Sure The Blood Running Through My Veins Is There To Keep Me Alive But Its Main Purpose Is To Feed The

sure the blood running through my veins is there to keep me alive but it’s main purpose is to feed the vampires

Could you another drabble with a masochistic whumpee?

(tw: restraints, masochism/sadism)

“You like this, don’t you? You revel in it.”

Whumpee shot Whumper a dangerous glare, sagging in the chains on the ceiling that held them up. Everything in their face told Whumper no, they don’t like this, they want it to stop.

But their body wanted more, needed more, it was an insatiable thing. Every punch to the gut lit a fire in them, every slap scratched an itch deep down they didn’t know they had. Even Whumper’s degrading words urged them to listen, to want to hear more.

“F…fuck you. Fuck you.” Whumpee wouldn’t give. They knew how obvious it was, how their pathetic body looked in that moment, but they still had their dignity. They wouldn’t let that monster strip that away too.

Whumper took a moment to admire what was in front of them. A doll at their disposal. A face with so much anger despite their body being like a magnetic force to everything Whumper had to give them. Such a beautiful contradiction.

“I know how much you want it,” Whumper drawled. The poor little growl that escaped Whumpee’s lips filled them with even more delight. They picked up the nearest item, they didn’t care to look. Anything would satisfy their needs at this point.

“So why don’t I give it to you?”

Mine

Masterlist

The sound of a page being turned. Yellow light painting the room in shadows. Soft sheets, fluffy duvet, warm blankets. Another finished chapter. A yawn.

The book closes and he glances at the clock by the window. About time he’s went to sleep. Today has been busy, even for his standards, and tomorrow won’t be much less so either. He better lie down and rest now. No-one likes him when he hasn’t had his nine hours.

A glance at the bedroom door. Another yawn. A quiet sigh, followed by the rustle of covers, and then finally: the click of the lamp; and darkness. Silence.

Uncertain taps against the floorboards follow not long after. Cannot have been more than ten minutes later. Low, careful, irregular. Sometimes quick tip-tapping, sometimes long strides. They come towards the door and then stop when they find it closed. They think for a minute in silence, anxiously tip-tapping further in place. Then another. Another. The bare feet against the wooden boards can’t figure out what to do next. They hadn’t expected the door to be closed already.

Slowly, shakily, a nervous hand rises to touch the doorknob. Lungs take a deep calming breath and the hand turns the knob. A mouth opens slightly when the door opens. Eyes widen and neck stretches carefully in worry to glance around the door and look inside the room it leads to. Eyes see darkness and the brows crease in clear worry.

The softest little steps echo against the floor as the door is gently pushed open just enough so the boy can slip inside, and then when there is no stirring under the sheets, he closes it behind him; more careful than he has ever been in his life. He thinks about turning the lock as well, knowing that this door usually stays locked during the night, but this isn’t like usual, and he decides against it in fear of causing too much noise.

He turns around and almost jumps out of his skin when he sees a shadow sitting right up in the bed, clearly watching him in the thin moonlight coming from the windows. The shadow’s eyes twinkle and goosebumps rise along his skin.

After what feels like hours, the silence is finally broken.

“Are you just going to stand there the whole night Boo?”

The boy swallows and shakes his head, but forgets to move.

“Come.”

A sweet little gasp and even sweeter pitter-patter across the carpet, and the boy comes to stand next to the bed in moments. He kneels there, and looks down in submission, waiting for the other to tell him if he’s allowed in bed tonight. He knows he isn’t; he took too long to take care of the dishes.

The shadow lays back down as he comes closer, turning to the side and cupping the little one’s face as he kneels obediently. He leans into the touch.

“Desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

The boy swallows, but doesn’t say anything. He is. They both know it. His cheeks flush in humiliation, and even though the darkness hides it, they both know it’s there. Gentle violence like touch without the purpose of causing pain are feathers in the wind. The gentle caress gone in an instant.

A hand finds his hair and tangles in it. It twists and pulls his head to the side painfully. He can feel his neck stretch and his hair getting pulled out of his skin, but he can more than anything feel the glare of the pair of eyes laser focused on his pain. His own hands stay down; he doesn’t try to pull away, he doesn’t fight, he doesn’t complain. He let’s his owner control his body like a doll. And the doll bends and bends and bends, until he cries out with tears in his eyes and arms shaking as he tries to keep himself upright still. He doesn’t struggle, but he hurts.

The eyes watch the doll’s swimming in precious tears of pain and the hands pull harder against his head. The doll thinks it is punishment for taking too long to finish his tasks. He thinks he deserves it and it is best to suffer through this pain without a word before he could make it any worse for himself. He’s wrong. This isn’t punishment. He hasn’t made his master angry. On the contrary.

Chuckles. White teeth – fangs – glimmer in the light of the moon, and he’s bent farther. Tears have slipped free from behind his eyelashes. He pulls yet harder. He aims to break.

Whispers. Whimpers.

“P-...Please, please, puh- ah! P-please, I’m, I’m sorry, I’m sor-ry-“

Another harsh pull and he’s sure he won’t have any hair left by morning if this keeps up. Not to mention his spine being near parallel with the floor now, his neck screaming at him to right it before it snaps and his arms screaming at him to just let himself fall to the floor before it does. His voice comes out awkwardly because of the position, cracking with choked off cries and aborted breaths, but he begs anyway. Tries to sound even more scared than he is, knowing he likes him like that. It’s got disturbingly easy by now.

“Mmh...! Ma-ma-master, please, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, it won’t happen again, please, it hurts, it hurts, it’s going to- Ah!”

The doll is cut off as he’s suddenly and violently pulled up on the bed by his hair. His cry is shushed with a hand against his windpipe, crushing the air out of him. Eyes drowning in tears - wide with panic - look up to see the other hold him down mercilessly, pinning his arms with ease up over his head by gathering his wrists in his free hand. The fear starts taking over and he begins to struggle but the instant punishment against his windpipe stops him in his tracks. Months and months of submission beaten into him forbode him against continuing his struggles in the face of oncoming pain. Eyelids come down to hide his gaze from the monster’s above him, willing himself to stay still and hope it will be done soon. While scared to pass out, he hopes this will end with fainting after the first round, rather than going on until he loses interest in him.

Adam’s apple moving up and down swiftly to try and right itself under the hand keeping something so simple from him, he chokes for the entertainment of the other. His throat burns with the pressure, his lungs with need. Right before he could lose sense and give in to his instincts to twist and fight, the hand lets up. The boy takes in wheezed gasps, shivering in his helplessness as he twists his wrists in the iron grip of his captor. Desperate to please and end this, his mouth moves between breaths to form whispers.

“...Please... I s-swear, it won’t, w-won't happen. Again. I’m good...”

“You’re good?”

His voice comes sudden and too loud in the otherwise silent room, and his whole body flinches with it.

“I’m... I’m a, a good boy. I can be good. I, I swear. Please, please, no more. I’m sorry.”

He sounds sorry. Desperate to please. At the mercy of a monster, anyone would regret every single decision they ever made that lead them to that point.

That is not why he’s doing this.

The hand starts gripping his neck harder again, and the boy whines and pulls against him.

“Do not struggle.”

He seems to understand and freezes for just a moment, but as soon as the hand tightens again, his struggles start anew. At that, the hand suddenly leaves his throat to move back in his hair and slam him against the headboard. The loud cry he let’s out quickly fades out into a groan, and next time the hand grabs his jugular again, the dizzy boy lays pliant under his owner.

“Now you’re a good boy. My darling little good boy.”

The hand finds its way around his wrists once again, and as he begins squeezing again, the boy shudders, but stays still. Only when he comes back out of his haze caused by the hit against his head do his struggles start up again. Slowly at first, knees bending and neck twisting, but before he could start his panic in earnest again, he is made to look into his owner’s eyes.

“Stay. Still.”

His voice causes his entire body to freeze, and his movements stop at once. The sheer control his voice has on him at that moment cannot be natural. It evokes a fear so deep in him, he forgets to think about the air he so desperately needs. He looks into his eyes and keeps still like he was instructed, trembling under his Master, but not making a sound. His throat is in agony, his eyes stream with tears, but he keeps perfectly still as if a spell was cast on him.

“There’s a dear. Fearful and obedient. Mine. All mine, aren’t you darling?”

His head tries to nod, but cannot, so he forms the words ‘Yes, Master’ in a soundless whisper.

His wrists are let go of for the grip on his neck to be doubled, but his hands only move to his owner’s to carefully settle on top. He doesn’t try to push him away, he simply blinks a few more tears out of his eyes at the crushing pressure and rests his trembling hands on top of the other’s.

“Who do you belong to? Tell me.”

“You, Master.”

“Again.”

“You, Master.”

The hands let up slowly, slowly, inch by inch letting the little one gasp in desperate breaths. His grip tightens on the arms holding him down, but never pushes, never struggles. He still looks up at his Master, watching for any mercy, any permission to finally breathe. He whines as he wheezes in another gasp through the straw that is his throat, and the hands suddenly tighten around him again.

“Don’t be greedy. I know what you need. Be patient.”

The animalistic panic starts to set back in but he pushes himself to the limits and tries his best to let every ounce of energy he gathered slip away again. There are spots in his vision. He’s good.

The hands let up again right as he was about to start kicking and he gasps in anything he is allowed. This time he doesn’t try getting more than he was granted, and waits patiently for the hands to rise. In time, they rise and rise, until his throat only wheezes from the force that was used to crush it, not from the attempts at the desperate breaths. They rest on his neck, not crushing anymore, just there as a reminder. A reminder to keep being good, or the pain continues until he doesn’t know anything but to be good.

Minutes pass by, and his breathing is back to normal, if a little raspy and shaking from what he just went through. He still keeps his eyes locked with his Master, waiting for anything that is still left. All he sees in them is pleasure, but if he had the energy to look deeper, he would see pride.

“What are you, my love?”

“Yours.”

“Again.”

“Yours.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Master.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

Eyes crinkle in satisfaction. A deep chuckle.

“Such a sweet little kitten. Purring all these nice things to me.”

His hand finds his face and the boy dutifully leans into it, closing his eyes. Tears drying on his face, knots of hair on the pillow under him, a bump forming on the back of his head, throat abused, breath stuttering and rasping, countless other marks painting his body. Just like a cat. Nothing more, perhaps less.

“At this rate I’ll have to get one of those collars with a bell on them. A big, pretty golden bell on your neck, so I always know where you are. So you never run away.”

Bruises are already forming on his skin, and he almost feels the collar he describes around his neck. It’s there already, he knows. He doesn’t need a collar to remind him whose he is.

“I’m yours.” - He repeats. A promise. A prayer.

“Yes, love. You are. And I promise I will never let you go.”

Lips press against the forming bruises and he feels the collar already tightening around him. Around his neck, around his arms, around his legs, winding around and around until he cannot move at all, forever gasping. The kiss moves along each inch of his throat, slow, possessive. His chin raised to give better access to his Master. An unexpected bite, marking him further, arms pulling him deeper but no more than a shudder escapes him. A small groan as it draws blood, and the blood is licked away. Still, no disobedience.

Finally, finally, his neck is left alone and he’s let go. Only for a moment, because he hears the drawer open and something making noise as it’s pulled out of there. Metallic, long. He’s grabbed again, and he is chained carefully to the headboard by the neck. The cool sensation is almost burning against his hot skin, and he welcomes the small mercy. His Master returns to him once again, and pulls him into a deep embrace, arms locked around his and legs curled over him, making it near impossible to even breathe without him knowing.

Here in this room, in this house, behind locked doors, chained to a bed and held tight, he really isn’t more than a pet. A kitten. Entertainment. Possession. Something to care for, whatever that may entail in the eyes of his owner. Completely, utterly, absurdly His.

He should’ve just curled up in front of the door and waited ‘till morning. He’d rather sleep outside than in here.

Vampire Whump Prompt #1

"I said open your fucking mouth," Whumper growled, fingers digging deeply into Whumpee's jaw. In their other hand, rough looking pliers set with the intent of gripping whatever they touched.

"Your fangs are too long."

VINE INSPIRED OC ASK GAME

Send in a reference to a vine and I'll answer the question based on that!

ADAM! - Does your OC smoke? Vape?

You Are My Dad - What is/was your OC's relationship with their parents like?

Stop Calling Me Chicken Little - How brave is your OC?

Four Female Ghostbusters? - Is your OC involved with anyone?

What Up, I'm Jared - How booksmart is your OC?

Road Work Ahead - Can your OC drive?

Welcome to Bible Study - Is your OC religious?

So No Head? - What is your OC's temperament like?

Merry Chrysler - Does your OC celebrate any holidays?

Two Shots of Vodka - Does your OC drink?

Oh My God, They Were Roommates - Does your OC live with anyone?

Who! Want Lasagna- Is your OC good at cooking?

I Won't Hesitate, Bitch - Who are your OC's close friends?

Hi, My Name is Chelsea - What's your OC's favorite meal?

"A Child" "No" - Does your OC like kids? Do they want any?

Actually, Megan, I Can't Sit Anywhere - Does your OC have any medical conditions?

Two Bros - What's your OC's sexuality?

Zach, Stop - Does your OC get in trouble a lot?

Wrow - Is your OC good at flirting?

I Was in a Band - What's your OC's favorite kind of music?

I have realized something today. Something I really didn’t expect.

It’s fairly easy for me to write Whumper related things. Lines, prompts, etc. I know why now. Not because I am the Whumper.

No no.

I want someone to say those words to me. Whispering it in my ear. Hurt me????

I fucking am the Whumpee asdfghjkl.

Yes, I am in dire need of Jesus right now.