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Look at me, trying to write more bc it's good for you. This is a response to a prompt I saw a while back, kinda lost the original prompt but eh
Masterlist
Non-sexual nudity tw, non con touching tw, non con stripping tw
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs as Whumper slowly descended into the basement, wearing their customary steel-toed boots. Their Whumpee shuddered and pulled himself up into a kneeling position before them as they approached.
āAwe,ā Whumper said with a lazy grin, hands held behind their back, ādonāt you look pretty all ready for me?ā
Whumpee held their tongue, staring straight ahead as Whumper sauntered over. He really was a stubborn one. Tonight should help with that. Whumper gave them a salacious once over and licked their lips at the plethora of colored bruises decorating Whumpeeās shirtless form. He really was gorgeous like this.
Whumper moved in a slow circle around Whumpee, drinking in the bold colors contrasting with pale skin. The coarse brown rope bound Whumpeeās wrists behind his back, leaving them red and raw. The dirt from the concrete floor, smudged across Whumpeeās body, hiding bruises and highlighting a ruggedness to Whumpee that Whumper loved probably too much. Gorgeous.
Whumper really wanted to add to the canvas with a thick cane or perhaps their own fists, but alas, places to be and people to see.
They stopped in place behind Whumpee, watching them twitch in anticipation and very well hidden fear. That defiance was undoubtedly playing behind his eyes, smothered by resignation and a significnat amount of self preservation. Delicious.
With a gentle grip they carded their fingers through his greasy, unkept hair. Testing just how compliant their Darling was going to be today. He didnāt pull back this time, that was good, they would hate to have to drag this part out now. He kept still, resigned. Resignation from their Darling was always so perfect. They were just in that sweet spot before they break. They might even beg soon.
Perfect.
They could sit here for hours, just petting and watching their Darling grind his teeth together, trying to school his emotions. Because he knew this was far, far better than being beaten bloody. The war of revulsion playing across his face was almost as good as hearing him scream.
But they had places to be, and Darling here was going to be perfect for tonight.
They slowed the hand in his hair, grabbed a fistfull of the filthy strands, and pulled his head back slowly. He could fight, maybe get them to release his scalp. He might even get a lick or two of his own in before Whumper could subdue him.
Whumpee would have, early on. He would never let them touch him without three beatings and two days withought sleep.
Now though, now the threat of what could happen helps him make it through what is. Now he lets them stroke his hair, pull his head back and bare his throat. Now he closes his eyes, grits his teeth and undoubtedly plays: it could be worse, on repeat in his mind. Perfect.
They pull Whumpeeās head back until he was staring at the ceiling, eyes alight with fury and shaded by fear.
āStay.ā
Whumper released Whumpeeās skull and he kept it in the position Whumper left him in.
āGood boy,ā crooned Whumper as they strode across the room and selected a length of rope attached to a carabiner clip. Whumpee had taken to staying as silent as possible during these sessions, not talking or engaging with Whumper. It was cute how he tried to shut them out while remaining compliant.
āYouāve been such a good boy lately,ā they said as they turned around, āThat I think youāll be perfect for tonight.ā They returned to Whumpee, and kelt behind them while they fastened the rope around Whumpeeās neck, looped around his bound wrists, and attached the clip to the D-ring set into the concrete nearly underneath him.
They stepped back and around Whumpee, admiring their bobbing adamās apple and exposed throat. In this position, they would be completely unable to lean forward or straighten. He might be able to get their feet out from underneath himself and get into a more comfortable position. But doing so would only earn Whumpee one hell of a punishment.
XXX
Whumpeeās face and neck burned red with the humiliation of being so vulnerable and on display for Whumper. He shifted uncomfortably in his restraints, testing them as much as he was trying to shift half a milimeter into a position that wouldnāt hurt, one where his ribs werenāt broken and his shoulders didnāt throb and where that god damned rope wasnāt digging into his windpipe and forcing him to lean back.
He wouldnāt be able to hold this position for very long, but he doubted he was going to be left in a stress position overnight again, not with Whumperās talk of tonight. Somehow, he thinks that he would prefer to be whipped bloody than go through what is planned for tonight.
He heard Whumper walk over to the side of the room and squeezed his eyes shut.
The sink was along that wall.
He found himself trembling and forced himself to still before Whumper started cooing and calling him adorable in a voice that would sound patronizing if Whumpee wasnāt completely convinced it was genuine.
He just had to breathe. Take a moment to appreciate the ability to take full breaths that didnāt burn his lungs. Just breathe In, 2, 3, 4.
Whumper pulled something out from the cabinet under the sink.
Out, 2, 3, 4.
There was a squeaking sound as the hose was screwed into place.
In, 2, 3, 4.
Just breathe, feel your lungs expand with air as you choose to breathe.
Out, 2, 3, 4.
The water turned on.
Whumpee let out a whimper and immediately cursed himself for it. This was no time to lose his nerve. He is gonna be tortured. It is gonna fucking suck. And then heāll be left alone for a few hours to sleep before it starts all over again. This is just his fucking life now and whimpering isnāt gonna make it any fucking easier.
Unless it will. He stamped the thought out the second it popped into his head. He is not nearly broken enough to even consider that, and right now he has to be strong because Whumper is walking closer.
His breath picked up in his chest despite his efforts as he heard the water from the hose hitting the concrete floor. This was gonna fucking suck.
The gentle spray of freezing water hit his left knee first, soaking through the filthy sweatpants he has been wearing for weeks, and chilling him to the bone in seconds. Whumper shifted to spray to soak his other leg and meandered up his stomach and chest, teasing at his neck before going over his back with a lazy pace.
So they were freezing him out first, making him miserably cold before drowning him in the same fucking cold water. Delightful.
XXX
Whumper watched their darling whumpee in delight as he flinched every time they worked further up his neck, how he was racked with shivers from the icy water and the look on his face that let them know he knew it was only going to get worse from here.
Delicious.
They quickly put a kink in the hose to stop the water and cause whumpee to flinch at the change. They return to the sink and turned off the water fully before unkinking the hose and detaching it from the sink. They pulled out a bucket as they replaced the hose and let the water run hot for a moment before placing the bucket in the sink to fill up.
Whumpee was still facing the ceiling, as if they were trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen next. As the bucket filled Whumper pulled out several bottles from under the sink and walked over to Whumpee.
Whumpee was still trembling, but they suspected it was more due to cold than fear. Their whumpee was excellent at managing his fear and keeping still for them, a trait they often take advantage of.
They set the bottles down and comb their fingers through their darlingās greasy hair again. It was getting longer as the weeks went by, hanging in front of whumpeeās face and giving a wild dog look to him that only enhanced their artwork. He could do without the beard though, it gave an almost paternal look to his face. Aged him in a way that made you think he was a father of four instead of a recent collage graduate.
Yes the beard will have to go.
The sound of water running over the side of the bucket and into the sink pulls them out of their head. They give whumpeeās head a gentle pat that whumpee pointedly doesnāt flinch at and returned to his side a moment later with the bucket, a comb, and a set of clippers.
XXX
Whumper took several moments to arrange the things they brought over, meaning this probably wasnāt going to just be a simple drowning, meaning this is just gonna get a hell of alot worse.
Images flash unwittingly to mind, and he unsuccessfully tries to shove them away. Whatever is gonna happen, he will survive it. When this is over, he will take breaths with burning lungs, shiver with his hands tied behind his back, and laugh at himself for how he thought he wouldnāt survive.
Because he was going to survive. He is going to walk out that door one day and never have to resist flinches or hold his tongue to survive ever again.
The sound of water being scooped out of the bucket pulls him out. This is it.
He forces himself to take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Those damned fingers return to his hair, warm and sickeningly pleasant. He wants to wrench his head out of their grasp and away from them but he doesnāt. He holds still. He endures the unwelcome touch while he has to, just like how he will endure the drowning. Just like how he has endured every other goddamned torture he has been put through while trapped in this goddamned basement.
A clear, plastic, cup-shaped tupperware container filled with water enters his vision as itās brought above his head. He closes his eyes and his breathing speeds up.
Burning heat is poured across his face and he gasps in shock as another scoop is poured along his hairline and into his hair. Then another, and another.
Soon his hair is soaked in the hot water and whumperās fingers return to his hair, combing tangles out and making it lay straight
The terrible, gentle hand in his hair mixed with the warm water feels far better than he would ever admit. He is unlikely to be hurt now, but there is always the chance that the next douse of water will be ice cold and that the hand in his hair will tighten into a fist and hold him in place while the other fist pummels his unprotected face.
He wouldnāt be able to force himself to relax if he tried, the threat of this humilation giving way to pain an all too real possibility. Torture was far far worse than this, this might be the best heās felt in weeks, but this was still not good. Heād still rather be anywhere but here, under the hands of someone who has beaten the shit out of him for āartistic purposesā.
Both the hand and the warm water stop as something is popped open. Whumpee tenses, ready for this to go from not okay to god-awful at lightspeed.
Whumper let out a small chuckle and cooed at him, patting his shoulder in āmock comfortā, not unlike a person patting the flank of a horse to calm them down.
Is it mock if Whumper really sees it as comfort? Does it even matter if its mock if being touched where he canāt see only reminds him how fucking helpless he is?
āShhh darling, youāre being so good for me.ā Whumper cooed in a voice that made part of Whumpee want kick out and struggle just to be contrary, but fear is controlling most of his fucking brain. Kicking out will definately turn this creepy, uncomfortable experience into a fucking nightmare.
It might be worth it to avoid whatever was gonna happen tonight though.
He swallows his pride and stays fucking still when whumperās hand returns to his hair and something cool is massaged into his scalp with Whumperās blunt nails, irritating the small nicks and cuts along his scalp.
He canāt fucking believe it. Theyāre fucking washing his hair?
Whumper is cleaning out the blood and grit and sweat and torture from his hair? Not only that, but once his hair was deemed clean, the suds and later the conditioner rinsed out, Whumper took a cloth to wipe his face clean of dirt and blood and all that other good shit that gets on your face when youāre being tortured, and did a fucking skin-care routine on him. They did a whole ass routine with exfoliating and a fucking face mask. They even took an electric beard trimmer or clippers or something and shaved his beard down to stubble, humming something about how that was much better.
What. The. FUCK??
He half expected them to get a tweezers and start plucking his eyebrows or some shit like that.
But whumper just put the things they had brought back to the sink and did what sounded like them rinsing and drying their hands before they came back and stood behind Whumpee their head tilted forward to look Whumpee in the eye.
Whumpee shifted under their gaze, sore from staying in the same position for so long, his feet already numb underneath him and his neck ached fiercely from craning backwards.
āHowāre you doing darling?ā they asked with a grin.
Whumpee didnāt respond.
āReady to move on then I see,ā Whumper said more to themself than anyone else and straightened to pull two chains down from the mechanism in the ceiling. They attach each manacle to each wrist and cut the ropes that have been digging into his skin for weeks.
The basement air feels pleasantly cool on his torn wrists, until the manacles shift down his wrists and settle into place digging into his open wounds. Terrific.
Whumper cuts the rope holding his neck in place and he leans forward slowly with a groan, muscles burning from lack of movement now equally furious with being moved out of position.
Wary of Whumper, and not wanting to be viewed as trying to get a beating, Whumpee remained on his knees and only rolled his aching shoulders forward. Fuck they hurt, they had been bound with each wrist tied individually and a short length of rope connecting them to allow for some mobility but simply the act of shifting them from back to front hurt like hell.
āAwww, are you sore?ā Whumper cooed at them.
Whumpee tensed.
āWe just have a little bit left to do before tonight so up up, on your feet,ā Whumper commanded with a grin.
Whumpee leaned forward with a groan and braced his hands on the floor to slowly stand. At his full height he was at least several inches taller than Whumper, who stood to the side of the room next to the mechanism that will raise the chains toward the ceiling.
The chains that right now have slack. The chains that might just let him reach Whumper and kill them with his bare hands.
Whumpee froze in place. His moment of opportunity slipping by without him doing more than freezing. They might kill him. If he tried that, they might kill him. Would that be better? No. No it fucking wouldnāt be. As long as he is alive theres a chance.
A chance he mightāve just fucking missed.
Whumper cranked the mechanism, unaware of Whumpeeās internal battle. His arms began to be pulled upward by his shackled wrists and he let them be tugged upward until they were hanging loosely from the ceiling at about eye level, spread in a vaugue āI come in peaceā way.
Whumpee flexed his hands anxously. Whumper began humming the tune to a pop song Whumpee was unfamiliar with as they began filling the bucket again with hot water. They pulled out a tall wooden stool that they once tied Whumpee to with his front exposed so Whumper could flog his chest, and set it up within kicking distance from Whumpee.
Whumpee doesnāt do more than contemplate knocking it down. If it comes to it, and Whumpee canāt take it anymore, he can knock it down to get a minute or two of respite. Not that thereās not gonna be hell to pay afterward, but having some semblance of a plan is comforting.
The water started overflowing on the bucket again, so Whumper shut off the water and tossed a sponge in it before hauling it out of the sink and setting it on the stool.
Whumpee watched with detacheted interest and was preparing to brace himself for unwanted contact instead of torture. His mental fortitude however, shattered at the sight of Whumper pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open with a practiced grace.
Whumpeeās breath stopped in his throat and he chastised himself for it. What, you think that the torture will stop for one fucking second as long as Whumper is in here with you? Are you really that nieve, thinking that this will ever not end in blood.
Whumpee took several deep breaths to calm himself as Whumper chuckled and moved toward him menacingly. He wrapped his right wrist around the chain suspending it from the ceiling and gripped it tightly, bracing himself for whatever Whumper is going to do to him.
Whumpee feels the cool blade against place where their stomache meets their hip and holds in a whimper. This is gonna suck this is gonna suck this is gonna suck plays over and over in his head, waiting for the slice.
Whumper chuckles as pats his hip in that same condescending, spooked horse, way and Whumpee wants to kick them. He could. They were well within kicking range, his legs are free and Whumper is about to hurt him. Why the fuck isnāt he kicking them? He should still be fighting. What a few weeks of consistant torture and beatings and heās fucking conditioned like a dog. Great. Fucking fantastic to know that heās so easy to break.
He looks down to see Whumper staring up at him with a look of glee on thier smug fucking face. Anger boils inside of him as they soak in all his expressions, fucker was probably gonna say ādelicousā, he thinks in a mockingly highpitched voice.
āWhat are you waiting for!ā he shouts at them. And he canāt bring himself to regret doing it, even when Whumperās grin extends to a full out smile and they grab onto his hip to brace themself to cut him. He canāt regret shouting at them. He canāt.
He refuses to regret the only show of defiance he has given in days. So instead, he steels himself for the knife.
XXX
Their darling really was a masterpiece. How he blends defiance and obedience is fucking perfect.
Delicous.
Whumper chuckles and draws the knife down, cutting through the ratty sweatpants from hip to ankle in a single slice of the recently sharpened knife. Whumpee jerks forward and gasps, trying to curl in on himself but keeping his leg perfectly straight. His weight was already shifted to the other side in anticipation of not being able to stand.
They threw their head back and laughed as Whumpee opened their eyes and saw that his leg was in fact fine. If completely bare and leaving him, eh, exposed.
Whumpee flushed a beautiful shade of red - they should get a pair of heels that color, it would match so well with their blue suit - and spat out āfuckin bastardā under his breath.
In half a second Whumper was pulling Whumpeeās hair back and holding the blade to his throat.
āWhat was that?ā They ask in a low and dangerous tone, right next to Whumpeeās jaw.
Whumpee remained silent, difiance overriding fear for a few extremely stupid seconds.
Whumper kicks his knee out from under him and he falls with a painful jolt, his knees inches from the ground with his shoulders and wrists holding all his weight. He sobs and tries to get his feet under him, but Whumper stops him by grinding thier booted foot down on Whumpeeās ankle from behind.
They lean down next to Whumpeeās face and say in an unsettlingly calm voice, āI donāt like repeating myself. What. Did. You. Say?ā
Whumpee lets out a gloriously pathetic whimper, but remains silant.
Whumper sighs and mutters a āstayā, before walking over to a cabinet and pull out one of their favorite whips, designed to bruise and leave beautiful welts instead of lashes they would have to disinfect and clean and bandage and yadda yadda yadda. This was simpler, meant for quick but effective punishments or drawn out beatings.
And boy did their darling need a punishment.
āYou already have four offenses Whumpee,ā they punctuate it with a crack of the whip on the concrete floor while circling in front of Whumpee. āOne for each swear word,ā another crack, āand one for each time you refused to answer.ā
They slipped the handle under Whumpeeās jaw and tilted his chin up to see tears dancing in his eyes.
āYou donāt want a fifth, do you?ā They ask in a low, gentle voice.
Whumpee shakes his head, careful to not accidentily dislodge the handle from underneath his jaw and further add to his punishment. Heās learning. Slowly, but heāll get there.
Whumper cracks the handle of the whip across his face and grips his jaw with their hand. Squeezing their fingers painfully into his jaw. āWords Whumpee. Use, your, words.ā They tighten their grip with every word. āDo you want a sixth?ā
āNo, no I donāt want a sixth, sir.ā
Whumper released his jaw with a shove. āThen what did you say?ā
Whumpee hesitates a second too long.
āThats six, you must really be a glutton for punishment darling. Are you? Are you a glutton for punishment?ā
Whumpee swallows, eyes downcast, āNo sir, no Iām not a glutton for punishment sir.ā
āYou know I donāt like repeating myself darling, you have ten seconds to answer.ā
Whumpee licks his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.
āFucking bastard. I called you a fucking bastard sir.ā Whumpee swallows and seems to brace himself for a slap.
Whumper grins to themself, this was going to be fucking fun.
āThats four more, I think youāre finially getting the hang of this.ā
Whumpeeās eyes open in confusion.
āFucking. Bastard. Fucking. Bastard.ā Whumper held up their hand, and lifted a finger for every word they said, āFour.ā They shrug and let their hand drop, āYou did this to yourself darling.ā
They start circling around behind Whumpee again, soaking in the angry mess that was Whumpee. āWhat are we at then Whumpee?ā
No answer. Thats eleven
āWhumpee, I asked you a question. How many offenses are you at?ā
A soft āten,ā came from Whumpee. Twelve and Thirteen.
āWhat was that?ā
āTen.ā Whumpee states, louder this time.
āNope, now weāre at Fourteen. Keep up Whumpee. Jeez, I havenāt given you a concusion for a while, seriously.ā They crack the whip again, barely an inch from Whumpeeās bare feet. āNow, what are we at?ā
āFourteen.ā
āGood, thats good whumpee. Youāre doing great, except now weāre at 15 because you forgot to say sir. Again.ā
Whumpee shuddered and tilted his head forward between his outstretched arms. He was no doubt gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to regain some kind of control of his envoirnment, even something as small as shutting his eyes to the world around him.
āNow Whumpee,ā They tap the handle of the whip against their chin, ā Just to recap and make sure weāre both on the same page, how many offenses are you at?ā
This time Whumpeeās voice came loud and clear, āFifteen sir.ā
Affection bloomed in their chest and they stepped forward to pet their darlingās hair, the movement causing them to sway in their chains. āGood boy Whumpee! I knew you had it in you.ā
Whumpee stayed completely still as Whumper ran their fingers through his hair.
āNow Whumpee, I do have to punish you. But I need to know that youāre learning from this,ā They walk their fingers along his scalp, āso I can either give you 30 lashes, or Iāll give you 15 lashes and all you have to do is say āThank you for punishing me sir, I deserve itā after each one. How does that sound eh?ā
Whumpee tensed more under their hand, they knew which he would pick, but it was important for him to see that there was always an option, always a way out for him if he ever needed it.
He took longer to debate than Whumper thought he would, honestly they almost expected him to wrench his head away from their hands and spit insults at them. But he doesnāt.
āCome on buddy, we donāt got all day. Choose and say please and thank you, otherwise itāll be 60 and Iāll leave you up all night.ā They put their other hand - still holding the whip - on his shoulder and touching his neck so they could have better leverage to claw their fingers through his still damp hair.
They felt Whumpee swallow and the vibrations from him saying, āPlease give me 30 lashes, thank you sir.ā
Whumper chuckled and backed up a few feet, āAs you wish,ā and struck.
Johnstone, Johnstone, my darling boy Johnstone. "Pleading" on the BTHB card for him?
ID: Bad Things Happen Bingo Card
BTHB 1C - Pleading
BTHB Masterpost
Sorry about the wait, but I don't like rushing UwU Johnnybastard is certainly tough to make plead, but I think I have a way of forcing him :)
CONTENT AND WARNINGS: Dehumanisation, it/its as dehumanising pronouns, whumper turned whumpee, this episode, on 'How Homoerotic Could This Conceivably Get?' (even though Dathrir's gender is unfathomable, the spirit is there, (it's sfw tho dw)), wait, how the FUCK did I write hand whump (sliced thumb, EW), noncon turning (not a vampire thing, but a demon thing... even though vampires are a type of demon in these realms... idfk but Johnstone gets the worse deal) it's not transformation /yet/, forced blood drinking
wc: ~1k
āOn your knees.ā
Dathrir grabbed the restrained humanās throat, and with their free hand, their fingers wandered through its hair, and the clawed tips scraped over its scalp. The threat sent a chill down the humanās spine despite the snarl that stayed fixed on its face.
It took nothing to force it down, despite its viciously growled protests.
Compared to when he stood tall as a House Master, the human in front of them was small. It was probably the ragged clothes, and grimy, bloodied face that gave that impression.
Fallen from humanityās grace.
A traitor.
A smile crept onto their features. āWhat a fun gameā¦ā they purred.
Fury burnt in those strange, odd coloured eyes. Dathrir recalled that eyes of odd colours were unusual in humans. Itād make a striking demonā¦
The human gnashed at the cloth gag, as if sensing the malice Dathrir exuded. The way it tried to cling desperately to any power or authority it previously had was amusing, but did not excuse its insubordination and crimes.
āYou stole that belunae from me, you know. By getting greedy, sloppy. By getting stupid. I thought you were one of the more intelligent ones. If you had simply followed protocol, well... perhaps even... made a special request...ā Dathrir drawled, āwe wouldnāt be in this little mess now, would we?ā
Their wandering fingers snapped shut and gripped a fistful of ratty blond hair, tearing scalp. The human let out a muffled roar that was as angry as it was pained. Blood seeped through its hair and a thin trail slid down its forehead.
āHm, let me thinkā¦ You failed to appoint another Head Hunter, lied in reports on multiple occasions, knowingly appointed a belunae in your Squadāone that you should have passed upāand you kept another as a pet in your little power fantasy. I must say, I admire your ingenuityā¦ but not your stupidity.ā
The human glared.
āSorrel Johnstone, wasnāt it?ā they asked. A shadowy smirk darkened their features as they tugged the gag from the humanās mouth. They spoke again, āYou broke the House Order. Beg for forgiveness you pathetic fucking dogāgive me one good reason not to execute you for treason, and I just might let you live.ā
āEver the foolā¦ Thatās okay though, Iāll enjoy spilling your blood.ā
In a flash, a blade spun in their hand, the tip finding the snarling humanās throat.
The human inhaled sharply and froze, eyes going wide with an entertaining mixture of fury and fear.
Dathrir hummed a giggle, āCat got your tongueā¦?ā
The spark of defiance in the humanās eyes brightened to flames at the taunt. Its body quivered. Dathrir could hear the way the humanās hands worked in their bindings, itching to break loose and unleash the rage that so clearly roiled within. In the face of Dathrir, the bravery was almost admirableāit was willing to start a fight it surely knew it would lose. Then again, bravery was just a term to comfort the foolhardy.
Dathrir released the human, but not after a light swipe that left a fine, weeping mark across its throat. Perhaps now it would consider the command.
āThis can go on as long as youād like, but Iām sure youād like to get back to business and rebuild your House,ā they said with a quirked eyebrow. āSo, why donāt you make it quick. Beg sweetly for me, and I will let you go.ā
This got the humanās attention.
Clearly, it had expected to die here, but a change in tactic seemed to yield the results Dathrir desired. The rage still burned beneath its skin, its heavy breathing was a sure tell.
āLet me go,ā Johnstone started in a low tone.
āTsk tsk, the magic word...?ā
āPlease. Let me go please.ā
āOh Iām sure you can do better,ā Dathrir quipped, āafter all, youāve heard it plenty of times, havenāt you?ā
Even if only a mockery, the humanās next attempt was at least a fraction more believable, āPlease let me goāIāll do anything...!ā
They would make them beg.
Dathrir stroked its hair. āGood boy... That wasnāt so hard now was it? Thereās just one more thing before you go,ā they drawled with an odd smile, unlocking the cuffs that bound the human.
āAnd whatās that?ā it said, strangling its harsh tone.
Perhaps there was hope, it knew its unspoken boundaries and attempted to adhere, if only as a means to an end.
āThisāā Dathrir sliced their thumb on the knife. Thick, dark blood immediately pooled at the tip and dribbled down in a fast stream. Dathrir lunged at the human faster that, it could blink, and shoved their thumb between its lips.
The human recoiled instantly at the taste of Dathrirās foul blood and tried vainly to spit it out. Dathrir sealed its mouth, but it bit down hard through its clear disgust, tearing at their skin with blunt teeth, clearly trying to dismantle their hand one digit at a time. Had Dathrir been human, they would have screamed.
Instead, what they called pain was a warmth that blossomed and spread up their thumb and through their hand. The tears in their skin simply released more of their blood, prompting a muffled, frustrated scream from the human at their mercy. It struggled harder. It gave up causing them pain, instead trying to quell the sickening burning in their mouth and remove the substance that caused it.
Dathrir smiled, satisfied when the human had swallowed enough. They released it suddenly, letting it hurl itself across the floor. Blood glistened on its lips and the corners of its mouth, and more, mixed with saliva dribbled out of its mouth as it coughed and gagged, groaning lowly.
āWhat the fuck was that,ā the human spat in a raspy voice.
Dathrir smiled, revealing fangs. āOh,ā they purred, āyouāll see.ā It wonāt be human for much longer, they thought, to be hunted by oneās own people is the most fitting punishment for a traitor.
āGuards, get rid of it. Take it to an alley near here, and then leave me,ā they said, āIād like to watch the show.ā
āWhat the fuckādo you mean, you demon piece of shit?!ā the human seethed between coughs.
Before Dathrir deigned to give another vague answer, the human twisted suddenly with a scream, no doubt caused by the corruption that flooded its body.
āMake it stopā! ARGH!ā it yelled, agony cracking its strained voice. āLet me go and Iāllāconsider lettingāyou live! If the other houses found outāā
āThey wonāt,ā Dathrir said, āthey havenāt for almost a thousand years~ Besides, no one would ever listen to a demon.ā
āLet me FUCKING GO!ā it screeched, leaping up and lunging toward Dathrir.
The guards caught it and held it back a mere inch from the unflinching Dathrirās throat. It scrabbled in their hold, the bout of corruption seemingly over. The first ones they endured, Dathrir noted, always seemed less severe, and were shorter. For now, the pathetic creature that struggled restrained before them, murder in their eyes, would be fine. Perhaps it wouldnāt even notice what was happening until it was too late.
It was always captivating to see what a hunter would do when stripped of their humanity. Perhaps this one would be especially interesting, given its ego.
Dathrir hummed lowly, an ominously victorious, jovial sound, āAs you wish.ā
If you read and enjoyed this, please consider a reblog ^-^
here's a new little unnamed thing! idk if i'll continue with this, but i just had the idea for a bit of the dialogue and wanted to run with it, so here's the results of that!
TW: guns, threats, held at gunpoint, brief mention of stalkery behavior, implied abduction and captivity, multiple whumpers, nonbinary whumpee (Indigo, they/them), nonbinary whumper (Lee, he/him)
"Hey, uh, we just moved in across the street! Thought we'd come over and introduce ourselves."
He was handsome, Indigo would give him that. And charming for sure. They both were. Indigo was not the type to just invite strangers into their home, neighbors or not, but before they could stop themself to think, all three of them were sat chatting in their kitchen. The chided themself silently, one small voice scolding them, telling them that they were being overly cautious, paranoid. But there was another voice, too. This one told them that this was a huge mistake. Just opening the door had been a mistake.
The first one introduced himself as Michael. He was tall, with deep, dark eyes and sharp features. His voice floated through the air like a birdsong. Combined with his curly, honey-blond hair, he reminded Indigo of an angel.
Michael introduced the other as Lee. He was quiet, soft-spoken. His eyes were soft and gentle, a soft gleam shining behind them. Everything about him was soft. Hell, if Indigo wasn't getting over a breakup, they'd probably pounce the poor boy's bones.
They chatted for what felt like hours. Indigo, at one point, got up to make tea for all of them, but once they returned, it was back to chatting. They couldnāt figure out what it was, but something about them just broke down their walls in a way that they had no chance of anticipating.
The problem with broken walls is that they no longer keep out any danger.
"So then, this has been a great chat, but let's cut to the chase." Michael smiled, that light, charming smile. "Who would you rather belong to?"
Indigo sputtered on their tea. Certainly they had misheard.
"Sorry?" They asked, laughing nervously and setting their mug down. "Maybe my tea's gone bad."
"Oh, ha, nah your tea is fine. We checked the expiration dates of your things the last time we came over." Michael hummed, setting his own mug down in turn. "I said, who would you rather belong to?"
"It's not a hard question, is it, love?" Lee followed. Indigo stood from their seat, almost frantically grabbing all three mugs and quickly setting them in the sink.
"Last time you-? You're freaking me out. I think it's time for you to see yourselves out." Indigo turned back to face them. Then, they froze. Michael was holding a gun. Had he had that the whole time? How had Indigo not realized?
"You're going to have to choose one way or another." Lee said lightly. "We're just trying to make it easier on you." He smiled that same, soft smile at them, standing slowly.
"Get out. Right now." Indigo took a step back, still eyeing the gun. "This isn't funny. Get out."
"You know we're not gonna do that, Indigo." Michael smiled. In an instant Indigo was running. Where they had been sitting, Michael and Lee were given easy access to block any exits. Michael stayed in his seat, he just so 'happened' to block the back door. (Though maybe he'd planned it that way. Indigo couldn't tell.) And when Lee stood before, it gave him a perfect opportunity to move to block the front.
Think, think. Ok, exits are blocked, so... Up it is?
They ran towards Lee, but not at the front door. As they neared him, they swung themself around the stairway, speeding to the upper floor before Lee could grab them. Indigo could hear him following closely, Michael behind both of them.
Luckily, Indigo was fast. Fast enough to get into their bedroom and lock the door behind them and fast enough then to run into the connected bathroom, locking that door just the same.
They huffed, sliding to the floor in an attempt to catch their breath after barricading the door with whatever they could find. They jumped at the sound of the two slamming through the door into the bedroom.
"You've blocked yourself in, Indigo. Did you forget that there aren't any windows in there?" They heard Michael say through the door. Fuck. He was right. "We can wait all night, so just save us all the time and effort and come on out."
They stayed silent, though let out a quick shriek when someone slammed against the door.
"Make this easier for yourself now, sweetheart." Lee said, knocking carefully on the door. "If you come out now, we won't have to punish you."
"Punish? I- What?? You can't do this!" Indigo yelled. "We're in the suburbs, dipshit, the neighbors will hear the gunshots and call the cops. They'll hear me yelling!"
"Naughty, naughty. Such bad words, Indigo, maybe we'll cut out your tongue to teach you a lesson." Michael sighed. "Remember, whatever happens now is your fault."
Indigo shrieked again as one of them slammed against the door.
"You fucking psychopaths! Leave me the fuck alone!" They cried, now frantically searching around their bathroom for some sort of weapon. All they could find was a small pair of scissors that they use to trim their hair, holding it protectively out in front of them as the door continued to shake.
Finally the moment they feared came to fruition when the door cracked violently open. Lee panted, looming in the doorway, with Michael slightly behind him, now directly pointing the gun at Indigo.
"And what do you think you're going to accomplish with those, dear?" Michael grinned, pulling the hammer of the gun. Indigo felt their blood run cold as they sat on the tacky green tile floor of their bathroom. Were they about to die on this floor? The green taken over by red as they bleed out?
"They'll hear." Indigo repeated shakily, clutching the scissors like a shield.
That didn't matter much. Indigo heard a whoosh and a thunk from behind, distracted and turning to see what the noise was only to see a fresh bullet hole in the wall. The shock alone caused them to drop their makeshift weapon and scramble further from the two people boxing them in.
Indigo fearfully looked back at the gun in Michael's hand, only now looking long enough to see the silencer on the end of it.
"I have some money." They stammered. "It's not a lot, but- but just take it and go and I won't tell anyone alright? Just take it and go."
"We're not after money, dear. You could give us literally everything you have and it wouldn't be enough." Michael finally took a step into the bathroom. "If we were looking for money, we'd just sell you like most of the others we've picked up. No, Indigo, we want you."
"We were planning to wait until night to take you," Lee explains, "Though Michael got a little excited and let out the surprise a bit early. No worries though, that just gives us some more time to get to know each other before we make our moves."
Indigo's mind was reeling. This had to be a nightmare, right? Michael took a few more steps into the room, kicking the scissors away as he stepped closer to his target. Indigo watched their only weapon slide away across the floor. Shit, they hadn't even realized they had dropped it.
They looked up at Michael who was looming over them now, then to Lee, still standing by the door. Yeah, this was a nightmare. It had to be. All they could do now was hope they woke up soon.
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CW: Vampire whumpers, whumpee who is also whumper, sadistic whumper, blood drinking, hints of dubcon intimate whump implied (fade to black)
For @amonthofwhumpās 12 Days of Whump, Day Six: Countdown
-
Paris, France, 1940
Erich leans back against the wall, frowning down at the blood under his fingernails as he inspects the cracked, chipped edges. Thereās something deeply unsanitary about it, especially since heās not entirely sure how many peoplesā blood it even is. He canāt possibly do anything about it, though. The blood wonāt come out.
The streets of Paris are never empty, not even in these darkest days. There are always those who risk everything for a bit of joy and celebration of life - and there are always those who prey on them.Ā
Of course, there are those who prey on the predators, too.
He sighs, counting inside his mind, as he sees a man pull his overcoat tight and step quickly over a puddle in the street, glancing left and right, the brim of his hat pulled down low to hide his face.Ā
Right on time.
They know where heās headed - to a small flat above a store that has been raided and razed to charring inside. He intends to terrorize the family still hiding within, demand money they donāt have for their dubious protection from Erichās own countrymen. Invaded in May and conquered by the end of June, France quakes under a war machine they hadnāt known how to defend against.
Germany is an avalanche burying France, Poland, anywhere else its bony fingers can touch. He hears German spoken in the streets, and he recognizes the language but not the feeling within it. He knows the faces but not their expressions. He doesnāt know his country any longer, but thenā¦ heād stopped recognizing his country long before heād been turned into this. He thinks of the war he fought for them, for their great Imperial pride, and bitter fury churns inside of him, turning the very saliva in his mouth sour.
How many men had died, then - and how many of their very sons would die this time? All for the pride of some great man who stays hidden behind the lines, demanding the soldiers loathe the enemy to the point of death but never willing to risk himself?
He spits off to the side, eyes narrowing, tongue running over his fangs.
Still.
The man stops, perhaps feeling eyes on him, but he doesnāt see Erich hidden in the shadows. He murmurs to himself, and Erich doesnāt know a lot of French but he does know a curse when he hears one.Ā
Erich keeps counting.
Threeā¦ twoā¦ one.
Auri drops from the balcony above the manās head and lands on him, sending him flat on his stomach to the wet sidewalk with little more than a soft oof and the crack of his head against stone.
Their eyes gleam and glimmer iridescent in the darkness, fangs bared, their pale hair white in the near-total darkness aside from street lamps, a wild mess around their shoulders. They lean down and speak into the manās ear as he struggles, trying to wriggle out from under them, throwing his hands up to try and pull them off.
It doesnāt work.
Erich wonders, idly, what they said to him. Auri doesnāt care about the world, but they feel darkly about what has been done to France for reasons Erich canāt even begin to fathom. He doesnāt ask, granted.
He scratches at the back of his neck, looking over to see a woman and man who were also sneaking out freeze.Ā
The man lets out a strangled scream for help, bouncing off of the buildings around them, as Auri buries their fangs in his throat, fingers dug so deeply into his shoulders that theyāre tearing the fabric of his suit.Ā
The woman screams as she sees it, pointing at Auri. āVampire!ā She shrieks, in hysteric terror, and she and the man sheās with go racing away. They donāt try to help, or to pull the vampire off of the dying man.Ā
You donāt stop to help, not in France, not these days.
Erich doesnāt move.
He merely watches Auriās throat bob as they swallow mouthfuls of hot fresh blood, and then looks up to see the father of the family above the store looking through the window down at the scene, where the muscle meant to scare him is instead dying on his doorstep.
The man looks up and meets Erichās eyes.Ā
He, after all, had been told in advance where Erich would be standing.
Merci, the man mouths, tipping his chin down in deference. Merci, monsieur. He doesnāt smile, and Erich doesnāt try to either. They only look at each other. Once upon a time they were the same in more ways than ever they were different. Now, though, one is an inhuman predator, and the other a man who wants only to save his wife and children from the jaws of the beast.
Being a monster doesnāt mean he canāt still do a little good, for as long as Auri will let him, as long as their interest in this game holds.
He pushes himself away from the wall and walks to the storefront, his boots scraping in a whisper against the pavement. Auri looks up at him without letting go of their victim, but their eyes sparkle in a wordless invitation.
Feed with me.
As always, he has found, he canāt quite resist their commands. Not even the wordless ones. He starts walking.
Erich looks up to see the man up above close the curtains again, and knows heāll move on to the next stage of what they had agreed upon. Theyāll line up suitcases by the door, pack everything they need. A very particular vehicle will pull up, and the family will pile inside. By dawn, they will be quit of Paris.
By two days from now, theyāll be on a ship with new names, heading across the ocean. New papers, a new life, paid for by the money Erich takes from the ones he and Auri kill.
He canāt save many - but he can save a few.
He knows what will happen to them, in the end, because he has seen what is happening in Germany. What everyone pretends they donāt know is happening, but they do.
He reaches down and Auri lets go just long enough for him to pull the man, who breathes now in wet gasps as his heart fights to keep beating, close to him. Auri pushes themself up to their feet and presses in on the other side, the man sandwiched between them in their unnatural strength. His hands come up to push weakly at Erichās chest, he begs in whispered French for mercy.
āNein,ā he whispers in return, and he bites down on the manās left while Auri digs their fangs back in on the right.
Drinking the last of a life with Auri, his packleader, sends a wave of euphoria down Erichās spine. They are connected through the veins they drain dry. His knees wobble and he locks them to keep standing, his hands moving, burying themselves in Auriās hair. He groans, softly, as their hands find his waist in turn, jerking him forward. The man is between them, but still he canāt stop but moan in pleasure.
Itās obscene.
Itās devotion.
They break apart only when the man is wholly and truly dead, and Erich pants softly with breath he hasnāt quite gotten used to not needing, looking at the blood smeared red around Auriās mouth and finding it beautiful.
It was horrifying, once.
He struggles to remember that, in moments like this.
āI-... I want-ā
āI know.ā Auri grins, licking their lips until red goes pink and wet, eyes half-closed in their own ecstasy. āAre you satisfied, Erich? Weāve killed another evildoer, are we the angel of death passing doorways marked in blood enough for you?ā
āThey never said angels were lovely or kind,ā Erich says, low and rough, and he grabs their arm and pulls them against him, listening to their laughter before he presses his lips to theirs. Both of them have mouths slick with salt-sweet blood and he licks it off their lips and out of their mouth. He pulls away, jerking them along with him, in love with and loathing them in turn, both at once, the strongest things he has ever felt.Ā
They make it into an alley before heās pulling their shirt off over their head. He hears, dimly, the sound of the car pulling up outside the storefront, of the man telling his children not to look at the body as they pile inside. He hears the engine roar as it pulls away, driving off into the night, heading hell for leather for a life that wonāt look like this one.
He hopes it works better for them than it did for him.
Auriās hands push up under his shirt, nails digging into his bare skin, and he tips his head back against the wall. When they bite him, it doesnāt feel like it did when he was living. Their fangs slide in, bury themselves to the hilt, and the venom floods him like a wash of pure and perfect pleasure.
āPlease,ā He groans. āPlease take me.ā
Auri is as bright as the sun, full of blood and a force of nature. They pin his wrists above his head, rolling their hips against his.
āOf course,ā They murmur. Their lips move against his jaw, where thereās a scar from the war, that heāll carry for eternity with the others. āDo it again tomorrow?ā
āPlease,ā He whispers. āYes. Let me help them.ā
āMy pleasure.ā Auriās mouth moves against his cheek. āOr yours.ā
It starts to rain, but neither of them notices. If they did, they wouldnāt care.
For @whumpawoman Angstpril; prompts are Whumper-Run-In, Panic Attack, and maybe even Revenge.
This arc is a collaboration with @for-the-love-of-nsfwhumpā , Damiel is hers and in this universe, theyāre married to Ira. Also - this is a piece of writing Iām very proud of, and I hope that you like it.
Content: whump aftermath, trauma, panic attack, referenced captivity, referenced lady whump, referenced death/murder of a loved one.
Emma is pulling at Isaac's hand, and he almost has to jog to keep up with her short legs. "Your uncle is an old man, Emmy," he says, half joking. He's not old, but he can't walk fast. Not since he's had a bullet lodged in his hip, in the night that cost him everything.Ā
"But I can see the playground already! Can I go? Please?"Ā
He can see it, too. A big wooden pirate ship, some swings, a handful of other adults and kids wrapped into warm clothes on this sunny day in late fall. It's just some meters, he tells himself. It's safe. Still, it takes him some seconds to force his fingers to open and let his niece's gloved hand slip out of his, as she races off. There's something to the way she runs. Despite the childish joy to her movements, the somewhat clumsy way she sets her feet, he still thinks of Sophie. Sophie, who can't be here, who has never met her niece, and whose laugh he misses every single day. The last thing he's seen her do was run. Run by his side, to safety, to freedom. It had been so close. They could've been together. They should be.
They aren't. He's alone.
On the playground, Emma has reached the pirate ship and is already climbing up, gloves dropped on the ground, hands and booted feet steady on the small climbing grips. Sophie and him have always wanted kids. They'd talked about it often enough, before they went to bed. Two, at least, one boy and one girl, maybe. He wonders, if they'd ended up with the light brown curls Emma shares with him, or maybe more of the straight black hair from Sophie's side.Ā
He'll never know.
There's another kid going up the wooden wall next to Emma now, a black girl her age with a cloud of curls around her and purple earmuffs. He's still out of earshot, but he sees them talking, racing each other to the captain's stand on top. The other girl's parent is standing close, arms folded, attentive. They're tall, at least six feet, lean and muscular, and something about them makes Isaac's stomach clench. They look like them. Like the figure from his nightmares, the one he sees in every crowd, the reason why he can't ride the subway or go to crowded pubs, or do anything outside. Like the tall, lean monster, the one who took Sophie away from him, when he'd ran away with her, when she'd finally seen him, and believed him, and she'd looked at him and told him she loved him. The monster has hunted them down without remorse, they've grabbed her and hurt her and dragged her away. Isaac still remembers her screams, her panic, her fear, and the cold, brutal efficiency of the hunter.
His steps have slowed involuntarily. Usually, he'd just turn around and leave. The park is big, he can go somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't have to be around his memories, but his with Emmy, and the tall figure is right next to her.Ā
It's not them, he thinks. It's not them, they are far away, they are somewhere in the woods hunting their next victim, they aren't the folk to hang around on playgrounds, they wouldn't care about Emma.Ā
His shirt is soaked with cold sweat, as he forces himself to step closer. "Emmy," he calls. His voice is trembling, broken almost. "Emmy, baby, come here, we're leaving."
She doesn't hear him, or pretends not to, as she jumps onto the slide down.
The tall one has heard him, though, head snapped back, taking in the whole situation, the playground, the other parents, and Isaac, frozen in place. Long braids are falling from underneath their woolen hat, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together into a thin line.Ā
It's them. It's not their shadow, not a memory from the past, it's them, the hunter, it's the one who shattered everything Isaac had ever dreamt of to pieces in a single night.
"No," Isaac whispers tonelessly. "No, no, no." He wants to step back, but his legs are rubber, there's the edge of the sandbox behind him, and he falls, to his knees, shivering, panting. His hands claw into the sand, like they did into the forest ground six years ago, but he can't feel, there's nothing, only emptiness.Ā
"Sir," they call, and he thinks he remembers their voice. They've called someone else Sir that night, too, in a voice rougher than today, but he recognizes it anyway. "Are you okay?"
He's not. He's not, he will never be, he can't ever be okay, and it's because of them, and they don't even seem to know. He stares at them blankly from where he's kneeling on the ground, at them and the white-haired young woman suddenly by their side. He wants to warn her, to warn Emmy, anyone, but his voice has left him, and he's helpless to watch. The woman is holding a toddler, and she hands him off, to them, and Isaac's vision narrows, gets black around the edges. He can't breathe. He hears them talk, French, he thinks, and that it's odd that he can still find a coherent thought, and then a soft hand is laying on his arm and the woman is talking to him. "Breathe, Sir, breathe with me, alright?" Her voice is quiet and smooth, and he wonders if he's actually breathing, maybe he's not, maybe he's just dying, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.Ā
"In through the nose," the woman says, and he feels her hand gently pressing his to give him a rhythm. "Out through the mouth."
Shakily, he nods, follows her lead. He doesn't look up, just stares at their hands, hers over his, in the dirty sand of the sandbox. In through the nose. Her hand is small, a little red because of the cold, and there are some scars, crisscrossing lines in her tan skin. Out through the mouth. Her nails are clipped short, a little dirt underneath them, and her fingers are calloused, as if she works a lot with her hands. In through the nose. There's a broad black band tattooed around her wrist, and he sees some colorful patterns emerge over it, vanishing under her sleeve.Ā Out through-
"Cherie," the hunter says.
His breath hitches. His eyes are glued to the wedding band.Ā
"Pas maintenant," she mumbles.Ā
Isaac sees their feet show up in his vision, clad in bright yellow winter boots. They were wearing boots back then, too, but those were black. Do they know who he is? Do they know, what they did to him? He doesn't dare looking up.
"Tu lui fais peur," she says. "J'arrive. Cinq minutes, Dami?"
Dami.
Dami. Damiel.
Isaac gags. He remembers the name. He always will. It's them. The person who just steps back. The person with the purple woolen hat and the bright winter jacket, a happy parent on a playground, a protective spouse.Ā
A beautiful wife. Two kids. A boy and a girl.
They retreat, while their wife goes on counting, and Isaac nods. In and out. Yes. He's breathing. His heart rate is slowing down, his vision is starting to clear.Ā
Damiel.
Damiel, the monster, who took the world from Isaac, gained everything Isaac himself lost forever.
"Are you better?", the woman asks.Ā
Isaac looks up, into her dark eyes, clouded with worry. She's not as pretty as Sophie was, but there's something to her. Something that made Damiel love her. To choose her, as mother to their kids, to build a family with.
There have been moments, many of them, in sleepless nights, when Isaac thought about revenge. About what he'd do, should he ever encounter the monster again. Death couldn't be enough. Torture couldn't be enough. Hollow and empty, nothing compared to what they did to him.
He knows, now.
"Yeah," he whispers, and allows her to help him back to his feet. "Yes, thank you. I will be."
