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emmettland · 2 months

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Grievances

Summary: Prince Logan wants to be a good son and a good person. His father shows him that he cannot be both.

CW: royal whump, minor whumpee, adult whumper, prince whumpee, king whumper, family whump, child abuse, manipulation, public punishment, public humiliation, restraints, begging, crying, tearing whumpee’s clothes open (not full nudity), cutting whumpee’s skin, spanking (through clothing), mouth whump, forcing whumpee to be temporarily mute, inaccurate views on mutism

This story is minor whump. Logan is fourteen in this. Do not read if that makes you uncomfortable.

Also, this does take place in APOP, but I didn't include any of the main lore to keep things simple. That's why Logan doesn't have his Corrupted arm, Blessings are not mentioned or used, etc.

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good son. He endured his lessons with an impersonal air, careful not to stray too close to either apathy or indulgence. He spoke down to those beneath him and bowed for those above – because, to Logan’s surprise, his crown did not make him worthy of respect in the eyes of his father’s court. Nor did being a snot-nosed prince earn him the respect of his people.

He wanted to be a good prince who would grow up to be a good king. For that, he needed to be a good son.

David tried to reshape him. Logan was to be diplomatic, charming. Yet he was to approach every conversation as if it were a secret battle. Every little thing that Logan paid no mind to suddenly mattered. A well-timed smile could secure victory. A slip of the tongue could admit defeat.

He struggled. The boy’s instinct was to be honest about what he thought and how he felt, not wrap up the truth in lies and niceties. But after countless beatings and humiliating public displays, Logan learned to hold his tongue. He learned the power of words and their hidden meanings, though he still could not quite grasp them. He watched as his father brought enemies to his side and turned allies against each other, weighed down with the dreadful knowledge that he would one day be doing the same.

David had kept him away from the people’s grievances for a reason. Logan had heard it many times, before and after each punishment; he was too soft. His heart beckoned him to ease the suffering of others before his own. It lay waste to his judgment, leading to selfish choices that benefited his conscience more than they did his people.

The people who mattered, of course.

Prisoners did not matter, but the king was generous enough to listen to their woes once a month, and grant the requests of a select few. This time, Logan was in attendance. He had recently turned fourteen, standing a bit taller now that he was leaving adolescence behind. Their audience consisted of the king’s court, here to oversee the proceedings and judge the young prince’s performance. Logan tried not to be intimidated by them.

David waved his hand to allow the first prisoner inside of the throne room, where they would kneel at the bottom of the steps and lay out their burdens to the king.

They will do anything to garner sympathy, David had told him earlier. It is very rare that I find one who was either falsely arrested or worthy of being freed. Remember, son, they would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

As the first prisoner was escorted through the doorway, flanked by two of the royal guard, Logan took in their appearance. The man appeared to be near his father’s age, though that could be due to his gaunt features. Dark, matted hair fell over his face as he approached with his head down, wrists bound in front of him. The chains connecting his manacles rattled, a grating noise that Logan wanted to lean away from.

The prisoner nearly lost balance when he knelt down. Logan could tell he was starving. A flicker of unease threatened his composure. What crime did this man commit?

David gestured for the prisoner to speak.

“I do not expect mercy for myself,” the prisoner rasped. His voice was just as unpleasant as the chains, chafing Logan’s ears. “I know that my crime is unforgivable. All I ask is that my daughter be spared. She–” He burst into a coughing fit.

Logan glanced at his father. David nodded slightly, giving permission.

“And why,” Logan said, as royally as he could muster, “is your daughter here?”

The prisoner’s expression was mostly concealed by hair. But his voice tightened as he gathered his breath and said, “She is mute and cannot speak for herself. The guards who arrested us–they saw the blood on her hands and thought s-she–”

Another coughing fit seized him, this time producing blood. Logan realized it was not only starvation causing his body to decline. He waited until the man finished.

“--thought she was an accomplice. I swear to you, she had no part.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, in the way that a prince should when conveying his rightful skepticism. “And we should simply take the word of a criminal?”

“Not just a criminal. Her father,” the man said, more strained.

Logan scoffed. “All the more reason to lie for her then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, David looked pleased. It meant he was saying the right things, even though it felt wrong. But that was just one of the many flaws that his father had pointed out; his heart tried to mislead him.

The prisoner slowly shook his head. “She cannot speak, but–but she can write. If she was allowed to write what happened–”

“Can she write Helson?”

This was David’s question. It gave Logan pause, wondering why that would even be a question. If she was a Helsoner, and if she could write, why would it not be in the language of their country?

The prisoner seemed to flinch from the question.

“No. Only Born.”

“Because she is part Borna,” David said, answering the next question Logan had. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You brought her to Helsoner because it was safer, and then murdered your own son when he tried to show his love for her.”

“That was not love,” the prisoner spat. “She did not want it. She kept refusing–”

“Because she was raised by snakes,” David cut in. “How could you expect her to embrace him when she has been manipulated? You should have been patient with them both, and yet you chose Borna blood over your own.”

The prisoner’s hands curled into fists. “I loved my son.”

David’s smile was cold. “Not as much as you loved your mistake.”

Logan was shaken. He understood now why the prisoner was being starved. He had sinned by having a child with a Borna and then committed one of the most egregious sins of all; killing your own flesh and blood.

But the half-Borna girl did not ask to be born. She did not, Logan presumes, choose to be mute out of stubbornness or secrecy. He had read once, when he still snuck out books from the library unrelated to his studies, that losing your voice was a result of something truly horrific. You no longer spoke because the fear was unspeakable, as if your mind wanted to prevent you from uttering a word about what happened. It was a sickness, not a choice.

Logan understood all too well. There were times where his throat refused to work, no matter how much he wanted it to. He could sympathize with the girl, and perhaps it was making him soft. But it was his father’s own words that led to his decision:

They would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

Here was the father, in chains for his crime. Yet his daughter was in chains as well, and they never asked her why there was blood on her hands. Simply having Borna blood, while an unfortunate fate to have, was not a crime.

“Please,” the father begged. “She is innocent.”

“She speaks–writes in a language none of us care to know,” David said, dismissive of the man’s pain and his daughter’s plight. He kept it hidden, but Logan knew he took pleasure in it. Just as he took pleasure in bringing his own son to tears.

The injustice of it all swelled in Logan’s chest. He fought to keep his voice steady as he stepped forward and said, “I read Born. We will let her write, and I will translate.”

This was the wrong thing to say.

The king’s court remained silent, but visibly expressed their displeasure. Some of them were bold enough to shake their heads in disappointment.

Logan turned towards his father. Apprehensive, but firm in his stance. It would earn him a severe punishment later, but he could handle the pain. He could sleep with aching bruises and stinging lashes, so long as the image of an innocent girl wasting away in chains did not haunt his nightmares.

He expected David to oppose him. After all, only the king could grant the prisoner’s request. But he was prepared for an argument, and the longer that it went on, the more embarrassing it would be for his father. He was supposed to have Logan under control; this display of defiance proved otherwise.

It all came down to appearances, as David often told him. The boy could not help feeling a bit smug for using his father’s own tactics against him.

David gave him a long, unreadable look before turning back to the prisoner, speaking with a note of finality. “My son is willing to show mercy towards your daughter. I will grant your request, but not out of mercy. We shall see how innocent she truly is after receiving her word.”

Logan’s smile fell in an instant. Of course. Even if the girl was innocent, her words could be twisted against her. Nobody was going to trust a half-Borna to tell the truth; it made no difference whether she was allowed to tell it or not.

The girl’s father had to have known this. Yet when he finally raised his head, his eyes were soft with gratitude, and they were looking at Logan.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

His face carved itself into Logan’s memory. That was before the guards came forward and turned the man around, leading him out of the throne room. The sound of chains could be heard in the corridor, followed by a hoarse sob.

Logan did not even know his name.

—

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good person. He listened to a total of twenty prisoners beg for mercy, and did his best to be fair. King David ended up granting more requests that day than he had ever granted in a year.

He also broke a few of his son’s ribs, but Logan still considered it a victory.

About a month later, the splitting pain in Logan’s sides had faded into a dull ache, and he could stand straight again. He was surprised when his father invited him to another grievance hearing, but did not refuse. He dared to hope that he had impressed both the king and his court. There might not even be a beating this time.

With that in mind, Logan was in high spirits when he entered the throne room, unable to stop grinning. This was proof that he could be both a good son and a good person. That he did not need to compromise his morals to be a ruler worthy of respect. David was simply lost in the traditional ways, but now that he was starting to value his son’s opinions, Logan could show him the right way.

He made to ascend the stairs leading up to the two thrones, letting his guards stay at the bottom. But before he could reach the first step, his arm was grabbed.

Unhand me, he was about to order. It came out as a startled yelp when his arm was wrenched behind him, and another set of hands circled his waist. Logan failed to squirm out of their hold before something heavy and metal clicked into place, worn like a thick belt. He gasped as a manacle was attached to the wrist of his only hand, the chain looped through a ring in the belt.

The guards stepped away. When he tried to move his arm out from behind him, the chain went taught, and his muscles throbbed in protest.

Frazzled, the young prince’s wide eyes darted around the room. His father’s court had taken their places already, a mixture of satisfied looks and smug whispers. His father, Logan realized, had walked past him while he was being restrained and now sat on his throne, the perfect image of a vindictive king.

Logan snarled at him like a trapped beast. “Father! What is the meaning of this?!”

David’s eyes looked colder than usual. “You wanted to grant mercy to our prisoners, and I allowed it,” he said, smirking. “Now, we will see if that mercy was deserved.”

“What do you mean? I only granted it to those who–”

“Send in the first one,” David said to the guards.

Logan whipped around. There was a young man approaching, keeping his head bowed in the presence of royals. Logan recognized him as one of the prisoners that were freed; the circle of bruises on his wrists had not yet faded. He staggered away from the man when he got close, baring his teeth in warning. The man just smiled back.

“You are a freed man now,” David said, voice filling the room. “You told my son that you were wrongly imprisoned for defending yourself against a thief. What is the truth?”

Logan stared at the man, heart in his throat. He remembered the prisoner’s emotional tale, the guilty tears that stained his cheeks when he spoke of the unintended killing. He did not mean to do it; the thief was armed, and the man simply panicked. Logan could not fault him for wanting to live.

But now, the man’s eyes gleamed with spite. “The truth,” he said, far too proudly, “is that the bastard made me lose my job. I took his wife to lure him into my home, and then I stabbed him until he was more holes than flesh.”

Logan’s stomach twisted.

That–that was far more repulsive than the crime he alleged.

He turned on his father. “You knew all along! Had you just spoken up–”

“You would have accused me of being cruel,” David said. “But no, my son, I did not know until the man later confessed. I could only tell that he was lying, as you should be able to do by now.”

Logan’s pride flared in response, and then quickly deflated. His father was right. How could he have been so naive? He trusted his instincts to warn him of dishonesty, yet this vengeful killer slipped right past him. He only had himself to blame.

“Tell me,” David said, speaking to the killer. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of man you really are?”

The killer unsheathed his dagger.

“I would like to cut off a few of those layers and mark up that perfect skin.”

Logan’s mouth was agape. He could not believe–he did not want to believe this was happening. That his father would let him be tortured by a sadistic murderer just to teach him a lesson. He stepped forward in a hurry, desperate to earn his father’s forgiveness.

“Father, please–”

“Your request has been granted,” David declared.

The boy’s shrill scream echoed off the walls when the killer grabbed him, grinning as he raised the dagger. “Keep moving and this might go in you,” he warned, pressing the blade to the front of Logan’s vest.

Logan was too afraid to listen. He kicked the man’s legs, screaming again when he was shoved down to the marble floor. The man’s weight pressed down on his thighs, keeping his legs flat as the buttons of his vest were snapped off. The fabric split open, exposing the intricately laced tunic underneath. With a single movement, the laces were cut, falling to the sides as the tunic was forced to open.

Logan thrashed against him, uncaring of the sharp blade. It was not the pain he feared. It was the humiliation of it all. A prince being pinned down in his own home, while a filthy criminal rips off his clothing. It was depraved that his father would allow it, but nobody else seemed to agree. David’s courtiers looked viciously pleased.

David looked no different.

His throat and sternum were exposed. The indecency made Logan flush, now panting from his efforts to escape. The killer seemed to enjoy it. This time, the tip of the blade met skin instead of fabric, and left a throbbing trail down Logan’s chest as it dragged across his skin. Blood rose to the surface.

Logan’s eyes were burning. “Stop! Father, please stop this!”

“Should have listened to Daddy sooner,” the killer sneered.

Another line was carved over the first one, deeper this time. Pain swelled, twisted in with fear and shame. Logan could not bear to think about how he looked right now. Being cut into, being forced into an immodest state, all while he cried and screamed; this was a punishment fit for a prisoner, not a prince.

Yet nobody came to his defense.

It was David who, after two more cuts, told the killer to stop. Logan rolled over as soon as he did, stifling a sob. He could not bring himself to look when his father told the next freed prisoner to enter.

“You are a freed woman now,” he heard David say. “You told my son that you were remorseful. That you were blinded by rage when you defiled one of the statues of my visage. What is the truth?”

Logan was hefted up by the guards. He fought to swallow back tears, thick in his throat and still rolling down his cheeks. Surely, this one could not be as bad. She was just a petty vandal, not a hardened criminal worth keeping in the dungeons.

Truthfully, though it was not the reason he gave for extending mercy, he found it amusing to think of David’s stone face being pissed on.

Now, however, there was nothing to be amused about. Not when the woman’s lip curled back with apparent malice. “The truth is that all you royals make me sick, and I would have smacked your boy silly for disrespecting his father.”

Logan stared at her in shock. “I gave you mercy!”

The woman scoffed. “You have no idea what mercy is.”

“Tell me,” David said, humored by the woman’s attitude. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of woman you really are?”

She narrowed her eyes at Logan. “A good spanking should suffice.”

“No,” he blurted out, stepping back when she came near. His legs were trembling. “No, you are not my father, that is not for you to–”

“Your request has been granted,” said David.

A guard stepped behind to hold him. His chain rattled during the struggle. The boy shouted and cursed and flailed his legs, much like a child having a tantrum. But he was almost a man now, and the thought of being spanked in front of his father’s court, the guards, any servant who passed by the throne room–it was too much.

It was no use. He was shoved to the floor once again, a gloved hand forcing his head down while another pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. The woman did not pull his leggings down–thank Fotia for that–but she knelt behind him where he could not see. Raising her hand to strike him as he writhed on the floor.

“No,” he cried out. “No–stop–get away–no!”

His voice broke off into a sob when her hand made contact, followed by a sharp sting in his backside. It did not hurt as much as the bleeding lines in his chest did. He tried to concentrate on that. Tried to listen for the small drops of blood hitting the marble instead of the mortifying smack smack smack coming from behind him.

He did not count how many there were, as he would have with his father.

Eventually, she was told to stop. He heard the woman let out a harsh breath before standing up, and the strong hands holding him down were gone. The boy grit his teeth, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs.

His backside was aflame. His cheeks were burning. Part of his torso was exposed and still bleeding. Every inch of his skin felt tainted, sinful. The indignant anger he felt was nothing compared to the shame coiling in his stomach, writhing like a ball of snakes. He thought it would devour him.

He looked up at his father silently, knowing his pleas would be ignored. David looked satisfied, but not placated just yet. “If you stay still and do not need to be held down,” he told his son, “I will make this the last request. Otherwise, there will be more.”

Logan’s lip quivered as he stifled a sob. He nodded to show he understood.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Logan did not turn around. He kept his head down as they stopped near him, dropping in a bow for the king. When the boy finally chose to look, his eyes went wide. He recognized the man’s face; it was the father who killed his Helson son to protect his half-Borna daughter.

No, his heart whispered. Not you as well. Please, not you.

“You are a freed man now,” he heard David say, but that made no sense. Only the daughter was found to be innocent, after she was allowed to share her story. “Tell my son why that is.”

Logan looked up at the man, dreading his answer. He was not nearly as thin as before and his hair had been combed, now tied back in a low ponytail. Logan wanted to be happy for him.

The man hesitated. “Your father promised to free me if I did this,” he said, heavy with remorse. There was a vial of some liquid in his hand.

Logan stepped back without thinking. “Do what? What is that?”

“Tell me,” David said, like a blade descending. “What would you like to do to my son, to repay him for his kindness and live freely with your daughter?”

The vial in the man’s hand shook. He spoke as if reciting by memory.

“I would like his voice to be gone as well.”

Logan looked to his father. Opened his mouth. David glanced at the guards, an unspoken reminder of his offer. Stay still and his punishment would end.

“Your request has been granted,” David told the man.

Logan forced himself not to move. He heard the cork of the vial being popped, and nearly recoiled at the foul odor that escaped. The man stepped in front of him, gently taking the boy’s chin between his fingers to tilt it up. More tears slipped down Logan’s blotchy face as it was lifted, looking up at the man with resignation.

He was not just a man. He was a father. He put his daughter’s freedom before his own, and now he had the chance to be free as well. What was one boy’s suffering compared to his daughter? A part of Logan knew this. Yet his heart still hardened into a cold, tight fist of fury when the rim of the vial touched his lips. He let them part.

The pain was instant.

It was like liquid fire. It scalded the inside of his mouth and raked over his tongue, like hundreds of stingers pricking at once. Logan was torn between choking and screaming, somehow managing both when his mouth was pried open and the rest of the vial emptied inside.

It burned everywhere. Down his throat. In his nostrils. Behind his eyes, where he could no longer see past his tears, squeezing them shut as he swallowed the last of the liquid in agony. The pain made his head throb. He clutched it with his hand once his restraints were taken off; he did not see the man’s expression before he left.

The prince fell to his knees. He was reduced to short, wheezing breaths, feeling his senses go fuzzy from the lack of air. But after a moment, his throat went numb. It started there and worked up to the inside of his mouth. His tongue felt heavy, useless. The fire was snuffed out, and the boy could breathe again. He opened his mouth to speak.

All that came out was a soft, strained gasp.

—

Logan’s voice returned in the morning. Before it did, every member of David’s court took great lengths to let him know how much they enjoyed his silence. The guards who were present for his punishment shared the details with their teammates, laughing at their prince’s expense. Even a few servants were audacious enough to make a snide comment that Logan could not respond to.

He stayed in his chambers for most of it.

When sunlight snuck into the room, Logan turned away from it. He lay flat on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He wondered if it was possible to suffocate himself with it. His body’s self-preservation would most likely prevent that.

The sound of a key turning interrupted his morbid thoughts. Logan assumed it was his personal attendant come to wake him, but the footsteps sounded different. Heavier, like boots, not the soft pad of a servant’s slippers.

It was certainly not a servant who laid a hand on his back.

Logan stiffened. Even through his sleep clothes, his father’s hand was an unwelcome touch. Or so he told himself. The bed dipped with David’s weight as he sat next to his son, and despite all of Logan’s anger towards him, his body relaxed. This was not another punishment; this was the part that came after.

David’s voice was soft. Soothing. “I will grant one more request, only to you.”

Logan wanted to stay upset with him. In his mind, his request was some kind of punishment for his father, one that might make up for what he put his son through. Or it was something personal and gutting, an attack disguised as a request. The type that David might deliver had their positions been reversed.

The hand on his back started rubbing in circles.

Logan’s anger wavered.

David did not offer him kindness out of remorse, but he still offered. No matter how badly he hurt his son, or how horribly he embarrassed him, Logan could expect mercy once he earned it. After every punishment, Logan was treated to a side of his father that cared for him. A part of David that did not utterly loathe his son.

It was the closest thing he had to his father’s love, and Logan could not bear to lose it.

He raised his head to look up at David. Already, there were tears in his eyes. His father was here to help, and he was grateful. He had already forgiven David, and now he needed his father to do the same.

The boy’s voice cracked with emotion. “Can you please forgive me?”

He could never quite tell what his father was feeling. But he wanted to believe it was something close to affection when David smiled at him. Logan’s chest felt lighter, his guilt lifted, as his father leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead.

“Your request has been granted,” David said.

my writing x my whump x a promise of purity au x ko-fi

#whumplr #whump writing #royal whump #royalty whump #minor whump #emmett whumps #whump tag #emmett writes #A Promise of Purity AU #emmett ocs #logan oc #david oc #ty for liking/rbing if you do!#A Promise of Purity AU (writing)

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victimeyez · 9 months

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Professional//Victim

Introducing...

CW: Drugged whump, captivity, collared whumpee

“Here.”

Thomas stared at the hand outstretched to him, holding a large white pill in the flat of their palm.

“What is it?”

“You want me to put it in some peanut butter for you? Fucking take it.”

He eyed the pill warily. Drugs usually meant something bad was going to happen and they didn’t want him struggling. Thomas mechanically took the pill in his hand.

“Can I have something to take it with?” Rory sighed dramatically in irritation, but stomped to the sink and poured him some water. He thrust the cup half-filled with tap water into Thomas’s hand a little harder than necessary. In spite of his mood, he was about as relenting as he’d ever be.

“If you’re good, you can have a little soda when we get there.”

(Put pill in mouth. Raise glass to lips. Swallow the pill with well water. Try not to wince at the taste. Drink everything you’ve been given while you can get it.)

“Thatta boy Tommy.” Rory clapped him on the shoulder and shook it a little.

“You’re gonna wanna sit down.”

By the time the others were ready to go, the pill had kicked in mean. Thomas was too weak to walk and was unceremoniously dragged out to the car. It was all he could do to try not to drool on himself, but this one was strong.

He was buckled into the back seat, and he slumped against the window, struggling to keep his eyes open just so he could look outside. It was rainy and gray. What luck. He struggled to prop his head up with a heavy arm so he could watch the outside world pass without pressing his forehead to the glass.

The guys were arguing about something outside the car, and then Rory slid into the seat next to him. “I’d tell you not to start shit, but I’d kinda like to try to see you run when you’re this fucked up.”

Tommy’s mouth was so dry. So uncomfortable. The world drifts in and out of focus. He tries to shake his head to clear it, but his movements come slow and small. Dry swallows.

“Where are we going?”

“That’s not your fucking business, Tommy!” Rory answers cheerfully.

Another car door shuts, and a bag is passed back to sit between him and Rory. Probably snacks. Road trip then. He feels queasy from taking the pill on an empty stomach. (Don’t complain.) His arm against the window is cold. (Don’t complain.) The last door shuts and the car starts. Rory reaches over to grab his seatbelt and pulls it out all the way, letting go to let it click click click retract back. It tightens painfully on Tommy and locks, restricting him to only the tiniest increment of movement. Every breath fought against the seat belt, pressing painfully on his chest and stomach.

He doesn’t complain.

The last client did a number on him, and he hasn’t been outside the house in weeks. Tommy hungrily takes in the bleak scenery as they roll out of the neighborhood. A podcast starts over the speakers, a tech one Michelle likes. Rory groans and starts moving around beside him. Five years in and it’s all predictable. Tommy doesn’t have to look to know he’s rummaging through his pack for headphones. He watches the houses and the trees pass as long as he can keep his eyes open. It doesn’t last long.

Tommy woke up to a jab in the ribs. “You’re drooling.” He startled blearily and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his fist and it came away wet. He’s too tired to be embarrassed.

He must have dozed off again, because the next time he woke up, he was being shaken. They were parked in front of a hotel. It was getting dark, maybe late evening. Hard to tell in the spring when the sun still set so early. The car door was open and Caius leered over him from outside, unbuckling his seat belt and pulling him out without finesse. Tommy struggled to get his feet out under himself, and he had to lean heavily on Caius just to shuffle out.

There are other people milling around the hotel lounge when they walk through the doors, but Tommy was rendered mute by the drugs, and Caius gave an apologetic smile to onlookers who stared. Clearly his friend had too much to drink. What a nice young man to help him back to the hotel.

They get in the elevator, which was mercifully empty. It smelled like chlorine. Tommy couldn’t keep track of the floors they passed, but Caius dragged him out at last, after a few seconds or maybe a decade.

Another painful drag, and Caius unlocked a door with a keycard before dumping him unceremoniously inside. Tommy laid on the carpet and waited. He could still see the room.

“How much longer?” Rory asked, staking his place on one of the two king-size beds.

Michelle was shuffling through his pack on the other side of the bed. “Should be about six more hours. Checkout is at 11, we can grab some food and hit the road. Tommy will be sobered up by the time we get there and ready to rock.”

“I brought a bump just in case,” Rory offered.

Michelle nodded. “Guy doesn’t want him strung out, but it’s good to have on hand.”

Caius was sorting through his bag on the other bed, when he suddenly paused.

“Tommy didn’t have lunch, right? We should get some food in him. I need to grab a cot anyways, I don’t want him to be too stiff tomorrow from sleeping on the floor. What did he have this morning?”

Awkward silence.

“Rory?”

Rory shrugged, avoiding Caius’s stare. “Just the pill.”

A pause.

"You gave him a high-dose sedative with no food?! He hasn't eaten since, what, 6 (pm?) on Thursday? That's over 26 hours, you fuckin' prick," said Caius, doing quick math.

"It's not my fuckin' job to feed him," Rory said.

"Yes the fuck it is!" Caius snapped back before storming out.

"Whatever, he'll live!" Rory called after him. And when the door was safely closed, added, "Fucker."

Thomas closed his eyes, and sought sleep.

He slept surprisingly well through the night, after briefly being woken up for a rushed shower and some food before being dropped back into a worn cot by the beds. Michelle’s alarm went off early enough to grab breakfast, and he was starting to feel a bit more human by the time they were ready to get back on the road.

Caius approached him and crouched down beside his cot.

“You know the drill.”

Tommy chewed his lip, but lifted his head when Caius slipped the collar around his neck. With a twist of the collar and a little pressure from his thumbs, Caius sank the curved metal barbs inside the collar into Tommy’s neck before locking it in place. It still hurt, but Tommy didn’t flinch.

“Same as always. Start shit, get fried.”

He held up the small round remote and pressed the button.

All of Tommy’s muscles seized at once, an excruciating cramping after a day of drug-induced weakness. He vaguely registered a hard hit to the back of his head, as his spasming made him smash his head on the frame of the cot.

It let up after a moment and he slumped back into the cot, trying his best to curl in on himself on the narrow bed. His heart beat hard and fast and his head pounded away with it. His hands instinctively came up to the collar, to the hot talons in his neck that it secured. He felt jittery, his teeth chattering with the aftershocks and he shivered.

“Just a reminder. Come on,” Caius commanded, patting his shoulder a little harder than would be friendly. As if Tommy needed a fucking reminder.

Caius helped him up onto unsteady feet. A wave of nausea came over him and he pressed a fluttery hand to his mouth.

“You can eat in the car. Let’s move.”

The lobby was much busier than Tommy would have liked. People bustling around, checking out early, grabbing the last of the continental breakfast. A handful of them looked up, curious, at the man shrinking into himself in a black hoodie and a red bandana wrapped around his neck. At the other man leading him carefully out.

What a nice man, helping his shivering junkie friend out.

Tommy clenched his fists in his pockets and kept his head down. He knew from painful experience that trying to reach out to them wouldn’t bear fruit.

They met the others already in the car, and this time Cauis sat beside him. A muffin, a granola bar, and water for breakfast. Dessert: a flat, chalky pill.

“It’ll help you sleep on the road,” Caius offered, as if it was a choice.

(Pill. Mouth. Water. Swallow.)

Tommy threw it back. He watched the outside world rush by until he was pulled back to sleep.

next: x

series masterlist: x

#professional victim #captive whumpee #drugged whumpee #whump

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whumpberry-cookie · 1 year

Note

HI!! CAN WE HAVE SOME SUGAR RELATED PROMPTS!! LIKE CANDY? THANK U!!

-🍭🍬

Sure, thank you for the ask, anon! I'll try my best! :D

Sugar related prompts

(Cw: creepy whumper, whumper experiencing guilt, trauma aftermath, torture mentioned)

--------------------------

Whumpee used to to work beyond their strenght in their master's home. Cook, clean, do the dishes, dust, vacuum and other stuff. They never get any day off, even after intensive beating. So after they escaped and got taken in by Caretaker, they just couldn't accept the system of division of responsibilities. So Caretaker gives them a lollipop as an award everytime they step back and let Caretaker do some chores. It helps.

Caretaker is obsessed with one type of sweets and it makes 1/3 of their personality. Like honey, but only the heather one. Whumpee who is usually confused with human interactions is very glad with the information that giving Caretaker the heather honey never fails to make them delighted. It's safe and predictable.

Whumpee was never attached to anyone. But that kind, gentle stranger? Oh, how that stranger makes their little confused heart tremble. And that sweet, subtle and calming scent that follows Caretaker everywhere: (1) Cigarettes and coffee liquier (2) Soap and powder candies (3) Grass and lemon tea (4) cologne and peaches (5) Old books and caramell (6) Campfire smoke and hot chocoate (7) Leather and cherry syrup

Whumper actually feels guilt, so before every torture session they give their starved Whumpee a handful of candy. Whumpee can't help but tear up, eating the actual food that tastes good. That's the way Whumper satisfies his own conciousness. Some years later, when Caretaker gives Whumpee a box of candy bars, jellies, lollipops and candies for their birthday, Whumpee takes it as a message "I will hurt you soon". And the whole trust they worked so hard on falls apart in one moment.

Creepy whumper + magical whumpee (fairy-like) whose skin tastes like strawberries with sugar?

Caretaker is mute (or there's language barier) so they express kindness by preparing an afternoon sweet snack. The thing is... They can't bake. So it's always very simple. An unpeeled orange. Undermixed Cogel Mogel. Burnt microvawed cupcake in mug. Whumpee finds it hilarious, but tries to not show it and eats every meal with a smile.

---------------------

Thank you for the ask, candy anon (or lollipop anon?) Have a sweet day!

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whirl-whump · 4 months

Text

The Werewolf Pt 1: The Capture

[A/N: I have more planned for this whumpee! I will make a masterlist and pin it when I finish the next part. It's hard to believe, but things will actually get worse for the poor guy, hehe.]

CWs: werewolf whumpee, nudity (nonsexual), blood, manhandling, injury, dehumanisation, it as pronouns, dog attack, death threat, knives -------------------------------------

The rooster crowed. On a misty, frosty morning, Oscar woke with blood in his mouth.

Panting into the grass, he waited for the pains of his transformation to fade. His muscles and tendons should relax into their old form soon. But the pain didn’t leave, not entirely. There was a sharp, clenching pain deep in his right thigh that only got worse as the adrenaline wore off.

Despite the bone-deep aches, the man managed to carefully lift his head and look behind him. He hissed: the unmistakable shaft of an arrow, gone clean through the meat of his thigh. Shit. At least the bleeding seemed to have stilled for now.

The wolf must have been desperate and hunted something it shouldn’t have. And now here Oscar lay: wounded, naked, and still goddamned hungry. Whatever he had caught must have been small. Stupid animal couldn’t even hunt properly.

He looked around, but couldn’t place the clearing he was in. He wasn’t looking forward to stumbling around in the forest searching for his supplies, but he needed something to dress the wound with before he removed the shaft. Thank small mercies he healed faster than most humans.

With trembling arms, he pushed himself onto his elbows. Without his fur, he was shivering in the cold, which made his thigh flare up with a pulling pain. Oscar grunted. He wondered if he could even bring himself to move like this.

Then, his ears picked up something distant, but not distant enough: barking dogs and yelling voices. An animal-like panic gripped his heart. Wound be damned, he would have to try!

The werewolf scrambled to his feet, only to slip in the wet grass and fall down on the hard ground with a painful crash. The noise got closer.

For once, the man wished the animal inside him had stuck around longer. It was stupid and dangerous, but at least it was better at getting away. On his hands and knees, Oscar made a valiant but vain attempt. All he managed to do, was release more of the scent of his fear into the air.

The dogs breached the clearing, barking triumphantly.

Oscar curled up and covered his neck with his hands. It was a horrid way to go, a distant part of him thought. But without his teeth and claws, the dogs would make work of him, if the arrows wouldn’t.

The barking got so loud. He heard their paws rush through the snow, and closed his eyes-

A sharp ear-piercing whistle blew, and the paws skipped to a stop. A harsh voice called.

“Heel! Back boys, heel!”

Oscar could feel the frustration from the animals, so close to their trembling prey. He kept his eyes closed in fear, but their panting sounded like they were big. No doubt spit was dripping from their jaws.

A sharp prick grazed his heel, and he yelped.

“Bexter! Bad! Heel!”

The dog gave up on his half-hearted attempt and retreated.

Another set of footsteps approached, running.

“Why’d you call them back?”

“Some poor sod got attacked, I think. They must have smelled the wolf on him. Sir! You alright?”

Was he talking to him? Was he “sir”? That had been a while. Especially while naked in a field. It was so shocking he struggled to find his words. The second voice answered for him.

“Does he look alright to you? Wait...”

He seemed to see something. When he spoke again, it was low and angry in a muted way.

“That’s my arrow.”

Dead silence settled across the field.

Oscar dared to open his eyes. Thankfully the way he was curled up concealed the worst indignities, but it didn’t hide the arrow sticking from his thigh. Nor the blood that covered his face and arms.

The first hunter finally caught on that that blood wasn’t his.

His eyes turned cold as ice.

“You got it in its hind leg, didn’t you.” he asked the other hunter, a broad man with heavy brows. The man nodded.

Any hope of pretending to be a victim faded. Werewolves were rare, but not unheard of. They tended to get rarer when they were caught and dealt with.

Covering himself with one bloodied hand, Oscar tried to raise the other in a placating manner.

“Sirs, I-I don’t know what I did, b-but I swear-”

He didn’t get to finish before the first hunter clicked his teeth and sharply called his dogs to action.

“Fetch!”

Scrabbling was no use, and Oscar cried as the dog descended on him. Like the well-trained animals they were, they could fetch prey without destroying it. But their sharp teeth dug into his arms and the meat of his shoulders with an iron grip. Oscar knew that even with his fast healing, it would take days before he was recovered.

If he had days to live, anyway.

Dumped before the feet of the hunters, the broad one held a knife against his throat, and he froze.

“We ought to kill it, for what it did.”

His colleague chastised: “The duke will judge that. It isn’t our place. Just truss it up.”

Oscar was too scared to even swallow, as his arms were tied behind his back. He tried to make his trembling lips cooperate long enough to speak. If he wouldn’t be killed yet, there was time to bargain.

“I-I am sorry for whatever I killed, I promise I can work to repay it, please-” The handle of the knife knocked hard against his temple, and spots danced in his vision.

A rough rope was tied around his neck, and he was pulled to his unstable feet. Fire spread from his wound all the way to his toes whenever he put weight on his bad leg, and he struggled to stay upright. His eyes were stuck to the forest floor, fear and shame making his heart pound in his ears.

“Please, I’m a man now,” he begged. “I know I have to answer for what I did, but please, can I have something for the cold?” He couldn’t even bring himself to voice the shame of how he looked. But when he glanced up to gauge the hunters expression, he found no mercy.

“Don’t look like much of a man to me,” the broad one sneered, and that was that. Dignity shouldn’t be high on his priority list anyway.

The hunter that controlled the dogs had second thoughts, though.

“There’ll be women at the estate. Let’s give it something.”

“Fine, but it’ll get yours.”

The hunter seemed less enthused about the idea now, but he couldn’t back out. With a grumble, he took off his cloak and roughly threw it over Oscar.

“Thank you-” Oscar tried, but the man shut him up by shoving his shoulder. Oscar cried out from the pressure on the bitemarks and would have fallen if it weren't for the rope around his throat. The hunter snapped at him.

“Shut up! I’ll have to burn that damn thing now. Let’s just go.”

The dogs nipped at his heels as the humans pulled him forward, and with ice cold feet and a growing pit of dread in his stomach, Oscar was dragged to his fate.

#hehe my first post im excited!#my writing #my work #whump #whumpblr #nonhuman whumpee #werewolf whumpee #fantasy whump #nudity (nonsexual)#blood cw #manhandling #injury #dehumanisation #it as pronouns #dog attack #death threat #knives #if i missed anything please let me know!

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scratchandplaster · 1 year

Text

FEBUWHUMP 2023 DAY 9 - Voice loss

CW: mutism, trauma

You got a mute Whumpee on your hands, so what's next?

Depending on the reason why they remain silent (trauma, disfigurement during torture or even innate mutism/deafness) Caretaker has different options to interact, especially if they start out as an unaware stranger:

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Non-Verbal communication:

Not just gestures or facial expression can convey Whumpee's current mood

Different sounds (e.g. humming) are often clear to everybody

The pitch or tone of these noises can indicate rejection or approval, up to requests for interaction → a curious trill can show their counterpart to continue talking

Written communication:

They just write down what they need, be it on a phone or a notepad

If you sprinkle a bit of a language barrier in there, it gets even better

Cards with pictures of everyday activities or objects. They shorten the time to write down and break any language barrier (a good example is the K&J x MMSS 2 crossover by @whumpsday and @not-a-space-alien)

Text-to-speech with short pre-programmed questions and answers for everyday living, therefore making responses quicker. It also teaches Whumpee to use technology → Whumpee can also customize their voice, thus getting used to "speaking" again

Sign language:

Caretaker and Whumpee can learn to use signs together and practice with each other

They can settle for ASL as a recognized and widely practiced language, visit local classes or make up their own signs if they don't have the options or the setting limits this accessibility

Bonus → Speech therapy:

A bonding moment for Whumpee and Caretaker

BUT also a root for lots of angst and anger, e.g. Whumpee being frustrated with their (lack of) progress and getting upset

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

@febuwhump

[Febuwhump 2023 Masterlist]

#whump #whumpblr #creative writing #whump community #whump drabble #febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday9 #mutism #voice loss #speech therapy #caretaker x whumpee #communication #mute whumpee #trauma #writing ideas

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tragedyinblue · 1 year

Text

BBU Community Days, Day 4

@bbu-on-the-side

{Day 4: Facility} Make a post linking a favorite facility / training piece (one by you, one by someone else) with commentary on what makes these ones special to you

In terms of one that really sticks out to me, I love “Signing Up” by @pigeonwhumps because of the glimpse it offers into a moment at which a person becomes a Pet (voluntarily). Instead of a violent encounter it’s a conversation (albeit with already obvious class/power differences from the get-go even before the collar comes on). The scene is calm, but the intensity/gravity is still there and becomes frightening as the handler’s persona changes on a dime.

As for one by me, I wrote a follow-up on the day 3 “Discipline” prompt. I didn’t intend to spend a lot of time in the training portion of C47’s story, but I couldn’t help but wonder: what kind of training separates a normal Platonic/Domestic from a Caregiver and how could it be used badly? Hence, this was born.

CW: dark, dehumanization, “it” as a pronoun, animalization, hand-feeding, shock collars and extensive use of shock collars, mention of blood, semi-death, whumpee forced to watch, whumpee forced to whump

————————————————————————

2. Practical Application

C47 counted out loud, punctuating each number with a compression on the rubber torso beneath it.

“Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty!”

It bent down to seal its lips against the dummy’s mouth and forced two long breaths into the sensor tube, eyes catching on the dull LED protruding slightly from the synthetic neck. If it didn’t light, C47 would need to do it all again and the timer was still ticking.

Two minutes. It had only two minutes to save a life. It understood the consequence of failure outside the facility: If it performed the motions too fast, its owner’s heart wouldn’t start. If it pushed too hard or in the wrong place it would shatter the sternum and possibly kill its owner instead. Both outcomes would mean grave threats to its own life, but as it breathed into the cold rubber dummy, it thought the shock collar buzzing around its neck right now was the more important concern.

Pet whined in the back of its throat. It deserved to be punished for such a despicable, evil idea.

At the tail end of its second breath, the light shined brightly. Handler Stott applauded from beside it.

“Congratulations, 47! You’ve successfully saved your Master without major damage with twenty-eight to spare,” Handler Stott said, her clipboard tucked beneath one armpit and the collar’s remote dangling harmlessly from her hip.

C47 assumed Position 2 and grinned up at her. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

Its eyes followed her gloved hand as it dipped into a pouch on her belt, and held out a bone-shaped biscuit. C47’s mouth instantly salivated. Ignoring the way its bruised knees protested, it rose high enough to lick the treat up without drooling into her palm and pressed its cheek gratefully into the empty space.

“Such a good Pet,” she crooned, laughing when it shivered with pleasure. It Loved being told it was good, that such a lowly beast was worthy of praise.

The phone attached to the wall rang and she pivoted away to answer it. C47 didn’t listen in, instead leaning down to place the half-soggy biscuit on the floor to devour it bit by bit. The texture was grainy and a little savory but so much tastier than the single nutrition bar that it received every day.

C47 had just gathered the crumbs of its reward when Handler Stott approached.

“Well, given your performance today I think you’re ready for the next step,” she said brightly. The Pet cocked its head, confused. It proved it could perform CPR within ideal limits. What more could there be?

She clipped a leash to its collar and led it out of the room with a “Come.” C47 crawled after her, keeping its head down respectfully, though its eyes darted about beneath the curtain of its bangs. This corridor was unfamiliar but not the muted sounds and scuffles behind the doors at each side. The Pet tried not to shake as Handler Stott opened one to their left and led it inside.

“Heel,” she commanded, not noticing that C47 was already frozen in place at the scene before it.

A Pet lay immobilized in the center of the room, its limbs locked and back arched to breaking as electricity seized its body. Medical leads taped to its head and bare torso made the monitors along the wall scream the way the poor Pet could not.

Handler Stott sighed. “88 misbehaving again, huh?”

“Yep. Bit Daniels’ calf clear through his trousers and broke skin,” the other handler, Jenson, answered as she released the button on the remote. “This one just won’t quit.”

C88’s sweat-slick body slapped the ground, writhing and twitching with aftershocks. It keened weakly and a thin trickle of bloody spittle leaked from the corner of its mouth—probably from biting its tongue.

“Well, thanks for letting us barge in on your session,” Stott said.

“Of course! If 88’s gonna refuse its training anyway, may as well make it useful. With any luck today will break it.”

The Pet’s dull gray eyes found C47’s one second before its body jerked again, irises rolling back into its head until only the bloodshot whites showed.

The biscuit in C47’s stomach turned sour as it tried not to be sick.

This time when Handler Jensen released the button, the disobedient Pet dropped and the monitor let out a long, continuous tone.

Before C47 could react, Handler Stott unclipped its leash and snapped her fingers. Its eyes ripped away from the Pet on the floor, panic surely evident in its face. The handler was disturbingly calm.

“‘The patient is unresponsive and shows no signs of life,’” she recited, then smiled encouragingly. “Showtime, Pet.”

Previous Next

Tag list: @maracujatangerine

#bbu #bbu community #whump event #day4 #bbucd #inheritance-story

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chaotic-orphan · 1 year

Text

June of Doom, Day Thirteen:

“Say something” : rescue // broken promise // weak

Cw: aversion to light, captivity Whump, isolated whumpee, rescue, touch starved Whumpee, fear of freedom, messed up mindset, thoroughly beaten Whumpee (mentally), emotional whump?, broken whumpee, forceful caretaker, forced caretaker, bad caretaker but not really?

Lucky number thirteen baby

*~*~*~*~*

The door opened and Whumpee despite their exhaustion, flinched. Light flooded the room and a shadow was coming quick towards them. Whumpee closed their eyes, shrinking back into the wall, unable to do anything but wince.

“Whumpee?”

Whumpee’s eyes flew open at the voice. The voice that wasn’t Whumper’s. Kind brown eyes found them and Whumpee whimpered despite themselves. Caretaker was there, standing in front of them. A screwdriver in their hand and Whumpee froze as they stared at the weapon.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, it’s okay. It’s okay, I—“ Caretaker broke off, following Whumpee’s line of sight to the screwdriver in their hand. “It’s… it’s just to free you…”

Whumpee blinked. Oh right. The manacles. Whumpee almost forgot about them they were sitting down in the basement for so long.

“I’m gonna undo the screws holding you up, okay?” Caretaker asked. Whumpee nodded, mute. Caretaker did just that. They started with Whumpee’s right hand. Unscrewing the metal pinning their hands to the wall. The screw clattered to the ground and Caretaker took Whumpee’s wrist in their hand, gently lowering it.

Pins and needles flared up at Caretaker’s hospitality, as they put it in Whumpee’s lap. Whumpee stared at the arm. It was as if it was someone else’s, it looked so… strange. Unfamiliar. The only real feeling was the feeling slowly returning to it.

Another screw popped out and clanged to the ground. Whumpee’s left hand was lowered to their lap again. Caretaker lowered to their knees in front of Whumpee, kind brown eyes looking down at their arms, then going to Whumpee’s face.

“I don’t want to rush you, Whumpee, but I want to get you out of here as soon as possible. Can I help you up?” Whumpee nodded. Caretaker got beside Whumpee and helped them to their feet. Whumpee swayed at how fast they stood, the world swirling and Whumpee rested their head back against the wall, screwing their eyes shut.

How many days had they been down here? Just sitting like that? Waiting for Whumper to come and… and…

“Whumpee. Whumpee? Are you okay?”

No. No I’m not okay, I’m not okay.

“Whumpee, look at me. Say something, please.”

Whumpee obeyed immediately in fear of getting hurt. When they opened their eyes they met brown where they should’ve seen green and that sent them down another spiral.

Say something? Say something? Could Whumpee even… even speak anymore? Or were they just always going to be exactly what Whumper said… weak, pathetic, useless.

A bang from above and Caretaker looked up the stairs, then urged Whumpee forward. Whumpee leaned heavy on Caretaker’s strong hands. A hand against the wall going up the stairs. To the light. How long had it been since Whumpee saw light? The sun, the sky? They couldn’t remember.

What was this kindness? This help they were offered. It was wrong. It was wrong! It was wrong! Whumper wouldn’t want this. They wouldn’t want Whumpee to see the light, the sky, the trees. They didn’t deserve a gift until they were perfect. Whumper told them that. Whumper promised to take Whumpee to see the sky if they were good and was Whumpee good? Were they being good right now? Escaping? With a ghost from their past life.

They wanted Whumpee to say something. Whumpee pushed against Caretaker’s hold and half fell onto the current step up from the basement.

“Whumpee?”

“No,” Whumpee croaked. Their voice a harsh, grating sound. They coughed and tried to wipe the cobwebs from their throat but it scratched when they spoke again. “Whumper promised.”

Caretaker bent low and asked: “whumper promised? Whumper promised what?”

“Break—“ Whumpee rasped. “Bre— breh…”

“Breaking? Did they break something? Are you okay?”

“No,” Whumpee cried. Their voice so torn. So raw. Wheezing and wrong. “No. I’m brea—“ a sharp inhale “—king a promise.”

Caretaker worried their bottom lip, frowning at Whumpee. “Did you promise Whumper to stay down here?”

Exhausted, Whumpee nodded yes.

Caretaker nodded. “Okay, Whumpee. Okay… but I have to get you out of here. Whumper might be on their way back and—“

“Stay… stay!” Whumpee pleaded and to their horror Caretaker shook their head.

“No. No. We’re going. We’re leaving. I’m taking you out of here. Taking you home.”

“Stay!” Whumpee cried, tears flooding their eyes and quickly flowing over their cheeks. “Stay! Stay! Stay! I promised—“ they pleaded, their voice cracking and breaking. “Stay! Stay!”

“Stay so Whumper can hurt you?! Stay so you can be locked in a basement?! No! No, Whumpee. You’re coming with me whether you like it or not. Please, don’t fight me. You’ll thank me in time.”

“No! No! No!” Whumpee cried, shaking their head side to side as Caretaker helped Whumpee to their struggling feet and half dragged half carried them up the stairs. “Stay! I stay! I promise…”

“Whumpee! Whumpee please! I’m doing this for you.”

Whumpee shook their head thrashing uselessly in Caretaker’s grip. Weak. Pathetic. Useless.

When Whumpee emerged into the light they had to shut their eyes. It blinded them. It hurt so bad. They threw out hands blind, wanting so bad to go back to the dark. Back to where they didn’t hurt so much. Whumper would be so mad and they’d hurt Whumpee again, or leave them alone again… but that’s what Whumpee deserved.

To be alone.

Not to have careful hands carrying them kicking and crying from their safe space. Their dark hole. Their isolation from society that didn’t need Whumpee. That didn’t want Whumpee.

Weak. Pathetic. Useless Whumpee.

Something covered their head and Whumpee flinched. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s for your eyes. So you adjust. You can open them now. It’s not as bright.”

Whumpee opened one eye as a test. Caretaker was right. It was less bright. More… muted. Brightness made bearable. Whumpee looked at Caretaker who smiled at them, happy.

“Better?”

Whumpee nodded.

“Will you keep fighting me?” Caretaker asked sadly.

Whumpee looked at Caretaker. Their eyes hopeful, their lips turned down to a frown. Too much emotion in their face it was hard for Whumpee to read. Whumper always had one emotion. Anger. Hatred. Contempt. It was easy to see, or if it wasn’t Whumper would tell Whumpee exactly how they were feeling. This was hard. Harder.

Whumpee looked down the basement steps to their room. The shackles on the ground where they once sat, silent. Quiet. Safe. Whumpee couldn’t hurt anyone there, but Caretaker… they were hurting Caretaker right now, Whumpee could see it.

They… they just didn’t want to be alone again… they were selfish and weak and pathetic. They just didn’t want to be quiet and alone.

Whumpee shook their head, and Caretaker smiled and put their arms around Whumpee again. Whumpee froze. They made Caretaker happy why were they doing this? What were they doing?

“It’s okay, Whumpee. It’ll be okay.”

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

Text

Landline—Part Five

Where you’ll end up

Previous || Masterlist

Cw: kidnapping, abuse, threats, restraints, captivity setting, multiple whumpees, low scale neglect, implied torture/abuse, mentioned past drugging

The minutes ticked by, slowly dragging on as Coriander forced themself to swallow mouthful after mouthful of the overly flavorful omelette. Questions buzzed around their mind, fear prickling their stomach like a thousand needles, not letting anything they ate sit quite right. Dan finished his meal first, and now sat with their arms crossed, watching as Coriander slowly inched towards the same goal.

After a small while of waiting, Dan seemed to be growing rather bored. “Come on, doll, I don’t have all day.” He sighed, fingers drumming against the tabletop, betraying his impatience.

Coriander hadn’t had much appetite to begin with, but that seemed to turn their mouthful bitter, and they set the spoon down on their plate.

Dan took that as a signal they were done—they stood up, gathering both plates and cups, muttering under their breath “I’ll teach you not to waste food…”

They carried the dishes to the sink, scraping the leftovers into the trash before placing the glass in the basin. Coriander’s eyes flicked around the kitchen, glancing at the window covered by a sheer curtain, just above the sink. It seemed dark outside, but not the night kind of dark, the muted dull of a cloudy day. Just on the counter next to that was a third plate, one they had completely failed to notice earlier, filled just as theirs had been with an omelette, a half piece of toast, and a few scattered berries. After Dan set down the used dishes, they picked up the third untouched plate, and turned to Coriander.

“I wish I could trust you to stay up here by yourself, but you have made it quite clear I can’t leave you alone for a minute,” they muttered, voice low and annoyed as they balanced the plate in one hand, motioning for them to stand with the other. Confused and still more than a little scared, Coriander didn’t see any other choice than to stand and follow as Dan stepped out into the hall and began walking.

A knot twisted in their stomach as Dan stopped outside a near door, switching the plate to one hand as he fished for something in his pocket with the other. The door was wooden, closed like every other they could see down the hallway, with a silver handle. The one thing distinguishing it, though, was the little latch near the handle, flipped and sealed with a padlock.

“Here, hold this,” Dan muttered, pushing the plate into Coriander’s hands, which they had to quickly find a grip on before it could fall. Dan’s hand returned with a keychain, decorated with a few plain silver keys, which they quickly picked one out of the jumble and fit it into the lock.

As Dan twisted open the door handle’s lock, Coriander felt like they had been thrown underwater. An anchor snared their throat, dragging their head under, ice cold water rushing up their nose and into their mouth, drowning the air from their lungs. A shiver ran down their whole body, and they barely managed to keep the plate from falling.

Dan took the plate back from them almost defensively, holding it in one hand as they grabbed Coriander’s wrist in the other.

“You’re going to sit right at the bottom of the steps and you’re not going to say a word, alright?” It wasn’t a question. Dan started down the stairs, his grip on Coriander’s wrist firm enough to pull them along as they descended into the basement.

The first thing Coriander’s noticed was how dark it was. The walls and floors were made of deep grey polished concrete, the ceiling crossed with exposed rafters and wires. There were a few lightbulbs, one just at the bottom of the stairs, flickering weakly as if it might burn out at any moment. Dan stopped at the bottom step, Coriander only one behind them.

“Sit,” Dan ordered, letting go of their wrist so Coriander could sink to the steps. “Eyes ahead, I don’t want you looking around here.” Dan’s hand moved to their chin, tilting their head back from where they had begun to glance aside. “Don’t make me say it again, alright?”

Coriander could only nod, a small squeak the only sound that managed to escape their throat. Whumper, seemingly satisfied, gave them one last glance before turning and disappearing off to the side, out of Coriander’s sight.

They tried to listen, but light wasn’t the only thing the eerie basement seemed to devour. The sounds were snatched away before they could cross the cellar’s abyss, so only a weak murmur could reach Coriander’s prying ears. They could hear a quiet, sharp clinking sound echo for a moment, rattling metal falling to the cement floor.

Oh shit.

Coriander twisted their head, looking back up the staircase. The door was shut, the staircase narrow and steep. They could probably make it up before Whumper caught on, but would they be able to make it to the door? How far would they get in the woods? Would they-

Their thoughts were cut off by the sound of Dan’s hushed voice, speaking quietly from deep in the basement.

“..trust you enough to leave this down here, okay? don’t make me…”

Coriander strained, but they couldn’t quite catch the end of Dan’s sentence. All fragments of the threat he had made just minutes earlier having fled their mind at the distraction, they twisted the other way, glancing through the staircase’s open railing and squinting through the dark.

They should have listened to Dan.

What they saw froze them to the core, a knife driven through their chest releasing all the air in their lungs. Dan sat cross legged on the ground, positioned in such a way Coriander could just see past their side, back angled towards the wall the staircase hugged. Just passed their frame, barely visible cast in their shadow, Coriander could make out the form of another person, hunched over and huddled back into the corner. In the low light, they couldn’t see much of their condition, but they didn’t really need to see to know what had happened to them. The concrete was dark, but not dark enough to conceal the blood.

Coriander quickly turned their back to the scene, a hand raising to their mouth as a wave of nausea churned in their stomach, acid stinging their throat.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the hell was going on?! This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be real. They must have hit their head really hard in the accident—this was all some vivid hallucination that they would break from soon enough. They had to break out of it, this wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

Coriander jolted back as hands grabbed them by the shoulders, their voice hitching in an involuntary cry.

“I told you not to look,” Dan growled, fingertips digging into Coriander’s shoulders with enough pressure that they were sure there would be bruises tomorrow.

“Stop- stop, let me go-“ Coriander gasped, trying to twist away from them but they were trapped, pinned between the stairs and Dan’s body. “Please, I- I have to go home-”

“Stop fighting,” Dan spat, his hands ripping down Coriander’s arms to grab their wrists, pinning them despite their pitiful struggling. “I swear to god,”

Dan stepped back, dragging Coriander with them, barely giving the other a moment to straighten before they began back across the room. Coriander dug their heels and wrenched their arms, but Dan grabbed a fistful of their hair instead, using that leverage to tug them forwards. Once they were close enough, Dan shifted once again, one arm snaring around Coriander’s torso, locking them against their own body, their other hand tightening in their hair, forcing their gaze downwards.

All bits of struggle died inside them as they locked eyes with the person on the floor.

Their face was painted in shades of yellowing purple, cheeks hollow and bruised. Their hair was oily, tangled, as if it hadn’t been washed in a bit. Their clothes were large and stained, shirt neatly swallowing them whole.

“I have been forgiving. I understand you are stressed, but that is not an excuse to act out.” Dan hissed against Coriander’s ear.

“This will be your only warning. Try to fight me again, and I swear you’ll end up where they are now.”

—————————————————

Tag list: @a-n-i-a-fan @itsmyworld23

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gottawhump · 1 year

Text

Safehouse

Jonas

CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU.l, lady whumpee. Illness mentioned. No actual whump, I think.

“A Romantic and a Guard Dog?” Jonas heard the man trying to keep his voice neutral. “You’re bonded?”

The question assumed they were. It wasn’t the first time he’s heard it. He hated that question. He never knew the right answer, and they made it matter. She’s my Primary, he wants to say. But they’d know it for a lie.

932 tilts her head back, looking through her hair, smiling. The safehouse owner smiles back, unconsciously mirroring her. She says, in a muted sparkling tone, “We’re friends.”

“Of course.” Does 932 see the flicker of doubt that he does? Romantics don’t make friends. They’re lying, manipulative sluts. Then the owner lifts an eyebrow, taking all of them in, completely. “You have a cat?”

“Yes. His name is Bagel. Is it a problem?” Her hands tighten on the carrier.

She will sleep outside in the worst weather to stay with the cat. She’s made herself sick doing just that. And he will sleep right beside her, to keep her safe.

“No. We don’t have anyone here with allergies right now. It’s just unusual.”

It’s a place in passing, one that gives them a few hot meals and real beds to sleep in for a couple nights. A chance to clean up, to get a change of clothes. They get the same small room, two single beds piled with Goodwill quilts. Not a bad place.

But not the right place. In a few days she’s ready to move on.

He wonders what or who she’s looking for.

Forgive and Forget taglist: @whumpsday @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @bluetheautisticrat @i-eat-worlds @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

#pet whump #lady whumpee #bbu/wru #bbu #safehouse #Jonas #932

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victimeyez · 9 months

Text

The Aftermath

pt 3 of Professional//Victim x Prev x Next x

VOTE for the next chapter here UPDATE: CLOSED

After an intense "historical reenactment", someone needs to patch up Tommy.

TAGLIST: @suspicious-whumping-egg @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

CW: Drugged whump, medical whump, captive whumpee

“-dead yet?”

Tommy started to come to, and immediately began to take stock of his body.

He was laid on his front, sideways in the backseat of the car, drooling on Caius’s lap. His memories of Darwin started to come back to him, and he closed his eyes against them sharply, as if to stop them from coming.

Caius replied to the other voice.

“He’s breathing. Looks like he’s waking up, actually.”

Caius’s hand steadied him by his shoulder, which was mercifully numb. Actually, his whole body felt numb, and weak, when he started to stir.

“Don’t move too much. I had to break out the injectables to keep you from fully going into shock.”

“Is he going to bleed all over my car again? Caius, I swear to god-”

“Rory, shut your damn mouth. This isn’t amateur hour anymore.”

“Is he stable?” Michelle asked. Tommy wanted to know that, too.

Caius drummed his fingers absentmindedly on Tommy’s shoulder. He could feel the pressure of it distantly, but without pain or feeling. It felt weird to be so disconnected from his body.

“Stable enough, until we get him to Sam. I packed all the holes in with bleedstop and he’s practically mummified in quickclot. We went through most of the injectables.”

“Sam’s gunna be pissed,” Rory added helpfully.

“He isn’t paid to get pissy. He’ll deal.”

“If this guy wants another session, he’ll have to come to us.” Rory continued to complain.

“No, he can’t. He has a whole…set-up.”

They continued to talk while Tommy drifted in and out.

Caius and Tommy were dropped off outside of Dr. Sam Snow’s hidden office. They had an old wheelchair in the trunk to put him in, but the last of the meds were waning. He was in a considerable amount of pain with the bumps of every little bit of gravel or crack in the road as Caius pushed him along. He grit his teeth and tried to keep his groaning to a minimum.

Caius rapt on an unassuming alley door three times, and waited. Knowing Sam, it would be a few, so he leaned against the bricks and started scrolling through his phone.

They sat in whatever their version of companionable silence was, until there was a familiar grinding sound behind the door. Caius pocketed his phone and stood back behind Tommy’s wheelchair, right as the door opened, thick as a bank vault.

A man leaned out, with dirty blond hair too scruffy to look professional. Sam looked perpetually bedraggled.

“Oh good, my favorites,” He addressed Caius, before turning to eye Tommy in the wheelchair.

“That bad, huh?”

“Even worse,” Caius said with a rueful grin.

Sam stepped out long enough to grab the handles of Tommy’s wheelchair, and popped him onto the back wheels to get him over the entranceway stair. Tommy shrieked in pain, muted somewhat by his instinct to keep his lips closed. He grit his teeth, protective of his wounded mouth.

“Shut up,” Sam said mildly, and pushed him through the doorway down a dimly lit hallway.

This part of the building certainly didn’t feel like a doctor’s office. To the left and right there were rooms long abandoned, filled with broken glass and furniture, painted in old graffiti.

Caius followed, pushing the red button beside the door to make it pull closed and lock behind him.

They took a hard right and came to a metal door that Sam opened with a badge and a code. It always felt so unnecessary, but Tommy could only guess at the value of the contents within.

The door opened and Sam pushed him through, walking him past his office on the right and straight into a wide, square lab that the networks of hallways flanked. It was coldly lit, but bright inside, with a generous strip of window circling the room for open visibility. Tommy was pulled backwards into the familiar glass door, and it felt like the temperature dropped a good five degrees past the threshold.

“You’ll want to put him on his front,” Caius offered, stepping in after them and parting off to the right to find the small group of plastic chairs tucked to the far side.

“Yeah, don’t bother helping me or anything, I’ve got it,” Sam remarked with sarcasm, but he pulled Tommy out of the chair and across his shoulder to lay him awkwardly on the exam table. Tommy didn’t fight, and rolled off of his side onto his stomach and laid face down. The exam table had a little hole in the end that he could comfortably put his face in, like a massage table.

He closed his eyes. At least Sam was usually pretty heavy-handed with the drugs.

He felt a tugging on his pant leg as Sam’s scissors started to work their way up his leg, snipping his clothes off for easy removal. Sam didn’t comment until he was laid bare, the remnants of his clothing cast aside.

“What the fuck is this?!” Sam called to Caius. Tommy knew better than to mistake his anger being over his well-being - he was just pissed about the amount of work his injuries took him to fix.

“Yeah, this guy went medieval on him. Had a whole bunch of like, historical torture implements. He bound him up in some type’a spiky chair, with extra attachments. He hit him with a cattle prod until Tommy pissed himself and blacked out.”

Sam made a sound of revulsion.

“Did he at least pay well?”

“Ehhh,” Caius thought for a moment. “He paid a lot, but still had a first-time discount.”

“I hope he tipped like a motherfucker, because this-” Tommy could imagine Sam waving a hand over his mutilated body in a lazy sweep.

“-Is gonna cost ya.”

Tommy imagined Caius’s stupid shrug at that, too.

Sam’s gloved hands felt warm while he probed him, looking over the injuries to gauge the severity.

“I can’t see shit with all the fuckin’ powder. He’s gonna need a saline rinse.”

Tommy knew it was coming, but shuddered anyways. He heard Sam unwind the hose and open the nozzle without finesse, standing back so he wouldn’t get caught in the spray. The saline was luke-warm at best, and Tommy shivered as the solution washed away the last of his body heat. He gritted his teeth to try to keep them from chattering, and watched as pink water poured off the table and lazily swirled around the drain built into the floor.

It didn’t hurt much at first, but as Sam really started to blast away the dried blood and clotting powder, it became a grueling test of endurance. The pink water beneath the table started to become more clear, and then quickly turned to a red as his wounds started to reopen under the spray. He heard Caius say something from the corner, but he couldn’t make it out over the shower. It seems Sam couldn’t either, because the jet mercifully stopped.

“What?”

“Can’t you give him a numbing gel or something?”

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, and Tommy saw his feet retreat away from the table.

“I plum forgot, he was being so good - Tommy, why’d you let me do that?” Sam mocked, but he returned and began working a thick ointment across his back. It took only moments for the gel to take effect, bringing blessed relief to every wound it touched. Tommy closed his eyes as the pain finally started to subside, and the paste left his skin feeling warm and completely numb.

“I think you owe Caius a big thank you, don’t you?” Sam pushed, as he saw Tommy start to visibly relax under his hands.

(Actually, I think I owe Caius a big shot to the face,) Tommy mused to himself, but he said nothing.

“His mouth is messed up, you’re not gonna get anything from him.” Caius commented, unamused by Sam’s playful mood.

Sam groaned at the mention of more work, but finished rubbing the numbing ointment in without further comment. Tommy closed his eyes, and without the pain caging him in his body, he was finally able to drift. To go somewhere - anywhere - where he wasn’t ass-up on a table about to be needled over.

He was a little grateful to Caius, but it was…complicated. He remembered when he was first in, and so scared, and thought he might find some help in the other man.

“We all have different roles here to make the business work,” Caius explained. Tommy was curled up in a ball on the sleeping roll Caius had brought him.

“I’m your handler. I’m not your friend - I’m your boss.”

Tommy had sat up, leaning against the wall and hugging his knees.

“What about the other guys?”

Caius sighed and sat down next to him, ignoring when Tommy scooted as far away as he could into the corner.

“Well, they’re your bosses too. But it’s like - I’m like the manager, while they’re in corporate.” Caius seemed to struggle for a better explanation.

“Rory has a fuckin’ mouth on him, sure, but he could sell water to fish. He coordinates appointments, knows a bunch of market research and business shit, so that’s kinda his thing.

“Michelle deals with all the tech stuff, he’s a huge nerd. He uploads all the pictures and videos and stuff to the network, but it’s a hidden network, I don’t know, it’s all beyond me.”

“A network for…this?” Tommy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, basically,” Caius replied. “We’re franchise owners, technically. All this - and you-”

He turned to face Tommy fully.

“-Are our business.”

Tommy worried his lip.

“And your job… is to manage me?”

Caius smiled, amused, and adjusted his glasses.

“My job is to make sure you don’t break.”

Caius advocated for him, in a way. And he was nice to him, in a way. But he never wasted breath pretending he did it for Tommy’s good. He managed a balance of keeping Tommy at a low level of stabilization, in spite of everything, to protect his business asset. Abducting people was a huge risk, and not one they could constantly repeat if their other victims died or completely broke down.

He’d heard of other teams with assets like him, sometimes multiple at a time. But if they broke down for good, they weren’t interesting to use anymore and became worthless. Caius afforded him small mercies to maintain a tiny spark of morale, so Tommy continued to be valuable.

Considering he was this far in, Caius seemed to be very good at his job.

Tommy was snapped back to the present when the tip of a needle dug deeper than he was numbed, and he hissed with pain.

“Sorry bud. Just checking to make sure you’re still with us.”

Sam continued poking him with needle after needle, circling every single wound with three triangulating punctures. This batch would take forever.

Tommy suddenly felt a hand on his upper arm, and realized Caius had crossed the room to watch.

“Which ones are these?”

Sam took a break to straighten his back for a moment.

“Well, you haven’t given me a lot to work with. Lucky for you, I just got in this stem cell batch that’s just insane. It’s a more potent combo with extra immunomodulators. Moves weeks of recovery into mere days. I’m also putting our usual pre-scar steroids in, which should also help with the swelling and inflammation.”

“How did you lose your medical license again?”

“I was just too much fun. I’ll top it off with this new wound-food serum I got, it’s supposed to help the body keep up with the crazy-fast healing. I’ll spray him down with a second skin and he’ll need to keep that on for a week. He’ll need lots of rest and lots of food - no starvation punishments and no missed meals.”

“Did you check his mouth yet?”

“Oh fuck,” Sam answered. He started to move Thomas onto his side, but then stopped.

“Ah fuck it. Let me get him patched up here and I’ll take a look.”

It was kind of like getting a tattoo session done, if it were a full-body stick and poke. Sam was methodical and finished the injections before anyone else could have. The serum was applied generously (sloppily) and the second skin sprayed on. A second light with a blue tint was thrown on above the table, and the substance began to dry on across his body.

“Do you know how good you got it? This is cutting-edge stuff, the newest technology that won’t hit the hospitals for decades, if ever. Celebrities pay millions for this stuff.”

Tommy did not respond.

“Luckily for you, everyone likes a blank page, don’t they? Gotta clear the board for the next guy.”

Tommy grimaced at the floor.

(Think about - something else. The feeling of biting into a coffee bean. What it looks like, how it feels in your hand. The crunch, the bitterness. Focus on imagining the sensation. Nothing else. No feeling.)

“I’ll take a look at his mouth and whatever that thing on his jaw was, and I’m sending him home. Come back in a week for the second round of steroids. If it’s going well, we might be able to do the first laser treatment the same day.”

There was a numbed touch to his back, where apparently the second skin had finished curing on him, and he was rolled onto his back. He shut his eyes hard against the blinding overhead light.

“Alright, open up.”

Tommy opened his mouth and Sam grabbed a penlight to examine inside. After a moment, he tsked as if chiding Tommy.

“Don’t you know better than to let strangers put things in your mouth?”

He moved down to do some poking and prodding where the fork had dug into him. He grabbed some now nearly-empty syringes and injected small shots along the edges of the wounds.

“These will be fine. Not even worth a stitch. I’m not going to put on a butterfly just because I want to make sure these heal from the inside out, but I don’t think they’re worth packing.”

Sam applied wound patches over each of the spots, working his fingers into the the edges of the patch until the adhesive melted on.

“Those ones will be fine. As for the mouth, his tongue is punctured in multiple places and pretty swollen. I have steroids that will calm the swelling down and let it start to heal. Mouths actually heal faster than most other parts of the body, and with a little help those will close up fine. However-”

Sam turned, and started sorting through a couple drawers before turning back around holding a bottle.

“Rinse four times a day with this solution. When you run out, switch to saltwater. But…he’s going to need to use a feeding tube for a week.”

At that, Tommy put his face over his hands and turned on his side, curling up to shield himself as best he could. The feeding tube was the worst, and he’d only had to use it once before.

“Yeah, I know bud.” Sam patted him on the shoulder with faux sympathy.

“I’m putting him on a couple oral medications he’ll need to take twice daily AFTER feeding, always after. I’ll make up a care package.”

Sam started pulling various bandages and tubes out of cabinets and stowed them into a bag. Caius had luckily brought Tommy a pair of sweats and a hoodie, which he helped him into while Sam rummaged around.

“What time next week?”

Sam waived a dismissive hand in Caius’s direction without looking at him.

“Whenever - just don’t be late.”

#professional//victim #aftermath #medical whump #captive whumpee

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tss-whumper · 6 months

Note

pierrot almost made me cry omg

anw! (if youre comfortable to!)

what about trans whumpee & caretaker & the caretaker (sort of) understands and offers to help.

could be w the sides ngl but it doesnt have to be (if so my brain says remus & virgil but. feel free to change who.)

-🌙

thank you so much for the kind words about pierrot! it was a joy to write, and i might even make a part two if i get the time!

and i love this idea! here are some ideas for trans whumpee scenarios, with some featuring a caretaker who understands one way or another (and i'm gonna make it tss just for funsies!):

(cw -> implied past whump, eating disorders, gender dysphoria, mentions of blood, transphobia)

transmasc/transfemme!virgil who is mute and refuses to speak because their voice doesn't reflect their identity and the idea of their voice being heard gives them extreme dysphoria. this allows many whumpers with bad intentions to take advantage of them one way or another. after all, virgil is just so precious and cute and quiet. there's no way for them to tell anybody about what's happening to them without bringing harm to themselves. what a delicious predicament.

caretaker!logan who when he finds out that whumpee!side is trans, does all the research possible on their identity in order to better support them. this can be a bit humorous if logan stumbles upon outdated sources and whumpee has to correct him on his hilariously out of date terminology ("logan, hon, nobody calls it transsexual anymore.")

whumpees!roman and remus both being trans and both being raised in a transphobic environment, but they are caretakers for each other, being the only ones who understand each other.

whumpee!roman who is transmasc and starving himself to try and make his body appear more masculine.

whumpee!logan who is transmasc having his period and trying to hide it. maybe he bleeds through his pants and caretaker!roman helps him out, while logan is snappy, embarrassed, and unusually emotionally sensitive. roman just affirming his masculinity while scrubbing the blood out of his pants and giving him a heating pad and medicine.

let me know if you guys want more of these!! as a gender non-conforming individual, these are very interesting to make, and i think the whump community needs more trans content.

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whump-only · 2 years

Text

One-shot story with the trope of a whumpee being given an unpleasant choice by the whumper. Hero uses they/them pronouns

CW: dehumanization, stabbing, magical torture (both explicit and promised), master/pet dynamics

------------------------

Pet cowered under the table, forgotten by both Hero and Villain who were locked in furious battle. Pet shrunk away from the hot roar of his master’s magic, the crack of splintering furniture as it was thrown aside. Pet could see just a blur of Hero’s boots and dark pants, running, lifting off the ground in powerful jumps. Pet wondered what type of person barged into Villain’s lair at dinner time and barely uttered a word before drawing a gun, aiming. What type of person thought they could kill Villain…

The table lurched as Hero slammed into it. Pet yelped, then quickly slapped his hands over his mouth.

Pet hoped they hadn’t heard. But Hero crouched down and seemed to look directly at Pet before Pet could recoil. In the next moment, a blast of Villain’s magic smashed into the wall next to Hero as Hero leapt away, only just in time.

Pet ducked from the scorching heat and the ensuing gust of hot wind. When Pet looked up, the table had been thrown by the blast, leaving him exposed.

Pet scanned for cover but his attention was caught by Hero who was looking directly at him. They locked eyes for a second and Pet thought he saw Hero point his finger toward the far wall before jumping away from another one of Villain’s blasts.

Pet glanced in the direction Hero had indicated. There was nothing except splintered dining chairs. And the door. Was Hero indicating the door? But the door was such a long, treacherous distance away.

Pet looked back towards Hero who was in a constant motion, leaping. But as Pet tracked Hero’s movements, it occurred to him that if Hero continued to move along the far wall like that... that would focus Villain’s attacks. And leave an open path. Pet took off to the door.

It was working. Pet could tell Villain’s magic wasn’t being channeled in his direction. He could safely get out of Villain’s way—

A cry rang out, followed by a muted thud. Pet whipped around and sure enough Hero had been hit out of the air. They were writhing on the ground as Villain’s magic coursed through them. Pet winced, knowing how that felt. How your muscles were fire. How it made you want to beg, beg and die to make it stop. How stupid Hero was for coming here, of course they couldn’t defeat Villain!, Pet thought bitterly.

“Ts. A little distracted today, are we Hero?” Villain said, his voice ringing clearly through the dining hall. “Unlucky for you.” The heels of Villain’s good shoes clicked on the hardwood as he walked casually up to Hero who was probably still twitching. The magic made you twitch, Pet knew. Pet didn’t want to watch. Villain hated when his good shoes got dirty…

“Fuck you, Villain,” Hero coughed, “Back there, you almost hit…” there was a pause and Pet could feel Hero’s eyes on his back. “…Your sidekick?”

Pet prickled with embarrassment and fear as surely now Villain was staring too, angry, angry at Pet for getting in the way!

“That. Is not my sidekick,” Villain said simply before releasing another hit of magic, this time from close range.

Pet squeezed his eyes closed, knowing it must’ve made Hero’s whole body jump, how it burned from the inside out. A sudden sob caught in Pet’s throat.

Hero would die and it would be Pet’s fault, for distracting them, for getting in the way. Surprised by his own audacity, Pet ran back toward Villain.

Villain drew his sword, and Pet knew its most likely path, could trace its swift plunge into Hero’s chest. No, Pet thought desperately, but Hero didn’t even seem to register that this was their last few seconds alive. Instead Hero fixed a quizzical look on Pet, mouthed something. Go. Run.

Pet didn’t have time to think about that— Reaching Villain, Pet dropped down to all fours breathlessly and gently bumped his head into Villain’s leg.

Villain snapped his hand down and hit Pet’s head and Pet yelped. Villain’s hand sparked with magic and Pet tensed for the ripping pain that was certainly deserved.

But Villain just leaned down and scratched Pet’s hair lightly, behind his ears. “Puppy. Not now. Master is busy.”

Pet breathed with relief at the mercy. He started to back up, get out of the way, as Villain commanded. But from this distance Pet now heard Hero’s labored breathing, the kind heavy with pain. Hero thought Pet could get away, didn’t they? That was silly. Stupid. Now they’d die. Die because of Pet.

Before Pet could stop himself, he let out an urgent whimper and touched his head to Villain’s leg again.

Villain didn’t look down this time. “I said get out of my way.” He kicked Pet hard in the stomach.

Pet shifted back, hurting and ashamed. But when Villain grabbed Hero’s face, Pet couldn’t stand it and blurted, “No! Please don’t kill them! Please?”

Villain’s cold attention was now fully fixed on Pet. “Puppy,” Villain growled “…Why shouldn’t I?”

Pet was frozen under Villain’s anger. “Um. I just. Um. I-I just thought—“

Villain moved his hand down from Hero’s face to their neck, wrapping his deadly fingers around. Pet thought he could feel the light squeeze on his own windpipe.

Villain explained coolly, “Hero came here to kill your master. Look at the mess they made, destroying my dining room. And you want to suggest I just let them go? Would that be fair?”

Pet shrunk to the ground, covered their head. Of course Villain was right. What had Pet been thinking? “N-No. I’m sorry, Master.”

Villain rested the tip of his sword on Hero’s chest. “Yes. Hero deserves to die.”

Pet covered his ears. But instead of hilt hitting ribcage, Villain spoke. “Say, for example, I did let Hero live. Would you pay for Hero’s mistakes? How much is Hero’s life worth to you, Pet?”

Pet sat up, surprised. The tip of Villain’s sword still rested on Hero’s chest. Hero too, raised their eyebrows.

Pet stumbled for ideas. “I’ll clean it all up,” Pet motioned toward the destruction. Villain, of course, just smirked. What could Pet possibly offer that he didn’t already give, whenever Villain asked? “I’ll— um. I’ll…”

Hero shouted, “Don’t—!“

Villain plunged the sword into Hero’s thigh. Hero shrieked. Pet closed his eyes, curled away, but Villain grabbed him by the collar, yanked him up.

Pet shakily looked into Villain’s eyes. Look up. Look at me. Pet remembered.

Villain’s gaze was icy. “Focus Puppy. How long does Hero have to live if we don’t touch them anymore?”

Pet squirmed. Pet didn’t need to see the blood gushing out, soaking Hero’s pants, pooling below them, to know it was there. “Ten, ten minutes? Or-or fifteen.”

Hero moaned. Pet wanted to rip away and clap his hands over his ears, but not now. Now he could only tremble.

“Yes. That’s about right…” Villain mused, looking Hero up and down. Villain then tightened his grip on Pet’s collar, so it bit into his neck. “Say I let you heal Hero. So they can crawl away from here and never come back.” At that, Villain twisted the sword in Hero’s thigh and Hero screamed, and Pet maybe screamed too.

When the ringing in Pet’s ears subsided, he realized Villain was shaking him, roughly pulling up on his collar. Villain growled, “Go on, tell me. How many days on the table would you spend for Hero?”

“On table?” Pet breathed. That was the worst punishment, worse than anything, reserved for when Pet really misbehaved. He’d only ever done four days at the longest, and that was really early, when he was still bad. Pet was overwhelmed by the memory of it, the nerve wrending—

“Tik tok, Puppy. Hero’s not doing so good,” Villain hummed, and forced him to look at Hero who had slumped over. The sword was still lodged in them, poking out like a toothpick.

Pet gripped his hair. “I’ll—I’ll— I’ll do seven!”

Pet stared at Villain’s face, searching, searching for his reaction. Villain stared back, coldly until a small smile twitched on his lips.

Villain flung Pet aside, sending him hard into floor. When Pet opened his eyes, Villain had already ripped the sword out of Hero’s thigh.

“And I thought you took a liking to Hero… how sad,” Villain snarled, raising the sword up.

“No! W-wait! I—I’ll do more!” Pet cried.

Villain paused, eyes glinting. “Speak quickly.”

“T-Two weeks. I’ll do two weeks,” Pet stammered.

Villain lowered the sword, then sheathed it. “Fine. Two weeks. You may heal Hero. Though you might want to work quickly.”

Pet exhaled in relief, then scrambled over to Hero, lay his hands on their thigh.

“I hope you don’t regret your choice, Puppy,” Villain said.

Pet really, really hoped so too. “Thank you Master,” he replied and willed the magic into his palms.

#whump fic #master/pet #dehumanisation #torture #stabbing #pet whump

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auroragehenna · 7 months

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Ai-less Whumptober

Day 28 Whumpee hair pulling, Oxygen Deprivation, Sweating

CW/TW: Choking, mock execution, creepy whumper, talk about death

„I‘m growing tired of your backtalking, Lyra!“, Adam snapped.

„Well it you can’t handle it, let me go.“, she shot back.

„You know exactly that I won‘t do that!“

„Well then stop complaining. You love it when you can make me shut up for a little while and you know it!

„Alright. Fine. Then let‘s make a deal. I’m going to give you three days time, and if you get confused that‘s three meals, including today. If by the end of that time you still backtalk I am going to get rid of you.“

„Rid of me? What? You mean you’re gonna kill me?“, Lyra asks in absolute confusion.

„Kill you, maybe sell you to somebody…“, Adam mused.

Lyra‘s eyes widen. And it shouldn‘t have stung, it shouldn‘t have stung, it shouldn‘t have-„But that‘s…so unlike you.“

„You don‘t know everything about me, Lyra.“, Adam simply said. „Three days.“, he reminded her. Then he left.

He had to be bluffing, right? There was no way he'd kill her. That was absurd. Lyra thought convinced. And so, she waited out the rest of the day. Treated her wounds and gladly ate her meal once she got it. This time it was dinner and it seemed slightly better than her usual food. I'm sure that's coincidence, she thought. The second day, Adam came to torture her again. And again she didn‘t make it easy for him.

Adam didn‘t mention the ultimatum but he noted her disobedience and also that she was a tad more tentative with her retorts. He still hadn‘t gotten her to scream yet either. Crying was unthinkable yet. But he would. Eventually. He finished up, cleaned the whip on Lyra and rolled it up. „Now. Clean yourself up and then go shower!“, he ordered. Lyra‘s eyes went wide and he saw her gulpe.

„I uhm, may I please do that tomorrow?“, she asked

„You know, since you asked so nicely…No. Now get started!“ Lyra shot him a fiery gaze before starting to carefully move, face twisting up in muted pain. „It‘s okay, you can let it out.“ Oh it never ceased to amuse him how her gaze was pure murder. Especially when she was clearly n in no state to defend herself. He would love to tease her more but that had to wait. He would also love to have microphones and camera in the showers right now for the sole reason of witnessing her pain when the hot water met the fresh gashes. But he wouldn‘t do that.

Lyra showered and it was pure hell. The water only made the bleeding worse and the hotness seared her mutilated skin. She could have screamed if she didn‘t know that Adam was on the other corridor just hoping she would do exactly that.

- - -

That night she slept absolutely horrible. The pain and uncomfortableness kept her awake and that unfortunately made room for the thoughts in her head. Adam wasn‘t really going to kill her, right? He proably just wanted to scare her right?

Suddenly or after aeons it was morning and Adam came into the room. With a simple, little knife. „Goodmorning, Thyma. Your last day, now tell me; Will you be nice and still for me today?“

Lyra took a deep breath. He was bluffing. And if not…Well she knew one thing. She would not die on her knees.

„I don‘t think I can do that.“

Adam sighs with a shy smile. „Of course you can‘t.“ He put the knife aside and walks up to Lyra. Then he tackles her, quickly subduing her sleep deprived resistance and sneaking a hand around her throat. „It was fun having you.“, he said before squeezing.

Taglist: @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, @ailesswhumptober

#jayna's writing #ailesswhumptober #ailesswhumptober2023 #ailesswhumptoberday28 #whump #whump blog #whump writing #whumpee #creative writing #trauma #coping #“Torture-watching stuff-singing”#Adam #Lyra #jayna‘s writing #jayna's oc's

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when-the-feet-hurt · 2 years

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cw: pet whump

Soft grass between their toes, warm sunlight on their skin, the gentle breeze through their hair… it all overwhelms Whumpee. How much time has passed since they were last outside? So much has changed. Were flowers always this colorful and vibrant? Whumpee always remembered them as being more muted and dull. Did butterflies always stop on stray blades of grass? In their memories, they always flew nonstop, just out of Whumpee’s grasp, fluttering away before Whumpee could catch them between their hands.

A stray cloud passes by and covers the sun. Whumpee sighs in relief as their skin cools, but then they quickly shiver as a particularly powerful gust of wind rushes by, goosebumps littering their arms as they wrap themself in their arms.

They’re exposed. Nothing but the spring air and flowers surround them. Behind those bushes, somebody could be hiding, waiting to harm them. Behind those thick tree trunks, there could be someone watching them, plotting to take them away from Whumper when the time is right. From under their feet, somebody could reach up through the dirt and grab Whumpee’s ankle and drag them down into the darkness. Nowhere is safe. No matter how idyllic this scenery may be, it’s dangerous.

“Wh-Whumper,” Whumpee calls out, their voice trembling as they scratch at their skin, trying to get rid of the feeling of a thousand pairs of eyes upon their malnourished frame.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Whumper gets up from their lounge chair and strides over to Whumpee, the leash already in their hand.

Whumpee can’t wait. They practically run back towards Whumper, throwing themself into their arms and holding tight, holding onto their anchor, the one person that can save them from all those hungry eyes, those fang-filled jaws ready to tear them into pieces and desecrate their corpse.

“I don’t w-want to be out here,” they whisper.

Whumper strokes their back, and Whumpee melts into the touch, the eyes finally taking themselves off of Whumpee. “Why not?”

“It’s scary,” is all Whumpee can say.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love. I thought you’d enjoy a day outside, especially since it’s so nice out… but we can go back inside. We can watch a movie or bake a pie or something. Does that sound nice?”

Whumpee nods frantically. “Y-Yes. So much better.”

Whumper smiles. “I’m glad. Now, let’s go back inside,” they say, clipping the leash onto Whumpee’s collar.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Whumpee runs their fingers over the leather, the fear ebbing away as Whumper leads them back to safety.

#whump writing #conditioned whumpee #pet whumpee #nice whumper

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whumpinggrounds · 2 years

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BTHB: This is For Your Own Good

For Liam and Delilah, “This is for Your Own Good” from @badthingshappenbingo! Huge thank to @brutal-nemesis for the request :)

Requests are open! Filled means it’s finished, open means requested. Hearts are Liam and Delilah, lightning bolts are for Freddy and T, and stars are for August.

Tagging fairytale friends - @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @lonesome–hunter, @diyalogues, @deluxewhump, @hearse-song, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpy-writings, @warm-my-whumpee-heart

CW: male whumpee, female whumper, creepy whumper, forced labor, long term captivity, thinking about death, threats, digging own grave (maybe) (I won’t tell you yet if that’s what he’s doing sorry), big whumpee/little whumper dynamics

Above Liam, Delilah sighs, an utterly disgusted sound. The crackle of the Taser fills the air, and Liam squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the flood of electricity, the pain. Instead, Liam would swear he hears her pause and think about it.

Then she grunts. “Take off the stupid blindfold.”

Not wanting to give her an instant to change her mind, Liam sits up fast and scrapes his fingernails across his cheeks trying to get under the blindfold cutting into his face. “Thank you!” he remembers to tell her, voice fervent, but she just snorts. He nearly draws blood in his eagerness, and when the blindfold finally does slide off, the world around him is too bright. Hissing, squinting, Liam waits, still on hands and knees, for his eyes to adjust. He’s just turned his face toward Delilah when she thrusts her hand out at him, and there’s a shovel in it.

Mouth falling open, Liam gazes mutely up at Delilah. Yet again, she’s dressed in a floral sundress, and he can see the goosebumps standing out on her pale legs. The cornflower blue fabric billows around her motionless body, and it’s eerie seeing the fabric shift and move while she stands so statue-still. Her tiny, little white hand makes the shovel look huge and brutal.

“What…” Liam swallows hard. “What’s that…”

He knows what it’s for. Liam knows.

“Dig,” she tells him, voice toneless. Climbing to his feet, Liam takes the shovel and then just stares for a moment.

It’s still wintry enough in this part of the world that the trees are all bare. They stretch away on every side. The undergrowth is brown, the ground beneath Liam brown, and the sky above, nothing but gray. Is this where his corpse is going to rot? Is this where his bones are going to return to the earth? Liam has never thought about where he’d like his body to lie, but this barren stretch of ground is so impersonal. So far away from everything and everyone he loves.

Behind him, Delilah clears her throat impatiently. The Taser is out in her hand, pointing toward Liam. He wonders briefly if he could get the best of her with the shovel maybe – but he has no idea where he is, and no shoes on. He hasn’t eaten properly in weeks. She has the Taser, and she’s so…small, standing there. Could he really bring down a shovel on her head?

“Dig.”

And Liam does. The work warms him up fast, and he starts to sweat as he buries the head of the shovel and draws it back down. A few inches down, the soil still crunches with frost. His muscles tremble long before he’s used to, and the amount of strength he’s lost makes Liam grimace. This frail, skinny, body hardly feels like his own. Maybe that’s the real reason Delilah is getting rid of him, he thinks, grinning darkly to himself. Without the muscles, he’s probably not very good-looking, anymore.

The smile slides off his face quickly. The idea that he’s digging his own grave – that he’ll never see his mom again, or Katie, or any of his friends. He’ll never eat another cheeseburger, or get drunk, or go for a good long run. His hands start to shake around the handle of the shovel. His breath catches. He doesn’t want to die. The apathy that held him down just a few minutes ago has gone, leaving the familiar, stubborn, desperate will to live that has animated him all these months. He doesn’t want to die. Liam doesn’t want to die.

It takes hours, and more than a few times, Liam stops to heave air into his exhausted lungs, or to stretch, or to rest his aching arms and back. Blisters rise on his palms, and then they burst. Above and behind him, Delilah is silent, watchful. Every time he looks up, he sees the Taser still in her hand. A few times, he tries to start a conversation, but she says nothing in return – except once.

It’s not a real attempt at making conversation. It’s more of an accident when he lets the question slip. Liam is taking a break, wiping sweat from his brow, and leaning heavily on the shovel. His back aches and his hands hurt and even though he knows the answer, he mutters the question in a despairing tone. “Why are you doing this?”

Above him, Delilah lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh. “It’s for you, darling. It’s for your own good.”

Mouth dry, Liam searches for words. “What…” He swallows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Delilah’s voice is light.

No. “Yes, I…of course I trust you.”

“Good. Keep digging.”

The words are on Liam’s tongue. Are you going to kill me? For a long moment, he hangs there, in the seconds before speaking.

Then, wordless, he picks up the shovel. The smooth, sanded wood of the handle feels like sandpaper against Liam’s blistered hands. His shoulders and back ignite with fiery ache as he bends to the work once more. In the end, he doesn’t ask. It’s not because he’s afraid to, more because he knows that whatever the answer might be, there’s not a damn thing that he can do about it.

#male whumpee #female whumper #liam and delilah #creepy whumper #long term captivity #forced labor #threats #thoughts of death #forced to dig own grave #bad things happen bingo #bthb #bthb: this is for your own good #this is for your own good #bad things happen bingo: this is for your own good #ocs #big whumpee #little whumper

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