okay i’m sorry but intimate whumpers? that’s my SHIT right there. let me explain:

do you see what i mean?

The first one’s name is Colby. A sweet name for a sweet boy. He was simple enough, easy to scare. New to the Resistance, not remotely new to suffering. Every warlock knows suffering.

They’re going to know it a lot better, once he’s made some progress cutting down their numbers.

Poor Colby really doesn’t deserve the brutal treatment he gets. It’s not his fault that he’s the first of many, that he has to be a symbol for all the pain that will be dealt to his cohorts. But poor, sweet Colby can take it, the Hunter knows. He won’t be given a choice.

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The wavering edges of his vision beckon so invitingly. Shadows look darker, softer, than they did even a day ago.

It’s been longer than that, of course. He wouldn’t be this weary if it was only a day. Would he? He doesn’t remember how long it’s been. He’ll probably be asked. He’ll be asked, and the soft hand on his cheek that accompanies the question will slip down to rest against his throat when Talvos answers incorrectly, or fails to answer at all. And he’ll fall, into the shadows and the grey, and not even fear will sharpen the edges of the world back into clarity.

The line of the floor drifts. Sitting back up is like dragging the tides himself, forcing the ocean’s might to forsake its stubborn path barehanded. Talvos’ head tips back, seeking the salvation and judgment in the dark eyes that fasten on his movement.

Mentiro smiles, kindness crinkling at the edges of his mouth. “You’re looking a little run down, darling,” he observes.

Talvos blinks slowly, trying to decipher the question. There’s a right answer, there always is.

“I’m ready to serve,” he says, after a too-long, dragging interval.

“Are you?” Mentiro sits back from his desk, watching Talvos with speculative, predatory interest. “Get up, darling. Come here.”

Mentiro does not ask for more than Talvos can give, so of course Talvos must be able to do this much. Get up. And come to him.

His body is miserable. His joints burn from the kneeling position he has not moved from in - not too long, the right amount of time, however long it has been. Other, older aches remind him of failures that slip, treacherously distant, under the surface of his memory. If he was better, stronger, he would not waver as he shifts, would not have to take such careful, painstaking thought to each movement it takes to get him to his feet. If he were better, stronger, he could move more quickly, be where he was directed faster.

He makes it, because he must, and he does not fall at Mentiro’s feet, because he has not been allowed. The room tilts.

“You look exhausted,” Mentiro tetches. “Darling, do you need to rest?”

Fear spikes in Talvos’ chest, squeezing immediate, iron bands around his lungs. “No, I’m ready, I can-” he doesn’t know what was asked of him. He’s so tired. Mentiro’s words are already drowning in the static that has taken over his mind.

His head snaps up. He was almost gone, for a moment, almost lost to the sleep he is not allowed to take for himself. Did he miss anything? A command, a question? Mentiro is watching him, but Talvos can’t tell whether it is in expectation of an answer, an action, or just to take him in. The backs of his eyes burn.

Slowly, Mentiro stands. His thumb tips Talvos’ jaw up, and Talvos tells himself that it’s relief making his fingers tremble and his knees sway.

“Do you want to sleep?”

It’s soft, permissively gentle. Mentiro’s hand cradles the side of his neck. Talvos drowns in the void of his gaze.

He knows the answer to this.

“I want to serve.”

Long fingers tighten, brushing the nape of his hair. “You didn’t answer the question, darling. Do you want to sleep?”

His eyes burn. He knows he’s not supposed to want. It doesn’t make sense. He should be able to figure this out, find the right answer, but his mind is spinning, falling, fading to the buzz of exhaustion and pain.

“I want…” what does he say? What is correct, in this moment?

The hand is joined by another, cradling his heavy head in lean, firm hands. Talvos lets them tip his face upwards a little more. It feels like support. It feels like help.

“What do you want?” Mentiro presses, softly, gently. “Darling, what do you want?”

He wants to serve. But he can’t say that. He wants to do better. If he was better rested, he could do better, be better. Maybe that’s the lesson here; maybe he needs to know that he can ask for what he needs, if it will make him a better asset. 

“I need– to sleep, it– I can serve better, after,” once he tips over the edge he cannot stop the fall. “I want to sleep, please.”

One thumb swipes the tear out of the tipped-back corner of his eye. “Oh, darling.” The other slides over his jaw and presses, heavy and stern, against the top of his throat. “You don’t get to want.”

Whump Prompt 104

“Even the proudest spirit can be broken,” the whumper mused, smiling at the weakened whumpee before them. Cupping the whumpee’s bruising, swelling cheeks, the whumper’s nose crinkled in delight. “With love.”

Overly intimate whumper

Taron Tries

Taron tries. He really, really does. Taron tries not to feel so sick. He tries not to be worried about Zeria, about Lee, about Mikky. He tries not to lean into the cool hand Zever places on his head. Tries not to sigh as his mentor’s, former mentor’s, fingers slide through  his hair. 

“Do you enjoy that, Taron?” Zever asked. Eyes closed, Taron hears the smile in his voice. It transports him to a different time, a different life. He’s cold and Zever is so warm. His throat aches, his stomach burns, and his heart hurts. He hasn’t felt this way in so long. So desperate for a soft touch. The last time was after Braxton’s death, when he’d come back to the palace, after a year of near isolation and sensory deprivation.

He leans his head against Zever’s chest. Hates himself for the spark of relief fluttering in his stomach as Zever wraps his arms around his shoulders. He hums, hands still running through Taron’s hair. Hums enough to bring tears to Taron’s eyes as recognizes the lullaby.

“It wasn’t all that bad, was it, kada?  We were friends once, weren’t we?” he asked.

Taron sobs and Zever rubs his back, words soft and soothing.

This is wrong. So wrong. He murdered Braxton. Let his little brother bleed out in Taron’s arms when he got tired of his screams.

But he taught Taron to play piano. Was patient as he learned every note. Praised him when he got a piece down perfectly. He’d taught him to fight. He made Taron who he was. 

He hurt Zizi constantly. And maybe Zizi is lying. She abandoned me.

Taron flinches at the thought. Zizi has never lied to him. She had protected him and his heart long before Zever had stepped into the picture. He misses her. He wants her. Needs her bright eyes and brighter smile. He pulls away, scrambles back and once again twists in the blankets. 

He tries not to shake. Tries not to feel bad at the hurt in Zever’s eyes at his now empty arms.

“You-I’m not…kada, anymore,” his voice is shaking almost as badly as his body, “Zizi would…She would never…abandon me. She’s not like you. She doesn’t use people.” 

“Of course not,”  Zever said gently, eyebrow raised, “That’s what you do, Taron. Or did you forget who paid the rent for your apartment after you got your parents executed? Or who recommended you to the counsel of Accipiters for your rank as captain?”

Taron shudders, leans back.

He was right. Zever had done so much. So much for him and Brax at that point. 

“And how did you repay me, Taron? After I gave you so much, hmm? How was my kindness repaid?”

Taron yelped as his hair is pulled and his head his jerked back. He’s staring into his mentor’s, his former mentor’s, kind face.

“You slept with my wife. Allowed her to poison your mind with lies. Defended her as she discredited me in front of our kingdom. Cheered her on as she stripped me of my ranks and titles. Turned me aside when she made me an outcast.”

Taron’s stares him straight in the eye, the sound coming from his throat a mix between a groan and a whimper. 

“I’m..I’m sorry, oraculi. I’m so sorry, atta.” He tries not to sound so tired. He really does. He tries not to sound like a child.

Zever let go. Taron’s head slams painfully in the headboard with a crack. Taron squeezes his eyes closed. 

He tries not to let the pain overwhelm him.

“No,” Zever said. Taron tries not to flinch when Zever’s hands reached for his head again. He stills, tense, breaths coming heavy and scared. But the touch was once again gentle. Zever was once again stroking his hair, pushing him to lie down. Urging him to rest, “I’m sorry, kada. This is my doing. I allowed the wrong brother to live.”

Translations:

kada - little one

oraculi - mentor

atta - dad, father

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?

“If you really wanted me to stop, you’d stop crying and just say so, wouldn’t you?”

Content warning: heavily implied/non-graphic depiction of noncon, drunk character, reference to a drugging, victim blaming. Please mind the tags.

Crow sits on the edge of the cot, tense, ears straining for any sound that might indicate Silas has returned from the bar. He goes there often, and sometimes doesn’t return for a long time, leaving Crow handcuffed to the metal loop in the wall at the head of the cot. Crow sometimes wonders what that loop was used for before he came to this place.

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.

the whumpee trembles and draws thin, shuddering breaths as the hand returns, fingers running gently through their sweat-dampened hair, cupping their bruised cheek.

A whumpee who’s been struggling with getting rid of an addiction they have is greeted to the whumper bringing them whatever their addicted to. They explain what’s happening calmly. Whenever they need food, water, medical attention, etc. they have to take one. If not their requests will be ignored, even if they are dying.

Daniel knew exactly what Legion was doing, but that didn’t mean he liked it. When he said ‘make you comfortable’ he meant ‘condition you.’ When he said ‘take your medicine’ he meant ‘take the drug.’ When he said ‘I want what’s best for you’ he meant ‘you’d better listen or else.’

At first he had tried to hold out as long as he could, but they both knew he was weak. He could last longer without food or sunshine then without physical contact, but in order to get it he had to take it.

Oh, and on top of that, Legion had his sobriety chips.

“I’ll do you the favor of breaking them one by one… I won’t make you take it if you don’t want by the time I’m done.”

Six chips. He knew that by the end of it he wouldn’t even care about sobriety, and Legion knew it too. It’s what he was counting on.

—

The first time in nine months Daniel broke sobriety was over water. He hands shook, partially from anticipation and partially from fear, as he drank his cup of cold, clean water. After, Legion held him still, and injected it into him.

It was more amazing than he remembered. Curled up in the corner of his cell, he waited to come down. He knew he wouldn’t be able to cry while high, that was the point of the high.

“See?” Legion asked, getting down next to him. He pulled out Daniel’s nine month chip, and snapped it in half. “Isn’t this nice? Doesn’t it feel good?”

Daniel doesn’t respond.

—

The second time was over physical contact. As an Angel of Love, he needed it like humans needed air. It was amazing he had lasted as long as he did.

Legion brought him from the cell, back into their old room, the room they would share again when the angel was trained again, pulled him into bed, and wrapped his arms around him before forcing him to, once again, ruin his sobriety streak.

“Doesn’t it feel nice to be back home?” The demon asked quietly, snapping Daniel’s six month chip.

The angel just laid there.

—

The third one went to water, again.

—

The fourth one was for food.

—

The fifth one was for a change of clothes.

—

“What would you like, Danny?”

Daniel looked up from the floor of his cell at his captor. He was shaking, arms loose at his sides, trying to warm himself up. It had been days since his change of clothes, he was going through withdrawals.

“I’m- I’m s-so-so cold.”

“Would you like me to warm you up?”

The angel could only nod. Legion reached down, and simply lifted the angel up before walking him to their room. Placing him on the bed, the demon pulled some blankets up and over him.

“You’ll feel better in a second, I promise,” Legion told him, turning towards his desk in the room to collect the last small vial. He brings the vial back to the bed, opens it, and gently pours it down Daniel’s throat. “Is that better?”

Daniel nods a little bit. “Come here?”

Legion smiles a little bit. It worked.

“Of course,” he said quietly. He slipped a hand into his pocket, and there he snapped the last sobriety chip before crawling in bed next to him.

Kidnapped whumpee&creepy whumper prompt:

Whumpee continues to fight whumper at every opportunity. The whumper decides they need to bathe the whumpee, but the whumpee is having none of it.

So the whumper injects them with some sort of relaxant, and suddenly the whumpee goes limp. They cant move at all, but theyre still completely awake.

The whumper has to hold the whumpees head above the water, and theres nothing they can do to stop them.

Very embarrassing, and vulnerable position ^^

“What’s wrong?”

The Hunter’s eyes find Lux’s, his expression giving away his surprise at being asked. He tries to play it off with a non-committal, “Hmm?”

The prisoner shifts nervously now that attention is centered on him. He pulls his knees up to his chest to feel a little more secure. “You, you… s-seem tired.” Lux hesitates and continues when he’s met with no immediate sign of anger. “And, dizzy? D-, do you - do you wanna sit down?”

Lux flinches when the Hunter walks over and cups his cheek, but then he frowns, eyes flicking up, and adds, “Your hand is - is warm.”

“And?”

“And - and…” He falters, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Maybe he should stop. Maybe he should say he’s sorry. “M-maybe y-, you’re sick.” The hand on his cheek slides to hold his chin and tip his head back against the wall. Lux trembles and closes his eyes as he waits for a condemnation of his speaking out.

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This was everything I needed, plus more