#female whumper

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

i know the whump community hates women characters or whatever but the lesbian in me is dying for bloody femininity please

let them have thicc thighs and bazoinkas and wear dresses with the hem ripped to shreds so they can run faster. have them sprint in heels. have them use their stilettos as weapons when they jam it into a person's eye. girls kissing girls. beautifully manicured nails chipped and broken away or idly tracing the length of a blade. fishnets and stockings with runs gouged in them. low cut blouses that leave their collarbones exposed to be traced with the tip of a weapon. tight dresses that hug every curve to distract wandering eyes while they spike a drink. girls kissing girls. long silky hair to be wrapped around a hand and pulled. messy curls. a sultry villainess or a vixen in distress. smeared lipstick and mascara running down their cheeks. jewelry ripped from their necks and earrings torn from their lobes. clawing their way out of the carnage to emerge victorious, drenched in blood, beautiful in their madness. being upset that their hair was forcibly cut or their favorite bra was snapped or missing their skincare routine. girls kissing girls. feeling icky when they've been stripped of their womanhood. being empowered when they reclaim what's rightfully theirs through any means necessary. using their sweet face and lilting voice to draw a false sense of security in their victims. feminine rage and revenge. being underestimated because what could such a pretty little thing like her do? girls kissing girls. ultra femme cottagecore babe drenched in red. black leather dommy mommy being the gentlest caretaker. sisterhood. to be kind and nurturing or cold and cruel. did i mention the girls kissing girls.

[honeycollectswhump]

maybe put a shock collar on Ashtray?

Lightning in His Veins

[masterlist]

CW: shock collar, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation

His Mistress has a new collar for him. Ashtray should be excited at the prospect of being decorated, but something about it makes his stomach churn. It is big, black and ugly. Nothing like the delicate accessories his Mistress usually dresses him in, and that almost feels like a sin.

Maybe it's because the collar is a gift from one of her friends, watching excitedly. Not for Ashtray, of course, nothing is ever for him, nothing belongs to him, that’s how it's supposed to be. But sometimes they gift her things to dress him in, though nothing comes close to her knowledge of style and grace. This collar must be one of those gifts then, and who is Ashtray to question that. A Good Boy never questions his superiors, a Good Boy never questions anything. A Good Boy does what he is told.

So Ashtray does. He bares his neck prettily, taking note of how his torso moves, twisting on fresh burns, knowing that the glitter the servants applied must shine like tiny diamonds. And maybe, silently, he hopes that his Mistress’ friends must be so jealous of her beautiful, perfect possessions, decked in gold and jewels, just what dreams are made of. 

…At least he thinks that’s what dreams must be like. Objects don’t dream, naturally. 

As his Mistress closes the clasps of the collar, as her pristine red nails scratch over a burn scrab, he can’t help but focus on the feelings of prongs digging into his throat in an uncomfortably familiar way. Ashtray doesn’t dwell on it though. He has already learned, there is nothing to fear. The blank rooms are far gone and instead have been blessedly replaced by the shining smiles his Mistress graces him with, her cold hands like glistening ice bringing warm burns, and the golden glamour she has allowed him to be a part of. 

Satisfied, his Mistress steps back. She is saying something, talking with her guest, exchanging airy laughter and warbled pleasant tones, washing over Ashtray like pearly morning dew he can picture in his mind but has never seen before. He could get lost in her voice, riding on it like clouds carrying him through his purpose, and yet never being too distracted, always keeping an eye on the ground just low enough so he’ll never miss a clue he can’t understand, never missing the remote–

The remote being handed to his Mistress, equally as black as the collar, making him suddenly awake of the prongs against his throat and the pit forming in his stomach. 

Ashtray stays still though, perfectly poised, and suppresses the flinch before it had even fully realised. Maybe he hopes, desperately, if he is Good enough she’ll decide against it. Maybe it was all a test, maybe, maybe… Maybe he can see it coming just enough to give her the reaction she wants. 

Almost pleadingly in the silence of his own mind, Ashtray knows he isn’t trained for pain. He is supposed to be an Ashtray, an object with a specific use, it’s all he could ever hope to know. The thought of displeasing her with his reaction scares him more than any pain ever could. What if he reacts too much? What if he is not– Lightning burns down his veins, ripping out his throat, his skin and tissue and soul. Two punctures spread venom down his very being, and there is no escape no escape no escape no escape no escape

Suddenly, it’s gone and Ashtray finds himself curled up on the ground, his limbs still twitching. He can’t remember how but surely it wasn’t graceful and–

His mouth rips open in a breathless scream, a pathetic, garbled screech barely noticeable over the sound of mindless thrashing, limbs hitting the floor, head banging against polished stone. It’s fire and lightning and Punishment and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything, only knows Pain and Punishment and Please Stop.

Pause.

Breath.

Notice saliva dripping from the mouth. Not elegant. Not trained.

Hell. 

Like veins imploding, swallowing what is left of Ashtray, leaving no trace of his purpose. Like poison, destruction, ruin, Ødelæggelse.

Stop.

Gasp.

Look up at Mistress, hope for mercy, hope for anything.

Find glee. Find amused laughter. Please.

It never ends…

• • •

He is still here. Ashtray is still here. Twisted, on the ground, the venom still burning in every vessel, but here. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, dried and bloody at the same time. Somehow, it is all pain, every single cell in his body is pain and lightning and shocks still coursing through him.

Maybe she heard him think. Maybe she felt her Ashtray have stupid little thoughts about things he should be grateful for, like being adorned in a big, black, ugly painful it hurts burning agonising beautiful collar. 

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024, Day 14. Blood-Stained Tiles

Happy Valentines Day folks 🤗❤️🩷❤️

Mature art tag list: @frogkingdom @coppercoyoti (let me know if you’d like to be added)

[dresden-syndrome]

I'm back comrades👌

I've always drawn suffering state enemy boys before but I'm in a big lady whump mood now... So here's a sneak peek into my all-female AU (basically EESU being ruled and opposed by girls) - more precisely, my favorite ladies out there😂

Class 4 counter-revolutionary political offender SB-7067 (Radmila Štušková) and Minister of State Security Elfriede Wilhelmina Günther. There they are.

Sorry for such a long break! I really needed some motivation to continue working. Don't worry comrades, EESU isn't going anywhere :)

Art tag: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst (please let me know if you wanna be added too!)

[heartinthehospital]

about me

hi whumpblr, i'm ari! i decided it's finally time i post my own whump content since i've been writing whump for awhile. my niche is male whumpee and female whumper because i don't see enough of it but i read almost anything.

i tag all of my content, especially anything nsft or nsfw. if there's any tags i don't use that you'd like me to, just let me know.

favorite tropes - captivity - dehumanization - touch starvation - extreme violence - manhandling - forced intimacy - emotional whump - defiant whumpee - intimate whumper

i take requests, so don't be afraid to ask me to write anything you have in mind! maybe i'll write it, maybe i won't, but i'll always appreciate the ask.

right now, i'm writing about my two favorite characters (elijah and lara). their masterlist is linked here.

[whump-blog]

Prompt 46

The team of heroes is having a meeting with Supervillain to negotiate the lives of some hostages. Villain, the newest member of the team, refuses to go, but Hero insists that he should go, saying that Villain knows Supervillain better and with him there they have a better chance of a successful negotiation.

Trembling and sweating Villain shows up at the meeting; all seems to be going well at first, but when Supervillain spots him she smiles cruelly and changes the subject of conversation revealing lurid details about Villain's past.

[hurt-and-comfort-me-please]

I'm Curious...

[whump-in-the-closet]

“Tell me, what do you fear?”

The vampire entered the basement loudly.

Their human swayed suspended from the ceiling, clothes torn and hair matted. They opened one eye— the other swollen shut. Their toes barely brushed against the floor.

The vampire grinned and set down her coffee on the bloodstained counter, next to a pair of pliers.

“Hello again.”

The human’s breathing was ragged, like each breath was painful. “Leech,” they said with a small gasp. Talking was also painful.

The vampire ran her hand over her tools but didn’t pick any up. “Is that how you address me? If you had any fingernails left, I’d take them.”

The human, despite their defiance, flinched. They didn’t doubt it. Their hands were crusted with dried blood.

“I—”

The vampire grabbed their shoulders and sent them spinning before they could finish talking.

“I like it better when you’re quiet,” she said.

“You think you’re so scary?” The human only saw glimpses of the vampire as they spun, but they spat the words out all the same. “You don’t scare me.”

The vampire yanked their head back, stopping them mid spin. They cried out, head tilted at an awkward angle and shoulders tight. Their neck was exposed, two red marks swollen and bruised.

The vampire leaned down, teeth bared.

The human shuddered, panic suddenly bright in their eyes. “Wait— wait p-please—”

The vampire saw the terror and grinned. “Tell me,” she hissed in the human’s ear, “What do you fear?”

The human bit back a sob, all defiance gone. “You. You’re a monster.”

She laughed softly. “And you’re a pest.” She bit down and the human sobbed.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 98

Write something inspired by this scenario:

A knight finds a princess locked away at the top of a tower.

Turns out, the princess sealed herself in there to protect others from her uncontrollable evil sorcery, and the knight is the first person to discover her in a hundred years.

And he's no match for the ravenous dark magic that's just awoken from its century-long slumber.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Women In Whump Pt. 1

[honeycollectswhump]

PLEASE aftermath of the shock collar piece?👉👈 back to normal? back to ashtray being loved and lovingly used for his normal standard purpose? so he knows he in fact didn't do anything wrong? and he's a good boy? MAYBE... MAYBE EVEN... merciful mistress mireille checking on him to make sure he's gonna be alright?🥺 because maybe she's worried she went a bit too far with all the shocks?🥺

-🪷

Citrine Kisses

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, cigarette burns, past torture (referenced)

When her servants carry in the ashtray the next day, no amount of makeup they have desperately seemed to apply can hide his condition. As Mireille lounges on her velvet couch, worth someone’s fortune, she can’t help but notice his sickly sweet, pale tone and the occasional twitch he tries and fails to hide. It’s unbecoming of such a luxurious good as him, laughable for the price she paid for him to be pretty. 

It almost makes her want to ring her stupid servants back and have someone, anyone, answer for ruining her scene with a pathetic excuse for a golden ashtray. And yet…

And yet she doesn’t. 

Despite it all, he still looks beautiful, doesn’t he? There is beauty to be found in his alabaster skin, no matter if it was caused by the thick collar around his pretty thin neck, which has still left imprints like two pricks of a vampire. The thought makes her laugh, elegantly like chiming bells, like candlelight and a passionate kiss. No, Mireille wouldn’t mind being a vampire.

Twirling a lush black lock around her finger, a cigarette between her lips, she leans forward, taking in the sight of her ashtray. If he were a diamond, she’d hold him in her hand against the light, letting rays of sun play with the rainbow. What happened yesterday, it too was like seeing a rainbow illuminate her walls, each gasping scream echoing in her mind like a marvellous symphony. 

Under her gaze, the ashtray goes still like a marble statue. He never raises his eyes, just like it should be. Silently worshipping but never being brash enough to gaze upon her. 

Mireille bathes in the knowledge that the ashtray’s biggest fear must be displeasing her. That is all he was made for after all. Maybe… maybe that is why he now holds himself differently, but it’s not like she could expect a simple thing like him to understand the aesthetic intention behind the shock collar, the joy and entertainment so unlike a punishment. Of course, the ashtray is too simple to get that.

It almost makes her feel bad, if only for the unappreciated amusement getting drowned out by his pleading devotion. He had been good yesterday, had been less an ashtray and more a diamond yet to be polished. She is merciful, Mireille thinks with a slight smile, and his pretty screams have earned him a reward.

Gracefully, she takes her cigarette from her lips, gazing at it for a moment, before delicately placing a hand on his shining golden locks. Immediately, the ashtray leans into her touch, imperceptively stretching himself to press himself into her palm. 

He was made mindless but a simple drawled “Ashtray” is enough to get his attention fully on her. Melting under her gracious touch, her thing turns towards her, lowered and on his knees. Mireille pets his head a couple of times, like she has seen with her friend’s lapdog. She much prefers love as an act of passion, of art and burning.

The ashtray shivers under her touch, as she lets her long fingers glide down his jaw and tilt his head up to meet her eyes. “You love that, huh?”, she chuckles, and that alone seems to give him to strength to hold himself straighter. 

“You’ve been a good boy, a very good boy. Your screams have been delightful, you’ve done so well.”

A hazy smile appears on his lips as if drugged, and for a moment she considers the fun in that. Instead, though, she holds out her hand, beckoning him to lay his hand in hers. Of course, the ashtray complies, it is all he knows, eager to please like a dog or something less.

Holding eye contact makes her ashtray flush sweetly, and he shivers again. This, she thinks, is also art. 

“You are my favourite toy, I want you to never forget that.” Mireille purrs, lightly holding his hand like a prince would a princess’, his fingers curled around hers. “A reward would only be fitting, don’t you think? Something to commemorate this?”

She turns the cigarette between her fingers until it feels right, before placing the glowing end of it on the ashtray's pale skin, pressing down until the citrine gets swallowed up by ash. 

Never once does he flinch, steadily looking at her. A practice of worship, the greatest price of them all.

Soon, when her servants wash away the dirty ash, a bright red spot will remain, burning through skin and tissue, a kiss his body will never be able to heal. And her ashtray, her stupid little ashtray, will look at it in doglike adoration, his most precious possessions are the scars she allows him, and he will be thankful. 

Sometimes Mireille wonders if the ashtray pities her servants for their lack of burning, wonders if her little lamb prides itself in the red scarf wrapped around its neck, telling a story of how the butcher will one day cut its throat.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[avvail-whumps]

Hey since you did vampire au. Can you do one with gender switch...( of chp 30 👀 )

thank you to the other anon for the fem roy name suggestion it’s use has been long overdue🫡

The mercenary set Leona down gently against the edge of the tub, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt as she leaned over to turn the water on.

The running noise filled the bathroom, Leona’s spine shivering slightly when she felt Reine’s fingers brushing through her dirty blonde hair. Her puffy eyes slid up to meet her icy gaze, resisting the urge to sniffle.

She gently eased her back up to her feet, the woman’s hands hot against her waist. Leona resisted the urge to squirm, especially when those fingers began to tug at her shirt.

“Lift your arms up, lion,” she whispered smoothly, an edge of something seductive on her tongue. Leona’s stomach coiled. “I have to help you, after all.”

Her cheeks burned red. The idea of being stripped down to nothing in front of her captor was humiliating, with the state of her ragged body. Whether it was through fear, her arms slowly rose up, and Reine eased the shirt along with it.

She felt the cold air hit her bare skin, and she wasn’t quick enough to cover her chest from the mercenary’s assaulting eyes. They darkned, just for a moment, before a hand slid under the waistband of her pants.

She held her breath as she helped her step out of them, taking her underwear with her. There was an absence of her bra, but she hadn’t been with one for weeks now. Reine’s didn’t exactly fit.

Leona burned with humiliation. This was awful, possibly the worst thing she’d been subjected to for a while, even with the other mercenaries gone.

She desperately attempted to cover herself, tucking herself just that little bit closer so she could avoid Reine’s curious gaze. She tried to ignore the way the woman’s hands skidded along her thighs as she rose back up, settling back on her waist.

Fingers tapped under her chin, revealing Leona’s beet red face.

“Are you a little shy, baby?” She purred, her lips curved into a knowing smirk. “How about I make it a bit easier for you?”

Before Leona could ponder on what she meant, Reine was peeling off her own shirt. She almost stuttered on her own breaths, wide eyes staring at her tall, lean figure on full display.

It didn’t go amiss, all of her innocent staring, but Reine could only chuckle softly under her breath. The rest of her clothes were gone, finally unclipping her bra and tossing it in the laundry basket.

Her fingers went back under Leona’s chin, tilting her head back.

“Eyes up here, lion,” she murmured softly, and the secretary’s eyes obediently jumped up, flushing with embarrassment from her own actions. The woman switched off the water, and gently helped Leona into the tub. She went with her, the water rising to the edges of the tub, and her constant presence behind her was making her stomach twist.

Reine effortlessly tied up her black hair, before brushing Leona’s off her shoulders, bringing it back to her shoulder blades. Goosebumps littered along her skin, no matter how warm the water was.

“Don’t soak your fingers, alright?” She warned her gently, tilting her head back. She drizzled water on her hair, nails pleasantly scratching her skull as she washed all of the dirt and grime out, soothing Leona’s beating heart.

Her cheeks remained a cute little red, Reine couldn’t help but notice, but she refrained from teasing her just yet.

Once her blonde locks had been thoroughly washed, she lathered up the flannel with body wash, starting from her shoulders and gently washing her body. Leona could only sit there obediently, as still as a statue, because when Reine leaned closer to reach the front of her chest, her heart had started pounding again and she wanted to squirm.

She was sure Reine was letting her touches linger far longer than she should, and it was apparently obvious that Leona couldn’t keep as still as she’d hoped.

She felt the mercenary’s chest against her back, soapy hands gently gliding across her collarbone, just teasing the dip of her breasts.

“Something the matter, lion?” She purred, as if she didn’t know what she was doing.

Leona tried to shake her head, but her touches were driving her crazy, and she’d missed when she touched her like this. It had been far too long. Reine hummed against her neck, kissing the skin there softly. She pulled Leona back so she was lying against her chest, hand dipping under the water to tease the inside of her thigh.

“Legs up,” she ordered, the lilt of her voice making Leona practically moan. She made sure to watch her injuries, but all of that drained out of her mind once Reine’s fingers slid between her thighs, and she showed her just what she’d missed out on since her contract.

[brainrotlesbian]

The Empress’s Pet (pt. 2)

CW: noncon, muzzled, straitjacketed, implied past abuse, forced orgasm

Tears stung hot in Arella’s eyes as she stormed towards Celeste’s private quarters. She slammed the doors open, freezing when she saw Mathias on the bed, pulled against Celeste as she idly played with her tablet. Both were fully clothed, thank the gods, but Mathias was securely straitjacketed and muzzled, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. Rage burned in Arella’s chest.

“I told you—”

“Try again,” Celeste snapped, causing Arella’s tongue to fall limp. She huffed.

“Your… Majesty,” she said through gritted teeth. “I warned you not to antagonize Mathias Hayes, and here he is, as your pet?!” Her fists tightened. “I’m— I just—.” She inhaled sharply, trying to compose herself, feeling Mathias’s eyes on her.

Celeste set her tablet down and stared at the young soothsayer. Her eyes burned with malice.

“I don’t recall you having any authority to question my decisions, Miss Young,” she hissed. “We will discuss this later.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped, looking at Mathias: the heavy bags under their tear-stained eyes, the heavy muzzle that clearly hadn’t been removed in several days… Any argument from her would probably result in his punishment, and he couldn’t take much more. She sighed.

“Yes, your majesty,” she said, then turned to march out, her fists clenched at her sides. She slammed the door shut behind her.

Celeste sighed and turned to her helpless captive, who mewled and shifted his legs. He didn’t bother fighting against the straitjacket, resigned to staring at her with bloodshot eyes. He blinked, hoping to gain some sort of sympathy from her. Instead, she stretched her arms above her, then turned and grinned at them. He whimpered softly, swallowing around the bit in his mouth.

“I’m bored,” she said, a whining pitch in her voice. “And you’re such good company, my dear boy. What do you think we should do now?”

“Mmmnn…” They didn’t look at her, their cheeks turning pink. Tears slid down their muzzled face.

“How about…” Her hand grabbed the inside of his thigh, inching towards his crotch. “We have some fun?”

“Mmff!” He jerked as her hand squeezed. She laughed, then slid her fingers underneath the elastic band of his boxers. He sobbed, attempting to inch away from her.

“No, no,” she ordered, staring at him, and their body went rigid. “You need to obey me. Now stand up.”

They squeezed their eyes shut as their body moved on its own, bringing him to his feet on the ground. Sweat beaded at her forehead and Celeste approached her. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move.

Celeste let her robe drop off her shoulders, revealing a set of lacy pink lingerie that looked itchy and uncomfortable. Mathias tugged at the straitjacket before quickly giving up. She had been anticipating this moment. She slid next to him, sliding both his pants and boxers to their ankles. Their face burned red as she assessed him, a grin on her face.

“Mmm, yes, I think you’ll do quite nicely,” she said, shoving them back onto the bed.

Before they could sit up, she straddled them, feeling them up and down, forcing them to squirm and moan softly. She forced their knees apart, gripping their cock in her hand. He squirmed and bucked and cried as she stimulated him, then mounted him and began grinding.

He’d never been sexually involved with anyone before, and his first experience was not a pleasant one. He hurt, he ached, he struggled, and he cried. He pleaded through the muzzle, sobbing and begging to be released; to be let go, to—

He cried out as stimulation grew, and his hips bucked involuntarily. She, in response, moaned loudly, pushing down on his shoulders with the palms of her hands. Tears streamed down their face, their vision blurry and their face hot, with embarrassment, with… excitement?

It was a strange feeling and they hated it. They strained against their straitjacket, thrashing as she sped up, crying out in ecstasy. He, too, screamed as he reached climax, feeling himself go limp inside her. Panting and sweating, she pulled herself off them, grinning widely.

“I enjoyed that,” she said. “Did you?”

Their voice caught in their throat for a moment, then they began weeping. Sobs wracked their body as the feeling of disgust overwhelmed them. Dirty and disgusted and violated.

[heartinthehospital]

idea of lara threatening to skin Elijah like he's a deer she shot, trailing the knife where she'd slice :) he's a fellow hunter so maybe it's time he understood the prey's perspective

deer in headlights

hunting season masterlist

content: male whumpee, female whumper, big whumpee, small whumper, defiant whumpee, intimate whumper, captivity, threats of violence

Lara glides her hunting knife down Elijah’s throat to his sternum. “I’d start here.”

Maybe if she hadn’t pulled his shirt up, Elijah’s reaction wouldn’t be so obvious. As it is, every single contraction of his lungs is visible in the movement of his chest. When she taps the tip of the knife lightly against his sternum, his taut muscles reveal the silhouette of his ribcage, and the transparency of his emotions leaves him feeling more naked than if he had been stripped completely.

Elijah can’t see the expression on Lara’s face when she’s standing behind him, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “If you want me to kill you so bad, it’s only fair you know how I’d do it. You can’t get shy now.”

“You’d slit my throat and leave me to bleed out. I get it,” he says through gritted teeth.

Lara pauses. “Aren’t you a hunter?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You should know that you’re supposed to use every part of the animal. Why would I slit your throat when there’s so much of you to cut into?” This time, when Elijah breathes, Lara finds the indentations of his ribcage with her knife and presses the flat of the blade to his abdomen. In the few seconds that pass, he tries to find something to say, but between the throbbing wound in his thigh and the path of Lara’s knife against his skin, he isn’t able to focus on much else. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Have you ever skinned a deer?” Lara’s fingers fall to his side opposite where her knife is, and his body involuntarily shudders at the freezing touch. Elijah thought any cold would be welcomed, considering he’s been covered in a thin sheen of sweat since he woke up, but his entire abdomen tenses when she wraps her hand around him. “I haven’t, but I think it’d be similar to what I’d do with you. It’s satisfying to tear through muscle. And you have a lot of it.”

Lara brings her knife up to where his shirt is rolled, then back down to his waist, the same way you lazily pet a dog by stroking its fur, and when Elijah squirms, he wonders if he’s always been this ticklish or if Lara’s knife brings it out of him.

“I wouldn’t touch your face,” she continues. “Not until the end. I’ve cut out tongues when I didn’t want to hear screaming, but not yours. I want to see if you can shatter a couple of teeth clenching your jaw hard enough to not make a sound.” She uses the knife to swipe away a few strands of Elijah’s hair in his eyes. “The rest of your face speaks for itself.”

“So you think I’m handsome.” Lara laughs. Elijah feels a twinge of satisfaction, then an immediate wave of disgust.

“I’m not the only one. Do you know the things they ask me?” Lara still hasn’t explained who they are, even though it’s been days, but Elijah doesn’t have to ask. Finally, he acknowledges the camera, with nothing more than a glare.

“To skin me alive, I guess.” There’s no humor in his voice this time. That’s what Lara means to do if she kills him. There’s nothing Elijah can laugh at about that.

“More than that,” she replies. “It’s what you sound like when you scream.” Lara drops her hand from his abdomen to the fresh stitches on his thigh, and his face twists in pain even as she lets go. “What you sound like when you cry. What you sound like when you come.” She tilts her head with a thoughtful expression, twirling her knife incredibly close to his face. “What you sound like when you don’t.”

There’s no question about whether or not Elijah’s disgust is visible, because Lara continues with a renewed liveliness. “It’s not that they don’t want to see your insides. I want to see your insides. It’s that you’d be wasted if that’s all I did with you. You’re the type to go down kicking and screaming, Eli.”

Lara tosses her knife haphazardly to the floor, and walks around Elijah so she stands in front of him. The rise and fall of his chest is unmistakable as she leans in towards him.

“I want to see how long it takes you to go down.”

Elijah blinks beneath his dark lashes, his voice unsteady. “And if I don’t?”

“I told you.” Lara smiles, and taps his sternum.

“I’ll start right here.”