(I hate to choose titles but hopefully I will name these stories one day)
Please let me know if you want to be added to a taglist.
Masterlist for Vanya´s story
Masterlist for Ríona´s story
An uninvited guest:
A bloody surprise
A scared villain
Of kindness and guilt
The Prisoner
Part 1
Drabbles and Prompts:
Sleep | Voices | Secret (Bad Caretaker) | Dead Hero | Not the hero of the story | Selfloathing | This is gonna suck | Whumpee´s dead? | Touch starved Whumpee | Bleeding on Master´s property | Forced to watch | Forced to hurt | Coma | Just shoot | This wasn't supposed to happen (bad caretaker) | Immortality is a curse
Prompt #1 | Prompt #2
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I already had a sideblog @queenofthedark , but to fully interact in the community I decided to create a new account.
I really like pet whump, medieval whump, angst or just classic torture and a good recovery.
These are some of my favourite stories and blogs on Tumblr:
Honor bound by @whump-tr0pes
No warrior by @secretwhumplair
Rowe´s and Colton´s stories by @whumpzone
Zee´s story by @deluxewhump
Daniel Michaelson´s Story by @ashintheairlikesnow
And the prompts and lines by @whump-mania
I hope I didn´t forget one.
I´m really looking forward to be more active on Tumblr and post some of my own writing.
If you have any questions please feel free to ask me.
Whumpee who's been to hell and back × Caretaker who is Whumper's identical twin.
Imagine: Whumpee's been safe for months. Knows Caretaker's voice by now—softer, slower. Knows his dimples, the scar he doesn't have, the mole beneath his left eye, the way he tilts his head left instead of right.
But some mornings they still wake up gasping.
Because Caretaker brought them coffee, or leaned over to adjust a blanket, or walked through a doorway backlit by sun—and for one heartbeat, Whumpee is there again. Same face. Same hands. Same DNA twisted into something monstrous.
"Hey." Softer voice. "I'm here. It's me."
He doesn't get offended anymore. Doesn't apologise for existing. Just waits, steady and familiar, until Whumpee's breathing evens out and they can see him again. The dimples. The eyes that hold worry instead of hunger.
"Sorry," Whumpee always says.
Caretaker never makes them explain. Whumpee knows he's safe now.
Badly Injured Hero Sidekick Shows up at Villain's Base to Beg for Help part 62
Warnings: VERY clearly suicidal villain, mimicking of suicidal actions, suicidal ideation, some very heavy conversation topics revolving around self-hate & low self-worth, acting out wrist-slashing/dark thoughts of what dying feels like
This one gets pretty dark. You all have been adequately warned.
This series has officially reached 60,214 words!
The thoughts occupied his mind right up to the moment he fell asleep on the couch again.
Villain couldn't steady his breathing, even after Sidekick and Henchman were gone and Medic had convinced him to lie back down faceup on the mattress. The emotions were too sharp, too raw to ignore. He'd been desperately trying to hold it together emotionally while the other two were here -- especially Sidekick -- but now that he was alone with Medic he finally let himself fall apart, tears rolling down his face.
The nightmare had been so visceral... he could still feel the phantom pressure of hands holding him down, the pain and fear accompanying it...
He felt Medic slide a hand beneath the pillow under his head, and knew what she was going for without even looking. She gently slipped out the sheathed dagger he always kept there for self-protection and set it on the nightstand out of his reach. Because they both knew self-defense wasn't the only thing a blade could be used for.
Villain draped his forearm over his eyes with a sound that was half groan half frustrated sob. Waking up was supposed to make the dream fade, but the lingering panic from it was only intensifying, clawing up his throat to choke him. All the images flashed through his mind of horrible moments in his past, drowning out logic.
But everything always circled back to one harsh thought: why did he have to keep SURVIVING everything?? Every time he thought he'd finally be crushed by life, would finally die, his body survived, and his mind along with it. Cursed to live in pain and mental agony, tortured by sleepless nights like these.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Medic softly asked, sitting on the edge of his bed and looking down at him with worried eyes. "I know you didn't want to discuss it in front of the others, but..."
Villain exhaled slowly with a shudder. "No. I don't want to. Not even with you, Medic. I'm sorry. This one just... hurts too much to think about."
Medic nodded respectfully, not prying further. "I know you don't like being touched because of... that... but do you want a hug? You look like you need one -- you're shaking so badly I can feel the bed vibrating. I suspect you're having another panic attack, and deep pressure therapy can help."
Villain hesitated, stiffening with a faraway look in his eyes.
"It's your choice," she reminded gently. "You're the one in control here. I won't touch you without permission. You get to choose what happens to you this time. Can you hear me?"
It took Villain a few long seconds to respond, and when he did, his voice came out hollow and weak, uncertain. "Sure," he managed to force out. "A hug... would be nice..."
But as soon as Medic leaned over to wrap her arms around him, his hand shot out, grabbing her shoulder and stopping her, muted panic lighting up his face.
“Too… too fast,” Villain blurted quickly. He blinked a few times, reminding himself that this was Medic, who meant no harm. "Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly. "Just... give me a second to brace?"
Medic gave him time to pull himself together, only leaning in again when Villain gave a small nod to show he was ready.
He still flinched when she made contact and drew him into a warm embrace, resting her head on his chest. But then he relaxed, untensing his muscles. This wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t being hurt. He could tolerate this.
Hugs were different when he was the one initiating them. Like how he embraced Sidekick to reassure him. He always felt in control of those situations, interacting on his own terms. But surrendering that control to Medic felt too… vulnerable, despite knowing she’d never hurt him. It was hard to feel comfortable with it.
“It’s okay, Vil. Deep breaths,” Medic said, and Villain realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a slow, shaky exhale.
“Good. Keep going,” Medic encouraged, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Breathe in, breathe out. You’re safe. Ground yourself in the present. Focus on your heartbeat, and match your breathing to mine if you can.”
Villain followed her instructions, shifting his attention to the panicked rhythm of his pulse and willing it to calm. Increment by increment, it slowed back to a normal beat, the tightness in his chest dissipating, and his shallow breaths eventually evened out.
Medic held him tight and ran a gentle hand through his hair, a solid presence to cling to amidst the darkness threatening to swallow him.
“Is that better?” she asked softly.
“Slightly. Thanks. I’m… sorry for bothering you this late in the night.”
“Nonsense. Teammates make sacrifices all the time for each other. It’s what makes us a functional family. Making sure you stay alive is worth losing a few hours of sleep.”
Villain winced at the last sentence, and Medic didn’t miss it.
“Hey… what’s going through your head right now?” she gently pried. “I know you’ve struggled with the idea of suicide in the past… are you thinking about it again? I didn’t want to make assumptions when you let me stay with you after I asked if it was safe to leave you alone, but…”
“It’s hard not to dwell on the idea sometimes,” Villain whispered, his voice barely more than a breath of air. “I’m just one life among millions. What difference does it truly make whether I live or die? What impact do I really have? Is it even worth it, to keep fighting, if I keep losing like this?”
“Oh, Vil…” Medic pulled out of the hug to look him in the eyes. “You are worth so much more than you think you are. You have been a blessing on all of us – can’t you see that? You rescued me, Henchman, Assistant, Vigilante… Sidekick… You bring healing to us all. You’re the one holding this team together.” She smiled softly at him. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here for you, as are the others. When you feel like giving up, try to remember why you held on for so long. Don’t take it the wrong way, I’m not trying to minimize what you’ve been through – just because you carry it well doesn't mean it’s not heavy. I know that. I’m only trying to show you the brighter side.”
“I know you mean well, Medic, but…” Villain paused, mulling over his thoughts. “There comes a point where you no longer care if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel or not. You're just sick of the tunnel. And that's what makes me wonder… maybe if my heart stops beating it won't hurt this much. I feel like every day I get nothing done. Sure, I’m helping Sidekick heal, and I caught Hero, but… what else am I really accomplishing in life? I wake up, do normal daily things, and go to sleep again. I don’t feel like I have a purpose.”
Medic’s face tightened with knowing sympathy. “It's okay if all you did today was survive. You do know that, right?”
Villain tilted his head to the side, expression turning thoughtful. “Is it, though? If I do nothing else but… survive?”
“Yes. It’s more than enough. And if you’re not going to live for yourself… do you think you could live for us? Please? It would destroy us to lose you.”
Villain hesitated before replying.
“...Yeah. I think I can do that.”
Medic gave him another heartfelt hug, and this time he didn’t flinch. “Do you think it’s safe to leave you alone now, if I were to head back to bed?” she whispered.
Villain nodded. “I think I’ll be okay now,” he forced out. “Thank you for being here, Medic.”
“Always.” Medic climbed off his bed, readying to leave, but paused, eyes darting to Villain’s sheathed dagger she’d set on the nightstand, expression darkening with unease. She delicately picked it up in her hand. “I’m going to confiscate this for the night, okay? Just… just in case.”
Villain knew he wouldn’t win this particular argument if he tried, so he begrudgingly nodded, letting her leave with his dagger. Once he was alone in his bedroom again, though, he slowly sat up, slipping a hand under his mattress… and pulling out the spare throwing knife he always kept there. Medic didn’t know about that one.
He flipped it in his hand a few times, feeling its weight. Then… he brought the sharp blade to rest on the soft underside of his wrist. Not applying pressure to cut, just… holding it there. It was no less lethal than his dagger was.
The urge was there. Somewhere in his mind. A permanent solution to all his problems. It wouldn’t take much effort at all to break the skin and slash his wrist wide open. He’d visualized it in his mind many times in the past – what dying would feel like. The sensation of bleeding out, darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision, rushing in to sweep his mind away to a place where he could feel no pain. Where the memories wouldn’t haunt him anymore.
But… Sidekick. His team. They still needed him. For now, at least, he was needed. Perhaps later on when his team could function on their own, he could revisit this idea of permanent freedom and sweet escape. But for now… he could suffer a little longer, if it meant ensuring the safety of those close to him.
Villain hesitated, tempted, but finally took the blade away from his wrist with a shaky, trembling exhale, staring at the indentation it had left in his skin. A perfect straight line. A ghost of a slashed artery yet to be.
With a frustrated groan, he jammed the throwing knife back beneath his mattress, laying down again and shoving his face into his pillow to muffle a single anguished wail.
He’d let himself live for another day. Unfortunately.
THE QUEEN OF LIES is a tale of quiet courage, inner strength, and forbidden love—and the ways we can change our lives for the better if only we take a leap of faith.
Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3
I sold myself to a loveless thing / And I walk’d to the altar and there I lied
- C.W.S., Harper’s Weekly, 7 July 1866
The Whipping Post: Breanna Hatchett witnesses a brutal punishment while searching for her husband at the prison where he works.
The Constable and His Wife: Breanna recovers from her shock; Baden learns that she saw everything at the whipping post.
Worthwhile: The thief wonders if he's seeing things after the flogging.
The Looking Glass: Breanna goes out for lunch and gets some advice from a friend.
The Boy in Chains: Breanna visits the thief in prison.
Real: The thief goes through his usual coherent, polite internal monologue during the visit from some woman named Bree.
Stealth and Secrets: Breanna does several things she isn't supposed to do.
Guilty: Gysborne takes a sick day, which provides an interesting opportunity for the thief.
I Never Even Knew Your Name: Another visit? Some might say this girl is playing with fire.
Deceived: The thief's POV on Breanna's third visit.
Liar: The thief faces the consequences of Hatchett finding out about Breanna's visits.
Retribution and Regret: Breanna starts off in the depths of despair and ends up with a plan.
Worthless: For the thief, the aftermath from Breanna's third fateful visit continues.
The Queen of Lies: Breanna takes a leap of faith.
Faith and Freedom: Finally free, Breanna and the thief make their way through the city under cover of darkness.
Dawn: The thief wakes up and realizes that, yes, he really is free. Time for some awkward getting-to-know-you conversations.
Hope and Healing: Bree and Fox slowly recover, getting to know each other better as the days go on.
The Drop, Part I: Bree and Fox begin to search for IA's inner circle.
The Drop, Part II: Fox drops his message and visits the townhouse, then stumbles across an interesting altercation on his way back to the inn.
The Mark of Thieves: Well, what else is there to do while you're waiting to hear back from the inner circle?
The Stranger: Will goes to retrieve their belongings from the inn; Bree makes a new friend.
Trust and Treachery: Bree tries to find her place in Iustitia aecum. No one's plans for anything go as expected (or desired).
What Did He Do To You?: Husband and wife are reunited.
A Worthless Criminal Condemned: Will and Geoff make a run for it; Colette finds out what happened to Bree and Jamie.
Her Speech is Nothing: Bree must face the consequences of her actions...and her lies.
The Madwoman: Bree spends her first night at the asylum, meeting her doctor, a kind patient and a not-so-kind nurse.
The Madman: Will is struck with an idea that just might help Bree escape the asylum. But setting it in motion is a risky move.
Nullum Magnum Ingenium: Bree receives a visitor, a gift, a spark of hope, and a terrible revelation.
***All chapters after this point are on ao3, not Tumblr.***
Not Alone: The day of the concert arrives, but nothing goes according to plan.
A Growing List of Offences: The gang discovers who is following them...and must decide what to do about it.
You Have Me: With Bree finally back in his arms, Will is determined to save Jamie, too. The question is...how?
Leap of Faith: The constables have agreed to the trade; Colette wants to be sure that everyone is ready. Are they?
Mine For Yours: It's time for the trade, and the fate of Iustitia aecum rests on Bree's shoulders. Can she save both Jamie and herself—or will her grand plan end up nothing but a failure?
Light Through Yonder Window: After her leap off the bridge, Bree must fight to stay alive—and free.
Some Consequence Yet Hanging in the Stars: Will has no idea where Bree is following the hostage exchange. He's desperate to find her, but danger is coming for him, too.
Tempt Not a Desperate Man: Bree needs to find Will and get to safety. One problem: Curtis Lenton is in her way.
Put Not Another Sin On My Head: Will and Hatchett have the showdown they've both been gunning for.
This Same Wayward Girl: Things seem hopeless for both Bree and Will. But this close to her happily ever after, Bree won't give up.
Fortune's Fool: The moment we've all been waiting for: Bree (and Will...kind of...) versus Hatchett. Who will win?
Never Was a Story of More Woe: Two concerned conversations as overheard by our delirious, injured protagonists.
I Defy You, Stars: Bree's happily ever after was stolen from her. But is everything as it seems?
A Death-Marked Love: The newspaper reports on a tragic death.
Love's Heavy Burden: Will is lost, drowning in grief and guilt, but there may be hope yet.
As Boundless as the Sea: Bree and Will are reunited.
Marcus knows his role on his team: he’s the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.
AO3
Masterlist
This is a series. Start here, continued from here.
Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service
Contents: living weapon, post-surgery, sedation, needles, medical whump, paranoia, bionic enhancements, amputation, touch aversed Marcus
~
“Marcus?”
He groaned softly. He was… Well, he was, he existed, and that was a good start. His eyelids fluttered. The white ceiling of the space he lay in flashed in and out of view. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, and tasted the dry, tacky inside of his teeth.
There was no pain, either. He reached for his shoulder with his left hand.
“Whoa, wait,” Todd said, seizing Marcus’s wrist. “Not yet. Like I told you, it’ll be about twenty-four hours before the tissue fully grows to fuse with the arm. You’ve got a sling on for now, okay? That sound good?”
Marcus swallowed tightly. His eyes slowly focused on Todd’s face, hovering a few inches above his own. “Why do I feel so weird?” he croaked.
“I ended up sedating you,” Todd said, releasing Marcus’s wrist. “You don’t remember that? You started to pass out and… and panic, I guess. I couldn’t manage both you and the install. I asked you if I could… you said—”
The memory flashed behind Marcus’s eyes, here and gone in an instant.
“D-do whatever the fuck you… fuck, I… I can’t… Jake…”
He nodded weakly. “I let you,” he said. “I remember.”
Todd let out a breath. “Yeah. I didn’t… I didn’t… force…”
Marcus’s eyes pricked with tears, with relief. “Y-yeah,” he said softly. “I know.” He glanced down at his… at his one remaining flesh-and-blood arm. He was still receiving fluids through an IV taped to the inside of his elbow. Suspicion prickled in the back of his mind as his eyes followed the tubing up to the bag hanging from a stand by his head. “And am I… are you… still giving me… something?”
Lars stepped away from the wall, looking even more exhausted than when they brought him to this place. “Nothing in there but saline, Marcus,” they said. “I’ll… if it’ll make you feel better, we can put a line in me, give me some. I’m probably dehydrated as it is.” They shrugged and leaned against the foot of the surgical table Marcus lay on.
He met their gaze, trembling slightly as he opened and closed his hand. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For… for bringing me here. For everything.”
A smile tugged at their lips. “Yeah, Marcus. I’m glad I could help. Truly. I wish you’d come to me sooner, but I’m glad you came to me at all. I’m glad that this—” They gestured at his shoulder. “—worked out.”
Marcus finally allowed himself to glance down at Todd’s handiwork. Clean, tidy dressings stretched across his shoulder, obscuring the border between his amputated flesh and the shiny new arm.
Looking at the arm, though, made him feel dizzy all over again. Not with nausea or pain – but with awe. The intricate metal piece extended from his shoulder like it had always belonged on his body, and Todd had just been waiting to attach it. It lay against his chest, cradled in a medical grade sling – an astronomically expensive piece of equipment gifted to a broken Lev like someone else might give someone else a dollar. He gingerly ran the fingertips of his flesh hand along a seam in his new bicep. He didn’t feel the touch. He hadn’t expected to.
“That touch is a little light for the sensors to be able to pick up and transmit,” Todd said. “They do better with firmer pressure. The muscles are the things that are going to take the full twenty-four hours, but… you might have some neurological attachments formed already. Here.” He reached out and gently took Marcus’s metal fingers in his. “Let me know if you can feel this.” He squeezed Marcus’s second and third fingers and watched Marcus’s face.
Marcus’s stomach swooped as the sensation passed through him. There was something not quite perfect about it – as if he was being touched through a glove. But he felt it. He felt it.
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
Todd grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I kinda live for this part.”
Marcus tried to sit up. “I—”
“Let me help,” Todd said. “You use your shoulder for a lot more than you think.” He scooped his arm behind Marcus’s shoulders and lifted. Marcus’s skin crawled, but he allowed the touch. It was better than tearing a connection between himself and the new arm and ruining Todd’s handiwork.
He swung his legs down off the table and sat on the edge. “Okay,” he croaked. “I’m… Todd, I can’t thank you enough for this. Twenty-four hours, and then I can start looking for Jake, right? I’m not sure where I’m going to start, but… I know he was arrested. I have a date. I can work backward from there.”
Lars cleared their throat. “I have a lead, if you want somewhere more definitive to start.”
Marcus leveled his gaze at them. “You have… a lead? And you—”
And you didn’t tell me?
They wet their lips, as if they could tell what he was thinking. “Yeah,” they said. “I do. I’ll tell you on one condition. But it’s a pretty fucking large, very firm condition.”
Rage and distrust rose in Marcus’s gut as he stared them down. “And that is?”
“That you stay with either me or Todd for the full twenty-four hours once I tell you. Todd isn’t fucking around with this. You will absolutely tear your shit up if you try to go after Jake before the nanobots have the time to finish with their work. And I’m telling you, you cannot save Jake if you don’t let them work.”
Todd nodded. “I left as much of your own tissue in as I possibly could,” he said. “But if you do… any amount of activity before the time is up… I’ll have to go in, remove more tissue, and do the entire install over again. The clock will start again. So you… really do need to not use that arm at all for twenty-four hours.”
Marcus ground his teeth in annoyance. “I get it,” he said. “Now will you tell me what the fuck this lead is?”
Lars huffed and tilted their head back. “Well,” they said. “This town is a pretty good place to live – AMTEC usually leaves us alone in general – but there is one person in town who I know for sure is an AMTEC employee. Lower level, definitely, since he lives here and takes the train into the city for work every day, but… he’s AMTEC. So… I don’t know. Might be a good place to start.”
Heat flooded Marcus’s throat. He felt his bionic hand twitch against his chest, felt it want to curl into a fist – or curl around this person’s throat.
Someone from AMTEC lives in this town and I had no idea. I could have gone after them from the start. I could have figured out where Jake was weeks ago and—
And what? He couldn’t have saved Jake, not without a working right arm. He needed Todd to fix him before he saved Jake. He couldn’t have done anything without Todd, and without Lars, either.
He nodded once, jaw clenched so tight it was making his head hurt.
Lars swallowed. “You still need to wait the full—”
“I know,” Marcus said through his teeth. “I won’t go after this person until I’m better. I promise.” He rolled his head on his neck and had to stop himself from rolling his shoulders. “But once I’m better… just give me an address, or give me a name. I’ll start with this person. And I’m not going to stop until I have Jake back.”
Or until the entirety of AMTEC is burning. If Jake is dead, there isn’t anything on this planet that can save a single one of those fuckers now.
If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.
A spell backfires on villain and they get turned into a younger version of themself, and so hero ends up stuck with them. But villain is so different from how they were in the present.
They have a spark of mischief and joy in them that they didn’t have when they were older, and Hero wonders what made them lose that. What made them lose that.
The spell wears off eventually. Villain disappears into the wind for months. When they come back to Hero’s place, they look tired. They thank hero for taking care of them, and ask if they could stay for a drink.
“You were different when you were younger. Happier.”
“What makes you think I’m not happy now?”
“You don’t smile now. Not with your eyes.”
“You want the reason why, don’t you?”
“You’re too smart for your own good sometimes.”
“Pour me another glass if we’re going to do this.”
we should torture princes more. and make their knights watch but be unable to help. we should lock them up in cellars but make them unable to touch. all they can do is talk. the knight is quite terrible at comforting people with words but god he cannot bear to hear his prince cry any longer.
dear god please picture the knight's hand (still gauntleted) reaching just enough through the bars of their prince's prison to stroke his tear-streaked cheek, and the prince leaning into it
“I know, majesty,” the Knight whispers. The setup is simple, but effective; two adjacent cellars, separated by a simple pathway of stone. It’s cruel, to be this close, and unable to touch…
The Knight has never been touchy-feely, if he is honest. Even as he walked alongside his Prince, he was always sure to keep a respectful distance— two paces back, one to the left. He is sorely regretting his chivalry now.
For the nth time, he extends a gauntleted hand through the bars of his cell. He cannot… quite… reach, but the Prince extends his hand too, as much as it pains him to do so, and they are able to grasp each other in the middle.
“I will get us out of here. Do you understand me?” The Knight says, voice humming with grit. He may not be good at comfort, but he still has his armor. That must mean something.
The Prince sighs a horrible little note of pain. It’s easier, when he’s straining himself like this, to see his wounds— lashes in the stomach, in the sides, in the back. They aren’t particularly severe or deep, but they burn a painful red. The Knight would give anything to switch places with him.
Which is what their captors want. Gods, what a simple, perfect trick. The Knight will have to tell the executioner about this when they get back.
He is snapped out of his own thoughts by the sound of the Prince shuddering in pain. The smallest gust of wind must irritate the hot wounds. “Knight,” he whispers, and the Knight’s heart jumps, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” The Knight hisses, almost angry at the apology. “You have done nothing. Less than nothing, you have endured a pain I should’ve protected you from. I am the one who should be apologizing.”
The Prince chuckles. “So… selfless. All the time. I simply regret…” He pauses, takes a low breath. The Knight waits for him to speak more, but the Prince’s head has slumped forward against the bars, unconscious.
“Prince,” he whispers, squeezing his majesty’s hand. “Prince, my dear, are you alright? Please, you have to wake up. What did they— Gods, please, please, Prince—“
His words echo silently off the cool walls of the prison.
The Fighter [18+ content, institutionalized slavery]: The system had started as a way to curb crime in the mid 2030s. Prisoners had been given the option to join the contracted worker system (slavery – but no one dared call it that), and years would be taken off of their sentences. Power leads to corruption leads to more power leads to more corruption. Ten years in, coercion was readily used to force criminals into the system. Twenty years in, rights started being stripped. Now, within a 60 year old system that has expanded beyond anyone's control, a U.S. Senator finds himself holding the contract of the favorite worker of one of the most powerful men in the country.
✥ Luke & Leo (Recovery Arc) ✥
You Can Help Him
Luke Visits Leo
Leo Comes Home
The Doctor
Leo Gets Sick
Leo and Luke Talk
Bathtub
Leo Gets a Haircut
Talk to Me
I Said Put It Down
Facility
Occam’s Razor
A Hand Carding Through his Hair
A Fluffy Blanket
Ice Cream Drabble
This One is For You
Christmas Lights
Sometimes
Confrontation
Not Ideal
Quicksand
Scrabble Rematch
28 Hours
Get Out of the Car
You Didn’t do Anything Wrong
There's Something I Want to Tell You
I Know it Wasn't Okay
Luke’s Nap Drabble
Please Don’t Let Go of Me
The Disaster Fundraiser: A Drabble/Introduction
Hey Handsome, Miss Me?
The Puzzle One
Mario Kart Drabble
Bring Me the Collar, Leo
Post-Nightmare Cuddles Drabble
One Day
Can I Close My Eyes?
Hospital Arc - Part 1
Leo Tells a Story
Do you Play It?
Panic Lemon
Saying I Love You Without Saying It
I Thought I Lost You
You Know Better (Seven Years Later)
I Want to Try (Seven Years Later)
✥ Before Luke ✥
It Looks Good on You
Give Me a Smile
Emergency Disciplinary Form (18+)
You're in a Better Mood Today
The First Time Leo Cried on Christmas
Don’t Do It Again
The First Time (18+)
Get Off the Floor
You Look Cute
You're Turning Red
Nothing Permanent
First Day with Parker Drabble (18+)
First Day with Parker Drabble (Parker POV) (18+)
He’s a Fighter (18+)
Say You’ll Forgive Me
The Shower Scene (18+)
Don't Look at Me Like That
Embarrassed
Everybody Knows
The Second Time Leo Cried on Christmas (18+)
Hold Him Down (Pt. 1)
The Third Time Leo Cried on Christmas
I Got Something For You
Can I Kiss You?
The Fourth Time Leo Cried on Christmas
The Key
What Can You Tell Me About Leo Evans
You’ve Been Selected for a Demo
A Small Mercy
A Work of Art
Please Don't
None of That
Strung Up
Try Harder
How Many Fingers am I Holding Up?
It’s a Book
Hold Your Breath
Ivan’s Rendition of ‘Tender First Aid’
Dislocated Shoulder Drabble
The Defunct Prologue
This is Ridiculous
Waking Up in a Strange Place
It Doesn’t Hurt, So It’s Fine (18+)
Extra Content:
faceclaims, ask games, whump recommendations, etc.
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Best place for a whumpee to be: jail cell separate from but visible to a friend.
Medic and whumpee captured together, medic desperately trying to walk Whumpee through first aid before they pass out from blood loss, unable to get to them.
Leader whumpee getting beat to shit in clear view of their team and none of them can help.
Rivals/enemies captured together, watching the other get hurt and realizing in the worst way possible that some part of them cares for the other.
Whumpee who is lying on the floor, unable to do anything but just breathe and tremble. Their vision is blurred, they can't even make out the room they're in. They see their hand in front of their face, lying on the floor near their head. Injured, bloody.
They breathe, trembling on every inhale and exhale, as saliva and blood drips from their mouth, but they're too hurt to care.
They can't think, can't move, can't do anything but just be here. And hurt.
"Can you tell me about the war? Can you tell me your story, Whumpee?" Caretaker asked.
Whumpee took a sip of their tea but didn't say anything. The silence grew longer and just when Caretaker thought, Whumpee wouldn't answer, Whumpee spoke.
"The war was horrible. Every war is. And even if you fight for the right cause, you still end up knee deep in some bloody mud with your allies dying next to you."
Whumpee's eyes were distant looking at something only Whumpee could see.
"Every war consists of battlefields soaked with blood and pain and agony. And this war was no different.
"I fought with the resistance and that's where I met my partner. Their name was Rhea and they were my light in those very dark times.
The ghost of a smile flitted across Whumpee's face.
"I couldn't imagine a life without them. But just as war usually does, it took everything away from me. I lost everything to this fucking war."
Whumpee's voice wavered and their hands nearly crushed the cup they were holding.
"In our final battle we fought against this thing, this otherworldly goddess or whatever it was. We knew there was only one way to kill it, to completely erase it from existence. Back then, I still had my magic. It was the right kind to fight against its darkness, but I was far too weak. There was this... spell someone could perform to...."
Whumpee took a deep breath before they continued.
"This spell could give someone an immense amount of power; it could make someone immortal. But the price was a soul. And not just any soul but one with a deep connection to the performer. I was a coward because even though I knew it could end this war, I wasn't ready so let go of my love."
Silent tears ran down Whumpee's cheeks. Not once since they started talking to Caretaker had they looked into Caretaker's eyes.
"Rhea was the brave one. While on the battlefield they performed the spell and when I fought against the goddess, Rhea completed the sacrifice by pressing their cut hand against mine, mixing our blood and ending their own life.
"The power I had then was barely enough to end the goddess. I gave so much, not a single drop of my magic remained. But the goddess was gone and the war ended.
"After the fight I cradled Rhea in my arms, screaming, crying but they were gone. I don't remember much after that but someone must've carried me away because I woke up in the capital's castle. But with the war ending my personal hell began.
"My magic was gone and I never thought one could feel so empty. Most of my friends were dead. I had to learn how to live without Rhea. And I got older and older and older. And the dying started again. All the people I loved started dying around me, finally at peace and being able to walk into the afterlife. At some point I was completely and utterly alone.
"I moved into the woods because I could not bear seeing the world around me change, seeing all the people I once knew die around me, and seeing the world forget about the sacrifce my partner made.
"This immortality is a curse. I am more than 250 years old and all I wish for is finally being able to join my loved ones wherever they are now."
Caretaker felt tears running down their face.
"Thank you for telling me."
Whumpee seemed to be surprised that there was still somebody in the room. They stood up, walked to the window, and stared into the dark and rainy forest.
"We'll find a way to break the spell. I promise, Whumpee."
TW: public humiliation/degradation. captivity, slavery. injuries. Power imbalance. nonconsensual (non explicit) touching/ manhandling. nudity.
…
“Now, my Prince,” Florian said, a satisfied smile returning. “Let us leave this cold place. You have an audience to prepare for.”
The command was followed by action. Caspian was hauled from the dungeon, the damp, putrid air replaced by the brisk, cold sweep of a clean hallway. He was immediately taken to a lavish bathing chamber adjacent to the King’s private wing.
There, four young palace maids awaited, their initial fear giving way to nervous, suppressed excitement. They were tasked with his transformation. Caspian endured the utter violation of their touch as they scoured the grime and dungeon filth from his skin. The process was agonizing; the soaps stung the open, healing scars on his back, but the maids were meticulous. They worked with hushed, professional awe, often giggling nervously as their hands traveled over the hard, warm landscape of his muscles. They scrubbed his arms and chest, admiring the sheer size and beauty of the man beneath the filth.
Next, his long, dark hair, matted with dirt and dried blood, was carefully washed, brushed, and then painstakingly rebraided into a single, thick, smooth cascade down his back. Finally, they applied rich perfumes and scented oils to his skin, erasing the last scent of the dungeon and marking him with the delicate fragrance of the court.
Caspian was led to a small private chamber near the royal wing, a space that felt less like a prison and more like a gilded cage. It was a remarkably plain room: a comfortable bed, a wooden chair and desk, and a solitary, unadorned chest holding a few pieces of clothing.
He rested there behind the locked door, unable to sleep as his mind raced with a million thoughts. Morning came quickly, and servants brought him fruit and herbal tea, much different that the fragrant, spiced tea he was used to at home.
He was then dressed not in robes, but in a garment designed for display: a tunic of shimmering gold mesh so fine it was nearly transparent, cut scandalously high on his thighs and hanging loosely, exposing the contours of his body. Servants then affixed heavy, ornate gold jewelry to his wrists, neck, and ankles, replacing the ropes with precious chains.
The final, cutting touch was the headpiece. A crown of beaten gold was fitted to his brow, centered with an elaborate mechanism that included a gold mouthpiece, shaped exactly like a horse’s polished bit. It secured across his jaw, silencing him once more, turning his beautiful, defiant face into a gilded, inhuman mask.
He was then presented to Florian in the King’s antechamber.
Florian walked a slow circle around his newly transformed concubine, his eyes taking in the spectacle of raw, powerful masculinity encased in humiliating luxury.
“Kneel,” the king commanded. Caspian hesitated with defiance, but obeyed.
“Yes, how fitting,” Florian murmured, a possessive smile spreading across his face. “The prize is finally mounted and ready for display.” He paused, noticing the defeated set of Caspian's shoulders.
“Your people, by the way. The forty odd laborers,” Florian added, his voice low but pointed, reminding Caspian of the true price of the gold he now wore. “They will work within the Veil’s domestic gardens and kitchens, under palace supervision. They live as long as you kneel like this before me.” He stroked Caspian's cheek, smoothly shaven.
“Shall we pay them a visit?” he suggested, a chillingly pleasant edge to his voice.
—-
Caspian was led through the sprawling, opulent halls of the Obsidian Veil palace, his scant gold mesh tunic and bare feet a stark, humiliating contrast to the heavy fabrics and boots of the guards flanking them.
Florian deliberately chose a route that led through the sprawling domestic gardens, lush, well tended acres that provided food for the palace kitchens. And there they were: many of the Sol Stone citizens, the survivors, the bargaining chips, now dressed in simple palace livery, weeding beds and turning soil. Their new, safe lives were visible proof of Caspian’s sacrifice.
As they approached, the workers stiffened, their heads snapping up at the sight of their former King. Their eyes, already weary from their ordeal, widened in collective agony. They saw not their savior, but a vision of their complete defeat: a beautiful, half naked figure trussed up like a toy, silenced and adorned in the enemy's gold.
Florian stopped directly in front of them, his presence radiating absolute dominance. He reached out and casually patted Caspian's cheek, the light touch sending a tremor of pure revulsion through the Prince.
"See, my Prince?" Florian's voice was loud, carrying clearly to the huddling slaves. "They are safe, thanks to your wise choice. This lovely service you provide keeps them from the mines."
Caspian could not speak, but his eyes, trapped behind the gold mask, were burning with a desperate mixture of hatred and forced relief. The workers' expressions were locked in silent, hopeless despair. They saw only their Prince, broken and claimed, his body confirming the death of the Sol Stone Empire.
Florian, supremely satisfied, ran his thumb briefly across the line of Caspian's jaw where the bit rested. "Their lives," the King declared, his voice dropping to a possessive whisper only Caspian could hear, "are truly a lovely ornament on your fidelity."
The King then gave a soft command, and they continued their stroll, leaving the heartbroken, silent workers to resume their labor under the heavy shadow of their disgraced Prince.
---
Read part 7 here
Taglist (let me know if u want to be added or removed) : @atomicsandwichprince, @sunrise-lemon-bar, @ladygwennn, @the-metalhead-chick
My first actual writing on here. Based on this post of mine - "a whumpee who refuses to admit to what happened to them".
It had been a month since Whumpee came home.
A month. The first week, Caretaker had let it slide. Sure, she was a bit perturbed by their positive attitude, but, well… she supposed it made sense that Whumpee would find it hard to talk about it. The wound was literally and metaphorically still fresh. So, she waited. Kept a careful eye on them in the rare times they left their room. Made their favourite meals every night. Tried to check in on them every so often, even if their response was always forced through a strained upturn of the lips, “What do you mean? I’m fine!”
Soon, Caretaker had thought, convincing herself not to push. Soon they’ll talk to me.
She was wrong.
It just… kept going. The pretence. The performance. For God’s sake, it wasn’t even a good performance. Every laugh rang hollow on the inside. Every moment of silence saw Whumpee staring at the wall with that look in their eyes because they'd forgotten people were watching. The other week, Friend had raised their hand to gesture while speaking, and Whumpee flinched so hard they nearly toppled out of their seat. Then, as if all was right with the world, they brushed off Friend’s concern with a dismissive “Hm? Oh, no, I’m great! Just a little tired today, I guess.”
And they were tired that day, but not from a simple poor night’s rest, but because they’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night. The sound had echoed through the house so loudly it had tugged Caretaker from her sleep and straight into a cold sweat. She had rushed to Whumpee’s bedside, only to be met with their insistence that she must be imagining things and that nothing was amiss.
They had nightmares most nights, and every time without fail they acted like everything was perfectly fine and dandy despite the glassy sheen in their eyes and the tremble in their hands.
It was the same story every time Caretaker tried to address the elephant in the room. No matter how gently she tried to say, “Whumpee, please, we should talk about what you went through…”, Whumpee’s brittle smile would stretch taunt and they would say, “Nothing happened. I’m fine, there’s nothing to talk about.”
She tried a million things. Sat with them in silence, hoping for a hint of genuine vulnerability. Approached the topic of therapy, thinking that maybe Whumpee would talk to someone else even if they wouldn’t talk to her. Tried to get them to take the day off work so they could spend time together. Every attempt was more futile than the last. Whumpee refused to even acknowledge that anything had happened to them. Caretaker knew it wasn't about her- God, she knew. She reminded herself daily. But she was tired, running herself ragged trying to figure out what to do. Desperation was kicking in.
By the end of the fourth week, Caretaker had had enough. This couldn’t go on forever — the other shoe had to drop. Something had to give.
“We need to talk.”
Whumpee was standing with their back to her as they looked through the pantry. They stilled almost imperceptibly at her words, shoulders tense, but after a moment they casually reached up to grab a box of cereal. “About what?”
A prickle of frustration rippled across Caretaker’s skin. That tone — the one that meant they’d already decided not to even entertain the idea of hearing her out. She took a deep breath, trying to settle herself as Whumpee crossed the kitchen to get a bowl. “You know what,” she told them firmly, “It’s not some- some mysterious secret. I’ve been trying to talk to you about it for weeks.”
Whumpee’s breathing got a little uneven, fingers unsteady as they poured cereal into the bowl. They were facing Caretaker now, but they hadn’t even glanced her way once. After a moment, they spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You-” Caretaker bit back whatever was about to come out of her mouth. She knew her anger would only make this worse but she couldn't help it. Agitated, she continued. “You brush me off every time, Whumpee. I get that it must be hard, but what Whumper did to you isn’t just going to go away!”
Whumpee froze. Their gaze flicked from where it had been fixed on their meal up to Caretaker’s face. “Have you considered,” they gritted out, voice a fragile calm, “that I don’t want to talk to you about it?”
There it was. They had admitted it — finally, they had admitted that there was something to talk about. It should have felt like a win, but something about the way their eyes looked after she had said Whumper’s name made the tiny victory fall flat. “I know you don’t, okay? I get it. It’d be fine if you… didn’t want to discuss it with me. But you won’t with anyone. You just pretend it didn’t happen, and that’s not healthy! Saying you’re fine doesn’t make it true!”
“I am fine!” They snapped, flakes of cereal scattering across the counter as the box slammed down.
“You’re not!” Caretaker erupted. “I KNOW you’re not fine! And you know what? Everyone can see it! Do you not see the way people look at you?” She raked her hands through her hair as she paced across the tile floor, eyes prickling with unwelcome tears. “We’re not blind! We can see the way you flinch all the time, the- the constant exhaustion, the fake smiling! We can all tell!”
Silence fell, the air abruptly empty. Whumpee was looking at her, their dark circles more pronounced than ever, and something… changed. A derisive laugh clawed its way out of Whumpee’s throat, curling into something explosive. “You want to talk about it? FINE. Let’s fucking talk!”
Dread pooled in Caretaker’s belly. She got the distinct feeling that this was going very, very wrong. Her lips parted to speak, but Whumpee wasn’t done yet.
“Let’s talk about how Whumper used to chain me up so now I can’t wear anything around my ankles or wrists without feeling like I’m back there!” The words sliced through the room, Whumpee’s fingers encircling their own wrist before their hands snapped apart. They pushed away from the counter, fingers trembling. “Let’s talk about how Whumper would show me his shiny new blades before using them on me, as if they were some f-fucking new toy he was so keen to try out!”
“Whumpee,” Caretaker whispered, going unheard over Whumpee's rising intensity.
“Let’s talk about-” they inhaled sharply. Their mouth twisted as they stepped closer to her. “Let’s talk about how I can’t sleep because every time I try, it’s like his hands are on me again!” To Caretaker’s horror, Whumpee was crying now. Their breaths were quick and shallow, hitching with every exhale. Every word was steeped in bitter mocking. “Oh, oh, this is a good one — let’s talk about about the time he tied me down and fucking waterboarded me!”
She couldn’t breathe.
Whumpee lips turned up, and this time, it was less of a grin and more of a sarcastic baring of the teeth — stretched too wide and ugly, it made no attempt to disguise itself as a genuine smile. Tears dripped down their chin as they spread their hands in a this is it gesture. “Is this what you wanted? Do you feel better about yourself now?”
“I-” Caretaker’s voice came out strangled. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
They just stared at her for a moment, the fire in their eyes sputtering out into glowing embers. Then they brushed past her, their shoulders knocking together. “Yeah. I figured,” they muttered.
The crushing feeling in her chest got heavier with every step they took. Still, she did nothing. Just… watched them go, until they disappeared down the hallway to their room.
Caretaker stood there, brief and aimless. Salt bled into her mouth, mingling with the copper of her bitten tongue. The grief trapped behind the bars of her ribcage yawned and stretched, making itself at home. Slowly, she sank into a barstool at the counter, eyes landing on the box of cereal and the bowl on the counter. Uneaten. A wet sob caught in her throat, and her head fell into her hands. “Shit.”
Taglist: @lelkokkay (i thought i'd tag you because you seemed interested in this!! let me know if you want me to remove the tag though) @whumpawaydarling
A/N: um!! if y'all read this whole thing thank you endlessly <3 let me know what you think & i will love you forever probably. i hope this was comprehensible! it has certainly started to sound like gibberish to me but that might be because i just woke up. edit: a part 2 will be coming !! lmk if u want to be on the taglist
The hero sat in the visitation room. All other tables were empty.
The villain was led in by two guards, hands cuffed together, and then to the table as they sat him down across from the hero.
“You know why I’m here?” the hero asked.
“Because you missed my pretty face?” the villain retorted, humor lacking in his voice. He kept his eyes on his hands. Dark rings clung under his eyes, and he had a nasty cut on his lip. The hero had given him that, but… shouldn’t it be more healed up by now?
“I have questions,” the hero said.
“What food would I recommend from the prison cafeteria? Well, I-”
The villain coughed and winced, drawing in a sharp breath. He flexed his fingers, and the hero looked at his hands for the first time. All of his fingernails were either blackened or covered in bandages. The hero reached out to take his hand and examine them.
The villain yanked back suddenly, as far as the handcuffs would allow. He breathed raggedly and eyed the guard standing behind the hero. With a pained gulp, he laid his hands flat on the table. The hero followed his gaze.
Whumpers who didn’t choose to be whumpers, but ended up in that position anyways. They signed up for a desk job, a security guard maybe, not to supervise torture sessions, but here they are doing exactly that, and more. For any number of reasons (they need the money, they’re undercover and the intel they gather is more important than a few prisoners) they just have to watch. They can’t do anything lest they get found out, but they make sure when the boss isn’t watching to treat the people under them with care. Maybe they’re “tested” by their boss, told to strike someone, and they have no choice but to follow instructions. It breaks them. They didn’t sign up for this. They fantasize about getting back at the system that forced them into this, rescuing everyone, but it stays a fantasy. Maybe they finally snap. They decide enough is enough, they break someone out. And then what? Now they’ve lost their job, ruined a crucial intelligence channel, risked their own lives, and for what? To save a criminal?
Whumpee is able to provide a little too much information about Whumper during team meetings. Details that seem too personal to be dug out of research alone... the kind one would only know if they knew Whumper closely.
Team begin to suspect Whumpee is a traitor, a double agent. They stop listening to Whumpee's advice and suggestions during meetings because they think Whumpee is trying to trick them into one of Whumper's traps.
Now imagine the look on the Team's faces when they're captured because they didn't take the precautions Whumpee told them to.
Imagine the look on their faces when Whumper walks past all of them and goes straight to Whumpee because "It's so good to have you back, darling. I've missed you."
content: recovery, past pet whump, older / middle-aged whumpee, comfort, psychological whump
-
Stocking shelves was a simple job with clear tasks. That was what the social worker told him. That wasn’t to say stocking was easy, especially not on Whumpee, even after he’d put the meat back on his bones. It was physical, and the boxes were often heavy, and he almost never stopped moving his whole shift.
But he could handle it right now, and that was all he needed. He needed this.
“Could always go for cleaning or food service. You were good at those,” Whumper purred.
Whumpee pushed his cart through him wordlessly, his expression unchanging. He was getting better at that, just staring straight ahead so his coworkers wouldn’t think he was crazy. Though that ship had pretty much sailed months ago.
He pushed the cart, unloading its contents and placing them on the shelves where they belonged. Twisting things around so the labels faced forward like they were supposed to.
Whumper reappeared, sighing contentedly as he reclined to watch Whumpee work. “Good boy. What a good pet you are, following your orders.”
Whumpee shook his head with a grumble, just barely keeping himself from muttering I’m not a ‘good boy’. I’m forty-six. Even without that added tidbit, he was already getting an odd look from the new girl working beside him, a kid about half his age. He gave her an awkward smile to try and save it, but she quickly looked away, and he dropped the effort. Whatever. She was seasonal anyway, just some college kid trying to earn something over the summer.
Maybe if things had been different, he’d have a daughter her age. That ship had long since sailed, too.
Despite his internal protests, Whumper continued to coo at him about being a good boy and a good pet as he did his damn job. He’d learned to mostly ignore it by now. Better that than… the opposite.
“So, uh, what are you studying?” he asked, just to distract himself.
The girl startled. “Oh! Social work. Yeah. About halfway through. Junior year around the corner.” She spoke a little too quickly.
Whumpee couldn’t help but laugh.
“What?” the kid demanded, somehow seeming a little more comfortable then.
“I just know a lot of social workers. Nothin’ against it, just thought it was funny. It’s good people, most of ‘em.” Most.
“Oh.” The girl relaxed a little, walking with him as they moved to unload more product. “And they… help?”
“What, with the talking to myself? I mean, not enough, I guess.” Was that rude? He’s been way too rude during this conversation. He’d let himself slip in Whumper’s absence.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
He raised a hand in peace. “It’s fine. It takes a lot more than that to offend me.”
“Bad pet,” Whumper admonished with a tsk-tsk. “You know better than to interrupt.”
Whumpee flinched, just barely managing to stop himself from dropping the box he was unloading to grovel. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
There. Normal thing to say. Not so hard.
The kid eyed him curiously, not that Whumpee could figure out what it was this time. “It’s fine.” And lightly, with a smile, “Takes a lot more than that to offend me.”
“She’s cute,” Whumper whispered in his ear. “I’ve been needing a new pet, ever since you left me. You were getting older anyway. Maybe she could take your place.”
Whumpee whipped around so fast his head spun. “Shut up! Don’t you dare say that about her! What’s wrong with you!?”
The girl gasped, dropping her box. Something shattered inside it, spilling red through the cracks, just like him.
Whumper trailed a finger up Whumpee’s throat to his chin. He could swear he could feel it. “You don’t talk to your master that way, pet. You know what comes next.”
“Mr. Whumpee?” the girl asked, voice small, tears in her eyes.
Whumpee dropped to the ground, cowering on the floor with his arms over his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
By that point, others were rushing over, a cavalcade of coworkers pushing themselves between them and all talking at once so he could hear none of them.
“Just give me a minute,” Whumpee begged. Whether it was Whumper or the real people he was begging, he wasn’t sure. “I just need a minute. Please. Just a minute.”
“I’m fine, give him some space,” he distantly heard the kid say among the rumble.
After a couple minutes, he dared to uncover his face. She was still there, though everyone else had left. She crouched as soon as she could see his eyes. “Hey,” she said, gentle. “You alright?”
“I guess.” He pushed himself up to sitting, wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve. “Sorry you had to see that.”
She shrugged. “Sorry you had to experience it.” And then: “I also know a lot of social workers. For the record. It’s why I decided to go into it.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit.” Though he doubted it was for the same reason. At least, he damn hoped so.
“Thanks for defending me from the voice you were hearing. That’s what you were doing, right?” She offered him a hand.
Whumpee took it, getting back to his feet. “Yeah. He’s a dick.”
