# SEREN / ELLIE . ( he/she/it : genderqueer hard femme lesbian )
writer, artist, designer, character creator; lover of art, history, horror, folklore, and nature. dms & asks open 24/7!
HELLO, STRANGER! welcome to my whump - focused writing blog!
i'm relatively new member of this community, officially joining around may 2024 after many years of lurking. however, i have been creating and indulging in whump fiction for all of my life, without it becoming my primary creative focus on late 2022 after my discovery of lab whump.
despite the fact that i'm in several fandoms, i much prefer to focus on my original characters. if you'd like to learn more about them or the stories they're from, check out the website linked above! i aim to make my work writings as accessible as possible so they can be consumed and enjoyed by the community at large.
despite my decidedly edgy interests, i like to think I'm a pretty nice person! i love making new friends, so feel free to reach out whenever! please be aware that i do tend to reply slowly & go inactive for extended periods of time due to my variety of physiological conditions; i have autism, c-ptsd, avpd, and ocd, all of which effect how i interact with others. i am working toward stability, but it won't come overnight, so i ask for patience in the meantime!
THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN WRITTEN & ILLUSTRATIVE DEPICTIONS OF GORE, VIOLENCE, TORTURE, MEDICAL MALPRACTICE, CAPTIVITY, ABUSE, AND OTHER SIMILARLY DISTURBING THEMES. IF YOU BELIEVE ANY OF THIS MAY BE DISTRESSING TO YOU, PLEASE CLICK OFF MY BLOG NOW.
it should go without saying that i do not condone (nor do i intend to glorify or promote) any of this in real life. portrayal is not inherently endorsement. i trust you all to engage responsibility. I DO NOT WANT MINORS ON THIS BLOG. MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED.
FAVORED TROPES: torture, extreme violence & gore, captivity, kidnapping, sadistic whumpers, tough whumpees, lab whump, medical & psychiatric whump, conditioning & mindbreak, lady whump, nonhuman whump, trauma bonds, and so much more! i have very few squicks, so I dabble in pretty much everything.
DISLIKED TROPES: sickfics (especially ones that involve vomit), pregnancy, familial dynamics, live action media, anything involving children or animals. none of these are triggers except for the sickfic one; i have emetophobia and contamination ocd, so I prefer not to write or read about anything that may trigger that.
ALL OF MY OC INFORMATION IS STORED ON THIS WEBSITE! it includes basic information, references images, story summaries, and the likes. i tried to keep everything relatively simple and digestible. extended bios are stored on my toyhouse.
you are beyond welcome to submit requests for my ocs, ask me questions about them, ask me to roleplay, & pretty much anything else. the weirder and the more violent, the better! ♡
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Three simple words that sound mostly harmless; perhaps connoting a minor annoyance. However, when they come from your whumpee - who never complains about their own health - the caretaker goes white with panic.
hi everyone!! i'm so sorry i've been gone for so long :( i had a terrible run in with covid and have been generally pretty demotivated and down in the dumps. however, i am back now!! yay!! yippee!!!
how are you all doing? anyone who sees this is welcome to reply; i hope everyone's had a good day today! i you haven't, i hope it gets better <3
▷ Summary; The producer is sure they're going to hit peak engagement
⚠️ content advisory: NSFWhump (sadomasochism), demon whumper, demon whumpee, shock collar, livestreamed whump, surgery, graphic depiction of gore
Fandom: Original | WRITING MASTERLIST
Word count: 2203
Notes: entry for @whumpgiftswap, a gift for @labtrauma !
The Starting Soon screen glows on thousands of monitors across hell. A black silhouette of Batsugun fills the frame; bat wings half-spread with curling ram horns. Elegant white text beneath it reads Batsugun’s Brilliance.
It is a busy weekend night and the chat is already abuzz.
when will it start?
Woohooo!
In the brightly lit studio, the octopus demon producer adjusts his headset with three of his tentacles, a satisfied grin spreading across his mouth. The viewer count is climbing fast. It reaches well into the high five figures and is still rising.
Traffic’s excellent tonight. We’re gonna hit peak engagement. I can feel it.
Red LIVE light flicks on and Batsugun steps into frame with slow, deliberate grace. The black latex miniskirt barely covers the top of her thighs, the smoky white fur of her underbelly peeking with every step. Two black X’s of pasties are plastered directly over her nipples, stark against the lighter fur. A heavy shock collar encircles her neck, its red indicator light already blinking.
Her long curly bangs fall over one eye, leaving the other to glow at the camera. She offers the audience her signature smile, “Evening, darlings.”
One cloven hoof clicks as she settles onto the metal examination table in the center of the set. Her bat wings fold neatly behind her, and her fluffy tail curls around her hip.
The octopus demon slithers into view beside her. He announces with energy, “Welcome back, friends and foes! First off, a huge thank you to our brand sponsor tonight: TenebrisTech. Their premium shock collars and restraint systems make nights like this possible. Make sure to check the link in chat if you want to bring a little piece of tonight home with you!”
Then he gives a theatrical wink, “As per the poll from our last stream… you beautiful beings voted overwhelmingly for exploratory surgery tonight.” He spreads several tentacles wide, “So that’s exactly what we’re doing. We’re going to uncover what’s never been uncovered before. No limits.”
Batsugun’s crimson eye half-lids in mild amusement. She tilts her head, letting her droopy ears flop slightly. A few chat messages explode with heart, fire, and goat emojis.
The octopus demon turns to her with a grin, “Ready, star?”
“Always,” she replies.
He reaches for the remote, “Let’s start gentle… or not so gentle. Testing the new collar.”
The first shock hits without warning. Crack!
Batsugun’s body jerks hard. Her back arches violently off the metal table, black-and-gray fur standing on end as electricity tears through her neck and spine. A raw, throaty cry rips from her throat. Her cloven hooves scrape against the table, legs kicking once before she forces them down again. Her bat wings flare open involuntarily, trembling.
She writhes, chest heaving, the black X’s on her nipples stretch with every labored breath. Yet even through the pain, her smile never fully leaves her face. When the shock finally cuts off, she lets out a shaky laugh.
“Nngh… That one had teeth,” she gasps, tongue flicking over her sharp red teeth. “I felt that all the way down to my hooves.”
The octopus demon chuckles, clearly pleased with the reaction, “Chat is loving it already. Look at those numbers spike.”
Batsugun’s fluffy tail lashes once, then curls tightly around her plush thigh. She is panting slightly, but her composure remains intact. Still, there is no hiding the faint flush under her smoky white muzzle fur, nor the way her body trembled with lingering aftershocks.
She looks straight into the camera, “Mmm… hurts so good, doesn’t it? You all like watching me squirm?” Her voice drops even lower, teasing, “Don’t worry, darlings. We’re just getting started.”
Then Batsugun gave the lens a lazy, provocative wink.
The octopus demon’s tentacles twitch with excitement, “That’s our girl. Chat, the real fun begins now.”
The octopus demon glances at the massive monitor displaying the live chat feed, tentacles twitching with glee. The messages are flooding in faster than the system can scroll.
The chat explodes:
Zoom in on her tits
ZOOM IN
SHE’S ENJOYING THIS IJBOL
painslut painslut painslut
That scream was perfect holy shit
Collar go brrrr
Her tail is doing that cute twitch thing again
More! Make her beg!!
The producer laughs, “Alright, alright, you thirsty bastards. Chat is very vocal tonight. They want a closer look.” He gestures with two tentacles toward the hovering camera drones. One immediately swoops in, tightening the frame on Batsugun’s chest, especially the black pasties X’s.
Batsugun notices the zoom instantly. She lets out a throaty chuckle, her droopy ears flicking as she arches her back just a little more, deliberately pushing her chest toward the lens, “You all want to see me closer? How greedy.”
Stronger shock rips through the collar without warning.
Crack!
Her entire body seizes. A guttural cry escapes her throat as electricity surges down her spine. Her bat wings snap open wide, trembling violently, while her cloven hooves kick against the metal table with a loud clack.
She writhes hard, hips lifting off the surface, tail lashing wildly from side to side. The black latex miniskirt rides up and exposes more of her smoky white underbelly fur.
For several long seconds she twists and gasps, teeth bared. Her eyes squeeze shut in agony and ecstasy, tangled into one. When the current finally dies, she collapses back onto the table, chest heaving, a thin string of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her nipples visibly hard beneath the pasties.
Batsugun is panting heavily now, but her smile creeps back onto her muzzle almost immediately. Her voice comes out breathy, “That one went straight to my wings. Felt like my bones were burning.” She licks her sharp teeth teasingly, “You happy now, chat? I’m all nice and warmed up.”
Chat goes feral:
PAINSLUT PAINSLUT
Look at her tail go
Do it again she’s soaked for this
lmao she’s actually enjoying it
Harder! Break her!
Sponsor needs to make that collar stronger
The octopus demon grins several tentacles waving excitedly, “You heard them, Batsugun. They’re calling you their favorite painslut tonight. Viewer count just broke six figures. Peak engagement, baby!”
Batsugun’s bat wings are still quivering as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. The motion makes her exposed underbelly flex, drawing even more eyes to the glistening trail between her legs. Her long curly bangs stick slightly to the sweat-damp fur on her forehead.
“Painslut, huh?” She tilts her head, giving the camera a provocative look. One clawed hand drifts up to lightly touch the shock collar, tracing the metal with a fingertip, “If you want me to beg so early, darlings, you’re going to have to earn it. Make it hurt pretty this time.”
Batsugun spreads her legs just a fraction on the table, hooves planted firmly, tail curling around one thigh. The movement displays her slick folds to the zooming cameras. Her voice turns velvety smooth despite the shock, “Come on, I can take it.”
Her mind spins. She can feel every eye on her. The old days feel like child’s play compared to this.
The octopus demon says, “You’re spoiling them tonight.”
Chat roars again:
GG BATSU!
Shock her tits next
She’s such a whore for the camera
Do the exploratory shit already I’m hard
Auugh more pain more pain more pain
Look how wet she is holy fuck
The octopus demon’s tentacles dance with excitement as he rolls a sleek metal tray of instruments closer to the examination table. The studio lights gleam off scalpels, retractors, and glistening hooks.
Batsugun lays on her back. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly from the earlier shocks. The heavy shock collar sits quiet for now, but her black latex miniskirt has been pushed up to her waist, leaving her smoky white underbelly fully exposed.
“Alright, degenerates,” the octopus demon announces. “Incision time. No anaesthetic tonight! You all voted for the real thing. Let’s see what our star is made of on the inside.”
Batsugun blinks. She tries to keep her smile, but it has grown strained. Her long curly bangs are damp with sweat. Her bat wings lay limp and half-spread beneath her.
Chat detonates:
ZOOM IN ON THE CUT
Incision incision incision
Show us everything
This is gunna b good
Her belly is so soft looking
DO IT DO IT DO IT
bellaaaay
The producer is clearly thrilled by the spike in chat activity, “You heard them, chat wants the close-up. Cameras, zoom in tight.”
Two camera drones swoop in obediently. One camera frames her underbelly from above, while the other slides in for an extreme close shot.
The octopus demon selects a long and wicked scalpel with one tentacle. Several others pin Batsugun’s arms and legs down against the cold metal table. A final pair of tentacles part the fur on her lower abdomen, exposing the pale skin beneath.
“Deep breath, darling,” he murmured, almost tenderly.
The blade sinks in. Batsugun’s body jerks violently the moment the steel parts her flesh. Scream tears from her throat. No anaesthetic. Cold metal slices through muscle and membrane. Her cloven hooves kick uselessly against the table as her back tries to arch. Her tail thrash even more wildly.
“Nngh—AAHH!!” The sound comes out broken, hoarse, and desperate. Her teeth clenched tight, crimson eyes wide with shock and pain.
The octopus demon works with all eight appendages in professional coordination. Two hold the incision open with retractors, others delicately peel back layers of tissue, while one carefully navigates deeper. Blood wells up dark and glossy under the studio lighting.
He mentions their sponsor again, "Look at how clean that incision is, thanks to the Tenebris X-23 scalpel. Use code BATSU10 for a discount on your own medical kits!"
Batsugun’s breathing turns into shallow, pained pants. Her droopy ears flatten against her head. She groans again, a low animalistic sound that exudes no sensuality.
Chat is losing its mind:
HOLY SHIT
Look at that color
TSKR
Her eyes are so gorgeous
This is peak
Donations pouring in!!
A bright notification pings across the screen. The octopus demon smiles as he glances at the donation ticker. “Thank you for the donation!” he called out cheerfully, waving one tentacle at the camera. “Big thanks to SpleenLover666! That’s going straight into the premium equipment fund. You’re helping make nights like this even better!”
He reaches deeper with two slick tentacles, carefully working around organs. There is no gentleness left in the motion. The tentacles squelch wetly as they push aside slippery loops of intestine. Batsugun’s body reacted instantly. Violent, full-body shudder rips through her as fresh, white-hot pain explodes deep inside her torso.
Batsugun chokes out. Her smoky white underbelly convulses visibly around the gaping wound.
Then, with a triumphant flourish, the octopus demon lifts something wet and glistening into the light—a dark and slick organ the size of a fist.
“Look at this beauty!” the producer announces proudly, holding Batsugun’s spleen up toward the closest camera. The organ pulses weakly in his grasp, still connected by thin strands of tissue. Blood drips onto the table. “Fresh from our morning star herself. Never been seen on stream before. Chat, you’re getting the exclusive tour tonight.”
Batsugun’s head lolls to the side. Her eyes are dazed, the glow dimmed by pain and blood loss. She can hear the donation alerts chiming nonstop now. Clink! Clink Clink!
The viewer count has shattered every previous record. So many eyes. Thousands upon thousands, all locked on her. On her body. On her insides.
As a former brothel worker, countless clients have seen every inch of her outside—every private part, every curve, every humiliating pose. And this was different. No one has ever seen her spleen. No one has ever watched her organs gleam under studio lights while she lies open and trembling.
A strange pride blooms amidst the agony. She wants it to end. She wants the burning, the sickening pull of exposed tissue, to just stop. The pain is no longer exciting. Even tiny movement of the producer’s tentacles sends anguish ripping through her abdomen.
But the chat… the donations… the hungry roar of thousands of voices all focused on her.
She groaned again, deep and miserable, hooves twitching weakly, “S-stop… please… it burns… everything hurts so much…” Her voice cracks, no longer the smooth sensual purr. Tears prick at the corner of her visible eye, but she doesn’t let them fall. No. She can’t let them see.
Still, beneath the pain, that old hunger stirs.
They’re all watching me. Only me. Breaking records because of me.
Her tail gives one feeble twitch. Bat wings flare wide and trembling uncontrollably against the blood-slick table. Sharp red teeth are bared in a grimace. Every breath sends fresh waves of burning pain radiating through her torn muscles and exposed organs. The open wound throbs violently, flesh twitching with every heartbeat
The octopus demon carefully set the spleen back into place for now, tentacles already moving to explore further, “Don’t tap out yet, Batsugun. Chat is eating this up. We’re making history tonight.”
Batsugun’s chest heaves with another pained groan. She wants it to stop. Gods below, she wants the burning to end, but the endless stream of donation pings and the roaring chat keeps her anchored.
Even as her body screams in protest, a tiny, delirious part of her whispers: eyes on me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: You have such interesting characters!! I really do hope I was able to do them and their dynamic justice <3 I had a lot of fun with this, and, again, I really do hope it isn't too OOC ^^
The suite is warm in a way that never quite feels natural, heat pressing into every surface until the air itself seems heavy with it, perfumed faintly with something expensive and cloying. Gold catches the low lamplight from every angle—fixtures, frames, the table he's setting—and he knows it'll make his eyes tired of he looks too long. He keeps his gaze down, focusing instead on the careful placement of glasses and silverware.
The outfit certainly doesn't help. It never does.
Silk clings to him uncomfortably, pale and soft and far too fine for someone like him, the sleeves cut to expose his arms, the collar sitting high against his throat. It's beautiful. That is the point. Midas likes beautiful things arranged just so, and Victor has long since learned that he is no exception. The fabric rustled and whispers with every slight movement; a constant reminder of how out-of-place he feels in it, how easily it could be soiled, ruined.
How easily he could be replaced.
He reaches for the decanter and nearly misses it. The motion stuttered halfway through, his fingers closing a fraction too late around the glass. It slips, tips, and he catches it again just before it can fall, breath catching sharply in his chest. For a moment he stands frozen, heart racing, waiting for a reprimand… but it never comes.
Behind him, Midas hasn't moved.
Victor forces himself to continue, slower now. The room tilts faintly, the edges of his vision softening, warping. He feels like he's drifting just out of his own body.
It had been like this all day—no, longer than that. So long, in fact, that he has allowed himself to grow used to it. A dull weakness settling into his limbs, a strange hollowness that no amount of food can touch, accompanied by a mounting feeling of sickness that is growing worse, and worse, and worse. He had tried to ignore it, to work through it the way he always did, but it is getting much harder to pretend it isn't there.
Shakily, he sets the glass down. The table swims out of focus, intricate shapes and metallic lusters blurring as one. Victor swallows, steadying himself with one hand braced lightly against the polished surface. His pulse throbs in his throat, quick and deafeningly loud in his ears, and beneath, he feels his body twisting and writhing and aching. His eyes droop, his mouth waters, his hands tremble, his thoughts scatter into something thin and frantic.
He needs…. he doesn't know what he needs. He just feels so—
"Continue."
Midas's voice cuts cleanly through the haze.
Victor straightens immediately. "Yes." The word comes out softer than he intended. He clears his throat, tries again, but the second attempt catches halfway, dissolving into a breath instead. He shakes his head and reaches for the last place setting, focusing on the simple task, on the repetition, on anything that might anchor him back into himself.
But of course, the silverware slips from his flimsy grasp. It clatters to the floor with a sharp ringing sound, loud enough to make Victor flinch.
He bends down quickly to retrieve it, but the motion sends the room lurching sideways. His vision narrows, black creeping in at the edges, and he has to catch himself on the table again just to stay upright. The silk against his body shifts against his sweat-soaked skin, cool and smooth, and for a disorienting second he was aware of everything at once: the heat, the light, the weight of Midas's attention, the unbearable weakness in his own body.
"I'm—" His voice fails him. He tries again, forcing the words out ungracefully. "I'm fine."
It's not convincing. He knows it's not convincing.
He tries to stand fully, to finish what he started, but his legs refuse to cooperate. The strength simply isn't there, for whatever bizarre, infuriating reason. The sick feeling inside him twists tighter, until it begins to feel painful, and the world dips violently beneath him.
The last thing he manages is a half-step backward, then his knees give out.
The impact isn't hard, not really, but it jars through him all the same, knocking what little breath he had left from his lungs. He catches himself on his hands and stays there for a moment, head bowed, waiting for the dizziness to pass… but it never does.
The room spins slowly around him, gold blurring into gold, light into light, until he can't tell where anything begins or ends . His body felt wrong, distant, like it didn't quite belong to him anymore.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears footsteps approaching. He can't bring himself to look up.
Suddenly, fingers brush against his chin, cool and firm, lifting his face away from the floor. He winces at the sudden movement, eyes squeezing shut against the brightness, but the hand on his jaw holds firm, forcing him to meet Midas' gaze.
For a moment, neither of them speak. Midas studies him with a quiet, assessing focus, as though Victor is a fragile possession, set out before him in a damaged state. There is no anger in it, no frustration, just a kind of distant consideration.
"You're unwell," he says at last.
Victor shakes his head weakly, the motion small in Midas' grasp. "I can—" He swallows. "I can finish."
"No." The refusal is soft, but absolute.
Midas' thumb shifts slightly against Victor's jaw, tilting his head just enough to expose the line of his throat. For a second, Victor's breath quickens, his chest tightening with an unplaceable mix of emotion, but whatever he braces for never comes.
Instead, the pressure at his chin eases.
Midas releases him only enough to move, one hand slipping away with deliberate calm. There's no hurry in it. His fingers dip briefly into his coat, the motion smooth and practiced, and when his hand returns there is a small blade caught between his slender fingers, intricate metalwork gleaming in the light.
The blade turns once, almost absent-mindedly, then Midas presses it to the inside of his own wrist. With one swift cut, the blade splits through the skin, and disappears back into his coat just as fast, before Victor even understands what had happened. Before his vision can focus on it, the smell blooms into the air around him, rich, metallic, and unmistakable: fresh blood, ark against pale skin, welling slowly along the line of the incision, gathering at the curve of Midas' wrist before slipping down.
"Drink," Midas says. "It will help."
The words settle into him with an odd certainty. Help. The hollow ache inside tightens sharply,something deep and desperate rising in response, overriding the faint, distant flicker of hesitation.
He doesn't recall ever deciding to lean forward, only that suddenly he is there, lips brushing against Midas's wrist, before warmth floods his throat.
It pours into his mouth like sweet honey, and the effect is near-instantaneous. The dizziness begins to recede, the spinning slows, the unbearable weakness in his limbs easing as something like strength is fed back into him. The clawing, stabbing, clenching, nauseating feeling in his gut is soothed, at long last.
Victor exhales shakily against Midas' skin, fingers curling weakly in the fabric at his knees as he drinks. Above him, Midas remains still and silent, holding him firmly with a hand at the back of his head. The steady pressure grounds Victor in a way that feels comforting. Too comforting, if he were to be honest with himself—which, right now, he is unwilling to do.
Then, abruptly, the lifeline is withdrawn. He gasps, lurching forward without meaning to. Blood drips down his face, warm and sticky, and he realizes it's staining the too-pretty outfit he wears, the silk darkening under the crimson.
"Do you feel better?" Midas' voice rings out above all else.
Victor watches as red seeps into the fabric, the color bleeding and spreading like wet ink on a page. Somewhere deep in his chest, he finds the tiniest flicker of relief. He nods. "Yes, Midas."
i deleted my most recent sparky story (the one centering around his intake process at the lab) because of how rushed and nonsensical it was. i hateee taking stuff down, even old stuff, but this was like. particularly incoherent. so i gave in
This raffle has been a long time coming as a late celebration of 500 followers and general gift to the whump community.
What's being raffled?
A waist-up greyscale sketch commission of a single character.
Any character, any pose, any whump.
Rules:
To enter, please reblog this post. That's all!
You don't have to be following me to enter (but I mean you could be that would be very cool of you.)
The raffle will end on March 20th, and one winner will be drawn via a random name picker. The draw will happen around 4pm GMT (10am CST).
I will DM / send an ask to the winner to let them know they've won. They then have 24 hours to confirm, or I'll pick a new name.
[Optional] Add in your reblog tags which character you would want drawn in a precarious situation :V
Thank you to everyone out there for sticking with me (and my un-knowable, unstable schedule of posting things) I read every comment and every tag, and I'm very grateful to everyone who enjoys my blog in the open or in the shadows.
Good luck to everyone who enters! 🦎
CONTENT WARNINGS: Used as bait, female whumper, magic whump, captivity whump, kidnapping/abduction whump, past/implied torture, threats of future torture, failed rescue, general themes of violence.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi there!! I hope I was able to do your characters justice and that you enjoy this :)
Night has swallowed the forest whole. The moon hangs thin and pale behind a skin of clouds, barely strong enough to touch the ground through the dense canopy. Wind moves softly through the branches, stirring leaves that had long since died and fallen, the sound a constant, dry crackling beneath Draven's boots.
The deeper he pushes into the woods, the quieter everything becomes. He hears no insects, no distant animals — only the slow creak of trees shifting in the cold and the sound of his own breathing, steady but tight in his chest.
Through years of hunting the creatures that haunt the dark, he's learned to track almost anything. Those skills have led him straight to the heart of the forest, where Octavian must be. What he hasn't figured out is what he's supposed to find. Not until he parts a canopy of shrubs and it appears before him, like a stage revealed behind drawn curtains.
The structure rises from the undergrowth like a wound in the earth, half-devoured by vines and moss. Stone walls cracked by time lean at crooked angles, and what might once have been a doorway gaped open into darkness. It looked abandoned; ruined decades ago, maybe longer. A perfect place to keep your captive hidden. The thought is sickening, making his chest burn with indignation. It drives him forward.
He picks his way forward slowly, mindful of the vines weaving across the forest floor. The entrance yawns open before him, a hollow mouth of darkness. He lingers there, staring into the void, before finally drawing a breath and stepping in.
The air is colder within the broken stone shell, damp and stale. For a moment he sees nothing but shadows — then his eyes adjust, and his stomach drops.
"…Octavian!"
Octavian is tied to one of the remaining pillars, wrists pulled cruelly behind the stone with thick cords of rope. His ankles are bound too, forcing him into an awkward half-slump against the pillar. His head hangs forward, silver hair matted with dried blood. Bruises spread along his jaw and cheekbone in deep, angry colors, and one side of his shirt is soaked through where a wound bled and then clotted again.
At the sound of Draven's voice, his head jerks up. Only then does Draven notice the strip of cloth tied tight across his face, a crude gag. Relief flashes across Octavian's expression for the briefest second before twisting into something else: panic. He begins shaking his head immediately, his weakened body straining desperately against his restraints.
Draven's chest tightens painfully at the sight of him. "Easy," he soothes, already crossing the room. "Easy. I've got you."
Octavian makes a muffled sound behind the gag, trying to speak. His breathing was shallow, ragged, each inhale catching in his throat. He shakes his head harder, eyes wide, frantic.
Draven crouches in front of him, forcing his voice steady despite the sick twist in his gut. Up close the damage is worse — a split lit, dried blood along his temple, one eye swelling darkly.
"Gods, they did a number on you," Draven mutters, softer now. He reaches up, fingers already working at the knot behind Octavian's head. "Hang o—"
Octavian tries to jerk his head away. Draven believes it to be pain.
"I know, I know," he says. "Just a second."
Draven tugs the knot loose, letting the cloth fall away. He carefully pulls it back from Octavian's open, weary mouth. He starts to say something—but Octavian barrels right over him.
"It's a trap!"
Before Draven can react, the room erupts. Light bursts beneath Draven's boots, violent and blinding. Runes carved into the stone, invisible before, flare awake in an instant, lines of burning magic racing outward in a perfect circle around him. In an instant, the spell snaps shut.
Something like invisible chains slam into his limbs. His body locks mid-motion, muscles seizing as the magic forces him down onto both knees with brutal force. Pain shoots up his legs as stone cracked beneath the impact. He tries to wrench himself free, but the runes only tighten in reply, cold energy coiling around his arms, his chest, his throat.
"Shit!" He shouts, struggling, gasping, every motion only making it worse.
Octavian goes rigid against the pillar, horror flooding his expression. His voice cracks as he shouts. "Draven—!"
From behind him comes a burst of laughter; shrill, delighted, and unmistakably feminine. Panic drains from Draven, replaced with pure, searing rage. He doesn't even need to hear her voice proper to know exactly who that is.
His head snaps toward the far end of the ruined chamber, where Karia Ta'Ruen steps lazily from the shadows. She moves with a casual grace, as if the ruined chamber were nothing more than a sunny boulevard, and the two men before her were nothing more than stones beneath her feet.
"Well," she says lightly, her gaze flicking between them with open amusement. "That worked beautifully."
Draven strains against the glowing runes, every muscle on fire. "Let… let him go!"
"Ah, Draven." She sighs, almost fondly. "I would have preferred to be alone with Octavian, you know…" Her eyes slide back to the man bound to the pillar, lingering there. "But I knew you would've never let that happen."
The runes tighten instantly, stabbing into Draven like a thousand needles. He grits his teeth, shuts his eyes, and forces his breath steady. When he opens them again, Karia is standing in front of him, smiling openly. "So I made sure you came along too."
Octavian slumps in his restraints, all fight draining from him as the weight of helplessness settles over him like a thousand stones.
"Now, no one should interrupt us," Karia purrs to Octavian, letting the words linger over him as his shoulders tremble. "Isn't that right?"
A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! Lab whump certainly has a special place in my heart, and adding in a shock collar and defiant whumpee is a bonus! Enjoy! :D
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Clare paced about the cell, seething. She was sick of being stuck here. Sick of the same cell, the same hallways, the same fucking lab that Phoenix would drag her to for Elodie's 'tests' that amounted to more and more elaborate torture sessions.
Was this even a government facility at all, or was that also a fucking lie?
Clare didn't know. And at this point, she was too angry to care.
She just wanted out.
And if she played her cards right, limited as they were, she should be able to catch Phoenix by surprise, swipe that damned remote and key card, and finally get the hell out.
She flexed her organic wrist, gritting her teeth as she summoned a simple knife. The magic nullifier fought her every moment, flooding her system with exhaustion and that vile pain until the weapon blinked out of existence.
It was no better than the first thousand times she'd tried.
But it was no worse than before, either. She could work through it, if she pushed hard enough.
So, after the symptoms of the nullifier passed, she continued pacing.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Footsteps.
Clare stopped, listening. Two sets, sounded like. No doubt the doctor and the guard who seemed to take more pleasure in throwing her around than Elodie did in the 'tests'.
She pressed herself against the wall closest to where the door would open. The moment even an inch of that fucking guard's face was visible, she would pounce. Even without her magic, the element of surprise would work in her favor.
The lock clicked, and the door began to open.
Clare seized her chance, kicking it open with her metal foot before launching herself at Phoenix, who stood just on the other side, no doubt ready to drag her back to the lab.
The guard barely had time to raise her arms defensively before Clare tackled her to the ground, clawing at her face.
Something clattered to the ground---the remote!---but Clare wasn't finished.
The nails on her organic hand, grown long in her time alone, raked across Phoenix's face, drawing blood even as she fought back, trying to push her hands away.
Her prosthetic clamped around the guard's throat as Phoenix punched and kicked, fury contorting her face, but Clare would not relent.
Phoenix would pay---
White-hot agony ripped through Clare's vision, blocking out all other sensation.
It was like a thousand needles piercing every inch of skin, flooding every single nerve.
Her head slammed into the floor with a thunk that only added to the mounting pain emanating from her throat.
The... fucking... collar....
Clare wanted to claw at it, to tear it from her body, be rid of it.
She couldn't move.
And the pain still grew.
How long?
Howlonghowlonghowlonghowlong---
It stopped.
As abruptly as it began, the pain centered around her throat vanished, the rest fading gradually, like a morning mist evaporating in the sun.
She missed the sun.
Breathing ragged, Clare forced her eyes open and glared up at Elodie and Phoenix, who stood over her with matching smug expressions.
Elodie laughed. "Good show, good show!" She teased, nudging Clare's metal leg with her foot.
The limb scraped against the floor, rendered useless by the electricity.
Strong hands seized Clare, lifting her to her knees. Phoenix made a noise of amusement, her fingers tangling in Clare's scalp, forcing her to look up at Elodie.
"That's cute," the doctor said, smirking. She reached out, a clawed finger tracing one of the scars under Clare's eye. "You think you can fight back still. That you have even the slightest chance of fighting your way out of here."
Elodie made a sharp gesture to Phoenix. "Come along now. I got something new for you today." She turned on the spot and started marching down the hallway, heels click... click... clicking on the metal floor.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Used as bait, female whumper, magic whump, captivity whump, kidnapping/abduction whump, past/implied torture, threats of future torture, failed rescue, general themes of violence.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi there!! I hope I was able to do your characters justice and that you enjoy this :)
Night has swallowed the forest whole. The moon hangs thin and pale behind a skin of clouds, barely strong enough to touch the ground through the dense canopy. Wind moves softly through the branches, stirring leaves that had long since died and fallen, the sound a constant, dry crackling beneath Draven's boots.
The deeper he pushes into the woods, the quieter everything becomes. He hears no insects, no distant animals — only the slow creak of trees shifting in the cold and the sound of his own breathing, steady but tight in his chest.
Through years of hunting the creatures that haunt the dark, he's learned to track almost anything. Those skills have led him straight to the heart of the forest, where Octavian must be. What he hasn't figured out is what he's supposed to find. Not until he parts a canopy of shrubs and it appears before him, like a stage revealed behind drawn curtains.
The structure rises from the undergrowth like a wound in the earth, half-devoured by vines and moss. Stone walls cracked by time lean at crooked angles, and what might once have been a doorway gaped open into darkness. It looked abandoned; ruined decades ago, maybe longer. A perfect place to keep your captive hidden. The thought is sickening, making his chest burn with indignation. It drives him forward.
He picks his way forward slowly, mindful of the vines weaving across the forest floor. The entrance yawns open before him, a hollow mouth of darkness. He lingers there, staring into the void, before finally drawing a breath and stepping in.
The air is colder within the broken stone shell, damp and stale. For a moment he sees nothing but shadows — then his eyes adjust, and his stomach drops.
"…Octavian!"
Octavian is tied to one of the remaining pillars, wrists pulled cruelly behind the stone with thick cords of rope. His ankles are bound too, forcing him into an awkward half-slump against the pillar. His head hangs forward, silver hair matted with dried blood. Bruises spread along his jaw and cheekbone in deep, angry colors, and one side of his shirt is soaked through where a wound bled and then clotted again.
At the sound of Draven's voice, his head jerks up. Only then does Draven notice the strip of cloth tied tight across his face, a crude gag. Relief flashes across Octavian's expression for the briefest second before twisting into something else: panic. He begins shaking his head immediately, his weakened body straining desperately against his restraints.
Draven's chest tightens painfully at the sight of him. "Easy," he soothes, already crossing the room. "Easy. I've got you."
Octavian makes a muffled sound behind the gag, trying to speak. His breathing was shallow, ragged, each inhale catching in his throat. He shakes his head harder, eyes wide, frantic.
Draven crouches in front of him, forcing his voice steady despite the sick twist in his gut. Up close the damage is worse — a split lit, dried blood along his temple, one eye swelling darkly.
"Gods, they did a number on you," Draven mutters, softer now. He reaches up, fingers already working at the knot behind Octavian's head. "Hang o—"
Octavian tries to jerk his head away. Draven believes it to be pain.
"I know, I know," he says. "Just a second."
Draven tugs the knot loose, letting the cloth fall away. He carefully pulls it back from Octavian's open, weary mouth. He starts to say something—but Octavian barrels right over him.
"It's a trap!"
Before Draven can react, the room erupts. Light bursts beneath Draven's boots, violent and blinding. Runes carved into the stone, invisible before, flare awake in an instant, lines of burning magic racing outward in a perfect circle around him. In an instant, the spell snaps shut.
Something like invisible chains slam into his limbs. His body locks mid-motion, muscles seizing as the magic forces him down onto both knees with brutal force. Pain shoots up his legs as stone cracked beneath the impact. He tries to wrench himself free, but the runes only tighten in reply, cold energy coiling around his arms, his chest, his throat.
"Shit!" He shouts, struggling, gasping, every motion only making it worse.
Octavian goes rigid against the pillar, horror flooding his expression. His voice cracks as he shouts. "Draven—!"
From behind him comes a burst of laughter; shrill, delighted, and unmistakably feminine. Panic drains from Draven, replaced with pure, searing rage. He doesn't even need to hear her voice proper to know exactly who that is.
His head snaps toward the far end of the ruined chamber, where Karia Ta'Ruen steps lazily from the shadows. She moves with a casual grace, as if the ruined chamber were nothing more than a sunny boulevard, and the two men before her were nothing more than stones beneath her feet.
"Well," she says lightly, her gaze flicking between them with open amusement. "That worked beautifully."
Draven strains against the glowing runes, every muscle on fire. "Let… let him go!"
"Ah, Draven." She sighs, almost fondly. "I would have preferred to be alone with Octavian, you know…" Her eyes slide back to the man bound to the pillar, lingering there. "But I knew you would've never let that happen."
The runes tighten instantly, stabbing into Draven like a thousand needles. He grits his teeth, shuts his eyes, and forces his breath steady. When he opens them again, Karia is standing in front of him, smiling openly. "So I made sure you came along too."
Octavian slumps in his restraints, all fight draining from him as the weight of helplessness settles over him like a thousand stones.
"Now, no one should interrupt us," Karia purrs to Octavian, letting the words linger over him as his shoulders tremble. "Isn't that right?"
