#scrawny whumper

[andithewhumper]

Masterpost

I need a Caretaker that is absolutely fucking built. Like could throw a car across a parking lot and snap metal in half built.

On the flip side I need a scrawny Whumper. I need an emo boy who never got enough attention as a child and now he is an adult bully. I need him to be skin and bones and the only reason he is scary is because he's the one holding the knife.

I need Whumpee to run away from Whumper and when Whumper finds them with Caretaker his first thought it "oh shit".

[whumpitisthen]

Whumpee gets the biggest, scariest, most menacing looking dog they can find after they get away. Whumper hurt them, Caretaker left them, no one would help. Dogs are loyal. Dogs are protectors. Dogs are man's best friend. Whumpee will not be unsafe, even if they are fated to remain all alone until the end of time. They will never be defenseless again.

[shywhumpauthor]

Nothing better than a Whumper who wears thick, heavy rings backhanding a Whumpee across the face, the rubies that decorate their fingers splitting a gash across Whumpee’s cheek

And the little gasp that follows the impact

[shshshquietnow]

I like whumpees that steal. Little scrawny street rat types.

Rogues are my favorite dnd class couldn't you tell.

But I like seeing whumpers having to check their pockets after visiting or being around whumpee. Whumper telling whumpee to drop whatever they took. Whumper jumping as they didn't quite hear whumpee enter the room (and then putting a bell on them or something). A whumpee who knows their way around a house at night, snooping around whumper's stuff, taking food when they hadn't had dinner as punishment.

Whumpers having to triple lock whumpee because how the FUCK do you keep getting out of these. Caretakers politely asking if they can have their things back, but also jumping when whumpee comes in the room. Whumpees noticing this and once they trust caretaker enough announcing their presence.

Just sneaky whumpees who have the street smarts. Whumpees that are nimble and fast but easy to over power. Whumpees who can hide things, and themselves.

[whump-in-the-closet]

"Don't You Remember?"

whumper-turned-whumpee who can't remember what they did to whumpee and a whumpee-turned-whumper who wants revenge so very badly

cw: implied torture, blood, scars, fist fight, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, implied torture of a minor

In the abandoned alley, Whumper stood over Whumpee, blood on their boots and blood on Whumpee's clothes.

Whumpee gasped for air, back arching against the stone wall. They whimpered. “Why– why are you doing this?” There was terror in their eyes, deer-in-headlights-bright.

And all it did was piss Whumper off. They were no longer the scrawny kid that Whumpee had once bloodied and scarred, but their temper still had the same short leash. And this time, there was no one to stop them.  

“Why?” repeated Whumpee, their voice shaking. Blood dribbled down their chin. “Do I know you?” 

Whumper laughed. Bitterly. In the bronze-lit alleyway, it tasted like dirt and metal, bouncing off the walls before dying out. "You have got to be kidding me."

Whumpee's breathing rattled in their throat, eyes locked on Whumper with their bruised fists and dangerous smile. "I--"

Whumper cut them off. “You think this hurts, Whumpee?"

Whumpee coughed up more blood, clutching their ribcage. They nodded, Adam's apple bobbing in their throat.

“Just imagine it goes on for days. Imagine it doesn’t stop. Imagine you’re in so much pain, you can barely breathe, but it doesn’t fucking stop. But you know what hurts the most, Whumpee?” Another laugh, angry and half spat out. “That you don’t even remember what you did to me. Fuck, you don’t even have the-- the decency to acknowledge you’re the reason they all pity me. Fuck. It makes me want to beat you to death right here and right now.” Whumper ripped off their jacket, letting it drop to the gravel.

 “I mean, fucking look,” Whumper smiled harshly, more of a grimace than a grin.

Whumpee's gaze darted up and then immediately away. Whumper's arms were badly scarred-- raw-rimmed and poorly healed-- but the lines were steady, in methodical knife-blade form.

“Hold still, or I’ll have you lick the blood off my knife. That would be a new low for you, wouldn’t it?” 

Whumper shook aside the memories that burned their way into their mind, the ones that played behind their eyes whenever they tried to sleep. 

Oh, god, when was the last time they had slept?  The anger in their voice was venomous and they re-directed it at Whumpee. “You really don’t remember?” 

No answer. 

Whumpee kicked Whumpee. Hard. “C’mon, Whumpee, I know you’re in there.”

Whumpee only shook their head. They didn’t dare to look up, keeping their arms wrapped around their abdomen for protection. 

The street light bounced off the pooling blood, Whumpee's broken nose, highlighting the deep purple color under Whumper's eyes.

“I was just a kid!" snarled Whumper, "Tell me what I did to deserve this! Fucking tell me!" They didn't want closure. They wanted a fight. 

Instead, Whumpee was wiping at their bloody nose and crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  

Whumper bit back a scream. “Fight me!” 

Whumpee stood shakily, clinging to the wall. “I told you, I…I don’t remember…” their voice cracked. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

Whumper grabbed Whumpee's jacket and hauled them close until their faces were inches apart.

Eye to bruised eye.

Breath shaking.

The smell of copper and leather.

Once, Whumper had cried those very same words.

“Please– please don’t hurt me.”

The knife began its slow work and they began to scream–

One final punch. Whumpee's head cracked against the wall and they slumped limply against the sidewalk. 

There was no closure. 

Just bruised fists and blood on the gravel. Whumper left Whumpee in the alleyway, licking blood off their knuckles. 

[montammil]

June of Doom Day 2 - "It didn't have to be this way"

| Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch |

Everyone's favorite wholesome couple is back!! /j I didn't proofread (then again when do I ever), so sorry in case its kind of messy lol.

CW: Yandere/intimate whumper, torture, blood, implied noncon, kidnapping, murder (not Rowan or Sawyer)

...

Rowan couldn't go a single second without Sawyer mentioning his past life. It seemed that no matter how much time passed, Sawyer refused to accept the new life they lived together. That really hurt his feelings.

Why couldn't Sawyer see that he only did these things because he loved him? He did everything he did out of love, and Sawyer needed to appreciate him for that.

He set down a cup of tea for him and sat across from him at their small dining room table. Sawyer eyed the cup and saucer but didn't touch it. He did that sometimes, tried to pretend he wasn't hungry or thirsty.

"Come on, drink up. It's herbal and it's good for you." Rowan took a sip from his own teacup, his eyes never leaving Sawyer's face.

"It sucks. I want coffee," Sawyer bitterly said. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the dark wood of the table.

Rowan dragged out a sigh. "I think you've had enough caffeine in your lifetime. Besides, this has chamomile in it, and that helps you sleep. That's what you want, right?"

He hated the fact that Sawyer still couldn't sleep in their bed, and preferred the guest bedroom's old, worn mattress. Sometimes Rowan would allow him a slight bit of space, but only sparingly.

"I want to go home." Sawyer's voice cracked. "I miss my friends, I miss the club, and... I want to be with people again, Rowan."

"You have me." Rowan scowled at him. "That should be enough. What's so wrong with that?" Sawyer shook his head, but kept his mouth shut. To Rowan, it just proved he was right. "Besides, why sing in front of a bunch of perverted drunks when you can sing here? In front of someone who actually cares about you?"

Sawyer clenched his jaw. "People who love others usually don't go out of their way to torture them."

Of all things, Sawyer had to bring that up.

Rowan sighed heavily. He really thought that they were making progress, but apparently that wasn't the case. Sawyer was just getting more defiant by the day. Rowan needed to do something about it, but it seemed like Sawyer became immune to his typical punishments. If only he could just bash in the brains of one of those friends Sawyer talked nonstop about.

The more he thought about it, the more appealing it sounded. If he killed one of Sawyer's friends, maybe he could learn a lesson about gratitude.

Then maybe he could finally forget all about that life and live in the one where he belonged with him.

That bartender--Lucien, he think his name was--was definitely a suitable option. He knew him and Sawyer were close, they always shot witty quips back at each other at Indigo. It filled Rowan with rage every time he watched their interactions.

He always had a feeling that bastard wanted Sawyer in more than just a friendly way. He didn't miss the way those dark eyes swept over his beloved every time he was on stage.

The more he thought about Lucien, the angrier he got. His hands tightened around the handle of his cup so hard it almost broke.

Rowan downed the rest of the tea like a shot. "If you keep this behavior up, Sawyer, I think we're both gonna regret it," he warned. Sawyer simply rolled his eyes in response. He didn't take Rowan seriously, and that pissed him off.

Part of Rowan was bluffing. He didn't like the thought of killing someone unless absolutely necessary, but... maybe this was necessary.

It wouldn't take too much effort to get to him. The bartender was not only scrawny, but even shorter than Sawyer. That made him the perfect victim.

He didn't try to hide his malicious smile. "Have it your way."

...

The next two weeks were somehow even more of a struggle than before. Rowan really thought Sawyer would have time to think over his vague threat, but it seemed like nothing affected him anymore. Sawyer had given up completely, and it hurt Rowan to see him that way. But what made it worse was the fact that Sawyer hadn't eaten in a week, and it didn't look like he planned on doing it any time soon.

Rowan was considering going back on his idea to murder Sawyer's friend, but the last straw happened just a few hours ago.

"You need to eat," Rowan insisted. He pushed Sawyer's plate in front of him. "I made your favorite."

Sawyer blinked at him tiredly. "I don't wanna."

Rowan ground his teeth. He tried so hard to remain patient for him, but all of that was quickly wearing off. He always considered himself a patient man, but it seemed as though Sawyer made him snap in more ways than one.

"Please, sweetheart. Just a few bites?" Sawyer remained silent, even having the gall to scoff at him. "This is for your own good, love. If you don't eat--"

"What? You're gonna beat me again?" Sawyer cut him off with a sharp tone. He couldn't hold back a dry, sarcastic laugh. "I'm over it, so go ahead." He propped his chin in his hand, his expression so cold it sent shivers down Rowan's spine.

"I was going to say you'll need to be put on a feeding tube." Rowan's voice was even, but Sawyer could sense anger bordering in his words. "Do you really want that?"

Sawyer huffed. "No, but I'm sure you'd be into that, right?" He saw a twitch of rage in his face and he smiled triumphantly. "Go on. Tell me about how it's for my own good. You love to hear yourself talk, right?" Rowan glared at him. "You spout the same shit every day, I have it all memorized! I can't tell if you're delusional or in denial, so I don't even know what it'll take to get it through your head that I hate you!"

He slammed his fist down on the table, hitting the edge of the plate and sending the contents flying off it.

After the shatter of the glass resounded the kitchen, the room became silent. Sawyer stared at the mess he made, then to the stunned Rowan across the table.

He swallowed hard, his stomach churning at the realization he may have gone a little far this time.

Sawyer always knew when to toe the line, when to push Rowan just enough to where he felt justified in his actions. But he'd never outright provoked him like that.

"Well," Rowan started. Sawyer couldn't see his face, but he heard the venom dripping in his words. "You've done it now."

And now, with Sawyer tied up and gagged back in the shed, Rowan decided he was done stalling.

It took almost three hours just to get into the city again, but it was worth it when he recognized the familiar street that led to Indigo. He pulled over by an alley, parking so his car was out of view. His timing was great, since he subconsciously memorized Lucien's schedule after memorizing Sawyer's, given he used to visit Indigo practically every day.

Lucien was smoking out back. Perfect. He went to the trunk and took out his gun, along with a few other supplies that he brought just in case.

The alley was deserted, but Rowan needed to work fast just in case some other staff member decided to join him.

"Hey," he called out as he approached. Lucien jumped and turned around.

The man looked up at him after brushing some of his own dirty blond hair out from his face. His brow furrowed, looking Rowan up and down. He didn't recognize him, clearly. Good.

"Hi?" Lucien paused. "Can I help you?"

Rowan smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact." He leaned in close and used the little space between them to shove the muzzle of his gun into his stomach. "You're going to follow me and not say a word. Right?" Lucien stuttered in surprise, but managed to nod. "Good, now let's go." He nudged him with the weapon to show him where to go, which was back to his car.

Once they got there, Rowan unlocked the trunk and gestured to it. "Get in." He didn't expect the smaller man to climb in with no issues, but he didn't complain about it either.

It almost made Rowan feel sympathy for the guy, seeing him squished into the trunk. But that went away once he remembered who he was.

He was quick to tie him up and then slammed the trunk closed. He glanced around to make sure no one saw him, then climbed into the driver's seat. He wasted no time peeling out of the alley and speeding back to his lakehouse, where he was happy to dispose of him.

Rowan wasn't a sadistic man (at least that's what he convinced himself of) but he had no problem making sure Sawyer knew what he was capable of.

Sawyer was already devastated when he killed that random guy who tried to help him out. Even though it broke his heart terrifying his darling so much, he was still hoping this would teach him a lesson.

Maybe that time it didn't, but this one would surely be the nail in the coffin.

Rowan pulled in the driveway and cut off the engine. He stepped out, opened the trunk, and hauled the screaming bartender onto his shoulder. The bastard thrashed and kicked, but Rowan just held him tighter. He managed to slam the trunk closed while still holding his writhing captive. He stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him with his foot.

"I don't know what I did to you, but I'm sorry," he pathetically shrieked. Tears poured from his eyes. "You- you don't have to do this. We can talk about this!"

It was amusing how quickly his tough guy persona was dropped. Every time Rowan had seen him, he was always flexing his nonexistent muscles and acting all confident.

Now he was a sniveling mess, begging for his life.

Rowan opened the door to the basement, where he would've put Sawyer if not for what he was about to do. He threw the man down the stairs and left the room to retrieve Sawyer.

Sawyer was asleep when he opened the shed with a loud creak. He looked so beautiful when he was sleeping, he always had.

His eyes slowly fluttered open, then widened when he noticed Rowan standing over him. He tried to say something through the gag, but Rowan made no attempt to try to understand him. Right now, he didn't care what he was saying.

He picked up Sawyer and carried him inside, and to the basement. The man at the bottom of the stairs started crying harder as soon as he spotted Sawyer, and Sawyer returned the gesture.

Rowan sat Sawyer on the floor, much more gently than he did with Lucien. He removed the gag from his mouth.

"Lucien!" Sawyer wailed. He tried crawling over to him, but he didn't get very far. "Fuck... fuck..." He fell forward on his face, squirming in an attempt to escape his binds. "You motherfucker! What is wrong with you?!" This was the angriest he had ever sounded. But Rowan, who knew Sawyer better than anyone, knew he was more scared than anything.

But sometimes things like this needed to be done. Just a bit of tough love.

"Sawyer?" Lucien's voice broke. "Are you okay? What did he do to you?" His gaze flickered to the bruises littering his skin. Sawyer didn't answer. His shoulders shook violently.

Rowan stood by and watched with a blank face. "I thought you already learnt what I'm capable of, but I guess you need a reminder. Do you still hate me, my love?"

He didn't respond. Sawyer's breathing was harsh, tears streaming down his cheeks. He curled into a ball as much as possible with his hands bound behind him.

"Sawyer--" Lucien started.

"Shut the fuck up!" Rowan snapped at Lucien, silencing him. He grasped his gun out of his coat and pointed it at him.

He paused when he felt something on his shoe. Rowan glanced down to see Sawyer had crawled over to him, his body pressed against his legs. He was shaking like a leaf and giving him a teary-eyed expression, one Rowan was admittedly weak to.

"Please," he choked out. "Please don't kill him... please... I don't hate you, I love you, just let him go..."

Rowan adjusted his grip on the gun. He wanted to believe him, but he wasn't that stupid, especially after being fooled by him once. "You're a good actor, darling, but my heart can't take being deceived again. You've played with it enough. It didn't have to be this way."

Despite his words, Sawyer sobbed in relief when Rowan tucked the gun away. It didn't end there. He pulled something else out of his coat. It was a small but undoubtedly sharp switchblade. He grasped Lucien by the collar of his dress shirt, pulling him up so he could plunge the knife into his stomach, all the way down to the hilt. The action was met with an agonized cry from both of them.

Sawyer's eyes were so wide, so full of terror. Rowan could hear him begging, but couldn't care less in the moment.

He twisted the knife in his gut, watching blood seep past his fingers and soak through his clothes. Lucien's cries echoed around the room, incoherent and garbled. Rowan threw him to the ground.

"No more!" Sawyer blubbered, "please, no more, please! I'll do whatever you want! I'll never complain again, I'll never fight you again! Please!" He shrieked loudly, a scream so strong that his voice broke, turning into nothing but a raspy squeal.

At first, Rowan was about to say 'fuck no' and finish gutting him like a fish. He then thought over his words. He was still going to kill Lucien, no doubt about that, but...

"Whatever I want," he mused. "You'll say yes if I propose? Sleep with me? Let me touch you without complaint?" Sawyer nodded so furiously his head nearly flew off. That was a reaction that satisfied him. "And if you go back on your promise, I'll bring you his head. Do you understand that?" Another rapid nod. "Okay. I want you to remember your deal with me. I'd hate for you to think I'm bluffing."

Sawyer cried into the cold ground as Rowan dragged Lucien off, with the promise of taking him to a hospital.

Little did Sawyer know, Rowan buried him in the backyard.

[3-2-whump]

It Started with a Gray Hair

<prev next>

After a couple months' worth of balancing two jobs, hardly getting any sleep, and running himself ragged, Khaled finally snaps.

Thanks @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for the feedback on this chapter, I've applied your advice and hope you like what I did with it!

TW/CW: emotional angst, emotional whump, defiant whumpee (?) (whumpee loses his last fuck to give), slave whump, captivity whump, alcohol, very briefly mentioned food whump (like it's barely there but I'll tag it anyways), intimate whumper, dub con, hate sex

Khaled noticed it when he was towel-drying his hair in front of the mirror after a shower. He accepted it wasn’t a trick of the light as he blew his hair dry in front of the mirror, and he finally confirmed it was exactly as he feared when he combed through his wild floof. Standing starkly contrasted against the black night of his hair was a single silvery strand, long and twisted and brittle amongst strong sable waves.

There was a sharp rap on the door, accompanied by his master’s complaints. Khaled ignored it, still horrified by the discovery of his first gray hair. It was less about vanity for him more than it was a visible sign of the passage of time, of how much time he’d spent living under this man’s thumb. His hands unscrewed the pomade jar on autopilot. He went through the motions of dipping fingertips into the sticky substance and running them through his hair, thoughts racing all the while. He managed to hide the silvery offender –the only one, as far as he knew, though where there was one, there were probably more, and what was that under his eyes? Lines?

“Sometime today, Khaled!” Thomas yelled through the bathroom door.

“Almost done, Master!” he shouted back as he rinsed the hair product off his hands. He hastily dried them and opened the door, subconsciously straightening out his shirt collar as he righted his posture.

“Everything alright?” It was funny, how he almost sounded concerned.

“Fine,” Khaled lied. As if he was going to complain to a forty-something year old man about his first gray hair.

“Well let’s go! We’re going to be late for the reservation I made!”

The restaurant they drove to overlooked a harbor boasting a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, plus or minus a few barges, with the city skyline largely forgotten behind the vast blue expanse. Regretfully, the outdoor seating was closed for the season, with it already being late fall, so the mob boss and his slave got a table indoors, right next to the wide windows above the balcony.

Whatever hope Khaled had of forgetting about the passage of time was quickly dashed by the first course. “We’ll take the antipasti plate, cured meats on the side, and your 2015 Merlot, two glasses, leave the bottle.”

Khaled cleared his throat, getting Thomas and the waitress’ attention. “Just one glass, please,” he corrected. “I’ll take a water.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Thomas asked. Khaled shook his head. “Best give him a glass anyway,” he whispered not too subtly. The waitress dutifully wrote down their order before leaving them to their complimentary bread basket.

“Ah, 2015,” the boss reminisced with a sigh. “The year my grandfather passed and I became the head of the Costa Family, what a tumultuous year!”

Yeah, 2015, the year I was kidnapped and sold halfway across the world to you, Khaled remembered. He tried to wash away the bitter memory with the water the waitress had given him, but the icy cold drink only numbed the sensation for a moment. He halfheartedly smeared some butter onto a piece of bread and picked at the marinated olives on their shared plate as his master kept reminiscing about how much time they had spent together.

“That was also the year I got you, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you remember how small you were back then?” Thomas popped a salted almond into his mouth, chewing it only for a second before answering for him. “You were 5’1” and barely 90 lbs, a scrawny little thing. Then, with enough food and shelter and a stable environment-”

Khaled nearly choked on an ice cube.

“-you hit your growth spurt and made up for lost time!” The older man laughed, taking a hearty sip of his wine. “As soon as I bought you clothes that fit, you would need them replaced! You shot up like a weed over those first two years, and now look at you!”

Look at me now, Khaled bitterly echoed. His gaze flitted to the deep ruby liquid in his master’s wine glass, and then to the opaque green bottle set in the middle of their table. If he was going to make it through the rest of this dinner, he might change his mind about the merlot after all.

The man across from him helped himself to a slice of prosciutto from the side plate. “You’re a handsome young man, now twenty-two years old, 5’8”, 138 lbs. You’re built like a whippet, svelte and sexy in all the right places,” he crooned, throwing in a wink. “It has been nothing but a pleasure spending all these years with you.”

The bread on his tongue felt as dry as ashes in Khaled’s mouth. “I think I will take some of that wine, thanks,” he murmured. He leaned over the table to reach for the wine, but Thomas beat him to it.

Their hands touched on the neck of the wine bottle, two sources of warmth meeting on cold slender glass. Khaled shot his master a questioning look, only to receive a cryptically soft gaze in response. “Allow me.” Thomas took the bottle and effortlessly filled the spare wine glass. “Here you are,” he said, passing it to Khaled with a fond smile. Their hands met once again, the older man’s touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary on the neck of the wine glass as he stared into Khaled’s eyes. There was something softening the look in those steely-gray eyes, and it wasn’t just the candlelight ambiance. This look was warm and cozy, almost comforting like a fresh cup of tea; nothing like the fiery and lustful glances that promised Khaled equal measures of pleasure and pain. At least Khaled was used to the latter type of looks. The way Thomas looked at him now was almost as if –but no, Khaled thought, he’s just playing it up because we’re out in public.

“Aren’t you going to eat any more of this?” Thomas asked, waving down toward the sliced cheeses and grapes and nuts. Khaled hated how concerned his master sounded, making it sound like he cared.

“I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” he replied. He threw back the glass of wine and let the liquid pour down his throat, just to give his mouth anything to do other than talk to the man across from him.

“Oh, come on, Khaled, you know the dietary rules don’t apply on your birthday! At least eat something to absorb all that wine you’re inhaling?”

Brushing uncomfortably past the reminder that today was his birthday –the seventh birthday he had spent in slavery to his master, owner, and abuser –Khaled polished off the rest of his wine, instantly tipping his glass forward in a nonverbal request for more. “Why should you care?” he asked.

“Because maybe I care about you.” Thomas refilled his wine glass. He did that thing with his voice again, using the tone that sounded as if he were genuinely concerned. He was looking at him in that same soft and worrisome way as before. Khaled decided that he hated it. It made sense that the man would be concerned about his $150k asset, but anything vaguely resembling more than that was just …wrong.

He made a show of turning his head all about the restaurant, clocking how few patrons there actually were on a Monday night. “You can drop the act you know,” he murmured. “There is no one within five tables around ours, so you can cut the crap and just be yourself, Master.” The title left his tongue like a bitter epithet.

“Cut the –Khaled, what are you talking about?”

Oh, so he’s going to play dumb? Fine! You want to fuck with me, I’m the King of Dumb –wait, hold on. Khaled tipped back his second glass of wine, not stopping until the whole vessel was drained. Whether it was the insincere gestures of concern, or the accumulation of remarks about how much time had been stolen from him, or whatever the hell these soft and warm looks were, Khaled had decided he’d had enough. “I mean, stop being so goddamn nice to me, stop acting like we’re good friends or boyfriends or whatever lie you told these people when you made our reservations, and please, please, please, stop acting like you care about me beyond what I can do for you in bed!”

A few patrons turned their heads toward their table, since Khaled had raised his voice a little at that last statement. The mob boss glanced around with a flicker of nervousness in those gray eyes. “Khaled, baby, calm down,” he soothed quietly, opting to go for damage control.

Wrong choice of words, fucker! Khaled scoffed loudly, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. “You bought me, at fifteen years old, like an object, and you brought me into your empty, soulless home for what exactly? To leave me chained up and alone to slowly lose my mind for the first year I was imprisoned with you?” He slammed his empty wineglass against the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. “Nobody even treats their dog that badly!” he shouted.

“Khaled, keep your voice down, you’re drawing attention-”

The hypocrisy nearly made Khaled laugh. How dare you care about drawing attention onto us now, of all times! “And then,” Khaled continued, retelling his story as he raised his voice on purpose, “you took me to work with you and kept me on an extremely short leash, while the rest of the mafia treated me like the plague! Do you have any idea what they would say about me when you weren’t there? All the names they called me that I didn’t understand? Well, you made me understand, didn’t you?” His master reached out to hold his hand, but Khaled smacked it away, rising from the table to put even further distance between them. “Four years ago, this very night, the night of my eighteenth birthday, you made me understand, didn’t you?!”

“Khaled, shut up!” Thomas raised himself from the table, his livid eyes narrowed threateningly as he stared the young man down.

“You treated me like a whore –no, worse than a whore! You broke and violated my body nearly every night for years on end! You dolled me up and passed me around to your boys like a party favor until I was thrown away like garbage-” Khaled furiously blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes “-back into your arms when they’d had their fill!”

A small squeak in their periphery interrupted their intense staring match. “U-um, excuse me, have you gentlemen decided on your entrees yet?” the waitress timidly interrupted. Both men fell silent as they realized the weight of a dozen stares were on their table, with both patrons and staff tensely watching them as they fought.

Thomas composed himself first. “No, thanks, I think we’re done here,” he answered gruffly. He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a few $100 bills. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he muttered as he pressed the cash into the woman’s hands and strode purposefully towards the exit. Khaled himself muttered a quiet “sorry” before he followed his master out the restaurant, where they both picked up their argument where they had left off as soon as they reached the parking lot.

“What was that?” the mob boss shouted. “Fuck, boy, what is wrong with you tonight?!”

“What’s wrong with me?! I wasn’t the one who went out and bought a teenager to turn into their personal bed warmer!” Khaled screamed. “I wasn’t the one who stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in silk and pimped him out to strangers he barely knew! I wasn’t the one who tore down everything he loved about himself-” Khaled’s voice broke on a wet sob he couldn’t suppress, “–everything that made him unique, to wring all the hopes and dreams from his broken body, just to build up whatever I wanted from his remains!” He raised an accusatory finger at the man he called his master. “That was you, you did that, that was all you!”

A brief grimace of an unnamed emotion flickered across his master’s face, disappearing before it could even be named. “You’re making it out to be way worse than it was!” he defended himself. He shook his head as he grabbed Khaled’s elbow and started steering him toward the car. “See if I ever let you drink again, fuck,” he muttered.

“Get off me!” Khaled yanked his elbow away from Thomas’ grip. He bit his trembling lip and swiped away the tears in his eyes. Any and all pretense of wanting to appear strong was abandoned as Khaled angrily wept.

“I could have loved you, you know!” He wrapped his arms around himself as his posture crumpled, squeezing himself in a hug as if he were desperately trying to hold his shattered pieces together for a little longer, if only so long as it took him to finish his damning indictment. “You wouldn’t know this, but I don’t have a father, at least not anymore,” he shuddered through ragged breaths, “but for a little bit, I thought I had you. If you had just been a little kinder, a little more understanding, if you had never touched me like that at all, I could have loved you like a father, and I think I was about to! But you didn’t love me, and I know you never did!”

“Hey, that is just not true!” Khaled heard the crunch of gravel under expensive leather shoes. A shadow cast over him as the mob boss leaned over the young man.

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled glared up at him through his mess of tears. “What was it about me that justified pouring out all your wrath and your lust against me?! Why was it so hard to love me?! Am I unlovable, is that it?! Why-”

A rough hand grabbed him by his hair and tugged him forward. Khaled’s rant was smashed against a regrettably familiar pair of warm lips as Thomas brought him in for a kiss. Khaled clawed at the front of the man’s chest, fighting with a fervor he had not had since the early days to try and put the distance back between them. He groaned in protest against those smothering lips as his master maneuvered both their bodies and flipped Khaled back-first onto the hood of a car. Thomas broke the kiss and quickly covered Khaled’s mouth with his hand before the young man could say anything else. “You want me to love you?” he growled. “What does it look like I’ve been doing?!” Khaled thrashed against the hand on his mouth and the body pressing him down inch by inch into the chrome hood of the car. “I have been nothing but sweet with you for months now, but if that’s not what love looks like to you, I could always go back to what I had done before!”

The statement that would’ve struck terror and fear into him before now just made Khaled even more angry. He had finally freed one of his arms from where it had been pinned and scratched at his owner’s face. Thomas recoiled and let go of Khaled’s mouth on instinct to catch Khaled’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip. It wasn’t long before he had both of Khaled’s wrists pinned in one hand in front of him.

Khaled glared at him as he struggled against his master’s hold. “Touch me like that again, and I will scream,” he promised.

His master scowled, but ultimately released him and stepped away, allowing Khaled to peel himself off the hood of the car. They were still in a restaurant parking lot, after all. “At least wait until we’re in the car, you fucking savage!” he muttered.

They had just made it to the back of the boss’ Bentley when Thomas tried to grab Khaled in one hand and open the backseat door with another. Khaled dodged, and as Thomas reached for him to pull him into the car, he pushed into the man’s body and sent him falling backwards. His back met the seat of the backseat with a satisfying thud. Khaled wasted no time in climbing on top of him and closing the car door behind him.

“Cut this shit out!” the older man yelled, trying to sit himself up from where he fell.

“No!” Khaled pushed him down by the sternum. His master, in turn grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back to bare his neck. The sudden pull made Khaled gasp. The warm, moist pair of lips kissing at his Adam’s apple made him involuntarily groan. He blindly clawed at his master while his head was craned up to the car roof. The pair of lips against his throat murmured a breathy request against his skin. “Let’s do it, here, now.”

Once the hand in his hair let Khaled go to begin tearing off his shirt, Khaled snapped his head back to stare down at him. “I’ll ride,” he said. Thomas blinked up at him as his hands retreated from Khaled’s waistband. “I’ll ride,” he repeated, his tone assertive and acerbic. His fingers moved over the button and fly of his pants before his brain could keep up with what he had demanded. Thomas mirrored the motions as he undid his pants and quickly whipped out his hardening member. “You have taken so much from me, you can at least allow me this, Master.” He pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles, taking them off entirely before climbing on top of the dumbstruck man again.

Khaled straddled his master’s hips, splitting himself in half on his master’s cock as he gripped the front passenger seat and the back seat to steady himself. A pair of roughly calloused hands maintained an iron grip on his hips, but Khaled had set the speed on his own, pushing himself up and down the rigid shaft at a brutally masochistic pace. The familiar stinging burning sensation accompanied every movement as he pushed himself to his limits, but Khaled didn’t care. This was the most control he’d ever had –more like the most control he’d been allowed to have with his owner, and as he kept hitting that sweet spot inside of him with every punishing thrust, the repugnant act finally began to feel good.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He did both.

“Fuck me!” Khaled looked below, into the eyes of the man he was riding. The mob boss was a mess, with his short blonde hair mussed up, top three shirt buttons undone, and outer suit coat long forgotten. “I don’t know what I did to get you so worked up, but I should do it again if it gets you this eager!”

“Shut up!”

One of the hands let go of Khaled’s hips to slap him across the cheek. “That is no way to talk to your Master!”

Undeterred, Khaled kept riding. After every abuse that he’d endured, there was no way a mere backhand was going to stop him. He felt himself smiling, a dark and twisted little upturn gracing his lips. “Oh, I know you missed this, you sick son of a fuck!” he gloated. “I figured those girls in the whorehouses could only satisfy you for so long! I am your perfect plaything, doing exactly what you have trained me to do!” His pace was becoming erratically frenzied as he sought release from the ever-mounting pleasure. Thomas bucked his hips into Khaled’s, trying to keep up with him as he squeezed the young man’s hips impossibly tight. That’s right, I can’t cum yet, not until he cums at least, I’ve got to get him to cum first, Khaled reminded himself.

“So, so tight –you’re gonna rip my dick off, Khaled!”

“What are you complaining for?! You wanted this!” he screamed. He was close, so close, he just had to hold out a little more-

A strangled mix between a roar and a moan erupted underneath him as a familiar pulse of hot seed injected deep within. Khaled didn’t take much longer to cum after that, spilling himself over imported cotton as he rode through the high of his climax. His grip on the front and back seats slackened, knees and thighs trembling with the effort to keep himself seated on the man’s cock. When Thomas finally let go of his hips to gently guide him down onto his chest –face first into the puddle of his own spend –Khaled went down limply without a fight. He rested his head against his master’s chest, picking up the sound of the older man’s heartbeat and the smell of cologne and sweat and sex radiating off his broad body.

“Holy fuck, Khaled.” Thomas’ voice rumbled in his ribcage as his fingers idly played with Khaled’s hair. “That was kinda hot-”

“Nope,” Khaled cut off, “stop talking. Please.” Fortunately, this time, he listened.

The mob boss and his slave fell into a contemplative silence as they lay against each other. The silence only broke by the fingers in Khaled’s hair, stopping as they twirled a single lock of hair. “Oh my god, is that a gray hair?” the man asked incredulously.

Khaled laughed/cried again.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

[redd956]

North [1] (Whump Writing)

I WROTE SOMETHING

Content: Cold Whump, Intimidating Caretaker, Restraints, Captivity, Unnamed Characters, A Pinch of Touch Starvation, Dangerous Weight Loss

"Um... H-Hi." Whumpee squeaked underneath the shadow of their Caretaker.

They heard that their friend's acquaintance was intimidating, but they still did not expect the heavy breathing soldier twice the size of them. The figure's breath left through a respirator in form of thick mist, and an axe was clutched tightly in their hand. They did look very warm though in all that snow protective gear compared to the backdrop of nothing but snow for miles through a hole in the wall.

Wow, whumper really dragged them out into the middle of nowhere huh?

There was no sign of Caretaker's human-ness. All their skin was covered up, and a fluffy winter hat paired with the strange respirator masked their entire head. They simply stood there. They simply said nothing.

Wind fled into the room from the hole in the wall to their cell that Caretaker made. Whumper was going to be real annoyed when they see that. Really annoyed.

Whumpee's skin gained a new reddish hue at the cold's sting. They enclosed their arms around themselves, pressing their rags of clothes to their scrawny form, despite knowing they could bring no heat to their own body. As they did so the chains against them clinked.

Chains... It didn't matter where Caretaker was going to take them, as long as it didn't inquire chains. Their neck felt weak holding the heavy metal brace that once dug into their skin, and now hung loosely.

A mechanical sigh hissed through the respirator as Caretaker lowered to Whumpee's level. Whumpee straightened up their posture as best as possible, and held their head for the embrace of touch, but they still shuddered when thick gloves met the underside of their head.

Caretaker softly prodded their fingers around the area, gently adjusting the direction of their face. The axe even made a quiet clatter when they sat it down. Whumpee failed to resist wincing at the feeling of Caretaker's fingertips brushing against the skin of their neck. The metal brace scraped to the side in careful sporadic intrevals.

Although unable to see Caretaker's eyes, the warmth of a stare buzzed along their collarbone.

With another strange sigh Caretaker rose to their feet, shaking their head, and gripped the axe.

Of course. Whumpee wasn't enough. They were never enough. Why would Caretaker want to take in another mouth to feed? Such a damaged one too? How could they let themselves get their hopes up on the words of a somewhat friend, if Whumpee could even call them that...

At least there wouldn't be chains on the other side. Hopefully.

The chain let out an exasperated urk. Whumpee tried to curl in. Too far from the wall, they could only manage a sort of slouch. Hugging their arms against each other they did nothing but shiver in the coolness of Caretaker's shadow.

They couldn't even look their final killer in the eyes, watching the form of darkness move across the floor. The shadow's arms departed from itself raising an axe high, before-

SNAP!

Bits of shattered chain scattered across the ground. A pinch of sparks followed after them as axe connected to stone flooring. Shaking, Whumpee strained a turn behind them. A severed set of chain links let out a dying breath when a small gust pressed the dust off of them.

Caretaker pulled onto the shortened half connected to Whumpee's neck, debating their satisfaction in its length.

All the wind left Whumpee's lungs as they felt two heavy pats across their back shoulders. Caretaker methodically sifted through the rucksack they brought, dragging out a coat several sizes larger than Whumpee. They kept giving Whumpee a look every time they rubbed at their eyes.

"Thank- Thank yo-you." Whumpee mustered as Caretaker became finally satiated in the amount of bundling up they wrapped their rescue into. Those words were muffled under a thin scarf.

Whumpee tried to show their new acquaintance that they could dress themselves. That went as miserably as it could, the two shiny red scrapes across one shin stood as a token to that. Now Caretaker didn't even let Whumpee try to slip their own respirator on.

Mechanical hissing. Not a chance for another word. Whumpee felt Caretaker's hands slide underneath them, and the iciness of stone was gone... as they were lifted into a bridal carry. Caretaker's gear was so warm, impossibly so.

Caretaker made sure to draw the heavy chains onto Whumpee's chest as to not pull against their neck. They tried to use the same buzzy warmth of a stare to get Caretaker's attention. They wanted to thank this friend of a friend with every ounce of their existence, ignoring their own automatic movements more attune to melting.

Melting into Caretaker's chest, they nuzzled their face against the hot fabric. Their eyes refused to stay open, the eyelids wanted to feel it too.

Caretaker felt frail hands do their strongest at gripping against their chest. A sigh of relief exhaled through the respirators.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Bite me!

inspired by this prompt

Force of nature - masterlist

TW: vampire whumper, human whumpee, vampire attack, blood drinking (duh)

"Try to fucking bite me! See where it gets you!" Carter spat at the vampire glaring at her from her doorstep. It was the same one that showed up at the restaurant just a few days prior, the same one that wrecked her celebration months ago. Julius, was it? His name didn't matter, he was no more than a leech in her mind, something dangerous she had to kill.

They were the same hight, Carter knew looks can be deceiving, but she found him to be skinny and probably young if he dares show up at around hunters repeatedly. Now there was noone around to not cause a scene in front of, for her to be blackmailed with. She decided he was going to die.

She realised her mistake when the creature stepped over the threshold and pushed her up against the wall with the intensity of a car crash. He might look scrawny, but that's a sign of weakness in a human, never a monster like him.

"Where do you think it gets me?" he asked, his tone even, unbothered by her squirming against his hold that just wouldn't budge "Because I think it gets me fed, I want to hear your theory, though"

He leaned back just enough for her feet to touch the ground again, and put an inch of distance between them.

His expression was empty, like a statue, not a single muscle moved in the undead face, when they were this close to her she understood what frozen in time meant. The modern tone of voice and fashionable clothes could have been put on one of the sculptures in a nearby park and it would've had the same effect, not quite right, she knew him for what he was. A monster.

"I think it gets you killed. Fucking leech" she finally pulled a stake out from the contraption strapped to her thigh and angled it up to press into the creature's abdomen pointing towards his heart.

For the first time since he appeared on her doorstep his lips pulled into a smile, it didn't reach his eyes nor did it seem genuine.

"Try that and see where it gets you" he mocked, and grabbed onto a stake pushing it harder between his own ribs.

She tried to press on the dull end of the stake, to inch it into the creature's skin, which once was broken wouldn't stop the wood to pierce through his heart. It didn't move, however much force she applied, and how desperate she got. She had no momentum and barely any space to gain some advance.

"You've done this before, at least twice" he looked her up and down, taking in her struggle, still completely unphased by it "You've hit me in the spine and my companion in the heart. Finish it" he demanded and wrapped his hand around hers over the stake.

Carter came to her senses, and changed tactics. She had to get as far from the creature as fast as humanly possible. The bones in her hands ground against the stake in his grasp and she was still backed into the corner of her own hallway.

"Let go and I will" she seethed, this time trying to maneuver herself to the side. He matched the movement easily, as if he knew where she would try and step next.

"You let go of the stake and I'll consider it" Carter glared at him. She wasn't about to give up on the one thing on hand that apparently threatened the vampire. He should have been threatened by her very presence, instead of bargaining for her to drop the weapon.

The creature was either young and stupid or Carter's moments were numbered. She didn't consider the second option closely enough. She dropped the stake and he finally let go of her hands.

"What now?" she asked condescendingly, as if they were at an impasse, surely he'd keep his word. If he was young he could only be a few years older than herself, he ought to be willing to be reasoned with.

"I think I'll try now" he closed the distance between them again and wrenched Carter's head to the side to access her neck and but down.

She tried to scream but the sound was cut short as he but down harder. She clawed uselessly at his shoulders and arms, as if she could find some leverage to push him off. There was none.

The creature lapped at her neck in a rhythmical pattern matching the way her heart beat. Her vision started swimming and her stomach sank in her abdomen, she felt dizzying bouts of nausea overtake and shake her body.

"I was right" he pulled away. Licking his lips obscenely cleaning the blood off them leaving a trail of saliva glisten over them. The same substance she was sure covered her skin from chin to shoulder, burning as it closed the gaping wound.

She gasped for air, shaken to the core, she tried to process what happened. She was alive. The vampire took her blood, but didn't kill her.

"What-" she wheezed, catching a normal breath seemed like an impossible task at the moment. She couldn't stop thinking about her blood coursing in the dead body of the monster keeping it alive.

He shrugged and stepped away, watching her crumble on the floor.

"By the time I get back, get those nasty stakes out of my sight" and with that he disappeared into the night.

[astaldis]

Whumpers-Monthly Issue no 28 - Falling

Who'll save you when you fall? - Chapter 1: Falling

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Young Cahir

Caretaker: Emhyr var Emreis

Published: 2023-10-17; Completed: 2023-10-26; Words: 6,626; Chapters: 3/3

"Any last words?" he asks for the fifth time.

"Death to the Usurper!" the boy shouts loud and clear and with utmost loathing, his voice cracking slightly. Then he spits the executioner in the face. Emhyr raises an eyebrow in approval. That kid has spirit! A pity that he is going to die shortly.

"You'll pay for that," the hangman growls under his breath, wiping the spittle off his dark red, almost purple face. "I'll make sure you dance for us, gutter scum!"

Hmm, it might not be the smartest move to anger your executioner right before you are hanged, Emhyr suspects, the contrary. Still, he appreciates bravery when he sees it. A lot. What a waste. He sighs, awaiting the inevitable.

The livid executioner grabs the rope and pulls at it to place the noose around the boy's scrawny neck. However, it does not work. The boy is too short. Or the rope is. Or both. Furious, he goes even darker in the face, looking close to exploding any moment. It is almost funny. Some people in the crowd point and laugh at the man. The boy has clearly won some sympathy among the spectators. It will not save his neck, but it makes for a good tale. And that is what people want. Finally, a soldier fetches a wooden crate for him to climb on. Although he has gone even paler than before, he steps onto the box without hesitation, head held high. The executioner lays the noose around the boy's neck and moves toward the lever that activates the mechanism for the drop.

"I want that boy," Emhyr suddenly whispers to the hooded man standing next to him. A spur of the moment, a rash decision, probably more than stupid, but he has to try.

"What about the count?" his follower asks doubtfully. Still, he reaches for the arbalest hidden beneath his cloak.

"Change of plans. We'll do without him. Quick now, and don't miss!"

While the crossbowman takes aim, Emhyr blows into his horn. The signal for the horsemen. It has begun. Only, the arbalester does not release the missile. It is too late. The hangman has already pulled the lever. Together with the box, the boy falls.

The crowd gasps as the rope straightens with a jerk.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Captured -- wild humans hunted and captured to be used as servants part 12

Warnings: captivity, starvation, starvation whump, cruel whumper, torture, etc.

As soon as the group was above the building, they all split up, bird-folk gliding and soaring off in different directions to their destinations, while Alastor winged his way straight toward the largest snow-capped mountain.

Corbin remembered his first flight with Kazimir; he'd been too busy panicking and had passed out long before getting to see where Nakita actually lived, but with Alastor flying, he made sure to mentally map out the landscape in case the knowledge might become useful later on.

And it gave him lots of time to think up his plan once he arrived, though he spent most of that time worrying, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. What if Nakita came to greet his transporter at the door and saw him? What if she heard him arrive? He was second-guessing his choice to go on a mission to save Kazimir. Maybe he should have tried to run away instead, find his way back to his human home. But he was high up in the air, and there was no turning back now.

The frosty wind buffeted his face, and his sleeve bounced softly up and down with every one of Alastor's powerful wingbeats.

It was almost a whole half-hour before Nakita's mansion came into view, and Corbin internally cringed at the sight, remembering how much he'd suffered in that wretched place.

The takeoff pad outside the front door grew closer and closer, until finally -- Alastor touched down, unclipping the sleeve and helping Corbin get out of the protective suit. The cold hit his human skin in an icy blast, making him shiver, and he was grateful that the flight service took the precautions to protect their servants so well.

"Thank you, Sir," Corbin said respectfully, and Alastor nodded, clipping the empty sleeve and suit to his harness before tipping off the platform, leaving him on his own... to somehow find and save Kazimir.

Corbin wrapped his arms around himself with another shiver as he walked up to the giant front doors, quietly pushing one open just barely enough for him to slip inside.

The place was just as awfully lavish as he remembered, expensive furniture and decorations everywhere. But to his immense relief, Nakita was nowhere in sight, and only a lone servant or two wandered about.

Corbin knew the mansion like the back of his hand after working for so long in it, and he hurried his way to the prison area, where he assumed is where Nakita would be keeping Kazimir for his 'punishment'.

He occasionally had to hide and dodge other humans to remain unseen, but eventually, he arrived, sneaking to the dungeon he knew well, the same dungeon Nakita tortured him in... only to find it locked. It was never locked before.

"No... you can't be serious..." Corbin breathed in disbelief, rattling the large padlock holding the door handles together in frustration. He was so close to rescuing his friend.

His heart hammered, knowing that Nakita could appear at any second and spot him. He scowled hard at the padlock, working on thinking of a plan B, when it all went wrong.

"Corbin? Is that you?"

He practically jumped ten feet it the air with a startled gasp, whirling around -- to find a scrawny husk of a human servant watching him, carrying a pitcher of water and rags. His blood ran ice cold, the coldest he'd ever been with dread.

It was Alice, one of the servants he had worked alongside during his time in captivity. His cover was blown.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[shshshquietnow]

(Contents: shape-shifting whumpee (bird), shape-shifting whumper (any), pet, pet names, objectification, cage. Tell me if I need more!)

(Also note: these characters are named for convenience. They are not ocs, not really.)

...

Shit shit shit SHIT!

Arden darted through the trees, in the form of a sparrow, fleeing from the hunter down below on the ground. Why would anyone want to hunt a dumb sparrow?! Arden had always been thankful for the ability to turn into such an unasuming bird, not enough to take note of but always quick enough to get away.

But the hunter was SURPRISINGLY fast in the forest, whistling as they went along, which peeved Arden off. THEY weren't the one with their life of the line, they could at least have the courtesy to not make it all feel like an afternoon PASTIME.

"Heeeeeeeere birdie birdie birdie..."

Nope nope nopety nope nope nope. Arden beat their wings furiously... but while a sparrow was meant to fly fast, it was not meant to fly long. Arden could feel their small bird heart pounding, their wings stinging with pain and they could still hear the hunter behind them...

They were a hunter, going after some song bird. Surely if they shifted to a human- even just a moment, to catch their breath- then the hunter wouldn't care anymore. They were hunting a bird, not some scrawny human. Besides, they had their act down now, they were just like any normal human, no one would tell the difference.

Arden landed down on a branch and shifted back- even as a human the thin branch still supported them, they were quite small- and they swung down to sit at the trunk of the tree. Their heart still skipped a beat once they heard the hunter's slow calculated footsteps, but they won't be interested in-

"Tired already?"

Arden looked up to the hunter, who for some reason had given up chase on the "sparrow". This was fine, this was... their head hurt. "I- I'm sorry?"

The hunter scoffed, smirking and raising their eyebrows. "I'm a shifter too, you know."

"Then why are you chasing me?" Arden cringed not but a moment later, realizing they not only confirmed the fact they're a shifter, but also that they're the sparrow they had been tracking.

The hunter laughed, which made Arden shrink into their shoulders. "I can smell the shifting magic on you, do you not know what that means? How long have you lived here in this forest."

"All my life... not many people come-... you can SMELL the shifting magic on me?" Arden puzzled, only momentarily distracted by the hunter's question. Why did they answer that? Why weren't they running?!

... why did they WANT to run? The hunter had Arden right where they wanted them, tired and on the ground, defenseless, slow as a human, but made no moves. That... was almost scarier. Arden couldn't quite put their finger on it.

"Means I'm an ALL shifter," the hunter finally took a step closer. Arden's breath hitched, they pressed themselves against the tree trunk, trying to get farther from them. "I'm not confined to two forms like YOU are."

Arden didn't know what to expect- certainly not a sudden kick to the stomach. They curled forwards as the hunter bent down. "Means I'm better than you."

They lifted Arden up by the clasp on their cloak to look them in the eyes, they were frighteningly strong. There was a glint- a sparkle... some WANT in their eyes as they looked down on Arden.

"All shifters are far more powerful than you could ever wish to be," the hunter tilted their head down at Arden. "Means we can do what we want to pretty little birds like you."

Both or Arden's wrists fit in ine of the hunter's hands as they began to tie their wrists together. "Hey- please, hunter, I promise I meant you no trouble, whatever I did-"

"They'll be plenty of time for singing later, pretty bird," the hunter finished up the wrists. With one hand they reached into their cloak, and with the other they stroked a lock of messy hair from Arden's face. It was surprisingly gentle... the touch tingled under Arden's skin... so gentle... but they weren't an idiot. They stayed alert of the predator in front of them. "So while I'll be wishing to see you squirm more later on, hold still for me, pet?"

Pet?! No, no even if they're tired they needed to get away right NOW. Even though they were tired, they shifted as fast as they could to fly away, they lifted off, flapping their wings once and twice-

They ran into lines- bars, cold and metal. The hunter locked the opening to the cage behind them, only a chirp of fright escaped.

The hunter lifted the cage to eye level, their massive face peering at their latest catch. "Thought you might try that, but I come prepared. But I didn't get a good look at you much earlier..."

They tilted the cage, making Arden struggle to balance as they inspected them. The hunter clicked their tongue. "You're even CUTER up close, must I say, pretty bird. I really did get quite the catch~"

Arden's feathers involuntarily ruffled. They didn't know the rules, why is this happening?! What did the hunter even want from them, what exactly does being a "pet" mean?!

"Oh you're absolutely precious all scared like that..." the hunter reached a finger through the bars to scritch the sparrows head, earning a giggle when Arden tried to bite them. "Fiesty too... I like it."

They set the cage on the ground, crounching down next to it so they were looming over Arden. "I cannot believe I was so lucky to catch you, can't wait to hear you sing, pretty bird~"

The hunter shifted to a bird as well, a large falcon. They grabbed the cage with their talons and lifted off into the air, taking Arden from the forest they know and love. Taking them so very very high above the trees.

How on earth are they getting out... no, no no, that's a stupid question.

How on earth are they surviving any time with the HUNTER?

[whumpshaped]

I do have one trope/scenario that has been squatting in my brain penthouse if you'd like to write! I've been thinking of Whumper who has got a very quiet, and obedient servant with a pretty scrawny appearance at first glance (also a whumpee) but whumper has had them Thoroughly trained for combat. So when a newly obtained, fiesty whumpee wants to challenge Whumper to a fight, Whumper won't even let whumpee have a chance unless they can first win against their servant

tw beating, broken bones, blood, power dynamics, dehumanisation, royal whump

"I'm not going to hurt an innocent. Especially not one that you've already tortured plenty." Whumpee gestured toward Servant with a disgusted look. "What do you take me for? Stop being a coward and hiding behind other people's morals."

Whumper gave them a lazy once over, waving them off. "You do not deserve my time, mutt. But if you entertain me a bit, and you win, maybe I will grant you the privilege of being beaten half to death by someone royal. If I were you, I would thank me profusely for the mercy, and get to it."

Whumpee was trembling with rage. Clearly, Whumper had no honour. No spine. How could they ever go up against Servant? The poor thing looked tired and starved, and entirely brainwashed on top of that. Whumpee had no doubt in their mind that they would fight to the death if Whumper told them to, and they didn't want that. They didn't want to hurt someone so fragile for Whumper's enjoyment. It went against every single value they held as a fighter.

"I will fight you, and if you won't stand from your throne, I'll drag you onto your feet." They took off, running towards Whumper with the full intention of bashing their skull in. But around halfway through, they were kicked in the side with such force that they toppled over, rolling along on the floor until their body hit the stairs leading up to where Whumper was sitting. They gasped for air, cluthing their side and wincing when they felt something crack under their hand.

They quickly pushed themself to their feet, only to find Servant already preparing to land another kick. They didn't have enough time to dodge, taking their heavy work shoe to the stomach, and then their heel to the back of their head as soon as they doubled over from the pain. Their face connected with the floor with another crack, blood gushing from their newly broken nose.

"The feeling is not mutual, I'm afraid," came Whumper's distant, mocking voice. "The innocent will gladly hurt you."

~

@ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

((Content warning: referenced / implied spousal abuse ))

((Promptspiration: @thebestieyoureinlovewith https://www.tumblr.com/whumpitlikeyoumeanit/732941691402731520/harry-potter-au-where-lucius-actually-was-under ))

Whumpee: Lucius

Whumper: ?Voldemort?

Caretaker: --

Whump type: Mind control

Fic type: Alternate History ("Lucius was Imperiused AU")

((words: ~2300))

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

It was like waking up, without ever having been aware of being asleep.

Lucius found himself looking blankly through a scroll that was slipping through his fingers, seated in the reception room of the manor, but not as he knew it. His mind reeled in something like vertigo. He jerked to his feet and turned around the room — he knew the room, it was obviously his home, but paintings had been rearranged on the walls, there was a vase he didn't recognise on a table he did but which should not have been in that corner, the main seating area had been flipped the way he had always thought it should be… And the differences themselves felt weirdly familiar.

He strode out of the room without a clear plan, except to figure out what was going on, and the general idea that his father probably knew. The grand hall was reassuringly familiar, but when he looked into his father's study just behind the stairs that evaporated. It was changed more completely than the reception room, furniture switched out and rearranged, shelves emptied of artefacts and refilled with books that belonged elsewhere, and yet it looked right. He recoiled from it. 

"Elf," he snapped, backing away. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. "House elf, here, now." 

The house elf appeared at his foot with the sound of elf Apparition, a scrawny thing in a dirty pillowcase with an oversized head and bulbous eyes, cringing into the floor. "Master?"

Even that didn't feel the same. It was the same elf, but didn't act the same, didn't address him the same. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Where is my father?"

"Master?" the elf repeated in a small voice, cringing preemptively.

"My father! Where is he?"

The elf wrung his bony hands together. "In his tomb…?"

"What?" Tomb? His father was visiting the cemetery? Or… "What are you—?"

"Dobby will get Mistress!" The elf disappeared before he could countermand that. 

Maybe it was for the best. He had never had a particularly good relationship with his mother, but if she had answers, she would share them. He left the site of the too-familiar study and paced the hall, focusing on being calm. Obviously some sort of magic had been used on him — Confounded, maybe, or… Could he have had some hours of his memory Obliviated away? Or more…? Days? …Weeks?

His father would do such a thing, the bastard, but why? Why now? He must have seen something he shouldn't, or…

The grandfather clock beside the staircase struck three in the morning, and he looked at it in passing, and then stopped and stared at the dark reflection in its glass. "No…" He didn't want to know what it showed; he prayed it was wrong, a trick of the light. There was a mirror hanging in the front parlour, or there should have been; he ran for it, lighting his wand on his way, and the mirror was just where it should have been. It was the face in it that was wrong. He stared, holding his hand over his mouth to hold in whatever sounds of horror wanted to escape.

He couldn't say that wasn't his face… He recognised it, and touching it proved that, if there were any doubt. But that face wasn't eighteen years old. The face in the mirror, his face, was twenty-five… maybe thirty years old. 

Years. He had lost years. This wasn't possible. If he was thirty, that was nearly half his life… gone… This wasn't possible!

There were footsteps behind him, and he turned around. Still, on some level, despite the evidence, he was expecting his mother. That wasn't who he found. The woman he saw was beautiful, a little older than him, except that meant she was actually the same age as the face he saw in the mirror. For a second he didn't think he recognised her. 

"Narcissa?" he realised. Narcissa Black? Years older than he remembered, enough to match the years he had lost. If she was the elf's 'mistress' then that meant — He looked down at his hands sharply and realised for the first time that his family signet ring was mirrored on the other hand by a wedding band. 

"You requested me?" she said with cool reserve. 

He found he didn't know what to ask. There was too much, and too much of it was horribly obvious, even though none of it made sense. He stared at his wedding ring for a long moment, then looked back at her. She didn't seem pleased to see him. 

"I don't know what's going on," he admitted. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to identify his angle. He shouldn't be saying this to her, but he needed answers from someone, and at least the ring suggested he was supposed to be able to trust her. He didn't know why he would have married her, when he had always had much more congenial options — her sister Andromeda, for instance — but at least he knew her. "This is all wrong. I just…" She was looking at him impassively, without any sign of caring or understanding, and he had to get the point across. "I don't remember marrying you." 

"I should be so lucky," she said coldly. 

He pulled in a sharp breath, and she looked at him closely, and then took another step into the room, inspecting him cautiously. "You are telling the truth? You remember nothing?"

"Yes." Finally, she understood. Someone understood. He wasn't just losing his mind.

"For how long?" 

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I remember leaving school." 

She studied him a moment longer, and her expression shifted slightly, relaxing very slightly. "You were under the Imperius," she realised. Her eyes closed and a line of tension ran out of her shoulders. 

He wanted to say it couldn't be true, but he couldn't; he realised with a sick feeling it was the only thing that could be. 

Someone had been controlling him, puppetting him through his life. 

For years. 

His entire adult life had been controlled by someone else, and he didn't even know who or why. 

Narcissa took a deep breath and opened her eyes, and now instead of impassive and controlled she looked hard. The fire of anger she had been hiding was now uncovered. "You will never touch me again," she said fiercely. 

He took a small step back in the face of that unexpected rage. "I wouldn't—"

She actually sneered at him, dripping pure and utter contempt. She'd been afraid of him, and now she knew she didn't have to be — that was why she was so reserved and cooperative at first. The Narcissa Black he knew was so proud she would sooner take detention than compromise her position. What had he done to her? 

"I am taking Summer Hall," she said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Don't follow me. Do not speak to me unless it's absolutely necessary. I see no reason we should cross paths."

"I understand," he said. If they were properly married, that meant Unbreakable marriage vows; moving to different parts of the manor was as much freedom as either of them would ever have. His parents had had a similar arrangement. At the moment, he was frankly grateful — that was one less thing he had to deal with. "Just please, answer a few questions first." 

She crossed her arms. But she didn't leave, so he supposed that was as much as an invitation to speak as he would get. "What's the date?"

"Hallowe'en, 1981. Or first November, now."  

1981. 1981. He turned away from her, caught a glimpse of the stranger in the mirror, and walked away to the window, running his hand through his hair and dropping the wandlight to his side. That plunged them into near total darkness. 1981. He'd just turned twenty-seven. Almost ten years of his life, gone, unnoticed. An entire decade…

"Who?" He looked back at her, silhouetted in the doorway. "Who would do this?"

"Look at your left arm." There was a strange, triumphant satisfaction in her voice, the sound of unadulterated schadenfreude. She hated him. "I think your life is about to be very interesting for some time." 

"What?" He yanked up his left sleeve, and the harsh light of his wand showed a black snake twisting into the mouth of a skull on the inside of his forearm. Everything came together in one awful picture, in the shape of his father's associate, so-styled 'Lord' Voldemort. "No! I told him no!" Was that it — was that the last thing he remembered? That last thing he had done of his own volition? It was so hard to tell, but it would make such hideous sense. 

"It looks like he disagreed." She turned out of the room. "The child is yours to do with as you please."

"Wait—" He looked at her abruptly, sleeve slipping from his fingers. "There's a child?"

She didn't answer him, only swept off up the stairs.

She couldn't mean that, could she? Their child? She had to mean something else.

He followed, putting out the wandlight; she was already gone, taking the left fork of the stairs toward the wing she had now claimed, and his feet took him right, toward the section of the house that was now his. He knew without having to check that he now slept in the chambers he thought of as his father's; he passed that door with that familiar feeling of unwanted rightness, the same as the wand in his hand he recognised as the one his father had inherited, the same as the remodelled study.

At the far end of the corridor there was a door standing ajar, and he approached it with quiet dread. The door creaked quietly as he pushed it open. 

That was where he found it, a small room with barely more furnishing than a crib in the centre, and in it a blond child sleeping fitfully. 

He didn't know anything about children; he couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, and would have believed any age between six months and three years. He could see it was a Malfoy, though; the hair and general look of the face dispelled any potential for doubt, any reprieve from the horrible certainty. That was his child.

He didn't go past the doorway. He wanted to shut the door and run away. His stomach churned. To see a small child that was objectively obviously his and yet he did not recognise, remember, or feel any connection to neatly encapsulated the horror of this night. That was not his, it was a child of the Imperius curse and whoever had been controlling him. Like his clothes, his house, his wand, his wife, his entire life, the mark on his arm, none of this was him.

Maybe it was the light from the corridor, or maybe the child just sensed a presence; it opened its eyes and then noticed him and rolled over onto its knees, staring at him with big eyes, reaching through the bars of the crib for him. 

He recoiled. "Elf," he summoned sharply. He backed another step away from the door and tripped against the house elf, and pushed it toward the room with his foot. The child was making a noise now, grabbing at the air as he pulled away and pulling itself up the bars to stand. "Just… take care of that." 

"Yes, Master." The elf scurried into the ascetic nursery and Apparated from the floor into the crib. He left the doorway so he didn't have to see it.

He didn't want to surround himself with one of those rooms that had changed in ways he shouldn't feel comfortable with, but did. Instead, he found himself sitting on the edge of the landing halfway up the grand staircase, where it forked in front of the library, staring at his hands with his sleeve rolled up. His mind was absently and repeatedly taking inventory. One Dark magic brand he had refused, one wedding ring to a woman he barely knew, one wand that should have been his father's. 

There was so much he had to get a handle on. Too much. The entire state of his life, and of the world outside it. He had to figure out who had cursed him, why he had been suddenly freed, and find a way to protect himself from it happening again. That was an unbearable thought, to have broken free for a few hours and then fall victim to it again, to lose perhaps the rest of his life this time. If there was any way to prevent it, he had to find it.

He had to find out what had become of his parents, although he had a dark feeling he knew. He had to find out what he was meant to be doing with his days. He had to know who else would see him as Narcissa had, and what he had done to them. How much of the family fortune had been spent on Voldemort's goals? 

He was still finding more questions in the edges of his thoughts he would have to find answers to when the sound of the double entrance doors down below slamming open echoed the length of the grand hall. He jerked his head up; a dozen mismatched men and women were boiling forth from the foyer, all with their wands raised aggressively, bellowing a cacophony of "Lucius Malfoy!"s and "Aurors!" and "Drop your wand!"s. 

He didn't move, but he did let go of his father's wand; it bounced down the steps. "It wasn't me," he called, trying to be heard over them. 

Then overlapping spells filled the space and several bolts of magic slammed into him and threw him back into darkness.

[redd956]

Higher Pay (1)

Content: Whump Writing, Intimidating Whumpee, Somewhat Bad Caretaker

CW: Captivity, Violence, Restraints, Blood Loss

The whumpee's chest heaved up down as they struggled to position themselves anything near comfortable. A hiss escaped from them as they finally gave up, relaxing against the restraints. The chains connected to the thick metal collar around their neck relaxed too, bowing towards the ground, visibly shaking as the whumpee shuddered. The last of their energy leaving through a frustrated huff of breath.

Their hands behind their back felt foreign underneath the thick fabric of the oven mitts, and no matter which way whumpee turned them, they never seemed freed from the binds.

Exhausted whumpee finally stopped wasting their pinch of energy left on it all. So this is what losing feels like.

Rusted metal creaked. A shrill squeak whistled, followed by a slam. Whumpee was only partially relieved to see someone other than whumper. Partially.

Caretaker despised this part of the job every time. They mumbled to themselves, reminding them of the money that "patrons" always paid. Often times it was more than enough for caretaker to lay back and not lift a finger for months.

Of course they would risk their lives to rescue some random, nurse them vigorously back to life, and in exchange, hand the rescue over to whoever hired them for such a mission in return for lots and lots of money. Still caretaker gritted their teeth, and scowled at the dingy environment.

Then halted in their tracks

So this is why they were offering so much

Whumpee wasn't the norm that caretaker came across. Caretaker was used to scared scrawnier rescues, who looked at caretaker with bewilderment and awe. They were always wounded, weak, and disgustingly puppy-like. They would latch onto caretaker. Easily every word caretaker spoke was what they wanted to here.

Although these rescues were heartbroken every time, caretaker never minded dumping them off to their families, colleagues, and more. Usually once they caught sight of their loves ones, caretaker would exit their thoughts graciously, and exit the situation with cash for the season. They needed to use all that medical knowledge of theirs somehow but...

Whumpee was none of that. The block integrated into the brick wall, the other end of whumpee's collar, was half way out of it's placement. It was ready to fall out at any sharp tug. The binds keeping their arms tied behind their back looked ready to snap. Despite the blood everywhere, exhaustion wasn't exactly what caretaker was reading.

Whumpee? They were glaring at caretaker. They were larger than caretaker. Scrawny, scared, puppy-like were opposites to describe whumpee. Maybe just maybe their patrons were wrong, and whumpee didn't need any rescuing after all. Maybe that would make this job 10x easier. Maybe.

"Hey? Whumpee?"

A growl more attune to a snarl came from whumpee. They begun to pull on their restraints again.

"Hold on. Hold on. I was sent by some- Hey stop moving. Listen. By some friends of yours."

Whumpee slowed giving caretaker a window of their attention. Caretaker could now spot the bandages wrapped tightly around whumpee's abdomen. Blood pooled at the surface, dark and all too recent. Something caretaker was finally used to.

"Yeah uh Simeon sent me?"

Whumpee sighed, and grumbled, "Simeon?".

Great that bewilderment and awe. Whumpee hung their head as if showing caretaker that were accepting the help. Caretaker stepped past empty painkiller bottles, and slung the backpack of their shoulders. This needed to be done quick. Caretaker did not want to see the size of whumper, if this was whumpee.

Clang! The metallic ending fell out of the wall, scraping against the stone flooring. The oven mitted hands broke the binds keeping them stuck close-knit behind whumpee's back. Stumbling to stand, the world spun. Loud than quiet, ears ringing, black flashes. Their feet faltered to find their standing.

Whumpee thought they were doing fantastic, but caretaker watched them sway. Whumpee shared them a nervous smirk. As caretaker rummaged through the bag they balled up their oven mitts.

"Okay whumpee we're goin-"

Caretaker awoke a few seconds later pawing the back of their hand at their face, smearing blood from their nose all over their own face. They sputtered, wheezing as the pain radiated throughout their face.

They glanced back just in time to watch whumpee drag their new chain accessory over the window sill, a splotchy trail of blood leading after them.

"What the fuck?"

Whumpee tripped upon landing, but crawled to back to a standing point. Their hand instinctively patted the dampened bandages, and they grinned at the wonder of painkillers. Simeon? They scoffed. Simeon is dead.

[its-my-whump]

Whumptember 01

1. “Did I do good?

Mentor whumper | Young hero | Blood loss

TW: gore, death, desperation and loss of a bother, very emotional, this could ruin your day.

If you're currantly any kind of distressed, you shouldn't read that! I know I wouldn't want to.

He was pale, shivering. All so tiny trembles running up and down his skinny frame. Cold sweat on his face, strands of his untamed hair spiking in all directions and parts just flat, plastered to his forehead.

Pete was holding him in a brotherly embrace from behind, feeling every shiver himself. His grip was tight, but the scrawny kid was slipping anyway by his own muscles losing more and more tension. One hand was holding his left, but the returning squeeze had stopped. It was just laying in Pete's palm.

Pete's other hand was pressing down on Danny's left flank, trying to stop the unruly amount of red leaving him. It was in vain. His whole left side was covered in dark red from shoulder to thigh. Pete's palm was sticky, warm gore oozing through his fingers.

His own face was wet, but he didn't care for the tears he was shedding. His brother, his best friend was not gonna walk away from this one, he just knew. He could feel, that this was the end of the line, the inevitable moment to say goodbye or be silent forever.

Danny swallowed strained, his back was pressed against Pete's broad chest. He had tried to open his mouth and say something, but the words kept stuck on his dry tongue. "Di..did I do good?" An all so tiny smirk, in that dumb question. A slight expression in his face. Pete could only feel it, by the sensation his brothers moving facial muscles had against his own biceps. He tightend his embrace, blinked a few times to push the salty water out of his eyes.

"Yeah man, you did." Pete lowered his head a naunce more, pressing his cheek a bit more into his little brothers tuft.

He swallowed against the lumb in his throat, again. It was in vain, again. An icicle was twisting in his guts. "Danny?" His voice was muted by his brothers hair.

"Mhm?" The purring in Danny's throat was his answer. He had no strength to part his lips.

"It's been an honour." Pete pushed down the bonebreaking sob, that was threaten to overwhelm him. "I love you, brother!"

The weak appearance craddled in his arms, just shivered. The limp hand laying on the floor to his right, moved. It was hard to watch, even harder to feel the strain of his brother's attempt to scrap together his last resources. But he wouldn't take that away from him.

The feeling of Danny's cold, ghostly fingers grabbing his left wrist, let Pete almost crumble. Danny's other hand, still laying in Pete's left, twitched a tiny bit.

His Adam's apple moved. His jaw worked, Danny was summoning everything he had left to speak. A tiny raw sound. He tried to clear his throat. His cold fingers nestled themselves tighter around Pete's wrist. Now, the left limp hand started to squeeze too.

"Lo-oove you mo-ore, brother!" A last soft squeeze of weak long fingers on Pete's warm skin. He could feel the smile in his brothers face against his arm, always overturning him and having the last word. He pressed his cheek more into Danny's head, a slight smile on his own lips. But he was feeling the kid's neck muscles relax and the heavy head of him tip to the side. Again, Pete tightend the grip on his body. The squeeze around his own wrist and to his other hand just vanished, fingers went lifeless and the arm slipped away. Pete was still holding on to his little brother and squeezed his unresponsive left hand.

Horrified, he watched how the ghostly pale right limb made its way down to his brothers lap, until the cruel forces of gravity let it fall back to the ground.

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