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#forced to watch

BTHB: Drowning + G

This is for @badthingshappenbingo kindly requested by @terriblethrillssss​ . I’d like to give credit to @whumpiary​ for the layout, which I may have pilfered from her excellent Josiah + doggo fic, and for a comment a while back about wanting to see a scene where L and G talk about his past. Taking the liberty to tag @givemethatwhump​ because I know she likes the Graham whump. ;-)

Content warnings: Waterboarding, implied and heavily threatened noncon, death reference, death thoughts (to avoid torture), slurs (c-word, b-word), VERY lewd and graphic comments, lots of swearing, guns, discussions of trauma and P//TSD. Please heed these tags.

Graham was kicking himself. He had mentioned it in such casual, offhanded ways that his sweet, innocent maybe-boyfriend had taken them all as silly, awkward jokes—which, really, he couldn’t blame him for. Some comment about how he may have to avoid certain markets in case he was spotted by an associate. Some comment about needing a job that paid him under the table, keep him off the books. Some far-too-detailed Godfather references.

But then, Lev had witnessed him in the middle of an episode. One where, after it had passed, he’d come out of it with his gun in his hands.

So, he had been forced to clear the air. Despite the Code, and a million little other reasons to keep his mouth shut… Graham spilled the beans. A bag of takeaway Indian food was cooling on the kitchen counter, and his maybe-boyfriend seemed to be struggling with a knee-jerk response to deflect the big reveal with humour. 

“I mean… it’s… not the reddest flag I’ve seen?”

Graham raised both eyebrows in utter disbelief. “You’ve seen worse than ‘I used to work for the mob’?”

“Yeah, okay,” Lev said. He chewed at his bottom lip. “Maybe not.”


Freezing skin. Screaming lungs. White panic. 

How long would they go for if it’s just for fun?

The slap of cloth as it hit concrete, and a heaving retch. Another. His whole form twisted, every limb comforting with the extreme need to expel as much water and take in as much oxygen as possible. His diaphragm pitching violently with each hacking cough. It felt as though he was squeezing himself out like a sponge.

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Hm, um- hmmm, mm~ well, I- I have no excuse. 

tw; EXPLICIT NON-CON, conditioning, dehumanization, swearing, non-consensual exhibitionism

Robbins entered the study coolly, aware of the men on either side of him who were armed and very ready to demonstrate that fact. 

Leon sat at his desk, scribbling something or other - legitimate business or not, who could tell - but when he heard the door he looked up and smiled. 

“Ah, Professor, I’m so glad you could meet with me today.” He said it like he wasn’t keeping him and his two boys captive, like this was any other appointment. 

“I hardly had a choice, Leon,” Robbins growled, casting his eyes around the room, looking for something - someone. “Where’s Lee?” The name felt wrong on his tongue, like it had during that first phone call. 

But he understood the boy’s reasoning, some instinctual thing inside him had understood the first time Charlie had allowed him continuous use of his full name; it was about trust and control, and Leon wouldn’t be taking it from him. 

Leon smirked and waved a vague hand about. “Oh, he’s around somewhere, being entertaining.” 

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Content warnings: chemical torture, shock collar, em-dash abuse.

He holds the kid by the elbows, feeling the small body wind incredibly tight with the force of another scream building within.

King fucker, the bastard himself, as if the looming shadow out of a waking nightmare, smiles down at the two of them sitting almost chest to chest on the concrete floor. “Just say it. Say it, and this stops.”

On the outside Niels is stoic, save for the furious tears forming in his eyes. On the inside, he’s screaming too.

This isn’t fair. Everyone knows he’s just a coward. Why rope him into this?

“Don't—aahn!” Lev’s nails dig little crescent-moons into the backs of Niels’ arms.

“You’re hurting him, Niels Bohr.”

I’m not the one burning fucking holes in his fucking back you fucking asshole, Niels aches to yell in response. But he can’t. He can’t even try to whisper at the front of his mouth like he does when the two of them have a moment’s privacy.

Despite the sizzle of the chemical into his skin—he can smell it, he swears he can definitely smell it—Lev’s pleas aren’t for mercy.

“Don’t do it, don’t say it… Don’t…”

Not for the first time, Niels wonders if Lev would put himself on the line for anyone. He wonders if that’s healthy. God knows Niels hadn’t done anything to deserve the kid’s loyalty, or even respect, for that matter.

So why was trying to bear this now?

Another drop of the caustic liquid falls, and though the thought of catching it in his own hand flutters through Niels’ mind, the memory of the man saying he’d tip the whole flask out onto Lev’s shoulders if he did holds him back from the impulse. The kid shakes and cries, arching back and twisting as if to escape.

He can’t. Neither can. They’re tied together.

“Don’t do, don’t, say, I d-don't—oh god please make it stop—“

And it’s not important, it’s not, because he’d feel the pang in his gut the same way for anyone in as much pain as this, but the feeling solidifies in his veins and Niels realises that in this moment, he’s a just a guy desperate to go home. He’s a coward who’s afraid of dying. He’s a man with sores at the front of his neck that are so painful he knows they’ll scar.

But he’s also a father. And this fucker is hurting his son.

He sits back from Lev, trying to gain some distance in case his spasms hurt the boy further, scowling upwards with ferocious intensity.


His voice is hoarse from disuse, and as soon as he speaks, the muscles in his pecs and upper back clench to brace for the incipient shock. The bolt of electricity shoots into him from the prongs at his neck, and as usual, it feels like a powerful punch to the chest. He can feel it pierce all the way down into the centre of his ribcage, vibrating in his bones, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

“Please ca—“

He tries to get the next word out before the collar resets itself, but he can’t force it out quickly enough. From the warning look on Martin’s face when his blurry eyes focus on it, he’ll make him repeat the word over if he doesn’t.

Or start from the beginning. He doesn’t want that.


Niels wonders if the repeated shocks in quick succession like this are enough to stop his heart.


“How many times?”

“Two—“ Shock. “Hundred—“ Shock.

The last word is barely a word at all. He struggles to breathe, because if he gives in to the strong urge to cough, the collar will fire again.

“Oh. Well you should have just said so, dear Niels. Hang on, let me go fetch it.”

Niels has no energy with which to even glare in the man’s direction as he stalks off to the far corner of the room.

Lev crawls forward, shaking hands coming up, thumbs pressing firmly into Niels’ trapezius muscles. Trying to get them to release, the way he usually does. Not even thinking. Just automatically trying to help.

“I’m so-rry, I’m s-nn,” Lev mutters, “thank you, thank you, thank you, you, you didn’t have to do that…”

I did, Niels mouths, his voice too wrecked to produce the whisper.

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Prompt; Danny gets caught in one of those ‘bad hands’ situations he’s had flashbacks about before

CW: Features self-touch and resulting punishment - including a brief reference to fingernail torture that doesn’t actually happen. Barbed wire torture and implied noncon at the end. Pet whump and dehumanization. 

Takes place early in Danny’s first captivity, within the first six months.

This one got a little long so I’m tagging the Danny crew: @whump-it, @finder-of-rings, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @whale-whumps, @swordkallya

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Caretaker sat against a pole in the middle of the room, his hands cuffed around it.

“Come dear, kneel down.” Whumper guided Whumpee over, his hands on their shoulders.

Whumpee slowly let themselves be lowered down over Caretakers legs, stradling his hips as they knelt. Whumper took their bound hands and slid them over Caretaker’s head in a grotesque display of affection and cuffed them too to the pole. The chains between their wrists and around the pole had a fair amount of slack. He didn’t need much more to ensure they didnt move; the threat of hurting the other was enough to bind both.

Whumpee slumped over and buried their head against Caretaker’s shoulder, whimpering softly. One of their arms was still draped around Caretaker’s neck, the other was resting against his other shoulder.

Catetaker shushed them gently and whispered kind and sweet promises into their ear, but his eyes were blazing in rage as Whumper slowly unsheated his knife.

It started softly; strained grunts, soft gasps as Whumpee struggled to keep themselves from screaming into Caretaker’s ear. Caretaker winced. Not just because of the pained sounds that broke his heart, but as Whumpee fought against their screams, their fingers dug painfully into his shoulder.

“It’s ok, hun, just let it out,” he whispered. But he only felt the near inperceptible shake of their head in his neck and their fingers dug deeper, harder into his skin. The moans pitching higher until he felt their lips open against his neck. They desperately tried to keep back a scream, resulting in a very soft squeaky keen that escaped from the back of their throat.

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Would Leon and Martin ever play the card game with their boys? Spicy bastards being degenerates gives me life! 👀

tw; blood, forced to torture, dehumanization, pet whump, implied non-con, non-con touching, gun 

Lee struggled as he was manhandled into a chair, opposite Lev, kept there by Leon’s tight grip pushing his shoulders down. 

“Whichever boy wins, their owner gets to choose the prize.” Martin grinned, tightening his hold on Lev’s shoulders in warning. You better try your best, darling. 

“And If Lev loses you get Lee for an hour to do whatever you want, and vice versa with me if Lee loses on top of the prize,” Leon rebutted. These boys will lose on purpose otherwise, or at least his will. He doesn’t know about Martin’s little doe there. 

Martin grinned, sickly sweet. “Perfect.” 

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This story-piece is way, way rougher, more hardcore, bloodier, and more violent than a lot of my other stuff. Please, please read the cautions.

TW/CAUTION: this story includes references to and implications of self-harm. Though no character actually engages in acts of self-harm, a whumper does cause similar injuries, please use caution if you choose to read this story. Additionally, this story includes drug-use which is depicted in the text though the drug is administered by the whumper

–>In general, this set of stories will be extremely dark. (The whumpee will get scooped and rescued eventually; fear not. You may have already read the piece behind this link.)

Admittedly inspired in part criminal underworlds as shown in movies (John Wick, Eastern Promises, &c.). All you need to know by way of backstory is that Ryan was involved in some kind of heist or deal and then things went wrong and now he’s in trouble. Meanwhile, Nickolai (Nick) has gotten inadvertently wrapped up in this underworld. Here’s what happens next…

All Nick knew was that he was being wheeled along from somewhere to somewhere. His feet were taped down to the base of the office chair he’d been shoved into and his hands were tied to the arms with zipties. The car trunk had been dark and the night had been dark and then wherever they were now was dark–and they’d only made it darker when someone jammed a pillowcase over his head. 

And now they were pushing the desk chair they’d tied him to across the floor–two of them at least because someone would push and someone would catch. One of them would send him careening along and someone else would snag him and spin him around and then send him back again and he’d try to keep his balance along the way. And when he had nearly tipped over, someone had called out from farther away and someone else had grabbed the chair before he fell. At least there was that. Because it was cold in here and the floor seemed very smooth and hard.

But now he was being pushed somewhere else, and it was brighter here. He heard a door open, felt the wheels of the chair hit the threshold of a room and jump over, and heard the door close again. And then, a voice: 

“Jimmy, come on, leave him out of this. Jimmy!”

“Ryan?” Nick called from under the pillowcase.

“Hey, Nick,” Ryan answered.

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, Nick. Everything’s gonna to be okay.”

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CW: explicit dubcon, slavery, caning, dehumanization, degradation, brainwashing, creepy + intimate whumper

Tag list: @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr @spiffythespook @whumps-the-word @frnkieroismydaddy @whumpity–whump–whump @michelleswhumpyreblogs @jo-castle @newandfiguringitout @lumpofwhump @infested-with-blood


They had 40 minutes, a little less, before dinner would be ready and they would need to put away their toys to go enjoy what Soren made for them. But 40 minutes was plenty of time, and 02 was in dire need of some shaping up. 

“Look at you,” Ren intoned, noting the little ways 02 listed into their palm before holding himself still again. He was good at hiding it. How much he wanted to be touched. He was good, but they were better. “You just need someone to take you in hand, don’t you?”

“Processors tried,” 02 grit out, fingers trembling where they dug into his own thighs. “Turns out I’m a handful.”

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Storm, Nightcrawler and Colossus are tied up and are forced to watch the twisted wedding ceremony of Callisto and the captive Angel. They break out of the ropes to try to stop the twisted wedding. 

- Uncanny X-Men v1 #170, 1983

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[Part one: The Mask.]

It’s been nearly six months, he thinks, since he wore one. Miss Landon liked them to be thick leather, padding out a chain that could be padlocked into any of her rooms and adjusted to allow full access to the area without the door being passable.

He doesn’t know if he had a collar before then, but there’s one now. It’s buckled at the back of his neck. No lock. They know he can’t unlatch it with his broken fingers and thumbs. Even if he could, it’d just go back on. His ankles are shackled, and there’s not enough slack between the two cuffs to take a full pace. He can’t get away from the guards constantly around him, around the Teacher, as he’s led across the facility to see the new batch of trainee slaves.

There’s a ring on the back of the collar. The Teacher curls a finger around it when he wants Ty to stop. It’s unnecessarily threatening. Ty always freezes immediately anyway, because he knows – remembers, he thinks – the feeling of the metal batons at the guards’ belts, cracking against his shoulders and ribs.

“There they are,” the Teacher says, sounding proud. “Every group is different. These ones are a little rowdy.”

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29 Days of Whump - Day 11 - Forced to Watch

Taglist: @yuckwhump, @slaintetowhump, @whimperwoods @galaxywhump LMK if you wanna be added to the taglist! :D

TW: Spiders.

Tears dripped from Derrick’s face, landing on the glass below. Even with the tear stains, the glass was all too clear for Derrick to witness the horror unfolding beneath him. Rose lay chained on the ground, gasping for breath. Her face was bruised and blood dripped from her swollen lip. Her arms and legs were covered in welts from the cane Wayne had used to beat her. Blood seeped from the cuts that marked her back. The whipping. Derrick shuddered when he remembered Rose’s screams. He had cried, but knew she couldn’t hear him. Wayne had made sure of that. She didn’t even know he was here.

At least now Rose is alone, Derrick thought, though without much comfort. Whenever Wayne left for a long time, that meant he was plotting something diabolical. What more could he do to her? At that moment, the door creaked open, and Derrick wished he hadn’t even asked that question. Two assistants were with Wayne, dragging an over-sized glass coffin. Derrick caught his breath and stared in horror at the contents of the coffin: inside the coffin were spiders. Spiders of all sizes. Hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands. No. Not that. Anything but that! Rose is deathly afraid of spiders. He glanced at her on the floor. Wayne was already unchaining her from the floor and dragging her towards the coffin. Derrick fought against his restraints furiously, even though he knew it was hopeless. If he could scream, he would have screamed TAKE ME INSTEAD! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT BUT NOT THIS!

Rose had realized what was in the coffin. She shrieked and despite her many injuries, wriggled so hard that Wayne almost dropped her. But he held her firmly and pushed her into the glass coffin, shutting the lid and locking it. Rose went rigid, petrified with fear as the spiders crawled all over her. Scuttling, scurrying, jumping everywhere. On her arms, her legs, her face.. Some even went under her shirt or pants. Derrick screamed into his gag. Wayne stood calmly by and spoke in a calm tone.

“It has occurred to me that perhaps fear would be a better motivator then pain alone. Knowing your fear of spiders, I decided to make use of this knowledge. You are to stay in here for one hour each day.”

Inside the coffin, Rose let out a squeak. She was too terrified to make any other noise. Too scared to open her mouth. Wayne cocked his head, then made a gesture as if remembering something and smiled broadly.

“Rest assured, my dear Rose, none of those spiders are deadly, but some may bite. I’m sure you already know to keep your mouth closed. I’ll see you in one hour.”

With that, he and his assistants left, leaving Rose frozen in horror, and Derrick dying on the inside at the horror he was watching.

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❝ that’s on you. that’s your fault. ❞ with neils?

content warnings: heavy beating, blood, broken bones.

“I want you to watch this. Every time you turn away, every time you close your eyes? I add five more. What am I up to, love?”

Thirty-four,” Lev hissed, “please, I’ll take it, I’ll take it—”

“No you won’t. Because I need you walking, and at the rate Niels is going, I don’t think he’s going to learn his fucking lesson any time soon.”

Niels looked down at the kid, tied up on the floor, looking up at him, urgency in his eyes. At the kid’s partner, blond hair matted with blood, shirtless, chest heaving in the brief intermission. At Martin, standing in the middle like the ringmaster of his fucked up circus. One foot pinning Lev’s bound hands in place on the ground. One hand loosely curled around the baton.

God, the man could hurt three while only injuring one.

“Are you ready to resume?”

Niels swallowed. Nodded. Just wanting this to be over.

If the sight wasn’t enough, the sounds of it were relentless. The whistle and thwap of metal striking defenseless skin, again. Again. Lev’s voice sounding between blows. Thirty-nine, f-forty, forty one

At the sickening crunch and the overwhelmed wail that followed Niels flinched, his eyes flickering to the ceiling. Immediately he looked back down, at Lev, to catch the flash of hatred in his eyes.

“We’re going to be late.” Martin shrugged. “Five more.”

At Niels’ glare, the man approached him. Wiping blood off the baton, and onto his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t the one who decided to get all sappy, passing love notes and shit, that was your idea. And I’m not the one who keeps looking away, either. So if our Graham here finds himself a little unsteady from all the internal bleeding for a few weeks—that’s on you. That’s your fault.”

He couldn’t stop the man from doing this. But he could make it end sooner.

“Forty-five, forty-six—please, no more. No more… right?”

“Right. Good work, love. Good work Niels.”

And Niels was left to look upon the stains on the floor, and the ragged, barely-breathing state of a man, and reassure himself that it hadn’t been his fault. It hadn’t.

Had it?

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To kick this fun thing off: 🌟 🌟🌟🌟🌟

Obviously angst is my thing, so leeeet’s talk about the hostage video in Honor Bound.

Broseph, I almost had more fun writing that scene than the rest of his torture combined. Forced to watch is one of my bar-none favorite tropes, and I’m so, so glad it was as requested as it was. Managing Gavin’s fun, Isaac’s reaction, and the invisible reactions of the team (while all keeping Isaac in the frame of the camera of the reader’s view) was soo fun to juggle.

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I got my wisdom teeth taken out the other day, and it's been hell, so do you have any prompts for a whumpee being forced to watch the whumper hurt the whumpee's significant other? (Probably my favorite trope ever). Thanks! —@shy-whumper

Oh man! I never had to have my wisdom teeth out but I hear it’s totally awful.

I’m not much good at prompts on the fly so I’m going to post this now, rather than hold onto it for weeks while I try to come up with something, and ask the community for help.

Whumpblr friends, got any good “forced to watch” prompts for @shy-whumper ? Help a hurting fellow whump fan out :)

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