[ X Company - S02E02 ]

"I'm a man of my word, aren't I?"

Quiet footsteps echo through the clean, sterile corridor of the research hospital until they reach the security gates. Vina's heart is full of hope, growing more and more excited by the second as Mal clears their entrance somewhat leisurely. Research subjects aren't allowed inside confidential areas without proper clearance you know, standard protocol really.

It isn't until the door opens and the loud screaming fills the entirety of the room that he realizes the man was simply stalling.

Vina recognizes the voice immediately. It's enough to fill his entire being with dread and he bolts into the familiar operating room, pressing his face against the glass that stands between him and the theater. He doesn't understand what they're doing to it, but the screaming makes one thing clear. It's in absolute agony.

As the researchers inside surround its oversized body with tools and gizmos and input commands on their screens, and the mechanical arms execute them, Dog howls in pain and struggles against the restraints. Claws made to rip flesh and bone and metal to mangled bits now rendered completely useless by a few command lines. Pounding on the glass didn't succeed in getting their attention, but the effort certainly amused Mal.

"Please, please let him go, this isn't what we agreed to!" Vina has to choke back tears. "You're hurting him!"

"Calm down, boy." Mal attempts to console him by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, but his favorite subject quickly pulls out of his grasp. "It will be in slight distress for a few hours, but when it's all said and done I promise you it will be objectively better than any other asset Watchtower has had in decades."

Silence. Disbelief is painted all over his face. A corporate asset and nothing more, something to be improved upon, a machine to be overloaded with tasks until it inevitably breaks. The slimy bastard never truly intended to help, did he?

Vina wipes his tears and steels his heart for the long hours ahead. All he can do for now is watch.

they're watching big bang theory (:

bodyguard whumpee, stoic and protective, willing to tear anyone to shreds that dare look at their boss, their caretaker, with anything but respect. bodyguard whumpee that can take down anything, anyone, wins every fight and gets through every new hell they encounter. bodyguard whumpee that is only soft for caretaker, only pulls the gun from there holster once caretaker instructs them to relax, refuses to disobeyed them because loyalty is everything to them.

bodyguard whumpee that is kidnapped and tortured, and they’re fine- caretaker knows that they’ll be fine, even if the rest of their staff are utterly useless and it’s been weeks- caretaker knows that their whumpee will be fine. they were trained in torture after all.

caretaker knew they would be okay until a video is sent to their mail, their stoic whumpee chained and tortured, they’re stoic even coated with blood, but what will caretaker do when a small whimper of pain flees their lips? when a cut gets too deep and they gasp? when the videos keep coming and whumpee is now screaming and begging?

The Blackmuir Reign

Part 3: Kith and Kin (The Whipping Boy)

prev part

Summary: flashback drabble featuring Therrin Blackmuir as a ward of the Osiers. 

CW: Fantasy/medieval whump, wound tending, past/implied whump of a minor (Therrin and Saxon are 19 when the real-time whump takes place), punished for another, imagined eye whump, whipping boy, forced to watch, political prisoner, wine mentions, war mentions.

Therrin Blackmuir was thirteen years old when he arrived by ship to Castle Osier.

Within a fortnight he was sleeping in the stables. It was warmer than the bed they gave him in the servant’s quarters behind the kitchens.

In the summer and fall, the stables suited him just fine. He pretended he was a rebel commander on the run from wicked King Leonard, and not a glorified prisoner. 

Max and Vampire Pet: The Poachers

cw: vampire whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, pet whump, past torture and abuse, death mentions, referenced tooth-filing, use of silver and holy water, audio and video recording of torture, whipping, burning, questioning/light interrogation, it as a pronoun intermittently, muzzles, begging, low self worth, a little hurt/comfort of course

*takes place after part 3

His master was concerned about taking him out in sunlight. He’d never seen a human worried about that before, and it puzzled him. 

The poachers used to leave him out on a cloudless day, in a cage they designed just for that. Four walls and no roof, just to see what the winter sun could do. 

Hello it’s me, back on my angsty bs 💖

Day 12: Forced to Watch

Prompt

Caretaker receives a video of whumpee in a badly lit room, the person holding the camera demands that they kneel.

"I won't kneel for you!" they spit.

The camera is dropped, the footage is askew but they hear the sounds of violence, and eventually whumpee's limp form lands in view.

Weeks, maybe months later, they receive another video. Whumpee is asked to kneel and drops to their knees instantly, offering their wrists to whoever holds the camera.

The video flips around and whumper grins and gives an exaggerated thumbs up.

"They're so much better behaved now! I'll send them back to you once they're perfect."

“Oh look, my darling, it’s Caretaker!” Whumper sneers gleefully as they hold Whumpee by the arms, back to chest, Whumpee screaming into their gag and frantically trying to get to Caretaker. 

Across from them, Caretaker does the same with Whumper’s second in command. Desperate. Pleading. Useless. 

“Why fight? Why are you so desperate to get to them?” Whumper kicks Whumpee’s knees out, fisting their hair and jerking their head up to stare as they crash to their knees. “Look at them! They are just as helpless. They won’t save you. I could hurt you right now and they’ll do nothing but watch.” 

As if demonstrating their point, Whumper kicks Whumpee to the floor with a boot to the back, and follows through with a kick to the stomach. 

Caretaker’s scream is muffled in their gag but Whumper is sure it was never a word to begin with. Just a sob. 

Whumper flicks a knife out, watching the blade glimmer in the sparse light above. 

“And they will. They’ll watch. They’ll watch until I bleed that hope from your eyes.” 

Whump Prompt: Favorite

Whumper looks down at the kneeling figure before him. Trembling, fearful, broken. Just how they wanted them. They lift that pitiful chin to meet their gaze.

“You’ve been so good for me lately, so I’m going to give you a little treat.”

Whumpee’s eyes fill with wonder and fear. Whumper chuckles and thumbs a tear from their face.

“Today you get to pick your punishment. Doesn’t that sound nice? Hm? Go ahead and bring me what you want.”

They nod their head furiously and rise to their feet unsteadily. A brief sway, and they’re out the door. Whumper turns their attention back to Caretaker, who is gagged and bound in the corner of the room. They are here to watch just how far Whumpee has broken.

Caretaker’s eyes are furious as they fight against their restraints. They pull and struggle, but that only gets them raw, open sores around their bindings. Perfect. Whumper soaks up their rage and desperation. Muted cries and curses like music to their ears.

After a moment, Whumpee returns. They kneel at Whumper’s feet and present the tool they have brought.

Whumper is taken back for a moment. They take the tool and examine it in their hands. It’s the one they use for the most severe punishment; reserved for attacking Whumper or trying to run. It’s not a tool that they leave lying around, easily grabbed without a thought. Whumpee had to search to find this behind the other tools.

“Darling?” they ask as they raise the Whumpee’s eyes once again. They are shaking violently, fully aware of the tool and what it does. “Why did you choose this one?”

Fear is the only coherent thought in their face. Moments pass before they can even calm themselves to try and answer the question.

“Y-you, you said, you said it, it, it, it was your f-f-favorite.”

Whumper’s eyes roll back in their head in pure pleasure. Caretaker must have heard every word, as their cries and the sound of them fighting their restraints grow louder.

The feeling is orgasmic.

“You know you’re my favorite, don’t you?” they coo as they move the tool to their dominant hand.

Edge of Reason Pt. 1

Prologue: A Day of Mercy

Eliam was a general; He had led loyal troopers to their deaths, watched the horrors of war collapse around him.  But he never felt truly helpless until the prisoners staggered passed him on the stage toward the Emperor’s throne.  

When he was told rebels were being marched to the capitol, Eliam imagined soldiers.  These people could barely keep themselves on their feet.  Eliam saw wizened features and hunched backs among their number.  Right in front of him was a boy who could not have been more than fourteen.  Sure, harboring fugitives was tantamount to treason, but he never wanted to see it punished as such, especially not when he had to stand tall and shining in his dress uniform acting like he approved it all, especially when there was nothing he could do but watch.

When all the prisoners stilled around the throne, Emperor Destra Aethis III glided forward.  He was a young man, dressed all in black with a slim golden crown nestled in brown curls upon his head.  While Eliam wore his stark dress uniform with double-breasted coat and gleaming epaulets, Aethis bore regality in rolled up sleeves and impeccable embroidery.  He did not need a sheathed sword or scarlet sash to stand out from the crowd.

“My people!” the Emperor projected as he reached the front of the huddled masses brought before him.  “Today is a day of mercy.”

“These rebels,” he said, sweeping his gaze to the prisoners around him, “have been struck low by the will of the gods.  As you know, illness has plagued their camps, killing even their strongest warriors.  None have survived.  There is no cure.”

Now that he looked for it, Eliam saw signs for sickness amongst all those gathered in front of him.  Despite his military sources, he had not been able to find out much about the illness.  There were rumors of delirium, hypothermia, sudden and deadly asphyxiation.  Here he saw shoulders slumped in exhaustion, shivers despite the beating midday sun, sweaty brows from pain barely kept behind tightly gritted teeth.

“Having surrendered and submitted to the Empire,” Aethis continued, “these people now have hope!  What the gods have created, they can also take away.  Today, all those here shall be healed by the power they have given me.”

Immediately, the Emperor thrust his hand toward a panting prisoner to his left.  She shuddered and fell to her knees.  Eliam felt the air grow chill around him.  He knew that feeling from being healed by Alexys as a child.  Aethis, Eliam silently corrected himself.  The Emperor was crowned now.  He had taken a royal name.  To use his birth name would be familiar, impertinent, punishable, and just wrong.

Still, Eliam thought, he always thought that healing magic would be warm and comforting.  The force that came from the hands of Destra Aethis III was always cold.

With a sharp cry, the prisoner before Aethis fell to her hands and knees.  Her eyes seemed to clear a bit.  Her face looked a little less pale.  She looked up at the Emperor in wonder.

“Feel better?” he asked her, his green eyes glinting in the sun.

She opened her mouth to speak, but merely nodded, afraid to meet his eyes.

“Then kiss my ring.”  He offered her the ruby on his left hand.  “In doing so you swear fealty to me and to my Empire, however long you shall live.”

She did so, drawing a cheer from the assembled crowd.

It went like that for over an hour.  Eliam was afraid that when Aethis reached the young, dark-eyed boy that the kid would keel over in front of the Emperor.  It took all his restraint to keep his hands on his sword belt and not rush over to support the shivering boy.  When the so-called “rebel” finally kissed the royal ring and collapsed to the ground, Eliam let out a shuddering breath.

Then Destra Aethis III stepped forward for another pronouncement:

“As this has been a day of mercy, tomorrow shall be a day of judgement.”

Eliam’s heart stopped in his chest.

“All rebels assembled here will receive a traitor’s brand before being enlisted into our armed services.”

There were a few murmurs among the prisoners:  “We were promised forgiveness!”  “Not part of the deal…”

“Your lives have been saved for the glory of the Empire.  You will serve it with the second chance you have left.  So mote it be!”

The crowd intoned the ending back as Destra Aethis III swept off the stage and the rebels were escorted to the prisons beneath them:

“So mote it be.”

Keep reading

ooooh can't wait to see where this goes! Great world building already! <3

Collar Haul & Try On

“Hey guys! Before this video gets started, I wanted to give you an update on our boy’s new name!” The host was holding their vlogging camera, which panned over to show the young man sitting next to them on the floor of their set, now wearing a bright yellow hoodie. 

“What did you think of the name suggestions?” 

The boy glanced to the camera, before looking down again, and then the host caught his chin, bringing his head back up into frame.

“Come on, tell us what you thought. You didn’t talk at all in the last one and these guys are going to think you are a mute!” The host laughed, giving him an encouraging pat on the cheek. 

“I, um-” his voice was low, a soft rumble, “I liked them,” he glanced to the camera again, perhaps, the slightest flicker of a smile at his lips. 

“Which one did you like best?” The host asked from off-screen. The boy shrugged, glancing at the host as if to rescue him from having to answer questions on camera. But the host stayed silent, expectant. “I, um, I liked, um, Ryder, and, Milo, um… Scotty-” 

“Scotty-” the host repeated with a bad Scottish accent. “Beam us up, Scotty!” 

“I like the one you picked, too,” he added quickly. 

“Oh yeah? Go ahead, tell them which one won and why!” 

“Um, the winner was -Colton,” he said as if having been instructed how to do it. “Cause, you, you thought I look liked a baby horse.” His mouth twitched up again slightly, as if amused and not insulted by the suggestion. 

“He does, doesn’t he!” The host suddenly chimed in, the camera panning to face them instead as they wrapped an arm around the newly named Colton’s shoulders and pulled him to their side. “Thank you all so much for all your suggestions guys! I had a super hard time picking! But thank you especially to @whumpersworld​ for suggesting our boy’s new name! Now, let’s get into the video!” 

Keep reading

Andreas & Victoras 3 - Forty-Five

tw: vomiting

---

Master talked to him before it began. Not to mock him, though. It had not seemed that way to Andreas, at least. Master Victoras spoke quietly, gently. And for some reason, he seemed sad.

Andreas knew his master was not fond of delivering punishments, that much had been made clear. But then, why not have somebody else do it for him? Andreas had been a little out of it when the duke had given the order, but he was pretty sure that his master had been given a choice. So why'd he accepted to do it, then?

Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe he simply hadn't felt like doing it the last time. That's not what he had told Andreas, but... masters did not owe their slaves the truth.

None of that mattered, anyway. Whatever the reason for sparing him until now had been, Master Victoras was going to do it now. That's all that mattered.

No. Andreas remembered the sound of that word, how his master had uttered it. Then, I'll do it, spoken in that same tone. Andreas didn't understand.

He also didn't understand what he had been told earlier this morning, when his master had come to get him, accompanied by two servants.

"Good morning, Andrea," instead of, "get up, you piece of shit."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, Master Victora."

"It's okay if you are not." He looked down at his palms, then took Andreas' smaller hands in his. "I'm sorry for what I am about to do. But it's for the best. I promise. This is... all I can do for you."

Once again, Andreas did not understand. "Thank you, Master."

Victoras smiled faintly and patted his shoulder. "Don't thank me, Andrea. Please. Not right now." He sighed deeply. "We need to go now, okay?"

Andreas nodded. "Yes, Master."

---

There was a crowd, and it looked the same as the people that had been watching them back at the ballroom. Maybe it was. Those people had looked so eager to see blood.

Andreas was trembling where he had been placed on the scaffold, though he didn't seem to realize it. Perhaps it was just the cold air biting into his bare shoulders and chest. But it was probably the fact that he was about to be whipped until he fainted, and then some more. Forty-five lashes. This was all Victoras' fault. He should never have asked for that drink.

"I am going to begin," Victoras shouted, and the crowd's response was a cheerful one. This time though, it hadn't been an act so he would appear cruel; Victoras had just wanted to give Andreas a moment to brace himself, since he would not be able to see the whip coming down.

Crack. A dull, ugly sound. Poorly aimed and too weak to cut deeply. The crowd booed in disappointment.

The boy did not make a sound, only tensed further.

"One," the servant at Victoras' side counted hesitantly.

The second one was stronger. Crack. This time the boy yelped pitifully.

The third one was deafening.

After the sixth strike, the boy placed his weight on his trembling arms, lowered his head and emptied his stomach of its little contents. Nothing but water.

Victoras delivered a couple more strikes before he thought he might follow. But he could not get sick right now, in front of this crowd, or the reputation he had worked so hard to build in order to protect his slaves would be ruined. All for nothing. Victoras kept his composure and delivered another strike.

Crack. This sound was going to haunt his dreams. And judging by Andreas' scars that he'd already had when he had been brought to the manor, it already haunted his.

Crack.

Everything else was silence, even as the crowd screamed.

Crack.

How many did that make them? Victoras was too unfocused to keep count.

"Eleven," the servant at his side helpfully informed.

Andreas was still upright, and Victoras did not know how a fragile thing like him was still holding on so bravely, even after throwing up -or rather, attempting to- for what had to be the third time. He had to be a mess, but he didn't quite look like it. His back was bleeding and he was shaking violently, but he was mostly quiet.

Victoras had been worried that the boy might try to escape, to avoid the strikes, or make a scene. Then he'd have to pretend to be angry and grab him and shove him and put him back in place, all while whispering apologies and empty reassurances in his ear.

But Andreas was just sitting there, kneeling before the crowd with his palms braced against the scaffold for support, clearly doing his best to stay still.

Victoras thought that if anything, he should probably feel proud, but in the end he was just sad. It was so easy to imagine this happening to Andreas over and over again, until the boy had experienced it enough to know exactly how to handle it.

Victoras thought back to earlier that morning, when Andreas' calm had made him wonder whether the boy realized what was about to be done to him. He knew now that Andreas had known exactly what had been about to happen.

After a few more strikes, Victoras noticed that Andreas was crying. Belatedly, he realized that he was, too. Silent tears, hopefully invisible from a distance and as they mixed with his sweat.

He brought down the whip again. This would be over, eventually. He knew that. But right now, it felt like he was going to have to keep doing it for all eternity.

---

It hurt. His back was on fire. Everything was bright and blurry. He couldn't see. No, he could see; the crowd was definitely there, staring and shouting in ways that frightened him. But he couldn't see Master Victora. Where was Master?

Oh, that's right. He was where they always were during his punishments, doing what all of his previous masters had done in the past. Master Victoras was his master, after all. Why was he so surprised? Had he forgotten? He never forgot things like that.

Crack. He hated that sound. He hated it even more when it had no rhythm to it, and Master Victora's strikes had to be the most uneven he had had to endure in his whole life. But for some reason, he didn't hate them the same. He must have been confused by of all those beautiful things he had been told.

He didn't feel like crying. This didn't make him sad, not really. It was familiar. He was used to this, all of it; the sound of the whip cutting through the air, the pain that followed, the fear of it happening again, and again, and again. He didn't want to cry. All he wanted was for this to be over. What he wanted didn't matter; the strikes didn't cease, and he didn't stop crying.

He wished he'd just pass out already.

---

After the fortieth strike, Andreas swayed slightly, and then dropped heavily on the scaffold. Victoras and the servant at his side exchanged an awkward look, before the latter nodded silently and rushed to help the slave get back up.

Just five more, Victoras thought, and was surprised to see the servant mouth those same words next to Andreas' ear as soon as the boy regained his consciousness.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

And then it was over.

---

Tag list (which I am extremely flattered by, btw <3): @whumpthisway @comfortforthepain @whumposaurus @justanothermaltesegirl @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @nervous-writer

oh gosh oh Andreas bby *sob* he's trying so hard and victoras is so sad as well ahhh fkshsgkdh. so many feels ;-; 💕