Whumpee still biting and snarling at Whumper but they're now flinching whenever Whumper moves too fast
Refusing to scream but now letting out whimpers
Whumpee glaring at Whumper the whole time as they get on their knees.
Snapping back at Whumper constantly but immediately shutting their mouth when Whumper brings up a specific punishment
Still tugging on Whumper when they're dragged to the torture room but now also going limp when they eventually reach their destination
"For fuck's sake can you just give me a break for one day? Just one fucking day." "Hm, before you would have shouted at me the entire time. Now you want a break? My my, you've changed Whumpee." "Yeah well, I don't like getting beaten. That's all."
Whumpee letting out a loud, desperate, "NO!" when Whumper suggests they should be whipped before they immediately shut their mouth and look away.
This is a piece of the drafted section of Corrain's time imprisoned on the Emperor's Fortress - I got really excited writing it and had to share. It's unlikely to crop up in "Crescent Moon Rising" for some time, but it sure as hell was fun to write.
This is the scene where the programming for the Castellan Mind Control is written into Corrain's head - it takes place about two months into Corrain's captivity.
He came back to himself some time later, exhaustion weighing heavily on his entire body, blinking rapidly at the ceiling above. There were voices in the air around him, the words distorted for several moments while he tried to piece some semblance of coherence back together. His mind felt uncoordinated, his attention span flickering like a candle flame, but as he stared vacantly up at the welded metal plates of the ceiling over his head, things fell vaguely back into order, and the words ringing nonsensically in his ears grew recognizable meaning.
“Fixer Twenty-four. It has been nearly two standard weeks since I placed this prisoner in your care. What do you mean, it may be too soon to implant the commands?”
“We’re dealing with an exceptionally strong mind here, Lord Chaskar, and the process can regularly take up to thirty days for even a stubborn agent. The boy is a Jedi, after all, and as near as I can guess he’s a powerful one, given how the Sith have chosen to resort to this particular method in order to subdue him. I’d prefer to do it right rather than quickly.”
“I am so glad the obvious does not escape the notice of our esteemed Intelligence Service - of course the brat is powerful, you imbecile! He killed Darth Angral when he was barely nineteen, a feat not even his precious veteran Jedi Master could achieve. But that is precisely why we need him now. That kind of power must be a tool at the Emperor’s disposal.”
There was a pregnant pause, and then a heavy sigh.
“I understand. If you insist, I will implant the necessary protocols, and then you will be free to choose his keyword - the command book is in the corner if you’d like to look it over.”
“I do insist. Do it.”
There was a flash of darker grey at the corner of his vision, and then greying hair and sad blue eyes came into view overhead- again? It seemed familiar somehow, like there should be a weight behind this particular occurrence, but a thick haze of cloying panic and pain cut him off from the memory. He paused, drifting aimlessly in this semi-daze. Something felt wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. Odd.
The man overhead gripped the sides of his head then, staring directly into his eyes as if searching for answers there. Then, the strangely familiar agent nodded once, satisfied that his attention wasn’t wandering anyplace aside from this oddly familiar face overhead.
“Repeat after me. Thesh protocol-”
Obedience came easily. The agent said something, the words mostly unimportant through the vague fuzz inside his head, and he’d repeat it tonelessly, barely listening to what he was saying. At some point the words began to sound the same anyway, and the meaningless noise gave him something to do other than drift, after all, like some kind of bleached, washed-out driftwood fragment bobbing helplessly in the midst of a dark ocean. It gave him something other to do that try and collect himself, to rebuild his mind properly, and…and…a low note of confusion hummed through him suddenly. Was that it? Was that what was wrong?
He tried to pull away from the words - tried to speak in something other than the dull monotone obediently repeating strings of strange protocols and commands. But his body wouldn’t obey, caught in a current too strong for him to control, and he resigned himself absently to waiting his turn, feeling anxious somehow, as if he’d chose the wrong answer. The man overhead continued to give him phrases to repeat for several long…minutes? Hours? He couldn’t tell - but finally, the grip on the sides of his head released, and he was allowed to fall silent, sleep suddenly pressing in at the corners of his vision.
Exhaustion had such a strong hold on him that he barely noticed the sudden breeze on his wrists and ankles.
“All right. He’s done, my lord.”
“Finally.”
Red skin and bone spurs appeared above him then, orange eyes blazing like a cat’s through the tired fog clouding his head. And then the Sith - Sith. Fucking hell- that was-! - smiled down at him, setting a cool hand in his hair and stroking gently.
“Activating Thesh protocol, phase one,” the Sith Lord said. “New keyword: lunar regolith.”
The pressure inside his skull sharpened suddenly, to a single excruciating point, and he choked on the sudden headache before, with a final throb, it subsided.
“Keyword accepted. Thesh protocol engaged.”
And as Corrain’s full sense of awareness came rippling back, like a flood that a wall of sandbags had tried and failed to stop, Chaskar took a step back from him, still smiling that ominous smile.
“Embed authorized administrators - Lord Chaskar and Emperor Vitiate. Administrator bypass engaged.”
The command felt like a virus - it spread roots eating deep into the horrified train of thought still forming in Corrain’s head, and before he realized it he was speaking, in that same robotic, flat voice he’d been mimicking the Fixer in.
Chaskar’s grin grew positively delighted as the monotone words left his mouth, dawning terror screaming inside Corrain’s soul. Conditioning. Mental conditioning, the same thing done to Kira, just done with chemicals and technology rather than the twisted perversions of the Dark Side. And he was conscious, helpless to do anything but respond as iron bars seemed to materialize inside his head, pinioning his thoughts between painful claws.
“Well done, little one. We’ll make an acolyte of you yet.” Chaskar crooned, “Now, some testing. Keyword: lunar regolith. Sit up, and follow all commands that Fixer 24 gives you for the next five minutes.”
No- no, I-
But the resistance remained unspoken and did nothing. As if on autopilot, he gingerly sat up, dimly appalled by the fact that his restraints were unlocked, all of his limbs free for the first time since he’d fell to the Emperor’s Force Lightning, and yet he could not make himself leap up and run for the door. Fixer 24 came over to him then, looking vaguely sad still, and without warning every horrifying, painful memory of electricity searing between his ears, frying his mind, rushed through Corrain’s head like a thunderclap, slamming him into motionless terror. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear- just feel, and feel pain.
“Hold both hands out in front of you, palms facing each other.”
The roaring in his ears didn’t cease, the soundless screaming of remembered agony clawing through Corrain’s head, but he could feel himself moving, feel his body obeying. The agent appeared to be examining his movements, trying to determine how natural they were, and over the course of the next few minutes he ordered Corrain to stand and move about the room, humming all the while. Both he and Chaskar appeared satisfied by this.
What had they done to him?
Finally, the time limit ran out, and Corrain found himself stumbling back into his own body, less a spectator and more the pilot once again. He shook, standing placidly before the Sith lord and Fixer 24, staring at the polished floor with it’s reddish backlight, trying hard not to think what this would mean. Around him, the Force whispered, dark and brooding and triumphant, the Emperor’s mind carelessly grazing his own and laughing when he recoiled, pulling his arms around himself, desperately drawing back until he pressed against the far wall of the lab, choking on the horror of being a puppeted corpse, a ghost inside his own body. He couldn’t resist it. He couldn’t- there was nothing he could do. Despite all his efforts, despite the uncounted days of pain and suffering and starvation, despite the horror of the Dark Side rituals tearing him apart at the seams, despite the desperate denial that Scourge’s murder of his tormentor had brought him satisfaction- he’d lost. He’d failed.
Chaskar threw something at him then, and Corrain watched numbly as his twin lightsabers skittered towards him on the floor. The Sith pureblood sniffed.
“Pick them up,” he ordered. Corrain stared at him, then at the agent, trying to speak even as panic killed the words forming on his tongue. The orange gaze hardened - and violet lighting shot across the room. It hit with a burning agony- and a broken shriek snapped in the lab, pain whiting out every conscious thought Corrain had for an endless minute. And then the lightning abated, leaving him crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath.
“Pick them up.” Chaskar snarled. Slowly, trembling violently from the aftershocks of yet another electrocution, he obeyed, hands shaking as he took both weapons in hand once again. He blinked tears from his vision, trying to see- and the kyber crystals in his lightsabers did not chime, did not reach through and blend gently with the flow of the Force through him.
He paused. And then, dreading what he’d see, he ignited them.
Ruby.
The crystals beneath his hands - the very same ones that had called to him on Ilum, drawn him deep into the cold tunnels of rock and ice, away from Master Orgus and his terrible jokes. One of the last things he had to connect him and his deceased master. And now the bright, sky blue of the blades was gone, bled out by the Dark Side.
Just another piece of himself that he’d lost in this fucking place.
Chapter 19 of Failure Is Not the End; “Echoes in Darkness”
(sequel to Poison Control)
Excerpt;
Cal relaxed and focused his breathing, the darkness giving way to slivers of light through his eyelids. He opened his eyes and looked down, noticing he was sitting and that Yoda sat in front of him. Except, Yoda’s form was transparent. Cal looked around but only found black with flecks of light, almost like stars. “Where are we?” Cal asked, trying to remain calm. They appeared to be floating.
“The world between worlds,” Yoda answered matter-of-factly. “A place between all time.”
Cal focused on the Jedi before him. “So if I’m not dead, then what is this?”
“A vision. Trapped in the claws of the inquisitor you are, Cal Kestis,” Yoda said gravely. “Escape, you will, but not so easy.”
Whump refer to plot lines where the character is physically or mentally hurt....and if it were in a box, I just tripped and spilled all the whump (injury, mental issues, trauma) on poor figure skater Lando 😅
I have been l u r k i n g for uh a couple years (I never wanted to make a tumblr so it took me a while to get over it) (nothing against y’all). The main blogs I stalked (aka my favorites) are @straight-to-the-pain @spookyboywhump @redwingedwhump @haro-whumps @my-whumpy-little-heart ! I love all your stories and I’ve probably sent you each at least one or two anons lol
But yeah I really wanted to actually participate in the community and make friends and share my stories cuz I’ve never had anyone to talk about this stuff with :o
And what am I into, you ask?
torture (I like to get creative with it sometimes but the classic methods are good too)
branding is probably my favorite thing under the sun
restraints are very important
fantasy whump, especially with magical healing (as a means of causing further pain >:))
I like a lady whumper, we need more of those
I do love some gore
There are probably other things but that’ll do for now. My first story I’m writing will involve the captivity and torture of my half-dragon son. The first chapter is already posted, so please check it out if that interests you!
ALSO IMPORTANT NOTE the drabbles I write are all out of order. some day I will string them together in a cohesive masterpost but until then, suffer.
TWs-Stabbing, manhandling
Her head was fuzzy.
Elora was pretty sure it’d been at least a few days. It was hard to keep track, though. It was always dark, and she’d only seen the man twice. She hadn’t even left the bathroom yet.
Her hands were chained together and looped around the faucet with a padlock, leaving a length of chain so short she couldn't even stretch her legs out to the front of the tub, nor lie back. She was sore and the position was miserable.
When the man came in, it was bright. Sunlight. There was sunlight. And a few fluorescent bulbs, there had to be, for it to be so bright. Her eyes hurt, but it was worth it. She got to see the sun.
“Good morning, lark.”
He smiled, just as cruel as the last time she’d seen him. Morning. It was morning. Elora looked at the man with an angry glare, though she was trying for more of a cold indifference. Her frustration with the circumstance showed through, though, giving her face and tone a twinge of irritation.
“Morning, Bastard.”
The man cocked his head to the side and let his grin grow before stepping forward and seizing Elora by the jaw. She immediately started to pull away, making the grip tighten until she could fight it no longer.
“You are going to treat me with the respect I deserve.”
Elora said nothing, only rolling her eyes. Like hell she would. The man didn’t acknowledge her, and continued on as he had been before. He pulled out a small key from his pocket, the keyring jangling a bit as he unlocked the padlock binding her to the faucet. He let the lock drop before looking at Elora.
“You’re going to help me with something today, magician. Do not make me regret taking you out of here. I can make you wish you were never born.”
Elora scoffed at the empty threat but stood, following the man out of the bathroom while scanning around for an escape route. She would’ve fought, or mouthed off-but the opportunity to find the exits was too valuable.
The man led her to a barren living room, containing nothing but an old, stained couch, an armchair, and a box T.V sitting on a coffee table.
“Sit right here. I need some things. Move and you’ll regret it.”
The man gave Elora a sidelong glare, a look of warning, before stalking off into another room, presumably to find whatever it was he needed.
She was sitting in the armchair, planning out her next witty remark, and how she’d get underneath the man’s skin-that was until he left the room.
A chance.
Elora was ready to go. She’d quickly scoped out the apartment after being dragged out, scanning for her escape route and quickly finding it. The front door could be seen from the chair where she sat. She just needed to get up and make a beeline. The man must have been an idiot- she couldn’t see any locks on it. And it was an apartment, there had to be someone around to see her once she got out the door.
Get out the door. Objective one.
She stood, legs still stiff from being folded up in the tub so long. She could hear the man ruffling around through a room down the hallway, presumably distracted She needed to go quickly. Before she lost her chance.
Her eyes darted around nervously for a few moments before she bolted to the door. Her footsteps were loud, but she didn’t care. She needed to go. Run to someone, get the police.
She was in front of the door in seconds. She could vaguely hear the man’s footsteps coming from the hallway, but she wasn’t worried. They were too distant.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle, and she twisted.
And she twisted again.
And again.
It wouldn’t budge. There was nothing on the knob that was outwardly visible- but it wouldn’t move at all. The metal against her hands felt like solid steel.
Well, fuck.
It was time for plan B. She started to bang against the door uncontrollably, screaming at the top of her lungs for someone, anyone to hear her.
The man stepped out of the hallway, into the foyer, now only a few feet away from Elora. He smiled. He wasn’t an idiot. It was a test to see what the lark would do.
And she hadn’t done very well.
The pounding on the door didn’t let up, neither did Elora’s incessant cries. She didn’t notice the man coming behind her, too absorbed in her desperate plight to get out. When she did notice, it was too late. There was an arm hooked around her neck, and her legs were collapsing, and she couldn’t breathe, and her arms were pinned down-
She fought. She fought hard. She wriggled, and she screamed, and she thrashed. The man, though he seemed slight, was a surprisingly good manhandler-something she didn’t want to have to find out this way. He didn’t let go until they were back in the living room, looming over the chair. Elora’s vision was spotting, and she could feel a headache forming from the lack of oxygen. The man threw her down, none too gentle. He knew that Elora would probably fall over if she tried to get up and run again, and the door was locked anyways, so he walked over to the kitchen, searching. He needed to teach her a lesson. He rummaged through the drawers for a few moments before returning to Elora with a set of serrated paring knives.
She was so close. She was so close, how did she-
She barely registered the man leaving her, not gaining coherence again until he was in front of her, again, grabbing her chin. The look in his eyes was manic, and Elora tried to shift her gaze away, scared. This only made him squeeze harder, his grip so tight it made her jaw sore. He thumbed her lip, somehow squeezing even harder than he had been earlier.
“You’ve made a mistake, lark.”
He dropped her chin, this time grabbing her wrist and laying his arm across it, applying pressure to pin her hand down. He took out one of the knives, gripping it tightly while looking cruelly at Elora.
“Deep breath, sweetheart. And remember, this is your fault. I wouldn’t need to do this if you didn’t try to run from me.”
With that, he raised the knife, forcefully bringing the tip down cleanly through the middle of her hand and into the armrest of the chair.
Elora didn’t take a deep breath. She didn’t know what he meant, what he was doing, her whole world was still fuzzy, and spotty…
Until the pain came. It grounded her and she jumped, screeching out of pure terror and pain as the blade slid through her right hand, severing tendons and god knows what else. Her cries put a smile on the man’s face and he grabbed the hilt, twisting it around a bit and watching Elora squirm as the serrated edge nicked more and more nerves.
“That hurt, love? Good.” Elora couldn’t speak, the pain radiating from her hand so bad she could do nothing but cry and pant.
The man finally let his arm off of Elora’s wrist, stopping toying with the knife through her hand. It was bearable-when he wasn’t agitating the knife- but god, did it still hurt.
He wasn’t done. Nowhere near done. The man didn’t need to pin her next wrist down-she was distracted-and he stabbed the next knife through her left hand before standing back and admiring his work. She screamed, breathy sighs catching in her throat.
“You know, lark, I’ve been waiting for you to mess up like this. You just look so lovely like that.”
Lovely?
Elora looked up at the man, face still twisted with pain, and fear. She spat at his face, nose scrunching.
“How’s that for fucking lovely?” She mocked his tone. Lovely. Yeah, sure, asshat. Lovely.
The man didn’t seem bothered, wiping off the spit that had landed on his cheek and smirking.
“Not what I had in mind, but sure. And to think, I was going to give you a break. Well, there goes that.”
Elora didn’t have time to ponder the statement, or call bullshit that there was ever a break at all before the man was crouching in front of her, a knife drawn in each hand. She tried kicking at him, but before she could react properly, the knives were through her calves.
Her mask dropped. She screamed, wanting to writhe in pain, but she held herself still to avoid the additional pain movement brought. Tears flooded her eyes. The man hadn’t started torturing her with anything tame. No, this was the first offense-and she’d gotten stabbed. Four times.
She gasped desperately, the pain so severe she felt like her airways blocked. Blood was trickling slowly out of the wounds, but it was largely stopped by the knives. Only a few drops of blood seeped around them. The knives. She needed them out. It would hurt, but she needed them out. Every tiny movement dragged them along nerves, flaring up pain that was somehow more intense than it had ever been before.
She looked up at the man, tears staining her cheeks while blood stained the chair and her chest heaved.
“T-take them out!”
The man smiled, then started to laugh.
“Oh, why would I do that? We’ve only just started, after all.”
