Whump Art 9
Whumpee is safe, but terrified of his rescuers, or maybe he's still with Whumper, who is trying to be a better person, but Whumpee can't forget all the things Whumper did to him so easily.
1K notes
·
View notes
Luis holding an almost dead Laredo after a failed mission he couldn't have helped. Please. Traumatized Luis thinking he's gonna lose a mage again.
Whumpril 2024 - Day 12 - Weak Pulse
Hehehe I'm just on a Laredo kick!
TWs: blood, gore, painful healing, near death experience
"Sorry, sir." The rattling words gripped Luis' heart in their teeth, squeezing like a wolf that had finally caught its rabbit. "Tried."
Laredo smiled up at him, blood trickling from his mouth in thick ribbons. He stank of burnt hair and Luis couldn't keep a grip on him. He raised a hand to hold his own side, trembling like a leaf as the howls and whistles of the other four echoed around them. "Dunno what was wrong with the intel."
Luis had been fed bad information. He'd realized that much when the first alert whistle had pierced the air. Luis swallowed hard, managing to shift Laredo so that his head was cradled by one of Luis' arms and his cheek rested against Luis' bicep. Luis' other hand cupped Laredo's face, pinky and ring fingers resting at his pulse point.
It was fluttering, too quick and too weak. Laredo was dying. He was going to lose him.
Luis couldn't lose him.
Another trill, this time from Manuel—a check-in. Luis trilled back, his voice pitching up into a sharp bark at the end. An urgent request for help.
Two flickers, then three strobes flashed in the distance.
Manuel was on his way.
"Hold on, Laredo. Keep your eyes on me." Luis tried to keep his voice steady, not even bothering with code names. "You're going to be okay." He failed, trembling on the last word.
"M'trying." Laredo muttered, eyes squeezing shut as an awful coughing fit made fresh blood spill bright and horrible from his lips. "Don't wanna make Dimitri go to...go to another funeral."
Luis felt his chest tighten horribly. He didn't think he could bear to put concealer beneath Dimitri's eyes again. He didn't think Dimitri could survive that again.
"You won't, Laredo. I'll keep you awake, then Manuel will heal you up." Luis saw water dripping down onto Laredo's throat. He didn't know when he'd started crying. "I have you."
"Trust you." Laredo breathed, struggling to look up at Luis again. "Always have."
Only Manuel skidding around the corner and into the little hiding spot they'd found could make Luis' terror ease. As they gagged Laredo and Manuel slammed healing magic through his broken body, Luis could've cried. He wouldn't though. Not when the other mages still needed him to be steady and even.
@lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125
17 notes
·
View notes
Whumpee woke with a sobbing shout. They quivered and panted, memories hit them as if they were still on the floor at whumper's feet. They felt arms wrap around them and beeping heard overhead; the sound worsened the pounding already in their head.
"Hey hey hey! It's okay. You got a lot of injuries, you've got to take it slow." Caretaker touched whumpees forehead and put them back against the pillow. They tightly gripped whumpee's hand and the other rested on their chest.
"Wh-where am I? How did I get here?" Whumpee panicked.
"You're in a hospital. I'm here with you, everything's okay. You're going to be fine..." Caretaker sadly smiled. Whumpee stared up at them with wide eyes, breathing like a wounded animal, gripping the back of caretakers hand with every ounce of strength, which was hardly holding them at all.
Despite caretaker's calm demeanor, whumpee could feel caretaker's hand shaking as much as their own.
"You-" Whumpee breathed, trying to raise their hand to them, but they couldn't.
"Yeah, it's me," Caretaker smiled, collecting their collapsed hand in their own. "I'm here, I'm taking good care of you. You can keep resting, okay?"
Whumpee shook their head no, their body still in fight or flight mode, wanting nothing more but to jump up and assess their surroundings. Caretaker could see their legs twitching and slowly inching off the bed as they sighed and scooted on the bed with them, pushing their legs back to the center.
"No hon, it's too early to be doing that." Caretaker soothed, laying whumpee's head on their shoulder.
It was almost as if as soon as whumeee's cheek settled, they relaxed and their heart rate slowly returned to normal beat by beat. Caretaker looked up at their monitor and sighed with relief watching the numbers stabilize.
496 notes
·
View notes
There’s something about a whumpee just sitting down. Not fainting, necessarily. Maybe they’re just about to faint, and they quietly just kneel on the ground at a time and place that doesn’t make sense. They don’t even have the capacity or willingness to articulate why they need to abruptly stop and sit. Maybe they’re catatonic while the others look at them.
Maybe a caretaker can see the dull, vacant look in their eyes and immediately senses that something is seriously wrong. Maybe the fainting comes just a few moments later.
910 notes
·
View notes
content warning: directly referenced noncon below the cut, betrayal by a superior/abuse of power.
In the heart of the battlefield, where the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded echo like a symphony of despair, Cillian stands, a lone figure against the tide of chaos. The battlement stands high over the raging fight, but they do not feel something as stupid as safe. Arm rising and sliding back down in a fluid motion, they rapidly draw an arrow from their quiver and notch it in the bow, over and over. It is hard to tell through the wall of smoke how many arrows meet their mark, but judging from years of experience, it is a fair few.
The heat billowing up is almost enough to encourage the bead of sweat on their brow to fall into their eye. Flames dance madly below, casting eerie shadows upon the war-torn landscape, painting a vivid picture of destruction.
Arrows whistle through the air, but Cillian remains steadfast, their bow drawn taut, eyes fixed on each target in turn. Amidst the chaos, a shadow falls upon them, dark and foreboding. Ragged shorn black hair flutters as their head flicks to the side to check who is approaching from their side, but they instantly focus back on the enemy horse that they were aiming at. It is only their baron. The boss, their leader, a mighty fighter. Bit of a jackass if you get enough drink in him.
The first blow comes without warning - a sudden, vicious strike that leaves Cillian reeling, their world spinning in a blur of pain and confusion. As they stagger backward forward, they toss a hand up to slam against the vertical inner face of the merlon.
Aldous struck them. Aldous struck them? Mouth hanging open, Cillian drops their bow to the floor and lowers the hand that they’d instinctively cupped over the side of their head. Wide black eyes lock onto the man who only steps closer now that they’ve been startled out of their fight for queen and country.
Why would he hit them? Did they do something wrong? Of course they didn’t, they’re a fantastic soldier. But… why, why is he…
He reaches for their shoulder with one hand and tries to drive his other fist up into their stomach. A gut punch, during the battle? With fires raging below, with arrows flying above their heads? They want to ask why. Cillian’s lips part to ask, but the word dies on their tongue. Words never make it out of them.
With each blow, Cillian's world narrows to a pinpoint of agony, their every breath a struggle against the suffocating weight of his wrath. And why he has any wrath in the first place is a puzzle to them, written across a face twisted with distress. The stone of the battlement digs into their back, a cruel reminder of their helplessness in the face of overwhelming odds.
The odds, a moment ago, were that they would die from a burning arrow through the chest or throat. A righteous, if painful death. Now, they wonder if they will be beaten into a pulp by their baron for no reason at all. If they will die up here, unheard over the din of the war that’s encroached upon the walls that protect the queen herself.
Even as their body cries out for mercy against their will, Cillian refuses to yield. Even as they trained to be a fighter, many years ago, they never gave up until they passed out, in training. The boys were rough and they were determined to prove they were strong enough to handle it. With every ounce of strength they possess, they fight back. The baron is strong, but Cillian is quick, and well-trained. Partly by him. A vicious kick to his shin, an elbow to the gut, a punch to the throat that is almost brutal enough to make him choke and stagger back.
But they only seem to fuel his… madness? Anger? Excitement? And in a flurry of dizzying movement, Cillian finds themself eking out a rare sound as they are shoved forward. They’ll die, they’ll fall over the embrasure and tumble to their messy death below - but no, their waist catches at the crenel, and suddenly they are viewing the battle upside-down.
Vision blurry from the smoke billowing up, Cillian blinks. It is only when a tear drips from their lashes and falls with a twinkle of orange light that they realize they are crying. It is a feeble solace that they haven’t been pleading. Cool air rushing down from above instead of rising from the fire below scrapes across their skin as their light armor and clothes are torn away, jolting them side to side. Sweat slicks the palms they press feverishly to the outer wall of the battlement for purchase, in the fight for their life. Not the fight against the baron, they lost that in under a minute. Just the fight to keep themself from falling.
Their body lurches forward and back, forward and back. It is strange watching arrows fly down then up, instead of up then down. Strange seeing horses galloping with hooves beating upward, and finally falling up too. Their hair is whipping into their face with the wind, palms scraping raw against the stone wall. A particularly painful thrust sends them sliding forward enough that one arrow slides out of the quiver strapped to their back. Then all at once, a half dozen more arrows tumble out, fluttering down to the ground. Cillian watches the clattering of narrow wood and feathers disintegrating in the heat.
A matter of minutes later, his grip on their hips tightens, slides up toward their ribs only to haul them backward. Cillian’s now-feeble arms barely help to push themself up and back until they are dumped onto the stone floor of the battlement.
The baron does not leave them only half-protected by the embrasure. He plants two firm hands on their waist again and drags them to the side to sit them up against the merlon. Tear-filled eyes blurry from the smoke blink dazedly, fluttering with muted horror, as their leader ruffles their hair. As if he is still fond of them, and the two of them only had a tussle on the training grounds.
When the baron is finally done, when he has sated his thirst, Cillian is left feeling hollow. He backs away, appraising them with a flustered, ruddy look on his face. They avoid meeting his gaze, hand hovering by the sheathed knife at their ankle.
They don’t even fully notice the baron leaving. They were avoiding looking up at him, afraid of what they might see. Regret, maybe. Or worse, satisfaction.
The battle is still raging below. Friends and fellow soldiers laying down their lives. Cillian climbs faintly to their feet, bracing a knee against the crenel for balance as vertigo strikes. Half-distracted by new pain deep in their core, they reach blindly for the bucket of arrows behind the merlon and load their bow, glaring down at the mass of enemies as they try to aim into the sea of unwelcome bodies.
7 notes
·
View notes
Whumptober Day 25: Lost Voice
Masterpost | Read on Ao3
A rare moment of defiance results in Elze’ith losing even more than he thought possible.
Contains: Intimate whump, vampire whumper, bloodbag whumpee, gilded cage, mind control, mental link between whumper and whumpee, choking, whumpee rendered unable to speak
~~~
Teeth pierced his neck, and Elze’ith let his eyes slip closed.
Feedings always confused him. They hurt; it felt like he was losing a part of his soul each time, and they left him weak and struggling to summon his magic. But there was a kind of peace in the exhaustion he was always left with. The feeling of Lord Denholm’s lips on his neck was almost tender, and Lord Denholm always complimented and comforted him when he was done.
Lord Denholm would praise him after everything they did together. Feedings, at least, didn’t hurt as much as some of the other things Lord Denholm liked to do.
Keep reading
41 notes
·
View notes
Shame
Masterpost | Read on Ao3
After so long, Elze'ith has learned how to take care of himself, though that doesn't make it easy.
For @whumpril Day 3: Shame
Contains: Aftermath of noncon, captivity/gilded cage, dissociation/depersonalization, isolation, briefly mentioned desire to self-harm
~~~
It always happened the same way. Lord Denholm would take him to bed. He would stay for a while. And then he would leave, and Elze’ith would try to bind the fragments of his soul back together.
It never seemed to work. It always felt like there was something missing, every single time. Something he could never get back, no matter how hard he tried. Pieces of him lost to the ether, and ultimately he wasn’t sure if anything resembling himself would remain.
Occasionally, Lord Denholm would take him to the bath himself. Even more rarely still, they would bathe together. Elze’ith found himself craving those moments, where he wouldn’t have to think, where he wouldn’t have to force his attention onto his wretched body. But more often than not, Lord Denholm departed straight from his bedroom, or his study, or wherever he had decided they would be coupling that day, and Elze’ith would have to painstakingly gather his strength and carry himself to the bath all on his own. It was never easy. But the idea of lingering in the sweat and blood and other remnants of Lord Denholm’s ministrations was far, far worse. And if he went early enough, the distance his mind tended to keep could carry through to his time in the water, and he could get himself washed without his thoughts dwelling on why.
Not that it was always easy. Just the mere act of being in the bath, no matter how scalding he made the water, could be enough to send chills down his spine. Even when he was alone he could sometimes feel Lord Denholm’s hands on him, sickeningly gentle, mapping out every inch of his skin. Those times were the hardest, when not even the quiet fog in his mind was enough to keep him safe, and he had to hurry to finish and get back to his room before the urge to claw into his own skin grew overwhelming.
Though there was a linen closet not far from his chambers, he started keeping a fresh set of bedding in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As much as he rarely wanted to go through the effort of actually changing his linens, of being faced with the aftermath of his encounters with Lord Denholm, he wanted even less for that evidence to remain. So he kept fresh sets close as hand, to accommodate for the frequency at which he couldn’t muster the willpower to venture back out into the castle halls to fetch something. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough; sometimes his sense of mortification and disgust and the fog that clouded his mind left him feeling immobilized for ages, and he would sleep in one of the chairs in his room rather than face what he and Lord Denholm had done together. But sometimes he could collapse onto a bed that felt cleaner than he ever would, and he knew to appreciate that.
As he appreciated the fact that he could set his laundry outside his door, and one of the servants would take care of it for him. At times like this, he didn’t even care that no one would talk to him, that he couldn’t speak to anyone even if he wanted to, that the halls were always achingly empty when he picked himself up from what he could not refuse. He didn’t want anyone else looking at him, talking to him, knowing him, out of some thorny mix of fear and shame and other emotions he dare not name. It didn’t matter how much part of him yearned for comfort, how much he didn’t want to deal with this alone, how the brambles in his heart felt like they were going to cut him open every time this happened. No, best that he be left alone. There was no helping him anyway.
It was all he could do to help himself. Go through the motions. Heal any outstanding wounds, the pain both grounding and disorienting but never pleasant. Put on clean clothes, so that he might feel more like a person and less like some monstrous, wretched thing. Brush his hair; it always seemed to get tangled. The routine of it was almost soothing in its own right, simple tasks he had completed thousands of times before and that he knew by heart. It was almost enough for him to forget what had just happened, to pretend that he was anywhere else. He never could, but maybe someday that blissful ignorance would come.
But now even what scraps of comfort he tried to stitch together were warped by how much of himself he had traded away. He drifted through a home that wasn’t his, dressed in clothes he would never choose and sleeping on a too-soft bed. There was no solace to be found in these frigid halls, no matter where he looked, and whatever he tried to cobble together was inevitably tainted. He felt like a ghost in his own body, haunting a life that was no longer his. He found himself glad that Lord Denholm had forbidden him access to a mirror. He didn’t think he could look at himself. Not anymore.
And yet he kept living. Day after day. He simply had no other choice. Such luxuries had been taken from him long, long ago.
16 notes
·
View notes
“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal
“This one… was difficult. Quick to obey, if you make the consequences for failure clear. But not eager. For example…”
A single fingertip starts at the nape of his neck, trailing down his spine. Muscles twitch under the thick scarring across Major’s back as he instinctively flinches down and only manages to wrench his arms farther up. Kept on his knees, thighs pressed tightly to his ribcage, head hanging and arms forced high behind his back to keep him locked in this position that makes his body feel like it’s on fire… the once-proud healer whines breathlessly. Defeated, he allows the touch to slide back up toward his shoulders and push down until he wheezes faintly. Chains clink somewhere overhead with his tremors.
“Ah, I see,” Says the new person. A buyer? Some freak who wants a pet? Major has no idea. No one tells him anything here. He doesn’t get to know anything here. Barely gets to earn one more day of being alive, with every act of obedience. “He’s not leaning into it, is he? Could you get him there?”
Tears well up in Major’s eyes and threaten to drip to the floor. He’s not fucking crying, he just… doesn’t want to fucking imagine how he could end up. What he could be trained to act like.
The trailing fingers are replaced by a wide, warm hand across the back of his neck. Despite how it makes his arms creak and twitch, Major cowers down to press his knees harder into his ribs, breaths coming shallower with every futile attempt to escape the crushing warmth. As fingers slide up into his hair, burrowing under bleached straw to find the softer, grown out brown waves against his scalp, Major tries to rise before he can be yanked upward. The chain linked to his iron collar clinks in protest, but relief washes over him anyway as the owner of the hand hums in approval.
“We could get him there.”
taglist: @morning-star-whump, @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe
31 notes
·
View notes
Chilled awake by the breeze sneaking in through the cracked window, Emory groans under his breath. Sleep is a heavy, too-warm comfort that tries to drag him back under after a long day at work. Gramps is getting slower, more achey, and that means that his grandson has a lot more on his plate now.
The mattress is moving. Lux’s weight is shifting, but he isn’t getting up. Soft, hitching breaths… Emory sighs. It’s a nightmare.
They are older, now. This would have been heartbreaking when they were in their twenties, and he does still worry, but now there are faint creases in their faces. Emory’s freckles have been fading. Lux’s scars aren’t so itchy anymore - although his joints do just get worse and worse. Maybe his shoulders are bothering him. Eyes clogged with sleep, Emory keeps them closed as he reaches over to find Lux’s arm and cup a hand around it supportively.
The man beside him jerks, and then there is a soft sob across the room.
Emory bolts up. The bed bounces with the sudden movement as he rises enough to see a frail, pale body folded up on the floor. Dark curls stand stark against red-smudged skin. Fervently rubbing his eyes he finds, upon squinting against the dark, that it is Lux.
Beside him, Lux lets out a sleep-sob-stuttered sigh.
So the Lux on the floor… is a copy? Is made of magic? Isn’t real? Emory climbs off the bed to slide down to the floor on hands and knees. This feels… delicate. Scary. He isn’t sure what’s happening, what to do - but he at least knows that it’s never the right move to tower over a frightened Lux.
As he rounds the corner of their bed, impatiently pulling the bonnet off from where it slid down untied to fall on his shoulder, Emory hesitates at the sight of the blood. Torn skin across a shuddering back, wrists chained together to keep his arms twisted behind, and… shoulders at bad angles.
Other than the gore of it all, there is something wrong. The shade of his skin, which is too pale, not tanned like a father who took his family to the beach a week ago. More like the color of someone who’s been locked away inside for too long. And the texture of his back, too, it’s - too smooth under all the damage. Not ridged with old, thick scars that paint a topographical timeline of all the times he was whipped into submission.
“Lux?” Whispers Emory, the sound skittering across the floor.
A mess of curls lifts, and reveals a bare face. No charming beard, or even the scruff a few days after Lux shaves. A smooth, young face. Teary blue eyes with no recognition at all in them. Dark splotchy bruises across his throat like there haven’t been for over a decade.
“Hhhn, hnnn, ple-ease,” Croaks the Lux who can’t be a day over twenty years old. Shaking violently, choking softly on his own sobs. The curtain flutters in the breeze and he flinches from it to muffle a whimper against the floor. “Ple-, please, don’t don’t h-hurt me please, I, I’m s-sorry whatever I-... I did…”
Frowning, Emory sits on his heels and holds up his hands as if in surrender. The young Lux doesn’t notice or register it as a real sign of safety.
Up on the bed, his Lux shifts and makes a sad sound in his sleep.
This does seem like something Lux would see in a nightmare. Not himself on the floor, broken, but… being young again, feeling that much pain. Being lost and so, so sorry, unable to feel safe even in his own home, approached by his husband. Losing all the growth, all the confidence he’s cultivated.
“It’s okay, Lux,” Emory whispers, still hushed as if speaking too loudly will break something. As if Lux himself will shatter at the volume. Even at his quiet, gentle reassurance, the kid cowers down into a smaller shape and sobs as inaudibly as he can.
Leaning up high enough on his knees to see over the edge of the bed, he spots forty-two-year-old Lux’s brows furrowing, as if his nightmare is shifting oddly. On the floor the young Lux chokes on a wail, and suddenly he is on his back, straddled by a larger man with broad shoulders, graying hair, a flannel and jeans and amused eyes. The Hunter.
Emory’s jaw sets. He’ll say something, make some kind of a deal, make the man leave - but those calloused hands wrap around Lux’s throat, and as the twenty-year-old Lux makes strangled whimpery sounds, bare feet sliding over the floor in his weak struggle, dark eyes flit to the door. Emory has to make sure their daughter isn’t standing there. If she saw this, if she ever knew even the smallest hint of what her dad has been through… but no, the door is shut, the house peaceful and dark.
On the bed, Lux breathes shallow and quick from his nose, fingers twitching with the sleep-shackled need to pry the unreal grip from his neck.
Emory’s starting to stand when the Hunter chuckles, low and final, and then dissolves. Poor young Lux gasps and then falls still and silent with a shudder as the dissipated shadow reshapes into a different man, standing over him. Narrower shoulders than the Hunter, and not as tall, but solid with the muscle of a man who could kill at any time if he wanted to. Strong, knobbly hands that look so much like Lux’s, now that he’s older. Blue eyes that hold disgust like he’s just found maggots writhing on the floor. At his feet, young Lux scarcely breathes.
Emory doesn’t even think. His body is moving, and then the too-small Lux is beneath him, bundled up in his arms. The shivering warlock cries into his chest, a little noisier with his fear now that he has someone to hide under.
Lux’s shoulders are smaller, without slight muscle from picking up his daughter and carrying a backpack loaded with art supplies. His chest and stomach are flatter without the squish of years of safety and hearty meals. Before they had a chance to find comfort in each other, before he had a family who loved him and a home he built himself, Lux was a small thing who only knew how to get hurt.
Lux’s father doesn’t speak, but something clinks. Metal on glass. Young Lux gets smaller, somehow, trying to be perfectly invisible under Emory’s protection.
A long bullet clatters to the floor and rolls toward them. Young Lux is breathing silently again, tears falling slowly without sobs to hurry them. He has gone from acting like a victim of a torturer to acting like a child who knows exactly how to react to keep from being killed.
Warm arms wrap tighter around the nightmare Lux. Emory sighs into that mess of quivering curls. He can’t protect this Lux and go wake the one on the bed at the same time. And he isn’t going to abandon this one to face his greatest fear.
“You are safe,” Emory murmurs to the kid in his arms. Lux was just a kid, twenty and too used to all of this. Those shoulders are still crunchy, the back still torn open, but dream logic is strange and kid Lux doesn’t seem to mind being hugged. “Honey, Lux, you’re okay. I’m going to make it better. What hurts?”
Young Lux shakes his head so slightly. He won’t speak, while his father is watching.
Emory grunts with the effort of fixing this. “I see your shoulders hurt, Curls. Let me help with that. Come on.” Dragging the too-light warlock up, Emory staunchly ignores the spectre of Lux’s father and brings the kid over to the bed, encouraging him up onto it despite the tremors that wrack him the closer they get. Now there is an oddly thin, unwrinkled, barely scarred Lux weeping on one side of the bed, and the older Lux crying softly in his sleep.
First, hands well-versed in repairing book bindings take the older Lux’s right arm to carefully lift it. That aged face crinkles with agony, but Emory continues his work, encouraging the shoulder to rotate and supporting the joint the whole way around. Incredibly cautious massaging gets blood flowing how it should and forces locked muscles to unknot.
The nightmare Lux’s right arm drops free of its chains, and the poor kid whimpers like a beaten dog.
Resolute, Emory works on the left arm next, stretching and moving it with all the care he would use to pick up a butterfly with a broken wing. Dislocations and breaks from many years ago try to fight the movement, muscles locking and twitching to deepen those sleep-sobs. A beautiful, tanned, beard-crested face twists with deep misery that can never be fully erased by any amount of cuddles, dinners, and kisses.
Young Lux’s other arm falls free. He falls forward onto his hands and knees, then limps down onto his side to whine, “Mmh, my ba-ack, please, I’m sorry I’m s-sorry I, th-thank you ple-e-ease…”
“I know, honey.” A tender kiss is pressed to an aged, teary cheek before Emory carefully rolls his husband onto his front and peels up that shirt to find little more than many layered scars and sweat. He tugs over a soft, cool corner of their top blanket to dry the nightmare sweat and then scratches across the scarring, gentle at first then harder and harder. It’s not always easy to get the sensation of a back scratch through the ridges and valleys of half-numb skin that formed twisted over the countless whippings he earned by being a good boy for the Hunter.
Lux should have woken up by now, but he is magic, and Emory stopped letting “should” be much of a factor when it comes to taking care of his husband.
The young Lux has fallen limp to keep crying softly, his back no longer seeping blood onto the covers. His arms seem better, his back too, but still he cries.
It must be the years of living with this many-times-broken man that leaves Emory feeling perfectly certain about what he needs to do. He slides his hands under his sleep-heavy husband and rocks back once, twice, and a final time until he can haul Lux into his lap. It isn’t perfect - Lux is tall, and heavy, and limp. His legs spill awkwardly outward and his head falls over Emory’s shoulder. But it doesn’t matter how big he is, he needs to be held like a baby right now.
“It’s alright,” Emory coos under his breath, tucking Lux’s head more comfortably against the crook of his neck. Hand wedging under Lux’s pajama-clad thigh to keep him folded close, he continues, “I’m here. Right here, Lux.” At some point, Lux’s father disappeared, and no one else who frightens him has appeared. The room is dark, and quiet, and pleasantly cool. “I know you hurt. I know you’re scared.” Young Lux has gone, too, leaving behind no dark red smudges or blankets soaked with tears. Or maybe that small, whimpering Lux is still here, just a little bigger and a little older nowadays. “But you’re not alone.”
18 notes
·
View notes
Whumpril 2024 - Day 7 - Hesitation
-A huge demon enters the sitcom stage to raucous applause, spreading his arms and grinning at the other actors- GUESS WHO'S BACK AFTER BEING ON OC VACATION, at least now and then yk, I missed Gabe
TWs: attempted murder/assassination, threats, brief and vague reference to noncon by whumpee, blood, blades
“Please–” Gabriel watched the angel in front of him tremble. She clasped her hands in front of herself, brilliant purple eyes fixed on the bright cerulean soul in his hand. “Please, Prince Gabriel, don't do this.”
Gabriel sneered, rolling the little soul around in his palm, feeling the magical sparks against his skin. “Why?” He walked closer, idly toying with one sword he'd taken. His foot came to rest on the blade of the other. “You tried to kill me in my own home. Give me a reason to spare two assassins.”
She winced back, mouth gaping as she struggled for a reason. Gabriel laughed and dropped the blade with a clatter, bringing the soul up to his mouth. He rolled the marble into his mouth, holding it between his teeth. Everyone who knew of Gabriel Rivas, Demon Prince of the Wrathful Chase also knew how he liked to dispatch the souls of his enemies.
She dropped to her knees, tears springing from her eyes. Sobbing, she scrambled forward, desperately grabbing at the sheer silks he was wrapped in. “No, not him, not Alistair, he's all I have–”
Something in how her voice broke, in how her watery purple eyes looked up at him with such desperation, made Gabriel pause. Suddenly the soul didn't feel as satisfying to have in his mouth. He pulled the soul away from his teeth with a sigh, brows furrowed.
“Hmm.” He thought for a moment, before grinning again. “Alright, alright. I'll make you a deal.”
She pressed her hands to her mouth and sat back on her heels, looking up at him with a frantic nod. She reached to his silks again, feeling at his hips, starting to tug the fabric away from his skin. “Anything, anything at all, sir, whatever you want I'll–”
Gabriel felt his grin drop away as his stomach rolled. He stepped back, reaching a hand up sharply. “Quiet. Don't touch me. I don't want–not that.”
He took a deep breath, golden eyes lingering on the intact halo that hovered above her head. It matched her eyes perfectly. Her cloudy, dark grey wings shivered behind her back, pulled as tightly against her as possible. Messy black hair framed her face. Her arms wrapped around herself, like she might fall apart if she didn't.
“if you can survive out there for forty-eight hours then you're free to go.” He motioned to the window, to the clogged, labyrinthine streets that lay far below his uncanny skyscraper. The screams and howls of the hunted couldn't be heard this far up. “You won't be able to fly. My demons will be hunting you the whole time. But if you can do it, you get to leave. Both of you. He'll stay in my possession until then.”
She swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. I, yes. Yes, I accept. And if I don’t, you’ll kill us.”
“Give me your name." Gabriel said with a nod, offering a hand out to her. She grasped it. When he helped her to her feet, she seemed to barely weigh as much as Throl.
“Felicia.”
“Go on Felicia, you have a fifteen minute start time.”
Gabriel didn’t know how he felt, watching her disappear into the elevator, shoulders squared.
As the doors closed, he shifted again and a sharp pain raced up his leg. Glancing down, the sword blade he’d stepped on before had bitten into him. Curiosity spiking, he lifted it to examine the sole of his foot. Golden blood started to languidly ooze, but there was no burning. He wasn’t being immolated by holy magic. He curiously looked to the other, and realized that it didn’t smell holy either–that had been the angel.
Neither one of these blades could have killed him.
“Huh. Well, Alistair. Guess things are a little more complicated than I thought. Let’s just see how Felicia does while I think about where to go next.”
14 notes
·
View notes
Deep raspy breathing where the lungs aren't fully expanding. Breathing that's interrupted by sickening, hacking coughs that Whumpee can't fight off. Passing out because they can't breathe properly.
Whumpees who've been strangled and choked, Whumpees with breathing conditions shoved in dusty, dirty spaces. Whumpees who're so desperate to breathe they rip and claw at their own throat...
608 notes
·
View notes
“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal
To whom it may concern,
I am a member of an organization that operates as a toolbox for federal agencies. A laboratory, in a way. Naturally, I cannot give details or even the name of my organization. But we believe that we have a great deal to offer, and that by working together, our groups can do a lot of good.
As proof of what we can do, I’ve attached videos and records showing the progress we’ve made with a notorious menace to the community. This progress was made not in one year, or one month, or one week. This was all accomplished within 12 hours.
If the proof of our work interests you, I can be reached at
[email protected] or (212) 747-5315.
Looking forward to correspondence,
L. Bonin
Video attachment 1:
A row of six men, down on their knees, blindfolds wrapped around their heads. The first is petite, but resting on his heels with confidence. To his right is a burly man who is quaking. Next, a lithe, muscular man littered in burn scars, with frizzy bleached hair. Each man seems unsteady and nervous about their captivity, heads tipped to listen.
There is no audio but they are each clearly asked the same question. The first kneeling man is executed for his clearly snarky answer. The second is more cooperative, it seems, but shot in the head too.
The third looks angry. Afraid. Shoulders squared with pride that seems to be fading rapidly with each bright flash of the gun. The barrel is pressed to his head, and his lips part to let out a single word. He is the first to be spared.
Video attachment 2:
The body littered by burn scars is shivering. Twitching. Forced down with his face mashed into the floor, arms forced behind his back, wrists circled in twisted chains. A hand is pressed between his shoulder blades to keep him down as a brand is pressed to his upper arm. Again there is no audio, but the sizzle and screaming are as clear as the smoke rising from the forming burn.
After the branding is done, the hand leaves his back. Trails fingertips down his spine, over a bent leg. The prisoner doesn’t jerk away from it, and doesn’t try to twist away from the heated metal that lingers by his shoulder.
Intake form:
Birth name: Miles [No last name]
Nickname: Major
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 225 lbs
Hair color: Brown (bleached white)
IQ: 80 (Note: slow processing and limited reasoning skills, explain instructions clearly)
Demeanor: Violent, antisocial, sadistic, restless
Identifying marks: Burn scars across hands, arms, chest, back. Tattoos partially visible along edges of scarring.
Notes: This fucker killed two of ours and broke my nose on the way in. Turns out he calls himself Major, so he’s the one that kills cops and feds when they get close. Was expecting a hell of a turnaround time on him, but something must’ve clicked during the initial thinning out. Trauma with gunshots? Blindfolds? He seems pissed off about obeying, but he’s learning fast anyway.
taglist: @morning-star-whump, @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe
27 notes
·
View notes
{Quotes:Nitya prakash/Richard siken ,crush}
78K notes
·
View notes
Take the things that make your whumpee themself. Animalistic features? Carefully removed and stored. Birthmarks burned away, hair dyed or make them grow out their hair. Train any accent out of them, break bones and let them set wrong, give them a collection of scars- Just, remake them until they can't even recognize themself, anymore.
248 notes
·
View notes
Whumpers who pair comforting words with grotesque or violent gestures. This is something.
319 notes
·
View notes