always end happily, if you define a happy ending as an emotionally satisfying victory for a sympathetic character, but don’t expect it to look like a fluffy caretaking arc.

I’m bad at tagging. I do my best to tag a few things that I know are big nopes for a lot of people (gore, noncon, character death), but if you need comprehensive tags for your mental health, it’s probably best not to follow. You can always ask to be added to the tag list for specific stories.

I have a Patreon! Read my fiction before it gets posted here, plus bonus Patreon-exclusive stories.

I boost whump writers who are selling their work, because writers should get paid and we need more whump in this world. Got a Patreon, a Ko-fi, an ebook for sale? Do you take commissions? Send me an ask, tag me in your promo post, or use the submit button.

Stuff I like:

Defiant whumpees

Cold whumpers

Whumpees of all genders, including lady whump

Interrogations!

Character death

Spy whump

Lab whump

Dehumanization

Fantasy and sci-fi whump

Mercy killing

Emotional whump

Team whump

Mind games

Degradation (nonsexual)

Stuff you’ll rarely, if ever, find here:

Comfort and caretaking

Fanfic

Pet whump/BBU

Masochism and voluntary submission

Extreme gore

Writing

Martyr (complete): sci-fi interrogation whump with a defiant whumpee, a cold female whumper, torture, emotional whump, and devastating personal realizations on both sides. Masterpost

Unburied (complete): written for the Whump Girl Summer event. Fantasy whump with spies, magic, human sacrifice, and loyalty that transcends death. Masterpost

Conquest (complete): no-magic fantasy whump with a royal whumper, a fearful but quietly defiant nonbinary whumpee, degradation, cultural differences, fantasy politics, and an intense and complicated relationship between whumper and whumpee (no romance). Masterpost

Whumptober 2023 (complete): a collection of standalone stories set in my Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting with the feel of shows like The 4400, Flashforward, and Travelers. Spy whump, lab whump, so much emotional whump. Masterpost

Obscure (complete): novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects. Part of the Mind Games universe. Masterpost

Unseen (complete): a whump novel about a ruthless mob heiress and the superpowered assassin she kidnaps and forces to work for her—and the unexpected friendship that develops between them. Part of the Mind Games universe. Masterpost

Protector (complete): a novella-length whump story about a ruthless superpowered assassin trained from childhood to kill, and the brother determined to save him from himself. Part of the Mind Games universe. Masterpost

Standalone Stories Things That Need to Be Said Worth the Cost

[lindsay00000008]

About Me:

Call me Lindsay 💚 ✍🏻 🎨 🌿

Howdy! I’m new to posting on Tumblr! I’ve got ramblings and story snippets for ya (and art!). I mainly enjoy writing whump and fantasy OCs, but I write some fanfic too!

She/her, bi (💍➡️🤷🏻‍♂️), ‘98 (👵🏻)

Posting since March 2024 / About Me updated September 2024

Pet Whump Masterlist (in slooowww progress)

Ghost x JustAFriend/Fem!Reader

Fandoms:

Whump! The OA, Hannibal (NBC), Zelda, COD, Helldivers, JJK (only for the Suguru/Satoru discourse and also Sukuna is hot) any video game where I can use a bow and arrow or build a house, booktok

Genre interests:

Fantasy (historical, historical AU, original world, isekai)

If modern, would be an AU (omegaverse, magic, multiple worlds, post-apocalypse) OR have something interesting/dark enough to tide me over (serial killer, criminal underworld, etc)

Whump: 80% hurt, 20% comfort. But I love when they’re combined (e.g. caretaker witnesses or is even somehow responsible for the whump, or intimate whumper is comforting whumpee as they whump)

Fav authors: Diana Wynne Jones (whimsical!), C.S Lewis (fantastical!), my sister (who is my mirror and notepad!)

Interacting with me:

Writers…

✅If a post does not use character names, use the scene/prompt/dialogue/idea however you like! You can even continue a snippet in your own part 2 post or reblog (even if I end up continuing it myself). I like to see where different authors take a scene or inspiration. If you’re not sure you can hop on and continue a specific post of mine, drop a comment! Please credit or [link to post] if you’re inspired by something specific, but no biggie.

❌If a post does use character names, or is a reader x character fan fic with multiple parts, I have more of an investment and I’d like to keep those as my own.

Readers…

Most story snippets with romance/smut will be hetero but I’ll keep ramblings, whumspo, etc nonspecific

I love any kind of feedback. I especially love comments! Feel free to tag me if you think I'd like something, or send me a request! (I yearn for a stuffed ask box)

Friends…

I’m currently learning Welsh 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 (did you know theres a welsh translation of Manacled?). I have a degree in Chinese 🇨🇳 (and linguistics) as well as intermediate skill in Korean 🇰🇷 (though I’m way out of practice in those). You can message me in those languages too!

⚠️Blog Content / Trigger Warnings⚠️

General - Sexually explicit and/or violent content. 18+ MDNI.

Why do I like whump? (Link)

If there's a post you think needs an extra CW, no matter how specific, let me know!

My posts may include:

Smump (Smut + Whump in the same scene/event)

Non/dubcon (I enjoy finding reasons my characters should smash other than because they desire to (e.g. sex pollen, appease a God, break a curse, share life force, etc) May include consent given without full understanding of circumstances or identity (e.g. sex with the man who killed their father, who then tries to kill them etc)

Omegaverse (including hetero)

MF pairings, MMF pairings, MMMF... uh... etc

Breeding, choking, BDSM (the usual)

Monsters (But I’m picky. Yautja is probably my limit. Mostly humanoids.)

Religious trauma / Purity culture / Cults / Grooming (sexual or otherwise - never physical, always evil)

Pet/slave whump, systemic or just for fun, conditioning, dehumanization

Dad/Mom issues, loud men trauma, narcissism, republicans, being a general disappointment to caretakers

Medical whump & experimentation, time gaps/amnesia, seizures, drug usage, hallucination, general illness (although I’m not into bedside caretaker stories unless a whumper is still involved)

Mental illness (anxiety/adhd specifically from personal experience, ptsd, responding to triggers, flashbacks, panic attacks, dissociation, suicidal ideation (including casual), self harm impulses, etc)

Torture, gore, blood, scarring, noncon body mod or surgery, sensory deprivation, food restriction, self harm

Fantasy violence, damsels in distress, generally un-feminist tropes (lol)

Born-sexy-yesterday - magically mature bodies/minds (ex. Nymph born from a flower, magical artifact awakened to serve a master, someone was turned into a cat as a child and has just been returned to human in their twenties)

Age gap (no minors e.g. 32 y/o x 20 y/o, 500+ y/o creature x 20 y/o Human)

Death (including minors)

Content will NOT include:

Full-on willful noncon to MC, or extreme whump/maiming to MC without reason or resolution (unless done by irredeemable villains who are later violently slaughtered).

I like my MCs to have a resolution to any trauma or injury faced. I like them to be saved before the breaking point, or at least have their pain acknowledged and healed. As a writer it helps me feel in control. If I would have a hard time giving my MC a happily ever after, I'm less likely to write it that way.

Poor hygiene in combination with whump, smut, smump, or general intimacy. Like infected wounds, bodily functions etc (unless plot or worldbuilding related - e.g., where do pet whumpees take a leak?)

I'm a bit of a weeny and like my MCs healthy and clean, even if they're getting tortured :) If they throw up they will quickly get cleaned up etc

Intense description of injury to toddler, infant, fetus or very pregnant person

Pregnancy body horror and writing children suffering gives me heebie jeebies. Also, will not write pregnancy as a happy ending because it terrifies me irl lol

Minors in sexual scenes

Reminder that this does not include grooming by villains. If I did write something like that, it would be verbal or implied only and never physical (e.g. a woman raised to be the perfect, obedient wife might have some groomy backstory scenes)

Terrible note to end on. Anyway, enjoy my stuff!

[whumpshaped]

Whumpees who only have each other for comfort and care in between the sessions of hurt

Bonus points if they can't stand each others guts

also fuck it im gonna plug this story here bc i feel like its similar enough lol

tw reluctant caretakers, captivity, multiple whumpees, implied torture, aftermath of torture

“Sit still,” Caretaker hissed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Next time when you’re digging around inside my open wound, I’ll–” Whumpee froze with their mouth agape, almost allowing a pained whimper to escape. Fuck, it hurt. It hurt badly.

It wasn’t often that Whumper allowed them actual medical supplies. They were very clear on the fact that this was a privilege, and truth be told, Whumpee was sort of glad that Caretaker was there to help them with it. If only it was anyone else but them, it would’ve been just perfect.

“Do you want me to clean this or not?” Caretaker asked, annoyed that Whumpee kept unintentionally trying to pull away. “I said sit still, or I’ll just give you the stuff and let you do it yourself. Do you want to die of an infection?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” they choked out. Caretaker scoffed.

“Nothing better than sharing a cell with a decomposing body.”

Whumpee tried their best to stay put, letting Caretaker roughly treat their wounds. They were pretty sure their reluctant medic had quite a bit of fun hurting them under the guise of helping, but they didn’t blame them. Whumpee would’ve had some fun in their place, too.

“Fuck, finally,” Whumpee sighed when Caretaker let go of them. “You take fucking ages to do this.”

“I can undo it much quicker, if you like.”

Whumpee made a face and crawled out of arm’s reach, leaning against the wall. “Yeah. That’s something you’re good at, at least.”

Caretaker took the rest of the supplies and started treating their own wounds, applying ointments and struggling with bandages one-handed. Whumpee watched for a while, occasionally making a comment about the clumsy attempts, before motioning them over.

“I’m not letting you touch me,” Caretaker grumbled.

“Oh, fuck off. I’m not gonna kill you.”

“Not on purpose.”

Whumpee rolled their eyes and dragged themself back to where Caretaker was sitting, snatching the bandage roll out of their hand. Caretaker didn’t resist, not really. “Sure. As if I want to spend days with a rotting corpse, you fucking idiot.”