#TW noncon whumper

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 7- Sicko Fantasies and Haunting Memories (NSFW)

(Buckle the fuck up, you are now aboard the Hot Mess Express🚂)

CWs & TWs (not in order): graphic & violent non-con flashback (end of chapter and between the red *****—not to be confused with the black *****—you can read around it without missing any vital details!) including use of a knife and gun and gross details of bodily fluids (it’s a bad time, skip over it if your sensitive to nastiness, don’t say I didn’t warn you—like for real it’s gross), explicit language, insults & name calling*, Whumpee called “boy” even though he’s 24, talk of bodily functions (pee habits and general grooming after months of being deprived of toiletries and self care), suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts/details of past self harm practices (asphyxiation), recollection of being forcibly restrained to bed to prevent further self harm, illicit drug use (❄️&🧊) mixed with alcohol (Whumper), Whumpee wishing gruesome death upon Whumper (but like, good for him, Whumper deserves it), aftermath of starvation and prolonged isolation, undressing and inspecting wounds, prescription drug dependency (Whumpee), depressing self reflections, literal Caretaker turned Whumpee, asshole/bully/sadistic/taunting/creepy/intimate/alcoholic/mentally and physically abusive Whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, he’s literally the worst), long-term captivity, slavefic/ institutionalized slavery AU, within the post-apocalyptic(ish) setting AU—mentions of: ongoing war & mass death, evacuations, terrorism and treason, cannibalism, infectious diseases (specifically cannibals with infectious diseases), war factions, extremist Regime, forced labor camps, food scarcity, class division, looting, and hostile takeovers

*We are starting strong with insults here, if this is a sensitive topic or squick for you, you’ll have a horrible time & this ain’t for you dawg, respectfully.

You’ve been adequately warned, proceed with caution :)

Word count: 5,669

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Hey you, yeah YOU!

If you’re still here after that novel of CWs, hi hello :) Holy shit this chapter took on a mind of its own and is a little all over the place! Besides the lengthy list of warnings, there’s also some more world building in here—like a lot more. You probably didn’t have questions, but don’t worry, I gave you the answers you didn’t know you needed anyway! I hope it fits and makes sense, idk what I’m doing, I think my brain is actively rotting out of my skull at this point. If you like insane bullshit, this is for you, and if you don’t, sorry buddy! I'm still sitting on a fatass chapter that comes after this one, but I need to give myself a break after this steamy mess right here. Expect the usual processing time of a month and a half. 

Xoxo, Gen

Fuck ass. Shithead. Cock warmer—of all the overused insults his Master chucked at him, The Aid kept a particular fondness for pampered pet.

An offense it was intended to be, yes, but instead of bitter resentment, the gibe strangely restored a sense of lost dignity and sounded comparatively childish against the others. Although, truth be told, most of the snarky nicknames fell flat and lost their zest at this point, and he would’ve appreciated some effort from Sullivan to come up with more creative insults to hurl at him.

His Master made a special sport of provoking him; ergo, he figured the man would at least flaunt some star players now and again.

Nothing got older quicker than a joke worn thin.  

But wait, what did the brute call him earlier—lopsie lip? He usually threw up his mental defenses and rolled his eyes when someone made cheap one-liners about his mouth (what could be said that he hadn’t heard a hundred times over?) Still, somehow, Wyatt Sullivan had a real knack for mocking his appearances (his height was another frequently abused topic) and a crafty way of singling out his assumed insecurity. The mockeries weren’t knee-slappers by any stretch of the imagination and came across as equally lame and insensitive Boomer jokes; even so, he’d gladly take these low-hanging digs with open arms over the other vile, squirm-worthy remarks Sullivan berated him with any day—or worse. 

Better a poor shit taking the brunt of crude taunts than a poor shit taking the brunt of a boot to the ribs.  

Pampered pet—it’s fitting, goes well with his staple stand-in name, Mutt, and even has a certain ring to it, and certainly nicer than cum bucket —yuck (he hated that one). 

Pampered was right; he couldn’t stand being dirty and unkempt; indeed, his Madame never condoned sloppy looks and anything less than perfect. She’d be rolling in her grave right now if she saw the sunken state of affairs and how piss poor of a job her son was doing as appointed keeper of her precious house boy. 

But oh, how far the mighty have fallen.

Long were the days of his dedication to hours a week of meticulous primping and preening and how he missed those sacred moments. 

Since he awoke above ground, he didn’t have the energy or sheer willpower to accomplish anything more than a couple of weak passes with a toothbrush and a few splashes of lukewarm water on his face and called it a day. But now—poor hygiene be damned—a garden of Earthly man-made delights beckoned him.

He studied his previously revoked collection of personal care products next to the first aid caddy on the bathroom counter before him. Here sat everything his Master denied him for months; he bereaved their absences like a lost loved one—no, scratch that, he never missed a person more than a good hand cream and microdermabrasion exfoliant. 

In another life, he was always a star patient when it came to oral hygiene—he sported the Colgate smile—so being deprived of his one true love, his toothbrush, during his solitary confinement was arguably worse than having to shit in a litter box next to his bed.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that he looked like a freshly dead Jack Skellington or that he now had plaque buildup, a few missing teeth (curtsey of Sullivan’s fists), and probably a couple of cavities.

A new toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and floss picks were no dentist or oral surgeon, but they were a good start toward redemption. 

This is as good as he’d get; best make do with what he got and ignore the rest. Maybe he can’t fill a cavity but can scrub off filth. He commonly recited, ‘It’s better to focus on easily fixable things. There’s an irreplaceable level of satisfaction in having attainable goals.’

He scanned the other objects in front of him, taking special note of the lip scrub and lip balm he hoped would mend his cracked and chapped lips, the tub of extra-extra hydrating hyaluronic acid body lotion tasked with soothing his bone-dry, itchy skin, comb and tweezers to tame invasive hairs, cotton swabs to clean out all the gunk in his ears (he was sure he had more than enough ear wax to fill a tea light candle); blemish control face wash, acne cream, toner, and light-weight moisturizer to get his breakout under control; and nail clippers and file to declaw himself. 

He glanced at his fingers and toes.

They weren’t as bad as expected—well, despite his calluses, hang nails, and overgrown cuticles that is. At least he didn't have Althetes' foot or start sprouting weird basement mold between the toes.

Sweet Christ Almighty, the filthy and ungodly things he’d do for a good mani-pedi and facial right now. 

If Sullivan weren’t such a fucking sadist with a raging hard-on for making him bleed and scream, he’d consider proposing an exchange of sex acts for a full-package spa day. The sex—he told himself—he could grit his teeth through and forcibly tolerate with minimal tears; it was the rest that canceled out any ounce of enjoyment or relaxation he’d potentially get. 

No facial was that good. 

His former (glorious) self was never a nail-biter or finger-picker, but his time in isolation lent a hand towards picking up some bad habits to occupy his mind in hopes of preventing him from going mad with boredom (spoiler: it didn’t work). 

He picked and picked, and sometimes even nibbled, around his hang nails until he drew blood. He didn’t delight in chewing bits of dead skin peeled off in strings around his fingers, but the motion of eating something—even if deduced to bits of himself—helped drown out the hunger pains and sounds of his empty belly gurgling. He secretly wished Sullivan would catch him in the act of self-cannibalizing himself, realize just how far pushed to insanity he was, and take enough pity on him to release him of his sentence. 

It was all nothing more than a stupid fool’s hope; the evil sonovabitch never even felt a glint of remorse.  

His eyes scanned the razor and shaving cream, almost suspicious of their presence. Shaving himself was daunting and ostensibly impossible with one shaky hand.

But hey, at least Wyatt trusted with a sharp object; this was a step up. 

How long had it been since he properly cleaned himself up and given himself a good shave? Months? 

The razor looked new. Sullivan must have given him a fresh one. And if his Master went through the backbreaking effort of changing a razor head, that meant he wanted—no, was practically ordering—him to revive what parts he could that resembled his ci-devant good looks…good looks—was he ever even good looking before all this? He couldn’t tell; he was horrible with those types of things. He knew he wasn’t ugly but also wasn’t a looker, probably landed smack-dab in the middle. Perhaps his attraction level wasn’t for him to decide. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit. Or was that just some junk passed around by those unfortunate souls not blessed with Holly Wood looks?

But now he knew he looked like hell, and the amount of work he needed to do on himself was overwhelming.

It was too much. 

How well he’d be able to groom himself with one hand would no doubt leave much to be desired and undoubtedly felt like a set-up for sure failure, but the thought of Sullivan having to pick up where he left off and lather him up in lotion and clip his toenails made his blood run cold and more nervous than a puffer fish in a room full of balloons. 

He couldn’t let those big, rough, creepy-ass hands that caused nothing but pain touch him any more than they already had. It felt like he and Sullivan would be breaking an unspoken rule if they made any skin-to-skin contact outside of anything besides the ogre inflicting harm on him. His Master’s hands were torture devices of their own; feeling them on him in any other capacity felt wrong, like a breach of contract. 

As much as he refused to believe it, he knew deep down he was touch-starved, and part of him was screaming for any ounce of physical affection. He already leaned a little too far into Dr. Paul’s touch and was damn near smitten from the warm spark of soothing comfort that came from a gentle cup of his cheek; if he did the same with Sullivan, he’d never forgive himself, and his Master definitely wouldn’t let it happen without comment.

He already heard him now—“Yeah, ya like that, don’t ya, boy? Look at ya melting into me like the little needy slut ya are. I got somethin’ else real special for ya that’ll get ya howlin’ an’ really tickle up ya’r insides.”

Even an innocent touch would lead to something more; of course, it would; this was Wyatt fucking Sullivan he was thinking about. 

He shivered.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his very full bladder.

He sighed, then hobbled over to the toilet. 

These days he had to piss sitting down; circumstance didn’t grant much flexibility there. The stand-up method was unsuitable for those with one functioning leg and one usable arm; if he dared test his limits, it would likely result in him missing the bowl entirely or ungracefully falling over midstream. He told himself that he didn’t mind popping a squat; it erased the worry of not shaking his pee-pole enough and leaking drops on the rim, or worse—in his underwear. (‘Pay no mind to the very real fear of your peen accidentally sliding against the cold inside of the toilet bowl; no, we don’t have room for such worries.’) Wringing his dick out like a washcloth was far more undignifying than just shoving it between his legs and taking his time anyway—that’s what he told himself, what he made himself believe. 

But he deserved that, didn’t he—small comforting lies in whatever form he found them? 

Thankfully, the post-catheter sting Dr. Paul warned him of went away after the first day, but his urine persisted in being a dark brownish orange (‘light umber, I think that’s called’) that reeked a pungent odor, evoking him to scrunch his nose in sour disgust every time. He drank more than enough liquids now, so it couldn’t be from dehydration—could it? That left him to conclude it must be yet another unpleasant side-effect from his cocktail of pharmaceuticals.

Pharmaceuticals—thank the marvels of modern science for those. However, what he really craved was a fat joint of Blueberry Kush.

How long ago did he pop that palmful of pills? He contemplated with a sense of impatience, ‘couldn’t be more than 30 minutes ago…’

The Klonopin typically took about an hour and a half to two to kick in. And once it did, he was down for the count, blissfully obliterated until evening, when he would pop an Ambien to sail him through the night. 

Rinse and repeat day after day, after day until—well, he didn’t know yet. 

And he preferred to remain deliriously unaware.

It was better this way. 

Hell, it was the only thing that made his life at all bearable—to be drugged out of his mind, not to be awake, not to think, not to feel his body, to play dead until one fateful day, his Master would finally strike a killing blow.

The matter of if Sullivan could wasn’t in question—they both knew the older man could kill him as effortlessly as a house fly stuck buzzing against a windowsill—it was more of a matter of when. 

The Aid tried to carry out the deed of snuffing himself out a few times—okay, more than a few times. He lost count of his botched suicide attempts, but that’s all they were, half-assed “attempts”—a courteous word his actions didn’t quite live up to. What he carried out fell more in line with ideation. 

In the basement torture den, he’d wrap the chain around his neck with minimal pressure, just enough to feel a light constriction—nothing more, nothing less—and let the fantasy of floating away into nihility mollify him as he mewled and cried himself to sleep like a squalling infant. Sullivan caught him in this self-soothing ritualistic act once before and had the audacity to act scandalized by what he witnessed as if he didn’t knowingly single-handedly push The Aid to the brink of suicide. After the initial surprise of what he walked in on wore off, Sullivan proceeded to laugh at the miserable little thing at his feet and hurl some colorful beratement at him (finally a personalized insult with a bit more spice, although the timing couldn’t be worse) as the boy bawled his eyes out and crumpled into a shaky ball. 

The Aid received an extra beating for his lack of self-respect and composure; Sullivan took offense to The Aid’s actions and informed him that he wasn’t allowed to off himself. 

After his Master scolded him, he made him swear he wouldn’t “pull any more weakling shit ever again” and ordered him to abstain from any method of self-harm—Wyatt liked being the only one permitted to hurt him.  

The ogre’s cruelties were boundless, but at least the monster finally pitied him enough to find it in his cold, dead heart to allow him the privilege of washing himself up and gave him a change of clothes and a hot meal afterward—sometimes being a mess and pushed to your edge bought rewards.

After all was said and done, he was restrained, his limbs tied to the four corners of the blood-stained mattress so he couldn’t move—for a week—until Sullivan deemed him no longer a threat to himself (the irony of it all did not escape him).

That was the last time he meddled with ending it all. He couldn’t do it, not really—not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. The only thing that scared him more than Wyatt Sullivan was the great unknown of the other side and being devoured by eternal darkness. 

A healthy fear of death was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

*****

He absently gazed out the window, taking in his perfect view from the side of the house that butted against rolling tan desert foothills. 

They were the last house down a long winding street lined with multi-million dollar estate homes, each with a moneyshot view overlooking the Palm Springs valley. He knew better than to indulge in the crackpot fantasy of climbing over that brick retaining wall separating him and the rest of the world to scamper his way through the open desert that went on and on for miles.

He already tried that once.

He didn’t get far—‘Stupid stunt to pull when you have trackers embedded in your neck and spinal column.’

But what was out there? 

His mind went wild.

Were there clans of Renegados, the lost people, those who didn’t belong to either cause or fell under contested jurisdictions, hiding deep in the rocky valleys or camping in the Little San Bernardino Mountains? There couldn’t be much of a food source besides snakes and scorpions with the occasional desert hare—not to mention the scarcity of a water source. He surmised Renegados were unlikely in this geography, but what about gangs of marauders? No, that was equally unlikely, as scavenger types preferred abandoned dense urban areas or heavily traveled routes, and they wouldn’t pay much mind to small desert towns or off-grid compounds. There wasn’t much left to plunder in visible sight, especially after the first couple of waves of looting from the mass exodus of some odd four million Los Angelenos alone fleeing the initial outbreaks.

The only people batshit crazy enough to tough it out in such a ragged landscape and unforgiving climate were bands of rebel freedom fighters, the Frondeurs, who opposed what was left of the U.S. Government and fought the rivaling extremist Regime which now controlled nearly half of the 50 states, all the meanwhile also culling the growing numbers of afflicted. It would either be the Frondeurs themselves or hordes of aforementioned afflicted—ravenous cannibals, anthrophages*, devouring their way through the rural areas in search of larger populations to gorge on. “People-eater Pox,” or PEP, was the name quickly given to the incurable disease because “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion” was too clinical and hard to pronounce.  

Of course, edge lord teens, horror fanatics, and the everyday 4chan user clung to the pipe dream of a zombie invasion, but these fuckers were far from dead, which somehow made it all that much worse. Sure, they looked dead, but that’s where the physical similarities started and ended. 

 The afflicted broke out in rotten-smelling, oozing open sore rashes that turned into hardened tree bark-like patches, their skin dulled to a cadaverous blue-gray while the whites of their eyes turned red, and many lost their hair. The cherry on top was their maddening appetite for human flesh and heightened sense of smell and hearing. They were fast, hard to kill, and more animal than human—so he heard.

The Aid never saw an afflicted, not in real life, and he hoped he never would. If you saw one up close, you were two steps closer to being eaten alive or, worse—turning into one of them.

Or maybe instead of bands of rebel forces or diseased cannibals hiding in the desert, there were platoons of those rumored so-called “Envoys” deployed by the Regime—the Republic of Arcadia—to hunt down runaways, defectors, and Frondeurs since they needed every last body they could get. Envoys—he didn’t even know if they were real; he’d never seen one of those either. They were about as real as Santa Claus to him, but luckily, these didn’t look like something out of a Rob Zombie movie and want to eat his face off.

Would Envoys even be out this far west?

Not likely, not unless they now joined the hordes of afflicted. The Republic of Arcadia wouldn’t—couldn’t—needlessly sacrifice any Envoys coming this deep into U.S. territory, not after 11 years in a now stalemated war, not unless they were planning a final invasion.

If that were the case, they were fucked. 

If the Envoys were close, that likely indicated the remainder of the U.S. was losing even more territory. Or maybe the government agreed to give up a parcel of idyllic Southern California and a couple of Pacific coast port cities in exchange for a plot of fertile land, unsoiled crop seeds, and healthy bodies to work the fields in a pedantic trade agreement. Lord knows there wasn’t much opportunity for farmland out here in the desert, and good, fertile land these days was worth more than gold, especially after the blights wiped out most of the agriculture industry, which subsequently led to PEP. He didn’t know much about the state of things anymore, and he knew fuck all when it came to the intricacies of a diseased-ravaged and war-torn world hanging on by an unraveling thread. The tidings of war constantly changed, and how anyone could keep up with the insanity of it all was beyond him.

Were they still safe here? 

If they had to relocate, what would his Master do with him? 

What if they ran out of food? 

Would Wyatt eat him if it came down to it? 

There was no way he’d let that happen (as if he had a say or any control if it came down to it); not like there was much left of him to eat. You’d get better “meat” off a wild prickly pear cactus than his bony ass. Cannibalism wasn’t just for the afflicted anymore; it wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be. Hard times called for drastic measures in certain parts of the world; not everyone still had access to unsullied food. 

But a Sullivan couldn’t stoop so low, not even the worst one out of the bunch, not when the Sullivans were one of the only families left who still owned healthy livestock farms on the West Coast and supplied most of the edible meat and quickly rose to prominence and fortune because of it. Still, being left with the tender mercies of Wyatt didn’t feel promising in any capacity. 

He knew he was “lucky” to be owned by the Sullivans and he should be thankful to live in a pocket of the country that remained relatively untouched from the chaos, that he was tucked away from the “real harm” and lived amongst members of high society who remained undeterred by the current state of things. He was a victim of conformity, forcibly resigned to a life he couldn’t get free from. Yet it became increasingly difficult to pretend life was a-okay when the reality of everything sunk in. Eleanor Sullivan was dead. He had five wonderful years with her, but now he suffered under the brutal hand of Wyatt. His life would have been much different if he wasn’t born with abilities. Rather than blossoming into the resident house pet and making his debut by playing mind games with the family matriarch, he’d likely be a plebeian surviving off rations and forced to work in labor camps in a resource sector. He didn’t know which life was worse—people’s minds weren’t made to deal with problems and what-if scenarios this large. 

All he could do was accept it and keep trudging along.

This was the world he lived in now—a fucked up, disease-ridden world with only one-third of the population left. A world with a falling, corrupt government that re-institutionalized slavery in an attempt to fill in the labor gaps and keep the corporate overlords happy while the afflicted, marauders, Renegados, Frondeurs, and Envoys wreaked havoc below. 

Despite it all and how real and terrible it was, he could only bring himself to worry about the immediate danger in front of him—Wyatt Sullivan. 

Out of all his imagined scenarios of who or what was lurking deep in the desert, he hoped Envoys were staking out in these hills and eagerly waiting for the green light to launch an attack. He hoped they would rain down hell and raze this fucking house—tanks, missiles, gunfire and all. He hoped the afflicted would hear the emergency evacuation sirens go off, and every goddamn one of them in a 20+ mile radius would come running like someone rang the dinner bell. He hoped he got to witness them taking one look at Wyatt Sullivan, see the towering beast of a man he was, and look at him like an all-you-can-eat buffet and devour every last bloody fucking inch of him. 

Escape.

 

He could do it then. 

For real this time. 

That would be the perfect chance to do it, during an emergency evacuation, get lost in the frenzy of it all as his devil incarnate Master got ripped to shreds by anthrophages—

He was getting ahead of himself.

A pipe dream, that’s all it was—a sicko fantasy of diseased cannibals and those terrorist-soldier Envoys and escaping Wyatt Sullivan once and for all. Who knew if he would even be able to ride the tide of freedom instead of being pulled under and drowned by it?  

He didn’t finish his breakfast; he blamed the runaway people-eating scenarios on that. 

He blinked a few times to shake himself out of his trance, then turned his attention back to himself.

*****

He cautiously unwrapped his shoulder and inspected the stab wound for the first time—appropriately disposing of the soiled bandages in a waste bin, of course (he wasn’t a slob-kabob). 

The wound looked better than he expected, not that he doubted Dr. Paul’s work; it’d just been so long since he saw a non-infected wound and received proper medical care.

Five stitches held his skin together. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the skin fusing with a nice crusty scab filled between the gaps of flesh. To his surprise, the swelling mostly subsided and was hardly more than a bump. 

He continued undressing his wounds, inspecting each one, surprised by the level of visible healing each time—he usually healed slowly and lacked the gift of quick recovery. Even his splinted wrist with screws tacking the bones together looked better than he imagined it would. The stitch line was smaller than expected, hardly longer than the one on his shoulder. 

His eyes blurred over the revealed three-inch scar on his palm and the back of his right hand as he let his gaze maunder to the shower across from him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at this old scar. Unlike the other marks, the memory of this one haunted him with agonizing detail. He went to great lengths to conceal this one, mostly from himself, typically covering it up with a strip of old ace bandage to seal away the constant remainder of Wyatt Sullivan’s unending barbarity.

It was a strange and horrible memory, one he constantly pushed back into a lockbox buried deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory that came in heightened, broken fragments like cutout frames of sun burnt film. It didn't feel real; it seemed like a planted evocation from someone else, more similar to a blurb he would see in a premonition than an echo of his past. Instead of his mind, his body predominantly cataloged this event and all similar events thereafter; he disassociated through most of them in an act of atavistic self-preservation. 

Most of his life became staticky blurs alongside indistinct garbles and muddied out-of-body experiences since.  

*****

It was the first time.

 The monster was hopped up on grade-A Bolivian coke cut with street crystal, riding extraordinarily high, and very drunk, on a weekend bender. 

After chasing him around the property with a knife and gun in hand for what felt like hours, the monster cornered him in the home office located in the back of the house. 

With that knife, the monster stabbed his hand into the wooden desk, pinning him bent over. 

He scremed, hot tears flowed from his eyes, the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt. 

The pain stunned him, he stood watching, unable to process what the monster did. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. 

Blood, so much of it.

It spurted out in matching pulses to his quickening heartbeat, the red liquid pooled on the desk and painted his arm in crimson.

The monster grabbed at his waist.

He yelled, thrashed, and fought with everything he had, buying as much time as possible and refusing the inevitable, but he didn’t have much steam after hours of running from and fighting off the lumbering beast. 

The monster took his other hand and wrenched it behind his back so he couldn't move.

It felt like the monster was seconds away from snapping his arm. He shrieked. 

The monster’s fingers hooked around his waistband and pulled down. Still, he fought—he threatened, he begged, he screamed—he screamed so fucking loud. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. 

The monster groped his bare ass, pinned his legs open, spread him apart, and forced something inside him.

He couldn't see, but by the feel, he knew it must be one of the monster’s fingers. 

It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong, out of place, intrusive. 

He screamed more and pleaded for the beast to stop. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him. 

 The monster spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words. 

The monster wasn't stopping.

The monster added another finger and wriggled it around, stretching him out.

He wailed and told the beast he’d do anything to make it stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He pounded his head on the desk; that hurt, too, but he didn’t care.

He wanted it to stop; it had to stop. 

He couldn’t take it. 

He’d never done this before. 

He never wanted to do this, not with the monster, not with anyone. 

He kept headbutting the table until his vision was covered in red like his hand.

The monster grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, yelling more words he couldn’t hear. 

The monster’s fingers crammed deeper inside him, his body froze.

He begged with everything he had for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

Everything got fuzzy.

His mind went blank.

Something else was pushing inside him now.

Something bigger.

This wasn’t the monster’s fingers.

He wanted to scream, but his body seized, and he held his breath.

This time, it hurt; this time, it hurt really bad, more than any other kind of hurt he ever felt before. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

His mind went blank again. 

He came back around.

The monster violently pushed into him, slamming his hips into the corner of the desk. 

The monster sunk deep into him, deeper than he thought any monster part could possibly go. 

He made noises he had never heard himself make before, noises he didn't recognize as his own.

The squealing and yawping coming from him sounded like a faraway dying animal.

He thought he knew what this was, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He couldn’t accept it.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster moved around inside him, still pushing into him, still hurting him.

He weakly squirmed, still trying to plead with the monster.

The monster pushed down on his back to hold him still and plowed into him, making gross monster noises. 

He knew what this was called.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

No, not him. 

It couldn't be. But it was.

The beast liked hurting him, and the beast was good at it. 

He screamed and cried, begging so loud his vocal cords gave out until his voice pruned to a dusty croak. 

No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. 

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do to deserve this?

He breathed so fast, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough air.

He thought he was dying.

Everything went dark.

He didn’t exist anymore, and the monster was gone. 

But he came back. 

He still felt the splitting intrusion inside him—the monster still jackhammering away without the faintest concern for the internal damage dealt. 

He felt his insides ripping, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was on fire.

He tried to scream, but his throat stung. So he wailed out broken sobs even though that still hurt, too.

The monster laughed, then spoke more words he couldn’t hear, and he knew it was good that he couldn’t make them out. He wasn’t a monster, so he didn’t speak monster. That made sense. 

He wept.

The monster stuck something in his mouth. An object. The gun. 

No. Please not him. Not him. Not him. 

The beast spoke more monster words and sounded mad and happy at the same time. He couldn’t feel the monster's feelings because he turned off his monster-reading senses. 

Why was the monster doing this to him?

He drooled around the gun and tried to bite down on it to quiet his screams, but it hurt his teeth. 

He was terrified.

All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He felt sick.

He thought he was going to die.

He felt wetness.

He realized he pissed himself.

The monster didn't notice.

The air smelt like a gross gas station bathroom mixed with copper.

He felt more wetness, a different wetness spilling from where the monster was.

Blood and monster cum leaked out of him.

He felt the mix of wetness slicking between his thighs and drip down his legs, only stopping when his socks soaked up all the fluids. After some unknown amount of time, it settled in his shoes. It felt like he had stepped in a puddle, a smelly, rotten puddle.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He felt nauseous and dizzy.

The monster grunted and huffed on top of him; he could smell the alcohol, the beer, and chewing tobacco on the monster’s breath.

He smelt his blood and some other gut-churning smell he assumed was sweaty, unprepared, raw sex. 

He hated sex. He never wanted to do it. But the monster didn't care what he wanted.

He cried until his eyes swelled, and he couldn’t see anymore. 

His whole body ached.

He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted this to be nothing but a bad dream.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

But it did happen. It happened. To him. 

*****

He surmised whatever deal Sullivan made with the Doctor’s experimental drugs was paying off, at least for now. 

As relieved as he was with the healing of his noticeable injuries, his main concern sided with the non-visible wounds, what lay beneath his skin—the injuries Sullivan deliberately exploited because he knew better than to dig his trigger-happy fingers into freshly fused flesh and meat and consequently be stuck with the Doctor’s wrathful hospital bill. 

His sprained ankle and cracked rib still pulsed with a dull ache. 

He hoped by the next check-up, whatever damage his Master dealt would remit, and the memory of this incident would evanesce like the rest of his forgotten scars. 

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Footnotes:

*Anthrophage: a person with PEP (People-eater Pox), medical diagnosis “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion.” This is just a fancy name for a diseased cannibal who has PEP that exists within this AU. Anthrophage is not a “real word,” but it’s a play off of the word—anthropophagite.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

[whumpcereal]

a little noncon whump scenario beneath the cut

"Do you know what the French call it when you come, Whumpee?"

Whumper's whisper is warm and wet in Whumpee's ear. Whumpee squeezes their eyes shut, trying to ignore the rough hand slipping between their legs. They bite down hard on gag between their teeth, but still, their body jerks in response to Whumper's touch.

"They call it la petite mort, pet. A little death."

Whumpee's body coils like a spring as Whumper's fingers bring them closer to the edge.

"I wonder," Whumper purrs, "just how many times you'll die before I decide to kill you."

[loonybun]

hi whump community let me tell you about a drug called datura!! because boy is it a doozy.

datura is a deliriant, which means it is a hallucinogenic drug capable of causing serious and often terrifying delusions and hallucinations that are literally indistinguishable from reality in the user’s mind.

It is poisonous and part of the nightshade family, and the dosage used to get high off of it is actually very close to the lethal dose. it is also not only entirely legal in most places but also very accessible. it’s grown as a house plant, actually. most people who trip off of it only do it once because of how awful of an experience it is. also trips last like a long time (anywhere from 12 hours to 3 days if i remember correctly?)

the hallucinations that come with this drug are incredibly horrifying, making it literal nightmare fuel. also the more long term effects from it can include permanent psychosis and lingering delusions. fun stuff.

common hallucination experiences from this drug include the following:

- heavy gore

- seeing corpses

- feeling like you’ve been transported to an alternate dimension (hell)

- seeing people or entities you know (but a little fucked up)

- parasites and bugs

- feeling as though your organs are falling out of your body

- shadows in the back of your vision

- smoking phantom cigarettes or eating phantom food (phantom in the sense that they aren’t really there)

- torture scenarios

all in all, i think it’s a rlly interesting thing that can definitely be used in whump. like imagine a whumper lacing someone’s tea with that. the whumpee wouldn’t even be aware that something was done to them due to the fact that they physically cannot tell the difference between delusion and reality. real fun stuff. probably need an immortal whumpee though just cuz if someone takes this there’s a high chance of them getting hospitalized.

[a-living-canvas]

Blue

TW : noncon touch

"Mmm…"

Whumpee blinked their eyes a few times. Their head was pounding hard and the only thing that they could see was the television screen. They were laying on their stomach on the bed, along with Whumper who was hugging them tightly from behind. 

It was suffocating.

Whumper pushed a strand of hair behind Whumpee's ear as they watched the television together. Whumpee couldn't hear a thing though, they could only focus on their breathing.

In…and out…

In…and out…

In…and—

Whumpee gasped softly as Whumper tightened their grasp on them. Their legs were chained together under the blanket. The room was dark, Whumpee could only rely on the light from the television screen to see anything in the room. It was one drowsy night for them.

They got drugged by Whumper and couldn't do anything other than let out a few incoherent mumbles. Their body was too weak to resist any touch coming from their captor. Even when their hair was being tugged slightly for Whumper to braid. 

Whumper looked at their half-lidded gaze and chuckled. They love seeing Whumpee in this state. They looked so cute and vulnerable. Whumper couldn't get enough of Whumpee's soft skin and beautiful hair.

Whumpee yawned tiredly. They wanted to sleep, even just for a moment. They could feel their brain melting under the influence of the drug. But Whumper just wouldn't let them rest, right?

"Aww…sweetie, are you tired?" 

Whumper asked in a condescending tone. They continued stroking Whumpee's hair, a devilish smile forming on their lips. They turned off the televisyen, making the room turn pitch dark now.

Whumpee swallowed hard at the sudden lack of sounds and light. They could only hear the rustling sound coming from Whumper as they adjusted themself to get closer to Whumpee. 

I hate this, Whumpee thought. Get away from me.

They wished they could talk and scream and yell at Whumper for treating them like a rag doll. But the only thing that they could do was watch that monster do whatever they wanted to do to them. 

Whumper started unbuttoning Whumpee's shirt. The action alone made Whumpee murmured in desperate pleas. They struggled and squirmed under them.

"Shh…don't worry. I know you were bored watching the television."

Whumper said as they leaned closer to Whumpee's ear. "That's why I think we should have a little fun tonight."

Whumpee's eyes widened in fear. They struggled even more. "N…no…please…"

"It's okay, Whumpee. I'll make you feel good."

Whumper said as they ripped off Whumpee's shirt, leaving the poor creature started crying and whimpering. Whumper smirked at the sight. 

"You can't run away from me now."

[montammil]

CW: Recapturing, creepy Whumper, drugging, noncon touching

...

Whumpee has been alone in the house for a few days, and slowly their paranoia has gone down. They always felt nervous being away from Caretaker for too long, but it’s been almost two months since their return, so they understand Caretaker isn’t willing to risk their job and not go on that business trip.

As Whumpee takes another sip of their water, however, they begin to feel dizzy. They feel sick at the familiar feeling, remembering how Whumper used to drug them and they’d... 

...feel exactly like this.

They try to stand and grab their phone on their bed, but only make it two steps before falling to the floor. They open their eyes to see expensive shoes striding their way, they don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

“I’m offended, in all honesty. Did you really think you could get away from me? Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

“Please, don’t do this,” Whumpee begs. “Please.”

A smirk rises to Whumper’s lips. “Poor thing. You’ve grown so spoiled, you forgot your place. That’s okay, because you know what? I’m here now, and I’m never letting you leave me again.”

Whumpee goes deadweight when their captor picks them up, cradling them like Caretaker would. They cry and try to keep pleading, but each plead comes out as a pained moan.

As Whumper carries them out, they notice a framed picture on the wall. They stare at it, saying amusedly, “You look so happy in this picture, darling.” They snatch the picture and throw it to the ground, crushing it beneath their shoe. “Happiness isn’t a pretty look on you. I think I like these more.” They thumb away their tears.

“Pl-- pleas--”

“Shh...” Whumper drags their thumb from their cheek to their lips. “Save those pretty pleads for later. You’ll need them.”

[whumpitisthen]

"Look! These are opioids. They use them as heavy painkillers, for surgeries and such. At lower doses, they make you feel quite lovely, if not a little sleepy. At higher doses, they can be quite dangerous, as they may slow your heart rate and breathing, which can of course lead to death. But you know what other fun stuff they do? If you take them long enough, they will start doing the opposite of what they're meant to do... Instead of muffling the pain, they enhance it. Isn't that interesting?

They're very addicting as well. I think you will grow to like them."

[bamber344]

TW: potential implied non-con whump, drugged whumpee, coercion.

whumpee who doesn't even realise they're being whumped perhaps?

They are frequently invited to whumper's house under the pretence of some other activity (bonus points if it's some sort of contract/obligation that whumpee is reluctant to back out of) and offered a glass of water or some sort of snack once they get there, but little do they know it's been drugged. Whumpee consumes the offering and subsequently is knocked out, leaving them at whumper's mercy for however long.

eventually, whumpee wakes up, perhaps feeling a little sore, and whumper chides them for not getting enough sleep. Bonus points if caretaker comes to pick whumpee up while they're still asleep and whumper has to scramble for an explanation.

The longer this keeps happening, the more concerned caretaker gets. They know whumpee is getting enough sleep, and whumper is looking more and more suspicious with every strange bruise that whumpee comments on finding once they come home.

who knows what whumper is doing while whumpee's asleep? Experiments? Posing them for photos? Something worse? Does caretaker or whumpee ever figure it out? the possibilities are vast

[ashintheairlikesnow]

All We Have Is Each Other

CW: Intimate whumper, captivity, defiant whumpee, biting, creepy whumper, obsessive whumper, noncon kiss, vague noncon references, drugging. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 1: Duel

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

Takes place during Jax’s second captivity. As always, Jax is used with oversight and permission from @comfy-whumpee)

-

Savvie rolls dice every time she uses the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to grind up one of her collections of pills and mix it into Jax’s drink.

She’s always gambling with the drugs. The first part of the game is seeing whether he’ll drink it before he realizes there’s something in it. If she doesn’t mix it well enough, he’ll see the cloudy bits floating around in the glass and look at her with terrible sad eyes. Sometimes she can’t take it. She just takes the drink right back out of his hand and pours it out, makes him a new one. 

Other the other hand, sometimes his sad voice and sad eyes piss her off worse than anything else could, and she just tips it up until he chokes and makes him finish it anyway. Or shocks him, pressing the button to the remote and watching his muscles lock up, knowing he’ll look sweeter once he’s fighting the way his muscles jerk afterward, the unconscious twitches he can’t quite get rid of as the aftermath works its way through him. 

Sometimes he even looks scared. Those nights are some of her favorites. Savvie never loves Jax as much as she does when he is scared of her. 

But... she can’t keep him scared all the time. What kind of marriage would they have if she did that? No, the drinks aren’t to scare him, they’re just to make… to make things easier. And she doesn’t always do it! She doesn’t always drug him, but it’s enough that he never trusts her. She knows that. He doesn’t… trust easily. 

That’s okay. 

Their relationship got off to a rough start, that’s all, what with Jax starting off as one of the staff, bought and paid for. Plus, Jax’s dad convinced him Savvie was evil, once upon a time when he ran away from her. Taught him to hate her. She had to have her uncle fly all the way to England to bring Jax back, and it’s taking years to undo all the damage that stupid old man did. 

That’s okay. He’s getting better, he’s definitely getting better. He is. He has to be getting better. 

Still… he’s not an easy man to be married to. Not with having to keep an eye on the remote to his shock collar so he can’t take it off and try to run away again, not with the way he watches her sometimes like he wants to dunk her head into the toilet and hold it there until she drowns. Putting stuff in his drink just lets Savvie be able to relax. 

She doesn’t have to worry about what he might do when he’s so high he can’t do much of anything. Besides, it’s only like one out of every ten nights, sometimes twenty, sometimes she even goes for a month or two without doing it. 

She really doesn’t even want to. If he would just learn to be happy without it, she wouldn’t have to keep drugging him, would she? If he’d just stop being so difficult about being her husband… but that isn’t fair. He can’t be any better than he is, not really. Jax just… isn’t wired that way.

So she has to help him a little, to make it so he can have nights when he can’t stay mad at her. Or at least nights when his anger isn’t able to simmer in there behind his eyes while he says Yes, Miss Savvie or No, Miss Savvie like there’s a gun to his head. 

Still. Trying to give him these evenings where both of them just relax… it’s always a gamble. 

Even if he drinks whatever she makes without realizing it’s spiked, he doesn’t always react the same way. If she’s lucky - if her dice rolls well - the drugs make Jax… softer. He’ll lean against her when some of his strength slides away, not seek out touch but loathe it less. Those are the nights she can coax a sound out of him that isn’t clipped or tense. She still thinks about the night she gave him a back rub and he genuinely fell asleep sitting on the floor between her knees, his head drifting until it rested on her leg, the knots of tension slowly loosening beneath her kneading hands until she got distracted by the movie and forgot what she was doing. 

Sometimes he smiles, when he’s blurry and unfocused. Smiles, enough to show teeth even… God, sometimes he even laughs at some of Savvie’s jokes. It’s rare, but it happens. She loves those nights the best. Those are the nights that their marriage almost feels normal… if she just ignores the dilated pupils and the way he can’t stand up on his own. 

Sometimes he gets so foggy he can’t stop laughing, which is irritating but at least adorable to watch and take videos of to make him look at later on the next day when he sobers up again. Sometimes the side effects make him too scared to smile, his eyes darting nervously everywhere watching the movements of shadows he swears are watching him. She… tries not to give him those pills anymore.

The nights tend to end with her telling him to take off his shirt so she can enjoy the view, or even his pants, too. She usually waits on that, though, because it doesn’t matter how good the drugs are - he always hesitates when it comes to taking off his pants, as soon as his fingers touch the boxers with their oddly rolled waistband. 

It reminds him he doesn’t want to be here. Makes his addled mind come back to the collar he wears around his neck, to the reality of the life they’re living, the marriage Savvie has built all by herself whether he wanted to or not.

And he… he didn’t want to. 

So normally she waits on the getting naked bit until they’re in the bedroom and what he wants matters so much less that neither of them think about it any longer. The drugs, at least, make it harder for him to slow her down in there. 

Savvie tries not to think about that, because she doesn’t remember it that way. She likes the nights best where he doesn’t even try to fight, just lets her pull him upstairs and she gets to bury her hands in his hair and tell him what to do and have him, languid and loose-limbed, follow every command without the tension and misery he usually carries into their bed. 

She doesn’t always roll well. 

Sometimes, she rolls snake eyes… and she gets this, instead.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jax groans, words slurring around the edges, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He pushes clumsily away from her, nearly falling off the couch before he manages to catch himself. “For… f’r fuck’s sake, Savvie, what the fuck.”

His wedding ring glints, light from the TV bouncing off the deceptively plain platinum band. She’s hit all over again with a wave of love for him, for the life she’s built after he was brought back home to be hers forever, just like he always should have been. She’d been an idiot not to see it, not until he was gone and she spent years in prison dreaming about getting him back. 

“Fuck’s sake what?” She asks, voice light, smiling at him and poking him in the shoulder where they sit on the couch. 

He doesn’t slap her hand away, but she sees him look at her and… he wants to. His expression is dark. The light is bouncing off his hazel eyes, too, giving them a strange sheen of white that wipes out the color, obscures even his dilated pupils slowly taking over the iris. “What the fuck was it?”

“What was what?”

“What the fuck did you give me?” He goes to push himself to standing only to have his knees buckle beneath him, crashing him to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands. Savvie’s mouth waters, and she swallows, trying to ignore the flutter of fascinated interest in watching his fingernails scrape the rug as he tries to steady himself. “What the fuck is it, Savvie?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She answers, without changing her own tone, leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs. Her hair falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. “It’s not anything that could hurt you.”

This time, he doesn't say Miss Savvie or try out the sad eyes. Instead, he looks away. She can nearly hear his teeth grinding. “Yeah, but once I’m all fucked up, you will.”

“Don’t be rude,” Savvie chides him, but she doesn’t move. He looks good, on his hands and knees on the floor. Well, he looks good all the time, really, but he looks even better on his hands and knees. She knows the physique he’s built with the workout routine she makes him do, knows the muscles there hidden beneath the green sweater and jeans he’s wearing. “You’ve been stressed all week. I’m just trying to help-”

“Fucking shit, the hell you are!” He manages to sit back on his knees, then collapses back until his back hits the edge of the couch cushions, upright through sheer force of will and a bit of good luck. His hands lay limp at his sides, now. When he turns to look at her, his eyes don’t focus quite right - but the fury in them is clear.

Well.

Tonight’s not going to be the best night for them, then, she supposes. She feels the edge of a headache starting up, and sighs, looking mournfully at the movie she’d pulled up for them to watch. Another night, then. A night when the gamble pays off and doesn’t backfire. A night when he can’t remember how to be angry at her.

“Fine,” She says, heavily. “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help me.”Her own voice changes - drops almost a full octave from her usual carefully constructed diction and sweetness to something sharper. “I’m making tonight easier on me. Making you less… less-” She can't think of a good way to end the sentence, so she just lets it hang there between them. 

Jax snorts, looking away again. His head keeps lolling forward until his chin nearly touches his chest before he jerks it back again. “Yeah, I fucking know,” He manages, but his slurring is getting worse. “Shit f’r brains.”

Savvie sniffs, but the fake tears aren't coming as easily as they usually do. She probably accidentally gave him too much again. It’s just sometimes so hard to remember exactly how much the dose is supposed to be…

“I don’t enjoy you being cruel to me any more than you enjoy it when I do it to you, you know,” She says, suddenly… so tired. She spends so much time and effort creating a marriage herself out of a man her uncle bought for her once and abducted for her the second time, and she’s doing this all on her own - no one helps her, not really. And Jax never gives up.

She’d been sure he’d start to settle in and understand by now, but he just… he just doesn’t. And she’s so tired. Her fingers toy with the little black remote to his shock collar. Maybe she should just… just give up on having a good night and punish him for the cursing until he just bites off his stupid tongue. 

No, wait. 

She likes what he does with his tongue, when she gives the order. He’s so good with it now. Maybe… maybe just a small shock. Just to remind him he's hers. She takes a deep breath. “Jax… get on your-”

“On m’knees f’r discipline?” He starts laughing before she can finish, cutting her off, letting his head fall totally back against the arm of the couch until he’s staring at the ceiling. He sounds wild, almost like an animal. Her quiet watchful husband is feral, and Savvie resolves never to give him the pill she gave him tonight ever again. “Yeah, fucking… fuckin’ do it. Second I don’t play along, there y’go. Bzzzt.” He cackles, a cracked bark of laughter she’s never heard him make before. “Shut me up so you don’t hear me say it.”

Savvie’s heart twists. “Say what?”

The laughter dies in him as suddenly as it appeared. He turns his head, or tries to - it mostly just falls to one side until he’s looking at her. Their eyes meet, his all black pupil and hers with nearly no pupil at all. “How much I fucking hate your fucking guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” She says it firmly, as if he’s being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, Jax. You don’t hate me at all.”

She takes a deep breath. Married couples have fights, even ugly ones sometimes, and they work it out-

“Yeah. I… I really do.” Disgusted, that’s the tone in his voice. Disgusted with her. “I do. I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The look he gives her is such a blatant are you a complete fucking moron that she can hear his voice even though he doesn’t say a word. 

“No, hold on.” She waves one hand, dismissing her own question. His eyes briefly follow the movements of her fingers, distracted by whatever the drugs make him see there. Trails of light, maybe. It’s probably beautiful. “Hold on. I know why-”

“Do you?” His question is sharp, snapped, even as his every muscle can barely tense enough to move. “Do you fuckin’ really?”

“Yes. I do.” Savvie’s too tired to talk him in a circle tonight. She’s just… too exhausted by her bad gamble, bringing neither the snuggly Jax or the scared one, but this angry, vengeful animal instead.

Her headache is getting worse. 

She grabs her glass of wine off the coffee table and chugs it so fast a little drip escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. She has to wipe it away, wincing at the… at the idea of how that looks. Her mother would have had a fit about it. If she hadn’t died years ago. “Because I had you kidnapped.” 

Jax is silent, for a beat. He squints at her. “Fuck… what’d you say? Might be hearin’ shit.” 

She laughs, softly. Not her usual laughter, crafted to fill up a room and put all eyes on her. This laugh is barely there, but far more genuine. “No. You're not hallucinating, that shouldn't happen with what I gave you tonight.”

“Oh, good, not this fucking drugging, then, jussss-” His head falls too far to one side and he forces it back up, groaning. “Jusss… others.”

“Only one of the pills does that. And you were cute when you thought there were monsters in the bathroom.” She gets that flat stare from him again and this time she can't hold eye contact, looking down and away, still fiddling with the remote to his collar. “I just. I do know what I did, Jax.”

“Yeah, I fucking know you know-”

“I had you kidnapped.” She takes a deep breath. It feels oddly good to say, like a scene in a movie confessing to a priest. A foul-mouthed priest she’s been sleeping with for over a year. The thought makes her smile, just a little. “My uncle had people watching you, and when I was ready, he knew where you’d be and he abducted you for me. I know that. I know that you’d run, if you could. I’d take your collar off right now if I thought you’d stay without wearing it.”

Jax is silent for so long she briefly wonders if he's flat out forgotten how to talk. Then he shrugs - or tries to, his arms don't quite follow his commands. “You’d find somethin’ else, some other reason for shit ‘round my neck. You fuckin’ like it.”

For the first time, she doesn't deny it. “I do.” She laughs at the way he looks almost comically surprised, unable to keep his usual closed-off expressions in place with the drug coursing through his veins. “What? Can't a girl have a kink?”

“Sure fuckin’ can, but you… you don' have a kink, you got… goddamn victims.”

“... I… yeah. But it-... that's not my point. It isn't about the collar, Jax. Your wedding ring does it for me, too. I could barely wait to get you home after we signed the marriage certificate.”

The glare is back. His hatred is blistering her skin. She watches him try to stand, making it nearly upright before he falls back down again with a heavy thump. 

Her mouth twitches. “You want help, sweetie?”

“Ffffuck you.” 

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking so nicely.” She giggles at her own joke. 

He mumbles something she can't quite hear, trying to stand one more time but quickly giving up. He makes it onto the couch, at least. Savvie stands, turning to grab his ankles, shifting so he’s lying on his back, head and feet each cushioned by the arms of the comfortable, overstuffed couch. He struggles weakly, and it's hard work, but she gets him where she wants him. She barely breathes, taking in his chest rising and falling under his sweater, how his inhales are coming more sharply. 

She can't help herself. 

Savvie climbs on top of him, like she’s done a hundred times. She straddles him, sitting on his hips and leaning down to kiss his neck, nosing under his jaw. At first, his head tips back in resignation - but then he curses and pushes at her weakly instead. “Don’t.”

She grabs his wrists and shoves them above his head. He’s so weak, the drugs have taken all that muscle and made them… useless at holding her off. There’s a shiver of excitement down her spine. “Uh-uh, sweetie. You’re the one who said to fuck you, remember?”

She feels a thrill at saying fuck, like she’s still a kid sneaking swears in her room when her parents won’t overhear. 

“Don't,” He groans. “Sav-... Savvie, stop. G’t off me. I hate you.”

“I know.” She smiles down at him. His eyes meet hers, tired and bleary. Furious and almost resigned. “I know you hate me, Jax… but I love you.”

She leans down, her hair a waterfall curtain, blocking them both off from the world. She can smell the cologne she buys for him, blended with her own pricey perfume. His wrists jerk against her grip and she digs her nails in until he grunts in pain and the skin gives beneath. 

“Savvie,” he whispers. 

“Sssshhh.” She lets go with one hand, shifting both his wrists to her other one, and presses a finger against his lips. “I love you so much,” She whispers. “And I don't need you to love me back, sweetie, I don’t. I just need you to lie for me.”

 She kisses him, then, pressing her lips firmly to his. For half a second, his mouth is slack and unresisting even as his body shudders with disgust. He’s warm, his skin burning up beneath her. Her mouth moves against his, trying to get him to answer her, to open up.

His lips gently part. For a brief moment, Savvie feels the rush of victory.

Then he bites.

Pain blooms in a sudden flare as his teeth bury themselves into her lower lip and he jerks his head to the side, sensitive skin tearing.

“Shit!” Savvie jerks backwards, staring down at him wide-eyed. She can taste her own blood in her mouth. It’s smeared on his lips and his teeth like badly-done lipstick as he gives her a smile that's really a snarl. “Oh my God, Jax-... how dare you-”

“Fuck you! Don't fucking touch me!” He gets his arms more or less under his own control and shoves her off of him. She crashes into the coffee table, the legs giving out, tumbling her to the floor. Pain spikes hot and demanding along her hip where she hits the hard angle of the corner and she finds herself the one lying on the floor, while Jax slowly sits up, wiping blood off his lips. 

Her blood. 

Savvie pulls her fingers from her mouth and gasps. There’s a smear of red, bright and vibrant, the unmistakable sense of blood trickling down over her chin. She tongues at the wound, then winces as the pain flares bright, like he’s bitten her all over again. She considers tears - looks at the loathing in his eyes, the absolute rage written in the lines of his face - and then decides they’re wasted on him tonight. Instead, she just shakes her head. “That hurt.”

“Good. Don' like bein’ the one fucking bleeding for once, huh?” His eyes drift closed. He struggles to open them again, to keep his eyes on her. “Shit feelin’, isn't it?” 

“God.” She swallows. Blood on her tongue is making her feel nauseous and she gets to her feet carefully. Her mouth and hip throb. She’s going to be so bruised tomorrow, going to ache so much. “You’re awful sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He hasn't bothered to try and get the red off his teeth. “I know. So… so fffffuckin’ get rid of me, then.”

Savvie snorts, limping a little as she moves to pick up the spilled wine bottle from the floor. She could shock him now - that’s what she would usually do. Or call Isaac and have him carted off to spend another month locked in the kennels with the dogs. He… probably doesn’t care about that, though. Anything to get away from her. Anything is better than her, to him.

“Get rid of you?” She drinks the last swallow in the bottle, washing blood down her throat with the wine. ��Then what, Jax? I should just… live here alone, without you, for the rest of my life?”

“Fucking-... yes, or go fucking die. I don't fucking care.” The flush of hot anger bleeds away, his voice softening a little. “I don't… don' care, Savvie. I don’t care about you.”

“No. You do.” She feels a burst of desperation to make him understand. “You hate me, right? That’s caring about me, still.”

“Savvie-”

“No. I love you. You are mine, and I am keeping you. This is love, Jax. What I feel for you is true love.” 

He shakes his head, swaying a little where he sits. He tries to push her away again as she takes him by the arm but his burst of energy seems to have used him up. He lets her, in the end, get him onto his feet. She leads him on his unsteady legs out of the room, and he stumbles along with her. 

“S'not love,” He mumbles. She keeps an arm around his waist to help him balance. “Fucking… fuck you. Let me leave, Savvie.”

He doesn't have the strength to push her away, not anymore. He has to use her to stay up as they take the stairs one at a time, although after three or four he jerks away again and uses the railing, leaning heavily against it as he drags himself upwards, inch by inch, step by step. 

She lets him pull away, watching his determination to not need her, how badly he doesn’t even want her. There’s a canyon inside of her, something dark and deep that hurts so much worse than her hip or her torn open lower lip, threatening to claw its way out as she watches the man she has forced to play the role of her husband do anything he can to avoid her touch. 

Her jaw sets. “It is. It is love, and you know what? It’s all the love you’re going to get. Ever. No one else will ever love you.” Savvie’s voice stays low. “You’re not… you’re not lovable, Jax, but I don’t care, I love you anyway. Nobody else would. No one is ever going to even want to love you but me.”

He slumps. The fight’s all gone out of him, for now. Her gamble failed tonight and Jax is buckling under the weight of what runs through his veins, the heavy expectations in her eyes and her smile and her devotion. 

“Fuck,” is all he says, barely a whisper under his breath.

Savvie sighs, touching her fingers to her lip again. The bleeding has slowed but there’s still a spot of red. “Goes both ways, though, I think.”

He doesn't look at her. “What?”

“This… how much you hate me… how I had to kidnap you, and put that thing on your neck to keep you here, how you wish you were anywhere but here with me… you know, I, I get it.”

He has to stop at the landing and lean over, resting his forehead against the wall. 

She lays a hand on his back, leaning over to speak right against his ear. “I get that your hate is all the love I’m going to get, too, Jax. Nobody else will ever love me, either.” 

Her throat feels tight, and she can’t tell if she really feels the twisting nerves in her stomach, the sense of dread, or if it’s part of her act for Jax. Sometimes even Savvie isn’t sure when she means the things she says. Sometimes, even worse, she really does.

“All we’re ever going to have is each other.”

He doesn’t answer her. But when she takes his arm in her hand, he allows himself to be dragged along towards her bedroom. The fight might be gone, but so is the feeling. There’s nothing in his eyes that shows he even heard her.

That’s okay. She can be honest, in the dark, in the middle of the night, knowing that he’s too drugged to remember anything she said when he wakes up again. She’ll lie to herself again by morning. So will he.

She just needs him to lie. 

-

@whumpyourdamnpears consider this my evil savvie gift to you

[3-2-whump]

Tear-Filled Noncon (Mutual!)

it's a working title, I'm bad with titles

Continuation of this idea

Art here

TW/CW: because this is a continuation of the previous noncon idea, a lot of the same warnings will apply. Rape/Noncon, intimate whumper, obsessed whumper, domestic violence (including brief head trauma), some degradation, inner thoughts that go a bit dark. If I missed anything, pls let me know!

He turned the key slowly in the lock, opened the door as quietly as he could, and closed it equally as carefully behind him. Whumpee’s eyes swept over the living room. The apartment was quiet and dark, dimly illuminated only by the city lights in the window. More importantly, the door to the master bedroom was closed, with no light peeking out from underneath. Whumpee sighed in relief; he’d gotten away with it.

The next breath caught in his throat as he was body-slammed into the door. A large hand pinned both wrists above his head when he tried to defend himself from the unseen force. The other hand yanked his head back by his hair, eliciting a surprised yelp of pain. “Where were you?” a warm breath hissed in his ear.

Whumpee squirmed under his master’s punishing grasp. “I-I can explain-”

“Like hell you can!” The hand in Whumpee’s hair drove his head forward and smashed it against the door. Sharp pain unfurled in the back of his skull as stars danced across his blurry vision. “Your curfew is midnight at latest, and it’s nearly two in the morning,” Whumper's angry voice thundered past the incessant throbbing in his head. The hand on his wrists tightened into a bruising grip. “So tell me-” Whumpee cried out in pain as the hand in his hair pulled harder. “Where were you?”

“You’re hurting me!” Whumpee gasped.

“Well you’re hurting me!” Whumper let go of him at once, only to throw him to the floor of the entrance. Whumpee landed hard on his side. He reflexively tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but within moments the man had flipped him onto his back to better climb on top of him. A loud ripping sound punctuated Whumpee’s whimpers in the darkness as his shirt was torn clean in two. “Coming home late at night, with no regard to my rules, and smelling like a cheap motel –wait…” Whumper’s eyes zeroed in on a necklace of hickeys that rested on the young man’s collarbone. He slapped him, once, then twice, then again. “Who gave you those hickeys?” Slap! “Who were you sleeping with?!” Slap! “Well, answer me, whore!”

Whumpee shook his head, the tears streaming down his face as he continued to beg for mercy. “Clearly you’ve forgotten who you belong to,” Whumper huffed. “No problem, this just means I’ve got to remind you!” He brusquely unbuttoned Whumpee’s pants and pulled them and his boxers down the young man’s trembling thighs. Whumpee’s pleas of “no, no, stop, please, stop” went entirely ignored as he was flipped onto his stomach. His begging took on a frantic pitch as his body started visibly shaking. He’d never been taken from behind before, and this new position made him panic.

“You don’t deserve to be fucked like a person, so you’ll take it like the wanton little bitch you are!”

“No, no, stop, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, no, I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!” Whumpee wailed as his hips were wrenched up from the floor and Whumper entered him without any prep or lube. The man was not gentle, far from it. Quick, desperate thrusts punctured him deeper than he was used to. It was the roughest he had ever been with him, unquestionably, feeling less like having sex and more like being torn in half. Stubbornly enough, Whumpee’s body reacted to these more intense sensations all the same, especially when the man on top of him continuously slammed into that sweet spot inside of him.

“Look at you,” Whumper commented derisively, a hint of bitterness in his gravelly voice. “Hard as a rock already, you slutty thing! You’d be happy with just anyone’s cock inside your ass, wouldn’t you?” Whumpee’s cheeks colored in shame as a shaky moan interrupted his pleas. “But you shouldn’t be; you’re mine!”

He felt a thin, warm fluid trickle past the cock pummeling his hole. The man above him crushed him further into the carpeted floor. “I own this ass, and it is mine to fuck,” he screamed, “you got it?! No one else’s, just mine!”

He didn’t have to see behind him to know he was bleeding. At least it makes Master’s thrusts a little less painful, he thought. That feeling of morbid relief alone made him cry even harder. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Why am I not enough for you?!” Whumper’s voice wavered with emotion. His angry thrusts turned sloppier as he continued. “Damn it, and damn you! I gave you everything you could ask for; I gave you everything you could have needed! I fed you, clothed you, made you into the man you are today, so why?! What are they giving you that I’m not?!” The man’s voice caught on the last question. Whumpee felt small wet drops of liquid fall onto the nape of his neck. Tears? He realized with horror that Whumper was crying as he was raping him.

“M-Master, I-I’m sorry, please-”

“I said, shut up!” He pulled Whumpee back by the hips until he was flush with the older man’s pubic bone, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside him. They stayed in that position for an uncomfortably long time. Suppressed sniffling sounds filled the entryway, and Whumpee knew they weren’t all coming from him. Whumper eventually pulled out, leaving his hole gaping and obscenely oozing cum. He settled on the floor next to Whumpee and repositioned them both onto their sides. “I love you, boy,” he murmured as he pulled him closer to spoon him. “I don’t enjoy hurting you, boy.” The tension gradually left Whumpee’s body as he accepted the forced cuddles. The man planted a kiss on the back of his ear, right above the barcode tattoo that marked him indelibly as property. The kiss was wet and tinged with sadness. “So why do you make me hurt you?”

-

Because what we do –no, what you do to me- is not supposed to feel good. How could it feel good? I didn’t want it, I don’t want it, and I will never want it, so why does my body betray me every time? What if it’s because you’re right? What if this really was my true purpose? To be nothing more than a pair of holes to fill and a body to break under yours? What if I am all those names you call me because I think this feels good?

And, what if I act out, do all the things I know will test your patience and make you rough and uncaring so that it finally hurts? So that it finally doesn’t feel good, and I don’t have to ask if my body and my mind are on the same page about me being violated? What if that’s why I make you hurt me? Would you stop? Would you hurt me more? Would it even matter?

-

That is everything Whumpee wanted to say. Instead, through a throat ripped raw from screaming, he rasped, “I don’t know.”

[monta-02]

TW: Noncon, AFAB Whumpee, AMAB Whumper, death threats, guns, failed escape, forced oral sex, grinding, creepy Whumper, humiliation, degradation, tied up

When Whumpee escaped, they tried to stay low. They got a cheap hotel room, and tried not to leave under any circumstances, unless it was absolutely necessary. They kept reminding themself that this wouldn't be forever, just for a few weeks, until the situation calmed down.

It had been barely a week since they escaped, and Whumpee was paranoid. They jumped at every little noise, they couldn't sleep well, and they've barely eaten anything.

They were exhausted, both physically and mentally.

They knew Whumper was searching for them, and Whumpee was terrified of what was going to happen to them if they were caught. Whumper's anger was terrifying, and Whumpee could vividly remember every punishment and torture they've done to them.

Whumper was ruthless and cruel.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Whumpee ran their hands through their hair, taking deep breaths. Their body was trembling, their nerves frayed, and their thoughts were running a mile a minute. They felt nauseous, and their body was sore from sleeping on a lumpy mattress. It was better than Whumper's though.

Whumpee sighed heavily and stood up, their knees buckling slightly. They stumbled their way into the room, flopping down onto the bed face first, groaning.

Their clothes were all dirty, just a thin towel wrapped around them. They knew they'd have to wash them soon, but going outside even for that terrified them.

They rolled over to their back and stared blankly at the ceiling. Whumpee desperately wanted to sleep, their eyes drooping, but the nightmares prevented them.

Every time they closed their eyes, they were haunted by Whumper.

That's when they heard a knock.

Whumpee froze, their heart hammering in their chest. They didn't move, their muscles tensing, waiting to see if it was their imagination.

After a minute of silence, Whumpee slowly relaxed, thinking it really was their mind playing tricks.

Then there was another knock, followed by a familiar voice.

"I know you're in there. Open the door or I'll break it down."

Sitting up, Whumpee's blood ran cold. They recognized that voice anywhere. Whumper found them, and they were knocking at their door.

Whumpee scrambled off their bed and hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly. They pressed their back to the wall, sliding down until they were sitting on the floor.

They listened closely as they heard the door open, their breathing becoming uneven. Whumpee prayed Whumper would think they weren't here, that they'll leave, and they'll escape once more.

There wasn't a lock on the door, but even if there was, it would be hopeless.

Whumper wasn't dumb, however, and Whumpee cursed them when they heard their boots walk across the carpet floor, pausing in the bathroom.

Whumpee covered their mouth with their hand, their breathing becoming erratic, as they heard Whumper jiggle the doorknob.

The doorknob started to turn, and Whumpee flinched. They squeezed their eyes shut, waiting for Whumper to open the door and drag them back. The door opened, and Whumpee didn't dare open their eyes.

"So this is where you're hiding?" Whumper mused, and Whumpee shivered as they heard them crouch down. A gloved hand cupped their cheek, and Whumpee couldn't stop the whimper from escaping their lips. "Look at me, Whumpee."

Whumpee didn't move, their entire body tense, their heart threatening to burst. Whumper tsked and grabbed a fistful of their hair, making Whumpee gasp and open their eyes, tears already forming.

Whumper smiled at them, their grip tight, making them hiss in pain.

"You've given me quite the chase, baby," they chuckled, pulling their hair harder, earning a pained whine. "But now the fun's over. Stand."

"N-no," Whumpee choked, their hands clutching Whumper's wrist. "Please, don't. I don't want- I can't-"

"I'm not asking," Whumper growled, pulling them closer, their noses nearly touching. Whumpee flinched at Whumper's tone, their breath hitching. "Stand, or I'll make sure you can never stand again."

Whumpee shuddered. They knew Whumper was serious, and they didn't want their legs broken, or worse. Slowly, Whumpee shakily stood, and Whumper followed.

Letting go of their hair, Whumper grabbed their bicep, leading them out of the bathroom. Whumpee stumbled after them, their knees weak, eyes darting around, looking for something, anything, to help them. Whumper lead Whumpee towards the bed and pushed them onto it.

Whumper grabbed Whumpee's towel, easily pulling it off, leaving them naked. Whumpee tried to cover themself but Whumper slapped their hands away.

Roughly turning Whumpee around, Whumper pushed them onto their stomach, grabbing their wrists and tying them together with a rope they had ready. They struggled, but Whumper tightened the rope, making them hiss. They then tied Whumpee's ankles.

"There, much better," Whumper purred after pulling away. "I missed seeing you like this, sweetheart."

"Fuck you," Whumpee hissed, glaring at Whumper over their shoulder. "Let me go!"

"Now why would I do that?" Whumper mused, placing a hand on Whumpee's ass, squeezing it. Their grin turned into a glare. "You really pissed me off, Whumpee. I went through so much trouble finding you, and you're going to pay for it."

Easily flipping Whumpee over, Whumper admired their naked body, eyes dark. They ran their hands up Whumpee's inner thighs, smirking at how their legs trembled. Whumper dug their nails in Whumpee's soft skin.

A trail of red lines followed Whumper's nails, and Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut. They tugged at their binds, wanting to get away from them, to escape.

They knew they were in deep shit, and they were scared of what Whumper was going to do.

Whumper looked up to their captive's face, then stood. Before Whumpee could even be relieved, Whumper shoved them to the floor and walked over to the chair in front of the bed. They sat down and pointed to the floor. "Over here. Now."

"I can't, I'm tied-"

"Crawl."

Cringing, Whumpee awkwardly crawled their way towards Whumper, stopping between their legs. They refused to look at them, but Whumper grabbed their hair and forced them to.

They were sure Whumper was going to force them to suck them off, like they had done many times before, but Whumper surprised them.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to grind yourself here." Whumper pointed to their expensive shoe. "You will only cum when I tell you to, and then you're going to lick it all off. Understand?" Whumpee hesitated, earning a tug to their hair, making them hiss. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Whumpee whispered, glancing at Whumper's shoe. "I-I understand."

Whumper hummed, releasing Whumpee's hair and leaned back in their chair. "Then start grinding."

Hesitantly, Whumpee lowered themself onto Whumper's shoe, their thighs pressing against it. Whumpee slowly started grinding against it, the rubber sole rubbing painfully against them. Whumpee tried to go slow, but Whumper wasn't having it, pushing their shoe deep into Whumpee, earning a yelp.

"I'm being merciful and you still manage to waste my time," Whumper growled, hand grabbing Whumpee's hair once more. "Grind faster."

"I-I'm trying," Whumpee hissed, glaring at them, their hips moving faster. "It hurts-"

"Good," Whumper interrupted, their eyes dark. "I want it to hurt."

A shudder ran down Whumpee's spine, their glare faltering. They continued grinding, gasping and hissing every time Whumper pushed their shoe deep into them, the sole rubbing against their most sensitive areas. Whumpee closed their eyes, tears pricking at the corners, their hips stuttering.

"Please," Whumpee whispered, their hips slowing, earning a tug to their hair. "I-I can't- it hurts-" Whumpee was caught off when they heard a click. Opening their eyes, Whumpee saw Whumper was holding a gun, pointing it at them. Whumpee's blood ran cold. "Wh-"

"Keep grinding."

Swallowing hard, Whumpee hesitantly did what Whumper said, their eyes trained on the gun. Whumper watched Whumpee grind against their shoe, their finger on the trigger. Whumpee shuddered, wondering if Whumper was really crazy enough to shoot them while they did this.

Whumper noticed the hesitation, so they pressed the barrel to Whumpee's temple. "Grind. Faster."

Whumpee sobbed again. Whumper smirked, their gun still pressed against their head, watching as they grind desperately against their shoe, their juices coating the rubber. Whumper enjoyed every expression Whumpee made, their lips parting, soft noises and gasps escaping them.

"Close?" Whumper chuckled.

"Yes," Whumpee whimpered, their grinding becoming sloppy. "Can I please-"

"No."

Whumpee shuddered, their walls fluttering. They slowed their hips, their breathing uneven. Whumper pushed the gun against their temple harder, making Whumpee hiss.

"I didn't tell you to stop."

They trembled, their hips picking up the pace once more, their juices practically dripping onto Whumper's shoe. Whumpee gasped and whined, tears falling, their thighs burning. Whumper watched them, their finger twitching on the trigger, their free hand unbuttoning their pants. Pulling out their cock, Whumper lazily stroked it.

"Look at me," Whumper purred, Whumpee hesitantly opening their teary eyes, looking up at them. "You're so pathetic. Look at you, grinding against my shoe like a bitch in heat."

"Please," Whumpee whined, their hips moving faster. "Please-"

"Cum."

Whimpering, Whumpee immediately came, their hips stuttering, their juices coating onto Whumper's shoe. Whumper hummed, continuing to stroke themself as Whumpee rode their orgasm, their breathing labored.

Whumper looked at their shoes, chuckling. "Look at the mess you made."

Whumpee glanced down, their face heating up, embarrassment washing over them. Whumper suddenly grabbed Whumpee's hair, earning a hiss, and shoved their face onto their shoe. Whumpee flinched, their nose pressing against it, their cum smearing across their face.

"Start cleaning."

"But-"

"If you don't, I'll blow your brains out," Whumper reminded, their gun pressing against Whumpee's temple once more. Tears still rolling down their eyes, Whumpee hesitantly started licking their shoe clean, shuddering at their own taste. "That's it. Get it all clean."

Whumpee wanted to throw up, their tongue dragging over the rubber, their cum mixed with their saliva. Whumper watched them, their free hand still stroking themself, their grip on Whumpee's hair tight. Whumpee closed their eyes, focusing on licking their shoe clean, their cheeks burning.

"Open your eyes and look at me," Whumper growled, Whumpee flinching and obeying. They shuddered, seeing Whumper's eyes dark, their grin wide. "You look so humiliated. How cute."

Sobbing, Whumpee continued licking. Whumper chuckled and leaned their head back, their hand speeding up. Whumpee didn't stop licking until every inch was clean, their stomach churning.

Whumper kicked them in the face once their shoes were both clean, earning a pained cry. Whumpee fell onto their side, their nose throbbing, their hands pulling at their binds. Whumper moaned as they continued stroking themself, their gaze trailing Whumpee's naked body.

"On your knees. Hurry."

They really, really didn't want to, fully knowing why, but they couldn't bring themself to rebel further.

Whumpee awkwardly pushed themself up, kneeling between Whumper's legs. They didn't even notice the blood trickling down their nose until Whumper wiped at it, licking at it and moaning again. They then used the same hand and grabbed Whumpee's hair, tugging them closer.

Whumper guided their cock into their mouth, pushing all the way in, earning a gag. Whumpee wanted to vomit as they felt the disgustingly familiar taste of Whumper's cum, their throat protesting. Whumper groaned, their grip tightening.

"You better swallow it all," Whumper growled, thrusting their hips, Whumpee gagging once more. "You're not allowed to miss a single drop."

Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut, Whumper's thrusts harsh. They choked and gagged, their lungs burning, their face bright red.

Tears rolled down their cheeks as Whumper's cum filled their mouth, their thrusts stuttering. Whumper moaned loudly, their cock twitching in Whumpee's mouth, their grip painful.

Pulling out, Whumper grinned wildly, seeing Whumpee's face flushed and tear stained.

Whumper's cum dripped out their mouth, Whumpee's chest heaving. Whumper grabbed Whumpee's chin, making them look at them.

"Show me."

Whumpee parted their lips, showing them that they did as they were told. Whumper hummed, their thumb wiping at some cum that was dripping down Whumpee's chin.

They rubbed it against Whumpee's tongue, earning a whine. They watched as Whumpee swallowed down the last bit of cum, then shoved them back on the floor.

Whumper stood up, tucking themself back into their pants, fixing their shirt. Whumpee watched them, their tears falling, their entire body aching. They flinched when Whumper crouched down, their grin unsettling.

"Good job, sweetie," Whumper praised, wiping away a stray tear. "Now, let's go home. I'm not done with your punishment."

[serickswrites]

Little Thing

Warnings: captivity, chemical restraints, drugging, implied noncon, creepy/intimate whumper

"Oh you sweet, precious, little thing," Whumper cooed as they cupped Whumpee's cheek. "I am going to enjoy taking my time with you." They kissed Whumpee on the lips.

Whumpee couldn't move. They could barely breathe. It took everything in them to keep their eyes open, and even then, they could feel their grip on the consciousness slipping. They weren't sure what Whumper had injected them with. All they knew was that they could barely move and the moment their world began to grow hazy, Whumper began to touch them.

"You are such a lovely, little thing," Whumper kissed down Whumpee's neck. "I just had to make you mine. So lovely, so perfect."

Whumpee blinked back tears as Whumper kissed down their exposed chest. This was unspeakably evil. This was something they did not want to be awake for. This was the worst thing Whumpee had experienced.

"Don't worry, little thing," Whumper looked up at Whumpee across their body, "I'll be gentle with you. I want you to last longer than some of the others."

Whumpee closed their eyes, allowing themself to drift closer to unconsciousness. They didn't want to be awake for the next part. Mercifully, the waiting dark consumed them.

[theheartwhumpswhatitwhumps]

Whumper comforting Whumpee

Whumper shushing Whumpee while they sob

Whumpee rejecting their touch, disgusted that this monster is holding them, being gentle with them, soothing them

Whumpee trying to pull away because even in their weeping delirium, they know they don’t want to be anywhere near Whumper

Whumper pulling them in close, locking Whumpee in strong arms like bars on a cage. Confining, but safe

Whumpee is too weak to pull away. Whumpee…Whumpee doesn’t want to pull away. They’re so afraid, they hurt so much, that any soft touch feels like Heaven

Whumpee crying even harder as they finally concede, leaning deeper into Whumper’s touch

Whumper stroking Whumpee’s hair, smiling in quiet victory

Some Whumper dialogue:

“Shhh, there there…”

“Oh, darling, I know.”

“Let it out, it’s alright.”

“Now now, no need to make a fuss.”

“It’s over now.”

“I’m here.”

Some Whumpee dialogue:

(between hiccups) “Get off. Get off me.”

“Don’t touch, don’t you dare.”

*uncontrolled sobbing*

*screaming into Whumper’s chest/shoulder*

“It h-hurts…”

“I’m sorry.”

“They’re gone”

(lost within mournful wailing) “It’s my fault. My fault.”

[whumpbump]

Stop Fighting Me

Cw: emeto, noncon drugging, blood, mcd

As the car sped down the winding road, Hero began to retch.

Looking back in the mirror, Villain said “Not on the seats!” But they were too late as Hero spread an ocean of bile across the suede upholstery.

Wiping their mouth, Hero groggily began to cry out in apology. Tears running, snot bubbling, they felt so awful. If not for the poison and antidote battling it out in their system for dominance, Hero would have made a stronger effort to get their head out the window. If they would’ve lost their composure at all at that point.

Focusing back on the road, Villain tsked to themselves before grumbling “it’s ok, you can’t help it but you’re damn well gonna be cleaning it up after you’re better.”

12 hours earlier:

Villain slunk back into their living room with an ice pack, turning on the television to the local news. “-once again, Team Super has defeated Villain. Will Villain EVER learn?” The broadcasters chuckled. Villain chuckled back mockingly but watched like a hawk for Hero’s big moment. After all, they were the one that delivered the devastating blow to Villain’s pride.. and face.

After seeing Hero accept their valor medal, they sent a text from their burner cell to Hero, fuming.

‘Do you think you could’ve hit me any harder today? That fucking hurt.’

‘I’m sorry, the Team has been getting suspicious of why I never bring you in. I had to make it believable and you’re a terrible actor. Love you. xoxo’

Sighing, Villain laid back and let the pain killers take effect as their face changed to shades of purple and blue.

Back at Team Super’s base, Team Leader stood at the head of the table looking at all but one of their teammates. Hero was on their way to the debriefing of the morning fight. Late, again.

“Let’s start.”

“Hero’s not here, Team Leader.”

“I know. Hero really surprised us out there today and with it being caught on the news, we can’t kick Hero off the Team now.”

Team Leader held up a small vial of clear liquid.

“I propose-“

Hero burst through the door apologizing profusely, something about needing to text their mother, wouldn’t happen again, couldn’t leave mom on read again.. they stopped when they didn’t receive the usual jeering responses. Looking around, they saw their peers’ eyes darting back and forth.

“Wh-what?”

Quickly palming the vial to the closest Team Member, Team Leader turned to Hero and said “well, you proved you can certainly save the day! We were planning your congratulatory party as the newest member of the Team. Great job out there today.”

Hero blushed and took their seat as the Team resumed their meeting. They hoped that their poor excuse of defending the town with doling out a single black eye would be enough to keep the waters calm for now.

“-and Hero?”

Embarrassed for being caught off guard, their eyes shot up at Team Leader.

“Don’t be late to your own party. It starts at 5pm sharp.”

They were all smiles as they left for their dorm to tell Villain.

‘Ok but just be careful. I don’t trust them not to do something to you.’

‘You’re just jealous you’re not getting a party thrown in your honor lol.’

Villain rolled their eyes. Ouch, that hurt actually. They sighed in discontent as they dragged themselves to their closet to pull out their nice clothes. Something wasn’t right. Weeks of complaining to Villain about bullying and borderline abuse to now having a party thrown for them all for giving Villain a black eye, this wasn’t Villain’s first rodeo. Something was wrong. The Team Super THEY knew was definitely up to something.

At 5pm on the dot, Hero stepped in front of a crowd and was handed a drink by Team Leader to give a speech. At 4:57pm, Villain watched a member of Team Super secretively pour a vial into Hero’s cup as people mingled.

Following from a safe distance, they watched Team Member toss the vial into the trash and circle back to the group. Snapping on nitrile gloves, Villain pulled out the vial carefully to read the label. “Oh thank goodness I have the antidote to that.”

The crowd began to cheer and Villain hurried over to see Hero lift their glass and take a large swig.

Villain knew time was running out as soon as the poison hit Hero’s mouth so they bustled over feigning excitement to congratulate Hero for their victory.

Trying to get Hero away from everyone was going to be a problem. Team Super was surrounding Hero. Ok deep breath, here we go.

“Hero!! Hero I’m your biggest fan!” Villain flailed their arms around, garnering everyone’s attention. Hero blushed and looked at their team for help. Team Member turned towards Villain, not recognizing them without their mask, and quietly asked them to step aside.

“I want to talk to Hero! They saved my LIFE today! I must THANK them!”

People were starting to stare as Hero pushed through, sweat starting to bead on their forehead. Through labored breathing, they focused their eyes on Villain, trying to smile genuinely. Villain pushed a drink containing the antidote into Hero’s hand.

“HERE Hero, a drink on me! For SAVING me!”

The crowd cheered. Smiling with a dopey expression, they knocked back the entire thing.

Ok, good, good. Now for an exit strategy… Villain was interrupted by Team Leader who politely smiled, took Hero by the shoulders, and said “I think Hero has had one too many. Thank you and goodnight!” The crowd cheered once more.

Shit. Ok, where are they taking Hero? Villain stayed back but watched Hero be escorted out to the back of the building to a waiting car. Perfect! Villain took off toward a side exit.

Sneaking around the building, they saw Team Leader shoving Hero into the back of the car as Hero weakly pushed at them to get off.

“Nnnno I-I wanna stay.”

“Sorry Hero, you uh-heh you don’t look that well. I’ll take you home. Look, I warmed the car up for you and everything.”

Sending Team Member back in, Team Leader said “it’ll kick in soon, I’ll drop them outside city limits in the woods. We’ll tell them Hero went on to bigger better things.”

As they exchanged words, Villain scurried around the car, opened the door, and took off as the teammates parted.

“HEY!” Team Leader and Team Member took off after the car for 15 feet or so before Team Leader grabbed Team Member’s arm. “Keep the party going, no one is to know about this. I will handle it.”

Team Leader took flight, high above the trees and looked for the taillights.

Present time:

Villain checked the rear view mirror to check on Hero again when they saw two glowing eyes closing in.

“Crap. Team Leader is almost on us. Evasive maneuvering, hang tight!”

As Villain sped down the road, they came up to a red light. Without thinking, they passed through the intersection leaving honking cars in their wake.

“hEY! That was a RED LIGHT!”

“Keep your focus on NOT vomiting on my seats, thank you.”

After taking a few quick turns, they pulled into Villain’s driveway.

Throwing open the back door of the car, Villain grabbed Hero from under their arms to hoist them up only to be met with flailing arms.

“NO! NO! Those were my FRIENDS!” Hero belched, tasting bile and felt it rise in their throat. Seeing them turn green, Villain dragged them to the grass. Hero tried to push Villain away again once they were done. Desperate, Villain shook them by the shoulders gently.

“Stop fighting me, Hero, they tried to kill you.”

“W-what?”

“Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll tell you more inside.”

“No! You tell me now!”

“Please, Team Leader will be here any minute. Let’s just go inside.”

“W-We should ask Team Leader for their side of the story.”

“How stupid are you?! Team Leader tried to poison you!” Villain was losing composure. Tears threatened to fall as their voice wavered. Hero was their person. Their love. How could they not see the team was acting against them?

Hero stiffened at the insult. Villain reached for their hand only for theirs to be slapped away.

Staggering, Hero tried to stay upright but was doing poorly.

“Please, my dearest, I’m sorry. You’re not stupid but you’re very, very sick. Let me help you.”

Weeping openly as snot dripped, Hero gagged and vomited for the third time. Having enough of waiting, Villain escorted a weak Hero into their home and down to their basement.

At that moment, Team Leader flew overhead and stopped, taking notice of the car and vomit. “You thought you could get hide,” Team Leader chuckled to themself as they broke the back door open. Knowing neither would be in top fighting shape, they entered without care.

Villain apologized profusely as they set up an IV line for Hero. “This will only hurt for a second-“

They never finished their sentence. They were shot across the room in an electric blast coming from Team Leader’s open hand.

Slipping into a coma, the last thing Hero saw was Team Leader standing over them.

Alt ending A (Villain and Hero die)

“Tsk, tsk, poor Hero. How could Villain do such a terrible thing to you?”

As Villain watched from across the room, blood spilling from their mouth onto their dress clothes, Team Leader took a nearby syringe and injected air into Hero’s heart. They waited a minute for Hero’s breathing to stop. An unusually clean death on Team Leader’s part, but hey. They can’t be caught for murdering someone, now can they?

Turning to Villain, they smiled wickedly. “Looks like you two can be together after all. In the afterlife.”

Team Leader left after delivering a swift kick to Villain’s chest.

Villain’s eyes glazed over as death took hold of them. There, they would stay, gazing at their love until some poor, unfortunate soul disturbs their tomb.

Alt ending B (no one dies but Team Leader wins)

Villain picked themself out of a hole in the drywall. Spitting out blood, they turned a murderous gaze onto Team Leader.

“Step. Back.”

Team Leader smiled pleasantly.

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll-“

“You’ll what. Kill me? You won’t. Actually. Because you’re under arrest.”

Cops swarmed the basement in riot gear and overtook Villain immediately. Hero was removed and airlifted to the Team Super Headquarters where a med bay was prepared.

Villain was sentenced to life in prison. They may as well have died that day, they would never know if Hero was ok and they would never be the same.

Hero was kept in their coma with no attempts to wake them. It was better this way. The public was outraged at Villain, Hero couldn’t testify, no one had to die. That was the end of it.

Alt ending C (happy ending)

A warm sensation. It traveled up and down Hero’s arm. They opened their eyes to see Villain absentmindedly rubbing their arm. They squeezed Villain’s hand to let them know they were present.

Villain pulled their eyes away from the news station reporting the most recent update from the current court case City vs. Team Super to give out an excited yell.

“You’re back!”

Smiling, Hero nodded.

“You kept fighting. I knew you would.”

[whump-mania]

Hey if you’re still taking requests, can you write Team finding Leader Whumpee who is absolutely broken and terrified while Whumper just generally acts creepy towards said Leader Whumpee?

(Decided to do this with my Dark Leader characters! This may or may not be canon…we’ll see!)

(TW for creepiness, LIGHTLY implied noncon but NOT explicit, I’ll keep it under the cut in case, guns, kidnapping, eye whump, blood)

“He’s not in the basement!” Felix called out, running up to meet the rest of the team.

“Well find him! Look harder!” Quinn shouted, barging through every door they could.

Vincent was missing. The person who’d taken him had left a note, leading them to the coordinates of the abandoned house they were searching through. It was an obvious trap, but they didn’t care. Vincent needed to be saved, and they could fight off whatever rag-tag team decided to mess with them.

Kari and Damien were breaking down a door that was locked while Ian tried to pick other locked doors. Quinn used all their energy to shove through closets and cabinets to find their leader.

“Hey! There’s an attic!” Felix shouted, and the group ran over immediately. Felix was right—there was an attic, and it was cracked slightly open.

Quinn pushed through the others and tried climbing it, but Damien held them back. “Behind us,” he warned. “I know you wanna get up there for him, but you’re still pretty new…He’d wanna protect you.”

Quinn huffed and let the rest of them go up first. They were upset, but Damien was right. They were faster than they were strong. They needed to play to their strengths.

The team made it up into the attic and Kari shined a flashlight to look around. Almost immediately, they heard a muffled cry. Quinn jumped up and dashed toward the noise. “Vincent?! Is that you?”

Finally, the flashlight landed on what they were looking for. It was Vincent—and he was in horrible shape. His face was littered with bruises and cuts, and since he’d been stripped down to shorts, many other bruises and injuries could be seen on his body. He was gagged and blindfolded, tied cruelly with barbed wire by his wrists and ankles. Whoever did this to him had also cut his hair. His then thick, shoulder-length hair was now short and messy above his ears. Something that had mattered so much to him was gone and ruined.

“Oh my god—Vincent!” Quinn fell to their knees and tried untying him, but the barbed wire made it difficult.

“Come on, help me!” They cried over their shoulder, but gasped when they realized why it was so silent. The light flicked on in the attic. Each one of their teammates had been apprehended by a guard, a gun to their head and a hand over their mouth. What sort of team had the bodies and resources for this?

“Hi, Quinn.”

Quinn immediately tensed. That voice. They never thought they’d ever hear it again. They turned their head to see one of the subjects of their nightmares. Arguably, the worse of the two.

Hunter.

“Did you miss me, babe?” Hunter chuckled and crouched down to Quinn’s level. When he reached to grip what was left of Vincent’s hair, Quinn shot their hand out to stop him, but Hunter quickly countered with a small hand gun to Vincent’s head.

“Careful.” Hunter grinned at how Quinn immediately backed off. He continued his motion and pulled Vincent up by his hair, causing the man to groan miserably.

Hunter pulled Vincent so his back was held against his chest. In one hand, he lazily pet Vincent’s ruined hair. In the other, he held the gun with a deceiving grip.

“L-Let him go,” Quinn said shakily, their fear betraying them. They couldn’t look Hunter in the eyes, still. Weren’t they over this? Why were they such a coward?

“God, listen to yourself. ‘Let him go!’ Fucking adorable,” Hunter mimicked, laughing and letting out a long sigh. “Haha…no, I’m not gonna do that, Quinn.” He moved his hand to caress Vincent’s face, loving how the other man flinched.

“Stop it,” Quinn choked. They didn’t want to see the looks on their teammates faces. This was happening because of them.

Hunter was only fueled by Quinn’s words. He held the gun against Vincent’s head and moved his hand even lower to graze his throat, squeezing it threateningly for a moment before beginning to move down to his chest.

“Hunter, please!” Quinn finally looked up to meet Hunter’s eyes. They were crying now. “Listen, I…I know you did this because of me, so what’s the deal?! Just get it over with!”

Hunter relished in the eye contact for a moment before relenting and moving his hand back up to the man’s hair. A tear slipped through Vincent’s blindfold.

“You know, Daniel’s birthday is this weekend,” Hunter started casually. “I thought you’d be the perfect gift, but…I knew your captors would never let you go, so…” He pressed the gun harder against Vincent’s head. “I took care of it!”

“They’re not my captors. They’re my team. My family. More than you or Daniel ever were,” Quinn snarled.

“Uh huh.” Hunter sighed boredly. “Anyways…I’m gonna give you a couple of choices,” he continued. He addressed the rest of the team as well as he spoke. “Option one: I give Vince here back to you, and in return, you give us Quinn. Plus, neither of us will bother each other again. We won’t be allies, but…we won’t be enemies.

“Option 2, of course, is we take all of you. Dismantle your team from the ground up. Use you all for free labor, or…” Hunter chuckled. “Something along those lines.”

“Take me,” Quinn said immediately, to the loud and muffled protests of their team. “Take me, I-I don’t care, just leave them alone.”

Hunter smiled. “Okay, one vote for Option 1.” He nodded at the guards holding the others. “What does everyone else think?”

“If you take Quinn, you take all of us!” Kari shouted, met with sounds of agreement from the others. Quinn turned around, shaking their head.

“No, please!”

“And what does the big strong leader think?” Hunter untied Vincent’s gag and blindfold. Quinn and the rest of the team gasped when the blindfold fell down. The black fabric had hidden the blood. One of Vincent’s eyes was gone.

“Take…take us all,” Vincent croaked. Quinn screamed in protest.

“And that’s five to one for Option 2!” Hunter exclaimed. “Men, you know what to do.” He smirked deviously and flicked the light off in the attic. Quinn heard four shouts of pain before they were knocked out themselves.

[montammil]

A soft noise escapes from Whumpee as they open their eyes, looking back to see Whumper leaning over them and grinning. 

“Good morning,” they speak, voice soft as silk as they trail a hand along their split lip. “And might I say, you look beautiful while you sleep.” 

Whumpee is so tired that they forget to be afraid for a moment, letting their eyes go half lidded as they feel the heat of Whumper’s breath on their face.

Their hand snakes up to caress Whumpee’s cheek, finger tips dancing over their jaw before moving down their throat. “You know what, Whumpee? I think I love you.”

The sleep fades in Whumpee’s eyes. “What?” 

Whumper chuckles. “Maybe that’s the wrong word. I love everything about you, rather. This hair, this skin, these eyes...” They pause. “However I don’t care much for your personality.”

Whumpee tries jerking their head away, but it’s impossible, as Whumper grips them by their jaw.

“Which is why I decided I’m going to train you into exactly how I want you to be.”

[cultivating-whimpers]

{TW Implied Noncon/dubcon, betrayal}

~~~~~

"Spread your legs."

"....What?"

"Spread your legs."

Whumpee had heard them the first time, they had just hoped they didn't.

Tears are already stinging their eyes. They let out a small, shaky laugh as their head dips.

"Of course," they murmur, laying back and doing as they were told.

Of course Whumper was no different. Of course they had plans to fuck whumpee. Of course they're just like the others. No amount of soft smiles and pleasant conversation should have made Whumpee think differently.

As Whumper starts to remove their belt and Whumpee's tears begin to fall, Whumpee wonders why they thought it would be different.

~~~~~

~C.W.~