#disoriented whumpee

[hurtthemgently]

Thinking about whumpees who are normally defiant.

Who spit at and throw insults at whumper.

Who occasionally slip their restraints and make a break for it, only to be caught and thrown back into a cell.

Who fight and kick, sometimes managing a blow at whumper.

Who bare their teeth in disgust every time whumper is near.

But then they’re given a drug, or sleep deprived, or made to be disoriented in some other way.

They blink up at whumper, a spark of recognition followed by as much of a glare as they can put on.

They weakly push away, barely able to lift their arms.

Just- tired and disoriented expressions, laced with defiance.

All the anger and frustration in the world, and they can’t stand up, can barely get to their knees.

#defiant whumpee #non con drugging #sleep deprivation #disoriented whumpee #whump prompts #whump tropes #whump prompt #seriously if anyone has recs for this that’d be amazing

[whumpdrivethru]

can I order some delirium? confusion, disorientation... maybe with a side of thinking caretaker is whumper?

thanks! 💖💖💖

Hi dear! So sorry for the wait, the hustle got the best of me… But I’m here to serve now! Enjoy 💖

PS: You didn’t specify if you wanted caramel or chocolate sauce (aka pronouns), so I self-indulged with the sprinkles, I hope that’s alright!

- Max

They stumbled inside Caretaker’s room with their eyes glazed over and their breathing shallow. Their mind was blank, so impossibly blank, and they felt unable to form a coherent sentence. Instead, they just stood there, staring into space. Swimming in darkness.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker called softly, frowning. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He stood up promptly from his bed and walked up to them.

They shook their head several times, lips parted, eyes wide with the pupils dilated like they had been drugged. Their dazed silence was terrifying to Caretaker.

“Is it Whumper?” he asked. “What did he do? Whumpee, talk to me, what did he do?”

Upon another absence of reaction on their part, he guided them to the bed and sat them down. Their head bowed mechanically, and so he crouched in front of them to be at eye level with them. He rubbed their knee hoping it would be of some comfort, feeling his own stomach twist into knots with how powerless he was in helping them. They were an empty shell, like their very soul had been stolen. They didn’t even seem to know where they were.

“What has he done this time? Did he give you something? Did he hurt you?”

Still nothing. He placed a hand on their shoulder to try and get them to at least acknowledge his presence. That was when their voice returned.

“NO!” Their face contorted in terror as they stared at Caretaker. “Don’t touch me! Whumper, please, no!”

His blood ran cold. “Whumpee, Whumpee, it’s me! It’s me, it’s Caretaker!” He cupped their face to get them grounded.

But they looked haunted, and they were still thrashing and sobbing and shouting. “No no NO! I don’t want you in my head, PLEASE!”

They pushed themself up and lunged forward like they wanted to flee, but their knees buckled beneath them, and they tumbled down. They screamed as if their whole body were on fire and then curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth.

Caretaker rushed to their side. He hesitated before touching them but eventually gripped their shoulders and forced them to face him. “Whumpee—”

“No, no, Whumper, PLEASE!”

“HEY! Snap out of it!”

They kept begging and crying. Caretaker was out of ideas. The only thing he could come up with in that moment was slapping them. Hard.

It felt terribly wrong. He watched them freeze, and the apology hung on his tongue. Yet, the guilt subsided the second they gasped for air, as the fog cleared from their vision.

“Caretaker?” They swallowed thickly, glancing around with a disoriented expression. “What—”

He shushed them gently, but worriedly. “It’s alright, it’s just me. You’re safe, okay?” He helped them up and guided them back to the bed. “You’re alright. I’m here. No one will hurt you.”

Whumpee gave a slow nod as they let reality sink back in. Heavy, but relieved silence settled over them and remained for a couple of minutes.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Caretaker risked eventually.

“I…” They chewed on their thumb. “I was just having a drink with Whumper, like we usually do in the evening and then...” Their forehead creased as they tried to remember. “Then I think we had a fight. And he…” Their head throbbed and they fell silent again, wincing in pain.

“Then he, what?” Anger was starting to run like fire through Caretaker’s body. “What did the bastard do?”

They ran a hand through their hair, whispering softly. “I can’t remember.”

“Are you making excuses for him again?” he accused. His jaw set. “I keep telling you he’ll hurt you and you don’t listen. For god’s sake, Whumpee, when are you going to stop pretending that he is your friend? Stop protecting him!”

They gazed up at him with gray eyes filled with hurt. “You’re being unfair.”

“And you’re being stupid!”

They turned away slightly, pausing for a while. “I think he tried to brainwash me.” They held back the ‘again,’ though they both knew. Their tone was low and resigned.

Caretaker instantly felt bad for lashing out. “Gosh…” He sighed deeply and sat down next to them on the bed, rubbing his forehead. “Look… I’m sorry. It’s just… Every time is worse than the last one. I always pick up the pieces, and I’m... I’m worried.”

They stayed quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry, Caretaker.”

He sighed again. “No. Don’t be sorry.” He pulled them in gently, wrapping a protective arm around them and allowing their head to rest on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Silent tears welled up in their eyes. They let them roll down their cheeks and the crook of their neck as they leaned fully against him.

And Caretaker repeated the words, softly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

You've been served by Max! Leave a tip if you liked the meal :3

#max #whumpdrivethru #tw delirium #tw attempted brainwashing #tw mental breakdown #male whumper #disoriented whumpee #whump aftermath #ask game #answered asks #whump #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr #whump blog

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #29

Trope of the day: “What happened to me?”

_

Machines are beeping, footsteps walking in and out of the room. Someone talks to another person, but they can't hear out anything they are saying.

Whumpee remembers the coldness in the cell they had been sitting in for weeks. Their body throbbed and hurt with every breath they took, now they are warm and ... painless.

Is this death?

It takes a few more moments for them to finally open their heavy lids, the room is not as bright as they anticipated. The talking stops and someone rushes to their sides.

There are hands on them, warm and gentle. Whumpee's throat hurts as they open their mouth and croak “What happened to me?”

#whumptober 2023 #whumptober2023 #whumptober #trope of the day #“What happened to me?” #no.29 #whump writing #whump #whumpee #waking up disoriented #aftermath of captivity #whumpshots

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

In Hercules in the Maze of the Minotaur, Hercules rescues a disoriented Iolaus from the very strangely gooey trap of the Minotaur.

#hercules the legendary journeys #whump #bromance whump #caregiver #bromance #disoriented #unconscious #captured #rescued whumpee #michael hurst #kevin sorbo

[whump-queen]

captive whumpee kept intermittently drugged out of their mind, fading in and out of consciousness randomly,

with no idea what whumper did to them while they were knocked out.

#something new always hurts when they wake up #whumper says they like their prisoner disoriented says it makes them *cute* #drug whump #whump prompt #captive whumpee #noncon drugging #bonus points for concussed whumpee #concussed whumpee #my post #my prompts #tw drugging #tw drug mention #tw noncon drugging

[livingforthewhump]

Could you write a prompt with a whumpee with a leg injury (maybe a stabbing or something) who has to completely act like nothing’s wrong because they’re walking back home with their friend who is already suspicious and they can’t let them know (for some reason)? Sorry that this is uber-specific.

No 4. Dead on Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

The night air hit Whumpee’s face in a rush. Their eyes flickered close, soaking in the warmth for a single moment before they had to keep moving. Whumpee followed Caretaker into the street, sprinting to a nearby alley that they could only barely see through the tears blurring their vision.

Their leg was a cacophony of pain. Blood had seeped down a good half of their pant leg, blessedly invisible against the black fabric in the dark night. Each step felt like it sent shards of glass into their bone, as though the knife was still embedded there. It wasn’t, which created more problems, as now they were bleeding out a lot faster.

“Whumpee, hurry up,” Caretaker hissed. Whumpee winced at how strained their voice was, even in a whisper. Maybe now that they’d finally gotten the job done, Caretaker would get some rest.

“Sorry,” they breathed back, fighting against a limp as they reached their friend.

Caretaker glanced back at Whumper’s base where it loomed behind them, jaw twitching in the dim light the street lamps provided. “If no alarm has been raised by now, we probably have until that guard you knocked out wakes back up. Are you okay walking back home?”

Whumpee furrowed their eyebrows. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” They took another step and briefly found themselves unable to breathe. Lovely.

“Just making sure,” Caretaker said slowly, eyes just a little too perceptive. Whumpee stayed on the inside as they moved into the street, hugging the buildings and the shadows that clung to them. Their ragged breaths seemed to give life to the walls towering on either side, making them tilt and sway, the ground swelling.

Their shoulder hit the brick wall hard.

Caretaker turned towards them, face shadowed in the hazy streetlight. “Whumpee?”

Whumpee screwed their eyes shut, using the wall to push themself back upright. “Yeah. I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”

They didn’t get a response from that, only Caretaker watching them, a silhouette in the dark that Whumpee would give up everything for. Their leg was a dead weight beneath them now, heavy like lead and filled with glass that bit deep into their skin, their muscle, their bones, with each hesitant movement. Whumpee locked their knee when putting weight on it (wouldn’t want to be caught limping, would they?).

The world was still spinning. Whumpee leaned their head back and looked at the sky for a moment to try and disguise it, to hide the tears building in their eyes as sure as the headache embedded in their skull. “The sky is beautiful tonight,” they whispered. Not that they could see it.

Caretaker let out a small breath. “Yes, it is.” Their tone was softer now, and something gentle stirred in Whumpee’s chest.

“We should get home before Whumper wakes up,” Whumpee continued in that same soft tone. “You need sleep.”

“Is that honestly what you’re worried about right now?” Caretaker snorted, but there was no malice behind it. “You look exhausted yourself. But we deserve to celebrate tonight.”

Whumpee’s tears receded and they dropped their head back down. Their throat burned with the effort when they spoke. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Caretaker deserved to have a night of celebration more than anyone else. Whumpee wouldn’t take that away from them for the world. They walked on in silence, Whumpee’s hands burrowed deep in their pockets. Their fists were clenched against the pain, but beyond that, their extremities were getting very, very cold. They were almost surprised there wasn’t ice crusting along their fingertips, despite the warm night. Best to just keep moving.

Their vision was shifting in and out of focus, flashes of black coming in when they were certain they hadn’t blinked. They were shaking from the effort of keeping their leg moving, now. Their muscles were growing stiff around the weeping wound. Still, they kept their back straight. They kept their knees locked. Their breaths grew more and more labored, burning their lungs, but their breaths were there.

Then their leg buckled underneath them, and none of it mattered.

The world swung back into place slowly above them, circling and circling like water going down the drain, long after Whumpee had gone still. A muffled ringing filled their head. A noise was lingering beneath that, thick and soft like whoever it was was yelling through a mattress.

Why did it all hurt so much?

A face appeared right above them, blocking out the golden streetlights. Whumpee stared blankly. They were terrible at reading lips, and for some reason Caretaker was just mouthing words. Or—no, they were speaking. Whumpee just couldn’t hear them.

After a moment, Caretaker seemed to realize this. Their face was creased deeply in worry, and Whumpee felt a spear of guilt thrust into them at the realization that that was their fault.

“‘m sorry,” they forced out. Caretaker froze. Their expression changed, tightening. When they spoke again, it was very deliberate, so that Whumpee could make out what they were saying.

“Can you hear me?” The lips said. Whumpee shook their head, closing their eyes as the world dipped around them. Caretaker waited until they were looking again. “Where are you hurt?”

Whumpee hesitated, tears rising to their eyes again. They didn’t want Caretaker to have to deal with it.

Something like anger swelled in Caretaker’s eyes. They grabbed onto Whumpee’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet. The intensity of Caretaker’s expression cowed them, and one of their shaking hands reached down towards their leg, then slumped down in defeat.

Instantly Caretaker was down beside it, ripping away the soaked pant leg. Whumpee was pretty sure they screamed as it came away from the wound. They didn’t have time to think about it, though, because they promptly passed out.

When Whumpee woke up, their hands were warm, and their clothes were dry. It took them a moment to process anything else.

Slowly, they opened their eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. They didn’t remember going to bed.

“You’re awake,” a strained voice said. Whumpee sat up, wincing at a pain in their leg. Caretaker was sitting at their bedside, face like stone and eyes red and bloodshot.

Another sleepless night on their part. Whumpee could have drowned in their guilt. Their hands felt out the lump in the covers where their bandages were.

“I passed out,” they remembered. Their voice was weak.

Caretaker took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I don’t—” they started, then deflated under Caretaker’s hard eyes. “I thought I could make it.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“…I don’t understand.” Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest. They hadn’t accepted Whumpee’s apology. Whumpee waited for them to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Whumpee’s eyes dropped. “I. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried now, Whumpee.” Their voice was sharp as a dagger. Something dark flared across Caretaker’s face, receding just as quickly. Whumpee knew it was still there. They just nodded, morose.

A thin silence stretched between them. Whumpee’s head started pounding, and they leaned back against their pillows.

“I went for a walk this morning,” Caretaker said suddenly. “When you were still asleep. I was tired of sitting here.” They swallowed, brows lowering over their eyes. “You left a trail of blood last night, did you know that? I could follow your footprints all the way back to Whumper’s. And last night I didn’t even notice.” Their voice broke off suddenly, and for the first time Whumpee noticed tears in their eyes. “Why didn’t I notice?”

Whumpee hugged themself. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s not my fault that you decided to just ignore your stab wound. It is my fault that I noticed something was wrong and I didn’t do anything until you were bleeding out on the ground.” Caretaker’s voice was raised now, and they cut themself off with a grimace. Their voice was soft the next time they spoke, but still shimmering with anger. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Caretaker…”

“No. Answer the question, Whumpee.”

“…no.”

All the air seemed to leave Caretaker at once. They slumped over, elbows resting on their knees and face in their hands. Whumpee had never seen them brought so low.

“Why?” they asked again, and it sounded almost begging.

Whumpee didn’t have an answer. They just sat there battling back their tears, because Caretaker deserved to feel upset without Whumpee stealing the moment again.

When Caretaker lifted their head up, their eyes were wet. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to go get you some food and medicine. When I get back, I am going to be calm, and you are going to have some damn good answers for me.”

They stood up while Whumpee cringed and nodded. As they got to the door, Caretaker looked back.

“And Whumpee?”

“Mm.”

“Never let this happen again.”

—

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @temporary-whump-sideblog @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @badluck990 @lockedupuniverse @luna-rein @broadwaybabe18 @pinescales-whumps @silverwhisperer1 @embersalive @the-bloody-sadist @batfacedliar-yetagain @nicolepascaline @whump-angst-fluff-repeat @susanshinning @didieatyourdog @corvid-voidbur @insane-writing-things @thebaffledtiewriter @morning-star-whump

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #hidden injury #waking up disoriented #can’t pass out #oc #whump drabble #bad headspace #self blame #negative self talk #stabbing #stab wound #passing out #implied concussion #i love love love love love hidden injury prompts so please send more of them #(this has been sitting in my inbox for months i have no right to ask for more requests) #hidden injury reveal #collapsing #whumpee #caretaker #angry caretaker

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 4- One Step Closer

TW & CW: non-con nudity (nonsexual), dub-con/non-con touching (nonsexual), clothing dressing (nonsexual), mention of past non-con, pet/slave fic with general dehumanization that goes along with it (nothing severe), deliciously delirious drugged Whumee, Whumpee awakening from a coma, aftermath of torture and starvation, underweight and malnourished Whumpee, probably medical malpractice, med whumpy(?), Care-Whumper (this is the closest we are getting to a “Caretaker” for a LONG time, and Dr. Paul is no saint), asexual-spectrum Whumpee who doesn’t know he’s ace-spec yet and subsequently has negative self-talk and throws himself a pity-party because of it (this is part of the character journey, alright?), Caretaker turned Whumpee, general sad + angsty Whumpee energy, Wyatt Sullivan (Whumper) being a bully (expected), Whumpee being called "boy" when he's a grown ass man, bad jokes as a coping mechanism from Whumpee  

IDK if this needs to be a warning or not, but Whumpee is currently non-verbal from being drugged and having trauma (brain trauma from the coma mixed with general trauma-trauma), but there’s quite a bit of internal dialog, and we are in his POV!

Word count: 3645

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‘Maybe if I’m a good enough boy, I’ll get a treat after this,’ The Aid jokingly thought, desperate to find an ounce of humor to cling to. 

If he couldn’t laugh, he’d surely cry.

And he was tired of crying. 

With gloved hands, Dr. Paul carefully removed The Aid’s IV and feeding tubes, talking him through the process as he worked, intended to keep him as calm and present in the moment as possible. Wyatt Sullivan returned with a full glass of water—per Dr. Paul’s request—which the Doctor took from him before shooing him away, tasking him to warm The Aid a bowl of soup. 

“I saved the worst for last, but it’ll be quick, I promise,” Dr. Paul said in a chipper tone. He fondled and stuck a syringe into something at the foot of the bed for a minute before lifting the bottom of the comforter and sheet that covered The Aid.

“Full disclosure, you’re naked under here, but after I remove the catheter, I’ll make you decent so you don’t have to trot around bare-assed.”

The Aid felt his heart skip a beat and his body temperature quickly rise from utter humiliation. 

‘Great.’ A shiver of unease washed over him as the thought of another grown man dressing him filled him with inept self-consciousness. He felt foolish for feeling this way, as Dr. Paul had seen more parts of him than anyone else—all parts, in fact, many times. 

‘At least Dr. Paul offered; at least it isn’t Wyatt—not like that asshole ever would do anything remotely helpful.’

He glanced down to see Dr. Paul hoist up the covers to his right knee before he forced himself to look away, not trusting himself not to jerk away from perturbed anticipation. The Doctor stuck his arm under the blanket, placing his hand on The Aid’s inner mid-thigh, unclipping the catheter from the adhesive tubing holder, and gently peeling it off his leg. 

“This won’t hurt. I mean, even if it did, you wouldn’t feel it with the meds you’re on. Just take a deep breath and try to relax,” Dr. Paul directed, giving The Aid a moment to prepare. He sucked in a quick breath and held it in as he anxiously kneaded the blanket, fingernails digging into the soft filling of the comforter like small animals burrowing into freshly plowed Earth.  

The Doctor hoisted the bedding further and quickly peeked below as his arm completely disappeared between The Aid’s legs. 

‘I look like a mother about to give birth.’

Although he couldn’t feel much of what was happening and Dr. Paul worked diligently, his face turned bright pink from embarrassment. He fought his knee-jerk reaction of clamping his legs shut, knowing that would only prolong the process and demoralize him even further. He lightly felt the strange sensation of the tube pulled from his urethra, along with Dr. Paul’s index finger and thumb holding his sex steady as the catheter was fished out from inside him.

He wanted to fucking scream.

“You’re okay, almost there…Just a couple more seconds,” Dr. Paul hushed, observing The Aid’s legs shaking, stiffened body, and tightly-twisted red face. 

“All done!” The Doctor pulled the blanket back down over his feet while holding the catheter out in front of him, placing the tubing and foley bag that was secured to the foot of the bed in a small trash can.  

The Aid sharply exhaled the breath he held in between clenched teeth as a few tears escaped his eyes. He tried to force the memory of the experience out of his mind alongside his expulsion of breath before filling his lungs with a steadied, deep inhale. 

‘Deep breath in…deep breath out…Repeat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.’

He couldn’t help but feel violated and further stripped of agency. Who was he kidding, what agency did he have left at this point? 

He knew the Doctor was only doing his job, and it was a simple medical device removal procedure; that wasn’t what bothered him, although he couldn't shake the feeling of being molested. What really ate at him was the fact that he viewed himself as a pathetic loser because, through his own avoidant tendencies, he inadvertently put himself in a situation where the only people who touched him were doing it out of a sadistic urge or in a medical setting—usually to fix damage from said sadistic urge. 

He felt stupid for being triggered by something as simple as a formal routine, but his distraught feelings overpowered his rationality, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. He didn’t care if he was being overly emotional about it; he had to allow himself to grieve the life he lost on top of all the pain and torment he went through. If he still had an ego, he was sure it was just as broken and bruised as his body.

Fleeting parts of him wished he had succumbed to horny teenage sexcapades just so he could dig up a single good memory of an intimate connection that didn’t leave him a sobbing mess afterward. But looking back, even in his supposed “sexual peak” (that he never went through), he harbored no such desires—well, save the fragmented memories of a single budding spark with a male cheerleader that he quickly snuffed out and fled from in a last-ditch attempt to save them both from eventual embarrassment and hurt feelings. 

But that was a lifetime ago. 

He didn’t know why he had always avoided deeper romantic connections, but he found them off-putting and thought himself incapable of possessing any feelings beyond a familial or platonic bond. 

His disinterest in amorous relations didn’t use to bother him, but now it did. 

He would cry-laugh about the irony of his situation when left alone for long periods; he’d spent days reeling about it, stuck in a mental loop while secluded in the basement—an intimately incapable 24-year-old forced to be a punching bag and fuck puppet for a sick pervert who found pleasure from his immense suffering. 

He accepted that life wasn’t fair, but did it have to be so goddamn cruel? 

******

Dr. Paul’s latex gloves snapped as he peeled them off his fingers. He disposed of the gloves and applied a dab of sand sanitizer, working it vigorously into his palms- the pungent alcoholic stench burned The Aid’s nose and caused a stir of harrowing memories to resurface that came through in broken fragments. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the details and lock them back up in the recesses of his mind’s “Do Not Enter” section. 

‘How many things have this abominable fuckass Wyatt ruined and taken from me? Triggered by hand sanitizer? Embarrassing. Maybe it's best I stay here till I die.’

The Aid felt Dr. Paul’s hand tunnel between his lower back and the bed; the Doctor’s other hand securely grabbed his left forearm—the only side of his upper half that remained unmangled. 

“I know you’re high as a kite, and you’re out of it, but I’m going to sit you up, okay? We’ll take it nice and slow, up and at ‘em.” Dr. Paul pulled him up with expert caution to a sitting position, still holding him up as his damaged body adjusted to the movement and change of elevation. 

The Aid groaned, not from pain, but from the dizzying head rush that momentarily filled his vision with small, trailing stars that reminded him of tiny fireworks. Everything felt off and wrong. The world seemed surreal, as if an obnoxious bright tint was added to it, and he was looking through a high-contrast photo filter.

“Do you feel anything? Are you in any pain?”

The Aid perfunctorily shook his head, his eyes wandering around the room in a daze. 

Dr. Paul released the hand from his back, waiting a moment to ensure he could keep himself upright before grabbing the cup of water from the nightstand and holding it out in front of him. The water seemed to sparkle in the clear glass, and he reveled in the small, idyllic moment of his first drink from a cup—not a bowl—since his demotion from house pet to basement troll. 

He wrapped his fingers around the glass and carefully took it from Dr. Paul. He brought the rim to his mouth and took a sip.

‘This is the best goddamn water I’ve ever had.’ 

The liquid was cool and crisp; it didn’t taste dusty and metallic like the water he had grown accustomed to. He never realized how water could have such flavor to it. He took another magnificent sip. Realizing how thirsty he was, combined with the uncertainty of when he’d get fresh water again, he continued gulping it down, savoring every drop.

“Alright…Alright. Okay, that’s enough.” Dr. Paul took the cup from him—still halfway full. “Gotta take it easy, okay? Can’t go chugging water right now; you can have some more in a minute if you’re still thirsty.”

The Aid slumped in defeat, feeling like a small child being berated after being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

Dr. Paul walked to the other side of the room to rummage through The Aid’s dresser, then disappeared into the small walk-in closet for a moment before returning to The Aid’s bedside with garments folded over his arm. He placed the clothes on the bed, leaving all but a pair of boxers in hand, and spun The Aid to the side so his legs were hanging off the mattress—still keeping his lower half covered under the blanket. 

Dr. Paul bent over, pulled the boxers over his ankles, worked them around the curve of his bent, scabbed knees, and shimmied them up around his bony hips, the elastic waistband snapping around his waist. 

‘This is what Madame Eleanor must have felt like…’ 

He reflected on his former Master’s last year of life when she needed the most assistance with things. He dressed and changed her multiple times a day without much thought, but never considered the mix of emotions of the person on the receiving end of help. Maybe she made peace with it; an elderly woman dying a slow death from cancer surely didn’t struggle with needing support as much as he did as a mid-20-something-year-old man who was supposed to be the pinnacle of health, right? 

Some strange part of him felt a pang of misplaced guilt for not being a better version of himself, although he knew it was out of his control—he didn’t shackle himself, starve himself, and maim himself for months; it was done to him.

Dr. Paul continued dressing The Aid, slipping a pair of socks on his feet as he informed him of his sprained, lightly wrapped left ankle, which he was to stay off of for the next couple of weeks. Dr. Paul assured him that he told Sullivan that he was on bed rest and that his Master wasn’t to lay anything but a helping hand on him. 

‘We’ll see how that goes. That creep can’t get his grubby ass hands off me.’ 

Next, Dr. Paul pulled on a pair of baggy sweats, tying the drawstring as tight as it would allow, then carefully fed his arms through a black zip-up hoodie, taking extra precaution with his right side. 

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dr. Paul asked over the low whir of the zipper gliding up to his chest. 

‘Consider me your living Ken doll. I can even beg on my knees like Barbie.’

The Doctor retrieved an arm sling from his grab-bag of medical equipment, looped it around The Aid’s left shoulder, and adjusted it to securely hold his right arm. Then, without warning, Dr. Paul abruptly pulled him up by his left hand to stand. His body was stiff as a board, his knees locked, and muscles pulled tight. He stumbled, wobbling with all his weight on his right foot—which wasn’t much, but just enough to throw him off balance.

A distraught whine escaped him as he hopelessly felt another head rush come on and desperately clutched onto Dr. Paul for support.

Panting, he slouched into the taller man’s chest, trying to work up the strength to hold himself up on his own. He felt like a newborn fawn taking its first steps on frail legs minutes after birth. 

The hardwood oak floor beneath his socked feet was nice and smooth—he hoped he wouldn’t slip on it. Falling on it would guarantee more damage dealt…although that would mean more bed rest, which meant more time away from Sullivan’s beatings.   

“Here we go!” Dr. Paul shoved a walking crutch under his left armpit (‘Where the hell did this come from?’) as he wrapped an arm around him to bear some of his weight, allowing him to acquaint himself with his temporary walking device. 

‘An aide for The Aid—a match forged by the heavens and prophesied in the stars, or a cruel joke? You decide.’ 

“Perfect height! Alright, we’ll just take a stroll to the other side of the room and head back, then I’ll get outta your hair, alright? You’ve been doing so good—”

“That’s what I like to hear! My boy’s a champ; he always bounces back.” 

The Aid and Dr. Paul's necks craned simultaneously to the left, watching Wyatt stroll into the room and gesture at a bowl of steamy soup in hand, then placing it—and a spoon—on the dresser.

‘Looks like he’s trying to win points with the Doctor by pretending to be civilized by ‘allowing’ me to eat with silverware; what an occasion. If only I was allowed a camera to document this momentous event.’

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sullivan simpered, sitting on the corner of the bed, twisting around to watch them. He eyed The Aid excitedly, half expecting him to fail and become a blubbering, broken heap on the floor in mere seconds. 

‘Stop fucking looking at me with that shit-eating grin.’ 

“Com’mon,” Dr. Paul coaxed, loosening his grip around The Aid and slowly stepping backward, encouraging him to follow. He took a small, hesitant step forward, supporting himself with the crutch. He felt the woosh of his clothes sway with his jolted, ungraceful step, indicating how much weight he lost during his time in isolation. 

“Beautiful,” the Doctor encouraged, guiding him to take another step.

“Speaking of hair, he got a wash and a beard trim last week, then a sponge bath a couple days ago. But I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm shower.” Dr. Paul glanced over at Sullivan. 

“Think you can manage to keep an eye on him? I'm not saying you need to bathe him; just monitor him and make sure he doesn’t run the water too hot. I recommend sitting him in a chair so he isn’t standing the whole time; he’ll be woozy for a while. One of the side effects of these meds is heat sensitivity and an increased risk of heat stroke, so just make sure you don’t lock him in the car on a hot day with the windows rolled up. I’ll go over meds with you while he’s eating.” 

“Ow-wa Doc! Was that a dog joke you just threw in there?” Sullivan whooped amusedly. 

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” Dr. Paul chuckled. 

‘Call me Scooby because I can’t fucking Doo this anymore.’

“Sure you don’t want me to scrub his back too? Scratch him behind the ears? Towel dry him and put a pretty bow on him?” Sullivan teased. 

‘Don’t threaten me with a good time. If only you would treat me like the show dog I was born to become.’

“Only if you feel so inclined to. But maybe you can pretty him up and get him a haircut and a shave? I’m sure he’d like that. Your mother always kept him groomed, and he looked happier that way. Plus, it brings out his boyish charm, don’t ya think?” Dr. Paul playfully tousled The Aid’s shaggy, grown-out chocolate brown hair that hung past his ears and covered the nape of his neck. 

They reached the opposing wall and began their trek back to the bed, the Doctor still guiding him, walking backward like a parent teaching their infant how to walk. From this vantage point, The Aid could see the heap of medical devices stationed on the right side of his bed that mimicked a hospital room.  

“Hm, I dunno, I think I like the shaggy dog look on him,” Sullivan said tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well The Aid didn’t like looking unkempt. 

“Looks like a sad little stray puppy, doesn’t he? Well, minus the collar—oh wait—” Sullivan stood abruptly and pulled something from his back pocket. “Now we can complete the look!” He pinched the metal D-ring in between his fingers as The Aid’s dark green leather collar dramatically uncurled, springing out and forward. 

The Aid glared at Sullivan with daggers in his eyes, disgusted by the presence of the collar. Just because the physical assaults were off-limits momentarily, it didn’t mean that Sullivan would stop tormenting him in whatever other way he could. The man had the same energy as a brutish school bully who deliberately picked on smaller kids just because he was bigger than them.  

“Wyatt, play nice. Don’t tease him; put that thing away,” Dr. Paul chided, irritated by Sullivan’s blatant callousness. 

Sullivan challenged The Aid’s glare with a smug smile, placing the collar on the dresser, deliberately positioning it on the edge closest to him so he would see it clearly when lying in bed. This served as a warning, a constant reminder of The Aid’s place, how he was owned and thought of as nothing more than an exotic pet to be tamed and used.

Once they reached the bedside, Dr. Paul took the crutch from under The Aid’s armpit and eased him down on the bed, resting the crutch on the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water.

“Want to finish this?” 

‘Is water wet?’

The Aid eagerly seized the glass and greedily drank the rest like it was the last cup of water he would ever get to drink. 

“Your first urination after the catheter removal may sting a little, but it shouldn’t be more than a little. There may also be a small amount of blood in your urine, but again, it shouldn’t be more than a small amount. If you have any issues down there, tell Wya—Master Sullivan, okay?” Dr. Paul looked expectantly at Wyatt to confirm that he would be receptive to possible future conversations involving The Aid’s urinary health.  

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Sullivan asked dumbly. Dr. Paul eyed him confoundedly. 

“…You call me, and I come to check on him and make sure he doesn’t have a UTI. If he has any issues, call me, and I’ll check to ensure he isn’t developing more problems. He’s been okay so far despite everything, and I’d like to keep it that way. But, if you haven’t noticed, he’s rather fragile right now; a gust of wind could knock him over.”

“Could have just said that.” Sullivan threw his arms up in the air. Dr Paul sighed, taking the cup from The Aid and propping him up against the bed’s headboard. He brought forth a medium-sized metal tray, unfolded its tucked-in legs, and placed it over The Aid’s lap. This time, Sullivan was smart enough to take the hint of placing the bowl of soup on it. 

“You’re welcome.” Sullivan stood, waiting for a meek “Thank you, Master” from his slave.  

The Aid stared bleakly into the bowl of soup, unsure how much he’d be able to eat because, despite being starved, he didn’t feel ravenous—he didn’t feel hungry at all. Sullivan scoffed at The Aid’s silence—what he took as an act of defiance. 

He’d let it slide, just this once. 

He promptly joined Dr. Paul to discuss medication times and dosages. 

The older men’s voices faded to indistinctive background chatter in The Aid’s ears. He stared into the soup, fumbled the spoon, and stirred the contents around, trying to muster the strength to feed himself. Somehow, this felt like more of an impossible feat to overcome than hobbling around the room. 

He only managed a few spoonfuls of broth. He nibbled on a chopped carrot, but it felt foreign in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. 

He was suddenly hit with an unmistakable twinge of dread. His life felt bleak and meaningless; he had no hope for the future—the drugs seemed to only amplify his negative feelings. 

‘Hope I get some fast-acting anti-depressants, if there is such a thing…’

How many more times would he be beaten nearly to death, or to death, just to be nursed back to health for the process to repeat itself? He couldn’t do this again, not after the basement. He lost part of himself in that dungeon that he’d never get back, the remnants forever lost in the pitch shadows. He found his demons down there; they coalesced with a single mission of ripping him to shreds and flaying him open for his human monster to feed on. The demons and devil-man volleyed him back and forth until nothing was left but a shell of a young man who’d lost everything and abandoned his will to live. 

He knew no peace, no happiness; nothing but desperation and horror filled his mind and heart.

He stared helplessly into the bowl of soup as his mind dragged him down the hall of horrors, making him relive the torment. 

He couldn’t even enjoy his first hot meal in four months.

‘I survived death…But now what?’

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Tag list: @sacredwrath

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

#The Aid #wyatt sullivan #Dr. Paul Richards #Generic Writez #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #sadistic whumper #tw mentions of noncon #tw ptsd #med whump? #traumatized whumpee #tw nudity #noncon drugging #disoriented #drugged whupee #whump fic #oc whump #oc whump fic #dubious consent #dub con #dub con touching #pet whump #slavefic #torture aftermath #caretaker turned whumpee #carewhumper #ace whumpee #ace characters #tw coma #tw starvation

[whump-me-all-night-long]

Whumptober Day 4

No. 4 Dead on Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can't Pass Out

CW: hero whumpee, villain whumper, kidnapping, creepy/intimate whumper, loss of powers, implied noncon drugging, noncon kiss (nonsexual), rip to the hero

The hero rose to consciousness slowly. It felt as if they were moving through molasses and their eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

A hand was stroking through their hair, soft and comforting. The hero let out a soft moan, leaning into it as much as their heavy body could.

“That's right, my little hero,” a voice soothed above them. “You're safe now.”

At that, the hero’s eyes burst open, and they found themself staring up at the villain, who was giving them a sickly sweet smile as they continued to pet their sweat-damp head.

The hero recoiled with a near-silent whimper. They tried to snap, tried to move further away, tried to get the villain to leave me alone.

The villain frowned, tutting softly with their tongue. “Now, now, love,” they chastised. “Don't go pulling away from me. That's not very nice.”

The hero shook their head, leaning back as far as they could. “St-stay aw- aw- away…” Their mouth felt full of cotton balls, tongue and lips refusing to cooperate, feeling swollen and numb.

They gasped as the villain delivered a swift backhand, snapping their head to the side.

Immediately, the hero began to tear up, their face throbbing and hot.

With exaggerated sympathetic sounds, the villain pulled the hero closer, ignoring their sobs and half-hearted struggles.

The villain ran their thumb over the already blooming bruise on the hero’s cheek, frowning. “I wish I hadn't had to do that, love,” they said with a sigh. “But you gave me no choice. You can't just disobey me like that.”

The hero could do nothing but stare up at them with wide, damp eyes. They were beginning to slowly regain control of their limbs, curling their fingers slightly.

“Please,” the hero whimpered.

The villain gently wiped away their tears, pressing a kiss to their forehead despite the hero’s loud sob. “Oh, my dear,” they replied. “You're forgetting again. You're mine. Always and forever. Every part of you. So what I say goes, and when you disobey me, well, that's when there are consequences.” They stared at the hero for a moment. “Consequences I'm sure you may already be familiar with.”

At the reminder, the hero reached deep inside themself, desperately searching, turning over every dark nook and cranny of their consciousness, but there was nothing to be found.

Their powers were truly gone.

They would never be a hero again.

With those thoughts, the hero dissolved into body-shaking sobs, no longer having the strength to pull away from the villain’s comforting grasp on them.

---

Taglist: @badluck990 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-vagabond-nun @shywhumpauthor @panic-and-chaos

#whumptober2022 #no. 4 #waking up disoriented #oc #fic #hero whump #hero whumpee #villain whumper #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #implied kidnapping #implied noncon drugging #noncon kiss #loss of powers #power loss

[whumpybobbert]

The Flash 1x13

Clarissa Stein: Stalker

Ronnie Raymond/Dr. Martin Stein: Disoriented and confused, ticking time-bomb, self-sacrifice

#whump #cw the flash #clarissa stein #ronnie raymond #martin stein #firestorm #stalker #disoriented #confused whumpee #time bomb #self sacrifice

[whumpty-dumpty-doo]

Rooms to whump your guy in: carpeted and mirrored master suite

Images from here and here

#Okay but there's so much potential here #the place is literally covered in carpet so it's so soft and plush and inviting and yet!! Things could happen that are not at all soft #mirrors on almost every surface so a whumpee constantly would have to see themselves/whumper no matter what angle #the heart on the floor is cute but could also be so cruel and ironic #bath so you can be seen at all times #fireplace to snuggle/cope by afterwards?? #that support beam that could be used as a place to secure a whumpee's hands above their head? #whump #whump prompts #whump room #whump rooms #deedoo original #irl #environments #room #rooms #interior #interiors #gosh even the way that the bedspread is so busy in that first pic it's like dizzying and kind of overstimulating like a kaleidoscope #you could disorient your whumpee so badly with patterns reflected in the mirrors #there's not even privacy for the toilet #though talk about a nightmare of a place to clean up. Yuccck!

[hurtthemgently]

1 + 21 for Maze? ✨

From this prompt list

1) drug them 21) use magic

Cw: non con drugging, drowsiness, affectionate whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, disoriented whumpee, magic whump, bad after effects, fear of dying.

The flowers smelled amazing. Maze brushed the petal against his face, feeling the softness. The cold drops of dew on the plants was wonderfully fresh, contrasting with the fuzzy warmth encroaching his mind.

He lay in the petals, blinking up at Briar through the glass. They were turned away, pouring and mixing ingredients. Paying no attention to him.

He sighed at the soft feeling, like blankets, and he wrapped them around his shoulders.

A finger poking his chest brought him back to consciousness. The bright purple flowers were nowhere in sight, instead he lay on Briar’s work table. He looked to the side to see them resting their head on the side of the table. The lenses of their glasses showed his reflection, leaned up on one arm, a small lazy smile on his face.

Grey eyes studied him closely. They brushed over his shoulders with a finger, wiping away a dewdrop. He leaned into the touch. When they scooped him up with one hand, he nestled into their palm, soaking in the warmth.

He traced the tiny lines in their hand with a single finger, prompting a small flinch. They pushed him aside and rubbed their hand.

“Don’t do that!”

“Huh? You mean this?” He repeated the motion, smiling mischievously. “You aren’t ticklish are you?”

They pinched his arms delicately, just enough to keep him from freeing himself when they lifted his arms above his head. “I said stop.”

“You are! The big tough giant has a weakness!” He smiled triumphantly, receiving an eye roll.

They sat him back down on the table, where he tried to take a few weak steps, before tumbling and giving up.

“Wait! Where are you going?” He shouted when they approached the door to leave. Something was wrong. He could hear his heartbeat, getting faster.

“I need to go collect another ingredient. I’ll be back soon.”

“I- I can’t— I can’t breathe!” He wrapped his arms around his chest, drawing in huge, heaving breaths.

They smiled, that infectious bubbly smile, and stepped back over. “Oh yeah, starfoils have some nasty after effects when their pollen is inhaled. Once the dreaminess fades, all those good feelings are quickly turned bad. Security turned to paranoia, happiness to fear, affection to stress.”

He gasped already in tears with how much his chest hurt. As good as he had felt earlier, now he felt exactly as bad. It hurt. This couldn’t just be fear and paranoia.

No. This wasn’t just the flowers, it’s not just an after effect.. it was getting worse. It was killing him.

“Please! Don’t let it ki— don’t let me-” he collapsed to lay on his side, tears down his cheeks. “Please don’t let me die!”

They lightly patted the side of his face with a single finger. “It’ll wear off in an hour or so. Make sure you keep breathing!” They cheered before skipping from the room.

Maze writhed in agony on the table, hands pressing uselessly against his chest. He mouthed wordless pleas, barely even knowing what he was pleading for. With his head thrown back, he saw the blurry upside down room. The room he was dying in.

#the gardener and the bug #non con drugging #disoriented whumpee #drugged whumpee #creepy/intimate whumper

[whumpcereal]

whumptober, day four: hidden injury | waking up disoriented | can't pass out

part of the behavior modification role swap au. masterlist here. occurs not long after joe's rescue.

content warnings for: implied past noncon, mutism, nightmares, disorientation, scars, traumatized whumpee

post-rescue drabble, hidden shame

“Joey?” 

Joe nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the hand on his shoulder; he flinches so hard that the hand immediately pulls back. 

“I’m sorry, baby. Shhh. I’m so sorry.” 

Joe’s forehead wrinkles. The voice isn’t Ivan’s, and the hand didn’t brush against naked skin. The sheets are too soft, and there’s no fetter around his ankle. 

He must be dreaming. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice says. “It’s just–you’re crying, Joey.” 

Joe doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to be in trouble. 

The hand is on his shoulder again, wrapping gently around his arm, the touch so soft that it makes Joe’s chest ache. He is dreaming. This can’t be real. 

“You don’t have to–I know you can’t–just, please, baby, let me see your face.” 

Joe’s eyes blink open. The clock is in the wrong place, its numbers glowing red instead of green. There’s a window where there should be a wall. The light in the room is a soft blue, like the sun is barely rising. It should be black. It is always black in the room.

He doesn’t know where he is. 

“Joey?” The hand traces a gentle line down Joe’s back.

He doesn’t know where he is. But he does. He recognizes this room. It used to be his. He’s dreaming, he has to be, he isn’t here, he isn’t–

Gentle hands guide him onto his back, and when Joe turns his head, it’s Jack who is looking back at him. 

Joe sobs. It isn’t fair that Jack is so beautiful, even in his dreams. Joe wishes he were real. 

“Oh, baby,” Jack brushes Joe’s hair away from his forehead and drops a feathersoft kiss between his brows. “It’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe.” 

Joe shakes his head. It isn’t okay. He shouldn’t be crying like this. If Ivan sees—

Joe tries to save his tears for when Ivan can’t see them. It’s his one act of rebellion; he can’t afford any others, not if he wants to keep Jack safe. He knows how much Ivan covets his tears, how much Ivan likes to know that he’s the cause of them. Ivan likes to know that he controls Joe, body and soul. 

But he doesn’t. 

Joe’s soul is his own. No one can own another man’s soul, no matter how hard he tries. Joe believes that. Really, he does. He thinks it’s part of the reason he can’t find his voice. He wanted so badly to hold onto some part of himself that he locked his words away. They belong to him, and only him. 

“Joe.”

Jack’s voice lances through Joe, and he blinks again. His breath stops.

Jack smiles, one corner of his lips tugging just a little higher than the other. 

“There you go, baby,” Jack whispers.

He’s real. 

Jack is real, and Joe is home. Jack cradles Joe’s head in his hands, thumbing Joe’s tears away. Joe can’t look away from him. He’s afraid Jack will disappear, or, worse, that it won’t be Jack in front of him at all. 

But it is. Joe’s eyes take a panicked inventory of the familiar sprinkle of freckles across Jack’s nose, the soft pink of his lips, the shadow of stubble along his strong jaw. And then, Joe’s eyes land on the scars around Jack’s throat–scars that Jack earned because Joe was too late, too stupid, too slow to save him. 

Jack was with Ivan too, but it’s Joe who’s falling apart.  

“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong,” Jack murmurs. He drops his forehead against Joe’s, his fingers weaving gently through Joe’s dark hair. 

Just for a moment, Joe is glad that he can’t reach his words, that his shame is even remotely hidden. He’ll keep it locked away forever if he has to. It wouldn’t be right to burden Jack that way, not after what Jack’s been through because of him. Jack’s soul is his own too, and he doesn’t owe Joe anything. 

After all, all Joe ever wanted was to spare Jack any pain.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @reflected-pain-deactivated20221, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-werid, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @shimae-writes-whump

#whumptober 2022 #no.4 #hidden injury #waking up disoriented #oc #fic #implied past noncon #mutism #nightmares #disorientation #scars #traumatized whumpee #behavior modification au #joe prescott oc #as good a whumpee as he is a caretaker #jack kenyon oc #as good a caretaker as he is a whumpee #these two i swear

[whumpshots]

Whump ABC #18 - Restrained

Based on the results of this poll.

_

Whumpee wakes up with their head throbbing and their eyes already hurting from the little bit of light above them. They blink and grunt softly, trying to move their body, which won't listen to the command.

Their hearing takes a few moments to filter out the words whispered and muttered, but their brain does not identify the voices of caretaker and team leader. It makes their heart beat faster and panic rise in their chest.

"Do you think it's a good idea?" One voice whispers.

"We didn't have another choice, they were attacking everyone in their panic," the second retorts and whumpee tries to move again.

Once their vision clears and they are able to move their head, whumpee sees that they have been restrained, ankles and wrists tied to keep them from moving. Despite wanting to fight it, whumpee rests their head against the pillow again.

The pillow ... weren't they with whumper only moments ago? Strapped to a table, cold and hard against their bare skin? Who were the people just now?

Whumpee tries to struggle against the restraints, but they are too weak. The voices start talking again, but their brain just won't realise who they are ... and the struggle against the restraints becomes more desparate.

#whump #whump writing #whump drabble #whumpee #caretaker #restrained #waking up restrained #waking up disoriented #emotional whump #whump trope #whump prompt #whump abc #whumpshots

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2022

NO. 4 - DEAD ON YOUR FEET

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

This is the beginning of a series of snippets making up a scene about my OC, Kamaria.

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Contains: lady whump, blood

.

She’s on the ground. She’s not sure how she got on the ground, she’s pretty sure she was walking just a second ago.

But she can’t be on the ground. She hasn’t been walking long enough, hasn’t put enough distance between her and the soldiers. She has to keep going.

Biting back a groan, Kamaria levers herself upright, one hand pressed hard against her side. It’s not doing much good, but she can’t help trying.

She just has to keep walking. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, using trees for support when she can. Worrying about the wound and the pain and the liquid oozing between her fingers can come later, when she’s further away.

.

Next

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #waking up disoriented #can’t pass out #original content #fic #lady whump #lady whumpee #blood #kamaria the assassin #ficlet #drabble #fantasy whump

[whump-queen]

someone just gave me the amazing idea of multiple whumpers but it’s all clones of me

imagine how fucked you’d be with multiple clone!akias

#queueing this for a fun mystery time #I have so many more bullet points of this idea but god i’d be so goddamn annoying #conflicting orders #oh I live for a whumpee to be so confused and disoriented unable to please all of us at once #sabotaging their efforts to try and do what another one of me said #set up to fail every time #clone whump #I have a whole notes app list abt clone whump nught post eventually #queue

[whumpinggrounds]

Risen From the Earth

Previous   Next

CW: buried alive and all that comes with that (difficulty breathing, claustrophobia, etc), male whumpee, female whumper, little whumper, big whumpee, attempted murder, dug own grave

The first thing Liam becomes aware of is the dirt in his mouth. The grit, the cold rasp in his throat. Blinking only lets more dirt sift into his eyes, and when Liam tries to bring his hands up to clear the detritus from his face –

His hands don’t move. At least, not right away. It’s a heavy, confusing feeling. There’s weight on every inch of his skin, pressure everywhere, and nothing…gives. There’s so little give around him. He can hardly move. It’s so cold where he is, and he can’t even shiver.

The feeling against his skin is the same earthen rasp that’s in his mouth, so…so it must be more dirt, that he’s encased in. The realization trickles in piece by piece, each thought plodding after the other excruciatingly slowly. So…dirt. It’s everywhere, all around him. It’s loose earth, not packed down and solid, but even the minor effort it takes to shift his hands makes Liam gasp for air.

Or try to. All that does is fill his mouth with dust.

Eyes squeezed shut, mouth full of dirt, and much too low on air, Liam tries to piece together what the hell is going on. His head aches, and his lungs ache, and all he wants to do is stop. It would be so, so easy to just let go. Just lie back and rest for a moment, just let air, and a little bit of earth filter through his teeth…

But there’s earth filtering through his teeth. Why the hell is their dirt filtering through his teeth?

It’s body knowledge, not brain knowledge, that saves him. The adrenaline kicks in long before Liam’s prefrontal cortex gets the memo, and he begins to move without knowing where, or why. That, in the end, will be what makes the difference.

Eyes shooting open, Liam sees only darkness. It’s the lack of air that does it, that pushes him into panic mode. Already, there’s brain fog creeping in, exhaustion. Liam forces his eyes open anyway. Immediately he wants to shut them again, as they’re assaulted by rock and dust and dirt, but he strains to keep them open, even as his eyelids twitch. A million tiny scratches sting the surface of his cornea, but he waits just a few seconds, and his vision adjusts. There, above him, the world is just slightly brown. Everywhere else is black.

Shutting his eyes again doesn’t protect Liam from all the dirt and dust now trapped under his eyelids. That doesn’t matter. He knows that the surface of the earth is up, and that’s the only thing he can focus on. Now everything has flipped into overdrive, a thousand ideas attacking him all at once. Delilah. The shovel. He dug his own grave.

None of that matters. The only thing that matters is air, and getting to air, getting the dirt out of his eyes and nose and ears and mouth. Getting the dirt out of him and getting himself out of all this fucking dirt.

Liam finds his feet beneath him and drives down, his feet pressing against the bottom of the hole he’s dug. That ground is good and solid, and it helps him push up against the burden on his shoulders. It feels like there’s a skyscraper on his aching back, but the dirt isn’t as tightly packed. It’s heavy, but it shifts. Thank God, he’s mostly upright. Thank God, he can stack the muscles of his legs and back and use every bit of energy left to strive toward the sun.

Liam’s lungs and his lack of air are the real problem. Already, there are twinkling lights dancing behind his eyelids. His lungs are tight, aching. His body burns for air. As he shoves upward with all the strength in his body, Liam knows that this is the only chance he’s going to get. His hands reach, his chest pushes up, and every ounce of strength in him, every muscle left, strains toward the surface.

Red fizzes behind Liam’s eyes, and his lungs somehow feel like they’re swelling and collapsing at the same time. He’s freezing and his body feels so far away, so out of his control and cold and trapped. His eyes crack open, searching for hope, for something, but there’s no light above him, no sign of salvation, nothing. He’s in agony – agony –

And then his fingertips break the surface.

Some instinct that Liam didn’t know he had takes over. Fingers curling into claws, he hauls himself out of his grave. His nails tear and hands weep from a hundred tiny scratches, but he feels none of it. He fights the earth around it, with his hands and nails and arms, doing whatever it takes to get his mouth above the edge of the hole. Choking on dirt, gasping for air even before his head has cleared the surface, Liam kicks and claws and drags himself, mud-streaked and seeing stars, back into the world of the living.

Too exhausted and low on oxygen to pull himself all the way out of the hole, Liam hauls his torso clear with shaking arms and collapses, bruising his face on the ground. He doesn’t care, not about the ache in his forehead, or the ache in the back of his head, or all the aches everywhere. He’s one big collection of bruises and pains, and he absolutely couldn’t care less. He absolutely couldn’t give a fucking shit. Liam lies his side, chest heaving as he greedily sucks down air. It’s cold and crisp and the best thing he's ever tasted. Every breath makes him cough, makes him rasp out more dust, scraping his throat raw and making his mouth taste like worm food. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He’s alive.

It's a long time before Liam can think about anything except dragging in as much air as possible, his panting the only sound in the still, cool dark of the forest evening. When he does regain enough awareness, he doesn’t know what it is that makes him look up, what sound or sight or secret sixth sense drives him to lift his head.

Whatever it is catches him just in time to make eye contact with Delilah, as she lifts the shovel back up, over her head.

Tagging @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @lonesome–hunter, @diyalogues, @deluxewhump, @hearse-song, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpy-writings, @warm-my-whumpee-heart and @brutal-nemesis​! Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed

@whumptober, @whumptober-archive

#whumptober #whumptober2022 #no.4 #waking up disoriented #oc #fic #male whumpee #big whumpee #female whumper #little whumper #buried alive #claustrophobia #oxygen deprivation #dug own grave #attempted murder #liam and delilah