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whumpninja · 2 months

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*tapping a nonexistent microphone* soooooooo these are my first two ocs, or as I like to call them, ‘brain action figures-‘

This is Angel! He’s the vampire version of a sabretoothed cat- he doesn’t have cute little pinprick pointy teeth, oh no. This man has six-inch fangs hiding in that razor-sharp jawline. But he’s currently not having a good time with those nifty mouth machetes of his, because they’re the reason he’s being forced to fight and kill other vampires in a somewhat-illegal-but-the-cops-are-just-eh-about-it sport known as bloodbaiting! Angel, because he has friggin’ switchblades for teeth, is really good at winning these fights, hence his stage name- the Angel of Death.

And this lovely lady is Keola! She’s just started her own vet clinic and isn’t doing so hot with the business side of it. But then she gets an offer from a mysterious client- “my, uh, exotic animal is hurt, will you come help me out if I give you a couple thousand dollars?” Keola, sensing no red flags, happily accepts! And finds herself, instead of investigating the toothache of somebody’s pet tiger, helping to patch up a very busted, very angry vampire prize fighter who is having absolutely none of whatever she’s trying to do to him. Keola, who happens to be a half-vampire herself, isn’t a big fan of this setup, and starts plotting a way to get Angel out of the ring for good…and get him to stop trying to take a chunk out of her arm every time she touches him.

This is the first of multiple plotlines in the same “vampires and humans exist together but they’re really bad at it” universe I’ve developed! I wanted to start with this one because it’s the earliest in the timeline, and it’s my favorite because I do love me a whumpee in a cage match. Really excited to post my writing here soon!

#vampire whump #vampire whumpee #forced to fight #whump #whump writing #whump story #angel of death #angel #keola #jack be whumpy

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urlocalwhumper · 5 months

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necromancer whumper puppeting a now undead whumpee's body and forcing them to fight their friends.

whumpee is still fully conscious, fully aware of everything their body is doing, but powerless to stop it.

and there's so much pain, their body is still torn apart from the injuries that killed them, only kept moving by whumper's magic.

every movement is agony, blood dribbles from their lips and stains the ground where they step. they just want it all to stop. dying was painful and scary, but this is so much worse.

and then there's whumpee's friends, forced to face off against their friend's mangled corpse, with whumpee clearly still in there. it would've been different if they were only fighting a shell, something that looked like whumpee but wasn't really them, but whumper elected to resurrect whumpee's mind along with their body, if only to torment everyone involved just a little more.

and when whumper finally releases their control, either to flee or because they've been defeated, whumpee's eyes roll back and they slump lifelessly to the ground. a puppet with its strings cut.

#whump #whump prompts #character death #dead whumpee #undead whumpee #necromancy #resurrection #forced to fight #mine #is whumpee now finally dead for good - with their friends finally able to take them home and properly lay them to rest #or are they still barely clinging to the last threads of life? can their friends still save them?

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hold-him-down · 2 months

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A prompt: Ivan has Leo strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

tw: forced to fight, electrocution, restraints, nonsexual nudity, noncon touch

notes: somewhere early in ivan days

Strung Up

“It’s different from the collar,” Ivan says, somewhere just outside of Leo’s line of sight. He tries to crane his neck, to twist his body, to get eyes on what's to come. He can't pinpoint what exactly it will be, but he knows it won't be good. He's been in this room for what could be hours, what feels like hours, his wrists bound tightly above his head, his body hanging.

From above the door, the red light promises as much.

He isn't made to wait long. Without warning, Ivan materializes in front of him, his fingers digging into Leo's chin to lift his head.

“You know it fucking frustrates me that you make me take these measures, Leo,” he says, peering up at him through narrowed eyes.

Leo can feel himself shaking, with every movement sending shooting pain through his shoulders. He doesn’t look away, though.

He can’t, however, form the words he knows he needs to form. The, 'I’m sorry, sir,' that he knows Ivan craves. His throat is raw, and even if he wanted to say it, he doesn't think any sound would come. He can't apologize, and he can't promise it won't happen again, because he's not sorry, and it will, he thinks. It will happen again, and again, and again. Because something in him is broken, and he's almost positive he won't make his way out of this contract, and at night, when that becomes its most obvious, his resolve gets stronger and stronger.

He's drawn back to the moment by an unexpected blow and his vision swims, and almost mercifully his head drops, and the world goes dark.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Come back to me,” Ivan is saying, almost lovingly. And then, as Leo forces his eyes open, Ivan says, “There you are.”

Leo's stomach turns over, and the inescapable pain momentarily overcomes him. Through dried, cracked lips, Leo whispers a nearly-silent, “Please,” and Ivan steps back.

It’s in that moment that Leo sees the long, almost definitely electrified baton, come toward his stomach, and a moment later, the world is engulfed in a fiery pain that consumes every part of him.

He can’t quite tell when Ivan stops, but he knows that it happens, because eventually he becomes aware of parts of himself. The screams that pull from deep within his chest, sending fresh flames through his already raw throat. Each thrash against the restraints that lights his shoulders ablaze. The sweat that drips from his hair, down his face and neck, onto somewhere below him.

“Easy, easy,” Ivan is saying, his voice close. “Take a breath, Leo,” he whispers. Leo sucks in as much air as he can, and Ivan laughs softly, his lips touching Leo’s forehead. “My boy,” he says, pulling back enough to see his whole face. "You are doing fine."

He’s distantly aware that it’s no longer just Ivan and him in the room, but further back, a man stands next to Ivan’s doctor.

Ivan is speaking to the man, who walks over to Leo with a hunger in his eyes.

He’s young, maybe no older than Leo himself. He rolls the sleeves up on his crisp white shirt and puts his hand out. Leo flinches as the man makes contact, first cupping the back of his neck, then running the same hand down his chest.

He holds Leo’s gaze for a moment then smiles, taking a step back.

“You think more?” Ivan asks, and the man nods.

Ivan looks at Leo then, and says, “You lost him a shit ton of money tonight.” Ivan sucks in a sharp breath, and continues, “Granted, it was fucking stupid to bet on you, wasn’t it? You are not ready for all that. Yet.”

Leo swallows, steeling himself against the pain that he knows is coming.

“I have been brainstorming with some of my guests, what to do with you.” He clicks his tongue. “A consolation prize would be interesting, I think. We have to keep the clientele happy, don’t we?” This part, he says softly; a secret between the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally chokes out, his voice teetering on the edge of desperation.

“You say that a lot,” Ivan whispers back, with bite behind the words. He retreats and hands the tool to the other man, winking at Leo as he does. “Enjoy your time with him,” Ivan says, louder now, more a message to Leo than to anyone else. “I don’t prefer to share my boys in this way, but sometimes, it is justified.” Ivan gives Leo a once-over and Leo wonders, briefly, what he sees. How bruised he’s become, just in the two weeks he’s spent here. How thin he is, how desperate for any kind of reprieve. If he can see how he shakes, if he knows how bad it hurts. He blinks slowly, on the edge of losing consciousness and simply drifting away. He knows Ivan won’t allow it. If he knows nothing else, of that much he’s sure. Breaths come harder and slower, and he hears, distantly, “If you feel that he is dying, send Mikhail a text message. He is prepared to deal with it.”

Through heavy, salt-burned eyes, Leo watches Ivan retreat, and the doctor follows. Without warning, the man turns to him, and as instantly as a thought of mercy crosses his mind, it vanishes, and the world is once more engulfed in flames.

✥ ✥ ✥

When Leo awakens, he’s being carried through the maze-like halls of the basement. He tries to lift his head, to give some indication that he’s conscious, but no part of his body will cooperate. He doesn’t have the strength to hope that the man carrying him is not the same man who did this to him; he doesn’t have the strength to hope for anything.

“It’s alright,” he hears, but the sounds are warbled, the voice unfamiliar. “Almost there.”

He’s carried into one of the bathrooms and placed carefully into the shower stall. Through blurred vision, he can see that the light is yellow, and he lets himself drift away.

He's distantly aware of time passing, of being moved, of being spoken not to, but about. When he opens his eyes again, it's another worker, familiar only to him in passing, who leans over him, washing away the evidence of what was done. Leo begins the agonizing process of trying to speak, but before he can, the man says, “Don’t.” He moves the rag down Leo’s side, his touch light but not light enough to avoid reigniting the dulling pain. Leo flinches.

“Sorry,” the man says, his voice devoid of any real emotion. “Petrov won’t tolerate camaraderie.” The worker repositions Leo, rinsing away more blood and exposing more of the damage to his body. “I’d be lying if I said I knew what exactly he wanted me to do to you here.” Leo isn’t sure if the man is talking to him or not, so he stays silent. “Mikhail, the doctor, will see you once you’re cleaned up,” he continues. “You’re Leo, right?”

Leo urges himself to focus on the man, nodding.

“I’m Dante,” he says. There's silence as the worker, Dante, continues dutifully washing Leo's wrecked body. Several minutes pass in this way, before Dante says, “I’ve been here for almost two years." Dante keeps his eyes off of Leo's face, but keeps speaking. "I saw your fight tonight, if that’s what you want to call it.” He pushes Leo forward, letting the water flow down his back. Leo cries out softly, the pain in his ribs electric, and squeezes his hands into fists.

There's another silence as Leo catches his breath, longer this time.

“My best guess is Petrov wants me to talk sense into you,” Dante eventually continues, running the rag down Leo’s spine. Leo hisses in a breath, automatically pulling away. Dante pauses in his movements, briefly this time, before taking some unspoken signal that Leo is ready to continue. He moves to sit back on his heels, taking Leo’s hands in his. He turns them over, running soap over each finger, under each nail, and rinsing away all remaining evidence.

“You can’t survive this way,” he finally says, his tone colder now. “Being under a contract like this… it could kill you. He’s killed more than a few workers since I’ve been here, but he always finds a way to get new contracts. You don’t have to fight every night, but when you do… you have to at least try... or, if not try, pretend. Even if you have no intention of winning. Even if you have full intention of sticking it to him. If you want to survive, you have to figure out what you're okay with.”

Leo nods. Dante drops his hands, standing abruptly.

“He’ll make you fight again tomorrow,” Dante says. “The doctor will tell him not to, but he won’t care. He’ll do it over and over until he thinks you’ve figured things out.”

“What if I don’t–” Leo chokes out, swallowing back a new wave of agony. “If I don’t figure things out?” He closes his eyes in a desperate bid to compartmentalize the pain.

“If you don’t tomorrow, you will the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that, maybe. There’s no long term opt-out. There’s only participate, or go through this, night after night, until you do.”

Dante opens the door, then turns to look back at Leo. “We’re not friends now, we’re not coworkers, and we’re not allies. I am doing what I can to survive, and if you get in the way of that, if it comes down to my safety versus yours, I’ll choose mine.” His face, and his voice, soften almost imperceptibly, as he says, “Just pretend. That's all he wants right now."

He leaves then, letting the door close behind him.

#the fighter #peachy and i sent each other this prompt after we watched that movie #forced to fight #nonsexual nudity #noncon touch #torture

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 4 months

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Whump Prompt #1329

Anon asked:

Do you happen to have any prompts for characters who were fighters/victims in the past, and have suddenly been roped back into that life?

I have a few ideas:

They’re in denial at first. Of course they are. Or maybe they’re compliant - their mind going blank as they’re given the news and forced to go back into the arena. They remember exactly what it was like, and their brain screams at them to stop, but their body keeps on moving.

They carry the numbness with them. They’re blank faced through every interaction and interview, but they could lose themselves completely if they’re given the chance to train.

If they were a successful fighter: when they’re in the fighting ring/arena, the cheers, the atmosphere, and existing pain and scars has their heart thumping, but not out of anxiety. A feral smile draws on their lips as the routine slips into place. They see red. And before they know it, it’s over. Maybe they’re horrified at their cold, calculated speed and clinical ease at which they win. Maybe it affects them for the duration, maybe it doesn’t, but they’re more worried at what their friends think when they see the footage.

If they were not a successful fighter: they're running purely on survival mode. They're scared and panicking, and constantly on edge. Just like last time, they're bullied by the guards and other contestants. However, now they have the knowledge and experience. They're stronger and they know someone on the outside will help them get out. They know the routines well, but the new fighters are far more threatening. Maybe this time they fight just to prove that they can, not just because they need to.

You get bonus points if the friends don't know about the whumpees past.

#whump #writing #prompts #angst #forced to fight #fighting #gladiator arena #ideas #injury #remembering the past #troubled past #troubled past resurfacing

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wrestlingarsenal · 4 months

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Can you believe your eyes, Bat Fans? The audience in the Gotham Arena tonight are certainly in shock as the Caped Crusader battles AGAINST his beloved Boy Wonder!

Earlier in the night ...

I used the Bing Image Generator to force Batman to beat up Robin and created my own little wrestleporn Zine. It always drove me wild as a youngster when the comic book writers would concoct some scenario (such as hypnotism) to force two Heroes to battle each other, instead of partnering against the villains.

Not sure why the Hero-vs-Hero trope got me so excited. Maybe because there is something homo-erotic about two allies forced to a face-off, the buddies now trying to defeat and own one another, each hoping to top the other. Or maybe it has to do with my Tag Team Wrestling obsession, where partners often break up and latter battle each other to find out who had been the Alpha partner (so gay!).

And now with the power of AI, I can generate my own Superhero comic books containing plenty of Buddy Battles in a pro wrestling context.

In my story, the Joker has planted bombs under the Gotham Orphanage for Motherless Boys to extort the Dynamic Duo to his will. Unless Batman and Robin get it on in the ring (and fight for real), well let's just say Christmas will be canceled in Gotham City this year!

To Be Continued -- Same Bat Time! Same Bat Blog!

#Bing Image Generator #AI wrestling art #batman #robin #joker #superhero wrestling #forced to fight #jobber squash

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pigeonwhumps · 1 year

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Stabbed

Finding Safety masterlist

Stabmas special!

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch

Cass is stabbed.

775 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, stabbing, dehumanisation, forced to fight, mentioned suicidal ideation (of an unnamed character), implied death

Cass circles the arena, knife clutched in his hand. He doesn't want to stab anyone, but he's becoming increasingly worried that he might have to, to get out of this match alive. It's not supposed to be a fight to the death, but he recognises the desperation in the other pet's eyes. He's seen it before. She's planning to die today, and if he's not careful he'll go with her.

The woman narrows her eyes at his hesitation and charges, dagger held high. He dodges the first hit, but barely manages to nudge aside her second try as he attempts to reach her hand. He just wants to stop her stabbing him. But all he manages to do is move her aim slightly, so she hits near his shoulder instead of somewhere vital.

Cass' shoulder explodes with fire as she buries the dagger inside him up to the hilt. He crumples to his knees, barely noticing the thud, his own screams, the cheers and boos and announcement of the winner, over the throbbing pain.

As his vision fades, though, he does hear Tyrone, whose voice he's been trained through time and pain to always listen to, barking orders. His voice is slurred but he sounds urgent. Cass isn't sure why, and doesn't have time to work it out before he slumps against the sawdust, unconscious.

Cass groans as he's pulled out of the darkness, the pain and tingling coming with him. He wishes he could pass out again.

"Ah, the mutt finally awakes. Come on, open your eyes."

Cass forces his eyelids apart, peering blearily up at the textured plaster. Maybe he is still unconscious, and this is just a dream. It doesn't make sense. He seems to be... indoors? The floor's warmer than the garage, but going by the ceiling, it has to be Tyrone's house. He can feel a cuff on his ankle, but there's no muzzle, and only one mitt's on. His chest and upper arm are swathed in clean white bandages. What's going on?

"Aaliyah, help him sit up so I can talk to him."

Cass feels a warm arm snake behind his back and he gasps as he's helped upright, a small cry of pain escaping him. He seems to be seated on the floor of the kitchen, and Tyrone's in a chair at the table. He gives Cass a shark-toothed grin.

"You're awake and aware. Good. We thought you were done for for a moment there. Aaliyah even cried. Don't worry, she's been suitably punished for it." Sure enough, as Cass looks closely at Aaliyah he sees the tear-tracks on her cheeks, the awkward way she's holding her left arm. "Still. I didn't lose my fighter to a selfish mutt. And she won't be troubling us any longer."

Cass swallows. He's usually the selfish mutt. At least the girl got her escape though. He doesn't want to ask what happened to her, even though Tyrone is clearly expecting him to, just in case she didn't. In the case that her punishment is worse than that, he doesn't want to know.

"I see you're learning what acceptable behaviour is in this house. Good. So long as you behave, you can keep your muzzle off for now. We had to call a vet for you, to stop you from dying, and he said you're to stay somewhere warmer than the kennel for at least a week. So you can stay in the kitchen until you're well enough to go back outside. If you make any sound that I can hear then you know what happens. Just stay still and quiet in that corner like a good mutt. And your mitt's off because of the risk of nerve damage, I'm not removing it every time you need to do your exercises. They're on that piece of paper beside you, I know you can read, follow them. Or don't, if you want to be punished for losing even more fights. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," growls Cass roughly, deciding not to get his muzzle put back on immediately. Tyrone nods.

"Good boy. I need to sort something out, I'll be back in a minute."

He saunters out, and Aaliyah rushes over to him, crouching down. She wouldn't normally approach him without Tyrone's express permission, he must've really worried her. He gives her a quick hug, careful not to strain his arm too much.

"I'm okay. I am."

She nods. Cass isn't sure what else to say. He knows he scared her, but there's nothing he can do about it.

It won't be long until he has to go in there again, after all.

#whump #whump writing #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box babe #pet whump #forced to fight #stabbing #dehumanisation #mentioned suicidal ideation #implied death #sanctuary pigeonwhumps #cass oc #aaliyah oc #tyrone oc

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whumpwillow · 2 years

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If you still take whump prompt ideas (if you didn't take them before feel free to delete): gladiator pit whump? Maybe a new captive/kidnapped whumpee thrown into the gladiator pit for the first time or meeting one of the most dangerous fighters in the cells?

i do take prompt ideas! i just have Brain Not Work disease and am so bad at answering them

but yes this is a FANTASTIC idea

imagine the atmosphere: the pit, surrounded by dozens, even hundreds of jeering patrons, shouting and calling for blood, the sun baring down on the very center of the arena casting it in sweltering heat and too-bright light, its too loud and all too much and the new fighter, whumpee, is too weakened from their capture and subsequent inspection that they can barely stand upright, let alone bear the overstimulation. they look out and see one of the fighters and know their end is near

or perhaps earlier, when the whumpee is dragged into the "storage" where the other gladiators are kept, then unceremoniously thrown into a cell only to look up and see next to them is someone who could only be described as sharp.

this could go a few different ways:

beaten to all hell for being new and weak, easy to break

fighting with all their might just to not die, still losing but trying minimize the injuries

the dangerous fighter needing to win the fight or else they'll suffer an even worse punishment, so they feel horrid when they have to beat the new fighter to smithereens

the dangerous fighter trying to go easy on the new fighter, even if the new fighter doesn't realize it

an uneasy alliance? cold apologies? loneliness and trauma bonding for two strangers trapped together in an inhospitable environment where all they can do is hurt each other or risk something far worse?

just...gladiator whump

#gladiator whump #forced to fight #slavery tw #of a sort #whump #whump prompt #willow answers #answered asks #whump prompts #whump tropes #whumpee #whump scenario #whump ideas #whump idea #whump inspiration #whump trope

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vibrato-the-third · 2 years

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hold on a sec just hear me out: gladiator arenas in a whump context

Whumpees with no fighting experience whatsoever being thrown into the ring, forced to compete against the toughest fighter there is—or, alternatively, competing against another Whumpee who doesn't know what they're doing.

pacifist Whumpees, or Whumpees who are generally just gentle people, who are forced to fight for... some reason. blackmail? money? maybe if they don't fight, Whumper will hurt or kill one of their loved ones👀

Whumper punishing Whumpee for loosing a fight (or maybe the public humiliation is punishment enough...)

a Whumpee who doesn't remember their past life, or maybe never had a life before the arena at all. a Whumpee who knows only violence.

rescued Whumpee who's terrified of being touched. people only ever touched them with the intention to harm, after all.

Whumpees getting along fine in the ring for a while, but when they're put up against an otherwise defenseless person (child, elder, sick, etc.,) they refuse to fight under any circumstances.

(Whumper-turned-Whumpee) Whumpee coming across their previous owner/kidnapper/etc. do they loose themselves in an uncontrollable rage? or are they unable to fight, overwhelmed with the memories of all the horrible things Whumper did to them?

two Whumpees fighting each other who will be punished if they loose, and they both know it. the guilt they feel is unfathomable, but they know that the choice isn't theirs.

Whumpees who willingly subject themselves to such violence (for what reason though?)

Whumpees who are considered famous and celebrated for their victories, the media completely unaware that Whumper is the one pulling the strings.

#whump #whumpblr #whumpee #whumper #whump prompt #captivity whump #writing prompt #writeblr #pet whump #stoic whumpee #forced to fight

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whumpninja · 2 months

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I offer a housewarming gift. You like vampires in cage matches. This is fan fiction, but even if you don't know the fandom, you might still enjoy it. Vampire vs. werewolf. The Being Human vampire lore allowed them to go out in the day, and pass as human, but werewolf blood would kill them if consumed or just burn on contact. So imagine how much fun a cage match would be? https://archiveofourown.org/works/10205627/chapters/29636349#workskin

Ooh, my first not-ask-game-ask!? Thank you so much! *invites you in for tea and cake*

Thank you for the fanfic link! I have it saved for the weekend, because it is large and I have no spoons, but I did skim the first few chapters and it looks really good, even reading fandom-blind!

While I don’t think werewolves canonically exist in my universe (I feel so pretentious using words like canonically to describe my little head-world!) I could easily see them being used to fight if they did! I mean, it’s basically dog-fighting with extra steps, right? And capitalizing on the vampire vs. werewolf rivalry? The crowds would eat it up!

Some of my vampires actually can go out in the sunlight and/or pass as human! I’m working on a spreadsheet that explains all the different types. But ooh, that blood thing is juicy. Angel tends to be…pretty brutal in matches, so they’d definitely have to keep him from swallowing any; he spills a lot of blood so that would definitely be advertised as an interesting advantage/disadvantage if it burned him. I think Angel would probably still win, though- werewolves usually can’t heal, so as soon as Angel managed to get his claws in, it would pretty much be over. Also, for the werewolf, it would likely be…kinda similar to fighting another werewolf! Angel fights very animalistically- he doesn’t have any gracefulness or any particular style, he just throws himself at his opponent until they go down or he does. This would definitely be a cool match to see!

#jack be answering #whump #werewolf whumpee #vampire whumpee #forced to fight #cage match #angel

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urlocalwhumper · 5 months

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two (or more) whumpees being forced to fight for whumper's amusement, then quietly tending to each other's wounds once it's over.

the only people they can trust are each other. the same hands that tear them apart are the ones to put them back together, remorse in their eyes and mumbled apologies when they accidentally press too hard on a wound they inflicted.

maybe one time, at the end of a particularly nasty brawl, whumpee A has whumpee B pinned, defeated and at their mercy. hoping to go back to their cell room and nurse B's injuries before they can get worse, A looks up at whumper for approval.

whumper simply stares down at them, and then orders them to finish the job. kill B.

A's blood runs cold. they look down at B, only to see that their friend doesn't even seem that phased by it.

they don't speak, but their eyes say it all.

go ahead. they say. it's just self-preservation. no hard feelings.

what does A do?

#whump #whump prompts #captivity #forced to fight #multiple whumpees #character death #(potentially!)#carewhumpee #(is that a thing?)#mine #i wanna hear y'all's conclusions to this i'm so interested

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hold-him-down · 7 months

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Whumptober - Day 1

Notes: Somewhere toward the end of Ivan's contract

TW: broken rib mention, concussion mention, forced to fight references

✥ ✥ ✥

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Leo’s eyes widen momentarily as his brow furrows, something like confusion or maybe determination ghosting across his features. His fingertips dig into the sides of the metal table and he sways. Keeping himself upright has been a big fucking ordeal this week, and something the doctor said about sleep or food or warmth or, “even better, all three,” nags at Ivan.

As instantly as it came, the boy’s focus is gone, and even though he knows better than to close those eyes, Ivan suspects he’s retreated into some deep dark spot in his mind that makes him barely reachable.

His patience wanes. He snaps a finger in front of Leo’s face, leaning in so close, eyes mere inches from eyes. Leo, in some misguided effort to grow a fucking spine, tries to back up, but Ivan easily catches the back of his neck and tsks.

“You’ll eat, and you’ll sleep, when you do as you’re told,” Ivan says, which earns him a half-nod and nothing else. His eyes go out of focus again. With something close to disgust, Ivan pushes Leo away from him and takes a step back. He can feel the frustration building and clasps his hands together. Beating the piss out of this boy, in this moment, will be useless. He’s no doctor, but he knows that fucking much.

“You try my patience,” he hisses instead, pacing. Leo swallows, but he’s too weak to show any kind of real reaction. Too tired to tremble, too hungry to spew the vitriol that he knows Leo itches to spew every goddam second.

And so, being the reasonable man that he is, Ivan accepts defeat. He steps into the corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest, and watches his boy sway on the table. Leo stares at nothing, breaths shallow, covered in bruises. He has three broken ribs, at least. The doctor says he has a concussion, but Ivan would not believe it without seeing it.

As if on cue, Leo’s eyes roll shut, and Ivan wants to, genuinely, wring his fucking neck, because contrary to what this boy would have you believe, he knows better than to close his eyes without permission. Ivan pushes off the wall and approaches again, unsure what exactly he plans to do but no longer interested in denying himself the satisfaction of causing significant pain, but in that exact fucking moment the doctor enters. Ivan takes a breath.

“He’s useless like this,” he says through his teeth, gesturing vaguely behind him. “Fix him.”

He lets the door slam shut behind him.

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up #OC #fic #broken ribs mention #forced to fight #institutionalized slavery #the fighter

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 1 year

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Whump Prompt #1116

Anon asked:

Any prompts for a character having their magic ripped out of them?

I can give it a go:

Is the magic trapped in something? A stone/painting/jewellery? Is this item then lost?

When they’re reunited with their magic, do they have to re-learn how to keep it contained/learn to get used to it again?

Do they have chronic pain from how the magic was removed? Do their fingertips sting? Does their head pound? Do they lose their vision?

Do they feel useless/helpless? Do they run away from their magical town/team?

Are they found years later after they’ve built a sense of normalcy? How do they react when they’re told they can get their magic back.

Are they reluctant at first? After some reflection they realised that all their magic did was cause pain... do they really want to do that again?

Do they only agree when a word of an attack on the town/Big Bad is on the way?

After all is said and done... do they want to keep their power? Do they become delusional with power? Do they beg to have it taken away again?

...or do they have a renewed sense of confidence?

#whump #writing #prompts #ideas #angst #losing magic #magic whump #chronic pain #headaches #migraines #vision loss #running away #delusional with power #forced to fight #forced to choose

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actress4him · 6 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 17 - Gladiator/Slave AU

Welcome to yet another Brumaria AU! There’s another piece coming for this in a few days that explains more of how Kamaria got into today’s specific situation, but I’ll give a brief backstory for the AU now.

This takes place in the canon universe, where she is Vaya and Ethorcon and Kedosa are at war, but it diverges from canon when her village is destroyed - she was taken captive by Kedosan soldiers, instead of fleeing with a Vaya couple and later being found by her father. She’s been a slave in various capacities ever since.

Bruno belongs to Izzy and is used with permission!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.” | “Leave me alone.”

Contains: lady whump, dude whump, slavery, imprisonment, implied/referenced noncon, talk of murder, forced to fight

Her latest master doesn’t make any sense. Three days Kamaria has been locked in this room with him, and all he’s done is talk. He talks about everything. Himself, the fights, his life before the arena, food. He offers her things. He tries to get her to talk.

She’s yet to say a word to him. She’s thought about it a couple of times, mostly just to tell him no when he offers her the bed to sleep in yet again, or to ask him what his deal is and what exactly he’s waiting on. But she can’t seem to force the words up past the constant lump in her throat.

They gave her to him because he’s the reigning champion of the arena. Undefeated for she doesn’t know or care how long, but apparently it’s a long time compared to others. Every other gladiator she’s been given to has only kept her for one night as a reward for winning a big fight, but this one gets to keep her. Indefinitely. She’s his now, to do whatever he wants with, as long as he continues doing well in the arena.

But somehow, all he seems to want to do with her is talk to her. And he hasn’t even gotten angry when she won’t talk back. That part is not entirely unusual, some of the prisoners are actually fairly calm and gentle when they’re not out in the ring killing people. They’re forced to be here, just like she is, forced to do things they don’t want to do. She has much better luck coming away unharmed with them than she does the guards.

Regardless of their anger levels, though, all of them have used her for her intended purpose. Until this one.

He has to be waiting on something. Maybe he’s saving her as a reward for when he feels he’s done exceptionally well. Maybe he wants to get to know her first - another reason to continue not speaking. Maybe he wants to lull her into a false sense of security.

He won’t leave her alone forever, though. It’s impossible.

Night three falls, marked by the food that’s shoved through the slot in the door. Her master fetches it, as usual, inspecting both trays before bringing one over to set at a short distance from her. As usual, he takes some food off his own tray and places it on hers.

As usual, he says something along the lines of, “The amount of food they give you is pathetic. You can’t survive on just that.”

I have for years, she thinks but doesn’t say. What they give you isn’t much better for someone they expect to fight and win.

As usual, she picks at the food and leaves the extra that he gave her. He’ll take it back and eat it himself at the end, complaining that she really should have eaten it. He doesn’t seem to realize the trouble she’d likely get in if she took what isn’t hers and someone found out.

He sets the empty trays by the door, stretches with his arms over his head, and goes to the basin in the corner to wash his face and hands. “You know you can wash up, too, if you want. I’ll even turn my back if you want me to.”

Right. Of course he would.

“I’ve got a fight tomorrow. Hope it’s someone easy.” He chuckles as if it’s not his life on the line every time he goes out there, as if he doesn’t have to take a life sometimes to save his own. She knows he hates it, he’s told her so. But he’s annoyingly casual about everything pertaining to himself and bafflingly serious about everything pertaining to her.

“Will you please take the bed tonight? I really don’t mind sleeping on the floor, done it a million times before. It’s cold tonight, too, and you’re barely dressed. You should really be off that cold floor. Take a blanket, at the very least.”

She responds by lying down, curling up in the corner she hasn’t moved from with her back to the wall. She doesn’t want in his bed. Whatever reason he’s putting off the inevitable, it would surely come to an end the moment she touched that bed. And yes, it’s cold. The wooden floor is like ice against her bare arms and feet, but her body heat will warm it soon enough. If she takes anything from him, that’s just giving him an opportunity to say that she owes him.

Not that it works that way, she’s his slave. He can take what he wants from her at any time, no matter what. But maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.

He sighs, dropping the blanket he held in one hand back onto the bed. “Fine. Have it your way, I guess. Don’t say I didn’t try to be a gentleman.”

It almost sounds like he’s giving up and about to come after her. Kamaria tenses all over, heart lurching into high speed, stomach twisting into a knot.

But all he does is turn around and crawl into the bed, pulling the blanket up over his own body. “Goodnight, Miss Silent One.”

It takes her several minutes after he falls quiet to settle back down. In a way, she’s angry. She wishes that he’d just do it, just get it over with. At least then she’d know what to expect. This waiting and wondering and trying to figure him out is killing her. Her heart and brain can’t take it much longer.

She’s fallen into a light sleep, arms wrapped around herself, when footsteps coming across the floor jerk her back awake. Immediately she’s sitting up, pressed against the wall, staring up at him. He’s got that blasted blanket in his hand again, looming over her.

He backs off one step. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, I was hoping you were asleep. I was just going to give you this.”

Why do you keep making excuses? she wants to scream. Either take what you want or just leave me alone!

She swallows, but the lump that’s been there for three days now remains.

He sighs again, longer this time. “Fine. Sorry.” He starts to back up, hesitates, then drops the blanket onto the floor in front of her before turning and walking back to the bed, lying down with his back toward her.

Kamaria remains sitting up until she can hear his steady breathing from across the small room. Chills crawl up and down her spine, and the blanket is right there, and maybe if she takes it he’ll get it over with like she wants, but she can’t.

She can’t willingly surrender herself to the one thing she hates the most.

The blanket is still crumpled in front of her when morning comes.

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