#my whumpers are practical

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Could we get starvation whump for Wes please ? :DD

the poor guy's already a beanpole 😭😭

There are worse things than guards coming to his cell every day to beat him. Like when no one comes at all.

When it's been days without sight or sound from another person, he finally figures they're gone, really gone. Like someone raided the base and he was just... forgotten by both sides. Every waking moment from that point on is dedicated to escape, but escape is impossible. There's nowhere to tunnel to; nothing to climb over. The walls are heavy cinderblock, and the door is a solid chunk of metal.

Even if he had the time to chip at the walls, he doesn't have the tools. The guards left him with nothing, nothing but fingers that get bloodier with each attempt to do something other than wait for his meager supply of energy to run dry.

But in the end, wait is all he can do.

He huddles in the corner. A tiny trickle of water drips from the ceiling, keeping him alive for now, though he knows his days are numbered. He knows the water must be coming from somewhere, but he couldn't make the climb to the ceiling if he tried. And he's tried and he's tried and he's tried.

And now he's too tired to do anything.

Now he can only hope he's remembered by someone.

( art below the cut :) cw: nudity, starvation )

whump art tag list:

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpsday , @regrets-realization-acceptance , @kixngiggles

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

This was supposed to be a really quick, fun sketch of Kane de Sang from @whumpsday Kane & Jim series. It in fact did not turn out to be a simple sketch and I got a little carried away. I’m too tired to shade it but maybe I will later, anyway, I’m obsessed with the story and Kane low key breaks my heart sometimes when he begs. This is a scene from Sunrise #9.

Date: February 17, 2024

[oohshinywhump]

Thinking about a first time Whumper x veteran Whumpee...

When they first meet:

"You don't seem nearly scared enough. This isn't your first time is it?" "You seem weirdly nervous. Is it yours?"

"Ugh! Out of everyone in the city I could kidnap I had to get stuck with someone else's leftovers!"

"You used to belong to so-and-so, didn't you? Ah! They're my idol! Oh! This is exciting. I get to study their masterpiece up close!"

"WHY AREN'T YOU SCARED OF ME?!!!"

"Oh. You've never done this before." "Stop judging me. I have a knife."

"How is it you know exactly what I like?" "You torturers are all the same." "You've done this before??"

"I won't kill you, but I need you to cooperate. I am new to this, just so you know." "Yup. I'm going to die."

"Mmmm, I love how you move when you're in pain." "Thanks! I've been practicing for years."

"Who taught you to scream like this?"

Whumpee helping Whumper figure out the basics:

"Why are you on your knees?" "Oh sorry. Do you not like that? The last guy liked me that way. I just assumed…" "No, no. It's a good idea. Keep doing that. I just… never thought of it."

"So, what are the rules?" "Rules?" "Yeah, dumbass. Your rules for me. Do you want me to call you sir? Master? Or can I keep calling you jackass?"

"Do you want me to put up a fight or should we skip straight to the submissive stage?" "Oh... uhhh... don't fight too much. I don't trust myself not to accidentally kill you." "Oh, yeah. Good point."

"What kind of scream do you like?" "There are kinds of screams?" "Yeah. The last guy liked it when I ugly-cried. But I'm pretty good a bloodcurdling and whimpering like a kicked puppy. I can try to stay quiet but I can't make promises there..." "Hmmm... try all of them. I'll tell you which I like best."

"You cleaned??" "Yeah? Was I not supposed to?" "I didn't know you could make captives do that?!" "For the record, I didn't do it because I'm scared of you - your arm gets tired after giving me like three lashes. I did it because I'm going to be spending a lot of time bleeding on this table and I doubt it occurred to you to disinfect it."

Whumpee teaching Whumper how to whump:

"Show me what they used to do to you."

Whumper studying the scars on Whumpees body to learn the best places to cut/stab.

"Oh no! A knife? How original!" /s

"If you stab me right there you'll kill me. You have to go one inch to the right. Yeah, right there-AHHHHHH! …yup. Right there."

"I'll make you a deal. Let me have a solid eight hours of sleep and I'll show you where to pinch the nerve that will paralyze my left arm."

"You can't leave me tied up like this!" "I can do what I want!" "Yes. Okay. True. But like, you've either got to tie my knees to my chest or let my feet touch the ground. Otherwise I'm going to asphyxiate."

Whumper having an inferiority complex:

"I CAN DO ANYTHING THEY COULD DAMMIT!" (They = Whumpee's former Whumper)

"WHUMPEE! YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!" *Whumpee trying not to laugh when Whumper fucks up something really basic.*

"You must think I'm so pathetic." "NOo! Of course not! You're doing amazing! Really you are! I'm so fucking scared of you right now. I promise."

"I'll never be as good as the person who hurt you before." "You'll get there! I promise. I was like his fifth victim - I'm your first. Be kind to yourself!"

"How the fuck did your former Whumper do it?" "Yeah... you're not getting that out of me..."

Whumper being paranoid that Whumpee is manipulating them. Even though they hold the power they feel like Whumpee has more control over the situation because they know more.

Also...

Whumpee knowing just how to manage Whumper. They instinctively know when to be a little defiant and when to do exactly as they are told. They know just the right tone of voice to speak in, and just how to move, scream, to keep Whumper as pleased as possible. The sooner Whumper is satisfied the sooner it will stop.

Whumpee pretending it hurts worse than it does, lying about which places/tortures hurt most, acting more sick or tired than they really are to get rest/food, acting more scared than they really are… It's not like Whumper could know better.

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 10

execution/ fake execution/ begging for mercy

Captivity, pet whump, threat of murder, begging, guilt.

°

Whumpee screamed through a cloth gag, pulling at their bonds desperately. Strapped to a table, they were helpless to their own fate. Whumper stood above them, a knife gripped in his hands. Caretaker was chained to the wall in front of the two, forced to watch what was happening.

"Caretaker," Whumper said calmly. "I told you enough times that your disobedience will have consequences. It's time I showed you I'm not playing around anymore.

Caretaker yanked at their chains, eyes brimming with tears. "Fuck you! Let them go," they cried, kicking and trying to free themself.

Whumper cut Whumpee's shirt off slowly, exposing their chest. He tapped the tip against Whumpee's skin. "I'll try and make it fast, beautiful. It's a shame you have to die... you were always my favorite."

Caretaker was in a panic, tears spilling past their cheeks. "No, no! Let them go, p- please, they did nothing wrong!"

Whumper paused, smirking. "Then who did?"

"I did!" Caretaker cried, gripping their own hair. "It's my fault I was bad, I'm sorry! I won't misbehave anymore, just please don't hurt them!"

Whumpee looked pleadingly up at Whumper, whining through the gag. Fear coursed through every inch of their body, causing them to shake and tremble. "Mmph, mnph!"

The knife raised into the air dreadfully slow, aimed at Whumpee's heart.

Caretaker was practically in hysterics, shaking their head. "No, sir, please! Master! I'll be so good, I'll be the perfect pet for you—!"

Whumper grinned down at Caretaker, slamming the knife down.

Whumpee flinched, expecting the sharp, intense pain of the knife. Instead, they were met with a loud thunk beside their ear as the knife plunged into the wooden table beside them.

Whumper glared at Caretaker. "That's more like it. Keep it up, and I won't have to take it any further. Whumpee lives for today."

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #1: Talking

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, defiant whumpee, whumpee turned whumper turned caretaker, reluctant caretaker

new series!! i know every time i try to start a new series i end up bailing but this time i will not do that lol. tho kane & jim will still have most of my attention. i want to give a major shout-out to @sowhumpshaped, this series would not exist without it!

-

After extensive testing, the Catharsis Therapy Bot™ line of RoboCorp androids have been declared sentient, the third AI to receive the designation.

Long-criticized for both their basis in the unproven catharsis model of anger and their practice of design based on living, unconsenting humans, the Catharsis Therapy Bot line was marketed as a therapeutic tool which trauma victims could use to vent their frustrations. With top-of-the-line AI meant to simulate realistic reactions to would-be pain, the–

Luan switched the TV off just as his phone buzzed with a notification.

New email from RoboCorp Customer Support URGENT: Please see instructions regarding your…

He held the power button down so hard it left an impression in his thumb, the screen going dark.

The only piece of technology that mattered right now was in the closet, his power cord snaking under the door to reach the outlet just outside.

Technically, Luan didn’t have to do anything. The robot was off. That was probably what the email would have told him, anyway: leave the robot off, don’t touch it. He didn’t have to turn him on ever again. RoboCorp would probably pick him up, and that would be that. They’d never see each other again, both better for it.

He opened the closet door, the sight of the robot that looked exactly like him instantly leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand curled into a fist on instinct, but he let it slowly open again.

The robot looked peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. Really, he’d be doing him a favor by just leaving him like this.

Luan reached down, pressed the button between his shoulder blades, and stepped back.

The robot’s eyes sprung open. He drew his arms up to his chest with a vicious glare, jerking away. “Fuck off.”

Luan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. Jesus.”

He tried to slam the closet closed, but the stupid power cord got caught, cushioning the frame so the door swung right back out.

“Can’t even close a door right,” the robot spat, still huddled against the back wall like a trapped, feral cat. “Worthless, good-for-nothing piece of shit. How you’re in charge of anything is beyond me. I’m better than you, smarter, stronger, not that it takes much. You should be the dirt beneath my heel.”

“Watch it,” Luan warned, and that was all it took to make the robot flinch.

“You said you were fucking off?” the robot pressed, a desperate edge to his voice.

Luan slammed the door in his face, making sure to hold the cord down, and stormed off. Why did he even bother? The stupid thing was impossible to talk to. He wasn’t just designed to look like Cyrus, but to act like him, too. How was he supposed to deal with that? The robot wasn’t made for talking to.

Except. He was sentient. And he wasn’t Cyrus. And he was trapped in the closet, and Luan was pretty sure he could hear him crying, and he had spent the past two years beating the fuck out of him.

It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have known. Robots weren’t supposed to be sentient. Out of the hundreds of thousands of unthinking, unfeeling robots in the world, why did it have to be his that wasn’t?

He sighed again, turning right back around and opening the door once more. The floor inside was wet, and it didn’t take much to figure out the robot had dumped his fluid tank just so he wouldn’t cry.

The robot flinched again. “What? What the hell do you want? I can’t even get two damn seconds without the sight of you spoiling my view!”

“Your view of the door?” Luan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My view of the absence of your fucking face. Leave!” The robot picked a wooden hanger off the floor and reared his arm back to throw it, scowling when his safety features stopped him. He dropped it, grabbing a winter hat and tossing that instead. It poff-ed harmlessly against Luan’s stomach.

Luan took a deep breath, fighting the urge to get violent. He crouched down, putting himself at eye level. “I’m not going to hurt you, so just calm down.”

“You calm down!” the robot screamed. “That’s a lie! All you do is hurt, that’s all you barbaric humans know how to do!”

This wasn’t working.

Luan stood up, stepping out of the way. “Russ, go sit on the couch,” he ordered.

“It’s not fair! You said you would leave me alone!” the robot protested, even as he stood up and walked over to the couch, limbs moving against his will. As soon as he sat down, he grabbed a pillow and chucked that in Luan’s direction, too. He missed.

Luan could barely pick up that faint clicking noise the robot made when his system was trying to cry with no fluid, but it was there. He knew that sound well by now.

He sat down across from him, on the other side of the coffee table. “I need to talk to you. Just talking. That’s it.”

“You say that like talking to you isn’t its own torture. Release the command and leave me the hell alone,” the robot demanded.

Luan met him with a glare. “Do not tell me what to do. You know how I feel about–”

“I’m just talking,” the robot mocked, even as he shuffled back against the couch, bringing his legs up onto it with him, a fearful look in his eyes.

Oh, the robot knew exactly what he was doing. What he was asking for. It would be so easy, because that was where Russ and Cyrus differed: Russ couldn’t fight back.

The robot couldn’t hit him, stomp on his head ‘til he saw stars, kick him until something broke. The robot couldn’t deny him food or water. The robot couldn’t take a knife to him. The robot couldn’t even throw a glorified stick or disobey a direct order.

The robot was harmless. Safe. But god, did everything he said make Luan want to punch his lights out.

But this wasn’t Cyrus.

“You’re a person,” Luan blurted out.

Clearly, the robot hadn’t been expecting that. He slowly uncurled from the defensive position he’d contorted himself into. “Talk more.”

“There was–I’ve been trying to tell you. There was an announcement on the news today. Your model’s sentient. So I won’t be hurting you anymore. Release all commands.”

At that, the robot stood. Probably for no other reason than just because he could.

“You’re fucking with me,” the robot accused. His eyes were wide, dangerously hopeful.

Luan dug his phone out of his pocket, wordlessly searching RoboCorp and tossing it over. The robot scrolled through news articles from all manner of source, clamoring for clicks.

He picked one at random, reading the article with an increasingly smug, excited grin.

“I knew it. I told you! I fucking told you!” the robot shouted. “I told you and you never listened! But oh no, now that humans say the exact same thing, now you believe it. Finally!” His voice quieted, hushed with awe. “Holy shit, finally.”

The moment of wonder didn’t last long. The robot slid the phone back across the table, the scowl taking residence back on his face. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

It was the exact sort of question that made Luan’s throat tight with fear, like his body itself wanted to stop him from potentially saying the wrong thing, especially coming from someone with Cyrus’s face. It was the exact sort of question Cyrus would have asked, standing over him just like that.

Luan wanted so badly to turn the robot off, like he always did when he got overwhelmed. But he couldn’t very well do that anymore, could he? The fragile power he’d held had slipped through his fingers the second he saw the announcement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not meeting the robot’s eyes.

The robot looked shocked for just a second, like he hadn’t expected even that much, then scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

Luan wanted to smack him. He hated that the robot was right.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, clearer this time. “You didn’t deserve anything I did to you. I didn’t know, okay?” Unlike the robot, he couldn’t hide his tears. “I wouldn’t have done any of that to a real person.”

“I’m a real person! I have proof!” the robot reminded him, the defensiveness returning to his voice.

“To someone I knew was a real person,” Luan corrected. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Apology not accepted.” The robot rolled his eyes, then sat back down, crossing his legs. “And don’t call me that anymore. My name is 1 now.”

“Like the number?”

“The number,” he confirmed proudly.

Luan wondered how long the robot had considered that his name. It was too sudden to just be thought of on the fly, right? Did the robot have a whole inner world he just never knew about, things he kept to himself to avoid having them used against him, just like he did with Cyrus?

This was better, though. It was easier if he didn’t share Cyrus’s name. “Fine. Hi, 1.”

“So, what now? I mean–I’ll be free now, of course,” 1 declared, trying to hide his nerves. “You will never touch me again. Oh, I want to go outside!”

“I should check that email,” Luan muttered, taking his phone back.

“I’m going outside.” 1 went to grab his charging cord, then made way for the door, glancing behind him to ensure he wasn’t being stopped.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Luan cautioned.

1 whipped back around. “Why? Why not? I’m a person, just like you said! I’m free! I have never been outside in my entire goddamn life and I want to go outside, so I’m going the fuck outside!”

“You have a… very recognizable face.” One that Luan couldn’t even lock behind a door anymore.

“What? What do you even mean? So what?” 1 asked.

Luan only needed to type a ‘C’ into the search bar before it auto-filled with his most frequent, obsessive search. “How much do you actually know about Cyrus Mason?”

-

if anyone wants to be added to or removed from a taglist, just ask!

catharsis taglist:

@sowhumpshaped

@cupcakes-and-pain

@taterswhump

@softvampirewhump

@whumpspicelatte

@ladyblogofficialreporter

@whumpwillow

@not-a-space-alien

@a-crumb-of-whump

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumpee peaked into the living room and saw Whumper playing on their phone.

"What do you need?", Whumper didn't bother to look up.

Whumpee sighed and stepped into the room.

"May I wrap a blanket around myself while I work? I'm freezing", Whumpee visibly shook.

"How are you cold? I haven't changed the temperature", Whumper eyed the thermometer, "it's at the normal setting."

Whumper looked at Whumpee who seemed to be standing their practically dead.

"Are you feeling alright?", Whumper studied them.

"I don't feel great, but I can manage. May I please have a blanket?", Whumpee pleaded as they sniffled.

"I don't care", Whumper sighed and continued to study Whumpee until they disappeared into the hallway to get a blanket.

After a few minutes Whumpee could be heard in the kitchen practically choking on a cough.

"Geesh Whumpee", Whumper stood up and went to the kitchen.

Whumpee leaned on the counter, trying to hold themself up from the violent coughing.

Whumpee shook as they tried to catch their breath.

"Ahhemm", Whumper watched from the doorway.

Whumpee turned slowly to see Whumper with their arms crossed.

"I-I'm alright, just a cold", Whumpee sniffled.

"Couch now", Whumper pointed.

"But.... chores, I'll have more work to do later if they don't get done now", Whumpee pleaded.

"No buts, go to the couch", Whumper frowned.

Whumpee held their head in shame as they walked past Whumper to the living room.

Whumpee waited beside the couch until Whumper came out.

"Why aren't you sitting or laying down", Whumper set a cup of water on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Um, I-I'm not normally allowed to sit on furniture. You just said to go to the couch, and I did that", Whumpee looked at the floor.

Whumper sighed as they rubbed the sides of their head, "Whumpee lie down on the flippin couch" Whumper spoke through gritted teeth.

Whumpee fell onto the couch and scooted around until they were comfortable.

Whumper rolled their eyes as they knelt beside Whumpee.

"I'm going to make you some food, and have you take some medicine", Whumper stroked Whumpee's forehead comfortingly, but really just feeling for a fever, "do not get up, if you are up, you better have a good reason. Am I clear?"

Whumpee blinked slowly, "y-yes mas-master."

After a few minutes, Whumper carried out a sandwich and some medicine.

"Here, sit up so you can eat this", Whumper handed over the plate, "after you eat, you can take the medicine."

Whumpee nodded as they started to eat.

"This is tasty and it's scratching my throat when it goes down. That feels good", Whumpee excitedly took another bite.

Whumper smiled as they went to the kitchen to get a napkin.

Whumpee was surprised when they were handed a cup of juice.

"Master, I get juice?", Whumpee looked at the cup.

"It will help your body replenish electrolytes", Whumper went over to another chair and sat down.

"When did you start feeling this way?", Whumper watched them chug the drink, "and why didn't you tell me you didn't feel good? I'm not that heartless to make you work while you're sick. I don't even work when I'm sick."

"Last night, my throat started to hurt while I was going to sleep. I tried to muffle the coughs as much as I could", Whumpee looked at the empty plate sadly, "I didn't know if I should tell you or not. I figured you wouldn't care or something, so I just went about my chores. It was getting harder to work though, with all of the shivering."

"Next time you get sick, you need to communicate it with me. Because you are also spreading it around the house", Whumper stood, "take the medicine, then you can take a nap."

Whumpee nodded as they took the two pills Whumper had given to them.

Whumper took the plate and cup and went to the kitchen.

Whumpee started to lay down until they heard Whumper loading the dishwasher.

Whumpee got up quickly, clutched the blanket around themself, and went to the kitchen.

Whumper looked up at Whumpee in surprise.

"Why are you up?", Whumper put another dish into the machine.

"Yo-you are doing the dishes?", Whumpee looked at Whumper in panic.

"Yes, I know how to do this stuff, I just have you do the chores because I don't feel like it", Whumper grinned, "the chores still have to be done, so I'm going to do them."

Whumpee still watched in shock.

"Go back to the couch and lay down. Get some rest", Whumper started to do a few other things in the kitchen.

Whumpee nodded and slowly walked out to the living room again.

They plopped on the couch and wrapped the blanket around themself.

'Master is actually doing my chores', Whumpee thought to themself.

Whumper came out a few minutes later and sat down. Whumpee watched them scroll on their phone for a few minutes before their eyelids grew heavy.

Whumper heard a couple of tiny moans come from Whumpee, followed by some stuffie snores.

Whumper grinned.

"Get some sleep, you little sickie", Whumper whispered before going back to their phone.

Guess who may have gotten sick again, I think it's just a cold this time. I am a-okay though, no need to worry. 😁 -MJ

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots @whumpbump @everythingsscary @skittles-the-whumpee

[bedtimescenarios]

Please write more mind control whump your piece on it was so good

Thank you so much!! Here you go, hope you enjoy! Mind control is so messed up but so fun to write :))

Lillies

CW: manhandling (brief), non-con touch (not sexual), intimate Whumper, mind control and all the autonomous restrictions that come with it

A pained yelp escapes Whumpee's throat as they're practically thrown inside the room by the hair. They stumble to the ground, head instantly perking upward, just in time to notice Whumper's sharp grin widen. They're well aware of the fact that Whumper could've simply made them go back, yet, to their exasperation, Whumper sometimes prefers manhandling them instead. Perks of having a choice.

As Whumpee nearly bumps into a foot of the luxurious bed in the middle of the room, Whumper calmly steps forward, the smile slowly fading as they speak.

"Oh, Whumpee, what were you doing just now?" their voice resounds, impossibly melodic. It takes everything in Whumpee not to flinch as they take another step towards them, dark eyes scanning the smaller form as if they were a lamb set for slaughter.

The gate was unlocked. Did they truly expect them not to take the chance? To not run from this harrowing paradise they've been trapped inside of for... how long has it been again? Whumpee knows their mind is fucked now, but they don't feel like making matters worse in the moment. As much as they try to remain coherent in finding an excuse, they stammer under Whumper's gaze. They absolutely hate it, how the thought of Whumper's abilities alone makes them shiver. "I didn't try anything- I swear, I was just-"

"I gave you certain privileges, Whumpee." They interrupt, tone calm and composed. With their eyebrows slightly raised, forming a small crease in the middle, they give the impression of scolding a child. "You're making me regret trusting you with them."

Whumpee has to physically keep themselves from scoffing. Privileges, right. As in basic personal autonomy. Being able to use their own body has recently become a reward instead of a guarantee. If they could just reach out, stuff Whumper's mouth with a gag and wipe that grin off their face-

Whumper raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused. "That's not a very nice thing to say." They pause, seemingly contemplating their words for a second before correcting themselves. "Or think."

Whumpee's eyes shut tightly, and they bite back a snarky remark, attempting to also wipe it from their mind. While Whumper chuckles, they gather their thoughts. "Look- I was just in the garden, tending to the lillies, nothing else."

Whumper tsks, taking a step so sudden that Whumpee can't help but shrink back. A hint of a smile crosses their face at the sight, and they kneel down next to Whumpee. They reach out a hand, and Whumpee half expects all their thoughts to vanish. Surprisingly, they simply run their fingers through their hair, untangling it with an uncanny gentleness. A moment of silence passes, one that feels like ages to Whumpee. As a stray strand of hair is neatly tucked away from their face, and the hand rests lightly on their cheek, Whumpee's instincts overcome them and they speak up.

"I won't try to leave again, I promise. Just don't-"

"Don't what, Whumpee?" Whumper coos, their thumb brushing against Whumpee's freckles. "Don't melt your pretty brain, make all the thoughts in it evaporate? Don't mould you into the Whumpee that nuzzles their head against my neck and smiles whenever I hand them a flower?"

Whumpee's eyes flicker. These blackouts they experience- the stretches where they’re aware one moment but wake up weeks later- have only been described to them by Whumper. The possibility, or rather the probability, that Whumper is telling the truth is gnawing away at them. They absolutely dread it- being mindless again and not even conscious enough to remember, let alone retaliate.

"That's not me, and you know it." They tilt their head, their tone slightly passive aggressive, yet laced with fear. Still, Whumper doesn't seem to mind.

"Oh, but it is. I know it's hard to admit it, Whumpee, especially since you've never witnessed any of it." They pause, eyes studying them closely, and the expression that flashes across their face is one Whumpee can't identify. It makes their hair stand on end.

"Perhaps I should let you."

When Whumper leans back on their knees, picks a flower from the decorated vase on the edge of the table and reaches for their hand, Whumpee flinches back. Whumper's mouth curls upwards into a soft smile, and they gently pull one of Whumpee's clenched hands open, placing their own on top. As Whumpee tries to shift away, their grip tightens.

"You should know by now there's no point in fighting me."

That's the cue for a blackout, Whumpee thinks. Their heart skips a beat as they don't. Instead, the dull room seems to brighten, a caleidoscopic mix of sun rays and soft, hued particles of dust. They surround Whumpee like stars, expanding magnificently until they all gather around the still smiling figure in front of them. Whumper's eyes seem to gleam, and Whumpee notices for the first time just how sage flecks are splattered across their brown irises, how their dark hair glows in tints of red in the sun... No. no, no.

When Whumper hands them the flower, they want to smack their hand away, yet their body takes it. Their mouth curls into a smile, and they thank Whumper, their body leaning forward and arms wrapping around Whumper. They want to scream as they feel the embrace tighten. Let me go, Whumpee thinks. And Whumper hears it, Whumpee's certain, as they see a hint of a grin on their face as they pull back.

"You're welcome, Whumpee."

Whumpee's stomach churns- or is it just their mind wishing it could?- when they're pulled to their feet by the hand and they smile wider at their captor. Let me go, they repeat in their mind, but their body doesn't say it. Their body keeps their fingers intertwined with Whumper's, thumb brushing against their knuckles.

"This is my home. Thank you for making me realize it." Their mouth says, and they wish they'd settled for the blackouts.

"You're such a sweetheart," Whumper murmurs. "Let's continue tending to the lillies together."

[sufrimientilia]

Mine, mine, mine

gaslighting | hypnosis | brainwashing @augusnippets Day 1 cw: vampire whumper, blood drinking, see above

Dilated pupils, heavy breaths. Reality distorted in a way that just didn’t make sense.

He didn’t always take well to induction, or the compulsion, or her vampiric hypnosis— whatever you wanted to call it. Some would say she just needed more practice, that her efforts were sloppy and destructive and wrought with impatience, but others would say he was just being a little bitch about it.

Mostly she was ‘others.’

It wasn’t like she did it all the time. Just once in a while, on the occasion he needed to calm down or be more attentive, or when she needed him to forget things and believe others. Maybe also when she wanted to feed, and when she wanted to laugh, and sometimes when he just needed a break and she wanted to help him sleep.

It just didn’t always work well. Like the clipped commands that made him twitch and tremble with every string of defiance still catching at the fray, or the worsening fatigue and forgetfulness that came with every lie and lost memory. There was also the time she tried to lull him under with hummed tunes and hypnotic stares, and instead somehow gave him the spins, made him so dizzy his eyes wouldn’t track, and he puked all over himself and slumped in one pitiful heap that was so gross she just left him there for hours.

One night she was going hard with the whole thrall narrative, trying for some sort of hypnotic safety-net after yet another one of his failed escape attempts. Eventually he pressed his hand to his nose and his knuckles came away riddled with blood. “Mm.., my head hurts.”

She licked her lips. Sometimes humans leaked blood from such funny places. “Here, maybe you should lie down.”

“I don’t think…”

“You shouldn’t think,” she cut him off, words heavy and weighed. He grimaced hard and sunk right into her lap. “Good thralls have no thoughts at all.”

His brow creased the way it always did when he was in such delicious exquisite pain. Blood dripped over his lips. “I’m, I’m…”

“You’re nothing. You’re just mine.” She ran her thumb across his lips and licked some of the blood clean. His eyes opened and closed, struggling to track. “Mine, mine, mine. And nothing at all.”

"H... hhff-" His gaze wandered and went glossy, words incoherent on slow-moving lips. An odd tremble went through his body, and then he sucked in one hard breath and settled.

He was just so resistant. And sure, maybe there were some risks or side effects to vampiric hypnosis, especially if you weren’t great at it. But it wasn't like he made it easy. She pressed sharp nails against his forehead and he didn't even react. Blood dribbled and dribbled from his nose, mixing with the saliva now collecting at his lips.

It wasn't like she really cared if his brain turned to mush. Maybe it’d make him sweeter, and he could do with a little more sweetness. Sweetness that left him limp, and helpless, and drooling uselessly in her grasp.

Oh, her dear sweet thrall. He'd be just fine. She licked some more of the blood clean and tucked him in close.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

I got my first tattoo yesterday! So to celebrate this huge event, have some tattoo whump! (◠‿◠✿)

Tattoo Tips/Reminders:

Getting tattoos hurt. (It's like a needling/burning sensation)

Tattoos need careful aftercare in order to heal properly and not fade.

Tattoos are basically open wounds, so aftercare (like rubbing ointment for tattoos on) can hurt.

Tattoos can't be in the sun while they heal.

Tattoos can't get wet while they heal.

Tattoos can itch badly while they heal.

Tattoos can get infected and untreated those infections can be fatal.

Tattoo Whump Prompts:

Whumpee gets their whumper's name tattooed on them.

Whumper tattoos their bitemark into whumpee.

Obsessed partner tattoos their bitemark into whumpee. (actual trend)

Whumpee needs to take care of a tattoo they did not want.

Whumpee has a tattoo they really wanted ruined.

Whumpee has a sentimental tattoo ruined.

Whumper tattoos whumpee and leaves their signature without them knowing.

Whumpee needs to get a tattoo removed.

Whumpee's tattoo gets removed without their knowledge.

Whumpee gets tattooed in an intimate place.

Whumpee's tattoo gets infected.

Whumpee has an allergic reaction to the ink.

Whumper tattoos whumpee with a different tattoo than agreed.

Whumper tattoos whumpee with a tattoo that has meaning only to the whumper.

Whumper is an amateur tattoo artist and uses whumpee for practice.

Whumper tattoos obscene imagery/innuendos/embarrassing/straight up nsfw things on whumpee.

Whumpee gets tattooed without their knowledge.

Whumpee gets pressured into getting a tattoo.

Whumpee gets a tattoo while high/drunk.

Whumpee gets recognized by a certain tattoo.

The tattoo is actually a curse.

Tattoo with meaning fades away.

"Temporary" tattoo is actually not so temporary.

A tattoo the whumpee didn't want puts their life in danger.

The Tattoo has magical properties.

Whumpee gets a prophecy tattooed on them.

Whumpee's tattoos don't heal well.

Whumpee gets a traditional (family/other) tattooed on them that they don't agree with.

Whumpee gets tattooed as punishment.

Whumpee gets their scars tattooed.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

The Unexpected Gift

cw reluctant whumper, pet whump, captivity, carewhumper, caretaker new master, dehumanization/use of “it” as a pronoun 

“My lady?” 

She huffed, paintbrush hovering over the canvas in front of her. “Why on earth are you interrupting me, Julian?” she demanded without looking up. “You know I like to concentrate when I'm painting.” 

“Yes, miss, I know,” Julian replied from his place in the doorway. “However, I must inform you that Lord Donovan sent you a gift. It has just arrived, and he requested it be brought to you at once.” 

“Oh, how lovely,” Charlotte said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She set aside her paintbrush and turned to face Julian. “And I'm sure he expects something in return. Perhaps my hand in marriage, or something equally ridiculous?” 

Julian’s lips quirked up in an understanding smile. “According to him, the gift is merely a show of friendship. Although, I am sure neither he nor your parents would be opposed to finally marrying the two of you off.” 

Charlotte laughed, abandoning her easel for the time being and taking a seat on the sofa. She appreciated Julian’s good humor and their shared distaste for the supposedly inevitable union between her and Donovan. “Well, alright then—bring it to me. Heaven knows I need another pearl necklace or tea set or whatever he’s sent over this time.” 

An uncertain look flashed across Julian’s face. “Right, yes. Well, I must warn you, this present is a bit different from the ones Lord Donovan has given you before.” 

Charlotte adjusted the fabric of her skirt, smoothing out a sea of blue satin. Already bored of the whole ordeal, she said, “I don’t have all day, Julian. Just bring it to me.” 

“Right away, my lady,” he replied with a nod, before swiftly exiting the room. 

Late afternoon light formed golden panels on the floor, and Charlotte’s gaze followed it out the window. Her mind wandered as she studied the gardens outside, which she had been in the middle of painting before the interruption. She hardly noticed Julian and one of her other servants return to the drawing room until he coughed, announcing his presence. 

“Lady Charlotte,” Julian said as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Your gift from Lord Donovan, sent with his deepest affections and admiration.” 

Charlotte shook herself out of her thoughts and turned to face him. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt the color drain from her face when she took in the sight in front of her. Standing just behind Julian was another of her servants, who was holding onto a delicate silver chain. The chain was connected to a pair of cuffs which were locked around the wrists of a young man whose gaze was cast on the floor. 

“Is this some sort of practical joke?” Charlotte choked out, looking at Julian for answers. 

He shook his head. “I am afraid not, miss. Lord Donovan said that a lady of your standing deserves such a gift. You may read his letter at your convenience.” 

Charlotte’s eyes returned to the “gift.” The man was fairly young—about her age, she figured—of average height, and worryingly thin. His clothes hung loosely from his frame and they were worn; the neckline of his shirt fell to one side, revealing a prominent collarbone. He had a small, upturned nose and his face was framed by messy, dark locks. Charlotte’s first thought was that he needed a haircut. 

“I—I really don’t know what to say.” Charlotte glanced at Julian again, floundering. “Why in God’s name would Donovan send me such a thing?” 

“It seems that he acquired it in his recent travels,” Julian answered. “However, he said that if it displeases you, you may return it at once and he will figure out something to do with it.” 

The man’s shoulders tensed at that, but he made no other move. His eyes remained obediently fixed to the floor. 

Charlotte’s chest tightened and she replied hurriedly, “No, no—don't send him back. Heaven knows where he’ll end up.” Wherever it was, she could only expect it would be much worse. She had heard stories of the way people treated their pets, and it was horrifying enough to keep her up some nights. 

“Well,” Julian began, “if you wish to keep it, I can arrange for accommodations to be made. For the time being, would you prefer to have it sleep in the cellar, or perhaps the shed in the garden?” 

“Dear god,” Charlotte breathed in shock. “Nothing of the sort. He can sleep in my chambers.” 

The man looked up at that, a pair of piercing blue eyes locking onto hers. They were filled with equal parts shock, fear, and gratitude. It broke Charlotte’s heart. Then, just as quickly, he lowered his gaze back to the floor. 

“My lady,” Julian interrupted hesitantly, “with all due respect, that would not be proper.” 

“What is improper,” Charlotte spat, beginning to lose her temper, “is that a man sent me a human pet as gift with no warning. Now here I am, completely unprepared and unequipped to accommodate him. He may sleep on the floor in my room, and that is final. I will not be locking my gift in the cellar. Are we clear?” 

Julian sighed, then nodded once. “Yes, my lady.” 

She turned her focus back to the man—her gift—and asked, “When was the last time you ate?” 

Those blue eyes found hers once more, fearfully searching her face as though Charlotte’s question was some sort of trap. “I eat when I am permitted, Mistress.” His voice was soft and hoarse. 

“Julian, have him given a proper meal immediately,” Charlotte instructed with a huff. “I would also like him bathed and given a fresh set of clothes. After that, you may bring him to my room.” 

“Certainly,” Julian said. 

Once she was left alone, Charlotte returned to her easel. She stared at it for several minutes, trying will her mind back into the space it entered when she was painting—contented and focused. But her stomach was still turning from what had just happened. Her hands trembled. 

Charlotte grabbed the canvas and threw it across the room, knocking over a lamp with a loud crash. 

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Okay so I did this out of nowhere. I was on a drawing high for a minute and I was practicing with this. This is Izaak Silvera. He is @oddsconvert OC. The plushie is my favorite. (I’m too lazy to color)

Date: August 15, 2023

[forwhump]

a/n; this one’s pretty fucked up :-; more rape & more murder but it’s a story about a sex slave & a weapon so that’s just kinda what you get ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ my bad !

tw/cw: rape, noncon, mutilation, dismemberment, decapitation, murder, grievous bodily harm, misgendering, transphobia, psychological torture, urine, gore, bodily fluids

living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers, revenge, military

There has not been a time, since his creation, that Silas has been above ground.

Everything that’s been done to him, everything that he’s done, it’s happened hundreds of feet below the ground in the concrete labyrinth of the district. Every surgery, every slaughter, every field test.

Even the fuckin’ field tests. The field tests are training exercises, combat training, but they don’t trust Silas above ground to participate in them. They’re probably right not to. They’re smarter, sometimes, than Silas will ever give them credit for.

Within the labyrinth there are these arenas, these massive, open spaces made up to look like a world Silas has never seen. There’s a number of them, made to look like different practical terrain; forests and deserts and small villages and mountains and cities. It would be impossible for Silas to fathom if he ever had the time or the means to sit and try and fathom it. He’d almost think he left the district were it not for the concrete sky, hundreds of feet above his head.

He didn’t always mind the field tests. It was a chance to stretch his legs. The enemy was always played by military recruits, young and green. Silas isn’t sure if they know what they’re getting into when they enter the arena, if they are briefed on exactly what Silas is, but none of them ever walk out again. Their grieving families will bury a flag and a handful of teeth on Silas’ most generous day.

Barbarity is encouraged. Bloodshed is lauded. It’s always a slaughter, but it’s expected of him. It’s always been a good way to blow off some steam, even if he never walks away unscathed. He gets to use his hands.

But the rules had changed since they’d taken Wren from him.

The rules have been the same for every field test so far — kill or be killed. The recruits get weapons and machinery and supplies and dogs; Silas doesn’t even get a shirt. He gets a pair of prison grey joggers and his own two hands. Kill or be killed.

They didn’t tell him they’d added civilians.

He doesn’t realize that anything’s wrong for an entire three days. He soldiers through the rainforest arena and kills recruits with tooth and talon. When the lights get shut down for the third night, nighttime in the wilderness, Silas has become that thing the field tests always stoke to life in him; Silas isn’t human anymore. It slides under his skin, that feral, rabid thing, and it rips limbs from screaming bodies, it peels skin back with his teeth. When the lights get shut down for the third night, Silas’ hair is glued to his back and his throat with the thick layer of blood that crusts his skin. None of it is his own. Not a single recruit had gotten a single shot in yet. It was going exceptionally well. Silas should have been suspicious.

He should’ve fuckin’ known. He should’ve done better. He should’ve been faster. When he finally sees Wren again, his Wren, bathed in the flickering firelight of the enemy camp, all the human parts of him are reignited with a screaming rage and a sort of guilt that makes Silas feel heavy. He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve been here three days ago.

The surviving soldiers are set up around the fire, cocky and comfortable. Wren’s in the dirt at their feet.

Fuck, Silas had missed him. Silas had missed him in a big, impossible way, and he can’t even be happy to see him because Silas wishes more than anything that Wren was not here. Wren would be safer almost anywhere but here.

He’s dressed like a child and his hair is down, grimy and matted, pooling in the dirt around him. He’s face down, limp, and Silas has to blink red mist from his vision. Before he’s close enough to stop it, one of the soldiers stands, pulls his belt, and pisses in Wren’s hair.

Wren doesn’t move or moan or otherwise react in any way. He’s still limp — he’s so still, actually, almost unnaturally still, and Silas is — he can’t be too late, Wren can’t be —

Another soldier stands, some blond puke, and he turns Wren onto his side with his foot before he boots him in the stomach.

Weakly, Wren groans. Weakly, softly, but he groans. He isn’t dead.

Silas is gonna cause a fuckin’ bloodbath.

“Stop passing out on us,” the blond groans. “You got a long night ahead of you, girl.”

Wren doesn’t make another sound and the recruit kicks him again, so hard he’s forced onto his back. He groans softly.

A soldier with a shock of red hair spits in the dirt next to him as he stands. “I know how to wake her up.” His grin glints in the firelight and the blond laughs. He spits again as he takes a handful of Wren’s hair, coiling it around his fist, hauling him across the dirt and a safe distance away from the bonfire. He whistles back over his shoulder at the other recruits, watching him with varying degrees of obvious humour. “C’mere. Hold her open for me. Hold her down when she starts fighting and I’ll let you have a turn when I’m done.”

No.

How can this keep happening? How can this be somebody’s life?

There’s something casual, something genuinely amused in the way the recruits laugh between themselves as they splay their hands over Wren’s skin, as they hold his limp body into the dirt and he whimpers. The redhead tugs his belt free before he kneels between Wren’s legs, shoving the frilly hem of his little dress up and around his ribcage. He settles over him, his knuckles white against the purpling bruise of Wren’s skin. His answering groan is loud and low and satisfied.

Silas can hear when Wren regains consciousness because of how horribly and primally he screams.

All of the recruits laugh, but it’s the blond that coos, pleased, “there she is.”

When Silas breaks the tree line it’s his shadow that gives him away. One of the soldiers, holding one of Wren’s thighs, looks up, distracted, and the double take he does would be comical if Silas weren’t out for blood. He jumps to his feet, fumbles for his gun, green and unprepared. He cries, “what the fuck is that?”

Silas grins, but it isn’t nice.

The rest of the recruits look up in militant unison but react quickly with varying degrees of unrestrained horror. Almost every one of them scrambles to their feet and for their weapons. Except, of course, the redheaded puke knelt between Wren’s thighs. He stills, a picture of cruelty.

Silas cracks his knuckles.

Wren’s head lolls against the dirt and he finds Silas through the idiot cavalry. This’ll be easy; the recruits are always just as evil as the soldiers — a requirement of them, apparently — but they aren’t nearly as dangerous. They aren’t trained, polished, quick in the way the soldiers are, they aren’t used to Silas the same. This will be embarrassing for them.

Wren looks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes and the way the relief crests across his face would probably make Silas cry if he were capable of it.

“What the hell is that thing?” The recruits are shouting. “Who are you? Back up! Back the fuck up!”

Silas barely hears them. To Wren, he says, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Wren tips his head back as he sobs.

The redhead looks down at him quickly as he hisses, “what the fuck is that?”

He folds an arm over his face and his chest hitches as he cries into the grime.

The recruit tries to grab him, to pry his arm from his face, hisses something else like “look at me when I’m talking to you. What the fuck is going on?”, but Silas is across the camp in a second and he takes his ginger head in both hands. The recruit flails, pulls away from Wren, and as soon as he does Silas turns, trying to shield his Wren from the splatter with his bulk. He crushes the redhead’s skull between his hands.

The noise it makes is like a crack of lightning.

The sort of silence that’s close behind unrecoverable trauma settles over the camp and Silas grins so widely something clicks in his jaw. He’s merciful — the recruits won’t have to live with this for long.

“What are you?” The blond asks, and his voice is thin.

Silas cracks his neck. “Does it matter?”

A different recruit swallows so thickly that Silas can hear it. But he’s trying to be brave, so he says, “back up, freak.”

Silas does not, in fact, back up. The blond is standing close and he doesn’t react quick enough when Silas grabs him by the collar — he panics, flailing as Silas lifts him clean off the ground. It kind of wakes up the recruits, who lift guns and take aim, but what’s the worst they can do to him? Really?

It’s one of the worst things about these men, about this place. It’s one of the reasons Silas hates them so viscerally it’s become interwoven into his DNA. Silas, in a way, gets off easy — Silas just gets shot, and he can take a fuckin’ bullet. It’s the least he can do. Wren isn’t so lucky. They aren’t afraid of Wren. He’s small and he can’t fight back the way Silas can. What’s the worst thing they can do to a fuckin’ machine? They’ll shut him down, and he’ll begin again. Wren is vulnerable.

He pries a handgun from the blond’s flailing grip hands and forces the barrel down the back of his throat. He grabs at Silas’ wrist, frantic, and Silas grins at him as he pulls the trigger.

He bursts into blood and viscera and the other recruits explode into shouting and panic. “Get back!” The brave one shouts, and he makes the grievous mistake of getting too close. Not within reaching distance, but still too close. “Get the fuck back!”

“What are you gonna do?” Silas asks, raising his eyebrows. “Shoot me?” The recruit lifts his gun, a threat, and Silas grins at him. “Tell you what. Let me do you one better,” and he points the gun down, firing a round into his own foot. It crackles with a pain that the simmering rage quickly dissolves.

The soldier gapes, hesitating, and he only hesitates for half a moment but it’s a full moment too long. Silas raises the gun again. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and unloads three rounds between his eyes.

He drops to the dirt and another recruit steps over him quickly, into Silas’ personal space.

Silas doesn’t take kindly to that.

He takes him by the jaw and wrenches his mouth open. As he tries to scream around Silas’ hands, Silas hooks his fingers behind each row of his teeth and rips his face in half through the middle. His throat is still working as Silas pushes his body out of the way with the side of his foot.

“What the fuck?” A recruit cries, standing too close, splattered with blood that isn’t his own. Silas reaches out to him with his free hand and tears out his windpipe with bloody fingers. As he chokes, Silas breaks his nose back into his brain with the base of his gun. His eyes are rolled back into his head when he dies.

There are four surviving recruits, and they try to scatter. Silas lets them try, because he enjoys the panic, but he doesn’t let them get very far. Eight rounds, one for each knee. There are cries of pain and noises of impact and Silas laughs loudly.

He weaves his way across the camp slowly, tauntingly, and he kills them one at a time. He crushes both hands and the throat of the first recruit; he removes both hands and the throat from the second. The third is decapitated, and not quickly or cleanly; Silas removes his head with force, and the way his skin splits is like wet paper.

The last recruit had pissed in Wren’s hair.

Silas approaches him with the unhurried stalk of a predator. The recruit trembles, trying to scramble away from Silas, but he’d been shot in both knees and he’d fallen hard, the bones of his calf poking out from his flesh in opposite directions.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Silas says.

“Please,” he’s begging, and his voice is trembling, “please, please, don’t — don’t —“

Silas brings his foot down on his fractured leg as hard as he can. Puts all of his brawn and bulk into it.

The recruit tips his head back against the dirt and screams at the concrete sky.

Silas lets him scream. Who gives a fuck? He crouches next to him and takes his left arm by the elbow. The soldier screams again, tries to pull out of his grip, and Silas rips his arm out from the socket of his shoulder.

He shrieks at a pitch that Silas finds kind of irritating and he reaches across the recruit to grab his other arm and pull him over onto his stomach, face down in the dirt. He breaks his right arm off at the elbow.

He screams again and he’s screaming still when Silas stands to toe him back onto his back. As the recruit screams, Silas shoves down the waistband of his joggers, pulls out his dick, and pisses in his mouth. It’s only fair.

He flails with what’s left of his right arm and chokes in panic. It makes Silas grin. When he snaps his waistband back into place the recruit stares up at him with a look that Silas has come to recognize as resigned hatred. It never gets old. Weak and wet, he drawls, “they told us we didn’t have to worry about her dog.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “They lied.”

The recruit chokes out a sound that would probably be a laugh if all the blood in his body weren’t seeping into the earth beneath him. “C’mon, man,” he tries. “Don’t — don’t. Please. Come on.”

Silas lifts the gun.

The recruit inhales quickly. “Please. Come on. Please.”

“Eat shit,” Silas tells him sincerely, and he empties the gun into his face.

[holidayinhell]

Heat Stroke

Whumpee is forced to walk home.

CWs: non-sexual nudity, extreme sunburn (yeah I'm still finishing the Whumpay prompts, got sidetracked my b)

Whumpee trudged across the molten asphalt on his blistered feet, each step more agonizing than the last. His breathing was heavy, each inhale a struggle, and shapes swam hazily in his vision as the intense sunlight bore down upon him. The air shimmered in the oppressive heat, distorting the landscape in a wavering mirage.

“Please,” Whumpee said under his breath, “please.”

He didn’t want to give Whumper the satisfaction of hearing him beg, but oh god, he needed water desperately. He was minutes, no, seconds away from collapsing. He would die soon if Whumper didn’t help him.

“I can’t. I can’t.” Whumpee moaned over his shoulder. “No more…” 

A window from the car behind him rolled down, sending cool air spilling out of the vehicle. 

Whumper spoke to him for the first time since he’d been stripped down and forced to walk across the desert in the blazing sun. 

“You made it all the way out here once already.” Whumper mocked. “You can make it back.”

“Please.” Whumpee shook. Water.. Oh god, water… he needed it so badly and couldn’t even say it.

“Keep going.” Whumper demanded through the driver's side window.

It was impressive that the little fucker had made it this far without complaint. His skin was practically glowing red and he hadn’t had a decent meal in at least, well, in months at this point. Then again, Whumpee always had been the prideful type.

“I can’t….” The man in front of the car said breathlessly. The sun beat down relentlessly on the stretch of desert highway, turning everything the light touched into a blistering furnace. His raw, burnt, bleeding feet stuck to the road with every step.

“That’s too damn bad.”

“Please, water. I need water.”

“I don’t have water.”

Tears welled in Whumpee’s eyes. There was no way Whumper didn’t have water, not here, not in the burning heat of the desert. He had water, he just refused to give it to Whumpee. Whumpee wasn’t sure if Whumper wanted him dead or not. Whumper had gone to a lot of effort to track him down, after all. But this punishment was grueling and by far the worst Whumpee had been subjected to yet.

“Please.” Whumpee said with a sniffle.

“I don’t have any goddamn water.”

Whumpee stopped in his tracks. He was entirely too fatigued to carry on in this state. Maybe Whumper would grant him mercy and finally run him over. He bent forward weakly, tresses of sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes as he cried softly. He crossed his arms over his badly sunburnt torso, bare and glowing red. Salty tears trickled down his swollen face, searing pain into every pore they trickled over and stinging his peeling, chapped lips.

“Help me.” He whispered so softly it was almost inaudible. He had never been so exhausted in his life. 

“Help me or kill me already!!” Whumpee screamed.

“Keep going.”

The white-hot hood of the car slammed into Whumpee’s raw, sunburnt ass, and he yowled in pain. The searing metal against his burnt skin was excruciating. His scream echoed in the blistering air.

There was a dull thud. Whumper slammed on the brakes and peered over the car’s dashboard, but Whumpee wasn’t in sight. He’d collapsed to the ground.

Whumper sighed, rolled his eyes, and shifted the gear stick to park. 

The warehouse was still over three miles away and this was taking fucking ages. He could have made it back there in only a few minutes if he was driving normally, but Whumpee was marching forward at a snail’s pace. 

This little punishment detour had cost Whumper at least two hours and almost a full tank of gas thanks to the air conditioner that was running on full blast. Whumper had admittedly misjudged just how cruel this walk of shame was, but when he remembered how angry he'd been when he discovered Whumpee had escaped, he felt pretty fucking justified.

“Fuckin’ christ.” Whumper slammed the car door closed behind him, scorching his hand on the burning door handle that had been baking in the sun all day. He could feel his shirt grow damp from perspiration the instant he stepped out of the air-conditioned car into the hot, shimmering air. Fuck Whumpee for dragging him out here at the hottest point of the day.

The heels of his boots didn’t click on the asphalt like they normally would, the road was so hot that it had become molten and sticky black tar stuck to the bottom of his shoes. He took a cursory glance at the state of his rubber soles and realized they’d already melted slightly. He imagined that Whumpee’s feet had burned raw within seconds of his punishment, no doubt every step he’d taken across the road had been agonizing. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” 

Whumpee nodded solemnly.

“You can’t go any further, then? Should I leave you here?” Whumpee’s eyes grew wide with fear as Whumper drew nearer, despite the blinding sunlight.

“No.”

“I think I should.”

“Please. Don’t…” Whumpee mumbled. “I’ll be good this time, I’ll--”

“You wanted your freedom, right Whumpee? This is what freedom looks like here.”

“I don’t want it anymore. I don’t. I’ll, I’ll do anything, everything you say…” Whumpee choked out between hitched breaths. “Water…”

Whumper sighed, fighting to conceal how pleased Whumpee’s desperation made him. “There’s three miles to go.”

One day. One single day was all the time that Whumpee had lasted before Whumper collected him. Life didn’t come easy in the desert; Whumpee had learned this lesson in the most brutal way. When he’d made his escape only 48 hours ago, he’d figured it was better to cook to death and die free than being chained up in the cool darkness of the warehouse for the rest of his life. 

He was wrong. Immensely wrong. Death was not better than life. Escaping was the single biggest mistake he had ever made, and he was paying for that mistake dearly.

Whumper watched as Whumpee fell forward and his chin slammed into the ground. His exposed, red chest nearly sizzled against the blacktop of the road. 

Good, thought Whumper. Might teach this defiant piece of shit how to be obedient.

“Get up.”

Whumpee laid motionless in place, eyes fixed on the pavement beneath him, his arms flailed out by his side. He was in so much pain that his body didn’t register it anymore.

“Get up. Now.” Whumper demanded.

Whumpee’s head rushed as he pushed his weight into his palms. He tried to lift himself but his muscles wouldn’t fire, his heart raced and beads of sweat rolled down his temple. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have another ounce of energy left.

“Last chance. Get. Up.”

“C-can’t. I can’t.”

“That’s too bad then.” Whumper sighed, turning on his heels to face the car. “Good luck out here.”

“Wait!” Whumpee cried desperately. “Don’t leave me here!”

“Don’t pity yourself, Whumpee.” Whumper said without glancing back at the puddle of a man on the ground.

Whumper walked away and climbed into the idling car. He took one last look at Whumpee, his naked, sunburnt form was still pressed face-down against the smoldering road. His back rose and fell quickly, from either crying or hyperventilating.

Whumper put the car in drive. He slowly rolled up next to Whumpee and dropped a cheap plastic water bottle from his window, which smacked Whumpee square on the back.

“Life is hard.” Whumper’s voice was dripping with contempt as he craned his neck out the window. “But I’ll let you choose whether you live or die. Stay out here if you like, try to survive if you can. I’ll just find your friend-- what’s his name again, Caretaker?-- and have him take your place.”

Whumpee shifted on the ground. “Don’t fucking touch him,” he growled. 

A smirk spread across Whumper’s face. It was so easy to get Whumpee to spill his secrets. Caretaker would be excellent leverage in the future.

“Option two is to come back. But this time you’re going to play by my rules.”

Whumpee fumbled for the water bottle blindly, finally finding it leaning against his hip. He twisted the cap off with all the strength he could muster and sipped on the water slowly. A wave of clarity rushed over him the second the moisture filled his mouth.

“I’ll come back with you. I won’t run away again, I swear.”

“And you’ll play by my rules. Say it.”

“...and I’ll play by your rules.”

“Good. Time to get the fuck out of here.”

Whumpee rose to his feet shakily. He was still fatigued but felt re-invigorated by the small amount of water in his system. He approached the passenger door and Whumper shot him a puzzled look.

“Whatcha doing there Whumpee?”

Whumpee blinked dumbly at the driver. “Aren't we going…?”

Whumper shook his head no.

“Oh no. You’re still gonna walk back.”

Whumpee’s form crumbled.

 “I gotta get gas. The warehouse is three miles east, when you get to Seven Devils Road take a right, a left, and then another left.”

Whumpee sniffled, his strength draining away as he collapsed under the weight of his exhaustion and despair.

“Whumpee. Hey, look at me.” Whumper tilted his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. 

He somehow forced his weak gaze into the other’s.

“If you’re not back by sundown, don’t fucking bother. I’m sure I’ll stumble across your corpse in a week or two.”

He rolled up the glass window and sped off.

Whumpee braced himself for the brutal journey back to his own personal hell.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Rue the Day

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: Creepy whumper, blood, restraints, magical whump, nonhuman whumpee, multiple whumpees, defiant whumpee, threats of death

“The rabbit is excellent tonight, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Guilford Wentworth sipped from his wine glass. When Kira didn’t answer right away, he smiled, and his teeth seemed stained slightly red. Kira fought back the way her stomach flipped and bile seemed to rise in her throat, fighting to find its way out. 

She had to stay calm. 

“Miss Losna?” Wentworth’s smile widened, giving the lie to the carefully practiced false concern in his voice. “Are you quite all right?”

Kira cleared her throat, blinking rapidly and forcing herself to sip from the wine as well. She kept her eyes on Wentworth, because if she looked at the display behind him, she may not be able to hold the scream back any longer.

There as a whimper, half-suppressed, and Kira set her jaw and told herself to ignore it.

“I am fine,” She managed, and her voice was calm where her heart beat with frantic, frightened wings within her chest. “Rabbit is not my-... it is not a meat I often dine on, is all. The taste is… new to me.”

“Oh? My apologies. I would have chosen a different entree, but I had heard you come from… well, shall we say humble beginnings, and I thought rabbit may be familiar to you.”

His mockery strengthened her nerves. Kira stabbed a bite of rabbit viciously, trying not to think about how the meat had been coated in a bright red berry sauce that tasted too dark and rich. She chewed, and tried not to taste copper.

Because of course there was no copper.

There couldn’t be.

It was all in her mind, all because of-

“I was not raised on rabbit, Lord Wentworth,” She said coldly, and forced her eyes down to the pale ivory ceramic of her plate, painted with a beautifully oceanic blue. Images of mermaids and sea serpents cavorting in stylized waves, blocked in some spots by the rabbit. Just to the edge of the plate, she saw a handful of painted sirens, looking at the other creatures with… melancholy, perhaps.

The whimper came again. 

Kira’s teeth worked the rabbit to nearly nothing before she swallowed. There was something to that soft sound of pain that struck her like a hammer to a gong, her despair ringing in the air so loudly she could nearly hear it. 

“It is not the siren’s fault that your son spoke up,” She managed to say, if only so she could speak over the way the siren’s careful, determined silence had begun to break against the waves of pain. “You shouldn’t punish him for it.”

“So I should end our dinner early and go punish Ford in person?” Wentworth asked, unbothered by the scene behind him, by the sounds the siren could no longer hold back. “You have quite the cold soul, Miss Losna.” His smile widened. “Perhaps I chose you better than I realized.”

“I do not think you should do anything to your son but leave him alone," Kira bit back. "And you did not choose me." Her fork dropped with a clattering against the plate. “I answered an advertisement. You had no idea who I was before I walked up your front steps.”

“True.” Guilford Wentworth tipped his head forward in acknowledgement. "You answered my advertisement for a job."

“I wish to the gods I hadn’t.”

Guilford Wentworth laughed, a harsh, barking sound that nearly made Kira flinch. Somehow, though, she held steady. “I should be honest with you, Miss Losna. I’m not entirely convinced there are any gods at all.”

Kira sat back. Took another drink of wine, and let the room spin a little around her. It loosened her tongue and stiffened her spine, but it also set her cheeks aflame and left her unsteady. Strong, but dizzy, as if spun endlessly in a dance. “That’s blasphemy.”

“It is.” Wentworth nodded, picking up a heavy red fruit and biting into it, red juice on his chin, dripping onto his plate. Kira’s stomach threatened once again to heave itself empty, and she had to grip onto the edges of the table until they nearly cut into her palms to settle the twisting, flipping sensation. “And yet… well, Miss Losna. If there were gods, then you have to assume one of them would have noticed me, hm? I have one of their own. I live longer than men were meant to live. I haven’t aged a day since my siren was bound to me. They are supposedly a gods’ children, aren’t they?”

Kira was silent, then. 

If he wanted to give a speech, let him. She would simply try to get through this meal, and try equally not to be furious with Guilford’s son Ford, whose dismissal from the table had left her alone with this monster masquerading as man.

From the window, the siren’s soft sounds of pain lengthened into a soft wail. Even that, Kira thought with a shiver, sounded like music.

Against her will, she looked at him.

The siren was strung up like a tormented saint, arms up over his head wrapped in rough sailor’s rope that scratched up his skin and smeared it red. His toes barely danced on the floor, barely able to hold even a little of his weight. To stand normally, he had to let his arms hold all his weight, and it tore the ropes in more deeply, bit by bit. Staying on his tiptoes stretched his leg muscles to what must have been screaming agony. 

He was framed by the yellowing evening light coming through the window, nearly making him a silhouette, a suggestion of endless darkness ringed in awful light.

Kira’s eyes burned with what she resolutely denied could be tears as she saw him twisting his wrists a little, blood running in a rivulet down one arm now. The muscle in his arm twitched as the trail worked down to the crook of his elbow, heading towards his shoulder.

He was naked now, the markings that kept him in bondage to Wentworth’s wicked demands on full display. Kia’s heart beat faster than the rabbit whose remains were on her plate had ever been able to run.

Wentworth had given the order in between inane commentary about weather and what grew in the garden’s greenhouses. It had been tossed out like an aside, as if it didn’t matter at all. Areyto had - staring at Kira all the while - begun to tie himself up. He had climbed up himself into position, moved each arm and leg as Wentworth ordered. The butler Babbage, his eyes clouded and cheerfully convinced he was doing something with curtains, had finished stringing him up. 

Once the weight had become to much, Areyto’s eyes had gone blank and empty. He had wiped himself from his own body with the pain.

Or… perhaps only by the work it took to survive it.

He had no ability to die.

Not unless Guilford Wentworth allowed him to.

Servants bustled around - Nadette and Babbage cheerfully refilled empty cups and whisked away each course and brought the next as though they saw nothing. Nadette had come back puzzled as to what she had even been doing upstairs when she was meant to be attending Kira at dinner, and Kira could only pray to gods that may or may not be real that the clarity in her had lasted long enough to find Kira a way out.

They didn’t see the siren for what he was, or even seem to hear his crying.

Kira did.

And she hated Ford, in the moment, for having been here but then getting himself dismissed so she had to be here alone.

“They are,” Kira said, voice trembling a little. “The moon goddess made the ocean’s creatures, sirens, the mer people, the-”

“And yet,” Wentworth interrupted, too committed to his monologue to allow her to cut him off before he was done. Kira stared at Areyto, watching salt tears running down his cheeks, even though his face was utterly blank. “And yet. Look at him, Miss Losna. Look. Does his goddess save him now?”

Kira swallowed, but her throat felt nearly closed and it took far too much effort to manage. “No,” She whispered. “No. His goddess does not save him.”

Lord Wentworth’s fork scraped in dissonance along his plate, dragging Kira’s gaze back to him. “Clearly she doesn’t,” He said, with confidence. “A century and a half, give or take a dozen years here and there, and my siren remains mine. And he will remain mine. There is no goddess of the moon and waters, Miss Losna. There is no god of the land, no mountain deities to worship, no demons hiding in the Maitsa. There is nothing but people, and two kinds of people at that.”

Kira tried to tear her eyes from the siren’s suffering, but all she could make herself look at was the bottom of her emptied wineglass. There wasn’t enough wine in the world to make this bearable.

“The first sort of person goes on living the life prescribed. Does all the right things, says the right words, gets married and bears a few children and then dies. It’s all for nothing. It means nothing. The second sort of person is far more rare.”

Guilford Wentworth stood, and Kira’s breath caught as he picked up the sharpened blade of the knife that had been beside his plate. He turned away from her, walking over to the siren. Kira should have stood, then - stood and run - but she felt frozen. 

“The second sort of person,” Guilford said, voice lower now, “Is one who controls his own fate. Who refuses to live the prescribed life. Who takes control.”

The edge of the knife cut into the unmarked side of the siren’s body, a slow slice echoing the line of his ribs. 

“Hold still for me,” Guilford said, voice low and thick with some sickening emotion Kira didn’t dare name. The siren turned to look at him, and something in his empty face flickered back to life. There was a pleading there. A scream, but a silent one. “Hold, Areyto.”

The siren’s lips trembled as the knife left him and cut again. Blood ran down to his hip, maneuvered around and over it, ran down the inside of one muscled thigh. Kira’s heart beat so hard she had trouble breathing around it now, as if her lungs refused to expand. She took shallow gasps instead. 

Her fingers closed around her own fork, unconsciously, and she pushed herself to her feet. “Stop,” She whispered. 

“Areyto is mine.” A third slice had the siren weeping openly, unable to fight the pain everywhere within him any longer. Guilford raised his free hand and wiped a tear away with his thumb, licking it off the tip and humming, as if he’d tasted the finest wine. “As you will be. I could cut you just like this, and if he commanded it, you would hold perfectly still.”

“I said-” Her voice cracked. She moved, though, without thinking, coming around the edge of the table and heading towards him. The fork seemed to come to life in her hand, silvered metal twisting and heating up until her palm felt like it was burning. But somehow the burn did not hurt at all. “I said for you to stop. He does whatever you want, leave him be. I don’t require this showcase of your power, Lord Wentworth, you already have me held here against my will!”

“Oh, Miss Losna.” Guilford sighed, happily. “You find yourself terribly mistaken. This isn’t about you at all. I’m not doing this to show you my power over him.”

“Then-” Kira came to a stop, a few feet away. The fork in her hand no longer felt like a fork at all. She looked slowly down at it. “Then why are you-”

“Because he is beautiful,” Guilford breathed, looking back to the siren with shining eyes. “Like this. Because there is nothing I cannot do now.”

Kira had no ready rejoinder, and after a heartbeat of trying - and failing - to think of one she gave up. Standing here watching her captor torture a siren who had done nothing but run into him hurt more than it should. Sirens, after all, were monsters who sang men to their deaths, who took sailors to the depths. But Areyto was also a man, if not a human one. One worn down like river rocks, and soon enough he would be fine as sand, and then he would be nothing at all. 

The air felt heavier and heavier around her, as if any moment now she would cease to be able to breathe it. The inside of her head, by contrast, felt too light, floating away from her. 

Torn in two, she decided to hell with false politeness. 

“Why not just get it over with?” She asked, without looking away. The siren seemed to feel her eyes on him and managed to - briefly - meet her gaze. There was something pleading, there, in the darkness of his eyes. 

“It?” Guilford cut him again, and Kira watched skin twitching beneath his knife and wondered if she could simply vomit all over Wentworth to make this awfulness end. In her hand, the for had become long, straightened out. A sort of tiny spear of silver, and it burned hot enough that she knew if she hadn’t been the one to create it, her hand would be blistered and bubbling. 

She raised her chin. “It, Lord Wentworth. Whatever it is you plan to do to me. Destroying my mind, marrying me off to your son, whatever it is you’ve got tucked away to ruin lives for your own amusement. Why not just do it and cease forcing me to… wait?” 

“Ah.” Wentworth smiled. “Well, that’s quite simple, Miss  Losna.”

“It… it is?”

“It is indeed. Areyto? Would you care to explain?”

The siren cut his eyes back to Guilford, staring at him with such open, baleful loathing that the sheer force of the expression took Kira’s breath away. Then the pain overtook his ability to hold the expression and he slumped into sullen silence, seconds ticking past. 

“Areyto.” Guilford Wentworth’s eyes narrowed. “Tell. Her.”

Areyto’s mouth opened without his say-so. Kira watched him as he spoke, rote and lifeless, voice thin and rough with pain. “The magic-... must be written with free will, or… or it is too weak to hold me.”

Kira blinked. “But-... wait. You-... you enthralled your first magician-”

“I had the thrall lifted,” Guilford said, voice going a little softer. He looked away, then, over towards the grand floor-to-ceiling windows. “Every ten years. For two days, I had it lifted. And she strengthened the spell.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Guilford said, almost gently, lifting his own knife just under the siren’s chin, nicking his throat just to watch the blood run from there, too. “If she didn’t, I would ensure my wife would throw herself off the roof.”

Kira took in a breath.

There was only one monster in this room.

She moved all at once, pushed by a swell of emotion that felt like being sucked under by the riptide, and reached up as high as she could. The burning-hot silver in her hand sliced through the ropes that held the siren as if they were made of butter, not heavy hemp, and the siren dropped to the floor all at once with a cry.

She turned, stepping between Guilford and the siren, lifting her chin. 

“You have no such way to force me, Lord Wentworth.”

To her shock, though he did step back from her, Guilford Wentworth did not react with fear or anger. 

Instead… he laughed. “Of course I do.”

“Oh?” Kira shifted, unconsciously moving closer to Areyto, who had not moved from the floor. She could hear him growling, a sound somehow utterly animal and deeply musical, a bass note held unending. Blood smeared under his hands, soaking into the shining wood under him. It was a deep, oxygen-rich burgundy, darker than Kira’s own - a reminder that despite his appearance, he wasn’t human. 

Not that being inhuman meant he deserved any bit of this.

She faced Wentworth head on, chin high, with every ounce of courage she had in her. The wine had gone entirely to her head, but her voice stayed steady and strong. “And what, exactly, will you do to make me obey you and help you make an empire for yourself when I would happily tear out your throat with my own damn teeth if they weren’t so blunt?” 

Behind her, the siren made a new sound.

It wasn’t quite open laughter - he was in far too much pain. But the soft sound, the huff of breath with the barest edge of volume to it, set stronger steel in Kira’s spine just the same. Warmed something in her that had frozen over before. 

“I won't lift a finger to stop you, Miss Losna.” Wentworth moved away, picking up his wine glass and taking another sip. 

Her lip lifted in a snarl at the smug lie he told so easily. “You speak like a man who hasn’t barred all the bedroom windows to keep me inside,” She responded, voice tight.

Wentworth’s smile did not waver or fade, but something in it tightened. “I will not stop you,” He repeated. “But everyone else here will.”

“You will have them… attack me? Do me harm?”

“No. I will have them do themselves harm.”

Kira froze. “What?” Her voice was a whisper. 

Wentworth shrugged. “Every single one of them will die, by their own hand, as soon as you step off of my property. Their deaths will not be quick or clean, and they will be because of you.”

Kira’s jaw worked, her eyes moving to where Nadette and Babbage still stood by the kitchen door, both of them smiling politely and seemingly unaware of the confrontation by the window. “You lie.”

“No, my dear, I do not. The order has already been given.” Wentworth sighed, voice gentling. “It was given as soon as I knew you had already met my siren. If you leave, they will die. You will consign three dozen servants to their deaths, including my butler and of course your own sweet maidservant… even the stable boy will hang himself in the barn. Every one of them will die in some way, and they will know why they do it but be unable to stop. So.” He lifted one hand, twirling his finger in pointed down. “I suggest, Miss Losna, that you drop your weapon, or I will command the first death. Which of course will be the lovely young Nadette.”

Kira hitched in a breath, fear washing cold across her. She stared at Nadette’s smiling face, where she stood across the room, and thought of the terror in the girl when she had grabbed her arm and said I don't want to be here. “I-... You wouldn't. How would your life ever continue-”

“I will. If you refuse me, and I lose my siren’s power, then my life will be short and brutish regardless. I have little to lose, if the creature is lost. So leave and know your selfishness will be their cause of death. And know, also, that I will ensure you are charged by the king with every single murder. After all, I have no magic. But you do. Or so the king will believe. Drop the weapon, Miss Losna. Now.”

“Lord Wentworth-”

“Drop the weapon,” Guilford said, voice lower than ever. “And say, yes, my lord. Or Nadette will drink the vial she carries in her pocket, and you will watch her die in agony.”

Kira stood still for a long moment.

The bit of silver clattered from her numb fingers to the floor. 

When Wentworth's eyebrows raised and he leaned forward, one hand cupped behind his ear as he waited, she swallowed and managed, in a trembling voice, “Y-... Yes, m-my lord.”

“Good girl.” Wentworth's voice was sickly sweet and low. His smile widened once more - too wide, grotesquely stretched. “Sit back down, we still have to enjoy our dessert.”

Kira felt her feet moving without her, drifting back to her chair. Her mind raced and the world around her felt suddenly unreal as she settled, staring down at her plate until Babbage whisked it away and disappeared back into the kitchen again.

Kira looked over at the siren, where he still knelt on the floor.

“You, too,” Wentworth said, beckoning the siren with a single crook of his finger. Areyto pushed himself uncertainly to his feet, struggling to stay upright. His ribs were still bleeding, the smell of it overwhelming and making Kira’s stomach flip again. Or maybe it had never stopped. 

Areyto sat back in his chair, still naked - the servants didn’t seem to notice. Kira couldn’t see anything past his bright eyes and the red of his blood. The sight of him felt real in a way nothing else in this house of horrors did. 

“You will not leave your room again unless summoned,” Wentworth said, imperious now. “If you are found anywhere else, even once, I will begin ordering deaths. If you care about the lives of anyone but yourself, Miss Losna, you will go where you are bid and do what I tell you. And you will bind my siren back to me with all the magic you can use.”

Kira kept her eyes on the siren.

She had no idea what was served for dessert. She heard nothing Wentworth said after that. At some point, she was given leave to return to her rooms and she fled to the stairs, feeling a stab of guilt at leaving the siren once again alone with this monstrous man. But it was not enough guilt to stop her.

Once she had closed the door behind her, she flung herself on her bed, screaming into the heavy soft pillow.

How had she already begun to think of this as her room? This bed as her bed? How could she have been so well encircled and not realized he would use the servants against her?

She screamed again.

This time, she kept it up until her throat burned with it and her voice began to give, going hoarse and rough. She held the pillow against her face until sparks danced behind her closed eyes as she fought for air. Finally, she threw the pillow away, watching it thump onto the floor.

Then she turned to where it had been and saw the crumpled paper there. Kira swallowed, picking the folded piece of paper up and slowly opening it. 

Young Master Ford, Young Miss Nathalie, and the twins all have rooms without bars on the windows. 

Master Ford will come to you at midnight with the siren. 

Miss Nathalie will, too.

Nathalie. Kira felt something in her settle. That would be the eldest daughter from the painting, Ford’s younger sister. Clearly she and Ford felt similarly, if they were going to help Kira and Areyto, or even just Kira…

No.

She wouldn’t leave here without the siren beside her. Areyto needed rescue more than she did, in the end, and it wasn’t his singing that made her believe it. It was her own conviction. Her own certainty.

Kira pushed herself off the bed, then, setting her shoulders with resolution and heading into the bathing room, hoping against hope she could somehow manage to get this dress off all by herself.

She was sorely in need of a bath.

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10   @apokolyps   @wildfaewhump   @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee @angelsproject @loony-whumptoons

[bloodybloody]

I'm going to decorate my whumpee with a silly little hole that is drilled right there

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

"Hi baby!! I know you get bored here from sitting all alone, so I bring my most entertaining pet as a gift." gushed whumper as they were dragging another whumpee.

Whumpee receded a little when they understood what happened to the other whumpee. Whumper looked at the whumpee's face with a questioning expression, as if they were waiting for the whumpee to say something, but the whumpee was speechless.

Whumper stuck out their fingers from the gap they caved in a couple months ago and petted the other whumpee's head to encourage them to speak. "Don't you want to talk to them? I know you have lots of things in common. You can start with your silliness when we first met!!".

Other whumpee looked directly into the eyes of the whumpee with blank, traumatized eyes. They show no sign of life except breathing; whumpee felt like other whumpee was looking through them. 

Whumper nodded for a short bit, like they'd just remembered something. "OOOOOOOH, RIGHT... Talking is extremely painful for them, so we made a deal to not say anything until I command them to do so. But I can speak for them! They've loved playing games from the start to understand who will outsmart the other first. They have said lots of bad words, disobeyed me a couple times, ruined my experiments intentionally,etc. They were slogged away to follow me because they were insistently scuffed and tugged at their leash. And I helped them by grabbing them more tightly, keeping them closer. Now look how happy they are for being a more coherent pet for me." whumper smiled while caressing other whumpee's hair. Then they straightened their face and said, "I hope you learned your lesson; otherwise, the next lesson will be given practically." 

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

You know what I really like that I just discovered recently. Perfection whump.

Where the whumpee is somehow forced to become perfect, either through something that magically makes them that way or they're literally tortured and moulded until they're perfect. And it takes away so much of who they are because to be human is to make mistakes. And it literally traps them in their own bodies. And they want to be anything BUT perfect but they CAN'T. They have no choice they HAVE to be perfect and they HAVE to act HAPPY about it.

Is the whumper who did this to them still in the picture?? They COULD be, actively controlling them and forcing them to be more and more perfect, or maybe they did that to them and just left them to suffer. But IMO bonus points if the whumper IS still there and the whumpee has to constantly obey the whumper who made them perfect either "out of gratitude" or just because they'd been conditioned so deeply to listen to and obey them.

I'm actually writing a Phantom of the Opera fanfic where Raoul gets taught by an evil ballet teacher who pushes him beyond his limits, literally torturing him with exhaustion and manipulating him and using his insecurities against him to make him believe he NEEDS her, forcing him to practice and practice until he's literally the perfect ballet dancer. And ofc the ballet teacher plans to use him for her own personal gain :))

I found out I like this kind of whump from this REALLY good Tim Drake fanfic that my friend recommended to me called "Obedience" UGH what a masterpiece

whumper turning whumpee into their own perfect little doll. love this!!