#the merry whump of may

[painsandconfusion]

No Pain, No Gain

Merry Whump of May 1st

[Compass | Haphephobia | Kitchen] (tw: intimate whumper, noncon touch, general deprivation of personal space, burning threat)

[The Merry Whump of May Masterpost] [Phobia Whumper Masterpost]

“Wh-umper n- please I c- I can do it-”

Whumper just chuckled, relentless as their gentle fingers scorched into Whumpee’s elbows.

Was it doing any damage? No. Whumpee knew that. But it felt like it. Their skin crawled and itched and seared under the soft touch that drove them up to the stove. A soft sob sputtered up from their throat as a warm hand enclosed around theirs. Trapping them. Teasing them. Controlling them. Pressing them relentlessly closer to the heat. To real pain.

It almost sounded better.

Whumper directed both of their hands around the wooden spoon, forcing Whumpee to stir.

“Whu-umper pl-”

“Shhhhh- enough of that. I’m helping. You want to get better, right?” Whumpee whined in a soft, terrified protest as Whumper stepped up closer behind them, his front flush against their back. “I’ll help you. Guide you. Map and compass in one - you just need practice, right?”

Whumpee’s head was shaking before they even heard the question. “N-nonono- plea s-stop just- stoop let mebreathe-” It was a fair enough ask; Whumpee’s lungs were already scalding with the steam and spitting oil from the pan, punching down their throat in short, stabbing bursts as their racing heart desperately tried to keep up. Tries to help them think about anything but that hands on them and the skin touching their and Whumper’s hot, close breath on the back of their scalp an-

Whumpee’s head turtled into their shoulders, a whimpering sob squeaking out as Whumper nestled a kiss to the side of their neck.

Tears spat and hissed as they splattered into the pan, melding into the eggs.

“Just trust me~ No pain, no gain, right?”

Shoutout to @themerrywhumpofmay for this event!

[The Merry Whump of May Masterpost] [Phobia Whumper Masterpost]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day 20

“A taste of your own medicine”

Zip Ties || Bleeding Out || Office

Part one || Masterlist

Cw: past torture, blood loss, mentioned murders, dubcon touching(?), I guess kind of kidnapping by definition

“Stay with me, just a bit longer,” Supervillain murmured, their gloved palm pressing to the side of Hero’s head, guiding them to lean against their shoulder. The cape wrapped snug around Hero’s shoulders, covering them like a blanket, growing stains of something even darker seeping across the black fabric.

Even with the warm blood dripping across their skin, Hero shivered, prompting the arms around them to pull them a little closer.

Supervillain’s pace was fast as they moved towards the mouth of the alley, their boots nearly silent despite the gravel. No wonder Hero hadn’t heard them arrive. They weren’t even nearly silent, no, they were soundless. Everything about them was quiet. Even with their mouth inches from Hero’s ear, they couldn’t hear their breaths. The soft murmurs of reassurance nothing more than sounds carried across the breeze.

It was eerie, but strangely… reassuring. Their ear to Supervillain’s chest, they could feel the rise and fall, even though they could not hear them breathe, feel their heart though they couldn’t hear it beat. Quiet, but not the kind that drew terror—soft, gentle, the kind of quiet that promised safety.

“Close your eyes, Hero,” Supervillain whispered, tucking their chin over the Hero’s head.

Everything went quiet. The entire city, fallen to oblivion, there was nothing. Not the scurry of rats behind dumpsters, the hum of the streetlights, the sounds of cars speeding through the streets, reduced to nothing. A silence so deafening it left Hero’s ears ringing, roaring with the blood that pulsed through them. Supervillain held them tight, the palm that held to Hero’s head pressing over their ear as a rush of cold surrounded them both.

It was like falling through ice, into a pitch black ocean, the world around them bursting to darkness. The cold was worse than anything they had ever felt. It wasn’t just a surface level chill, no, this one burrowed deep into their bones, stole the air from their lungs, numbed them to the core.

Just as quickly as it had come along, the darkness cracking open, small fissures quickly shattering apart, allowing a soft light to spill in. Hero’s stomach lurched, and they would have vomited again if they hadn’t already thrown up all that was in them.

“I’m sorry, Hero, that was the quickest way,” Supervillain apologized, feeling the way Hero tensed and shuddered. They wove their fingers in the other’s hair, cradling the side of their head with a gentleness much too tender to be coming from any villain, much less the supervillain.

Hero had never even seen Supervillain before. At least, not in person. Glimpses from some mediocre cameraman had managed to film as Supervillain darted through public, faster than the camera’s shutters could open. They were the city’s most notorious villain, yet few had even seen them—even fewer left alive to recount the events. Bodies, mauled beyond recognition, burned and brutalized in any way imaginable.

What were they going to do with Hero?

Supervillain had stopped walking, stopping down slightly to set Hero on something soft. With much effort, Hero blinked, willing their vision to clear enough to make out the scene around them.

They were in a living room. At least, they thought it was. A buttercream colored couch and armchair set sat positioned around a large coffee table, the couch nearly twice the size of Hero’s back at their apartment. Facing the couch was a large fireplace, stone leading up to a mantle where a flatscreen lay fixed to the wall. The room was lit softly by warm lamplight, a few plants and personal touches, such as throw pillows and blankets spread around just perfect enough to keep the neat image, while adding just a touch of personality to make it comfortable. Still, the high slanted ceilings, the chandelier hanging down, the huge floor-to-ceiling windows framing an entire wall, made it feel more like a set to some extravagant film, not a place where actual people lived.

Supervillain set Hero down on the couch, brushing their hair back from their eyes with a quick promise to be right back, before the air shattered right in front of their eyes. When the tear had mended, Supervillain was gone.

No one knew anything about their powers, not really. No one knew their limits, their specialties. To the public, Supervillain was more a concept than a beings fear not unlike a demon or devil. Blood rushed to Hero’s head, the room spinning around them as they tried to comprehend, but it wouldn’t make sense.

Supervillain reappeared not half a moment later, a white case nearly the size of Hero’s chest in their hands, already flipped open. Hero shuddered, a sudden unease prickling up their spine as Supervillain turned and set the case on the coffee table, digging out gauze squares and a transparent bottle filled with some clear liquid. With a careful touch, Supervillain pulled the cape away from Hero, revealing the wounds decorating their chest.

There was a lot of blood. More blood than any normal person could afford to lose. Supervillain’s jaw tightened, and they twisted off the cap.

“This is going to sting a bit, darling, alright?” Supervillain tried to warn gently, but it was as if Hero’s eyes were looking clear through them.

The villain held back a sigh, setting the bottle aside for a moment as they noticed the goosebumps along Hero’s arms. They held up their hand, and gave a quick snap, and the hearth roared to life behind them, crackling flames devouring the logs.

“Close your eyes, Hero. I’ll take care of you. Go to sleep.”

————————————————

@bees-andbees (thought you’d like to be tagged :D )

@themerrywhumpofmay

[darkthingshappen]

May 13th "Wait right here"

@themerrywhumpofmay

Betrayal | Pistol | Nowhere in particular

“You want me to what?” Caretaker gasped with astonished terror.

“Shoot him.” Whumper ordered, pointing at Whumpee’s trembling form, kneeling in henchman’s grasp. 

“What?  Y-you can’t be serious,” Caretaker cried.  “I can’t do that.  I can’t.”

“I am deadly serious.  You will do it, or I’ll do it for you, and I don’t have the medical background you do.  I may shoot him somewhere that would actually matter.  You don’t have to kill him.  Just shoot him,” Whumper stated with a deadly grin. 

“Wh-where?” Caretaker said with a terrified tremble in his voice.  This can’t be happeneing.  He glanced at Whumper and Henchman 2, both with their guns drawn and pointed at whumpee and caretaker respectively. 

“Nowhere in particular,” Whumper said with a disinterested shrug. 

Whumpee whimpers from behind his gag but nods to caretaker that it’s okay.  He understands.  That really doesn’t make it better.  That implicit trust makes the betrayal a thousand times worse. 

Caretaker is handed a weapon.  It’s cold and heavy in his hands.  So much heavier than he expected.  It is definitely heavier than the chains around his wrists.  He blinks back tears.  It’s not a matter of knowing where to shoot.  He’s never fired a gun.  He doesn't even know how to properly aim it.  If his aim is wrong…

Caretaker looks at Whumper.  “Please.  I can’t.  Don’t… don’t make me do this.  I’ve never even taken a practice shot before.”

“It’s really not that hard.  You point the gun where you want and then you pull back on the trigger.”

“But if I get it wrong…”

“I don’t care.  Pretty sure if you delay any longer, one or all three of us will shoot him for you.  Do you think he can survive three bullets at the same time?”

“No!  No…”  Caretaker draws in a shaky breath. 

His tear-filled eyes meet Whumpee’s.  Whumpee gives him another nod of approval.  He is shaking harder now, body visibly convulsing in terror, just wanting it to end. 

Caretaker raises the pistol.  He’ll never forgive himself.  He’s betraying every oath he’s ever taken or sworn to himself to do no harm.  The best he can hope for is less harm.  Do less harm than if Whumper were to carry this out. 

There was a deafening BANG!

Followed by howls of agony. 

[leyswhumpdump]

Trust Me, You Don’t Wanna Do That

Day 14 of @themerrywhumpofmay

Tropes and CWs: Threatened hand whump, threatened torture, captivity, restraints, fire poker.

Whumpee wriggled uselessly against the thick leather straps binding their wrists and ankles to the chair. They’d been there long enough for their backside to go numb and their fingers to fall asleep. Left too close to a searing fire that burned the little hairs on their skin, left to stew over whatever Whumper wanted to do to them.

“Feeling comfortable?” said Whumper.

“You’re wasting your time,” Whumpee spat, making another attempt to pull their hand free. The hard edges of the straps had dug gouges into their wrist, leaving a thin line of blood. Somehow they doubted they were the first person to bleed in this chair, nor would they be the last. “Haven’t you heard torture is the least effective way to interrogate someone? You wouldn’t know if I gave you a list of fake names…”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna do that.” Whumper knelt by the fireplace, as if to stoke the flames. Whumpee wished their feet were free enough to kick them into the hearth. “You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Whumpee said, but their bluster barely masked the sudden fear. No, please, not my hands, torture anything else—

“And I hear you play the piano so beautifully.” The poker lifted out of the fire. Whumpee stared wide-eyed at the faintly glowing tip. “So let’s consider a little ransom here. The payment is the names I want.”

“They’re not just names, they’re my friends—” Whumpee cut themselves off as the poker came closer. Now it wasn’t just the ambient heat of the flames searing their flesh, but the heat of the carefully hovering iron. “Please, please don’t.”

“Everyone has their values, Whumpee.” Merciless hunger glinted in Whumper’s eyes. “And it’s time to choose yours.”

[cryptidwritings]

"Need a Ride?"

The Merry Whump of May - Day 2

masterlist

prompts: wrench, paranoia, club

content: wrench, paranoia, club (lol), successful escape, defiant whumpee, asshole whumpee.

"Hey, uh... Ya need a ride?"

Whumpee trudged forward with their arms crossed over their chest. Their bare feet slapped against the wet asphalt with each step. The pebbles ground into their softened soles, but they were so cold they couldn't feel much anyway.

The car rolled slowly next to them; the driver a young man with sunglasses and a haircut that told Whumpee he had never seen a moment of agony in his entire life.

"I'm heading to the country club just up the road. Did your car break down?"

Whumpee stopped a moment and glanced into the window, unable to hide their face as it twisted with scorn.

"Yeah. My car and my shoes."

"Okay, no car, then. Got it," the man muttered.

Whumpee was sure he would finally drive off. Instead, he reached over to the radio and switched it on, relaxing back as he kept his sports car to a crawl up the mountain road to a random mix of music.

Whumpee grit their teeth.

"Just go already," they snapped, wrapping their arms tighter around themselves.

The man glanced at his cell phone, "Nah," he responded.

"What if I'm a serial killer?"

Whumpee halted as the man laughed, shaking his head while again glancing at his phone.

The car kept crawling, then stopped a few feet away when the driver finally noticed Whumpee hadn’t moved.

They watched in disbelief as the guy turned off his car and hopped out of the drivers seat, rounding the trunk.

He stopped as he noticed Whumpee take a step away. He raised his hands and then casually placed them in his pockets as he leaned against his wet car.

"What are you doing?" Whumpee asked.

"Waiting."

Whumpee scoffed, "for what? I said no."

"No, you didn't," the guy smiled, "I asked if you needed a ride, and you ignored me."

"To most people, that would mean no."

"Oh, to me, too. In most cases," he took off his glasses and smiled as warm honey eyes met Whumpee's steel gray ones, and he put out his hand, "I'm Caretaker, by the way."

Whumpee snarled and rolled their eyes before walking away, leaving Caretaker with a kindly "piss off."

They hadn't taken more than a few steps before Caretaker called after them.

"I can help you, you know."

Whumpee stopped again, their fingers balling into fists as a perpetual frustrated rage bubbled over. They turned.

"Oh, can you?" they took a step forward, "how can you help me? Huh? You want to tie me up, too? You want to throw me in your trunk and drive me back to Whumper?! Who the fuck do you think you are!"

Caretaker didn't flinch as Whumpee approached, finally revealing what they were so readily clinging to their chest - a wrench so rusted it looked like it had been buried for decades. In fact... Caretaker's eyes drifted to Whumpee's clothes; tattered rags that were stained despite being soaked in the recent heavy rain.

His gut told him those stains weren't just dirt.

"I"m going to help you," Caretaker answered, "I could open the trunk, but I'd rather you sit. Your choice."

Whumpee was too startled to speak.

[ex0rin]

so.

there's no new @themerrywhumpofmay this year (that I can find) which is fine tbh because I didn't finish it last year BUT I remember being in this same spiral of (depression) not being able to write at this exact point when it was happening and although I didn't finish, I still managed nine days...

that said, I think I'm gonna try and pick it up at Day 10 and see if I can get through some more this year - fingers crossed that it kickstarts me back up!

here's the original prompt list from last year if anyone feels like playing along ❤

UPDATE: apparently I had written most of Day 9 but hadn't finished it, so I'll actually be starting there (even if I might scrap the original)

[hold-him-down]

@themerrywhumpofmay day 1: Don’t Hold Your Breath/Tears

TW: brief noncon touch, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, whumper pov, forced bath, drowning, references to food restriction, references to forced to fight, references to broken bones, bruising, blood, references to whipping, institutionalized slavery, all the ivan things.

Notes: A few weeks into Ivan’s contract. All hurt no comfort.

Table of Contents

✥ ✥ ✥

Ivan stands alone in the bathroom in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, a bowl of perfect red strawberries in his hand. He eats one while he waits, savoring the flavor. He’s supposed to be laying off sugar, keep his heart strong, but tonight is a special occasion.

The door opens abruptly and two of Ivan’s men drag his newest boy into the room, dumping him unceremoniously onto the tile. His body crumbles, shaking violently, his eyes closed and his brow pinched tightly. He’s conscious. Of course he is. Countless resources have been dumped into ensuring that Leo has remained awake through it all. Very difficult to train a boy who gets to sleep for free, after all.

“Calm yourself down.” Ivan’s thickly accented, deep voice carries an edge of amusement tonight, and it seems that Leo has become aware of his presence for the first time. His eyes are slow to focus, and even slower to scan the room, to find him. He doesn’t stop shaking, as hard as he tries. His arms wrap around his middle as he gasps at breaths. Ivan shakes his head, rolling his eyes just a little. It’s not that bad. He’s really fine, just tired. Hungry. A little bit wounded. He’ll be alright, Ivan is almost positive.

 “Would you like me to stay, sir?” one of the men asks.

“No,” Ivan says, crossing his arms over his chest, the bowl of strawberries gripped tightly in hand. “I know my boy’s a little rough around the edges, but–” he inclines his head to a tilt, regarding the trembling form, covered in filth of all possible forms, tears already forming in those crystal-blue eyes “–he’s harmless. Aren’t you?”

His eyes don’t break from Leo’s as the men file out, until it’s just him and this boy, this shaking, terrified boy, who so far has been the most perfect thorn in his side. He approaches him slowly and kneels; reaching fingers hover but do not quite contact the freshly purpling skin of Leo’s cheek. “Yes, you fucking are,” he whispers.

Ivan nods in the direction of the tub, almost willing Leo to show a shred of defiance now. Leo swallows, blinking slowly. His eyes track Ivan’s hands as he selects a strawberry, brings it slowly to his own mouth, and eats it. “You must be so hungry,” he whispers, tsking. He runs his hand over Leo’s throat, feels the muscles constricting under it.

“You’ll eat once you’re clean. Get in the tub.”

A little sound claws its way out of Leo’s throat as he rolls himself onto his stomach. Slowly, he gets to his hands and knees, each movement shakier than the last. He manages to get himself to the tub and pulls himself up so that he sits on the ledge. Ivan watches his arms shake as he wraps them around his stomach, as he gasps around the pain.

He probably has a broken rib or two, and even if not, Ivan is sure that he’s under considerable, what’s the word? Duress. His pain is perfect, his eyes red and his lips dry and his toes unconsciously curling through the agony.

“Leo?” Ivan says. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Leo’s eyes close slowly, his exhale is audibly shaky as he lifts each foot over the ledge and eases his weight down into the oversized ceramic bath. Ivan takes a strawberry and brings it to Leo’s lips, just an inch or so away.

“What do you say?”

“Please,” Leo gasps. “Ple… please.” He swallows, and even the way his throat bobs as he does is perfect.

Ivan can’t hold in the smile at the raspy desperation that comes with those soft, weak words. He takes Leo’s hand in his, and places the strawberry in his palm, then guides it up to his mouth. With his free hand, he holds the back of Leo’s neck just a little too tightly to be misconstrued as a comforting gesture. 

Leo’s eyes close as he takes the bite into his mouth, his relief visible on his face.

He doesn’t ask for another. He sits silently, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath as Ivan turns on the water, adjusts the temperature, and starts hosing off days of sweat and dried blood and everything else that Ivan thinks he prefers not to think about. 

Leo curls himself up tightly and lets his head rest against the side of the tub, but doesn’t close his eyes, because he fucking knows better than to do that, Ivan thinks. His boy winces as water connects with layers upon layers of bruises, but he doesn’t resist. Progress is progress, isn’t that what everyone’s always telling him? And maybe the last few days will pay off, after all.

Ivan is gentle as he lifts Leo’s arm, letting the water cascade down his ribs, his stomach. The water is tinted pink as it swirls down the drain, and where caked on blood begins to run clean, dark bruising becomes more visible. 

Leo’s eyes are so heavy, and Ivan is goddam merciful, soft in his age, he supposes. “It’s okay,” he says. “Close your eyes, Leo.” It’s been an incredibly difficult few days for him. The first few fights are always tough, but Leo has an edge about him that Ivan is unaccustomed to. The first time, Leo barely participated. No one had bet on him to win it, certainly not Ivan, but still. The refusal had earned him twenty-four hours of whatever punishment felt right to whoever was in his immediate vicinity at any given moment. The second night, exhausted and already in considerable pain, Leo refused all together. 

Tonight, though, the third night in a row that Ivan has attempted to bring him into the fun, he tried. Ivan would give him that. He kept his eyes down and he goddam wanted to resist, but he put forth a little fucking effort. He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t slept. The other boy made quick fucking work of him, but it was progress. He would see a doctor in the morning, against the judgement of the doctor himself, who insisted on treating him tonight. But that wouldn’t work. Ivan wanted this tonight. He wanted his boy to understand what crossing him meant. 

Leo trembles now, but he complies. The lines in his face are pained, and every time Ivan runs his fingers, however faintly, across a bad spot, he flinches sharply.

He’s not crying, though. His boy is tough. Deep down, Ivan thinks Leo might be the one he has always waited for. His Leo, strong and defiant and fierce like a lion. 

Ivan muses as he repositions Leo to the other side of the tub, giving him access to his other side, and eventually as he applies pressure to Leo’s neck, forcing him forward to clean his back, littered with painful-looking welts and bruises. Leo hisses as the water washes over them with little ‘ahh’s and groans of pain here and there.

God, he’s magnificent.

Ivan cleans up every inch of the boy until the water runs clear and all the filth is gone, leaving just a shivering, flinching boy who really probably does need a doctor tonight, now that he really sees his body.

He plugs the drain and lets the tub fill, his hand absently brushing between Leo’s legs. Leo gasps but he doesn’t fight it. His eyes are closed, and even this thing, that his Leo hates so fucking much, can’t undo the relief that the warm water soaking into his muscles brings. 

“Oh, my Leo,” Ivan whispers. He doesn’t plan what happens next, he just can’t fucking stop himself, he thinks. With one palm splayed flat across Leo’s stomach, he sits up a little straighter, placing his other firmly on Leo’s chest. In the same instant that pushes Leo under, Leo’s eyes fly open, his fingers clutching frantically at Ivan’s forearm. 

He’s so weak. It’s perfect. On day three of no sleep, on day three of no food, his battery is nearly dead. Water splashes out of the tub and onto Ivan’s chest and onto the floor and still he holds Leo under, watching the panic consume him. Watching every single muscle tense.

He lets him up when it feels right; it’s neither calculated nor rational, but he had spent three hours last month learning CPR, and what better reason than this?

Leo sucks in the deepest breath that he can manage as he throws his arms over the side of the tub, clinging to it like a magnet. He coughs and sputters and water drips from his chin and tears stream down his cheeks as he catches his breath. Ivan’s hand runs down his ribcage, feeling each tremor that rolls through him. 

“Let go,” Ivan eventually commands, keeping his voice soft. Leo’s expression is one of pure and true misery. Just on the brink of openly sobbing, of begging, but holding back. That spark of defiance is there, and Ivan thinks, maybe for a moment, Leo’s going to refuse him. “Let go of the fucking tub, Leo,” he says again.

Leo nods, his lips tight as tears flood his eyes, dropping down his jaw, onto his shoulders, some even rolling down his stomach and disappearing in to the water. He does let go, though, and brings his hands back into the tub. His arms are limp in the water, and his eyes go distant. 

“You’re fine, my Leo,” Ivan says. He presses his lips into the top of Leo’s head, then whispers, “Hold your breath.”

Leo gulps down air, nodding again, but he’s far away. It doesn’t stop Ivan.

Again and again, he pushes him under, watching hungrily as his body weakens and weakens and weakens. Every time he comes up, it’s less and less intense, until finally he comes up silently, sucking in soft breaths with a near lifelessness. Ivan holds his head above the water with one hand, more gentle now. Is the lesson learned, he wonders idly?

The tears don’t stop, but Ivan has a certain appreciation for them. He feels the muscles constrict under his hand. Tonight, Leo will curl up against him and sleep, the first time in days. And he’ll be fucking thankful for the relief. It’ll be bliss.

“You’ve had enough?” he asks, when Leo’s caught his breath the best he can. 

His boy hesitates. He’s shaking so hard, and has been, for so long. He doesn’t curl himself up anymore, he just waits. Terrified eyes meet Ivan’s, all blue and red, with fresh tears gathering even now, even when Ivan was sure he’d run out. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t– I don’t know.”

Ivan unplugs the tub, and the water slowly empties. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He pulls Leo’s head to his chest, holding him tightly as the silent tears continue. 

Ivan’s voice darkens. “The shit you pulled this week doesn’t work for me.” Leo tenses. “I bought your contract knowing you were a little rough around the edges, but I promise you, your defiance does not go unnoticed.”

Ivan stands and selects a folded white towel from the closet; he sets it on the edge of the tub and sets the bowl of strawberries on top. 

“Eat slowly or you’ll make yourself sick. Once you’re done, dry yourself off and come to bed.” He brushes his thumb across the tear tracks on Leo’s cheek, wiping some tears away. His eyes hold Leo’s and he brings his thumb to his mouth, licking it once and smiling.

“Take your time, my sweet Leo. You did well tonight. I expect you to do well tomorrow night.”

He inclines his head toward the bowl in a silent command, his brow lifting slightly in expectation. Leo watches him carefully as he selects one piece up and brings it to his lips, his eyes closing as the taste hits him. His fingers are shaking, but as he swallows, something shifts.  Relief washes over Leo’s features, and his eyes leave Ivan’s and lock hungrily on the bowl of food. He’s desperate for more, Ivan knows. He’s desperate to eat them all, before they can be taken from him. But he won’t. Even in his desperation, he forces himself to go slowly.

Because he knows the cost of defiance, Ivan suspects. The thought makes his heart race. They have a little journey ahead of them, but he has no doubt that it’ll be worth it in the end.

✥ ✥ ✥

Nearly twenty minutes pass before Leo walks into his bedroom, dry now. His shoulders are hunched as he waits for permission to lay down, and Ivan pats the bed next to him in silent approval.

Leo nods, slowly sinking down into the mattress.

“Come here,” Ivan whispers, and Leo does not hesitate to do as he’s told. He curls up, letting Ivan wrap his arms around him. He’s not shaking as hard anymore, but it’s there, just under the surface. His breathing is even, but his breath catches in his throat every few seconds. Ivan holds him tightly, running his free hand through his hair as he adjusts them so he’s on his back, and Leo is curled into his side.

“Don’t make me hurt you like that again,” he says. He feels Leo nod against his chest as he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. “Get some sleep, Leo.”

Leo’s eyes close almost instantly, and what could only be seconds later, there’s a release of tension, and Ivan knows that he’s out. He turns off the light, but he doesn’t take his hands off of his boy. If he has his way, he never will.

TAG LIST: @peachy-panic, @whump-cravings @afabulousmrtake @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump @distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @prodigal-zoe @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches @i-msonotcreative

[lilac-and-lemon-whumps]

Whatever I Decide

@themerrywhumpofmay Day 7: “Relax” Comfort | Branded | Trembling 

Micah leaves his room for the first time. 

Part 1 | Masterlist

Cw: it as a pronoun, vampire whumper/dubious caretaker, human whumpee, fear of punishment, references to scars and forced eating, allusions to past whump (asphyxiation, whips)

Diego was hungry. 

It wasn’t too bad yet, though he knew it would only grow the longer he waited. Faria had invited him out to feed at one of the local BOT bars—blood-on-tap, some new generational fad that sounded a little too hipster for Diego’s tastes. Whether he wanted to spend the evening drinking mildly stale blood or not (“Ethically sourced,” Jonah, Faria’s partner, would laugh), and was leaning much further toward not anyway, Diego couldn’t leave the house unattended yet. 

While he had no idea what exactly he was going to do with the pet he didn’t ask for but was given by the state regardless, he didn’t want to see the poor thing hurt itself or, Crowley forbid, find a way to escape and only get itself killed in the end. The paperwork would be a nightmare.

A knock on his door reminded Diego of the second reason he couldn’t go out tonight and instead had to favor one of his blood packs from the fridge. 

“Mr. Silva?” The representative from the pet center stood at his door, package in hand. She handed it over along with a slip for him to sign off on before nodding in thanks and retreating back to her car. Diego didn’t bother to close the door but simply sighed and unwrapped the package where he stood in the entryway. 

So. The moment of truth.

The bubble wrap crinkled when he pulled out the item. He quickly glossed over the chain, looking for any identification. 

Annnnnd there it was. 

“—Chow?”

Diego frowned. The collar he held was stained a dark red, soft yet firm leather with a little pendant hanging from the center in the shape of a bone. It was on this pendant that the word “Chow” lay, engraved silver that must have cost his sister a pretty peso for. It looked more like something one would put around a dog’s neck, but then again, Diego knew his share of friends and colleagues who treated their pets just the same.

Diego was tempted to call Faria. In the past couple of weeks, she’d become his sort of confidant when trying to figure out how to handle the strange creature. Until today, Diego had no name to call it by, and not for lack of trying. The human refused to tell him its name, and if it reacted any other way than the usual blanching and curling in on itself when Diego asked, Diego would have had half a mind to punish it for being so stubborn. 

But…Chow? What a stupid name for a pet. Gabi may have had refined tasted in other outlets of her life, but apparently that did not extend to naming her things.  

“Perfect,” Diego muttered. When the state representative called to say they’d salvaged a few more of Gabi’s belongings in the remains of her car, one item that looked to be nothing other than a pet’s collar, Diego had been almost excited. He would take any information on the pet, seeing as his sister left nearly squat for him to figure out when it came to maintaining the human she’d had for the past however many years. 

Even the human’s documentation was nowhere to be found. If he were stupid, Diego would have pried more into it. All human pets are supposed to come with a standard buyer’s contract, blood type, name and age if applicable, etc. The representative’s suggested Gabi had probably just misplaced the documents when alive. It was a polite out for the much more likely reality that Gabi had purchased the human illegally. 

As closest kin, Diego immediately earned possession of Gabi’s belongings. Which, of course, included the human. 

Even in death, his sister was making Diego’s life complicated. 

*

Micah had been studying the skin of his wrists when the door to the enclosure swung open. He didn’t hear the sound of a key, but before he could wonder if it had been unlocked all along, his new owner walked in, a familiar object hanging from his left hand. 

Micah froze.

“You’re awake,” his owner said in lieu of greeting. His eyes followed Micah’s to the object in his hand. “Oh. You recognize this, don’t you?” 

Micah looked between the collar—his collar, the red one that Miss Silva would put on him for their public outings. Sometimes, most times, she’d tighten it until he could barely breathe and he had to lay his head on her knee when he thought he’d pass out—to Mr. Diego’s face. Was he angry? Jealous, knowing the collar was a reminder that Micah used to belong to someone else? How did he get ahold of it? 

Mr. Diego approached until his legs hit the side of the bed. He dangled the collar in front of Micah’s face, who could only watch as the collar’s silver bone with the damning inscription swung back and forth like a ticking clock. 

“Chow.” Mr. Diego slowly drew out the word. “Is that your name? The one you refuse to tell me?”

Mr. Diego didn’t sound mad, but his words were enough to send Micah’s heart racing. Ever since Micah had been forced to disobey and eat what Mr. Diego gave him, Micah was waiting to be punished. Miss Silva favored the whip and her nails, but the unknowing of what Micah’s new owner would do was worse. 

And the other day, Micah had been so sure Mr. Diego was going to—to feed from him. Micah had awoken at some unknown time, wrists sore and bleeding from the old ties his owner had been using. When Mr. Diego had taken Micah’s wrists and brought them to his mouth, so, so close to those fangs that haunted Micah’s worst fears, his new owner had simply licked the wounds until the cuts and scratches healed. 

Micah knew, rationally, how vampire saliva and venom could work. And while Micah had been a good dog with Miss Silva, who never drank from him or drained him dry like the other bad animals she’d have shipped in, she also never licked Micah’s wounds closed. A punishment was a punishment, after all.

If Micah was being punished for eating, or for the few times he’d spoken, he had no idea when that would be. But now, maybe he was catching on. Mr. Diego had found his old collar. Surely he was going to put it on Micah, perhaps see how tight it could go until the dark swallowed Micah once again. 

(Six notches. That’s how many Micah could take.)

(Micah knew that as much as Miss Silva had.)

“You’d think I put you in a freezer with how pale you are,” Mr. Diego murmured. He set the collar down on the bed’s side table. Micah tried not to look surprised. “I need to ask you some questions. If you’re not going to speak, I need you to at least nod or shake your head. Can you do that for me?”

It was a trick question. It had to be. Pets were too stupid to communicate with their owners. But if Mr. Diego was asking him to…surely the punishment for following an impossible order would be lighter than disobeying?

Slowly, and feeling like he might throw if he had anything of substance in his stomach, Micah moved his head up, then down. 

“Oh, good boy,” Mr. Diego’s eyes lit up. Micah started. “Just like that. I’m going to free your hands, and then we’re going to go in the main room and talk. Or, I’ll talk. Nod for me again if you understand.”

Main room? Micah was leaving his enclosure? Distantly, he felt himself nod for his owner, but the uncertainty threatened to drown everything out. 

Calm down, he told himself. You deserve any punishment he decides. 

“I should’ve tried asking this way the first time.” Mr. Diego unlatched the new leash that had come in for Micah. Micah much preferred these over the old ties, which had cut into his skin every time he moved wrong in his sleep. These new ones were much softer, and had enough give for Micah to move his arms where he liked rather than be strung out like a doll. 

Once Micah’s hands were free, Mr. Diego picked up the collar again. As much as Micah tried, he couldn’t hide his sharp inhale quick enough to not draw Mr. Diego’s attention. 

“Let me guess,” his owner mused, waving the red leather. “You don’t like this, do you?”

Another trick question. It didn’t matter what Micah liked. If his owner wanted to collar him, then Micah should be honored to be so cared for. Now that Miss Silva was—not here—Micah was Mr. Diego’s to do with as he pleased. Micah’s wants and likes had nothing to do with it. 

“What did I say?” Mr. Diego tsked. With his free hand, he ran his thumb over Micah’s lips, drawing down to his chin. Maneuvering Micah’s head himself, he moved Micah’s head side to side, then up and down in a faux nod. “Nod for me, or shake your head. I do not enjoy repeating myself.”

Micah waited a beat before realizing what his owner intended. Pressing his lips tight together so not to accidentally make a sound, Micah slowly shook his head and waited to be slapped for his insolence. 

But nothing came. Micah hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he felt the pad of Mr. Diego’s finger tapping at the side of his temples in a silent command. 

“Why,” his owner said quietly, “are you so afraid of me?” 

Micah blinked. And then, because he had no idea what else to do, he nodded. 

Mr. Diego scoffed but he didn’t say anything more. Nor did he fasten the collar around Micah’s neck, or slap him for taking so many liberties, or tell Micah to get into position. Instead, he looped the collar around his wrist and, before Micah could think to react, picked Micah up in his arms. 

* To say the human tensed would be putting it mildly. The pet—Chow? Such a stupid name—went from soft skin to solid stone in Diego’s hold the second he had the human wrapped in it. A very frightened, shaking stone, that is. 

“Shhh, you’re okay,” Diego soothed. He placed one hand on the small of its back and rubbed gently as he made his way out of the human’s quarters and back into the main area of the ranch house. What surprised him the most wasn’t necessarily how small it was, because he could easily tell that just by looking. It was how light it was, even for a human.  

Not for the first time, Diego worried about the pet’s eating habits. 

He set the human on the couch beside him, and for a moment the pet stayed wrapped around him before it realized it was being put down. “There you are. Just get comfortable. I’ll say this now, because I’ve been told I need to be as clear as possible with you: you’re not in trouble—uh, Chow.” Despite the assurance, the human still made a face before quickly hiding the expression. Diego latched on to the information. Diego was slowly but surely learning what set off the human, so he wasn’t too surprised at how it tensed when Diego’s shoulder brushed its as he sat down. But it did finally nod, and Diego did not miss how its eyes quickly flit around the lit room, taking in the new space. 

Probably, Diego realized, it was the first time it had seen a fully lit room since Gabi’s old house. He never bothered turning on the lamp in the human’s space. 

“First order of business then. I want a name to call you by. Do you want me to call you Chow? Is that your name?”

The human wouldn’t meet his eyes. The silence stretched. Just when Diego was about to give up and move to the next question, mentally making a note to start a tally count for infractions, the human surprised him. 

“My name is-is whatever you dec-decide, Sir.”

There it was again. His pet could talk. But despite this seeming accomplishment, it immediately shrank into itself after speaking, shoulders bowed as if to fend from attack. 

Diego wasn’t stupid. The signs were all there since the moment he received the pet. The scars on its legs when they had to change its clothes. The two wounds on its back Faria had to stitch up. The way it cowered like a kicked dog, how it looked ill upon speaking, why it never ate by its own choice. 

He remembered his friend’s words when they’d last spoken over the phone. Fair. Diego had quickly cut her off, not wanting to hear slander about Gabi no matter how hard of feelings they left off on before her death. 

But looking at the broken, very much malnourished form of this pet, blue veins more visible than its sunken eyes, Diego had to swallow back a surprising rush of sympathy for the human. Diego had never been cruel for the sake of being such. He was a reasonable man, who approached the world as logically as he knew how. Logic told him humans were below them, to be used as nourishment or, at times, as pets for the very cherished. Logic told him humans were weak, unnaturally short and thin boned, common for prey animals. 

What logic did not tell Diego, however, was the depth to which this human must have been treated to be so damn afraid all the time. It looked like the wind could put up a better fight than this pet. Even the humans in their colonies did not act this way before their superiors. Obedient, yes. Deferential, yes. But…but this? Abject terror and utterly irrational behavior…

For a species that was so determined to hide from harm and stay alive, it made no logical sense to deny food and willingly resist speaking when, by all accounts, it would be easier for both of them to not do so. 

“I like it when you speak,” Diego told it. “Will you tell me why you always stop yourself?”

That was obviously not the right thing to say. Its wrist wounds from the other night were all healed, but it scratched at the invisible marks as if they still bothered him. Its upper teeth bit so hard into its lower lips Diego almost expected to smell blood soon.

Diego was much too old to react like a child who’d turn feral at their first taste of human blood. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle his reactions around a bleeding human—he very much well could. It was just, well. Even in its current state, the human was admittedly adorable. And who could resist tasting a sweet face like that when it was just so ready to take?

The human did not seem to share Diego’s happy thoughts. It was pale and looking a bit green as if it’d been at sea too long. What wiry muscles it still had were coiled so hard Diego wondered if it was in pain by that alone. 

“Relax, sweetheart.” Acting more on instinct than anything, Diego pulled the pet into his arms again, doing whatever he could to soothe it. Again, it tensed. Again, it froze, waiting for something. 

And then, after almost a minute of Diego waiting a patiently as he could (Faria would never let him live it down if she saw), Diego smelled the tell-tale signs of salt before he felt the drops hit his chest.

“You cry so sweetly,” Diego sighed, not unkindly, and completely unsure if that was a proper thing to tell a pet. He remembered Faria’s advice over the phone: treat it like a child. Speak gently to it. Tell it explicitly what it's allowed and not allowed to do. “But you’re allowed to make noise, little one. You’re allowed to speak, if you wish. I would like you to speak, if that means anything.”

Diego took inventory of the human while he had it so close. It’d been over two weeks since he got the poor thing, but he hadn’t truly studied it since those first two days when the pet had been drugged out of its mind for transportation. It’s hair was a bit matted, what once was probably curly dark locks tangled and grown out beyond what was healthy. He’d probably have to cut it, and most definitely wash it at the very least. To be honest, Diego had been avoiding the issue of bathing and had settled on wiping it down with soap every few days while it tried not to struggle. If the pet freaked out about food, what would it do if Diego tried to strip it? 

“I’m…I’m s-sorry.”

The little hiccup of noise from where the pet had its face curled into Diego’s chest immediately drew Diego from his thoughts. He didn’t dare move, not wanting to give the pet any more reason to startle. Not for the first time Diego wished he were Faria, who could comfort any human with the slightest word. He just wanted a name, damn it. 

But despite his own impatience, he couldn’t be annoyed for long. Diego wasn’t sure what it said about the human who, despite its obvious terror of him, had burrowed itself so sweetly into Diego’s arms as if Diego could protect it from the very thing it feared. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Diego asked. 

“‘Dogs aren’t suh-supposed to talk, sir.” Its voice was muffled where it spoke into Diego’s chest, one hand clenched tight into Diego’s button down. He was definitely going to have to dry clean it. 

Diego focused on the matter at hand. “If I wanted you sorry, I’d let you know. Whatever rules Ga—whatever rules you were once told do not apply here.” Diego wasn’t sure how much the pet knew about its new state. Did it know that Gabi was his sister? Most likely not. Diego had avoided communicating too much with pet despite having two weeks to bring it up to speed. 

In Diego’s defense, he had been terribly busy sorting out the funeral situation and deciding on Gabi’s belongings, whether to donate, keep, or trash the ridiculous hoard of material items she’d collected over the past seventy years. On top of that, Diego had to move his office work remotely while he figured out what he would do with the pet. Keep it? Sell it? Get a few weeks worth of his own fresh blood before ridding himself of the whole ordeal? The human’s food that it barely even ate was expensive, after all. 

“Here, you are allowed to speak. In fact, that is a rule. You will speak when I ask you a question,” Diego settled on telling the human. “Understood?”

Diego could practically feel the human’s hesitation, as if sensing a trick. “...Yes, sir?” it finally breathed. It was more a question than an assurance, but Diego would let it slide for now. 

He finally wondered aloud the thought that had been creeping up. “Was food another rule? Is that why you refuse to eat?”

No answer now, at least not aloud. What was that, a second infraction? Third? Diego mentally noted it for later, before hearing a small sniffle and then the quietest, Yes, sir, he’d ever heard.

Huh. Diego thought about the last time he’d seen his sister, what, ten years ago? What had she been thinking, getting a pet and hardly allowing it to eat? It was common knowlege that prey creatures had to rely on food much more often than their superiors. Where Diego could go days, maybe a week if he really pushed himself, without feeding, humans needed to at least once a day, two or three for maximum energy.

Besides. How did Gabi feed off a pet who looked this deprived of...of everything? Surely she didn’t keep it just to have it around.

“You are allowed to eat here. And speak. I need you healthy and honest, little one. How else am I going to get any use out of you?” Diego rubbed the pet’s shoulders as another wave of silent tears overcame it. Good hell, Diego wanted to sigh. 

“Your old owner’s rules mean nothing here, alright? It’s like you said: 

“It’s whatever I decide.”

*

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @thecyrulik @deluxewhump @melancholy-in-the-morning @pumpkin-spice-whump @cicatrix-energy @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May 2023 Masterlist.

(updated irregularly)

May 3- "You're not looking too hot."

(whumpee/whumper, beat down)

May 5- "Do onto others as you would bla bla bla..."

(runaway, sadistic whumper, liberal use of arrows)

May 6- "It's a long story."

(whumpee/whumper, sold into a gladiator ring)

May 9- "We'll burn that bridge when we get there."

(oc Mal makes a guest appearance, on the run for murder, lady whump)

May 10- "Hit the hay."

(Villain and Supervillain break into a warehouse)

May 12- "Time flies when you're having fun."

(Caretaker/ Whumpee/ Whumper, lady whump)

May 13- "You made your bed, now bleed in it."

(elf whump, whumpee turned whumper)

May 16- "Take a break."

(Villain/ Sidekick, elemental whump)

May 20- “A taste of your own medicine.”

(interrogation and stabbing and a suit is ruined)

May 22- “You can lead a bitch to water but you can’t make them drink.”

(defiant and bitter whumpee, royal whumper who is a royal asshole)

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

MAY 4TH “SHOULDERS BACK, EYES ON ME”

Movie marathon | Choking | Forced feeding || @themerrywhumpofmay​

(TCW: choking, gagging, brief mention of plausible vomiting (doesn’t happen), restrained, forced feeding (aphrodisiacs), implied future noncon, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, implied chemist whumper)

"Shoulders back, eyes on me," Whumper instructed, Whumpee unable to move from their bound position on the chair they'd been tied to.

Whumpee was wide eyed, feeling the tension on their jaw from Whumper's prying fingers. They watched their face turn angry, gritting their teeth with disdain for an ignored command.

"You might as well open your mouth, you're taking this pill either way." Whumper ordered, fingers digging into the softs of their cheeks to try to force their teeth apart.

Their other hand held a large, mint green tablet that Whumpee had stared at just out of their sight. It was presented and Whumper scraped the tablet across their closed lips.

"I promise, it'll make you feel good and you'll have a lot less to worry about.." Whumper tried to assure and Whumpee turned away when their jaw was freed, only to have a hand wrapped around their throat.

"If I squeeze just a little more, you'll open up like a trash can.." Whumper muttered and clamped around their neck, tightening until Whumpee turned red in their cheeks. Fingers left indents on their skin and it whitened around the intensity; Whumpee’s limbs starting to wiggle in their binds. 

In the end, it was as Whumper said it would be, they couldn’t help but open their mouth in a weak, brainless attempt to get air that was being held out of them. 

“There you go, now we just gotta get this nice and deep,” They mused, taking the tablet between two fingers and shoving them fearlessly into the curve of their throat. They pushed until they felt a contraction around their fingers of a gag and pressed down on the hand choking them, just a bit harder in case they tried to vomit. 

A hand clamped around their mouth before they released the hand on their airway and Whumpee came alive with coughing, gagging sputters. They’d swallowed though, the first thing they’d regretfully done, had been to swallow the medicine deeper down into their system; unknowing what misery it held for them. 

“There you go, that wasn’t so bad.. Or maybe it wouldn’t have been if you didn’t always have to fight me.”

Whumpee hacked for a long while, wheezed as saliva dribbled down their face and tears expelled from their eyes from the pressure and force. They’d been so adamant but it was all for nothing, as it usually was. No matter what they did, they never managed to fight Whumper off and was never given much of a chance to do so in the first place.

“But that’s what I like about you, is you’re still stupid enough to fight. Which makes me get pretty creative in just how to tame that, because I have no interest in fully breaking you.” Whumper mused, a hand brushing their bangs back as they snapped attention towards them and let hatred fuel the embers in their eyes. 

“I don’t want you to lose that fire, but I need you to know who’s in charge. And who it’s in your best interest to listen to.” Fingers traced lightly, skimmed down the edge of their face, their neck and trailed a bare collarbone. So lithe, underfed against skin but still soft. They’d weakened Whumpee pleny but still hadn’t managed to touch their inner disdain. 

“Consider this the second phase of your training, love. To become my perfect little plaything, guard dog, companion.. You’ll be my everything when I’m done and you’ll love every moment of it.” 

Whumper knew the exact moment it hit their stomach and boiled deep in their current state of nausea. They’d greened slightly at the hollows and he watched them fight back a gag. To the point Whumper offered a few sips of a bottled water to avoid the mess. 

“W-What did you give to me..” Whumpee asked weakly, feeling a slow, sluggish feeling start to creep in ever so faintly. Their vision wanted to wobble if they moved too fast but time felt as though it was on stand-by. 

“We’re about to find out, I made it special just for you. I don’t always have to follow a recipe, that’s why I’m good at what I do.” Whumper purred, watching wakes of goosebumps rise wherever they touched now. 

“If it does what I want it to.. it won’t take me long to program your body to associate everything I do, with some kind of pleasure.” They gave a soft chuckle, when skimming Whumpee’s sides earned a flinch; despite the rope that kept their stomach flattened to the back of their chair. 

“W-Why are you doing this to me-” Whumpee choked out a sob, when their vision started to drift and duplicate, body feeling as though it’d been filled with cement. 

“Because, Whumpee, I wanted a pretty pet and you’re just too pretty to have freedom.” Whumper tilted their head that kept drooping down and ran a thumb over their lips. 

“Don’t worry, once it sets in, the bad feelings will go away.. this is just how it has to start.” Whumper seemed almost comforting, stroking so gently down Whumpee’s face as it had scrunched with emotion and fear. 

“It all feels b-bad..” Whumpee lied, unable to take their focus off the fingers that thoughtlessly trailed down their skin. It changed patterns so often, dared to run across nipples that hardened under the first brush. 

“I promise, it’ll feel good soon.. And I’ll help speed it up in the meantime.” 

[mybeautifulbeautifuleternal]

Part One

    They enjoyed your pain. It wasn’t something new to you nor was it a surprise. They had made it clear to you that the louder you screamed, the more you begged and pleaded with them, the more they laughed and smiled. It had been days of various torture techniques, on some sort of schedule that you could never figure out. They didn’t seem to mind it when you eventually passed out from the pain or the dehydration or the hunger.    

    It wasn’t like that stopped them after all.

    However, it had been a quiet few days – only a handful of men coming into your torture chamber (the only correct title for this room, filled with a various but numerous number of tools of the trade topped with concrete walls and drains in the floor for easy cleaning) compared to the nearly endless number that had started your stay with them.

    You suspected something was going to happen today that differed from your schedule. The men that had started piling into the room were all smiling and joking about with one another, lining the edge of the room and completely ignoring you. It sent bolts of concern and apprehension through you. John had warned you, even if only briefly, that such things like that were bad. When they started to ignore you, it usually meant that they were done with you.

    Minutes later, the man seemingly in charge of this entire operation sauntered into the room and everyone went silent. In his hands, he carried a handful of papers topped with what looked like a photograph. You could see nothing at the range he was at but the sight of him with that coy smile on his lips froze you down to your soul. Nothing good ever came from him coming to you but you knew this was going to be the worst sort of torture yet.

    “You know, Mx. Wick, your husband has been very very dedicated to trying to track you down. In fact, a great amount of time and effort had been put in place to throw him off our tracks,” during his slow amble closer to you, you went cross-eyed dizzy with the force you shook your head. You knew you didn’t want to hear what he had to say anymore. Nothing good could come from continuing this conversion. Unfortunately, you rarely got what you wanted in this place. “But this? This might have been the greatest plan we’ve had to date.”

    He finally got close enough to you that you could see the photo that was on top of his pile. It was a photo of John in all black, standing over a fresh grave. 

    The tears that started to pool on your eyes didn’t mask the pleasure the leader had written across his face as he leaned down and made complete eye contact with you. “I have to say Mx. Wick, your funeral was very touching. We shed some tears just watching it.”

    The men lining the room burst out laughing but you couldn’t bring yourself to break eye contact. 

    “We’re so glad your stay has been extended. I can’t wait till I can start sending pictures of your broken and dead body to John. It’ll be a grand time.”

@themerrywhumpofmay

[painsandconfusion]

“...Sir?”

The Merry Whump of May - Day 31

[Middle of Nowhere | Freezing | Lighter] (abandoned, implied character death, freezing, just bad bad sad feelings all around)

“Alright, get out.”

Whumpee blinked at Whumper, turning their head to stare out at the vast nothingness - just a windswept plane washed in snow. Not a speck of life of a hint of civilization from skyline to skyline.

Whumper didn’t seem to be moving. Not even when Whumpee’s own fingers obediently slipped down to their buckle, clicking it open.

“....Sir?”

“I said get out.”

Whumpee swallowed thickly, staring around as they hesitantly pushed the car door open. “...I…what are we doing…??”

“You’re getting out of the damn car.” 

They stare at Whumper. Then at their bare feet. “...but Sir..it’s-”

“-just shut UP and do what the fuck I tell you.”

Whumpee flinched hard away from the scolding, but stepped out. Icy pain twisted almost immediately up their legs, clenching their muscles down and wringing them tight against the cold.

“S-sir it’s - …it’s c-”

They flinched back again as Whumper hurled a lighter toward them. “There. Fire. Heat. All better.” They reached across and grabbed the door to close it.

“W-whumper -s-sir you…you’re n-....you’re not leaving me h-here are y-”

“Yup.”

That was it.

The door slammed shut.

The car rolled away.

Shrunk over the horizon.

And they were gone.

[Masterpost] Shoutout to @themerrywhumpofmay for putting together this event!

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @happy-little-sadist @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @michaeltalks @rainbows-and-whumperflies @cursedscribbles @whumpy-catfish @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @whumpsday @wingedwhump @ha-ha-one @morning-star-whump @pickywhumpreader)

Lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day 19

“Apples and oranges.”

Chainsaw | Surprise | Home Base

Masterlist

Cw: murder, graphic description of death, filmed torture, dehumanization, humiliation, restraints, gagging, vomiting

Hero reeled back as a fist smashed into the side of their face, sparks of white crackling across their vision. Heat radiated from their jaw, nose, cheeks, blood dripping from shallow scrapes as bruises welted deep under their skin.

A sob, raw and painful clawed from their throat, tears mingling with the blood and dirt that painted their face, but their cries were muffled by the duct tape, wound tightly over their mouth and around the back of their head. Pulled tight enough that it would undoubtedly leave an indent even after it was removed.

“Come on, Hero, smile,” the Villain taunted, shoving their phone camera close to Hero’s face, grabbing their hair when the other tried to cower away. “Show everyone how fucking pathetic you are.”

The alley was dark and deserted, lit only with the faint glow of streetlights towards the mouth, but Villain had their flashlight on, focusing its directly on them. The light sent daggers shooting back through Hero’s skull, and they squeezed their eyes shut.

Villain let out a cruel laugh, their free hand drawing back before punching Hero hard in the stomach, practically giggling as they doubled over, gagging.

Bile stung their throat, but Hero was forced to swallow it back, lest they wish to choke on their own sick. They doubted Villain would save them if they did. They’d fucking stand there and video, laughing to the livestream as Hero suffocated.

With their hands bound behind them to the rungs of a fire escape, duct tape wound dozens of times around their wrists and forearms, their legs secured at the ankles and knees, there was nothing Hero could do except tuck their chin and try to curl away to protect their face.

“And you call yourself a hero. You’re fucking pathetic, you little bitch, you hear me?” Villain stood straight, the camera swaying as they brought up their leg before stomping down hard on the hero’s bound ankle. The scream was guttural, but it was lost to the gag as Hero heaved, fighting to breathe through their nose while the air refused to enter their lungs.

They were going to suffocate. They were going to die choking on their own blood tainted saliva, while this fucking bastard streamed it for the world to see.

They were a sick, fucked up asshole, Villain. A snake. They hadn’t won shit of a victory. Hero had spent the entire day chasing and fighting OtherVillain, by the time Villain had cornered them, they were already limping and too exhausted to flee in time. It had been a fucking cheap move, lower than a villain. At least people like OtherVillain earned their own fucking success, not steal someone else’s.

“You see, guys, this is what your fucking Hero is. Nothing but a crying coward,” Villain chuckled, their hand dropping to their belt, slipping into the small sheath that laid attached to it.

They weren’t even a fucking Villain. Barely. They hadn’t done crap—Hero had ended every single poorly planned scheme of theirs before it even started. This was just a matter of luck—or the fucking opposite—how they ended up in the same alley as the injured Hero.

Villain squatted down, the blade of their knife dragging down Hero’s chest, scraping the skin. Their uniform lay in less than tatters, the shredded, torn fabric barely hanging off their shoulders, the dark bruises that mottled Hero’s abdomen standing out starkly against the camera’s light.

“I say we leave them with a reminder, how ‘bout that. So they never forget this fucking moment,”

Hero sobbed, breath coming in short gasps through their nose that didn’t seem to draw in any oxygen. They turned their face away, digging their temple against the rungs of the ladder, the cold metal doing nothing to soothe their burning skin.

Villain brought their knife to Hero’s chest, setting the camera down for a second so they could saw away the last few threads of their shirt, leaving them bare and trembling. The night was cold, even colder with their sweating, flushed skin, and Hero let out a weak cry of protest as the knife touched just below their collarbone.

“Fucking watch me, Hero,” Villain demanded, twisting the camera to focus on Hero’s face. “Watch.”

Hero had been tortured before. Whipped and starved, left to hang and bend in the worst stress positions for hours. They’d been beaten and burned, denied water for days on end. They were no stranger to pain, but this, the humiliation adding a certain acid to the edge of the blade, was worse than anything. Blood poured down their chest, a waterfall of crimson opening down their front as Villain dragged the knife down, cutting deep into their skin. Hero couldn’t even scream as they continued, slowly and crudely carving away at their chest.

Fucking letters, Hero realized, the sickening truth dawning on them. Their vision was blurred with tears, distorted enough so they couldn’t even see Villain’s face, barely a foot from theirs. Villain split two jagged curves connecting to the first line, uneven with an intentional negligence behind their movements. They quickly split a second line next to the first, dragging it down nearly to Hero’s sternum.

Everything was spinning now, sensation lost to the terrible vertigo and nausea, world clouded with agony. Villain split two lines next, one vertical and the other horizontal, crossing against each other in the center of Hero’s chest.

The next letter was curved, Hero could feel as the blade slit their skin, and they knew exactly what it was being written in blood, the recording camera carving every humiliating, dehumanizing cut.

Villain didn’t have a chance to finish the fourth letter.

Their phone clattered to the ground, smacking loudly against the asphalt as they were yanked back by the collar of their shirt, thrown against the opposite wall with enough force to crack a skull.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” A low voice seethed. Hero blinked blearily, but they couldn’t get their vision to focus enough to make out more than two clouded figures in front of them.

“Wait- wait,” Villain gasped, every bit of arrogance fled their tone. “No- no stop, I didn’t mean- no-”

A sharp thud echoed around the alley accompanied by a mangled scream, closely followed by another thud, and then another.

A body dropped to the ground, and it was all quiet, except for Hero’s choking breaths.

“Oh, Hero,” The new arrival turned towards them, but Hero could make out nothing more than an outline as they stepped forwards and quickly knelt next to them, gloved hands raising to rip the tape away from their mouth. Strands of hair were wrenched along with it, skin stinging but Hero barely noticed as they gasped, straining for the first full breath, feeling the air rush through their lungs as if for the first time.

Something churned in their stomach, and they hunched to the side, and vomited.

They felt a hand against their back, pressing softly between their shoulder blades as another grabbed Villain’s discarded knife. Hero panicked for a second as they felt the metal, hot and slick with blood pressure to their wrists, but all the stranger did was slice away their bonds in one clean, sharp flick of their wrist, not even grazing skin.

“You’re alright, it’s alright, love,” the voice soothed softly, hand moving from their back to their face, cold fingers cupping their bruised cheek. Deep and calm, it was familiar, but Hero couldn’t make out their face yet. “Breathe, Hero. Deep breaths, you’ll be alright.”

Hero wasn’t comprehending the words, but between the gentle tone and the light touch, their heaving sobs settled back into gasps, then to shaking breaths. They blinked hard, vision clearing just enough so they could recognize the stranger.

When they did, their heart nearly stopped cold in their chest.

“That’s it, that’s right, Hero, you’re alright.” Supervillain murmured, their thumb brushing over Hero’s bruised cheekbone.

They weren’t. They weren’t alright. But their voice was so soothing, so compelling.

Once they had quieted, eyes barely managing to stay open, something thick and warm was draped over them. They barely had time to register what it was—a cape, made of fine, rich material—before they were picked up, an arm hooking beneath their knees and around their back, lifting them like nothing. Before they straightened fully, Supervillain grabbed something with their hand. They turned the phone’s camera, pointing it straight at the body crumpled across the alley, zooming in and pressing the screen to focus.

Villain was dead. Clearly dead. The back of their skull smashed in and split open, blood leaking from their nose and lips, eyes bulging slightly from their sockets. Dead.

“They’re not going to hurt you again,” Supervillain whispered to Hero, before letting the phone drop from their hands, crushing the screen beneath their boot. “No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

————————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

[leyswhumpdump]

A Little Louder

Day 25 of @themerrywhumpofmay​

Tropes and CWs: villain whumper, civilian whumpee, stress position, handcuffs.

“You understand why I had to do this, don’t you?” Villain said.

In spite of Civilian’s best efforts, they couldn’t quite suppress the sob. The height of the ring in the wall, and the kneeling position they’d been forced to assume, yanked their cuffed arms at an unnatural angle.

“I simply can’t have you running loose around my compound, tampering with my biometric scanners. It’s a security risk.”

They’d barely even had a chance to tamper, Civilian reflected bitterly. Maybe they should have focused on causing damage, instead of an escape attempt that was doomed from the beginning.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Villain pressed.

“Go fuck yourself.” The words slipped out in a whisper, and yet Civilian longed to stuff them back down their throat. Villain paused in their tracks.

“Say that again, Civilian. A little louder this time.”

Civilian stared at the tiled floor and said nothing.

“Very well then. I’ll leave you here for now. But since you’re so set on being defiant…” Villain leaned past Civilian’s head. There came a little clicking sound from the tightening handcuffs. “Let’s see if we can’t leave a few reminders that it isn’t worth it.”

“Please,” Civilian burst out, as squeezing pain shot through their tendons. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I won’t do anything again, please—”

“I’ll be back for you later. Perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps a few hours. It depends on how many security systems I need to reset. And then I’ll ask you again what you have to say for yourself.” The door began to close. “Have your answer ready.”

Civilian sobbed again, and wondered whether Hero would even care enough to rescue them.

[cryptidwritings]

"Let's go Back Inside."

@themerrywhumpofmay Day 17 - Garotte, Forced to Watch, Carried [masterlist]

CW: team whump, chains, restrained, beating, imprisonment, minor character death mention

Leader, Whumpee, and Medic walked along the hallway of Whumper's prison. The chains around their ankles scraping against the tile floor. The matching cuffs around their backs pulled and pushed in succession as they were escorted by two armed guards.

The guard in front pushed a door open, allowing intense light to flood into the prisoner's faces.

Their eyes adjusted, and Leader met the eyes of Whumper who stood in front of a set of four chair-like objects; set up in a U, all trained towards where Whumper was standing with two extra guards.

Whumper smiled, "welcome!" they opened their arms wide, revealing a black baton in their hand, "to your new home!"

They laughed, and Leader grimaced, listening as Whumpee stifled a panicked shriek at the sight.

"Take a seat," Whumper waved them over, and a guard grabbed each team member's arm, pulling them towards the chairs. As they neared, Leader noticed that each chair was fitted with a metal collar, attached to the back.

"This trash heap is what you spent your money on?" Leader scoffed as a guard pushed them down. Whumpee choked on their mounting fear as the collar was wrapped around their neck.

"Oh, you disapprove?" Whumper asked as they walked toward the fourth chair and set their hand upon it, looking at Leader with a wry smile, "I had planned for one more, but, well, you know..."

Leader clenched their fists as the weight of the loss of Mentor reignited.

"You're going to pay for what you've done," Leader promised, backed with calm fury.

"Strong words for someone who's in my prison," Whumper said, leaving the fourth chair and standing in front of Leader. They tilted their head, smiling as Leader's gaze didn't back down and the collar was tightened again.

Whumpee let out a whimper, and Whumper's gaze snapped to them.

Whumper chuckled and walked toward them, tilting their chin up with the baton. Their lip trembled as silent tears began to stain their face.

"It's been so long since I've seen you like this," Whumper practically purred, "I've missed it."

Whumpee closed their eyes.

"Leave them alone," Medic said, their back arching uncomfortably in order to create space with the collar, "there's no reason to torture them again."

Whumper looked at Medic, their eyes falling flat, "You're right," they stated as they turned and addressed one of the standing guards, "bring me Leader."

"W-wait!" Medic interjected, regretful eyes watching as the guard behind Leader undid their collar and unhooked the chain that joined them together.

Whumpee looked on in horror, their whole body shaking, "P-please leave them alone..." they mumbled, trying to find the courage to speak louder than a whisper, but it was caught in their throat.

Leader was pushed in front of Whumper, back facing the other two.

"Kneel," they ordered.

"N...No..." Whumpee begged as the guard kicked out Leader's knees.

"Do your worst," Leader spat, "I'm still going to kill you."

Whumper stared down at Leader, their eyes burning bright with excitement that radiated to a sadistic smile that spread across their face. They pressed their thumb against the black rod, and the tip came to life with electricity.

"Such boldness," they practically laughed, disengaging the electricity before placing the tip on Leader's neck, "rest assured, Leader, I will do my very worst," they pressed the button and Leader screamed as their body seized involuntarily and fell to the floor.

Whumper stopped, watching Leader pant and cough, hearing the rattling chains as Medic pulled against them.

"And every day I'm still alive," Whumper continued over the chains, "I'm going to beat one of you within an inch of their life," they looked at Medic, pointing the baton at them, "you're next."

They lifted the baton high in the air and crashed it down on Leader's side, eliciting another yelp of pain.

"Stop!" Whumpee cried out, "P-please!"

Whumper looked up and smirked as they electrocuted Leader, watching as Whumpee started to struggle, tears still coming down, made worse by seeing their friend's body jerk around unnaturally for what felt like too long.

Leader's breathing continued at an awkward pace, and their eyes fluttered, trying to remain open.

Whumper straightened, looking down at Leader as they fixed their clothing.

"Leave those two here," they said, "bring Leader. Let's go back inside their cell where we can get a little messy," they said the word with an excited flair.

"You bastard!" Medic yelled as the guards picked up Leader's limp body, "put them down!"

Whumpee lowered their gaze to their lap as Medic continued their protest in the now empty room. Their fortress they had built together; with Leader, Medic, and... Mentor... it was crumbling.

It was crumbling.

[just-horrible-things]

The Merry Whump of May 2: Beg To Differ Denial | Confined | Eye Contact @themerrywhumpofmay

“How does it feel,” the victor crows, “knowing that in the end, it was all for nothing?” The traitor, naked and bruised and stuffed into a cage sized for a dog, cranes his neck to look up at his enemy. “It was not for nothing,” he says. “It was for justice.” The tyrant kicks the cage. “Don’t play facetious with me,” he hisses. “You failed. Your little rebellion is nothing but ash. Can you taste it?” “I regret nothing,” the traitor says. “It was the right thing to do.” “Oh you will regret it,” the tyrant growls. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He casts about the room angrily. The fire is not lit – that’s an idea for later – but he grabs the poker from its stand anyway, and jabs it sharply between the bars. The naked man grunts, and bares his teeth.

“I am going to break you,” the tyrant tells him, digging the tip of the poker in hard between two ribs and leaning his weight against it. “You will regret everything before I’m done with you. You will beg me for mercy. I will make you scream until you can’t remember your own name.” “You can – break my body –” the traitor answers, body twisted under the pressure, voice twisted under the pain “-- You can make me scream. You can – maybe even make me beg. But you can’t make me – regret. I did what had to be done.”

The tyrant loses his temper then, and beats the prisoner savagely through the bars of the cage, bringing the metal poker down hard on immobilised limbs and quivering flesh. When he finally steps back, both men are panting hard.The traitor looks the tyrant dead in the eye and grins a snarl of a grin. “It was worth it,” he says. “It was worth it.” “It was worth nothing,” the tyrant snaps back. “I will put them all to death. Everything you built will burn. I will erase your name from history. You have failed, and no one will ever remember that you even tried.” “How like you,” the traitor sneers, “to think that a thing is only worth doing if it is glorified. Do whatever you want with me. You can’t change the truth – It. Was. Worth it.”