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whump-or-whatever · 1 year

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Whump Vignette #5

Contents: stabbing, blood loss, hidden injury, falling unconscious, blackmail, self-sacrifice, waking up in hospital, implied past torture

Whumpee and Caretaker sat side by side on the courtroom bench. Whumper was in the defendants chair, a smug look on their face. Chains attached the shackles on their wrists to the ones on their ankles. Every so often Whumper would cast a glance back at Whumpee, causing them to shiver each time. Whumper grinned as they observed the effect they had on Whumpee. Caretaker cast worried glances at Whumpee every so often, but Whumpee avoided their eyes, trying not to let on how much Whumper was getting to them.

After days of trial, the judge had sent the jury for deliberation. The next day a verdict had been reached and the court had reconvened. A few final formalities were dealt with, some statements made, and the judge called for a 20 minute recess before the reading of the verdict. Whumpee sighed and stood up, saying to Caretaker “I’m gonna run to the washroom, I’ll be right back.”

Caretaker looked them over worriedly. They knew Whumpee was under a great deal of stress. Having to testify against Whumper had certainly taken a lot out of Whumpee and Caretaker could see the wave of discomfort that washed over them each time Whumper glanced their way. Nonetheless, Caretaker nodded, figuring Whumpee just needed a moment to prepare themself.

Whumpee wound their way through several corridors, looking for the washroom furthest away from the courtroom. They found one and walked in, leaning down to see that there were no feet in the stalls. Letting out a relieved breath, they went to a sink and splashed some cold water on their face. Whumpee leaned against the porcelain, staring at their reflection in the mirror. They could feel their muscles trembling, responding to the adrenaline which had been running through them since they entered the courtroom that morning. Closing their eyes, they took deep breaths in and out, trying to calm their racing heart.

Whumpee heard the door to the washroom open and they stood up straight, wiping the water off their face with a piece of paper towel. They glanced surreptitiously in the mirror to see who walked in, and their heart dropped into their stomach as they were met with Whumper’s grinning face. Whumpee spun around, pressing their back into the sink. Whumper’s cuffs had been removed and they stood casually with their hands in their pockets.

“How did you get in here?” Whumpee asked, mouth dry.

“I reached an understanding with my guards,” Whumper responded, taking a few slow steps forwards. “They do what I say, their families stay alive.”

Whumpee swallowed roughly, eyes darting around, looking for a way out. Whumper saw this and chuckled. “No use trying to run, the guards are right outside the door and you won’t get past them.”

Reluctantly, Whumpee met Whumper’s eyes with a look of desperation. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you, I want to give you something. A gift of sorts. In kind to the gift you gave me.” Whumper pulled their hand out of their pocket to reveal a small knife. Flicking the blade open, they turned it to admire how the metal caught the light.

Whumpee stood stock still, tracking every movement Whumper made with rapt attention.

Whumper looked back up at Whumpee, as if just remembering they were there. “You got me arrested and in return I give you this.”

Whumper approached Whumpee, getting within a few inches of them. Whumpee was unable to move. They wanted to, told themself they had to, but their feet stayed rooted to the spot. Whumper gently pulled Whumpee’s jacket open, resting the tip of their knife against Whumpee’s dress shirt just above their right hip. Whumpee held their breath, eyes straining down at the weapon.

“I am going to stab you. You will do what you have to do to hide it and return to the courtroom where we will wait to hear the verdict. This way, regardless of the outcome, I will have my revenge.” Whumper spoke evenly. “Then, once the trial is over, you will go home and die. If you tell anyone, seek medical treatment, or otherwise reveal what has happened here today, an unfortunate accident will befall Caretaker. Do you understand me?”

Whumpee nodded stiffly.

“Good.” And with that, Whumper pushed the knife past Whumpee’s skin, reaching the hilt before pulling it out in one smooth movement. Whumpee bit down on a moan at the all-too-familiar pain. Whumper had always been good with knives, knowing just where to cut to ensure Whumpee would not bleed out too quickly. In the past, Whumper would wait until Whumpee was right on the cusp of death before administering medical aide. This time, however, there would be no treatment. This was to be Whumper’s final victory.

Whumper reached behind Whumpee and pulled several paper towels from the dispenser, pressing them against the slow spreading bloodstain on Whumpee’s shirt. Whumpee grasped at their wound with a gasp, allowing Whumper to step back and admire their work. Whumpee sagged, leaning heavily on the sink with their free arm. Their eyes were unfocused and their lip twitched as they attempted to reign in the pain.

Whumper grinned before turning towards the door, calling back over their shoulder, “see you in court.” With that, they were gone and Whumpee was left alone in the washroom. They took a few deep breaths and pushed off the sink, taking a step towards one of the stalls. Unfortunately, their leg failed them and they fell to one knee. Stifling a whimper, they climbed gracelessly back to their feet and stumbled into the stall, locking it behind them. Whumpee hung their jacket on the hook on the back of the door, careful to avoid getting any blood on it. They then unbuttoned their dress shirt with trembling fingers, sliding it off and setting it on the back of the toilet. Their undershirt was next, as they yanked it over their head haphazardly and pressed it to the wound, sopping up the blood that trickled steadily from it. The injury really didn’t look that bad, just a small slit that leaked more blood each time they moved. Still, by the cold tingling sensation that pervaded their body, Whumpee could tell it was bad. It would kill them if they didn’t get help. But to get help would be to condemn Caretaker to death in their stead.

The full force of this fact struck Whumpee all at once and they stared at the stall wall in stunned silence. They were going to die. This was it. They would hear the verdict, go home, and cease to exist. Somebody would find their body, probably Caretaker, and nobody would ever know the truth of what happened. It was that simple.

Strangely, Whumpee didn’t feel panic or fear as they might have thought they would. Instead, a strange sense of calm washed over them. They had only one job now, to walk back into that court room and act as if they were fine, then to go home and die.

With a firm resolve, Whumpee moved into action. They pulled a bunch of toilet paper out of the dispenser and bunched it into a makeshift bandage. Pressing it to their side, they tore off a relatively clean chunk of fabric from the shirt and pressed it over top. They pulled their belt out of its loops and re-fastened it to hold the makeshift wound dressing in place. Opening the door to their stall and peeking out carefully to ensure no one had entered the washroom, Whumpee limped over to the sinks and hurriedly washed the blood from their hands. Returning to the stall, they pulled their shirt and jacket back on, buttoning up the latter to hide the bloodstain and wincing constantly as their wound sent jolts of pain through their torso. As they emerged from the stall, Whumpee took one last look at themself in the mirror. Having ensured there was no blood visible and smoothes out their hair, they walked confidently from the room.

As they traced their path back to the courtroom, Whumpee’s eyes flirted to the face of each person they passed. They kept expecting someone to say something, but nobody seemed to notice anything was wrong. Anything unusual about their appearance or comportment was seemingly dismissed as a result of stress from the upcoming verdict. By the time they reached the courtroom, Whumpee was just glad they would be able to sit down. They slid between groups of people, making their way to their seat. Caretaker glanced up upon their return and took note of how pale Whumpee’s face was. Their brow furrowed in concern.

As Whumpee sat down beside them, Caretaker turned to consider them more fully. “Are you okay?” They asked quietly.

Whumpee nodded, not meeting their eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Caretaker pursed their lips. “You don’t look fine.”

Whumpee heaved a sigh. “I will be fine, alright? I just want to get this over with.” They watched Caretaker’s face in their peripheral vision. Caretaker clearly wanted to say something, but instead bit their tongue and turned back towards the front of the room in silence. Relief flooded through Whumpee, and they turned their attention to the task of surreptitiously positioning their arms so they could put pressure on their wound without looking suspicious.

They waited for another 5 minutes before the judge emerged from their chamber and called for everyone to be seated. The rest of the process was a total haze for Whumpee. The jury representative stood up and read the verdict. Guilty. There were various murmurs and several sighs of relief from the crowd. Whumper wore a cold, angry look when they stood up to be led from the courtroom, but it turned to one of satisfaction as soon as they turned back to see Whumpee staring at them. People in the crowd began filing out of the courtroom while Whumpee sat stonily, stealing themself for the pain that awaited them when they stood up.

A warm hand touched their elbow, and they turned to see Caretaker eyeing them nervously. “You good?”

“Yep,” Whumpee replied casually. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be out in a bit.”

Caretaker’s eyes narrowed. “I really don’t think you should be alone right now.”

Whumpee made a show of rolling their eyes. “Whatever.” Giving it all they had, they went to stand up. They actually made it to their feet with relative ease, but then their vision went to static and they stumbled to the side. Caretaker caught them under their arm and Whumpee was vaguely aware of their voice asking what was wrong. After waiting for their vision to clear, Whumpee pulled their arm from Caretaker’s grasp and responded. “I’m alright, just stood up too fast. I just need to have dinner and get some sleep. I’ll be fine.”

Caretaker looked at them incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, now go,” Whumpee responded, gesturing towards the door.

Caretaker reluctantly turned and headed down the aisle. They made it only 5 steps before they heard a loud thump behind them and turned back to find Whumpee kneeling down, arm slung over the back of the next row of benches for support.

Caretaker moved quickly, grabbing Whumpee around the chest to heave them off the ground. As they did so, however, Whumpee let out a cry of pain and clutched their hand to their abdomen. Eyes growing wide, Caretaker lowered Whumpee onto the bench. Without waiting, they unbuttoned Whumpee’s jacket to reveal a large bloodstain that covered nearly half their torso.

“Oh my god,” Caretaker muttered before yelling in the direction of the door. “We need medical help in here!” Several people ran into the room to see what was happening, then there was shouting as they went to get others.

Caretaker pulled Whumpee’s shirt out of their pants and peeled the bloodied rag and tissue away to reveal the knife wound. Caretaker’s heart was racing as they yanked their own jacket off and pressed it against the injury, eliciting a moan from Whumpee.

“Who did this?” Caretaker asked. When they heard no answer they looked up to see Whumpee staring at them with a tear streaked face.

“They’re going to kill you,” Whumpee choked out brokenly.

Realization fell over Caretaker’s face and they shook their head. One of the courthouse guards ran into the room with a large first aid kit and Caretaker stood aside to let him help Whumpee.

Whumpee soon lost all sense of the world around them and slipped into unconsciousness.

• • •

Whumpee awoke to a beeping sound which was oddly calming thanks to its consistency. The bed underneath them was firm, but their body felt like it was floating. Upon opening their eyes they were met with a dark room lit only by the soft glow of a reading lamp in the corner of the room. Under the lamp was a large armchair in which Caretaker sat, eyes scanning the pages of a book.

Whumpee wetted their lips with their tongue before speaking. “Watchya reading?”

Caretaker nearly jumped out of their skin at the unexpected sound. “Whumpee,” they spoke as a stunned exhale before crossing the room to stand at the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine actually,” Whumpee responded, pushing themself upon their elbows with a wince. “Okay, a little sore, but I’ll be fine.”

Caretaker nodded. “Well, since you’re fine I can tell you that you’re an absolute idiot.”

“If I’d have known what a warm welcome I’d receive them I would have woke up ages ago,” Whumpee said sarcastically.

“I’m not joking,” Caretaker said seriously. “You almost died, and for what?”

Whumpee fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket that covered them. “Whumper told me not to tell anyone.”

“And you listened to them why?”

“They threatened to kill you.”

“So you were just going to, what, die?” Caretaker said it half-jokingly, but Whumpee met their eyes with a look so sincere that their face grew serious. “Really?” Caretaker whispered.

Whumpee shrugged a shoulder sheepishly. “I wasn’t going to condemn you to death.”

Caretaker shifted awkwardly, looking away before changing the subject. “Well, you wouldn’t have anyway. The cops already knew Whumper was planning on killing me, they had a spy in their ranks. While we were in court the police raided their entire organization and arrested nearly every member, toppling their chain of command. Whumper no longer has any power.”

Whumpee thought this over for a moment. “What about the guards and their families?”

“The guards were arrested too once the police figured out what happened. Their families are fine, Whumper has no one to carry out their orders so there is no threat.”

Whumpee nodded. Then, they realized something. “Wait a minute, you knew Whumper was planning to kill you and you didn’t tell me?”

Caretaker sighed, rubbing a hand over their neck. “I didn’t want to put you under any more stress.”

“Jesus Christ,” Whumpee muttered.

“Yeah, well, I guess we can call it even.”

Whumpee gave them a sheepish smile. “I guess so.”

• • •

Fin

#whump #whump writing #whump scenario #whump vignette #hidden injury #stabbing whump #knife whump #whumpee #caretaker #whumper #whump scene #whump dialogue

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befuddled-calico-whump · 5 months

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Can we see some of Hunter begging?

#the fun part about begging isn't the begging in itself but what it is that MAKES them beg :)#anon #thanks!#whumpy art #t$$ hunter #begging #knife whump #eye whump #manhandling #okay but like destroying his eyes and just throwing him out would be one of the cruelest things you could do to Hunter #because he has no support network so the idea of something that 'takes away' his independence or 'usefulness' TERRIFYS him #he just assumes no one would bother to help #whump art #really any injury he couldn't reasonably patch himself would scare him #oh also the guy with the knife is rex the syndicate boss

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whumpcloud · 1 year

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knives are so good in whump. they are a tool and a threat. a knife plunged into a whumpees body. a knife slowly slicing into their skin. a knife resting against their jaw as they're told not to move. knives hanging on the whumper's wall. a stolen knife hidden in the whumpees sleeve, waiting for their chance. i really like knives.

#polly's postings #whump #whump prompt #knife whump #knives

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crooked-corvid-whump · 1 year

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Circus Whump

“Please, Whumper, don’t make me keep doing this. Please...” Their begging fell on deaf ears. Whumper stepped toward them they were caged between him and the tent pole at their back. He towered over them.

Head bent low, he murmured slowly and firmly into their ear, so only they could hear. “Shut. Up. You’re going to go out there tonight, and you’re going to perform your little routine, and you’re going to be the star I’ve made you to be. And then, when it’s over, you’re going to rest, then do it all over again tomorrow.”

His breath was hot against their skin, sending prickling shivers through them.

“Without me, you would still be out on the streets. Without me, you would be nothing. Remember that.” He stepped back and a painfully fake smile plastered itself to his face. “Now, best start getting ready for tonight’s show.”

Whumpee didn’t move until he was out of sight. Only then did they start breathing again. Only then did they start shaking.

*******************************************************************************************

Whumpee held perfectly still as Whumper gripped their chin, leaning in as he smudged the last of the line of glittery powders around their eyes, completing their colorful, shining look. He smiled when he was finished and leaned back to look at them, his star, the crown jewel of his show. From behind the fabric that hung over the entrance to their small dressing space-- a weak pretense of privacy-- drifted the swift, bouncy music that accompanied the fire-eater that was currently riling up the crowd for Whumpee’s performance.

Whumper leaned closer again, smiling in a way that showed too many teeth. “You’re going to behave for me tonight, aren’t you love?”

They nodded. They had no more escape attempts left in them, not after the last one had landed them in a cage with an iron collar locked around their throat like just another circus animal until Whumper was satisfied that they’d learned their lesson.

“Perfect. You’re going to be wonderful tonight, darling. You always are.” With that, the music outside reached a crescendo, and Whumper pulled away. He winked at them and murmured, “That’s my cue,” slipping out into the ring just as the song came to a close.

Whumpee left their dressing space and made their way to the ladder bolted to the side one of the towering poles, atop which was their platform. They began their ascent, muscle memory leading their hands and feet to the rungs easily despite the darkness. The spotlight was trained on Whumper in the center of the ring, who bowed dramatically to the audience, his bright red coat swishing behind him and his top hat barely avoiding being dragged through the dust as he swept it off with a flourish. After straightening up and replacing the hat atop his head, he began to recite the well-rehearsed introduction he gave at every show before their routine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, young and old, one and all, it has been a marvelous night! Now it hops and skips quickly to its close,” here he hopped from one foot to the other, drawing bursts of laughter from the crowd, “but first, one final act. Turn your eyes now to the star of the night, our aerodynamic acrobat, our tremendous trapeze artist, the soaring, the sailing, the weightless Whumpee!”

The crowd burst in to frenzied applause as a second spotlight flicked on, beaming down upon Whumpee, now stood atop the platform high above. They waved stiffly to the audience, thankful that they were too high for anyone to see their face. Whumper’s spotlight dimmed to nothing until the only light in the entire tent was the one trained on them. They took a breath.

The song started slowly, almost mournful as the low violin notes flowed and Whumpee stepped toward the tightrope. They could do it. They knew they could. They had done this a million times before. But no matter how many times they were forced up to that platform, how many times they were forced to teeter and swing and leap above a rapt audience, nothing could rid them of the paralyzing terror they felt at the sight of the ground far below. They took a step.

Whumpee’s performance was, above all else, a story. A story that took place on a tightrope and between trapeze bars and even in parts on the aerial silks, yes, but a story nonetheless. That was what took their act from impressive to extraordinary. The music swelled and ebbed and rose and fell along with their movements, following them through a wordless journey that the audience could not look away from. Tonight, as every night, they were perfect. They flew through the air in graceful arcs that elicited gasps and bated breath from the crowd and twisted in the silks in smooth, languid motions. It wasn’t until the final leap from the trapeze back onto the platform that they faltered. They let go too late.

They flipped through the air, then their legs flared with pain as they crashed into the hard wood of the platform. It didn’t quite register at first as they were only half present, their mind distant as their body had carried them through the routine, distancing them from the reality of their position high in the air with a long, long way to go should they fall. However, it wasn’t long before the sharp, jarring pain reached them and clouded their mind in an entirely new way. They were only vaguely aware of the cheering and of Whumper’s closing speech far below. They leaned heavily against the pole behind them. Eyes squeezed shut, they focused on regaining the breath that had been knocked out of them as they waited for the pain to fade. They reached down, prodding at their legs where they had collided with the platform. Not broken, they decided, but surely badly bruised by morning. They sighed.

Finally, they gathered the energy to move and peered over the edge, saw the audience filing out of the tent, and their heart sunk. The show was over. Now they were going to have to face Whumper.

The whole way down the tortuously long ladder, their teeth were clenched in pain. Their legs ached, both from their performance and the bruises, and several times they had to stop and lean their forehead against the cool metal rungs and wait for the pain to subside enough to continue.

At last, they made it down. Unsurprisingly, Whumper was waiting for them at the bottom, leaning against a large painted backdrop and eyeing them with a seething anger. When they turned around, Whumper pushed off from where he was propped against the thing, closing the distance between them in a few long strides.

His hand cracked against their cheek before they could react. Tears of pain an surprise sprung to their eyes, but either Whumper didn’t notice or he didn’t care as he sneered at them.

“What the hell was that, Whumpee? That was sloppy. It was careless. I know for a fucking fact that you were trained better than that. I trained you better than that. You know better than to make such clumsy mistakes. So act like it.”

Whumpee opened their mouth to protest, or maybe to apologize, perhaps to stutter some excuse, but Whumper didn’t give them the chance.

“No. Shut up. If you can’t pull your act together and avoid fucking up my show, my masterpiece, if you can’t handle this act, then you can always be part of the freak show.” His voice took on a mocking lilt as he put a hand on their waist, his thumb tracing a raised line just under their ribs. “I’m sure if we laid you bare, all those pretty little scars would give our patrons plenty to ogle at.”

Whumpee nearly overbalanced as their panicked step backward was cut short, Whumper’s hand on their waist tightening and keeping them in place. They were frantic as they found their voice. “No, please, god no, i can’t- i’m not-” Whumper chuckled and put a gentle finger to their lips, cutting off their stream of words.

“No, no, not yet. I wouldn’t want to give up my perfect little star so easily, no matter how pretty their scars. Perhaps you just need a few more to remind you why it’s a very bad idea to disappoint me.” He smiled.

Whumpee didn’t fight it as his hand on their back led them towards his tent. They simply bowed their head in a pathetic attempt to hide the panic in their eyes and the single tear trailing down their cheek.

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whumpdaydreamerx · 2 months

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Whumper keeping a Vampire Whumpee captive. After torturing and interrogating them Whumper makes the drastic decision to become a vampire too, in pursuit of more power. And they’ll use Whumpee to do it.

While Whumpee struggles in their chains realizing what’s coming, Whumper uses a knife to slice into their neck — crying out as blood spills down their collarbone and chest.

Whumper snaking a hand into their hair, yanking their head back and exposing their neck. Whumper drinks straight from their throat. Whumpee gritting their teeth and groaning from the pain and the sensation.

Bonus: If blood sharing is intimate for Whumpee, so they feel extra violated

Bonus bonus: If Caretaker is there, forced to watch

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comfy-whumpee · 6 months

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Jane 2

Whumptober 18 - tortured for information.

Avis ordered her clothes, toiletries and treats. Tenten cooked her meals. Paris, now called Florence, sat next to her and snuck glances from the corner of their eye. Kamala went where Florence went, for the most part, but at other times paid her devotion to the cartoons and comics she adored. Roman hid from her. And then there was Boo.

What a ludicrous name. They were clearly living some kind of delusional fantasy, to be acting like one of the real rescues here, accepting a cutesy nickname and allowing the others to treat them like an equal. It was shamefully obvious what had happened to Mistress Tara’s first hunter. They had been tempted by freedom.

‘Jane’ was the living proof that Mistress Tara’s hunters could never be free. She wasn’t as experienced as ‘Boo’, but she could do enough to find them, and find simultaneously their target. Now she was here, as they were, to be taken on as a rescue. But she would not swallow their lies.

At the end of her first day, Avis showed her to a small room, equipped with the barest minimum furniture, and apologised. “It’s a guest room,” she explained inanely. “The bathroom is right across the hall. My room is at the other side, there’s a sign on the door with a bird on it. Come and knock if you need anything at all.”

Jane nodded. The room was warm and had carpet, so it was already a far cry from what she was used to.

Avis withdrew. Jane closed the door, sat down underneath the window with the curtain drawn back, and waited.

Boo didn’t sleep.

It was impossible. The nightmare had come true. There was, in this house right now, someone who meant to do them all harm. Florence being returned to their Sir was bad enough, but losing them would destroy Kamala. She needed to devote herself to someone, and after the presumed death of her old owner, losing Florence would reopen that emotional wound. Tenten and Roman, with their trained invective to be perfect, would naturally assume guilt for something they had nothing to do with. And Avis… Avis was doing this all because she had lost her son. If she lost someone else…

There was nothing for it. Boo stayed awake and listened. They listened to the footsteps settle into silence as each of them went to their own rooms. They listened to the light switch turn off in Florence’s room next to theirs. They listened to the pines creak and settle. They listened to the faint shift of wind across the roof. They listened, waiting, for a door to open.

They listened without moving. They could do this for hours, and they did. It was the dead of night when the traitor made her move.

They heard the door open. The footsteps were almost silent, but she didn’t know where the floorboards were solid and where they creaked. Even as she did her best to creep along the landing, she set her foot on the board between the third and fourth railings around the stairs, which let out a short groan.

Boo listened, tense for the sound of Florence’s door opening. Would she try to abduct them straight away? Would she threaten them? Try to win their trust? Think. What would a hunter do? What would Mistress Tara expect?

They darted back from the door a moment before the handle started turning. She was coming in here. She was coming in here and they hadn’t locked the door because they were complacent and used to being safe here and now she was in the doorway, closing the door behind her, locking the door behind her as they’d neglected to do and now they were face to face.

They stared at her. She stared back.

“Hunter,” she said.

“Hunter,” they returned. The word came out instinctively. The first time they had spoken since arriving here.

That was what Boo had to do, they realised. They had to act normal and tell their practised lies. If she realised that they had betrayed their Mistress, she would make them pay.

“Why are you here?” they asked, forcing their voice to emerge smoothly without the rasp of disuse. They couldn’t let her see how true their presented self had become.

“Mistress grows impatient,” she replied, still staring them down. “You have made no progress in three months.” “I have made progress,” they return. Their voice is level, not defensive. They are colleagues exchanging information. “I have earned the trust of the target and the others here. They view me as damaged and pitiful. Working here takes subtlety, because our work is illegal. The dynamics here are delicate.”

Could she tell, they wondered, that this was another act? Could she see the terror beneath their confidence? They breathed normally. They did not tense, blink, wince, or give any tell. Control yourself.

Her face was impassive. “The client demands action. We play this role because we can do the illegal and suffer no consequence. I will call for transport tomorrow. You will get the target out of this house.”

“Impossible,” they say flatly. “Have you not noticed the structure? Outings are dictated by Avis. Kamala and Paris will not be separated. Kamala acts as their caretaker and chaperone at all times.”

“She is weak and can be overpowered.”

Boo did not flinch. But the factual statement made them pause nonetheless. Mistress Tara’s methods had changed, from one hunter to the next. Had she trained Jane alongside them? Or afterwards, when she noticed their failure? What threats and promises had she instilled in her second pet?

“I was discouraged from harming other pets,” they tell her, to explain their surprise. She would no doubt have noticed.

“We do what is necessary,” she replied.

Boo considered her again. This was what they had been. This was how they had looked from the outside: dead-eyed and driven, seeing no way out but forward, imagining no other path, no other life. Avis had given them one without asking for permission, and Boo was glad, because they would have said no.

Could Jane be offered the same? They doubted it. She had been sent with a strict time limit. She had no time.

Even if she did, and she was sent on to another shelter, what then? Mistress Tara would not stand for it. She would sent more hunters. She might even come herself. Even Boo wasn’t sure that they could stand up to her in person. But still…

Avis – and Florence – would want there to be a way.

“We do,” they agreed. “When is the deadline?”

The knife appeared without warning and was against their neck a moment later, their back shoved into the closed door, hand around their arm, pushing it back from interfering. Boo froze, instincts drowned in the need to stay in control. Their pulse raced but the rest of them would not move.

Jane’s expression was unchanged as she pressed the stolen kitchen knife to their throat. She looked down at them without emotion. They looked back the same.

“You hesitated,” she told them. That was that. “Tell me what would make Paris leave the house.”

Boo exhaled. Their heartbeat was pounding all the way through them, down to their fingertips and toes. She was loyal as they had been. She was determined to succeed. She had no mercy, no sympathy, or none that she could ever act on. They felt their back sting with the slash of the whip. She was fresh and bold and implacable. They had more experience, but they had grown weak. Despite every workout, every sweep of the house, every night spent awake planning and plotting in case of danger – they had grown weak.

“Five,” she said. Mistress Tara did the same thing. Their strategies were learned from her. Their tactics were taught. Even their accents were the same as hers.

“Four,” she said.

“You are too rash, sister,” they tried, hoping to at least shock her with the offer of family.

She showed no reaction, but the knife jabbed down into their shoulder, breaking through cloth and skin, but only just.

Boo did not tense.

“Mistress Tara explained your weaknesses,” she warned them. The tip of the knife grazed the edge of their bullet wound scar. “What would cause Paris to leave the house?”

Control yourself! Their back burned. They could feel the blood welling up. “Paris leaves for their music lesson,” they answer. They do not stammer or tremble. “Every Tuesday. That is the best time. They travel with Avis, no Kamala.”

Tuesday was almost a whole week away. Jane did not consider it for a second. The knife pressed more deeply. “They leave tomorrow. What causes Kamala to separate from them?”

“Florence sleeps late,” they offer, knowing it is useless. “Nobody expects to see them before mid-morning.”

Whoever was collecting them wouldn’t have time to arrive. Jane still stared with her tranquil gaze as the knife pierced through the scar entirely and broke the tender muscle underneath.

The pain meant very little, but they would have trouble using that arm if she continued. Dr Davies would notice. Kamala would notice. Avis might. They would ask. The truth would have to come out. All of it.

“What tension is there between Paris and Kamala?”

Boo realised their mistake with a cold breath. Paris. They hadn’t said Paris.

“I see of none,” they lied again, as steadily as they can. “Kamala is a Platonic. She bends herself to their every whim, and they know no different.”

“You are useless.”

Their eyes slam closed as she removes the knife. Their expression could be carved from marble. They had been called useless countless times by Mistress Tara, and clearly… So had she.

“I will kill Kamala,” she told them, “or you can leave the house now. If you are missing in the morning, I will have my opening, and nobody will be harmed.”

Would they sacrifice Kamala for Florence? Yes. Florence was the one they owed. But Kamala would not be the only death. Even if Jane escaped with Florence alone, it would be the end of that bright, curious person that Boo had come to know. Florence would bleed out. Only Paris would be allowed to remain.

“I’ll leave,” they agreed. In the vain hope of bringing her back to their side, they added, “You would be suspected of the murder instantly. It would hinder your escape.”

She did not react. She reached past them and unlocked the door.

“You have sixty seconds,” she whispered.

They did not react. They turned away, and walked down the stairs, stepped into their shoes, and after a moment’s consideration, left through the glass patio door at the back of the house.

She remained upstairs, ready to kill Kamala if they faltered. Perhaps to kill Kamala anyway.

The night was bitingly cold. The blood trickling down their shoulder was the only warm thing about them. Their ears were ringing for no reason and their heart still beat like they were moving at a dead sprint.

The lane was dark. They walked down its centre, knowing there would be no cars. Hardly anyone lived this far out. The seclusion had been perfect for a shelter. Perfect for a murder spree, too.

The wind whispered between the leaves of trees. The road, barely more than flattened earth, was damp beneath their soles. Boo avoided leaving the Birdhouse, and had never walked down this long road. They didn’t know where it would lead them.

Kamala was probably already dead. The others would be next. Might as well kill them all.

But then, why let them escape? No, she was trying to do this without bloodshed. She simply knew they wanted that too. She had seen and bargained on their stupid attachment to those people.

Those pets. Pets like Boo, who would never escape what they were trained for.

Their feet came to a stop.

They weren’t trained as a hunter. Not originally. No, that had come later, with Mistress Tara. There had been an owner before Mistress Tara. A rich, powerful man, one with enemies, one deep in the volatile world of crime. A man who had needed a bodyguard to take his bullets, and that, Boo had done.

They were trained to protect.

#whumptober2023 #bbu #tortured for information #my fic #pet whumpee #boo #knife whump #not proofread because we are falling behind yippee

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the-bloody-sadist · 1 year

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It’s day 1 of BSD dead dove week.

Today is KNIVES. Chuuya’s got Dazai on the ground after a good fight.

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whumpflash · 1 year

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Never: His Own Ship

cw: torture, psychological whump, violence

previous part

She chose the knife.

One of the men holding James clamped a hand over his mouth on Peter's orders, so he couldn't sway her decision. And she chose the knife.

He let out a muffled cry as Peter picked up the blade and pressed it into Jeddy's hand.

"Are you an artist, Esme?"

"No sir." Her voice was flat. Emotionless.

"What about writing then, do you know your letters?"

"I do, sir."

Peter left her standing there, wrenched James' right arm away from his side.

"Hold him down."

James was forced onto his stomach, one of the men digging a knee into his back. He cried out at the sudden pressure on his ribs.

Peter stretched his arm out.

"There we are. Now Esme, I'd like you to write your name."

"My name, sir?"

"Yes." He smiled. "I want you to carve it into his arm."

James thrashed, though he knew it was pointless. Peter had the power here. He could do whatever he wanted, including shatter one of his few remaining solaces.

Jeddy seemed frozen in place. "Sir, I-I can't."

"I'm sure you'll find that you can," Peter said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now go on."

"Sir–" she stopped short as Peter leaned in.

"It's going to be either your name or mine, Esme. And only one of those choices ends with you still onboard. Do you understand?"

Jeddy clenched her jaw. "I… I understand."

She knelt beside James, as she'd often done before. Only this time she wasn't feeding him, wasn't cleaning a fresh cut. This time, she was the one who wielded the knife.

He understood, told himself he understood, though his chest hitched and he squirmed under the weight of the men in a weak attempt to get away.

It would happen either way.

It would happen either way, and at least this way, only one person had to hurt. Only him.

But why did it have to be her?

The point pricked against the soft skin of his forearm and she pressed in, making the first line–

"Deeper," Peter said. "Or it won't scar right."

Jeddy nodded, silent as ever, and James tried to hold back from making any sound, more for her sake than his.

Compared to Peter's other ideas, this was tame, he told himself.

It wasn't his hand.

He'd be okay.

If nothing else, he could pretend it wasn't her doing the damage, pretend it was only Peter–

"James, open your eyes if you'd like to keep them."

And so he did, a gasp escaping him as she began a second line. A third, a fourth. A bloody 'E' cut into his wrist.

The shine of tears in her eyes was the only thing that betrayed her neutral expression.

He breathed through it as best he could, unable to look away as she carved each crimson letter.

E-S-M-E

He wanted to tell her it was okay. That she had no choice, and it was okay, but he couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't form the words.

Peter examined James' arm for a moment, jabbing a cut with his finger to draw a cry from him before releasing his wrist and letting the limb fall back to rest on the deck.

"I don't like it," he said.

"Cut it off," he said.

Cut it off. The skin, or the hand, or the arm? What did he mean? Would she obey?

The image came to his mind, Jeddy gently sawing through his wrist with that same stony expression, and it was all he could do to hold back another sob.

"Captain…" her voice was quiet, the single word sounding like a plea. Who was it for? For Peter to show mercy? For James to forgive her?

"Esme," Peter replied in the same tone. "Will you do it?"

She shook her head, and Peter clicked his tongue, picking up the bloodied knife and sliding it back into his belt.

"That's okay," he said, taking the whip in hand as well. Letting it uncoil.

"It's time for James' pick anyway."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He'd felt the bite of the whip once, years before his days aboard the Merry, and though it had hurt, the welts had healed swiftly, not even having broken skin.

But that had been only five lashes, and not a cat-o'-nine.

James didn't struggle as they bound him to the mainmast, the rope digging into the fresh cuts on his forearm. Peter had known what he wanted from the start. No matter the choice James or Jeddy made, he'd been destined for both torments the moment he was dragged into the daylight.

He didn't try to look back. Didn't want to see whether it was Peter, or Jeddy, or some other crewmember who would be the one to swing the whip.

He heard it drag towards him, the lead bits scraping along the wooden deck.

"Do you want to hear the rules of this game, James?" Peter's voice came from a few feet behind. "Because if you win…" he trailed off. "If you win, I'll let you go."

James didn't believe him. Not one bit, but what else did he have but the faint hope that Peter might follow through?

"Well?" Peter said. "Aren't you going to ask what the rules are?"

"Wh…what are the rules?" James mumbled, resting his forehead against the mast. His arms were already beginning to lose feeling from being strung up.

"If you can stay awake through a certain number of strikes, you're free. Doesn't that sound fun? Free." Peter leaned in close, right by his ear. "So how many will it be, James? How many do you think you'll make it through?"

James knew how this would go. Too low and Peter would laugh afterwards, say he didn't quite earn his freedom. Too high, and he wouldn't stand a chance. If Peter was feeling particularly cruel, he'd call any number too low, forcing him to raise the count until he bled out right here.

"Ten," he said through gritted teeth, hoping it was enough to satisfy Peter.

"Ten," the other man repeated, sounding surprised. "I would've wagered five! But I like your pluck. Ten it is."

James' heart sank. A part of him knew Peter would say that no matter what he chose, but it still felt like he'd duped himself. Ten.

But maybe Peter would be true to his word. Maybe ten lashes were all that stood between him and freedom. Maybe he'd finally be released from this hell.

And what then? Would Peter set him adrift in a rowboat? Let him run into the forests of the mystery island? How would he survive, broken as he was?

No matter how he looked at it, whatever path he was thrown down, every option seemed bleak. Hopeless.

"Let's begin."

James tensed, already shaking with anticipation of the pain that was to come.

The first strike hit right in the center of his back, pain spiking through his body, bright as lightning. He didn't even have time to cry out.

The next one hit to the side, lead tips colliding with his bruised ribs, and this time he did scream, a horrible, ragged sound.

Third. His head was already swimming, and he clenched his jaw. Seven more. Such a small number and yet it may as well be infinite.

"Hh–Aughh!" Four.

Five. His vision was splotched with white. Stay awake. Push through.

"Halfway," Peter sang out. "And just think, that could've been the last one if you weren't so ambitious."

The sixth came down, dragging out another hoarse scream.

Seven.

Eight.

His vision was fading in and out, his body shuddering with pain and fatigue. Hold on. Just hold on.

Nine. His back had been set ablaze, the fire reaching up to take him…

Ten. His body jerked under the final stroke, the only sound escaping him a choked whine.

Over. It was over it was over it was over. He was conscious only by the most base definition, seeing but not aware, hearing but not processing. Feeling the pain roll through him like the tide. Nearly unbearable, threatening to smother him, to drown him, but he fought it, no matter how much he wanted to sink beneath its waves and cease to know the world around him.

"Well done!" Peter's voice rang around him. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Hands reached up, cut the ropes, let his body hit the deck limply, his eyes staring emptily at the horizon.

"You've impressed me, James." Peter and his smile were over him, silhouetted in blue. "I think you deserve more than freedom. I think you may even deserve to be captain again."

Captain? James thought, the word spinning in his head. Peter wouldn't step down. He wouldn't allow things to be as they were, and even if he did, nothing would ever be the same. James couldn't just walk off the last month, couldn't bury everything he'd suffered, and he knew his crew would never forget how he'd groveled and begged after one whispered threat from Peter.

"What do you think? Captain of your own ship again."

Of his own ship.

James winced as Peter grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head just enough so he could see the crowd part for a pair of men carrying a large barrel. It took him a minute to comprehend, to realize what was going on. He took in the broomstick tied to the barrel in a mockery of a mast, the bit of canvas that stood for a sail...

"Beautiful, isn't she? About to take her maiden voyage." Peter released James, and his head dropped.

He'd been brought back up to die after all. It had been hopeless from the start.

"And what's a captain without a first mate?"

And Jeddy was brought forward, tearstains on her cheeks.

"S-sir, I don't—"

"You don't what?" Peter said, and his voice was measured. Cool. "You don't think I know everything that happens on my ship? You don't think I know the signs of scale use?"

No…

"You've disobeyed me once. Failed to prove your loyalty when I gave you the chance."

Jeddy's shoulders shook. "Please. Captain. Don't make me leave her."

"Leave her? You ought to count yourself lucky I didn't throw you in the brig when I found out."

"Peter…" James' voice came out more whimper than word, barely audible. "L-leave her be."

The other man shook his head, putting a hand on Jeddy's shoulder in such a way that it almost looked friendly. "Don't tell me how to run my ship, James. You can call the shots once you're aboard your own," he said with a wink, waving on the men with the barrel.

"Now heave-ho, boys. We have a ship to launch."

tag list: (<3)

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next part

@hold-back-on-the-comfort , @i-can-even-burn-salad , @whumpsday , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @rabbitdrabbles , @cyberneticwhump , @dream-whump ,

#took a bit longer on this one in an attempt to get it right. definitely hope it lived up to the hype of the last chapter ;-;#whump #whumpflash #whump writing #captive #fantasy whump #tw torture #whipping tw #flogging #knife whump #psychological whump #emotional whump #begging #captain hook #never/never #poor james ;-;#i also wnded this one sooner than i originally planned cause it was getting pretty long compared to the rest #pirate whump

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auroragehenna · 7 months

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No matter how much you squirm you won‘t get out ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AI-less Whumptober

Day 13 (Words carved into skin)

TW/CW: Deranged whumper vision, creepy whumper, pet whump, defiant whumpee-trying at least, scared whumpee, sadistic whumper, intimate whumper, carving, owning, cconditioned pet whumpees, magical whump, electrocution, lady whump Word count: 2'031

When Harmonia woke up, she did not expect to see Electra wait for her. Sitting on an armchair next to her at the fireplace. Where the fuck did that Ash bather get that chair now?! She quickly sat up, wings flapping a bit. "What are you doing here? So early.”, she asked.

Electra raised an eyebrow.

“I mean-good morning, Ma’am. ", Harmonia quickly corrected her mistake.

Electra smiled. "Well, I am here to sweeten up your morning and I have some good news for you."

"What are they, Ma'am?" Did I finally make it?!

“You're allowed to eat in the cafeteria with the other dolls. For good behaviour!" she replied, still smiling.

“Really? Thank you, Ma'am!" Stupid idiot.

Electra got up and waited for her angel to prepare herself and follow her outside. She led her through the labyrinth of hallways in the mansion until they arrived at a big double door. Two guards were placed on either side. “Now, go inside. Eat. And then wait for me afterwards. Don’t cause me any trouble. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

Electra nodded contently and walked away while the guards opened the door.

Harmonia walked a few steps into the gigantic room until her brain could finally process what her eyes were seeing. Her legs gave in under her and she fell to her knees. There were rows and rows of creatures. Tables filled with them. Barely any empty seats. She couldn’t even clearly see the end of the hall. I never knew there were so many… But before more despair could sink in she was pushed hard into the small of her back by a guard. She had to keep moving. As if in trance she got up, went to get her food-and it looked way better than what she had eaten so far-and searched for an empty seat. Finally she found one towards the end of the hall. Harmonia sat down on the wooden seat and was glad that her legs carried her this far. She felt sick but she knew she needed to eat. Otherwise she would only regret it later.

Next to her was a boy that looked like he was a fae. With short, fluffy hair and elegant clothes. Opposite of her were a centaur laying on a special furniture and a girl that looked like she was a cupid. Or had been a cupid. But definitely an angel.

Harmonia gulped. She scanned the girl’s red hair and her pink dress uniform. Her white wings were smaller than Harmonia’s but way fluffier. She eventually noticed something was off, looked up and met her gaze. She looked terrified and instantly ripped her gaze away.

“You should really eat.”, the fae boy said. “There’s not so much time and you’re already late.”

That’s not wrong, she thought. “Thanks. You’re right.”

The three were loosely holding conversation while Harmonia was eating. They were talking about what they would do today. The fae boy wanted to go outside. Cupid wanted to talk to the others if she could. Specifically to one in particular and the centaur just wanted to lay near the fire, their once broken legs were aching badly today. But they all said the same thing. As long as Electra didn’t need them.

“Aren’t you tired of this?! How can you just accept that that’s all there is? She’s a monster! How can you be okay with that?!”, Harmonia interrupted them with silent urgency.

“Be okay with it? We love her. And she loves us. She’s given us everything. You’ll see.”, Cupid said.

“But you can’t say things like that!”, the centaur said.

“It’s rude. And mean.”, Fae-boy added.

Harmonia was just sitting there in shock but she didn’t want to give up yet. “She tortured you!! Kidnapped you from your old lives and imprisoned you! When was the last time any of you-“

“Quiet!”, Cupid now said sternly. “You’re talking non-sense. And I don’t want to get into trouble only because you’re in denial! The world outside has hurt you but trust me she can make it better. She will make you right.”

Harmonia just sat there, staring at her emptied plate, and trying not to throw up. Then a loud bell sounded and instantly all the creatures around her got up and walked orderly out of the hall. Harmonia followed, again as if in trance until she was held back by the guards.

“You wait here.”

Harmonia rolled her eyes, but she didn’t have to wait very long.

«So? How did it go?" asked the demoness's cold voice from behind Harmonia. She quickly spun around, bowing her head. "It was a very interesting experience, Ma'am, thank you. Electra raised her eyebrows. "So, you had no trouble whatsoever?" she asked again. "I mean the food was something I have never eaten before, and probably something you wouldn't find in Paradisio.-But it was tasty!" Electra took a fast step forward and slapped Harmonia hard across the face. Harmonia's head flew to the side and as the sound echoed in the hallway. She felt the painful sting of the slap paired with a faint needles and pins of electricity. "You're lying to me, doll.", she warned coldly.

"N-No." Harmonia tried.

"Oh please, don't try to make yourself sadder than you are."

Harmonia sent her a hateful glare through the fear that had settled deep in her bones by now.

"Did you really think I didn't know that you would try to turn my dolls against me? Did you really think I trusted you enough to let you out? No, you haven't yet seen the right way, and this was a test to prove it to me and to yourself. Now come along. I am gracious enough to still help you. And we will also have to punish your disobedience, am I right?"

"Bullshit!", Harmonia cussed out.

"You can either come willingly or I can make you, your choice."

"Okay, okay.. ..I'm coming…"

Electra led her through the labyrinth of hallways until they somehow arrived at a familiar wide staircase. Honestly how was her orientation in this mansion so bad?! Yes, she hadn't been let outside of her room much but still. This couldn't be right. Carefully, afraid of overstepping a boundary she reached out and let her white skin grace over the marble of the railing. It felt so familiar. An ache flared up in her heart and she had to hold back tears. "Fuck, I wanna go home.", she whispered to herself.

Electra's gaze quickly shot back to where Harmonia was walking. She had heard the girl's comment and as much as it angered her, she could make use of this yet.

After a few minutes the two arrived before a dark wooden door. It wasn't Electra's bedroom that's for sure. That door looked different. The door now opened after Electra had laid her hand on it. She stepped to the side and made a gesture for her to walk first.

"After you, my doll."

Harmonia suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and walked into the dim room. It had no windows, but a large number of spotlights illuminated the room. Now she could see that the walls were over and over covered with portraits. There must be pictures of thousands of creatures, she guessed by the length of this gallery. There were little plackets with text under each picture. Harmonia read one under the picture of what looked like a night elf or something. There was the date when she was kidnapped and how, the date in which she became...obedient and date of death.

Electra kept silent, just watching her doll. She could see the horror on her face. It was beautiful and she was excited at the thought of getting to see more of it very soon. Her angel looked down the hall and her wings twitched nervously. Then she looked up. Electra guessed that she was trying to calculate the number of slaves she owns and had owned. Then her doll slowly turned around, wings spreading out threateningly. "Yes? Speak your mind.", she encouraged her.

“You’re a monster. How can you do this? What is wrong with you?!”

Electra just chuckled humourlessly. “I thought I made clear that you shouldn’t call me that last time, my doll. Did I not?”

Harmonia shivered but she didn’t let go. “These are all people! They have their own lives! You-You’re-They don’t love you! They’re just scared!”

“Yes. Criminals”, she drawled the word out. “They were all on a misguided path. Unhappy says the fucking criminal herself, hypocritical bitch I took them in and gave them a better life. And all I ask for in return for saving them is a bit of devotion and obedience. That is not too much to ask for. Soon enough you will see it too.”. She stepped forward to Harmonia, from the flick of her finger a fine line of electricity shot towards her angels left wing. She instantly pulled them in in pain and her demeanour significantly lost fire. Electra gently but firmly grabbed her shoulders and led her forward to the end of the gallery. There were some newer looking portraits and Electra guided her angel to one particular portrait.

Harmonia’s breath caught as she recognized who was on the picture. It was her! It was a picture from when she was still with her family. Filled with dread she forced her gaze lower, onto the metal plaquette. There was the date of her capture-her failed mission. There was no date of death yet. And at the date of obedience-Harmonia froze, dread settling itself in her so overwhelmingly powerful that she couldn’t sense anything else.

Date of obedience: Soon…

“So? Have you seen enough?”, Electra murmured next to her doll’s ear, nuzzling her head into her fluffy hair. I really hate to do this to you but I need to make sure my message settles in. I can’t stand seeing you suffer for so long. She pulled a blade out of the folds of her clothing and with ease let it magically pass though the layers of clothing. As soon as she felt the tip of the knife touch skin she heard Harmonia whimper. A silent, barely audible, beautiful sound. She began to carve, line for line, using her magic to cauterize the wounds instantly. With another flick of her hand she projected a mirrored image in front of Harmonia’s face, so she could see what she was working on. But her angel struggled and nearly made her mess up. “Stop!-Moving so much! I might hurt you.”, she warned and was pleased to feel her doll’s resistance die. She finished the circle around her work and felt the old-known feeling confirm that she did everything right. “This.”, she said slowly, simultaneously craving the word on the line of her spine upwards, between her wings. “Is.”, another whimper from Harmonia, “Home.”, she finished and stepped back to admire her work. Her sigil and three words lining herself up over her back. Electra heard a broken sob coming from Harmonia. She gently turned her angel around, cupping her doll’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Hey, I’m sorry my dear, I don’t want to hurt you, I’m only trying to help. So you don’t plague yourself. As soon as you understand that you will be happy. Truly happy. Come here.”, she said and hugged her angel, careful not to touch the wounds on her back.

Harmonia started sobbing in the demoness’ arms, she didn’t want to but there was no stopping it. She barely realized that they were leaving the room, walking with her head buried in Electra’s clothing and the demoness’ arm wrapped around her. She only faintly realized that they sat on a bed and her hands were pulled up and chained to a bed post. She felt Electra’s arms wrap around her again and the softness of the bed and allowed herself to just cry.

Electra held her angel tightly and the last thing her maids saw of her before they closed the door was the triumphant sadistic grin laying on her face.

Taglist: @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, @ailesswhumptober Series introductory post

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