#slave whump

[mj-iza-writer]

I don't want to talk about how long this sat in my drafts waiting for me to figure out the ending 🤦- Mj

Whumpee adjusted how they were lying on their pedestal. They were bored to death for this last-minute dinner party Whumper planned. They hid a small yawn, not wanting to seem too bored.

"I saw that", Whumper stepped up, and handed them a plate of goodies, "a few more hours and you can be done."

Whumpee sat up and eagerly took the food, "thankyou master."

Whumpee watched as Whumper talked with their guest. The food they had just received made it worth being their master's eye candy for the guest.

Whumpee was considered a Chattel slave, Whumper had purchased them from the black market. A chattel slave was pretty much considered someone's property, no different than livestock or the couch in the corner.

Whumper used Whumpee as an ornament, an object of their money. The guest often marveled at just how beautiful Whumpee was. Whumpee had been conditioned by their traffickers for this type of work.

Whumper never laid a punishing hand on them, they didn't have to. That hell was all done by the traffickers. Whumper could just enjoy their doll... or honestly, their puppet.

Whumpee was often dressed in the most expensive, often revealing outfits Whumper could find. Whumpee looked down at the lacy skin tight outfit they had on. They had lacy wraps around their wrist to match, but to also hide the rope burns from last night's fun in the master's bed. Lastly, they looked down at the sparkly shackle on their ankle, that was followed by a sparkly chain cemented into their pedestal.

A lady came up and started to ask Whumpee questions about themself and Whumper.

Whumpee stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the woman. They wished she'd go away though so they could eat more.

"Look at me, and talk to me, you useless...", the woman comanded, "how rude", they took their wine glass and threw the drink at Whumpee.

Whumpee gasped as the dark wine spilled over them.

Whumper came running, two butlers followed.

"What the heck is going on", Whumper looked at the wine covered Whumpee, then the woman.

"They wouldn't answer me. It's just like you to have a rude servant", the lady answered.

"She came up and started asking me questions about you, and about me master", Whumpee also answered while awkwardly holding out their arms do to the wine dripping from them, "I didn't acknowledge her, and she threw wine at me."

Whumper's anger flared at the lady, "they are not supposed to talk to people. They are furniture to look at. They were doing exactly as they were trained", Whumper spoke through gritted teeth, "the only way they can talk to someone is if they have my permission to talk to them."

"So you purposely made them rude", the lady looked up at Whumpee, who now was looking right at them.

"No that is how they were trained, and who are you to think you have a right to talk to my property", Whumper argued, "I literally started this party explaining how to interact with Whumpee, and if you wanted to talk to them to ask me, I would have happily introduced you. Everyone else has followed that rule, and that is much appreciated by me and Whumpee. Whumpee enjoys talking to people under the correct circumstances."

"I'm sure they would appreciate being able to talk to whomever they want", the lady fired back.

"And they would want to talk to you because?", Whumper asked sarcastically.

Whumpee grinned a little, hiding a laugh.

"Well I've never", the lady gasped.

"Well, it's about time someone talks to you like that", Whumper frowned, "your invitation to my parties is being revoked, my butler will escort you out.

When the lady was gone, Whumper turned to Whumpee.

"I guess that outfit is done. There is no coming back from that grape wine", Whumper stepped up, and unlocked the shackle, "I'm relieving you for tonight, go get cleaned up and relax in my room", Whumper caressed Whumpee's face.

Whumpee leaned their face into Whumper's gentle hand.

Whumper looked up at a butler, "Whumpee didn't get to eat much thanks to the lady, have chef cook them something."

"Yes sir", the butler bowed.

Whumper gave a hand to Whumpee to step down from the pedestal. They watched Whumpee as they left the party.

"I'm sorry for the disturbance in our party. Please continue to enjoy yourself", Whumper looked around, "I do apologize. Whumpee won't be joining us for the rest of it though."

The crowd had watched Whumpee leave, they all seemed sorry to see them go.

Later that night, Whumper went into their bedroom. They smiled when they saw Whumpee resting on the bed reading a book.

"Master", Whumpee closed the book and sat up, "how was the rest of the party."

"You have no idea how many people asked about you once you left", Whumper walked to them, "all so concerned about you", they started to get undressed.

Whumper caressed Whumpee's face lovingly.

"I'm going to shower, then we can go to bed", Whumper grinned.

Whumpee leaned into the touch.

"Are you tired, my dear?", Whumper smiled.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry about the wine spill", Whumpee frowned.

"That wasn't your fault. You were doing what you were supposed to do", Whumper turned toward the bathroom, "it only means I need to find you a copy of that outfit. You looked stunning in it."

"Thankyou master", Whumpee smiled weakly.

That night, Whumpee was cuddled into Whumper's arms.

They moved up and down with every snore Whumper made.

Whumpee blinked away a tear.

"I wish I was free", Whumpee whispered before forcing themself to go to sleep.

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 @expressionless-fr @theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

[cupcakes-and-pain]

Charles & Ollie: Past

Hey guys. Um. It’s been a while since I’ve written. Sorry. Anyway! I really love this piece. It’s also much longer than most chapters I write, I’m pretty sure. Almost 2.8k words. So that’s fun.

Enjoy!

CW: pet whump, slave whump, refusing to use someone’s name, insults, perceived abandonment (technically not real), fear of punishment, self hatred, unreliable narrator, drug trafficking, drugging mention, police, starvation, escape/running away, homelessness, fear of death

Masterlist

— — —

It had been a normal day.

Wake up, make breakfast for Master, kneel quietly, and hope that he did well. Hope that he wouldn't have to spend the next few days tied up, bleeding, and starving in the basement. It was always his fault for being so stupid and deserving to be punished, but he could hope. Not want, of course, that'd never be allowed. But he could secretly wish and dream for a time when Master was forgiving.

Luckily, Master didn't find anything wrong with his pet's behavior that morning, so he set out. But not before giving his slave a strong kick to the ribs to keep him in his place. Pet preferred the kicks, the other choice for a daily reminder was a slap. Pet hated the hand marks. They made his already hideous face look even more ugly.

Pet set about his chores, washing the dishes and wiping the counter. He caught his blurred reflection in the polished granite. His collar was tight around his neck, the little tag hanging from it jingling.

He touched it gently, longing to hear his Master say the name written on it, just once. He knew that he needed the reminders because he was so stupid and useless. He'd forget his place if he wasn't called names all day. "Slave. Pet. Stupid. Ugly. Mutt. Useless. Fleabag. Bitch. Dog." On and on, all the cruelest things Master and his friends could think of, perfectly suiting for the crushed and bleeding thing that so often laid at their feet.

But Pet longed to hear his name, his real name, so badly. It had been so long, he knew it was bad, he knew he was selfish and worthless and dumb. But... no one would know, right? If he said it, just this once? Such a tiny word, only two syllables.

"Ol-"

The door flung open, and Pet jumped back, arms above his head. It was like the ground crumbled beneath his feet, and his stomach dropped. He fell to the floor, curled up, trying desperately to protect his most vital organs from attack. Had Master been waiting for this? He knew that his slave would mess up, didn't he? And he was just waiting to beat the living daylights out of the useless, worthless, disgusting piece of flesh that he owned.

"Hey, no, stupid dog. Come here." Master hauled him up off his feet and dragged him towards the basement. Pet whimpered but was in awe that Master was able to hold his fury in until they got to the basement. Usually, he'd just beat Pet wherever he was and make him clean up the blood from the floor and carpeting later.

"M-master, please, I-"

"Shush. You know what, hide! I'll be back in a few days. Some guys might come through, maybe a cop or two. Listen to me, you pathetic excuse for a dog." Master grabbed Pet's face roughly, fingernails digging into his cheeks. He was forcing Pet to look into his eyes, something that was rarely allowed. But it must be okay this time if Master was the one causing it.

"You have to understand.” Master said, “Do. Not. Come. Out. For. Anyone. However you need to do it, just get it through your thick skull. Don't stop hiding until I come back and say it's okay to leave, okay?" Master half-heartedly threw him to the floor, his slave more confused than he had ever been or probably ever would be. With one last disapproving glare, Master left.

Pet never saw him again.

- - -

It was true, he soon learned, that many people would be coming through the house. Pet feared he would feel lonely and bored while waiting, but there was a lot to keep his thoughts occupied and off of... other things.

First, cops searched the entire building. Pet heard them and dashed to a tiny closet in the basement, wedging a piece of wood in the handle on his side of the door. The police tried and failed to get in and even discussed cutting it open with an ax. Pet trembled, sweat dripping off his forehead while he tried to stop himself from hyperventilating.

Eventually, though, one of them protested, not wanting to do more work when they already had evidence. And so they left, making the house silent and (somewhat) stress-free once more.

Other people came and went too, talking and cursing. Most of them Pet recognized as the voices of Master's friends. He knew better than to listen to people's conversations, but they all kept mentioning drugs and pills, the type that had once been used on Pet. He remembered the experience, although things were still a little fuzzy.

It made his head hurt for days afterward, but at the moment, everything had felt so nice and peaceful for a few minutes before the blackout. When he woke up, he was covered in bruises and cuts, but it had still taken a few minutes for the relaxation to wear off and the pain to settle in.

Master had gotten very upset that his friends wasted the pills on a pet, after "everything he went through to get them." Despite already being beaten just an hour ago, Pet was punished severely for taking the pills. He had wanted to protest that the men had made him, but he knew better. The men were superior to him. They couldn't be faulted for it. So the blame must lie with Pet. It must. Master was never wrong.

In the present day, after many days of hunger and freezing nights down in the basement, Pet felt like he couldn't go on like this. No one had visited in a while. He knew what he was thinking about was bad. He knew that if Master found out what he was about to do, he'd be furious. He made it absolutely clear that his pet was not to leave the basement.

And yet, Pet finds himself sneaking up to the kitchen. He filled two bags with dog food and then, with some careful consideration, took three apples. Master never liked fruit but would still buy it; Pet was never quite sure of the reasoning behind that. And Pet had already been so bad, a few apples that would've rotted away even if Master had been there was nothing.

Pet then made his way to the living room and took several blankets and pillows. Then, noticing the mail had been delivered, he also took the newest copy of Pet Paper. Most of the articles either were boring or scared him, but they usually had fun pictures and a few games.

Carrying all of his loot and feeling surprisingly okay for a disobedient mutt who may have been abandoned, Pet made a little camp for himself in the basement. He decided to put the pillows and blankets in the closet where he had previously hidden from cops. The tiny space felt almost like his cage upstairs and he knew now that it was suitable for hiding.

Then he sat on the floor, grabbed a handful of dog food to munch on, and started reading.

Several more days passed before Pet started to get incredibly worried. He had heard the garbage truck pass by this morning. That was the second time since he had last seen Master. More than two weeks had gone by and still, no sign of where he had gone. What was previously just another anxious thought had transformed itself into a legitimate concern. Had Pet been abandoned?

Of course, it didn't make any sense. Why would Master leave everything just to get away from his pet?

But he couldn't deny that something was wrong. Even Master's friends had stopped visiting too. He didn't get it. Of course, he was so stupid, he could never understand why humans do the things they do. But he just couldn't think of any other explanation. So Master must've abandoned him.

Pet waited another week before finally deciding to leave. The dog food was running out, even after he had made several more disobedient trips upstairs. And if Pet had been thrown away, shouldn't he get out of his Master's house? Maybe Master was waiting until he left to come back to the house. Pet was probably being bad for staying there for so long. He was so selfish, not wanting to leave the comfort of the building for the scary outside world.

But he had to now. At least there would be food outside. And also cruel people, the cold, sickness, and probably death. But a bad pet like him deserved all of that, surely. He was such a rotten animal.

Pet's first steps outside were cautious and weak. He nearly stumbled from the sheer shock of it all.

He had done it. Ollie had done it. He couldn't believe this... this... this whole new world.

but it wasn't new, not really. It wasn't new at all. He just hadn't been here in a very long time, if ever.

He felt like he had stepped into a fantasy world after only hearing of it in fairytales. The outside world, the land beyond the kitchen window, was never allowed to him before. It might as well be something that only existed in legend.

- - -

Ollie sat huddled under the bridge, violently shivering. He hadn't eaten in two, maybe three days? He didn't know.

He was cold, wet, tired, and starving. He deserved all of it for leaving his Master's house. He should've accepted his fate and died there.

He was horrible.

- - -

Earlier in the day, Ollie had run away from some police. It was only because he was so small and capable of hiding that he got away. His muscles were very weak as of late, so he could've been easily caught. He'll have to be more careful next time.

But now, because of all the distance he had worked hard to put between him and the officers, Ollie had found himself in an entirely new area.

It was late at night, so restaurants had probably thrown out their leftovers already. If only he could find a place and dumpster dive for spare food.

As he wandered, he spied yet another cop. He was so frightened that he ran into the first available hiding place he saw: a bright, bustling building. He hadn't been thinking. He was so stupid. He dashed in and joined the crowds, trying to hide himself in the large group.

When someone first noticed him, in his dirty, smelly, roughed-up state with no shoes, she shrieked and backed up so fast she bumped into a man, who fell on a waiter, who spilled two glasses of wine they had been carrying.

Soon enough, everyone was in a great commotion, trying to get away from Ollie and call security.

The pet began to cry, overwhelmed and tired and hungry and not at all wanting to deal with this. He was sorry, he was, and he would do whatever they wanted to make up for it. Just please don't hand him over to the police. Please. He didn't know what they'd do to him, and he wasn't eager to find out.

The guards approached Ollie and he fled, going deeper into the crowd, until he tripped over his own feet and fell. He curled up and lay trembling on the floor, sobbing and so terrified.

He heard a bunch of people shuffle and he looked up to see the crowd part as a man walked through, headed straight for Ollie. This man didn't look like a security guard but rather was dressed in an expensive suit and had a stern, irritated expression.

When the man saw Ollie, however, his expression changed a bit. Ollie didn't know how to describe it, having never been looked at with such a visage. But it seemed less upset than the previous one, so that might be a plus? Maybe? Maybe this man won't kick Ollie as hard as he could, or won't insult him while throwing him out.

The man looked around.

"Whose pet is this?"

Of course, no one stepped forward. The man looked back at Ollie and asked if his owner was here. He shook his head.

"Are you lost?'

"Um, yeah... I-... I was abandoned, sir."

"Oh. I am very sorry to hear that. So you need a place to stay, then?"

Another nod. The man bent slightly and extended a hand. Ollie flinched away, bracing for a slap, but none came. He looked back and the hand was still there, just resting in the air. Ollie hesitated, but the man nodded encouragingly, and so Ollie took his hand and got helped up.

He whimpered as pressure was put on his ankle, then froze. He was bad.

His ankle must've been injured when he tripped, which was his fault, he shouldn't have run. And now he had the audacity to whimper?? He was so, so bad. This man would realize what a pathetic mutt he was and hurt him for it.

Glancing up fearfully, he saw that the man was indeed frowning. Ollie shrank back, hand slipping out of the man's grasp. He started shaking even harder.

"Oh dear, easy, it's alright," the man soothed. "I didn't mean to further injure your ankle by forcing you to stand. I will call a doctor for you immediately."

Did he think Ollie was upset because his ankle hurt? But.. why? Sure, the pain was intense now that he was trying to stand, but it was nothing compared to what he's been through.

"There's no need to be so concerned, sir. I'm alright. I can take it and more. I can take whatever you want me to."

The man frowned again and Ollie nearly cried.

"No, no, don't be ridiculous. I have no reason to harm you. You've done nothing wrong, dear. I don't want you to be unnecessarily hurt."

The man hesitated, then spoke again.

"That's not how I want one of my workers to be treated."

...

...what?

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I do not wish for you to be harmed, regardless of your status, but especially if you agree to work for me. You don't have a home or... employer, do you?"

"No, sir, I don't have either of those. But really, you don't have to, I'll only be a bother and a burden-"

"Nonsense. I have heard of how they train you guys. I'm sure you are wonderful. And besides, I am forgiving, I promise."

Ollie couldn't help but notice some of the crowd looked doubtful at that, which was very concerning. But at the same time, the man did not possess the same cruel glint in his eyes, the expression of deceit, the glee in waiting until the perfect moment to strike.

Of course, the man could just be better at hiding those things, or Ollie was dumber than he thought.

But what other choice did he have?

This person was offering him a lifeline, a chance at a new home and a new life. Ollie would die if he continued to be homeless. Maybe not right away, but he'd eventually catch an illness or upset someone or get caught, and then it'd be all over.

He didn't want to die.

"Okay. Of course, sir, I'd be happy to be your slave."

The man just nodded tight, and the pet was certain that he had already messed up.

But still, the man didn't do anything to him. Instead, he addressed the crowd.

"Apologies for the interruption," He announced, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I have urgent business to attend to with my worker, so I must leave. Enjoy the showing, it will continue until 10:30 PM as planned. My accountant will be handling any further purchases. Good night."

Then, looking back at his new slave again, Master spoke much softer.

"What is your name, dear?"

Oh god. Oh no. He knew what he was supposed to say, he knew he had to be good. He should tell the man that he can call him anything, even horrible insults, and the slave would readily accept it. He had to show his new owner that he could be good. But the man had asked. Please. The pet wanted to be allowed his name, his real name.

"Ollie, sir. My name is Ollie."

The man nodded, not seeming angry at the slave's terrible presumption that he could demand a free person use a particular name for him.

"I am Charles Durand, please to meet you, Ollie. Come with me. I'll help you to a couch to rest until the doctor arrives."

Given no other option, Ollie followed him, allowed to dangerously lean on his arm as he hobbled along.

Hopefully, this man wouldn't be too cruel to him.

— — —

Tag list: @whumpzone @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpsweetwhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @apples-and-whump @professional-idiocy @nicolepascaline @cowboy-anon @wolfeyedwitch @kim-poce @guachipongo @badluck990 @secretwhumplair @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @morelikepainsley @catawhumpus @starfields08000 @mylovelyme

[the-baby-storyteller]

caretaker-new-master who just realized whumpee has been screaming internally this whole time.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee, who was a slave/pet of Whumper, gets rescued by Caretaker, and after a long recovery, grew close with Caretaker.

Then Whumper struck again, trying to go after Whumpee, but Caretaker was kidnapped instead, and Whumper was now holding them captive.

Despite their trepidation and their trauma, Whumpee braved on to Whumper in order to free Caretaker. It was Whumpee's turn to save Caretaker now.

[whump-blog]

Whump Art 8

Whumpee in a dog carrier.

This drawing belongs to the second chapter of the story I'm writing, where Nicky, a box boy is waiting for his new owner to pick him up. If you are interested in reading the story from the beginning here is the first chapter.

[ronanziriano]

The Resentful Lady by formant

Find him on: Pixiv / ArtUntamed / Subscribestar / Fanbox

[whumped-by-glitter]

The Morning Dasa's Life Began to Change

CW: institutionalized slavery, captivity, bondage

here is a very whumpy excerpt from chapter 2, it takes place the morning of Annika's birthday. I am working on edits still, so aspects may change slightly by the time I post the entire chapter.

word count: 2,066

The slave, who was only called dog, stood spread eagle in his master’s front yard, his arms and legs held taut, and outstretched between two pillars, bound by a force pulling at the bands on his wrists and ankles. two bars were slid through brackets, on both pillars, one at his throat, one at the back of his neck to deter any forward or backward slumping. His well-defined muscles were far past the point of screaming from lack of movement, His black, medium length hair was matted with days of sweat and grime. He'd lost count of how long he’d been out there, 3 days maybe? His master would show up three times a day to beat him and force him to eat. He was never starved for punishment, like the other slaves, because he was being trained to resist, properly identify, and neutralize poisons. Missing meals would mean missing doses, which could screw up any resistance he’d built up, which had taken almost 20 years to establish. He was only being held here, this time because a younger slave, referred to as boy, was stealing food. Dog had taken the blame, to protect the starving kid, who was banned from food because their master’s lazy son Balor was not pleased with how long it had taken Boy to buy more snacks.

The sun began to rise, and the people of the Fief had begun to move about. Some of the passers- by would look at him with pity. Others would poke fun at his predicament, or giggle. Some of the Arcturian children would throw stones or mud, from the gutters, at him. Dog was insensible and numb to all of this by now. For the Drar, such treatment was commonplace. He was an enslaved people.  The position Dog now found himself in was his master, Corvius’s, favorite punishment for him.

The Drar were a race that had incredible physical strength, and heightened senses, like wild animals. They were actually the only race of Balthia that did not possess any magic, in fact they were more sensitive to it being used on them, but their senses and strength more than made up for it. Even their eyes looked animalistic, amber yellow with slit pupils. They also boasted incredibly fast healing, however, dog unfortunately did not, likely due to the poisons he had to drink every day. Dog was also not as strong as other Drar probably for the same reason. He was stronger than the Istrians and definitely stronger than Arcturians though.

As the sun rose higher dog started to grow concerned. Master Atheris should have been outside by now. Did Corvius forget about him? Did Corvius decide to just leave him out here, and to start fresh, with one of the younger slaves? Doubts whirled through his head, which was bound to happen when he had nothing to do but think. It was like torture, to suddenly change a routine when he was in such a vulnerable position.

Finally, after hours, Boy appeared. Relief spread through Dog, followed immediately by confusion. Then Boy started to slide the bars out of their slots, which confused Dog and caused more than a little bit of panic to arise in him. “Wh-what are you doing?” dog asked, in hushed tones, his voice cracking a little, which betrayed concern for the younger slave.

“don’t worry, I’m on orders to get you cleaned up, I’m not helping you escape” Boy replied. He showed Dog Balor’s ring. Boy gave a wry smile when Dog sighed in relief. Boy released Dog's ankles. Then he released Dog’s wrists, first his right, causing dog’s body to slump back, onto Boy’s waiting shoulders. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Boy asked, “you would almost never be punished, if you weren’t constantly defending the rest of us” he said, releasing his other wrist, causing dog’s entire body to crumple and boy had to help him to the ground so he could recover for a moment. It was a relief to allow blood to start flowing back to his arms.

Dog shrugged in response “because, I know how much these suck, and it hurts me a lot worse than the actual treatment ever could to see someone else go through it.” He replied pensively, revealing what might be his biggest weakness, “besides, someone’s gotta look out for all of you. now shhh, you know we aren’t supposed to talk to each other”, talking, between slaves, was strongly discouraged not just by Corvius, but across the board.

Boy gave another wry smile as dog flexed, trying to restore blood flow to his stiff limbs, his muscles aching from prolonged disuse. Boy doubted their master had even realized how fitting the name “Dog” was. Dog was loyal to a fault, almost to the point of being stupid. As the oldest slave in the household, he always took it upon himself to look out for everyone else and protect them from Corvius and his lazy son Balor. The other slaves would sometimes jokingly call him Maso, short for masochist.

Once dog could at least stand, boy half dragged him into the bathhouse, to begin getting him cleaned up. Dog was dreading the cold water, when he realized it was warm. He had never once had a warm or even lukewarm bath. He closed his eyes and melted into it. It felt amazing on his still stiffened and somewhat atrophied muscles. Boy had to help him with his hair, as he still could barely lift his arms. To Dog’s surprise, Boy used real shampoo. This really started to concern dog, as normally, on the rare occasions they were allowed to bathe, it was cold water and only a bar of soap.

After he was cleaned up, Boy handed him a towel and brought in some clean clothes. He then carefully bandaged his still bleeding and thoroughly battered body. When dog started to dress, his concern grew, ‘what was going on?’ he thought. The fabric was soft and clean. The garments were new and had no holes at all. It was a simple black tunic and breeches, with red edging. Dog dressed quickly, not wanting to dawdle too long and get Boy in trouble.

A few minutes later Corvius waltzed in, followed by his portly son, who came waddling in after his father. Dog immediately knelt and bowed his head to the floor, a gesture of humble submission and obedience. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite lawn ornament” the old man sneered.

“And snack retriever!” Balor added dumbly, trying, and failing dismally, to parrot Corvius’s sneer.

Corvius walked around dog, assessing him, “that’ll have to do” he muttered before wrapping a blindfold over Dog’s eyes. Corvius was strictly averse to his slaves making eye contact, even by accident, with any free person.  It wasn’t uncommon for him to just blindfold them, when they were going to be around nobles. In fact, he had trained them, for a couple hours each evening, to function and even serve as usual, while blindfolded. It wasn’t unusual for slaves to wear lace coverings over their eyes, as the nobles found the Drar’s yellow, slit pupiled eyes, quite unsettling, however, Corvius took it to an extreme. “Get up, come with me dog” he ordered sharply, and dog rose, as gracefully as he could and followed obediently, sensing Boy’s eyes watching him intently, as he left the room.

He followed Corvius’s menacing tapping, as he’d put metal plates on the bottoms of his shoes to make himself more imposing. Dog wouldn’t need them to follow his master though, as the Drar have extremely good senses and their sense of smell is was keener than most wild animals. The same was true with hearing and sight, and Dog’s were even more developed from years of training. He could operate the same way, blindfolded or not.

The three of them got into a carriage. Once inside, dog took a spot on the floor, as he was not allowed to sit on the seats, as they were reserved for free persons. to Dog’s shock and surprise, Corvius, whose presence he could detect by scent alone, began to remove his bands one by one. The surprise must have registered on Dog's face, which was another taboo for slaves, because he received a painful prod from Balor with his ring, who sniggered wickedly. Dog dropped his face and resumed his usual void, neutral expression, once more. He fingered the skin around his neck, bands were put on the Drar from birth, so it always felt foreign not having one. ‘It isn’t time for resizing my bands, what is going on?’ He wished Master would tell him.

Then, one by one, they were replaced. However, these bands smelled different. They were of a different metal, gold. He began piecing together, bit by bit, what was going on at that point. Gold bands were strictly for slaves belonging to Royalty.

“hand” Corvius ordered coldly.

Dog obeyed and held out his hand, readying himself for the finger stick. It always made him jump a little for some reason, and attuning the stones was a little painful.

Corvius stabbed his finger hard with a needle. He then roughly squeezed out a drop of blood and pressed it to one ring until Dog let out a hiss, then repeated the process for a second ring.

These bands controlled the Drar’s whole lives. They were linked magically to a ring or rings their owners wore. The rings were simple with a small red stone on it. The stone was linked directly to a specific slave. The bands would cause immense pain if the slave even thought about disobeying, same with touching their own ring, and being too far away from their master. Any ring, the same status or higher could make the bands bind or unbind. This was to protect against rebellion. So, anyone with a gold ring had pseudo control over any slave. The Nobles, with their silver rings, had some command over silver and brass banded slaves. The commoners, with brass rings, only had control over brass banded slaves.

Although the bands only forced them to obey their master, they were still expected to obey everyone or face punishment. The only exception to this being if a command from someone else interfered with their master’s orders. It was a tough line to walk. Dog especially felt bad for brass bands, sometimes poorer communities would share slaves, to do work in the fields. The thought of having maybe a dozen owners made him shiver. However, he had often heard that they weren’t treated as badly, so maybe it wasn’t as awful. Dog had been a silver band. Silver and gold had to be always on point and were often used for entertainment, which often exposed them to more wanton cruelty. He himself had been used in a number of blood sports, which were referred to as “games”.

When the carriage stopped, Dog was ordered to exit. Before leaving, he was stopped by Balor, who placed gold irons on his wrists connected, behind his back, by a chain just long enough for him to reach about 6 inches in front of him, the same was done with his upper arms, but this chain was shorter, which kept his Upper arms at his sides. The two sets were connected vertically to prevent him from stepping over the chains and bringing his arms to the front, not that he would attempt it anyway. Dog was obedient to a self destructive degree.

Dog was led into what seemed to be a ballroom, based on the number of people and the amount of echoing that reverberated off the chamber’s walls. “Kneel, dog” Corvius growled, as he positioned him near the back of the room so that Corvius could go mingle with the rest of the nobility and elites. Dog obeyed, and gracefully took his place. He remained so still, that several women thought he was a manikin at first. That was another pet peeve of Corvius’s, excess fidgeting and swaying, even Dog's breathing had to be measured.

The sounds in the room suddenly changed, some kind of ceremony was beginning. Dasa’s chest tightened, he still didn’t fully understand what was going on and desperately hoped he wasn’t about to be entered in game, his body was still too stiff and sore.

taglist: @whumperofworlds, @3-2-whump, @wounds-seen-and-unseen, @aryox

Masterlist

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 9–Special Sauce (Part 1)

Full list of general conent warnings here.

No additonal chapter CWs for once! This is the lighter part in The Aid’s (Whumpee) POV. This is about as ‘nice’ Wyatt gets!

Aid’s abilities: EMPATHIC READING | ‘premonition/intuition’

Word count: 1,220

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Wyatt disappeared into The Aid’s adjoined walk-in closet—this door, too, was ripped off its hinges. Doors represented privacy and privacy alone, and that was a thing reserved only for free people. 

But the lack of a physical barrier didn’t mean there wasn’t one at all—The Aid’s prison bars were invisible, his freedom nothing more than a taunting illusion. 

A state-of-the-art satellite GPS device preinstalled with geofencing software was connected to The Aid’s RFID implants. Every square inch of the house and surrounding property was uploaded to the device’s database and accounted for, his every movement tracked and documented. The device pinged and lit up with an alert if he crossed a room’s perimeter without prior authorization. He couldn’t go to the bathroom or have a mental breakdown in the comfort of his closet—muffling his sobs in cashmere sweaters and Himalayan wool— without Wyatt knowing about it. 

Wyatt shuffled around some hangers, stomped into the connected bedroom, and slammed around some drawers with the usual amount of curses and huffing, then reappeared with an armful of The Aid’s clothes. 

“I ain’t putting ya’r fucking chonies on for ya. I don’t care how to beat to hell ya are.” Wyatt handed him a clean pair of boxers, sat the rest of the garments on the counter, and then rummaged through the first aid caddy. The Aid—more than happy to oblige—as quickly as his broken body would allow, slid on his underwear beneath the safety of the towel covering his lower body. 

He was running out of gas, and quick. The long-awaited suppression of feelings warmed him in what little way it could. The Klonopin was behind schedule this morning, but it finally arrived at the station—all aboard the Numb Dumb Express, destination: Apathy.

He kept his head down, staring only at the plaid squares decorating his boxers while Wyatt started re-bandaging his wounds. He couldn’t risk another mirror encounter with his demonic parasite or bring himself to look at Wyatt’s dumb face any longer, hence his sudden fixation on such a worn pattern. His eyes ran the length of the geometric lines and he debated color theory—his way of fighting off the swarm of monotonous fears. ‘Why were men’s undergarments always so drab and boring? Did the fashion industry think shades of earth tones defined masculinity?’ 

The Aid’s wavering focus floated upright, he dared to break the silence with a question. “Sir, do you miss Madame Eleanor?” 

Wyatt stopped mid-peel of the gauze pad wrapper and blew a harsh puff through his nose. His head swiveled to face his servant to exchange a long, unbroken stare. Wyatt’s lip twitched as his eyes swam with sorrowfully churned emotions. He turned back to the spread of medical supplies on the counter, plucking the gauze pad between the two strips of wrapper, and sighed.

“She was my mom, Pup,” he said quietly. Not a growl. Not a hiss. Not a grumble. Just a plain voice with a twinge of reminiscent sadness. The Aid didn’t often see Wyatt like this, vulnerable and showing him something other than his infamous brand of wrath or obscene mockery. 

The Aid felt sadness, too, a deep, grieving sadness. He would never admit it out loud, and certainly never to Wyatt, but the empty void left in his heart from his Madame’s passing oftentimes surpassed the grief of losing his own flesh and blood. Maybe it was recency bias. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at him and a need for redemption instead of plain grieving heartache eclipsing his mourning when it came to the fatal accident costing the lives of his Dad and older sister. Maybe—probably, it was a combination of both. 

What was supposed only to be a thought slipped from his mouth, “You never talk about her...”

Wyatt side-eyed him. His eyebrows scrunched together as the unmistakable flush of irritation needled his features.

Time to course correct. “I miss her too—”

“Why?” Wyatt snapped. Distress marinated beneath the word, piping hot and steamy.  

“I served her for five years—”

“If she died after a year of ya knowing her, would ya grieve her just the same as ya are now?” Wyatt interrupted, turning back around, cold eyes beaming onto his.

The Aid gulped, his face pinched with concern. 

“Yes, Sir,” he said in a feigned confidence he hoped didn’t sound as disingenuous as it felt.

“Ya’ve served me for over a year at this point. Would ya grieve my death?” Wyatt’s voice sharpened to bitter resentment, knowing his servant hated him and preferred his dead mother over him—he had plenty of scars and bite marks to prove The Aid’s detestation towards him just as well. 

Whoomp, there it is. And he walked right into it. Fuck. 

“In my own way, Sir,” The Aid conjured up on the spot. Not a horrible save; hopefully Wyatt would accept it.

A few agonizing beats passed before his Master’s mouth slanted up into a smirk. Thanks to his winning reply, it looked like he got away Scot-free.

With that, Wyatt held out an open palm and threw a nod at The Aid’s mangled hand—a signal to quite literally hand himself over to him. The Aid complied, dutiful as ever, carefully placing his upturned wrist onto Wyatt’s expectant one. He couldn’t shake the tingles running up his spine accompanying the gesture. Every complaisant movement felt like another shred of agency was peeled off him and devoured by the man in front of him—like he was another step into a never-ending maze as Wyatt watched him fumble in the dark behind a double-sided mirror.

Wyatt surveyed The Aid’s wound stitching on the side of his wrist—much like The Aid did only an hour earlier—before the older man ran his index finger down the scar on The Aid’s palm. Wyatt knew this scar was different; this one meant something. It bound them together in some sick way. A mark illustrating Wyatt laying claim to what was rightfully his and his alone. A memory shared.

A wave of nausea rippled in The Aid’s stomach. 

POSSESSION

A sickeningly warm sensation burrowed under his skin, the thing fevers and cold sweats are made of. His mind muddied around the edges, the vibrancy of his internal and external thoughts colored over in a greenish tint. He was too weak to throw up his mental guard rails or to cut the link between him and Wyatt’s emanating emotion. Imprints of emotions he never felt himself firsthand were the ones hardest to shake. Part of him became intrigued, drawn in to the foreignness of it. But most of him—the rational, seasoned parts of him—knew better than to lose himself in the prickly throes of it. 

“Ya wouldn’t forget me, would ya?” Wyatt flashed a half-suppressed smile, a viper’s grin.

The Aid warred against the shiver fizzing under his skin from Wyatt’s gliding caress and the emotional baggage that stowed away with it, just as much as he fought to hold in a shuttering sigh.

“Never, Sir,” The Aid’s reply came breathless. It was the inescapable truth. He could never completely shut out the terrors swarming his mind or scratch out the face of the man who caused it all. 

‘There’s a forecast of yuck moving in’

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Taglist (first 5 here then the rest in comments because they aren’t tagging right): @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever

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

[clickerflight]

Whump week: Nobody needs to know

@week-of-whump

Master list

Part 2

I watched Joseph: King of dreams when I was younger, and I have never been the same about scrubbing floors since.

Content: Child whumpee, demon caretaker, whumpee thinks he's still a slave, blisters and hand sores, lost in a delusion born out of fear, recovery whump

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

Souka woke in the dark. He was warm and comfortable. For a long moment he didn’t know why he had woken up, but a creeping strangeness pacing at the back of his mind kept him from going back to sleep. 

Why was he so comfortable? Whatever he was laying on was so soft, nothing like the floors or hay stuffed sacks he was used to sleeping on. He wasn’t allowed on anything this nice. He was just a slave. He knew that. 

He looked around the room, his chest tightening to see if he had been caught. He slowly peeled the blankets off and got off the bed as quietly as he could, his heart thumping. He wasn’t allowed to be on something so nice. He knew he wasn’t. 

He laid down in the corner, shivering as his sleep warmed body was now faced with the exposed air. He hoped daylight would come soon. As he laid there on the floor he kept thinking someone would come in and see what he had done. They’d beat him for hours, surely, to remind him of his place. 

He got up and quickly made the bed, pinching the blankets to try not to leave any dirt on them. He knew how dirty he usually was. Still, he was probably leaving signs of what he had done as he went. Now they would know he was trying to hide that he had been in the bed. 

Tears streamed silently down his face as he went back to laying on the floor, shivering as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. 

He needed to do something. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep and he couldn’t wait for morning. Sometimes he got praise for working through the night, so perhaps if he did so he would be forgiven for sleeping in the bed. 

Souka got up and, in a daze, left the room he was in. The door wasn’t locked. 

He saw no one as he found a floor covered in some form of tile. He didn’t quite know how, but he soon had a wet rag in hand, a bucket of water by his side, and he scrubbed the floor like his life depended on it. With his luck, it might. 

He wished he could remember where Ichimaru was, but everytime he tried to remember, more tears spilled down his face and his already limited night vision would vanish. He pushed all thoughts out of his mind and scrubbed. He ignored his aching knuckles, the sores already forming from the cold water and the mindless scrubbing, and just put all his energy into this one mind numbing task, desperately hoping the pain in his chest and behind his eyes would go away. 

………………………………

Laurance didn’t sleep much since he became a demon. He sat and read through some papers for an upcoming mission. He liked spending his sleepless nights reading the reports and then sharing all of the information he gathered with the others through the bond when it came time. It was a good use of time and the others had a tendency to do things for him as thank you. 

Laurance paused to take a note of something to look up later when he heard something. He froze, ears ringing as he listened carefully. Someone was moving upstairs, something with small lungs and hiccuping breaths. 

He got up quickly, heading upstairs to see what was wrong. He didn’t spot the newest addition to the household at first, but he found that the floor was wet under his bare feet in the kitchen and dining room and finally found the small boy working by the kitchen island, scrubbing hard as hiccupping sobs bubbled out of a permanently damaged throat. 

“Souka?” Laurance asked softly, approaching slowly so as to not scare the boy. 

Souka flinched back, his lips moving and sounds escaping his throat, but there were panicked whispers and rasps soon muffled as he threw his arms over his face to protect himself. 

Laurance hesitated before grabbing another rag and getting onto the floor, dipping his rag in the bucket and scrubbing. 

Souka moved his arms, watching him with a far away gaze before he went back to cleaning the floor like nothing happened.

Laurance sighed softly. Souka was really gone, then, if he thought Laurance was a fellow slave. Still, Laurance would rather pretend to be a slave than have Souka think he was a master. The boy had been through enough as it was. 

It wasn’t until they finished the floor that Souka seemed to shake out of it. Laurance stood up to dump the buckets in the sink, turning around to see Souka staring at him, eyes wide. He looked around, as though waking from a dream. Perhaps he was. 

He looked down at his reddened hands, blisters already popped and even bleeding in places. 

Laurance set the bucket aside and knelt beside him, taking his hands to look. Souka trembled under his touch and Laurance hushed him, running a hand through the boy’s long hair. “You’re safe now, remember?” Laurance asked gently.

Souka nodded, tears welling up in his eyes and Laurance helped him up, setting him on a stool at the island before getting him a cup of water. 

Souka grabbed Laurance’s shirt and Laurance leaned in, putting his ear near Souka’s mouth. His voice was too damaged to speak, but he could still somewhat whisper. “Sorry. You have been ge-generous. I know… I’m safe. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay, Souka,” Laurance said, putting the cup in the boy’s hands. “It’s okay to still be scared. It was all you knew. Drink that water and we’ll bandage your hands.”

“I don’ want her to know,'' Souka managed in a hoarse whisper. “It would m-make her sa-sad.”

Laurance sighed, running a hand through his hair. It would make Anisha sad to know that Souka had been desperately cleaning the floors at who knows what hour. “I won’t tell her. Nobody needs to know. Now, drink the water, and we’ll clean up your hands and I’ll make sure you get to sleep in.”

Souka nodded and lifted the cup to his lips.

Part 4

@whumpsday

[wolfeyedwitch]

Context for AU: Basically my story Charles & Ollie (which can be read here on my blog) but vampires also exist in this world. Takes place roughly 6 months into the story, which is further than it is right now by two months or so.

— — —

Charles Durand was a world-renowned realism painter. Everyone knew that. He had made portraits for some of the most famous and powerful people on Earth. He had connections to many people and businesses, and his family had even more, being rich and somewhat famous in their own right.

So it’s no surprise he receives many gifts.

Whether it’s someone trying to get something from him, an overly enthusiastic fan, a family “friend”, or any other person Charles rather not deal with. Suffice to say, there’s many people which are annoying to Charles who give him annoying gifts.

And after his accidental acquiring of Ollie and his previously private fascination with more dark subject matter in paintings brought to light, the artist suddenly found himself with many, many, many unwanted gifts.

All of this information brings him to today. He went to speak with his secretaries to know if there was anything he had missed regarding his business and affairs, and they let him know we had received a rather large package.

A package labeled “fragile”.

A package that had breathing holes.

A package that he knew without a second guess contained a person.

Honestly, he should’ve been expecting this.

He wanted to open it up right away and let the poor thing out when one of his employees stopped him to inform with exactly what sort of person was in the box. Allegedly, it was a vampire who had been gifted to him.

A vampire that was undoubtably very injured and very hungry.

He did not open the box then and there, as much as it pained him. It would have to wait, for everyone’s safety and happiness.

He got a few of his stronger employees to help him move the box upstairs (and he promised each of them a little extra on their next paycheck, as he knew transporting humongous packages was nowhere in their job descriptions).

They deposited the box in a previously empty, extra room. He set up a bed made of many blankets and pillows stacked in a nest-like formation. He also got together some extra clothes and put them in boxes.

He’d get a proper bed and dresser and clothes soon enough, but they wouldn’t arrive right away, and he wanted to give this poor darling freedom as soon as possible.

CW: female vampire whumpee, non-con surgery, implied gore, starvation, dehumanization, it as a pronoun

---

The vampire would have whimpered in fear as it felt the box move, if it had still had the energy. Every time it thought its existence couldn't get worse, it was proven wrong.

This situation, the newest source of its terror, had been set in motion several weeks before. Its owner had been angry with it about.... something. It wasn't sure any more. It was so hard to think clearly between the starvation and fear. But its owner had been angry, and decided that they no longer wanted to keep it.

But one couldn't just abandon a pet vampire, and they weren't kind enough to kill it. As the owner had mused about what to do with it while idly tracing patterns on its skin with the tip of a silver knife, one of their friends had suggested something.

The owner and friend had apparently gone to an art show recently. The artist had depicted a scene much like what the vampire was then experiencing (blood spilling over pale skin, organs carelessly moved, hands reaching grasping pulling—) but less realistic than their usual work, apparently. The friend suggested that the artist could use a model to work from for their darker art, one that would survive to be used again and again.

The vampire.

Its owner had grinned at that idea, sharp and predatory.

Which led to the vampire being crammed into a box, curled protectively around itself. It was so hungry, its entire being seeming to shrivel in on itself.

A well-fed vampire would heal too fast to be a good model, after all.

Maybe the artist would feed it after they finished a painting? They would have to, right? If they wanted it to heal, to be a fresh canvas for the next artwork?

Or maybe they would just let it continue to starve, to dry up like fruit left in the sun. They could let it go into torpor, the death-like stillness of a starved vampire when there wasn't enough blood left in its undead body to keep it moving. It shivered at the thought. Its existence was hard enough as it was, kept contained in cells and kennels and boxes. How much worse would it be if its own body was a prison?

Well, it wouldn't have to wonder about its fate for too much longer. It was being moved again, and it could hear someone giving orders. That was probably its new owner, the artist.

Its owner would deal with it however they decided. It wasn't its place to wonder, or worry, or think.

Its only purpose was to entertain its betters.

If that came at the cost of its pain? So be it.

---

This was partially inspired by the lovely @ashintheairlikesnow's Vampire Chris AU, specifically the part with Edward Tooley. Cupcake and I were discussing having a playdate with our OCs and I thought about the painting mentioned in this piece, (the gory one that the vampire mentions hearing talked about) and vampires modeling things that would kill normal humans came to mind. One thing led to another, and here we are!

I'm not sure who all to tag for this, so let me know if you'd prefer to not be tagged for crossover pieces!

Taglist:

@kim-poce @cupcakes-and-pain @nonbinary-disaster @onlybadendings @neverthelass @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog @ghostfacepepper @someonesnamesblog @rainbowsandwhumperflies @extemporary-whump @thecyrulik @myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @whumpsday @whumppsychology @elrysdoesstuff @towerlesskey @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @haro-whumps @pigeonwhumps @cc1010foxy @bloodinkandashes

[whump-or-whatever]

Caretaker and whumpee being united/reunited…

Whumpee entering a room and immediately being pulled into a teary-eyed hug by caretaker

Caretaker showing up to free whumpee, carefully undoing their restraints

Caretaker: “Its alright, I’ve got you now. You’re gonna be okay.”

Caretaker being captured by whumper and whumpee being both relieved and horrified to see them

Whumpee: “No, Caretaker, you can’t be here. Please, no…”

Whumper allowing caretaker in to briefly treat whumpee’s wounds or drop something off (in a hostage situation like a bank robbery)

Whumper allowing a phone/video call between the two

Whumpee showing up on caretaker’s doorstep

Whumpee: “I’m sorry if this is a bad time, I just- I didn’t know where else to go.”

Caretaker finding whumpee somewhere completely random, like in the forest or on the roof

Caretaker visiting whumpee in prison

Caretaker: “I’m going to get you out of here. It might take some time, but just hang in there.”

Caretaker showing up to free whumpee, but whumpee has dreamt/hallucinated this moment so many times they don’t believe it’s real

Whumpee: “This isn’t real, you’re not real. Just leave me alone.”

Whumpee having been in captivity so long that they don’t even seem like they recognize caretaker

Whumpee being scared of caretaker because whumper convinced them that caretaker actually hates them or is dangerous somehow

Caretaker randomly being thrown into whumpee’s cell

Caretaker showing up out of the blue at a meeting with whumper (maybe a business deal), while whumpee sits silently nearby and tried to calm their racing heart

Caretaker killing/defeating whumper in front of whumpee to free them, whumpee being conflicted about it

Caretaker buying whumpee’s freedom, with whumpee then behaving as if they belong to caretaker, which caretaker hates (Bonus: caretaker having to lead whumpee out on a leash)

Whumpee being extremely cautious of caretaker at first, flinching away from them and eyeing them warily

Whumpee: “Why are you helping me? I’m not worth the trouble.”

Whumpee immediately falling into caretaker’s arms with the trust of a child

Whumper having convinced whumpee that they are bad to the point that whumpee refuses to accept help from caretaker

Whumpee: “No, stay away from me. You don’t understand, I’m broken. I’ll destroy you.”

Caretaker realizing how bad the situation is when they ask if whumpee is okay and whumpee just stares back at them blankly

Whumpee being so strongly conditioned that they won’t leave with caretaker when they come to free them

Caretaker: “Come on, Whumpee, we’ve got to go. What are you waiting for?”

Caretaker seeing whumpee out in the street doing a job for whumper (once they’ve gained enough trust), whumpee trying to ignore caretaker and get on with the job so they won’t be punished for being late

Caretaker: “Oh my god, Whumpee, you’re okay! What are you doing here, why didn’t you contact me?”

Whumpee: “Caretaker… I’m sorry, I have to go before they see me talking to you.”

Caretaker: “Before who sees you? Wait, where are you going?”

Whumpee: “I’m sorry, I just- I’m sorry.”

[the-baby-storyteller]

Legally-owned Whumpee in a proprietary society saying, “I belong to Caretaker” when propositioned by Whumper as the only way for them to be able to “turn Whumper down” is to belong to someone else.

But Caretaker only owns them superficially to keep them safe and hates when they seriously refer to themself as property.

Caretaker finding out about this interaction and becoming severely pained.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Content: Slavery, slave caretaker, caretaker-turned-whumpee, past successful escape.

gonna be a part two to this little snippet when i find the motivation:)

-

Whumpee had been gone for several weeks now. No one knew where or how they'd escaped, but they all felt horrible for Caretaker when it happened. Partly due to how close they had been to Whumpee, and partly due to how much worse things were going to get for Caretaker.

Unfortunately, it did get worse. The beatings got harder and the rules got stricter, and Whumper began to interrogate them on a daily basis for information Caretaker absolutely didn't have. Whumpee hadn't even told them what they were planning.

Despite all this, Caretaker cried out of sheer relief as soon as they'd heard about Whumpee's successful escape. They didn't even care that things got worse for them. They didn't care that Whumper had plans to kill them as soon as they got bored. All that mattered was that Whumpee was finally safe, hopefully with people who could take far better care of them than they could.

[ronanziriano]

Mammon and His Slave (c. 1896) by Sascha Schneider

[weirdcorewhump]

For the Fae { 2 }

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

Talan was curious. Very, very curious. A human man, in his forest? With a master? Quite unusual, if he did say so himself. He thought only animals could have those. In human societies, anyhow. The man was curious himself. His eyes were as he'd never seen on any human. And he felt pure. Nervous, but pure. He hadn't sensed any bad intentions since he had come here. Which was shocking... usually humans wanted to cut down his trees or kill him for power. They wouldn't get any, but they try. Quite persistent creatures.

The man's name was Marc, so he said. He could've used that. Could've ordered him around, even made him leave. But something about the man was different... special. He wanted him. Wanted to keep him. Talan felt a sort of protectiveness over the skittish, flinching human. A terror flooded off the man in waves, obviously jumping at every move Tal made. He wondered why. It was actually slightly disconcerting, he worried for the poor thing.

Finally, they made it home. A giant tree, with a door. The man stared at it in confusion. " Well. Newcomers first, dear. " Tal bowed slightly, arms outstretched towards the door. Marc, with shaky hands, opened it and stepped inside. Talan followed and gently closed it behind them. " Much more spacious inside. Welcome to my home, human guest! I hope you enjoy your stay. " Marc looked down before speaking. " Thank you, sir... but... I'm- I'm not a human, sir. I'm lower. " He blinked, staring at Marc. " A what, dear? ". " Lower- I'm not as good as a human, sir. I'm simply under them as a life form. I'm just a slave. " Talan's eyes widened and his pupils became more slits. " A. What. " The man flinched. " Sorry- Sorry, didn't mean to make you angry. Sorry. " Tal sighed. " Not angry. At you, at least. Sit down. The sofa is over there. " Marc walked over and uncomfortably sat on the lounge, squirming a bit.

Talan sat on the ground, crossing one leg on top of the other. A sad look to him, he stared at Marc once more. " You're a slave? ". Marc nodded. " Did you run away? Is that why you're here? " He asked inquisitively. Marc looked horrified. " No! No sir! I'm good, I promise! I didn't- I didn't run! They sent me for tribute... sir. " Now it was Tal's turn for shock. " Tribute?! Like a sacrifice, for oak's sake?? Gods, humans are dumb. "

Marc shook a bit at Talan's raised voice. He made sure to lower it the next time he spoke. " Apologies for my anger. I'm simply... aggravated. Not at you, but at the situation. I never expected this, what did I even do? " Marc spoke again in an almost whisper. " Th-The crops, sir. And the weather. Did-Did you not send that? " Talan groaned. " Of course, they thought that. No, I didn't send the weather. Or mess with the crops. I just have this forest. That's it. Nothing else! I can't deal with anything else but things in this forest. I'm a forest dryad! " Marc looked down. Tal only had one thought in his mind. What in the world do I do now?

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

Notes + Taglist- Grammarly said I sounded assertive. That's fun. Also, I hate when people make stuttering or stammering like "I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I d-d-d-d-d-didn't kn-kn-kn-know!" like damn you malfunctioning or something. I stutter and it does not sound like that. Anyway @cupcakes-and-pain for the taglist. Also thanks for replying to my stuff, motivated me to write the second part! hope you have a great day/night!

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 8–Reflections

This chapter is dedicated to all my haunted bitches <3

(Happy 4-20!)

In an effort to cut down my novel-length CWs, I’m only listing chapter specific warnings from here on out, the full list of general content warnings for this series is on the Masterlist. Proceed with caution :) 

CWs & TWs: Whumpee having his second revenge killing fantasy of the day, creepy/intimate whumper making pervy dick jokes and being a bully, Whumper getting dragged (deserved), partial nudity (non-sexual), briefest implication of past non-con (blink and you’ll miss it), bug and rodent mention, paranormal encounter, descriptions of a corpse-like creature (light gore and body horror), death mention (of previous Whumper)

Whumpee has some abilities, in this chapter you’ll see: THIS TEXT = EMPATHIC READING

Word count: 3,652

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“Hold still, Mutt. I don’t wanna cut ya,” Wyatt warned, sounding more cautious than usual, as he made a clean scrape of the razor to The Aid’s tilted-up cheek. 

‘Since when do you pass up the opportunity to make me bleed?’ The Aid thought. This was worse; this was so much fucking worse than his feared toenail-clipping or lotion-lathering scenario. He’d rather have his damn nails ripped out with pliers than be stuck sitting pretty and bare-chested as his Master glided a shaver over his face. 

A disgusting noise ripped through the air only a few seconds later and immediately assaulted his ears. Something sounding like a choked growl emerged from the older man—was Wyatt having a seizure? A heart attack? Only in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get to witness the rat bastard drop dead at his feet. The Aid’s eyes widened in alarm and suppressed excitement as he willed himself with every ounce of self-control not to move a muscle. 

Once his Master fell to the floor, he’d pounce. Wrap his good hand around his neck. Squeeze, squeeze so fucking hard until his fingers tore through skin. Stare the asshole straight in the eye until the last flicker of light sizzled out. 

Wyatt turned to the sink, his face bright pink and nose scrunched, still making that god-awful noise that bounced off the bathroom walls. 

The Aid waited at the edge of his seat—any marvelous second now.

The ruckus cut off when Wyatt leaned over the counter and hocked a large, murk-yellow loogie in the sink. He rinsed the razor still clenched in his fist under the running faucet and cleared the remaining phlegm from his throat with a few more nasty hacks before making another pass on The Aid’s stunned face. 

‘…How disappointing.’ The Aid’s thought came delayed, his usual stream of internal monologue halted by his unfortunate misreading of the situation. Sure, he was annoyed by his Master’s comment, frustrated for losing himself in the second murder fantasy of the day, but he was even more peeved by the bastard’s gross abuse of his sink—his beautiful sink carved out of imported gold-veined Carrara marble. 

He was only half a stroke of the razor in before Wyatt stormed into the bathroom—without warning or so much as a courtesy knock on the doorframe—and informed him he was taking too goddamn long and needed to wrap up the dog and pony show. Some words were exchanged, somehow leading to the brute snatching the razor from his hand and taking it upon himself to finish what The Aid started but was deemed incapable of finishing—because, as a 24-year-old man, he apparently couldn’t handle basic grooming. 

“Ya were in that shower for an awfully long time,” Wyatt began, tossing The Aid a sly glance as if he knew a secret daren’t need repeating, but he would air out in the open anyway—classic Wyatt fuckery. “Bet ya enjoyed that alone time, huh? Must’ve gone to town on ya’self with uncloggin’ the pipes, eh?”

Wyatt rinsed the clump of white foam and whiskers off the razor as The Aid’s eyebrows pinched together and his mouth flattened into a thin frown, his stomach mercilessly twisting in on itself. 

He didn’t even have a moment to respond, not like he wanted to, before Wyatt continued, “Ah, it’s all the meds, huh? Yeah, sometimes when I’m on antibiotics, I can’t rub one out right either. Or if I drink too much, but you know that.” The asshole had the ribald audacity to sprinkle some extra spice on the last words for added creepiness and then wink at him, much to his gut-churning dismay. Just throw it on the long, open tab of egregious offenses. 

The Aid forced a painfully tight breath through his lungs and made a succession of slow blinks. Still wide-eyed and unsure how he ended up in this conversation he refused to partake. 

Wyatt ogled The Aid up and down in a dramatic show of indifference. “What ya actin’ shy for, huh? We’re both guys—well, more or less,” he teased, dropping an octave to drive the message home that The Aid was just about as other as one could possibly get. 

“But I suppose even the likes of you enjoy playing with ya’self. Got a dick, might as well use it, amirite?” Wyatt snickered, primarily to himself, as he made short strokes over The Aid’s chin. 

Nope. That’s it. The Aid had enough—time to take the old dog out back.

“I was crying. A lot…Sir,” The Aid tersely responded, needing to end the topic above all else. Knowing the insight would likely invite ridicule, but preferring that over exchanging lewd locker room talk with his abuser. 

Wyatt tsked, shaking his head. “Crying—yeah, that sounds more on brand for ya.” He almost sounded disappointed. 

He paused a moment to rinse the razor before his lip curled as he scoffed out, “Big fucking crybaby. Ya’r eyes leak more than ya’r pecker.” 

The Aid ignored the vulgar comment like he ignored much of everything else, letting it roll over him like cool water in a stream— besides, ‘You can’t make sense out of things where there isn’t any.’

Wyatt knuckled the underside of The Aid’s jaw to hold his face still as he started scrapping off his mustache in short glides. He sucked in his top lip in hopes of avoiding a nick, studying his Master’s face scrunch and furrow in concentration—the way Wyatt leaned in, the guiding, almost-tender support below his chin, the careful strokes of the razor against his skin, the delicate, purposeful closeness between them. It was familiar, almost felt okay, natural even. 

He was the frog in a pot of boiling water, now simmering alive. He knew it and hated himself for it.  

Wyatt continued working; the only sound heard for the next few minutes consisted of water spurting from the faucet and swirling down the drain with the occasional interrupting whooshes of the razor rinsed and taped against the lip of the sink to dispose of the billows of stubble-speckled foam. 

He guided The Aid’s chin up so he faced the ceiling, making multi-directional glides on the underside of his jaw and neck. The Aid’s eyes slid to the side, fixed on the clearing in the middle of the mirror, the only section free of condensation from his long-overdue shower. His combed-through hair was still dripping wet, and his skin was still dewy from the lingering humidity.

A towel draped loosely around his waist, the only thing separating him and Wyatt. He tried not to think about how self-conscious he felt, how disgustingly intimate this invasion of privacy was. He tried to ignore Wyatt’s wondering gaze, working him over from head to toe. Rather, he placed his focus on observing the older man’s reflected movements work with an unfamiliar level of consideration for his welfare that he thought Wyatt was incapable of providing. 

There—in the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn he saw something dart out past the mirror's edge. 

A bug? No, too big to be a bug. So, a rodent? 

He knew damn well Wyatt wasn’t keeping up with the household chores during the past few months while he was out of commission, so varmints taking up residence was possible—likely even. His Master’s love affair with takeout was well-known and unmatched, and he seemed unfazed by being surrounded by rotting food and trash. He imagined just how filthy the living room, family room, front room, upstairs loft—and if he was fortunate, even the garage and pool house—must’ve gotten without his daily intervention. At that level, they’d probably need to call in an exterminator. 

His eyes nervously flicked to the other side of him, where his large, porcelain soaker tub sat—nothing. If there were something, it would have been there plain as day.

He loosened a breath, trying to expel the wave of sweltering anxiety that flushed over him—

Mice. Rats. Cockroaches. Ants. Everywhere. An infestation of them. 

Images of biting, creeping, diseased dregs of the animal kingdom invaded his mind. His skin ruddied from the prospect of waking up to a giant rat staring at him with those little creepy beady eyes he hated so much. A ripple of nerves detonated from the pit of his stomach, giving him the sensation like he ate fire for breakfast as shivers prickled under his skin. He unconsciously balled his left hand into a fist, his fingernails digging into his palm.

“What?” Wyatt spat, taking notice of the tension feather in his jaw.

“Eyes playing tricks on me, Sir. Happens sometimes without my glasses on,” The Aid explained, glancing at the counterspace where he left his glasses before getting in the shower. 

“Jumpy little fucker,” Wyatt murmured, gliding the razor over his Adam’s apple. 

There—again. In the misty reflection, The Aid thought he saw three spindly, mossy green fingers with long, blackened nails curling over the side of the tub.  

 

Well, that sure as shit wasn’t a rat.

He blinked frantically in the mirror, paralyzed as every hair on his body bristled. Only one other thing besides the man in front of him elicited this level of primal terror. And it wasn’t rodents.

“Fuckin’ hell, Shortcake, what’s ya’r damage today? Did I deprive ya’r freak-of-nature brain of too much oxygen, and now ya’r short circuitin’ on me?” Wyatt grumbled, not concealing the twist of bitter amusement cutting through his scathing glare. He must’ve noticed the sprouting goosebumps.

“Sorry, Sir, I’m just…cold,” The Aid lied, allowing himself to tremble, hoping it would pass as shivering.

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? Ya don’t feel cold to me. Ya basically turned this place into a fuckin’ sauna. Best knock this funny shit off. And ya wonder why ya get the shit knocked outta ya, can’t ever act right. God damn idiot.” 

CONTEMPT

Wyatt’s projected emotion shouted at him without even a tap of mind-prodding. The contempt he could deal with; he’d gotten used to it like some dimwitted friend he only tolerated in small doses when no one else was around to talk to. But he’d welcome contempt with open arms and freshly baked cookies if it meant evading the prowling malefic forces.

He kept quiet as his Master lined up his sideburns, eyes glued on watching him work in the mirror—he needed a degree of separation. The Aid couldn’t stand staring at the brute’s ugly mug head-on.

Wyatt’s eyes scared him the most, they always had, ever since the first day they met over six years ago at his Master’s 50th Birthday Bash Madame Eleanor threw for him. 

His eyes were a chilling shade of icy blue, dead blue—the blue of frostbite and cracks in a frozen lake that would splinter, break beneath your feet and swallow you whole within seconds. His downturned, frosted eyes sunk deep and high under his protruding brow. He had that naturally off-putting I-rant-in-my-truck-and-post-hate-videos-online look, complete with a permanent scowl etched on his thin-lipped mouth with naturally arched, bushy eyebrows. He kept his ashy brown, silver-stripped hair short and combed to the side in an effort to hide his cow lick. A grown-out chevron mustache hid his top lip while he kept the rest of his face clean-shaven. But, despite his efforts, his broad chin and neck always displayed the dreaded permanent 4 o’clock shadow commonly plaguing many middle-aged men. 

On the rare occasions when Wyatt smiled at him or during the more frequent scenarios when his Master flashed his teeth in a rabid bear sort of way, The Aid couldn’t help but notice the worsening entangled mess in Wyatt’s mouth. Wyatt’s big teeth, yellowed and crooked, peaked through irritated and swollen-looking gums. At this point, The Aid was more than sure Wyatt caught a preventable case of gingivitis. The culprits? A straight-up lack of routine teeth brushing commingling with a nasty nicotine addiction he couldn’t kick. The daily consumed carton of cigs and the cuds of chewing tobacco nestled in the pocket of his bottom lip did no favors as far as oral health was concerned. 

As if a torn-up grill wasn’t bad enough, Wyatt’s age and substance abuse showed clearly on his face: frown lines, forehead lines, crow’s feet, blush-burned and puffy cheeks from constant flushing, and a hawkish but equally reddened nose. His skin looked weathered and dehydrated; living in a desert certainly didn’t help his case. The Aid thought his Master appeared as if he were in the trenches of fighting off a perpetual allergic reaction. If the older man took better care of himself and used a nightly retinol cream and sunblock in place of drowning his sorrows in IPA 12-packs, lines of coke, and slot machines, maybe he wouldn’t look so haggard. 

The rest of Wyatt Sullivan only highlighted his villainous features. He was massive, pro-wrestler huge—broad-shouldered, burley, and too damn tall. The Aid thought of him as the Brawny paper towel guy’s evil older brother, but with a beer gut and a drug problem.

After intake, Handler Bryce categorized The Aid as “happy and temperate.” Later, he even went so far as to market his personality as “eager to please”—and that he was, despite how much he disliked the term. He performed all his domestic duties with a bright smile and a peppy “at once, Madame” or an “as you wish, Sir.” He kept a praiseworthy, straight-backed posture and spoke correctly in a measured, even tone—just like how he was taught. He was the whole Mystic Grand Servant package and then some. Yet, he’d instead focus on the half-man, half-Uruk-hai orc in front of him that broke down every carefully built pillar of poise and A1 caregiving and turned him from a regal investment to a cowering dog in a matter of months than acknowledge the phantom digits lurking in the reflection.   

There. 

Again. 

In the tub. 

A fuzzy mass of black and green moved.

‘No. No. No. Go away. Not here, not now. Not with him,’ The Aid pleaded, hoping this thing could somehow pick up his mental cry for a truce. 

In the corner of his eye, he made out the blurred yet unmistakable shapes of skeletal, bony-knuckled fingers too long to be human drum on the tub’s edge slink down the side with each successive thrum in demand of his attention. Truce denied.

It could try all it wanted, but he utterly refused to give that thing even a quarter of a full-fledged glance. That’s how it got power—by him acknowledging it. It always started with something small—an audible finger tap, a ghostly whisper, glowing frost-colored eyes in the dark—to draw him in like a fish to a lure.

Oh, this thing wasn’t out to kill him—no, he didn’t think that was even possible. But it wanted something he considered worse: to feed on him. Slurp up the raw energy droning and pulsating inside him—the special spark that manifested as his abilities—like he was a fucking Baskin-Robbins cookies n’ cream milkshake until it got its fill. It’d only make its rounds again once he was restored to full power, and it craved another Aid-sized snack. By its too-frequent pitstops, he assumed that meant he was a tasty delicacy and one of its favorite hole-in-the-walls. 

If it got its way, it would breathe him in, suck the life force out of him until his eyes rolled to the back of his skull and he lost consciousness. It would plunge him into a deep, restless sleep from which he woke with nothing short of a splitting migraine and depleted energy source lasting for days on end. It took him weeks, sometimes even months, to fully recover from a psychic attack. 

With each menacing tap, his chest started to heave, each breath quicker than the last. His heart raced, the deep-rooted fear dissolving all gathered composure with each thud. If the oxy hadn’t kicked in already, he suspected he’d be zapped with the splintering pain of his cracked rib lancing into his side with each lungful.

‘Don’t look, don’t you fucking look!’ he internally screamed. ‘Why couldn’t this just be a fucking mouse?’

“No need to get all huffy, Runt, almost done,” Wyatt scorned through the tense silence. For one of the only times in his life, Wyatt’s voice brought him a strange comfort and grounded him. 

‘Don’t give it attention, and it’ll go away.’ He took a deep, calming breath, thinking happy thoughts of green pastures and rainbows ending in beautiful waterfalls and—

His daydreaming was cut short by a slow, inhuman wheeze—Haaaaayyyyy

The spectral pitch of the other-worldly voice permeated every corner of his mind like a plume of dark smoke that he couldn’t shut out—it was just there, all around him, seeping into him—buzzing on his skin, ringing in his ears. 

He panicked. 

His steeled gaze melted faster than a cartoon character popsicle in summer. His eyes darted straight to the growing dark mass in the mirror. 

His heart stopped, his breath stilled, and his body froze—petrified and goggle-eyed. 

This living nightmare made those dreaded anthrophaghes look like child’s play.

A gangly arm hung over the front-facing side of the tub, exposing the thing’s equally revolting and terror-inducing body inch by inch. Its skin—painted a lifeless grey-green with blotches of gangrenous rot like a decaying corpse—was simultaneously loose and stretched too tight like half-melted, sloppily applied saran wrap pulled over a fake, anatomically incorrect skeleton with half-assed patchwork over the areas where it ripped. 

At one end of its lanky arm, unfurled spider leg-like fingers with sharp, grime-crusted nails scrabbling the floor towards him. The other end led up to a too-bony shoulder, and then…he stared long and hard at the twisted, bloated face of Madame Eleanor.

His heart dropped into his stomach. His lungs refused to allow him a breath, filling him with stale air. 

It couldn’t be her, not the real her. She was long dead. He knew that.

But he also knew he wasn’t the only one with a penchant for mind tricks. It must have tried to recreate Eleanor Sullivan’s likeness based on memories it poached from his mind during an encounter before—only his last memories of her were of her lying dead in an open casket. 

Its face—no, Eleanor Sullivan’s poorly copied/pasted face was ghastly. Nearly unrecognizable. 

In place of Madame Eleanor’s Botoxed face with bright, almond-shaped blue-green eyes, the reflection unveiled far-apart, lidless, ivory-colored eyes with no pupils locking onto him. Her button nose was gone, gnawed off, exposing the black gorge of its nasal cavity. Its mouth, a long, lip-less strip of decaying flesh, pulled out to its rawboned cheeks, revealing slivers of its pitch-black abyss-of-a-mouth. What sat on its head was nothing but a few clumps of long, feathery white strands of hair loosely tacked onto its molted skull—a far cry from his Madame’s signature dyed sandy-blonde locks. The gauzy wisps swished over its warped features as its head followed behind its arm’s descent onto the floor.

That thing began crawling out of the tub like it was Samara crawling out of a goddamn tube TV. 

‘Oh hell no.’

He jerked back, face contorting with stone-cold horror, as a frightened shriek he couldn’t contain ripped free from his raw vocal cords. 

“God damn it!” Wyatt bellowed, pulling away from The Aid’s face. He was too stunned to speak, too shaken up from the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body to notice the fresh slice on his chin.

“Did you see it?” He sputtered frantically, head whipping in the direction of the tub, blood streaking down his chin. “It—it—” he pointed at where the thing was supposed to be. 

Nothing. 

Wyatt all but shook his head, examining the empty tub. “Fuck, ya couldn’t just sit still? Now look at ya, bleedin’. Jesus Christ, ya’ve fucking lost it. Don’t tell me ya’r kook ass thought ya saw a ghost,” The man idly mocked, recalling the last time he noticed The Aid stare off into an empty corner with his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. 

The Aid shook, his lip quivered as he tried to belt out, “No! Not a ghost, worse than a ghost. It—” he turned to Wyatt to see a half-fed up, half-scornful glare shooting back. He stopped, realizing just how nuts he looked and sounded. He sank into himself.

“I’m sorry, Sir. These meds…they make me feel weird,” he sighed, swapping his fervent panic with a practiced flavor of clear defeat he knew convincingly shadowed his face and wilted his voice. He did indeed feel like a kook, not because he doubted what he saw, but because he remembered just who he was talking to—King Deflection.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get ya outta taking them. Best learn how to deal 'cause ya still got a long way to go.” Wyatt grabbed the washcloth sitting on the sink, ran it under the water, and blotted the slice on The Aid’s chin. 

“Hold that there,” the older man directed. The Aid obliged. Wyatt halted any further disparaging remarks and even refrained from shooting him the usual hate-crazed glower.

“Lucky it ain’t nothin’ but a little cut. I think that means we’re done here.” His Master nonchalantly wiped the last few strips of shaving cream off his face with the corners of the rag, then cleaned up the shaving supplies.  

The Aid fell into a long silence. His fingers smoothed out the bunched-up ripples of terrycloth; his eyes anxiously darted back and forth between Wyatt and the tub. Tried as he might, he couldn’t calm the tornado still whirling in his gut or mollify his nerves, still heightened and simmering. 

Gone. It was completely gone without a fucking trace.

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Taglist: @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever

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I know what you’re wondering—yes, The Aid is haunted by a sleep paralysis demon, The Night Hag! It’s a subtle element here, not a major plot point so if you don’t like paranormal shit, don’t worry it isn’t going to overtake the story (I just wanted to give it its own intro chapter).

Which goes without saying, chapter vibes: