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m3rakii · 8 months

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Pretty little hero

tw: implied captivity, hero getting beat up, a lot, whump, non con touch (not sexual), a kinda yandere villain, idk what else lol

➽───── ⋆｡˚˚̣̣̣͙« ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ »˚̣̣̣͙⋆｡˚ ─────▸

Hero was lying in a slump against the wall, opening their mouth to say something witty, or at least a simple “Shut up” in response, but instead, blood came out in tiny droplets, splattering all over the wooden floor of the bed- no, torture room.

Hero rose up, or rather tried to, but with a swift kick from Villain in the gut, Hero was back on the floor, coughing, no… more like, hacking, growing increasingly worse. Hero clutched their side, letting out a small whine as Villain grabbed them by their shirt, lifting them up into the air, their feet dangling.

Villain threw them back onto the ground, scoffing at the pathetic waste of space on the floor continuously wailing, sobbing, pleading, and basically, just being annoying.

Villain sighed at the sight, as Hero’s cries grew louder, and their words no longer coherent, as they were blubbering, and blubbering, and blubbering-

“Shut up.”

“P-please I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just, j-just stop, please, please-”

“Shut. Up.” The Villain repeated, clenching their fists.

“S-sorry just please, ple-please don-”

Villain grabbed them by the hair, tightening their grip as Hero let out a shriek, hitting their head against the wall, once. Twice. Thrice. And-, honestly Hero had lost count as Villain kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting, and hitting their poor head over, and over.

Hero lifted up their arm, grabbing onto Villain’s arms, in a rather pitiful attempt to stop Villain. Villain rolled their eyes at this, pausing for a moment. They brought Hero’s head away from the wall, to slam it into the floor, however Hero had tilted over, collapsing, hitting their head onto the floor themselves instead.

Villain scoffed, beginning to lift up their leg, however they dropped their leg, the sides of their mouth quickly turned up, and into a mechanical, almost grin as Hero’s eyes began fluttering shut, their vision growing dark.

Hero tried to stand up once more, to preserve the tiny shred of dignity that they had left but, to their avail, they collapsed immediately, right into Villain’s arms.

Villain’s eyes had slightly widened, yet visibly softened as they saw their dear, precious, Hero fall limp into their arms, now fully unconscious. Not Supervillain’s, not Superhero’s, not Sidekick’s, but theirs.

Villain placed Hero against a wall gingerly, to grab, then wrap a plush set of bandages around Hero’s head, since it was the only place that was actually bleeding. Villain then lifted them up into a bridal carry, before kissing the top of Hero’s head, brushing their bangs aside.

They left the room, walking through the endless corridors of Villain’s hous-, no mansion-, a manor rather, resembling a pristine castle. After a few minutes of walking, they arrived at Hero’s room, or rather, “Hero’s lush cell”, Villain said under their breath, mimicking Hero’s constant disapproval of being locked up in a room “against their will”. Villain let out a small sigh, before kicking the door open, and placing Hero onto an enormous bed.

Villain grabbed the chains dangling on the bed’s headrest, clasping a separate chain around each of Hero’s arms. They moved back a bit, admiring their handiwork, contemplating whether or not they should chain Hero’s legs as well, so there was no chance of escape. Villain decided not to, however, since Hero would most definitely awaken to be very, very, dazy, given the state of their head.

They moved forward, trailing their fingers along the countless bruises littering Hero’s soft, plush skin. Given most of them were fresh, most appeared a bright red, however a few dark purple ones also resided, especially around Hero’s wrist, which was a multitude of colors, since it was Villain’s very apparent place to manhandle. Though the Hero was extremely lean and fit, they were just so… tiny.

Villain chuckled to themselves, as they moved down to Hero’s abs, drawing their fingers all over them. It was rather funny to Villain, that had they not drugged Hero, rendering them weak, Hero would have easily been able to attack back, and actually win. Hero was a miniscule little thing, well only to Villain really. Hero was around 5 '3, at max, which isn’t even small to most, but given Villain stood at the glorious height of 6' 3, Hero resembled as a little figurine, to the Villain.

A gorgeous, little thing the Hero was.

“You're so pretty…” Villain cooed into Hero’s hair, causing Hero to rustle a little, however still remaining unconscious. Not wanting Hero to awake just yet, Villain having many, many things to prepare for the Hero, they left both Hero, and the room. They slid a few bolts, and a chain while marveling to themselves just how adorable Hero would be when they awoke.

Just before they left, they peered at Hero through the peephole, letting out a soft sigh at the sight of their pretty little hero, just so helpless.

Oh how much fun they would have the next day.

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comfy-whumpee · 5 months

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If your whumpee is clingy and trained to give physical affection, make sure they have a caretaker or fellow whumpee who finds that uncomfortable and unnerving!

If they put themselves low down or kneel, or call themselves derogatory names, at least some people will find that offputting!

If they offer slavish devotion, that can be unsettling! Disturbing and pressuring! Unfair and destabilising!

Let your whumpees be creepy to outsiders!

#I know people are mixed on the soft uwu boy whumpees #but we can do better than make everyone pity them instantly #whump #intimate whump #aftermath of whump #recovery whump

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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 16 days

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Shame

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

After so long, Elze'ith has learned how to take care of himself, though that doesn't make it easy.

For @whumpril Day 3: Shame

Contains: Aftermath of noncon, captivity/gilded cage, dissociation/depersonalization, isolation, briefly mentioned desire to self-harm

~~~

It always happened the same way. Lord Denholm would take him to bed. He would stay for a while. And then he would leave, and Elze’ith would try to bind the fragments of his soul back together.

It never seemed to work. It always felt like there was something missing, every single time. Something he could never get back, no matter how hard he tried. Pieces of him lost to the ether, and ultimately he wasn’t sure if anything resembling himself would remain.

Occasionally, Lord Denholm would take him to the bath himself. Even more rarely still, they would bathe together. Elze’ith found himself craving those moments, where he wouldn’t have to think, where he wouldn’t have to force his attention onto his wretched body. But more often than not, Lord Denholm departed straight from his bedroom, or his study, or wherever he had decided they would be coupling that day, and Elze’ith would have to painstakingly gather his strength and carry himself to the bath all on his own. It was never easy. But the idea of lingering in the sweat and blood and other remnants of Lord Denholm’s ministrations was far, far worse. And if he went early enough, the distance his mind tended to keep could carry through to his time in the water, and he could get himself washed without his thoughts dwelling on why.

Not that it was always easy. Just the mere act of being in the bath, no matter how scalding he made the water, could be enough to send chills down his spine. Even when he was alone he could sometimes feel Lord Denholm’s hands on him, sickeningly gentle, mapping out every inch of his skin. Those times were the hardest, when not even the quiet fog in his mind was enough to keep him safe, and he had to hurry to finish and get back to his room before the urge to claw into his own skin grew overwhelming.

Though there was a linen closet not far from his chambers, he started keeping a fresh set of bedding in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As much as he rarely wanted to go through the effort of actually changing his linens, of being faced with the aftermath of his encounters with Lord Denholm, he wanted even less for that evidence to remain. So he kept fresh sets close as hand, to accommodate for the frequency at which he couldn’t muster the willpower to venture back out into the castle halls to fetch something. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough; sometimes his sense of mortification and disgust and the fog that clouded his mind left him feeling immobilized for ages, and he would sleep in one of the chairs in his room rather than face what he and Lord Denholm had done together. But sometimes he could collapse onto a bed that felt cleaner than he ever would, and he knew to appreciate that.

As he appreciated the fact that he could set his laundry outside his door, and one of the servants would take care of it for him. At times like this, he didn’t even care that no one would talk to him, that he couldn’t speak to anyone even if he wanted to, that the halls were always achingly empty when he picked himself up from what he could not refuse. He didn’t want anyone else looking at him, talking to him, knowing him, out of some thorny mix of fear and shame and other emotions he dare not name. It didn’t matter how much part of him yearned for comfort, how much he didn’t want to deal with this alone, how the brambles in his heart felt like they were going to cut him open every time this happened. No, best that he be left alone. There was no helping him anyway.

It was all he could do to help himself. Go through the motions. Heal any outstanding wounds, the pain both grounding and disorienting but never pleasant. Put on clean clothes, so that he might feel more like a person and less like some monstrous, wretched thing. Brush his hair; it always seemed to get tangled. The routine of it was almost soothing in its own right, simple tasks he had completed thousands of times before and that he knew by heart. It was almost enough for him to forget what had just happened, to pretend that he was anywhere else. He never could, but maybe someday that blissful ignorance would come.

But now even what scraps of comfort he tried to stitch together were warped by how much of himself he had traded away. He drifted through a home that wasn’t his, dressed in clothes he would never choose and sleeping on a too-soft bed. There was no solace to be found in these frigid halls, no matter where he looked, and whatever he tried to cobble together was inevitably tainted. He felt like a ghost in his own body, haunting a life that was no longer his. He found himself glad that Lord Denholm had forbidden him access to a mirror. He didn’t think he could look at himself. Not anymore.

And yet he kept living. Day after day. He simply had no other choice. Such luxuries had been taken from him long, long ago.

#flicker in the dark #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #nsfwhump #captivity #intimate whump #dissociation (whump)#isolation #self harm (whump)#whumpril2024 #whumprilday3 #shame

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echo-goes-mmm · 5 months

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Second-Hand Goods #5

Masterpost

Warnings: human trafficking, oral dub/non-con, manipulation

Emmett woke up with a headache. He yawned, but didn’t get very far.

Right, the muzzle.

The first thing he noticed was how hungry he was. Did he even eat last night?

Last night… last night was fuzzy. He must have fallen asleep.

He stretched, but again didn’t get very far. He shivered; he was cold again.

Emmett opened his eyes to see metal bars. He rolled over.

He was in one of the kennels, and lying on the floor across the room was a ‘guest’, still asleep. Master must have given him medicine.

“Good morning, my dear.”

Emmett whipped his head around to see Master leaning against the wall. He came over and crouched in front of him.

“Here’s how this is gonna go.” His voice was firm, and Emmett knew there was no room to fuck up.

“In about an hour, our friend over there will wake up.” He nodded towards the man on the floor.

“I’ll give you the usual routine, and then you’ll take care of our guest. No talking. Got it?”

Emmett nodded. It seemed easy enough.

Upstairs was in his future, he could feel it. Maybe Master would even let him decorate the spare bedroom.

___________________

Sure enough, after an hour the man was stirring. Emmett watched through the bars as he twitched and shifted.

Abruptly, the man sat up. His wild eyes fixed in on him. Emmett shrank away, even though the bars protected him.

“Where the fuck am I?” he said, his voice shaking. “Who are you?”

Emmett shook his head. Even if was allowed to speak, he didn’t know where Master lived. Not even the state.

The man tried to get up, but he was tethered to the floor with a handcuff around one of his wrists.

“Oh my god,” he sniffed, “I’m going to die here.”

Emmett couldn’t speak, but he could at least answer that. He rapped on the bars with a fist. The man looked up. Emmett shook his head.

“I… I’m not?”

Emmett nodded. The man sagged in relief.

“Thanks.”

He heard the door at the top of the stairs open. He turned towards the door. It was a pretty roomy cage, all things considered, but he wasn’t exactly happy staying in it.

Master’s keys rattled as he opened the big gate. He slammed it behind him, locking it again. Was he angry, or just putting on a show?

“Please let me go,” begged the man, “I’ll do whatever you want!”

Master ignored him, opening Emmett’s kennel. “Come, Emmett. Kneel.”

He crawled out of the cage.

Master unfastened the muzzle, and let him stretch out his jaw before taking his temperature.

Breakfast was once again an apple, granola bar, and a bottle of water. Emmett thought of the pancakes as he ate. He was so close, he could nearly taste them. Maybe he’d be allowed to make french toast once this was over.

Master slipped on his muzzle when he was finished.

“Be. Good,” he muttered into his ear.

Master wiped off the thermometer and handed it and the bag of food to him. Emmett stood, walking over to the man.

He showed the man the thermometer, and he accepted it easily. It beeped, and his temperature was normal.

Emmett handed out the food, and turned to see if Master was pleased.

But Master wasn’t watching, typing furiously on his phone. It rang, and he cursed.

Master stalked towards him, grabbing his arm and dragging him back to the kennel. He shoved Emmett in, and the doorbell sounded upstairs.

“Not a word,” he hissed, “Either of you.” He shot a glare towards the newcomer, who nodded.

Master ran upstairs, two at a time.

After a moment of distant talking, he heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs.

“So what have you got for me?” said a new voice, a man.

“I only have the one,” said Master, irritated. “Just got it in this morning.”

They came into view, and Emmett immediately hated the man. His smile made his teeth chatter.

“Just one? You told me to come today.”

“I said call next week, idiot.” Master rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you got my address. It’s unprofessional, Jake.”

Jake examined the new guest, his eyes roaming over him. The man whimpered.

“I don’t like it,” whined Jake.

Master shrugged, checking his phone. “Take him or wait a week. I have a pick up scheduled that you’ll love.”

“What about the one in the cage?” Emmett’s blood ran cold.

“Not for sale.”

“Five thousand.”

“No.”

“Seven thousand.”

“No.”

“Ten thousand.” Master looked up from his phone. He looked at Emmett, like he was considering it.

“Don’t!” he blurted. “Please don’t, Master, I-”

“Shut the fuck up!” snarled Master, his face suddenly twisting.

Oh god, he had disobeyed. He curled into the corner of his kennel. It was game over, he was going to be punished or killed.

“Like I said,” Master turned to Jake, “he’s not for sale. Now forget my address before you cause even more problems.”

“Jesus, fine! You’re a pain in the ass, Ander.” Jake threw up his hands.

Master escorted him upstairs, and Emmett began to tremble. He pulled the blanket around him, as if that would save him from Master’s wrath.

Ander. His name was Ander. Useless information. It wasn’t like he could ever tell anyone.

He locked eyes with the man across the room, and he looked almost as terrified as Emmett felt.

___________________

Master had been gone for several minutes, and with each passing second the lead ball of dread in his gut got heavier.

What if Master left him in the cage forever? If he just let him starve? Threw away the key and let him rot?

Or worse? Sell him off to suffer and die?

He shivered under the blanket.

Please don’t make me go back. Please.

He heard Master’s footfalls on the steps. They were quiet, and that was somehow scarier than if he stomped.

Master didn’t even look at him when he got downstairs. Instead, he went to the supply locker. He pulled out a foldable step stool and a long length of chain.

Emmett burrowed further into the covers. His heart was beating rabbit-fast.

Master got on the stool, looping the chain over a hook and pulley embedded in the steel beams of the ceiling. He grabbed a pair of shackles from the locker, securing them to the end of the chain.

He was in deep shit.

Finally, Master turned to him. His face was stern and cold, and Emmett wished he could turn back time and just keep his mouth shut.

Master unlocked the kennel, and Emmett resolved not to resist. If he was good, really good, maybe it would all go away.

Master hauled him out by the arm. His grip was bruisingly tight. He locked the cuffs around his wrists, weighing them down with cold steel.

Master started to pull the chain, forcing his arms up and up and up, until he was nearly on the tip of his toes. A deep ache settled into his shoulders.

Master took off the muzzle. He tossed it aside, and the sound of the metal on the concrete was shockingly loud compared to the held breath of silence earlier.

He was shorter than Master, and he felt every single inch of difference.

“I’m sor-” His head was suddenly in the other direction, his face stinging. Master gripped him by the chin, yanking him back.

“What the fuck was that?” Master hissed. “Are you stupid?” Emmett shook his head.

“N-”

“Shut up.” Master stepped away, rummaging through the supply locker.

“When I tell you something, I expect you to follow it.” His voice was cold, nothing like the sweetness he used yesterday morning. The anger in it was gone too, and the calm frightened him.

Master found what he was looking for, and Emmett had to bite his lip to keep silent when he saw it.

Seeing the crop in his hand, long and imposing, he hoped that Master wouldn't punish him for screaming. It would be a losing game.

“I’ve been really kind, Emmett. Haven’t I? Don’t speak.”

Emmett nodded. His shoulders protested.

“I could make a lot of money off of you,” he said, circling around to his back. “I still have texts from Jake, telling me to call if I ever change my mind.”

Emmett squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow. But instead a cool metal slipped under his shirt. The dull side of a blade ran up his spine, the fabric tearing.

“Thousands of dollars. An amount that could change some people’s lives. Do you understand that?”

He nodded. He knew, better than a lot of people. Ten thousand dollars would have changed his life.

The shirt fell away. Master’s hand ran up his back. Goosebumps broke out under his touch.

To his horror, Master reached around and undid the button of his pants, pulled the zipper, and tugged his pants clear off of him. He saw them get tossed to the side from the corner of his eye.

He didn’t get to keep his boxers either.

The first strike made him yelp, the fiery mark burning into the small of his back.

“I’m disappointed, my dear.”

The second was just as bad. And the third. And the fourth.

“I asked you for one simple thing.” The fifth lash crossed over another, and he shrieked.

“And you couldn’t do it. But I’m giving you a second chance.” Master came back around. “I don’t think you really deserve one, but I’m feeling generous. Don’t you think that’s generous? Speak.”

“Yes! So generous! Thank you, Master,” he sobbed, “thank you, thank-”

“Enough. Start counting.”

___________________

“Five!” he cried. His head swam, his vision sparking at six, seven, eight-

How many would there be?

___________________

Emmett sobbed, his back raw and burning. His ears rang with his own screams- another blow-

“Tw- twenty!”

___________________

“Please…” he begged, “no- no more. Please.” His knees shook, and each shifting stumble yanked more on his screaming shoulders. But it was nothing compared to everything else.

He could feel the beads of blood forming from the back of his thighs, up his ass, to the top of his shoulder blades. That, and the searing pain, was the only warmth he had.

Master hummed. The tip of the crop grazed over his welts, and he didn’t have the energy to flinch away. He panted through the feeling. It was like sandpaper over his raw skin.

“Have you learned a lesson?”

“Y- yes, Master.”

“I suppose we could put this away.” He tapped the crop on his ass, and that time he jumped. Master chuckled.

The locker slammed shut. He heard the sound of plastic, and something cool touched his back. He whimpered.

“Hush.”

It took a minute before he realized it was some sort of cream, and the relief was the most intense joy he’d ever experienced.

He bit his lip to keep quiet as Master spread the cream over each mark.

It could be so much worse. Master really was lenient. He only hurt him once he’d messed up, and rightfully so. How hard was it to keep his mouth shut?

He should have known Master wasn’t going to sell him off when Jake had offered.

Master decided he was worth more than money, and had given him a second chance.

It wouldn’t go to waste.

“You know,” murmured Master into his ear. “I only punished you to be sure you understand my requirements. You still have to make it up to me, Emmett.”

He nodded. That made sense, what was the point of rules with no consequences? He’d been warned after all. And he had upset Master so much…

Master lowered him down slowly. His muscles screamed from the effort, and he shook from exhaustion.

Master uncapped a bottle of water and pressed it to his lips. Emmett drank greedily, the cool water a balm to his sore throat. Once it was gone, Master tossed it in the trash can at the end of the basement.

Even when he was angry, he was kind enough to take care of him.

Emmett didn’t move, waiting on his knees for Master’s next instructions.

Master stood in front of him, and Emmett could barely look him in the eye. But Master had that smile on him again, and that was good.

Master cupped the back of his head, bringing him straight to his crotch, and Emmett knew what was expected.

“Go on,” said Master, “Make it up to me.”

He kissed the front of Master’s trousers as thanks. Hands shaking, he undid the button, and slowly pulled the zipper. He mouthed at the bulge in Master’s underwear, and Master sighed, pleased.

He carefully took out Master’s cock, stroking it the best he knew how. He’d never given a blowjob before, but he knew what he personally liked.

He licked up the underside of Master’s dick, and Master’s fingers began to stroke his hair.

He took the tip into his mouth, and tried to think about what would feel good. He took in more and more of Master’s cock, doing his best to breathe.

He had only Master’s breathy moans to rely on, but it seemed to be working. Master hit the back of his throat, and his eyes began to water. He bobbed his head, and Master began to thrust. He cursed and gripped his hair, and Emmett did his best not to gag.

“Fuck, Emmett,” he groaned. He was close, he could see it in Master’s face. And sure enough, moments later his mouth was full of cum. He tried to swallow it all, but he choked as Master pulled out, coughing onto the floor.

“There’s a good boy,” said Master. He wiped off the lingering cum from Emmett’s chin, pushing it back into his mouth. It was bitter on his tongue, but he licked it clean. He was a good boy, and that was what mattered.

Master tucked himself back into his pants. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Right, then. Back in the kennel, my dear.”

His face fell. After all that, after everything, he was supposed to go back in there?

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. I still can’t trust you, now can I?” He couldn’t afford to hesitate; he crawled back inside the kennel. Master was right, but it still stung.

But as he curled up inside, head on pillow (he couldn’t stand the idea of a blanket on his torn-up back), he only felt relief. The kennel was safe; he wouldn’t be hurt here. The bars were a barrier between him and the world. Even more than Master’s house.

The guest was staring at him with red rimmed eyes, tear tracks down his face. What was he crying about?

Emmett rolled over to face the wall.

He was hungry again, and still cold.

taglist: @writereleaserepeat @paintedpigeon1

#rough day for Emmett. Its hard to see your dreams fall down around you #one tiny little mistake and its all over #Second-Hand Goods #my writing #whump #intimate whump #intimate whumper #captivity whump

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cuteangsty · 11 months

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Whump prompt #7

[TW: dehumanization, dub con, implied non-con, non con, Stockholm sindrome]

Pet whumpee can't process they ware abandoned so they keep referring to their past owner ar a romantic partner. Everything they say about their relationship is coded as romantic in whumpee's head. Stockholm sindrome at it's rawest form.

"We wanted different things, I guess..."

"we are on a break"

"we broke up"

"he would even kiss my sometimes"

"we would have 'at home' dates everyday"

"they loved me, they were just rough"

"they hurted me, but it wasn't their intention. They just liked it rough."

"maybe I got to clingy after we... You know..."

#whumpee #whumplr #whump prompt #whump #mine #caretaker #pet whump #whumper #box boy au #box boy universe #box boy whump #intimate whumper #intimate whump #intimate whumpee #dub con #non con

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whump-world · 8 months

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#whump #whumpblr #whump community #nsfwhumptober2023 #nsfwhump #intimate whump #whump writing #whump poll #whump blog #whumpcommunity

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poewritesgayshit · 5 months

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☾⋆⁺﹐i saw a dead rat | fyodor/sigma ﹐📔

words: 2k

summary:

Sigma gets shot twice while trying to break up a gunfight. Exhausted and in pain, he decides to tend to his own wounds. However, he didn't expect Fyodor to be waiting on him.

content warnings:

drugging in conjunction with dubcon/noncon

wound abuse/improper wound care/fingers and tongues where they shouldn't be

whumpee sigma and creepy whumper fyodor

ao3 link below!

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ccieatchildren · 6 months

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“How beautiful you are when you lie, I’m certain even Lucifer himself is jealous of your prevarications.”

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whumblr #my writing #my prompts #writing prompt #my quotes #☡#intimate whump #im sorry that #it's been so long #(since i've last seen my son lost to this monster the man behind the slaughter)#i have so much unfinished written stuff #but since they not finished cant post them #hopefully will beat the block and finish em soon

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whumpers-inc · 2 years

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"When I first saw you, I thought it was impossible to fall in love more than I did at that moment." Whumper paused to cup their former lover's chin in their hand, forcing eye contact.

"Now I realise that was only a crush. Having you here, covered in blood and bruises, completely under my control? This is true love."

#creepy whumper #intimate whump #intimate whumper #abuse #control #possessive whumper #whumper x lover #stalking implied #blood #bruises

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whump-for-whumps-sake · 1 year

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Intimate Whumper yanking whumpee into their lap and holding them there, kissing their neck, not letting go even if whumpee struggles. Telling them to stay quiet or they'll draw attention.

#whump #intimate whump #intimate whumper #sa #implied sa

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whumpitisthen · 3 months

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I am not really big on intimate whumpers but I can make an exception if they’re hot enough ( vampires are always hot enough)

Vampires are always hot enough

You 🤝 Me

#asks #whumpprentice #whump #intimate whump #vampire #grim oc #creepy/intimate whumpers are like all that i write #but i know theyre not everyone's cup of tea #you are so valid #and right #based even #infallible in fact

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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 7 days

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Attention

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Another side story! Based off of this piece by @crash-bump-bring-the-whump because I couldn't get the idea of a vampire party out of my head. This is (loosely) for @whumpril Day 12: Weak Pulse.

Lord Denholm hosts a party. All of his guests are enamored with Elze'ith. This ends wonderfully for Lord Denholm, and terribly for Elze'ith.

Contains: Vampires, intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, blood drinking, bloodbag whumpee, blood loss, multiple whumpers, briefly referenced prior noncon, dissociation, dehumanization, mind control, lots of complicated emotions

~~~

“And where did you get this one, Milord?”

The noblewoman, dressed in a fine silk gown and ornate golden jewelry, regarded Elze’ith with a hungry look in her piercing red eyes. Elze’ith couldn’t quite meet her gaze, instead shifting barely closer to Lord Denholm and looking somewhere over the woman’s shoulder. The way Lord Denholm’s grip on him tightened in response was almost a comfort. Almost.

“Oh, he came to me,” Lord Denholm said, dark and pleased. “Was fleeing some nasty bandits, but they didn’t survive the journey into my Valley. My light, on the other hand, did, and decided to stay with me after I gave him a bit of help.”

The words grated against Elze’ith’s soul. It wasn’t a lie, and Elze’ith knew firsthand the way nobility danced around the truth the same way they danced around the ballroom floor. But hearing Lord Denholm tell his story, leaving out so much detail and context, not even mentioning Altair, just made his heart twist with so many emotions in a way he hadn’t quite expected. It shouldn’t have meant anything; that part of his life was over now, gone and abandoned, nothing but a memory of something beautiful but ephemeral. What did it matter if it was misrepresented, if he couldn’t tell his own story? What did it matter if the man who never came for him was treated as beneath acknowledgment?

His eyes slid to the young woman at the noble’s side. She was slight, and pale, and shaking. There was an emptiness to her eyes that haunted him with its familiarity. The fang marks in her neck stood out starkly against skin that clearly hadn’t seen sun in ages. Elze’ith wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Wondered, if he smiled at her, if she would afford him any response at all.

Not that he would have the chance, because the noblewoman’s gloved hand came up to grip his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. The intensity there made Elze’ith swallow instinctively, feeling like a cornered animal despite the abundance of space in the ballroom. “Well, he is quite the catch, Milord. I hear he is magically inclined as well, is he not?”

“Indeed. My light’s healing abilities are unparalleled. He is extremely impressive in many regards, even beyond his magical prowess.” Though he couldn’t see it, Elze’ith could feel delight radiating off of Lord Denholm, completely unconcealed. “Watching him work is something I never tire of.”

“Beautiful and talented.” All Elze’ith wanted to do was shrink away from the predatory gaze, but he couldn’t, trapped as he was between Lord Denholm and his guest. “I can see why you like him so much, Milord. I have to say, I envy you. My current attendant pales in comparison.”

The pale, shaking woman flinched, shrinking in on herself. Elze’ith felt bile turn in his stomach as Lord Denholm laughed, dark and cold enough to send shivers down Elze’ith’s spine. He was sure Lord Denholm could feel them. “Oh, you flatter me, Lady Hawthorne.”

“I only speak the truth. He seems absolutely delectable.”

“He is indeed.” Lord Denholm’s hand ran up and down Elze’ith’s arm in what could have been a soothing gesture, had it not felt so possessive and ensnaring. “And I would hate to let you leave without sating your curiosity. It is what he is here for, after all.”

Blood turned to ice in his veins as Lady Hawthorne grinned, her fangs glinting in the magical lantern light. “You really are too kind, Milord.”

Somewhere deep inside him, the instinct to flee rose up, warring with the deeper urge to stay still and unobtrusive and compliant. Any decision was taken from him, as it always was, by Lord Denholm’s weight pressing against his back, and his voice, low and smooth in his ear. “Go on, my light. Hold out your wrist for our guest. Let her see how impressive you are.”

His arm rose of its own volition, extending out towards Lady Hawthorne like a humble offering. Gloved hands took his, and for a moment her thumb just traced over his wrist, right under the seam of his own glove and right over his pulse point. He wondered if she could feel his heartbeat pounding away frantically under his skin— wondered if she could hear it. She probably could; Lord Denholm always could, after all, and she was just like him.

Was she gentle in slipping off his glove and rolling up his sleeve because she wanted to be, or was it just because Lord Denholm was watching her intently? Elze’ith didn’t think he wanted to know. He almost wished she would be rougher; maybe then he would find the strength to fight back. Maybe then Lord Denholm would allow it.

But there was nothing he could do to stop her from lifting his wrist to her lips. He barely winced as her fangs pierced his skin; it was a familiar pain, after all, one he had felt countless, countless times. She drank slowly, as though he were a glass of wine she were savoring. He sank back into Lord Denholm, trying not to show his discomfort at the slow pace and unfamiliar fangs and the sensation that wasn’t quite right. The entire time her sharp, keen gaze never left him, as though she could learn everything about him by studying him in this moment. Somehow, it was better and worse than the feedings he was used to.

In the smallest of mercies, she pulled away before Elze’ith even began to grow dizzy. Her tongue swiped one last time over her red-stained lips, and it was only the fact that Elze’ith had seen his blood coat Lord Denholm’s mouth in such a fashion so many times that allowed him to keep his composure.

“Exquisite.” Her voice was awed, almost reverent. “Why, if he wasn’t yours, Milord, I would take him for myself. To think, you can have that whenever you like.”

“Mm, and more than that, too,” Lord Denholm hummed. “Like I said, he has many talents. A shame that you can’t experience all of them. He is so deathly shy, after all.”

Elze’ith’s face burned in mortification. That was the last thing he wanted to think about, and to have Lord Denholm bring it up so casually, to have him brag about it… All Elze’ith wanted to do was vanish back into his chambers and never come out again. Especially when Lady Hawthorne laughed, mirthful and vicious, and looked him up and down like she was imagining what was hidden underneath all of his layers. Elze’ith shuddered. “Oh, I can only imagine, Milord.”

It was a relief when she left. As soon as she was gone (and with Lord Denholm’s permission) he healed the punctures on his wrist, and though it still ached, at least he no longer had to hold it gingerly to avoid spilling blood on his clothes or the ballroom floor. Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to his temple, murmured soft words of praise for how good Elze’ith was at impressing his guests, and the gesture made Elze’ith feel warm and cold at the same time. He didn’t want to be impressive. He wanted to be safe. And he knew that was impossible here.

Because whether by conversation or the scent of blood or just the unquantifiable aspect of Elze’ith that drew so much unwanted attention, more and more of the guests were turning their gazes to him. He could catch whispers of conversation, spot eyes scrutinizing him completely unabashed. The party was continuing on as normal, and yet it wasn’t, because everyone had a new subject for their curiosity. Even despite all of the people in the ballroom, the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and shuffling feet, Elze’ith had never felt so out of place, so exposed. He would do anything to leave the party early, to find a corner to hide in, to be anywhere but here, but Lord Denholm’s grip on his arm and his mind was firm. And it only grew firmer as another man, dressed in ornate robes and flanked by two vacant-eyed servants, approached the two of them.

He and Lord Denholm might have exchanged pleasantries, but Elze’ith didn’t really hear them. The fear rushing in his ears at the way this man’s gaze kept flitting to him, keen and wanting, drowned out the conversation. It was going to happen again. And if it happened a second time, then…

A command settled over him, and Elze’ith was pulled from his frozen thoughts as his arm once again extended to the new guest. There was no precursor of gentleness in the way the nobleman’s cold hands grasped his wrist, nor in the wicked smile that exposed his fangs before he sunk them in. Though he bit his lip, the smallest of whimpers still left him at the burst of pain and the deep ache of being drained, this time meticulous and thoughtful and deep.

Neither of the servants that had accompanied the nobleman met his gaze. Elze’ith couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach the sight, if he were in their position. That didn’t make it hurt less, didn’t stop him from craving even that slightest bit of connection, but he did understand.

When the nobleman pulled away, a drop of blood rolled down his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Elze’ith had to avert his gaze from the sight. “I thank you, my good Lord Denholm. This truly was a treat.”

Lord Denholm laughed again. More words were exchanged that Elze’ith didn’t hear. He just cradled his hand close to his chest, as though he could shield any part of himself from more pain. As the conversation continued, even though he knew it was risky, he took the opportunity to heal over the wound. He was sure Lord Denholm noticed, but there was no immediate reprimand, no order to stop, so he had to hope that it was okay. At the very least, he felt a vague sense of satisfaction from Lord Denholm, an emotion he clung to as he tried to collect himself.

Soon enough, the nobleman left. Vaguely, Elze’ith berated himself for not catching his name. It was so rude of him, to be so ignorant to a guest, even though he knew it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t the host of this gathering, and he would never get the opportunity to use the name anyway.

“You’re doing wonderfully, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear. Elze’ith’s shoulders rose towards his ears as he flushed. Just as before, the praise ignited a mix of emotions, yearning and disgust and contentment and fear all swirling within him. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We have many more guests to entertain.”

That promise, and the sight of a leering couple approaching them, made Elze’ith’s heart knot definitively with fear. Not even the soothing, coaxing presence of Lord Denholm in the back of his mind was enough to keep it at bay.

The night became even more of a blur than it already had been. Elze’ith lost count of the number of guests Lord Denholm took him to meet, the number of eyes that looked at him like they wanted to take him apart, the number of times he was made to hold out his arm in offering. Each time a stranger’s fangs pierced his wrist it somehow became more difficult, more painful, more humiliating. No one spoke directly to him, instead talking about him as though he couldn’t hear, even as those sharp smiles and keen eyes held him in their full focus. He had never felt less like a person and more like a curiosity, an exhibit, a bottle of wine being passed around.

And even though no one took all that much of his blood, even though he was used to being fed from, it grew harder to stand and move and focus as the night wore on. Was the dizziness Elze’ith felt because of blood loss, or because of the incongruence he felt at being treated so callously? Was it both? Did it matter? Either way, he was being used for the gratificationt of people who didn’t care for what he felt. Even Lord Denholm was savoring how he flinched every time someone new approached, how he wavered in Lord Denholm’s firm, all-encompassing grasp.

If he could speak, he might have asked to retire early. He could tell that he was approaching his limits, as the world spun and his magic flickered and his fingers grew cold. But even if he could have, Lord Denholm wouldn’t have listened. Not when he was enjoying his party, and Elze’ith’s role in it, so very much.

He almost swooned as another set of fangs retracted from his wrist. It was so hard to keep himself upright; without Lord Denholm there, he was sure he would be on the ground. The idea was surprisingly tempting as exhaustion weighed down his body and mind and soul. He even thought he heard the noble who had drank from him commenting on it, a mention of low supply and weak pulse filtering in through the dizziness and sludge in his mind. Elze’ith could almost let himself hope. The party had to be over soon, right? He just wanted to be done. Wanted to rest. Wanted not to have to give any more.

That hope only surged as Lord Denholm pulled him to the side, away from the center of activity in the still-full ballroom. All he could do was hope Lord Denholm understood the pleading in his expression through the haziness he was sure clouded his eyes. He felt so terrible, drained and wrung out and exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep.

But instead of offering any reprieve, any solace, Lord Denholm took Elze’ith’s still-bleeding wrist (had he forgotten to heal it? How long had it been?) and lifted it to his lips. There was no hiding the whine of pain and fear that escaped from deep within his soul. Even though Elze’ith had nothing left to give, Lord Denholm still took. His eyes fluttered and his body shook and the world tilted dangerously, but Lord Denholm drank anyway, long and careful as though he were relishing every moment, as though each drop of blood was an effort to extract. It was agony, so much worse than anything earlier in the night had been. His lips parted, instinctively wanting to beg for it to stop, but instead his whine only got louder, more insistent, more pitiful. And all Lord Denholm offered in comfort was a squeeze of his hand, as though that meant anything at all.

Elze’ith didn’t even get the mercy of passing out. Lord Denholm pulled away just as the darkness began to close in. His thumb pressed against the wound; Elze’ith barely had the strength to wince at the painful pressure. At least the sight of his blood on Lord Denholm’s face was familiar, even if it wasn’t any less horrifying than the first time he had seen it.

Maybe. Maybe now, Lord Denholm would be satisfied. Maybe now Elze’ith could rest. Surely Lord Denholm had to see...

“Come dance with me, my light,” Lord Denholm said, and though Elze’ith barely heard the words, his fluttering heart clenched in fear as the command washed over him. “Let us give our guests one final show.”

#flicker in the dark #flicker in the dark side stories #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #lord soren denholm oc #vampires #blood #blood loss #dissociation (whump)#dehumanization #intimate whump #captivity #whumpril2024 #Whumprilday12 #weak pulse

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echo-goes-mmm · 6 months

Text

Evening Entertainment (Oneshot)

My Writing Masterpost

Warnings: non-con, violence, forced to watch, slavery, past dubcon (oral), strangulation

Aster watched uncomfortably as Prince Richard tormented Sparrow. He’d come unannounced, and Aster was left scrambling to host the prince. Richard had unfortunately seen Sparrow, a small-framed slip of a young man, and there was no saving the poor slave.

Aster regretted dressing Sparrow up in only a black leather collar and cute black boxers. It had been entertaining to see his staff embarrassed while Sparrow walked around unbothered, but it had only drawn Richard’s eye.

Now Sparrow writhed and screamed as Richard violated him bloody. Aster wanted to look away, but that would only encourage him. The prince struck Sparrow across the face again, splitting his lip.

Aster met Sparrow’s eyes, and the hint of betrayal in his expression made his insides squirm. He took a sip of his whiskey. Aster would have lit up a cigarette, but Richard had decided to put out his cigar on the inside of Sparrow’s sensitive thigh just to hear him scream, and it put him off from smoking.

Sure, he’d put cigarettes out on Sparrow's shoulder once or twice before, but that was different. Sparrow was a present from a cousin, and Aster enjoyed him as an indulgence. But not like this.

He never shoved Sparrow down on his dick when the slave sucked him off. He never strangled him, he never raped him, he never beat him black and blue and bloody.

Sparrow was an amusement, a dutiful slave that fetched him whiskey and cocktails, kissed his boots and licked them clean. He wasn’t a doll for Richard’s sick games.

And Sparrow kept looking to him, to interfere on his behalf. Sparrow was so loyal and obedient, and he knew from the look on his face that he wanted to beg Aster to help him. Thank god Sparrow wasn’t so dazed from the blows he would actually do it. It would only make things worse for him, for the both of them.

But he knew the thought running through Sparrow’s head: Why are you letting this happen to me?

___________________

Master kept watching stoically. Impassive. Stone-faced. Did he even care?

He screamed as this- this stranger forced himself into him. It hurt so much.

What had he done wrong?

He’d been so good. He just wanted to go back to the way things were.

The stranger- the prince- bent him in strange positions and he ached all over. The stranger hit him across the face again, and stars burst in his vision. Blood dripped from between his legs and his ass burned.

Please, he wanted to scream, What did I do? Sparrow looked up towards Master through his tears.

But Master didn’t seem interested in saving him.

Sparrow just wanted to kiss Master’s boots again, and be his astray and pour drinks and please him with his mouth like before. Anything but this. It was going so well; why was this happening to him?

___________________

In another life, Richard would be a bully on a playground, stealing little girls’ baby dolls just to tear the arms off in front of them.

Sparrow yelped as Richard flipped him over and grabbed his soft brown hair.

“More wine, your highness?” Richard grinned up at him.

“Sure, why not?” He let go of Sparrow’s hair to take the glass of merlot. Sparrow hung his head, sobbing, while Richard sipped at his drink and thrust into him. Richard smacked his ass, hard enough to make Sparrow cry out and jolt forward. Aster could see the red handprint begin to form.

Aster poured himself another measure of whiskey. He drank it slowly. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in the alcohol.

He plied Richard with more and more wine, until he was too tipsy and lazy for another round of torture.

Richard declined to spend the night, thank god. After hours of watching Sparrow scream, Aster was incredibly relieved to see him go.

Sparrow curled up on the floor, trembling from shock. Aster finally lit up a cigarette and sighed into it. He rang for a servant, and his favorite appeared at the door. She looked pale and nauseous. The whole house had probably heard everything.

“Marcie, could you get Sparrow a change of clothes?”

“Of course, my lord.” She disappeared into the corridor.

“Sparrow,” he called, “come here.”

Sparrow looked up, tears streaming down his face and an angry purple handprint around his throat. He dutifully uncurled, and crawled to him. He had a limp. Sparrow gingerly sat in front of him, his ass probably still on fire from Richard’s roughness.

God, he was such a good boy.

He poured a measure of whiskey into a second glass. “Drink. It will help numb the pain.”

Shaking, Sparrow took the glass. He took a sip of it. Aster could see a flash of disgust on Sparrow’s face but he smoothed his expression quickly. Aster snorted. Of course he didn’t have a taste for whiskey.

Marcie returned with a pair of clean underwear for Sparrow and a button up shirt. Aster hadn’t specified, but Marcie’s quick thinking was why he liked her.

“Marcie, make Sparrow a drink that doesn’t taste like alcohol. Something strong.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He took the whiskey from Sparrow. He got dressed, wincing at every movement. Marcie handed him a glass of something colorful, and Sparrow took a taste and then a long drink of the cocktail.

“That will be all, Marcie.” She bowed, and left.

Aster took out his handkerchief. “Here, wipe your face.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You did well,” said Aster.

“Why- why did you..” Sparrow broke down in sobs again, clutching the handkerchief.

Aster slapped him. Sparrow quieted, looking down at the floor. He couldn’t let Sparrow think he could talk out of turn, even if Aster had made a mistake.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. No one is exempt from the crown’s desires. Even if his highness has three siblings and five nieces and nephews between him and the throne. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

He sighed. “I doubt you’ll have to see Prince Richard again. He rarely visits the minor nobility.” He swirled the remaining whiskey in the glass. “This is the first time he’s come here.”

He downed the rest of the drink.

“Take tomorrow off. I don’t want to see you working. You’ve done enough tonight.” Sparrow looked up at him, his honey eyes grateful.

“Get something to eat before you go to bed.”

“Yes, Master.”

___________________

Aster went to his bedroom after some quality time with his cigarette. Sparrow was in the kitchen, as ordered.

He truly felt bad about the evening. It was the most awful thing he’d ever seen. The tales of Richard’s sadism hadn’t prepared him at all.

He passed by the spot where Sparrow slept- on the floor, at the foot of his bed. Aster hadn’t given him much in the way of comfort. But Sparrow had more than proved himself with how well he tolerated Richard.

Aster rang for a butler.

“My lord?”

“Order something for Sparrow to sleep on. Something unobtrusive. He’s spent enough time on the bare floor. And get me a spare quilt.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The butler fetched the blanket quickly, and Aster placed the folded fabric right where Sparrow would see it. He was a clever boy; he’d know it was for him.

Aster went to bed. He hoped the echo of Sparrow’s screams would leave him soon.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

#his name is prince richard bc hes the king of being a dick #my writing #whump #slavery whump #intimate whump #intimate whumper #carewhumper #multiple whumpers #forced to watch #nsfwhump

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