whumper burning their name, initials, a telltale shape, anything, into an unwilling whumpee, symbolizing their ownership over them even when it scars over
whumper using whumpee as an ashtray, tapping the excess ash from the end onto whumpee, who whimpers briefly from the slight sting
whumper forcing whumpee to take a drag, watching as they double over and cough their lungs out at the sudden unwelcome smoke
shotgunning. 🤤. whumper taking a drag of their cig, just to pull whumpee into an unwanted kiss, breathing out the smoke into their mouth
watching as it escapes their nose, as whumpee tries to pull away, eyes watering and coughs trying to escape, just to be swallowed up by whumper as their lips stay on each others’
solitaire masterlist: arc i / arc ii ♤ prev / next
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), cigarette burns, forced self harm, a ssssnake
𓆙𓆙𓆙 THREE YEARS AGO...
“God, this is terrible for me,” Ginny muttered, wrapping her lips around the filter. The end glowed, a burning ember, as she accepted the smoke into her lungs. It poured from her mouth when she said: “First cigarette in years.”
The next few minutes passed— except for the sweet sound of rustling leaves— in silence, her dark eyes squinting into the sun setting behind the trees. She seemed placid today— though Ginny’s stillness was, of course, no guarantee of safety. Perhaps it would be peaceful, sitting side-by-side with her as they listened to the sounds of the forest in her backyard, if not for the unrelenting anxiety that she was merely preparing to strike.
He could not see the whole of her face— only her profile, the sharp edge of her straight nose and her puckered lips as she took another drag, cheeks hollowing. She wore lipstick, sometimes, but today they were bare and cracked. “Never stopped craving it, to tell you the truth,” she said. “Hits the fuckin’ spot.”
Then, sharp elbow supported on her lawn chair, she extended an expectant hand. Not even bothering to look at him. Her iris, normally tar-black, was shining deep like syrup in the golden light.
“Arm,” she said.
The pet had a feeling he knew what she wanted to do with it. Still, he did not hesitate. He did not even consider it. His pale arm bridged the gap between their chairs, wrist slotting into her long-fingered hand.
“Special occasion?” he asked, perhaps boldly.
She frowned, lines pulling around her mouth. Her fingers, tipped with peeling nail polish, clenched around his wrist. “Watch yourself,” she said. “I’ll put this out on your tongue.”
He shut his jaw tight, knowing it wasn’t an empty threat. Despite this, something about the wafting smell of smoke and sweep of wind through the trees ignited within him some sense of nostalgia, the origin of which he could not place. It was almost comforting, at odds with the impending dread pressing against his gut and the sharp nails digging into his flesh. (Still, what a welcome relief this was from the stale cellar. The breeze might be worth the price.)
He thought he might be able to feel his bones creak under her vice grip. He did not watch— eyes towards the bright fireball beyond the sticks— as she pressed the smoldering cherry to the sensitive skin of his wrist, nestled in the crease where his arm met his palm.
He couldn’t help his flinch and whimper at the burn, which only made her hand tense like a constricting snake. As she lifted the ember, his eyes flicked over against his will— left behind was an angry red circle, stark over the shadows of his veins.
Ginny was smiling. “You always sound so pathetic,” she teased, flicking the stubbed cigarette to the ground. She pressed it down into the dirt with the sole of her flip-flop. It flattened to the earth, crumpled and spent. Only halfway smoked. She hadn’t even savored the whole thing.
His wrist hovered in place even once she released it to reach for the pack. The angry burn stung brighter as she slipped another cigarette out, pinching it delicately and placing it between her lips. Flame danced under the end when she flicked her lighter, thumb running over the gear.
She exhaled and glanced at his exposed arm. “Put your fuckin’ hand down,” she said. He returned it to his lap, face up, as not to disturb it. The burn was sensitive even to the breeze.
They sat in silence for some time as the sun dipped lower. It inched so minutely that he didn’t even recognize its shift until it was already kissing the horizon, sky aflame. By the time the world was dark, Ginny was on her fourth cigarette and the pet was sporting two new simmering burns.
Three resounding knocks shot through the house, sharp enough that they traveled all the way from the front door to the backyard where they sat. Then came the tinny chime of the doorbell, inappropriately cheerful. Ginny twisted around in her chair, squinting through the glass door. “Who the fuck…?” she muttered.
She stood and slipped into the house without casting the pet a second glance, smoke trailing close behind. For some reason, he found himself worrying that the smell might seep into the carpet. She should open a window, he thought, and lean over the windowsill so she could keep it outside, teetering halfway between two worlds. Then the scent might not linger for someone else to recognize. Then he caught himself— it didn’t matter. He wondered why he’d even had the thought at all.
He was content to stare into the void between the trees and listen to the symphony of crickets until he startled at something brushing against his ankle. He lifted his foot up— bare and filthy, as Ginny did not care to give him shoes— and looked for movement. He did not notice any, and the dim light affixed to the wall of the house did not afford him enough light to see. Probably just a cricket or a spider. He cautiously put his foot back down, toes in the grass, hoping it wouldn’t bite him.
Voices floated through the crack in the door as Ginny spoke with whoever had come. Maybe it’s the police, he thought idly. They knocked like a cop. He wondered if they might have anything to say about the state he was in— fresh burns, old cuts and bruises, and all-around unkemptness. When he had been in training he'd imagined he would end up in the home of some richie-rich family— cooking, cleaning, maybe looking after children. Not whatever this was. Not Ginny.
“Not interested,” he caught, and then the firm slam of the door and click of the lock. His posture tightened at the slapping of Ginny’s sandals growing closer as she approached from behind. She sat heavily back in her chair. “Goddamn missionaries,” she said. “All the way out here. At this hour. Dedicated sum’bitches.” She pet at the wild frizz falling over her shoulder, idly tugging at a curl so it straightened and snapped back like elastic. “I wonder if they woulda recognized you. All you folk seem to know each other.” She took a drag of her cigarette, eyebrow raising. “Or are related…” she pondered. “It all seems very incestuous, doesn't it?”
“What?” he asked.
Her lip curled, grinning, though her eyes were mirthless when they fell on his face. The shadows cast by the light made the creases on her forehead especially pronounced. “I wish you remembered things, sometimes, but other times it's more fun that you don’t.”
He hated that she knew more about him than he knew about himself. He really, really hated it.
Black eyes drifted over him, her detached gaze landing by his feet. She revealed her teeth, smiling with more humor. “You aware there’s a snake by your foot?”
Fuck—! He could see its slither, now, and pulled his feet up so fast that one of his knees cracked against the arm of the chair. Pain shot through his shin like a bolt. Ginny snorted with laughter and tilted forward, contorting her body so that her shadow did not fall upon the snake and prevent her from getting a good look at it. It was skinny, striped in bands of yellow, black, and red.
“Is that a coral snake? What’s the rhyme…” Ginny thought for a moment. “Red on yella, friendly fella… red on black, you’re fucked, Jack. Ah, maybe it’s the other way around.” She sunk back into her chair. “Better not let it bite you either way,” she warned.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, crossing his ankles on the seat of his chair. His voice shook a little with the burst of adrenaline, heart still thumping too fast.
Ginny slipped out of her flip-flops and pulled her own feet up onto her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cigarette still smoldered between two fingers, and a clump of ash fell off the end and landed in the dirt. The way she tilted her head made any reflection disappear from her eyes, dull. “You scared of snakes, Jack?”
He ran his palm over the goosebumps that broke out all down his leg, brushing over the pale hairs sticking out like the fur of a frightened animal. “A healthy amount,” he answered truthfully, even if she was just taunting him. For a moment he had forgotten about the burns on his arm, but they were back to their insistent stinging, impossible to ignore. He shuddered as he replayed in his mind the moment the snake caressed his ankle, himself none the wiser. He imagined what it might feel like for its fangs to sink into his tender heel, to feel the venom run through his veins. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different from the pinch of a needle in his arm.
The snake’s little tongue flicked out, raising its head to look at him with beady eyes. It's not gonna try and jump at me, is it? He glanced at Ginny and knew she would not care if he got bit. Her eyes were similarly cold-blooded.
They both watched as the snake set its chin back to the earth and slithered into a taller patch of grass, disappearing. The blades went still.
“Look at me,” Ginny said.
He obeyed.
Her claw-like hand squeezed his face, nails digging into his cheeks. He wanted to turn away, but could not bring himself to wrestle out of her grasp. She turned the cigarette over in her fingers so that the filter pointed towards him, aiming the cherry towards herself. She lifted it to his mouth, an inch away. He parted his lips without needing to be asked.
“Ever smoked before?”
He shook his head minutely, as much as her grip would allow.
“Inhale,” she told him.
At her command, he did. It burned terribly in his throat and nose. Ginny pulled both of her hands away as he coughed, somehow finding himself surprised as the smoke poured out of his mouth. He grimaced at the foul taste on his tongue, still hacking. When it ceased, and he looked at her through watering eyes, she just looked vaguely bored.
She held out the remaining half of the cigarette. “Finish this,” she said. “I don’t want it to go to waste.”
He grabbed it awkwardly with two fingers, eyeing it warily.
By the time it was burnt nearly to the filter, he wanted to throw up. Each inhale gave him this sort of light-headed rush, like a burst of cold air. He was dizzy even sitting down, and knew that if he tried to stand he would surely stumble and lose his balance.
Ginny did not care to watch him. She was merely staring into the trees. “I’m done,” the pet said, and she turned her head. There was no humor in her face— absent was the sense of sadistic pleasure she usually reveled in. Her eyes bored into him, iced over with something colder.
“Well?”
“What?”
She motioned minutely with her hand, eyes flicking to his arm, like it was obvious. “Put it out,” she said.
He stared down at his own wrist. With his other hand, the cigarette drew closer… and he hesitated. When he glanced up at Ginny, her eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly, expectant. Dangerous. Go on.
He dropped his eyes. He should be punished for faltering. He selected his spot, a patch of white skin on the outer edge of his forearm, an inch away from another angry burn. The smoldering cherry hovered above the unmarred skin, trembling. He allowed himself a countdown, which he would not back out of. In his head: Three, two, one…
Clearing his mind of all resistance, he pressed it to his skin like an angry bite.
Whumpers who smoke and put their cigarettes out on Whumpee like an ashtray >>
Perhaps on their back and like a canvas they make patterns with each angry red mark from the cigarette burning Whumpee's skin. maybe on the back of their neck, yanking their hair away when they least expect it. on their bare legs. hell, maybe even on their face. or on some more obvious places where Whumpee can remember them everywhere, like on their arms or even their hands.
The penultimate chapter, can you believe it? Break out the tissues for this one, folks.
Thanks again @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz, you two are the best!
Obligatory Author's Note: This is it, folks, the end of Tom's story. Sorry to those who wished for a miracle, and congratulations to those of you rooting for his demise. You know exactly what to do if you desire a different ending. Fanfiction, canon divergence -the world is your oyster, so just go for it! I encourage it, if anything! Just, you know, tag me or let me know in some way. But anyway, here we go
TW/CW: major character death, blood, gore (?) (tagging it just to cover my bases), aftermath of torture, cigarette whump (brief), emotional angst, slave whump, noncon nudity (in the first half), Stockholm Syndrome (maybe?) (like the beginnings of it), but more so, emotional angst. So much angst. Please let me know if I missed anything though! Enjoy
From: Master
Forgot about a meeting I have tonight. Be home late. Wait for me.
Khaled noted the time the message was sent, and compared it to how late at night/early in the morning it now was. He wondered if his master was out drinking, or whoring, or whatever it was he got up to when he’d stay out late on short notice. Not like it was his business anyway.
Khaled yawned, shaking out the numbness in his legs from his kneeling position next to the couch. He put away the plate of food on the table that had long gone cold by now. His own stomach gurgled with the need to eat something, but he dared not touch any of the food he carefully stowed away.
With the leftovers sorted out, there was nothing to do but put the dishes in the dishwasher and start the cycle. The kitchen, as well as the rest of the apartment, was spotless, since now he had nothing else to do but keep it clean. Khaled returned to his place on the bare living room floor, grabbing a blanket off the couch as an afterthought as he wrapped it around his nude frame. He was forbidden from wearing any clothes now, as the man who owned him was just a little too eager to see his ‘beautiful body,’ as he called it, and did not want anything obstructing its form. He’d watched in abject horror as all but a few changes of clothes were burned before his eyes and the rest had been locked in a safe. It had been a cold February ever since.
“I like you more like this,” his master had told him. “You’re far more cuddly like this, love, far more tactile.”
That’s another thing; Master was saying the word ‘love’ a lot more, averaging at least one “I love you Khaled” per day for the past two weeks. More than a little overwhelming, the frequency at which he’d expressed his affections seemed just this side of insincere. The three little words Khaled had craved for so many years now sounded so flat and fake, given everything else that had happened to him. How could anyone who isolates a man from his friends, from his job, from the world itself claim to love him? How was any of what he went through love?
What was more unbearable was when he was expected to say it back.
And he would say it back, a strained ‘I love you too’ that grated against his throat like swallowing broken glass. Yet, with a defeated resignation, Khaled realized it had gotten much easier to say, with enough repetition. If he said ‘I love you too, Master’ enough times, he may actually begin to believe it. It was only a matter of time until he would say it and mean it, if his enforced isolation continued much longer. Thomas Costa and Luca Bianchi were the only other human beings he had seen for two weeks now; he had no idea how he was strong enough to deal with this for more than a year when he was a child!
He positioned himself on his side, his sore back facing the door and his head facing the wide windows of the living room overlooking the city skyline. Outside it began to snow. The white, fluffy flakes were a vision of beauty flying against the heavy gray sky. Khaled’s eyelids drooped as he watched the snow fall in the greyish-white winter night. It was cold, yes, but beautiful, like him, he guessed. His last conscious thoughts were wondering when his master would come home to him. Regardless of whether he loved him back or not, he was cold, so cold without him.
-
It was cold, so cold, on the dirty concrete floor. Not even the blood pouring out of his lacerated wounds could keep him warm anymore. Above him, Julio circled him like a vulture, taking a long drag of his cigarette before throwing it lit-end first at Thomas’ face. The beaten man was too far gone to even flinch.
Damn, is this how Khaled felt when I cut him? he deliriously wondered. With all that Julio and the Juicio Divino boys had done to him, he doubted he’d ever get the chance to ask.
Khaled. There are so many things Thomas now wished he did differently. He should’ve been kinder, more patient, should’ve protected him from the world, from his men -even from himself. Especially from himself.
“Khaled…” he moaned.
A blood-speckled Nike connected painfully with his side. “You dare call out to him, even now?!” Julio growled icily. He kicked Thomas again.
“Julio, just kill him already, for fuck’s sakes,” a voice shouted from the corner of the warehouse. The traitor –Nico- stood off to the side, icing his bashed-in face with some snow wrapped in shirt fabric. “You’re worse than a cat that plays with the mouse it caught!” he admonished. As furious and confused and disappointed as Thomas was about the Clemenza boy betraying him like this, the primal animal part of him was grateful that he was asking for mercy on his behalf.
Although he could no longer raise his head to see past Julio’s ankles, Thomas could feel the assassin roll his eyes above him as he cursed in Spanish. The next thing he knew, Julio was crouching down to his level. He tried to mentally prepare for whatever would happen next.
Julio sunk his fingers into his short, blood-soaked hair, wrenching his head back as he held up a now-very-familiar knife to Thomas’ throat. “Any last words, puto?”
So many last words.
So many things to apologize for.
So many words left unsaid. Not just to Khaled, but to Callahan, to Trémeaux, to Robinson, Kreuger, Martinez, Kościelsky, and of course to Tony. Young Tony, dear Tony, high as fuck at a church wedding Tony. His pain in the ass little brother and his only constant in his childhood, who never lived to see twenty-two years old.
Khaled and Tony were a lot alike in some ways. Smarter than they thought they were, yet looked up to him for no explicable reason. It was a shame Thomas never consciously noticed that similarity until now.
All this time, Thomas thought he bought Khaled as a form of penitence, to make up for killing that boy who was suspected of killing his brother. And while, yes, that was partially why he bought him, maybe he also bought Khaled as a way resurrect his brother. It had been so long since he’d seen warm brown eyes look up at him, he didn’t even know he missed it until he saw Khaled’s eyes that day.
“Forgive me…” he rasped.
Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was the certainty that this was the end, making him see things, but for a second, Thomas saw a crack in that frosty glare Julio bore down onto him. For a brief second, a painful mix of shock, anger, sadness, and even sympathy flashed within Julio’s golden eyes, before the glacial cold vengeance covered them in its frosty glare once again.
“See you in hell,” Julio murmured.
A sharp pain sliced its way into his jugular and down. (Who the hell slices down?!) As the pain dulled and his vision started to go, Thomas’ ebbing consciousness latched onto a memory, one of the fondest memories he had of Khaled.
He’d had an intense nightmare within the first month of buying his new slave, and instead of deriding him or prying for more details than he was owed, the boy had heated him a cup of milk, rubbed his back, and stayed up with him until he was ready to go to sleep again, just like how he and Tony used to comfort each other after a nightmare. As the last threads of his vision faded and the boss’ surroundings sunk into darkness, he swore he could still hear younger Khaled’s words that night, murmured shyly as he still had his accent.
“Sleep well, Master.”
Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz
@bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees
@defire
ugh. like. ok. the sounds around cigarette burn whump, though.
whumper's leisurely inhales as they enjoy their cigarette before turning their attention to whumpee. the little no, no, no, no, please, don'ts as whumpee catches on to what whumper is about to do. the quiet sizzle-hisssss of a glowing cherry being crushed onto a whumpee's sweat-slick skin. the sharp inhale of pain, the whimper, the creak of restraints as whumpee tries to twist away from the blunt press of the cigarette and whumper's fingers. do they cry out, too? sob? or do they try to keep it in, silent except for their quick, uneven breathing and distressed swallowing?
gasps and muffled groans from whumpee as whumper brushes or washes away the leftover ash from the burns they've made (or maybe they don't bother in hopes that the burns will become infected?).
then the distinctive sound of a lighter striking and the way it would eventually make whumpee jump no matter where they are or who they're with.
Whumper putting out cigarettes against whumpee. Bonus point if whumpee has heightened regeneration so the marks dissapear soon.
•The whumper never cares about how painful the burn looks,they know it’ll be gone in an hour or so, they don’t care about burning any part of their body.
•just because they heal doesn’t mean the whumpee doesn’t hate the pain,it’s always a quick painful burn that lingers for a few seconds, the pain was made worse when the whumper put out their cigarettes on the same spot as before.
•Healing a wound meant feeling the pain once more, the whumper knew this and often had quite a big of fun with their burns, making them more severe on purpose.
Feel free to edit or specify in-ask to include a third party, if you and your partner want! It's understandable that not all muses would realistically be whumpers!
🚬 - for sender's muse to snuff a cigarette out on receiver's muse
🔁 - for receiver's muse to snuff a cigarette out on sender's muse
💨 - for sender's muse to blow smoke into the face/mouth of receiver's muse
🚭 - for receiver's muse to blow smoke into sender's muse's face/mouth
☁️ - for sender's muse to force receiver's muse to take a drag
🌫️ - for receiver's muse to force sender's muse to take a drag
😷 - for sender's muse to fall into a coughing fit from smoke
😖 - for receiver's muse to fall into a coughing fit from smoke
🧯 - for sender's muse to rush in to save receiver's muse from a fire after receiver's fell asleep with a lit cigarette
🚒 - for receiver's muse to rush in to save sender's muse from a fire after sender's fell asleep with a lit cigarette
🔥 - for sender and receiver's muses to wake up to a fire after one of them fell asleep with a lit cigarette
