Rabbit and Wolves: Killan

CW: Dehumanization, pet whump (sort of), sadistic whumpers, creepy whumpers, rich people being awful, wing whump, noncon touching (nonsexual), humiliation, noncon piercings, noncon… tasting? (it makes sense in context), this is like three steps from vampirism

TIMELINE: Killan’s first proper owner after Calon Nie abandons him

 As always, Killan’s universe and details of fae meta/biology/magic all belong to @wildfaewhump!

The tray was a heavy dulled copper, and it made the boy think that maybe his owner didn’t understand that he was not fae at all, that iron and other heavy metals did nothing but give him a fain itch that disappeared an hour or so after the iron was removed. 

The blood in him was diluted, broken down, but it was not fae blood. Not really.

Maybe the lord of the house just had a fascination with copper in general. The boy was certainly surrounded by enough of it, now.

He moved with carefully silent steps on bare feet in a pair of loose diaphanous deep blue pants and a matching sleeveless shirt that tied like a halter at the back of his neck. It was nearly backless because of his wings with a single set of ties just resting against the small of his back. The cold stone beneath his feet was so icy it felt more like a burn than a chill, but the boy continued on, carrying the tray balanced just the way he had been taught. 

His human hand balanced the underside, to make sure the small beautifully-wrought glasses would not spill the cherry-colored cordials contained within, while its weight balanced against his upper arm and his talons curved along the outside rim, so they would be seen, put on display.

Just like the rest of him.

He felt like a wind-up toy, or a horse in a victory parade.

He felt like a thing, which of course he was, but he had never felt the stares burn into his skin as deeply as they did now. 

The low conversation continued unabated as the nameless creature entered the great dining hall, but it didn’t matter that they kept talking - he could feel them looking at him, hear the slight intakes of breath.

With every step, he heard the sound he made, the shifting-shivery sound of metal scraping and clinking, and he knew himself to be no more human than the portrait of a woman dancing that hung on the wall behind the man who sat at the head of the table, the lord of this house and the person who could decide whether the boy lived or died on a whim, and no one would stop him.

His eyes burned worst of all.

He had given a merchant a hundred marks for the boy’s purchase, hadn’t even haggled. Might have been flattering, if the boy did not still feel a sting at the reality that he was sold at all, or if the man had not spoken with the careless air of a man for whom a hundred marks was nothing more to him than a copper coin dropped in the road to be washed away by the rain, hardly worth a second glance.

The thought of copper made the boy feel a sick lurch in his stomach.

He was drowning in it.

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some food for thought

“Shhh…”

The whumpee strains and writhes against the whumper. Sickly sweet air pours into their lungs with every breath, they can’t turn their head far enough to get away from the rag pushed up against their face.

“It’s alright.”

A chill creeps into them. Weakness wears down their limbs, their world tilts in a dizzying, sickening way.

“Just relax.”

Blurry eyes. The flat of the ground pressed up against them. The whumper’s voice.

“Just let everything…fade to black.”

Another breath, and they’re too far gone to fear the hell they’ll wake up to.

“I’ve always wanted to hurt you,” Nick murmurs, an immense satisfaction sweeping over him in waves with each round. The pattern soothes him: cinch his hands tight around that throat, squeeze, wait, wait, wait, squeeze harder, then release. Keep his hands on that throat as Crow gasps raggedly, coughs, wheezes. Allow him enough air to remain conscious, and then start again.

The shifter nods slightly as his lips take on an unhealthy grey tinge. He’s gorgeous like this. His hair is unevenly shorn and messy, his body weak from little food and injuries that have made walking difficult. His skin is dull and pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He’s worn down and weak and stunningly vulnerable.

Nick squeezes as hard as he can, pressing his fingers into the sides of Crow’s neck instead of crushing his windpipe beyond repair. How long has it been this time around? Fifty, sixty seconds? The week, impulsive struggling toward the end sends his heart racing with glee. He leans down closer to watch.

“Your throat will bruise,” He muses, smiling at his friend’s pained grimace. “Pretty, dark colors. Black and blue and purple. The faded parts, the yellow and green, you won’t see those even after a few days. It’ll stay all dark, because I’m going to choke you every day that you’re here. You’re so gorgeous when you can’t breathe, I could just crush you.” Crow’s eyes are fluttering and rolling back, his body’s spasms fading. Nick lets up his grip and listens to the weakest gasps yet. Time for a break - which means, really, time to watch Crow breathe for as long as he wants.

“I was worried that hurting you for fun would change things. That we would stop being friends. But we haven’t, have we?” His grip tightens just slightly in an unconscious threat.

Crow shakes his head a fraction, and the grip lets up. Glassy dark eyes look up at Nick, and it makes the far larger man smile again.

“Such a pretty bird. You used to hide your bruises with makeup, but you know I like seeing them - you won’t hide these ones, will you? I won’t hurt you anywhere else, won’t bruise your wrists or your ribs. I can control myself. Are you ready for more? We’re going to go for longer this time, I really want you to last longer. It’s no fun when it’s too short. Little gasps in between, maybe? We’ll try that. Take a deep breath first, go on.”

With wild eyes, pupils wide, the Hunter watches Crow take a measured breath, then squeezes his throat to close it off again. He can feel the chest he’s straddling jerk from the start with failed attempts at breathing, can feel the throat under his hands tensing up.

A minute in, he allows Crow a single rasping inhale. A minute later, an exhale. Then, he gives Crow several seconds to breathe as much as he can - they’re rapid, shallow, whistling wheezes, so fast that it resembles hyperventilating. The choking continues too soon, and Crow can’t help but struggle with all his meager strength.

Tears are running down the shifter’s face now. He nearly passes out again, body shuddering; the grip on his throat leaves, and he dry sobs silently.

“I can’t stop.” Nick traces the bruises adoringly, and wipes away his friend’s tears. “I just can’t. Let’s go for hours and hours. I’ve waited so long, I held off, I was patient - I earned this, earned your… participation. Listen, I know… at this point, it’s not worth it to you anymore. You’re scared, you want to go. Some part of you does. But just try to be a good friend and stay, won’t you? Say yes.” There’s a pause, and then, “Ready for more?”

Crow takes a tremulous breath, then nods. Yes, he mouths, obedient like a friend should be.

Nick beams madly and grips so hard, presses down with such force, that he hears a crack and feels Crow go limp.

No. No. Nick jolts awake, hands flying out to find no dead body, no other body near him at all. The sheets are twisted around his legs and the air is stuffy around him, nearly suffocating. Crow isn’t here. No one’s here, except for a warlock in the basement, probably passed out.

Nick would be sick if he did that to Crow, if he gave in to the compulsion to hurt him. His hands still curl inward with the desire to crush, though, and he needs to overwrite this guilt, this horror, with something distracting.

He supposes that he can go on downstairs and choke that warlock until he’s blue in the face and spluttering soundless pleas. Some nameless prisoner, he can choke on and off for hours, can eventually crush into silence without an ounce of regret.

The Hunter stands to do just that.

Continuation from this, where Essylt sent Talvos away to fix him.

He’s been awake for nearly two days by the time the carriage arrives at Essylt’s second estate. They drove through the nights, two drivers trading off shifts and only stopping to change horses. They have not opened the carriage doors, nor even glanced inside, and Talvos has been left on the bottom of the carriage floor, paralyzed and limp and awake. Now, though, the carriage clatters across the paving stones of the stable yard, and when it halts the doors are opened and Talvos is dragged out. He’s amassed a collection of bruises, from rolling to and fro across the floor with no way to brace himself, and the everbane in his system is sapping at his body’s energy reserves, leaving him drained and wrung out even as it keeps him relentlessly awake.

The guards lift him between them by the arms, letting his feet drag behind them, and make their way into a smallish side building set away from the main manor. Inside, he sees only the floor of a short hallway before he’s dragged into a stone-floored room. The guards drop him to his knees on the floor, then pull his arms behind him to shackle them to an iron loop set in the wall. The position leaves him bent over, with his arms raised painfully far behind him, but in his paralyyzed state he’s unable to adjust his weight to relieve any of the pressure being placed on his back and shoulders. The guards leave without without a word, closing the door with a bang behind them, and silence descends once more. No one has spoken to him since Essylt’s parting words, nor has he eaten or drunk in that time. Thirst is starting to be a problem, but hunger has thus far been subsumed to the poison which curdles and churns in his system, stirring up nausea that roils in his stomach and squeezes his chest into something tight and uncomfortable. But shouldn’t he be uncomfortable? He disappointed Essylt - how, he can’t quite remember - and he’s here to be made better.

Right?

His mind is muddled, foggy with poison and with pain. What did he do? How did he disappoint his lady? Time, like the joints of his shoulders and elbows, stretches out with painful slowness as he endures the course of the everbane through his body and struggles to think under the haze it’s cast over his mind.

There are no windows in the room they’ve left him in. A lamp burns high on the wall in one corner. The flame is low but constant, and its occasional flickers, along with the steadily increasing burn in his shoulders and creeping down his back, are the only markers he has to measure the passage of time.

It’s later - it feels much later but he can’t really be sure - when the click of the lock breaks the heavy, stifling silence of his cell. In his strained, bent-over position, Talvos can only see the tops of polished, expensive black shoes as they cross the stone floor in a distinctive, predatory gait, but the sight and the sound fill him with an old, visceral dread. He watches, in forced stillness and lurking, mounting terror, as those shoes come to a stop in front of him, and then a lean, brown hand reaches down to lift up his chin and destroy Talvos’ last shred of cowering hope.

“Hello, Talvos,” Mentiro says. He’s the same, exactly the same as Talvos remembers, from his immaculately tailored slacks and shirt to his wide, friendly smile and the tiny smile lines framing pitiless dark eyes.

Talvos can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t look away. He’s caught, utterly pinned by the presence of the man before him. Thought, as difficult as it was before, has fled entirely, leaving him in a blank, grey state, waiting for Mentiro’s next move.

Mentiro lifts a narrow vial, waggling it between his fingers. “As fun as it is seeing you like this, I’d rather start our time together with you more functional. Drink up, darling. It’s time to remember everything I taught you.”

Grey takes on an icy, frozen tinge as Mentiro squeezes Talvos’ jaw, forcing his mouth open, and tilts the liquid inside the vial down Talvos’ throat. He drops Talvos’ head once the liquid is gone, and squats down to look up at him from below. His smile is familiar and deadly.

“We’re going to have so much fun, darling.”

I could spend my time finishing the eight different requested pieces in the works. Or I could spend some time writing this.

[content warning for referenced/implied noncon, and an unhealthy serve of innuendo]

-

“I guess I just don’t really get it,” Christopher’s guest says as he hands him another drink “The cleaners, I get. The chefs–” he pats his stomach to emphasise the point “I get. But the little strays you keep around? I don’t get it”

They’re alone in the parlour, already onto a second round of drinks after they’d finished with cigars, and the night was slowly careening closer to pleasure than business. Christopher smiles, unbuttoning his jacket as he sits. Dinner had been particularly delightful tonight. 

“You don’t have hobbies?” he asks with a smirk, pulling his drink to his lips. 

Day One: Shaky Hands

(I decided to participate in @whumptober2019, at least occasionally, so here we go! Some people will recognize the story being depicted here, but I’ve changed names to keep the fandom (it began as fanfiction) out of it)

“Can you give us your name?”

The man looks up, hesitates, eyes dancing from one lawyer to another. In the courtroom, of course, all they see is the man himself, in the center of the screen as the video plays. He’s twenty-six years old, give or take, muscular in the shoulders but thin everywhere else, with red hair that falls over one side of his face and bright, startingly vibrant blue eyes. 

Across the pale, slightly freckled skin on his face, a line of red, barely healed scarring runs from under one side of his jaw, up over his cheek, digs hard into his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose until it creates visible notches in the skin, and runs all the way down in the same fashion on the other side. 

The courtroom, silent except for creaking seats and the occasional cough or whisper, watches the man in the video look nervously for reassurance, hesitate far too long for such a simple question. 

“Daniel,” He says, finally. “Daniel Michaelson, is my name now-… was my name… is my name.”

His voice is soft, nervous, worried that he’s messing it up somehow.

On the prosecutor’s side, two lawyers sit side by side at a table, watching the testimony Daniel had taped for them. They know what the jury - the spectators - are about to hear. 

One of the interns threw up after listening to the first tape and working on its transcription. Another had to stop halfway through and spent an hour in the bathroom before emerging with red eyes.

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@pumpkin-spice-whump-latte ilu. It’s canon now. *finger guns*

Tws: Branding. Collaring. Just all ‘round mother-effing creepiness. This is short, but heavy.

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“I don’t want you to think this is some kind of a punishment. It’s not.”

Isn’t it? Lev said around the leather bit, the sides of his nose wrinkling. It wasn’t too tight, necessarily, just firm, but it was still making his jaw ache. Far be it from Martin to let one of his soliloquies be interrupted.

“No. It’s not punishment, because that would mean I didn’t approve of your behaviour. Or that I was trying to control you. Or something like that.”

Spread out face-down across the metal table like this was a much harsher treatment than what he was used to, the floor downright comfortable by comparison. Arms and legs secured by thick straps, he was tied down tight. Barely able to move.

It really didn’t matter whether he had his eyes open, or shut. There was no stopping Martin’s words as they crept into his ears, and stayed there, and stuck. Like flypaper. Such as it was. Lev settled for pressing his nose against the table, and staring straight ahead into the dulled reflection of his own eyes.

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Overly intimate whumper

The whumper uses the whumpee as a ‘comfort animal’.

They cuddle them, stroke their hair, listen to their heartbeat, generally use them to calm down and feel better before going forth to do evil or whatever.

Does the whumpee feel any sympathy for the whumper? How did that relationship develop? How will the whumpee attempt to comfort the caretaker or another whumpee?

tw: drugging mention, blood, cutting off clothes (not sure how to tag that…?)

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“Scream for me again…” the whumper purrs, gripping the sobbing whumpee’s bloodstained chin. “Your voice is so pretty when it breaks.”

The whumper using their first two fingers to lift the whumpee's head up, smiling as they admire how the bruises they left the day before came in.

Whumpers with soft voices.

Whumpers that dont have to yell to get what they want. Whumpers who make promises of pain to come while toying with a whumpee's hair, who only have to suggest with the barest inflection of what's going to happen if their orders aren't met.

Whumpers who are utterly brutal in delivering punishment but who turn around and envelop the whumpee in warmth and shushing sounds and nice words. They know exactly how to get under the whumpee's skin and make them question who the enemy is.

Whumpers who are skilled at making themselves look so gentle and kind that no one believes the whumpee when they try to tell them what the whumper is. Whumpers who use this to manipulate the whumpee further, leading everyone around them like puppets on a string.

Whumpers who croon while their victim writhes, offering little touches here and there, passively mocking the whumpee's struggles while they work.

Whumpers who's gentle edged, soften eyes promise safety, even as their actions hold no mercy.

Long, sharp nails drawn gently over bared skin. The muscles flinch at the contact, but there's no pain. Not yet.

The whumper wants to watch them squirm first.

Oh my gosh, they were cell-mates

This isn’t part of the bingo card, nor was it requested. But I wanted to write it anyway. This is how Pippin and his later boyfriend/caretaker met.

TW: Non-con/creepy touching, being made mute

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Pippin learned very quickly what Missy was and what she was like. She was a shadow demon… Known for their power and need for control. But more importantly, their unrivaled cruelty. Pippin had only been here for a few days but he was already beginning to understand why they were famous.

He quickly crumbled into obedience. Not entirely submission. He still had some pride… But it was hard to fight when the very darkness of his cell could grab at him, hold him in place, and hurt him at Missy’s mere whim. He became jumpy. He would flinch and tense every time he thought he saw movement in the shadows. He frequently got lost in his own head as he zoned out between… Encounters… With Missy. This is what was happening as he heard his door unlocking. His head snapped over towards the heavy metal door. He stood stiffly and watched Missy walk in.

Missy all but sauntered over, grinning a wolfish, sharp-toothed smile that made dread pool in the pit of his stomach. She walked up to him and, not so gently, pinched one of his cheeks. He flinched but knew better than to push her away or even touch her. Her smile grew wider. “Oh pet, I have some very good news for you!” Pippin had a feeling that it was the exact opposite, but he kept his mouth shut. “I was able to acquire an Incubus! And not one of those common low-lives, one of the more rare ones! One of the ones who only need contact. To touch and be touched.” Missy almost seemed like she would squeal in excitement. 

Pippin tensed… The feeling of dread rising up into his chest. “Ok… But why tell me? What does that have to do with me?”

Missy chuckled and booped his nose, “You’re gonna be his food, silly! I can’t leave him alone, he’d starve to death. And I can’t have that!” She rested her head on her hand, being much too casual for Pippin’s comfort. “And, while the Angel is cute, She is rather jumpy. Besides… I think he’ll appreciate you much more pretty boy.” Her demeanor instantly shifted back to the dangerous one he had gotten used to.

He could barely process what she was saying, but once it clicked, his brow furrowed. “No! No, it’s bad enough I have to let you touch me! I’m not going to let an Incubus feed off of me!” He suddenly felt very exposed and vulnerable. He defiantly crossed his arms over his chest.

Missy simply raised an eyebrow, but Pippin couldn’t tell if it was anger or amusement. She looked him up and down. Before suddenly lunging and grabbing his shirt and slamming him against the wall. “You say that as though you have any choice in the matter.” Her voice is dangerously low and practically dripping with venom. She let go of him and Pippin felt momentary relief… Before he saw her flick her wrist.

The shadows on the wall quickly crawled towards him and reached out to him. Becoming physical… Things. Shapes that grabbed him tight enough to bruise. He tried to fight them… To pull away. But they just held tighter to him, making him wince. The shadows wrapped themselves around his wrists and pulled them high above his head. Even pulling him up off the ground slightly so he was only on his tip-toes. He bit his lip, trying to keep calm and not show Missy how vulnerable he felt. But it didn’t last as he felt his wings get grabbed. He panicked and flailed as best he could, trying to keep them from stretching his wingspan. But it was like fighting against moving stone. His struggling barely seemed to slow it at all. He looked around… He wondered if, if butterflies were still alive as they were pinned down to the corkboard, would this be what it would feel like? It sure as Hell felt that way to him… A tear slid down his cheek. 

He startled as it was wiped away. Missy was practically in his face and gloating. She had a mock pout and faked concern as she cupped his cheek. She quietly shushed him and ran her fingers through his hair. He looked at anywhere but her face. But he tensed again as her hands reached for his shirt. “What… What are you do-?” He was cut off by Missy shushing him again and placing her finger over his lips. And he suddenly found himself unable to open his mouth. But he barely had time to panic over that development… As he felt Missy unbuttoning his shirt. He made a startled sound and tried again to struggle and flail desperately. Missy sent him an icy glare. Pippin slowed to a stop and just closed his eyes. Missy seemed satisfied as she continued to unbutton his shirt, exposing his torso.

She took her time as she worked, reveling in the panic riddled and shaky little breaths and noises Pippin kept making. But once she was done, she ever so gently kissed Pippin’s neck and dragged a clawed nail down his chest. She chuckled softly at the shudder and choked sob it earned. “Yes, I do believe he will appreciate you much more than the angel, pretty boy.” She walked over to the door and walked out.

Pippin hesitantly opened his eyes once he was sure she was gone. And he broke down in sobs.

It was several minutes before he heard the door unlocking again. He tensed and pressed himself against the wall, struggling to not panic. The door opened and a man was shoved in roughly, and the door was quickly shut. The man turned to the door and began pounding on it, shouting angrily. Pippin felt his heart drop. He was already so exposed, and this man was angry. Would he take his anger out him? Pippin couldn’t hold back a scared whimper. It was quiet… But it was enough to catch the man’s attention. He turned around to look at Pippin. Pippin shifted and tried to press into the wall. If he could… If he could just put distance between him and this stranger. But his feet kept slipping and he was firmly against the wall already. A fresh wave of panic washed over him and he started crying again.

The man seemed confused at first. Staying back and looking at Pippin. But as soon as Pippin began crying, he seemed to shift. He rushed over towards him. He looked worried. “Are you hurt?” His voice held concern as he carefully looked over Pippin, searching for any obvious injuries. He reached a hand out towards him and Pippin let out another scared whimper as he screwed his eyes shut. But the intrusive touch and the roaming hands never came. Instead, he heard the man say soothingly, “Hey, hey, calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you. What's… What’s going on? Why are you strung up like-“ 

Pippin hesitantly opened his eyes and was met with gentle eyes in return. "Hello there. I’m Amicus… I’m not… I’m not going to touch you. Is that what she did this for? For me to feed on you?” Pippin nodded. And the man- Amicus- sighed. “I’m sorry… I would never… That’s not me.” The man offered a kind and sympathetic smile. “You’re safe with me, I promise.” He saw Amicus look down at his unbuttoned shirt, then back up at his face. “Would you feel more comfortable if I buttoned that back up?” Pippin frantically nodded. Amicus nodded back and got to work.

Pippin watched him, expecting it to be some sort of trick… But it wasn’t. And he looked at Amicus too. Perhaps he could grow to like him.