#recapture tw

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

In the Clyde Escapes AU, lets say hypothetically Mason got Clyde back, how would Mason even begin to train Clyde? I can't imagine Clyde could ever go back to the way he was before his escape

He’d start with what he used to do - and then very quickly realize oh shit. That isn’t working.

Mason wouldn’t be able to “train” him effectively because Mason doesn’t believe him.

Mason cannot believe that Clyde was doing better without him. Could not believe it. He had a job? A well paying job? He was respected? He … learned how to read? To speak another language. Impossible. Lies. Clyde must be lying to him.

An AU where Clyde gets re-captured is also an AU where Mason starts to unravel mentally. Clyde would be calm and collected while Masons slowly spirals further and further as the foundation of his world is crumbling.

(and if Mason crumbles Rudy is also going to crumble. I’m sure Mason would keep the boys separated, so Rudy wouldn’t be able to stand up to Mason’s conditioning on his own. Eventually he’d start sneaking down to see Clyde and I’m sure eventually call the authorities)

#recapture tw #pet whump #mason is good at his job

[montammil]

CW: Recapturing, creepy Whumper, drugging, noncon touching

...

Whumpee has been alone in the house for a few days, and slowly their paranoia has gone down. They always felt nervous being away from Caretaker for too long, but it’s been almost two months since their return, so they understand Caretaker isn’t willing to risk their job and not go on that business trip.

As Whumpee takes another sip of their water, however, they begin to feel dizzy. They feel sick at the familiar feeling, remembering how Whumper used to drug them and they’d... 

...feel exactly like this.

They try to stand and grab their phone on their bed, but only make it two steps before falling to the floor. They open their eyes to see expensive shoes striding their way, they don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

“I’m offended, in all honesty. Did you really think you could get away from me? Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

“Please, don’t do this,” Whumpee begs. “Please.”

A smirk rises to Whumper’s lips. “Poor thing. You’ve grown so spoiled, you forgot your place. That’s okay, because you know what? I’m here now, and I’m never letting you leave me again.”

Whumpee goes deadweight when their captor picks them up, cradling them like Caretaker would. They cry and try to keep pleading, but each plead comes out as a pained moan.

As Whumper carries them out, they notice a framed picture on the wall. They stare at it, saying amusedly, “You look so happy in this picture, darling.” They snatch the picture and throw it to the ground, crushing it beneath their shoe. “Happiness isn’t a pretty look on you. I think I like these more.” They thumb away their tears.

“Pl-- pleas--”

“Shh...” Whumper drags their thumb from their cheek to their lips. “Save those pretty pleads for later. You’ll need them.”

#whump #whump writing #whumper x whumpee #whumpee x whumper #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #creepy/intimate whumper #whumpee #whumper #recapture whump #drugged whumpee #drugging whump #noncon touching #tw drugging #tw noncon touching

[whumblr]

Desperate

Tw: prepared for suicide

-

The door to their hiding place breached and Whumpee sprang up from a light sleep, scrambling through the darkened rooms of the abandoned house hoping to find somewhere to remain out of sight. Eyes darted about in a panic and they snatched the first available thing that resembled a weapon. A pair of scissors.

They slunk down in a far, dark corner of the room, scissors in hand. If they were spotted they could just-- they would have to--!

Fight? No. Weakened by days on the run, by hunger, by their injuries, they knew they didn't stand a chance.

They took a deep breath and opened the scissors, resting the blade against the side of their throat. They weren't going back. They weren't! They knew exactly what was waiting for them. And it was way worse than this.

Heavy footsteps echoed up through the stairwell, getting closer to the room.

Whumpee's gaze was determined, but their eyes were empty. As if they'd already taken that first step over the threshold and life merely clung to their body.

The door creaked open and beams of light entered the room, followed by two men, cautiously stepping around, whispering.

Whumpee slunk back into their corner, praying the flashlight would brush past them, that they would be one with darkness. They didn't make a sound, their breathing oddly calm, their eyes following the men around.

And one of them spotted them. They looked at each other for a second. And then he noticed the scissors against their throat.

"No, no, no, wait! Don’t! Don't!" the man shouted, waving his hands. He fell to his knees and held out a hand, as if they were a wild animal to be kept at bay. "Don't. Please," he said more calmly this time. "We're here to help."

A bit of life returned to their eyes. Hope mixed with a fair bit of suspicion, mingling in a blend of despair. They stared at the man, their hand trembling but tightening around the blade of the scissors. Blood trickled down over the palm of their hand but they barely felt it.

"Please," the man said again. His eyes widened, gaze following the drops of blood. He quickly glanced up again, looking Whumpee in the eyes, and shuffled a little closer, inch by inch, hand held out. "We're not here to hurt you."

Whumpee mewled, torn. The dull blade bit their skin. It hurt. It already hurt so bad. Fear held their hand back, not daring to press the blade deeper. Desperate hope filled their chest. Maybe... maybe they wouldn't have to do this?

"Please, your team is looking for you," the man said, nudging forward.

And Whumpee broke. Tears streamed down their face, dripping from their chin. Hope won. They shuffled over on their knees, dropped the scissors, and fell into the man’s arms. Hands wrapped around his neck, clawed in his shirt, and they sobbed against his shoulder.

"It’s okay," he shushed, brushing a hand over the back of their head. "It’s okay."

He waited patiently until the fingers clamped in his shirt relaxed, until the sobbing died down. Gently untangling himself from Whumpee's grip, he held them by the shoulders, nodded at them in question and held out a hand.

A trembling hand slid into his palm, accepting the offer, and he slowly pulled them up to their feet.

He smiled at them.

Then his hand was on their wrist and as they stood straight, he spun them around, forced their wrist halfway up their back. A metal click followed.

"Sucker," he chuckled.

The bright feeling of hope in their chest popped. It sank like lead into their stomach, transforming to an intense fear and Whumpee completely froze up.

The man caught them as their knees gave out. "Someone is willing to part with a lot of money to get you back. Alive."

-

General whump tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @auroragehenna

#whump #tw suicide mention #whump drabble #scared whumpee #angst #yoo I had a dream about this and it was wild #like wow brain that went dark...... hm let's write that down #failed escape #betrayal #recapture #my writing

[ashintheairlikesnow]

okay Ash but older nanda and Jameson comf? If he'd lived? Pleeease? Just a snippet. A headcanon. A crömb. -theo-

@boxboysandotherwhump I totally forgot you had asked for me to do this AU so so long ago. Found this old ask abandoned in my inbox and you were PROPHETIC.

Continuing the AU, the last chapter (plus a link to the first) is right here.

-

CW: Intimate whump, some derogatory language, dubcon, some, uh, choking

For a long time, there is only the sound of each of them breathing. Jameson is ragged, rasping at the edge of a sob as he pulls himself back into control, his fingernails digging into the soft leather of the reclined passenger seat. His heart pounds, blood rushing past his ears.

Nanda's breath is nearly silent, far more even. His chest is warm against Jameson's bare back. Even through his expensive fucking shirt, though, Jameson can feel his heart pounding, too.

"What..." Nanda trails off. Jameson has never heard him sound so stunned. Nanda always plans for every angle.

But he didn't plan for this one.

"... what do you mean, someone else?" His mouth moves against Jameson's hair, sending a shiver down his spine. "Are you fucking the woman you live with, pet?"

My name is Jameson. I just told you that.

He bites the words back before they can make it out.

"N-no, not her. Fuck no. No. Absolutely... Absolutely not." He shifts, managing to get his shirt off the rest of the way, stop it from keeping his wrists tangled. It gives him an excuse for how his voice shakes - just from the effort. Only that. "Someone else. Different house. Someone... Someone else."

Nanda is quiet again. He's quiet for far too long. Then, he shifts back inside the tiny space. "Roll over. I want to see your eyes."

Jameson swallows, obeying the easy command with a little curl of warmth. He tips his head back against the headrest, looking up at Nanda, his beard and the line of his jaw beneath the silver and gray. The way the muscles in his arms seem written even more in stone. Nanda eases himself back down, and his weight feels reassuring and terribly final at once.

"Who is it?" His voice is mild. Spoonful of sugar tinted pink, sweetness and salt on Jameson's tongue. He could drown in the taste of Nanda's voice. Used to feel like he did drown, under voice and hands, tied up in ropes and brought to the good kind of screaming.

"... They're called A-Allyn. They, they ran away like I did. Well, not the-... Their owner died, too. They... They understood that I missed you..."

He reaches a hand up, hesitantly, trying to touch Nanda's face. The older man's big hand snaps up to close painfully tight around his wrist, forcing it back down.

"I wasn't dead," Nanda says mildly.

"I already told you, I didn't exactly goddamn know that-"

"No, you were dumb as rocks the one time I could have used the brains we both knew you had." Nanda's voice stays mild, but the insult stings regardless.

"I'm-... not-"

"Oh, you're not? You didn't know how to check a fucking pulse, but you're not dumb, huh? You ran off instead of waiting or calling for help but you still love me, right? Hell, you fuck someone else, but you're not a slut anymore. Isn't that what you're saying?"

Jameson's wrist feels like it creaks as Nanda tightens his grip further and further. The man's other hand drops down to unbutton and unzip his own pants in quick jerky motions. They're down low off his hips in seconds.

Jameson grits his teeth against the pain, refuses to be seduced by it. Or by the way Nanda punctuates the accusations by rolling his hips, the low warmth remaining stoked back into a flame.

God, he feels so hot.

They're both burning.

"If you were d-dead-... Ah! I would have lost you when they took you out of my head, I already s-said that-Jesus that's fucking good-"

His other wrist is grabbed now. He tries to pull it away, but they both know he isn't trying very hard. Nanda's mouth drops to graze against his. To catch him in a kiss, brutal and firm, until he's whimpering and rocking his hips like some mindless fucking idiot, like he used to do.

Nanda chuckles bitterly, pulls back and listens to Jameson's angry hiss at the sudden loss of connection. "If there's someone else, why did you get in my car when I came for you?"

He swallows, closing his eyes. Nanda's burn too much for him to take. Those hips roll against his again and he meets them with his own, arches his back, lets legs shift apart to welcome Nanda between his thighs. He could come from this, if it goes on long enough. "I don't-... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No! Fuck you, no I don't know! You were dead and now you're here and I, I forgot who I am for a second, but I'm-... I'm not that anymore, and I want-... I want to-..." God, he feels it so much, his skin is all raw nerves and sensation. "... I want-"

"You want me."

Nanda had let go of his wrist at some point. He only realizes it when that heavy hot hand closes around his neck.

His breath stutters, gets lost trying to find his lungs. His head spins as the hand tightens, he feels his Adam's apple move against Nanda's palm. "Wait-"

" I spent all these years trying to find you, pet-"

"Jameson," He rasps, barely able to force the word out in a whisper. "Use... Use m'fucking name-"

"Fine. Jameson." God, it sounds so good in Nanda's voice, his own name tastes perfect in his tongue when Nanda is the one to say it. His eyes nearly flutter shut at the simple pleasure. "I have been searching for you-"

"Doing a shit j-job of it, could've used your help a couple y-years ago when I was in some asshole's dog cage-"

"Let. Me. Finish." The grip on his throat tightens even more. There is so little room for him to breathe, chest heaving. He never moves his hands to try and push or fight, though. He knows this tone, the look on Nanda's face. "However you feel about someone else... I looked for you. And I found you. I searched every goddamn corner of California trying to figure out where you fucked off to, and I find you all fucked up for someone else, another pet, huh?"

"I... I loved you... I still-" His voice catches, his throat clicks when he swallows. His eyes are wide, and he sees the anger in Nanda's and wonders why it used to thrill so much more to see it than it does now. "But I-... grieved-... Rebuilt, built n-new... life... I, I fucking deserve to l-live-"

Nanda's lip curls. But he doesn't say anything while Jameson fights for enough air to speak again. They're both still hard, still moving together, and the pleasure mixes with the pain in his throat and the dizzy lack of air, crossing all his wires and leaving him squirming in helpless unwanted arousal beneath Nanda's familiar perfect weight.

"I... deserve s-someone... who l-loves me... back-"

He expects mockery, black spots flashing bright like camera lights around Nanda's face as his vision starts to go, tunneling in on those eyes.

He sees, in the center of the closing tunnel, the whites of Nanda's eyes.

"Please-... If you e-ever... loved m-me-... Please, fuck, please s-say-... it..."

Nanda's thumb pushes against his windpipe as he kisses Jameson. Their mouths open to each other, and Jameson's arms move, finally, only to grip onto Nanda's shoulders. An anchor as he drowns on land, fighting for air.

Then the grip loosens.

Jameson's head pounds as he groans, his throat aches as he gulps air desperately. He'll be marked, bruised. He's been bruised there before. "N, Nanda-"

Nanda's head drops to Jameson's shoulder.

"... Nanda?"

A pause.

"You stupid thing. Why would I have looked so long for you if I didn't?"

#jameson au #nanda #whump #bbu #pet whump #box boy universe #box boy #intimate whumper #recaptured whumpee #dubcon tw #choking tw #dubcon #choking #captor bonding

[whumble-beeee]

Show Me What You're Made Of

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 2

CW: escape attempt, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), past captivity references, needles mention, tied up, gunshot, general violence

* * * * * * * * [There are some scenarios in which you will want to invite a staged escape attempt just to foil it. Usually, this is done as a way to give hope to your captured hero only to viciously rip it away, but it can also be useful in making them reveal any powers they may have previously kept hidden.

It must be noted that inviting a non-staged escape attempt is very risky and generally a terrible idea, as there is always a chance the hero will be able to overpower you. Don’t get cocky, and always have a fail-safe. If done correctly, a failed escape attempt can be devastating to both a hero’s emotional and physical well-being and aid in long-term hero-keeping.]

* * * * * * * *

Stan was not a fast runner in any capacity. Especially without the use of his cane or any magical intervention to help his knee move along.

He could run without a mobility aid, sure, but that didn’t mean that a sharp pang of protest from his damaged knee didn’t light up his entire leg with every heavy step, and it certainly didn’t mean that he had the balance required to keep running smoothly like your average able-bodied person.

That realization blasted him like a truck as soon as he stood up and took his first steps to bolt toward the door, but at that point, it was way too late to turn back. 

He pitched himself toward the wall and slammed into it with a methodically placed shoulder, using the cold cinderblocks to keep balance. With that support, and if he ignored the steadily increasing pain-filled protest from his leg, he could practically run normally! 

Then a yell. He could hear footsteps pounding up behind him, gaining on him.

For a brief moment, he could already feel the iron grip around his wrist or his shirt, or the arm snaking around his stomach, the heave backward just as his fingers brushed the door handle, the slam to the ground, how he’d be bound up and forced back to that stupid chair and probably be tortured or whatever else the mercenary saw fit to do to him. 

Fuck that.

If he couldn’t outrun him, he’d just have to fight him off.

Stan whirled around and sent out the sturdiest force he could muster to grab onto the bounty hunter's ankle. Just enough so that it caught in the air and missed the floor entirely, and the hunter pitched forward with a surprised shout and fell face-first into the concrete floor, the residual blue glow of the magic still half enveloping his leg. Stan could feel the energy seeping out of him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop to see the rest of the damage before turning around and booking it again.

He slammed the mercifully unlocked door open wide and frantically ran outside, hesitating for just a moment because he didn’t expect to run face-first into what looked to be a warehouse wall, complete with a wide hallway he couldn’t see the end of, high ceilings, blank walls, and cold clinical lighting like a goddamn horror movie.

And no exit door in sight.

He raced to the nearest hallway turn, ignoring his pounding head and screaming weak knee and imminent exhaustion and burning lungs and the ever-threatening presence of the bounty hunter and just focused on the one and only task of ‘RUN!’ He couldn’t afford any other thoughts.

He finally barreled past the blind corner, and there was a door! Stan allowed himself a small relieved laugh at the sight of it.

A flash of the mercenary streaked in his periphery. Stan only squeaked slightly. He needed to get away, to slow him down again, he was so close, so close. So he twisted around to throw some sort of magic bullshit at him again when–

And his knee torqued.

He stumbled.

Lost his balance.

He shoved into the wall again so he didn’t fall flat on his face, and tried to push up again and run, or attack, or do something. And in that moment, despite everything, he saw a flash of red on the back of his hand that he hadn’t noticed before that drew all his attention; A tiny little smiley face, no doubt carved in the first time the bounty hunter messed with him when he was tied to the chair.

Then the bounty hunter tackled him to the ground.

Stan fought to get back up, but all he managed was a terrified shuffling of limbs and a feeble attempt at drawing up enough energy to fight the mercenary off as he quickly pinned Stan down with a straddling of the hips and threw a devastating punch across Stan's jaw that made him have to blink exploding stars away.

He held up his arms to protect his face, instinctively trying to curl up and away from the source of the pain. Noise surrounded him, that frizzy buzzing sensation filling his head with cotton and making it hard to think. His entire body felt like it was seizing up.

He wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t done yet.

“GET OFF!!”

Stan used every last bit of power he had to push the man off of him. The walls around them glowed an electric blue, and the bounty hunter lifted violently up into the air with a surprised yelp. But not before he grabbed the front of Stan’s shirt and dragged the hero right along with him with an equally terrified shriek. 

Then Stan slammed face-first into the ground, barely managing to get his arms under himself in time to soften the landing. One which was not made any softer by the person landing on top of him.

“Holy shit... you don’t know when to quit, do you?” the voice above him cut through heavy breaths, a suddenly prominent southern twang vibrating through a growl of his voice.

Stan felt a punch in the right of his ribcage.

His muscles seemed to stop working entirely for a moment. Then a strange blooming agony started working its way outward throughout his torso.

His eyes unfocused. He curled in on himself as much as he could. It wasn't much at all. He couldn’t move. He felt an increasing pressure emanating from the area, the unbearable stinging pain spread throughout his torso and he squeaked trying to hold in a full-blown scream, breathless yet barely able to suck in a single gasp into his shuddering body. 

He barely even noticed when a hand tangled through the hair at the back of his head until it yanked him up and arched his back, causing what felt like knives stabbing through his ribs. He gritted his teeth. If nothing else, he wasn't going to give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of hearing him scream. 

The hand slammed his face down into the ground. The sides of his vision starting to go dark. Then slowly receded back again. A ringing sound reverberated throughout his entire body, and he all but went limp pressing his forehead into the floor.

“Y’know, runt,” the voice of the bounty hunter penetrated Stan’s clouded mind with hard breath. He could feel the man messing around with his belt pouches as he pressed his knee sharply into Stan’s lower back. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to use this. I think it's demeaning and kinda inhumane, but you just had to fuck around and find out, didn’t you?”

Stan shook his head and squirmed fruitlessly, terrified of whatever this guy could possibly think was demeaning and inhumane. 

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because suddenly a strip of smooth leather ran under his neck and pulled tight under his Adam’s apple. 

Stan froze mid-struggle. Clenched his hands, and his teeth, arched his back and pressed his face into the floor even more. He could only see bright white. 

He already knew what the collar felt like.

And suddenly he wasn't in the dingy warehouse corridor anymore.

"No, no, no no no NO NO PLEASE STOP PLEASE!!"

The red eyes flicked down to his sister, pressing her face into his side and squeezing into him as tight as she could.

Then back up to him, holding his hand out threateningly, blue glow dancing across his fingertips.

“How old is she?”

He snarled, arms protectively pulling her into him. “Stay AWAY from us!”

The eyes softened slightly.

So why was a gun still pointing at his head?

–

He threw his hands violently out at the person in all-black combat gear and a slight electric blue glow enveloped their side. Their narrowed their eyes and hissed in annoyance.

“Collar the older one, and for gods sake, find the younger one and dispose of it or something.” The person in all-black combat gear nodded at him. “She’s the only one we need alive.” 

–

He tried to fight back. He didn’t have the cane back then. Didn’t need one.

His powers were so new, and they were so many, and he was just a kid.

He never stood a chance.

The gun. The eyes behind it. Red sparkles, red and scary.

He faced them down. 

They were supposed to be gone forever.

Then the rough woven fabric of a collar too tight around his neck.

The large hands squeezing his upper arms painfully, forcing him forward.

Restraining him.

Fighting.

Held down.

Experiments. 

Needles.

NEEDLES.

Where was his family?

He clutched at the collar as it wrapped around his neck. He could feel his powers leeching away as he fought to keep his freedom.

CLICK.

The sound reverberated through his skull.

And now the cycle had begun anew.

An arm wrapped around his chest and strong-armed him to his feet. Stan would have screamed if he remembered how to. Instead, a strangled gasp choked out of his vocal cords as a heavy hand clasped onto his shoulder and propelled him forward. 

He immediately stumbled and fell to one knee, agonizing pain bolting up and down his bad leg and almost face-planting in the process, because when were his hands cuffed behind his back again? 

He felt the collar sitting on his throat and he tried to bring his hands up to rip the damn thing off, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, he couldn't, he tried but he couldn't.

A voice lilted somewhere all around Stan, and he could feel the hands grabbing at him. He shrieked and fell forward, scrambling all of six inches before he was backed up and shivering against the wall staring up at the heaving bounty hunter.

He did not look amused.

“You are so pitiful, you know that?”

Stan brought his knees up and pressed his face into his legs, as if that small protection could put the world between them.

“Chiquito, if you don’t get your ass up and walk with me back to that room, I will pick you up and throw you over my shoulder like a sack of goddamn potatoes and spike you into the fucking floor when we get there, do you want that?”

Stan stared glassily into the floor. “... you– you– y-you were– you were there-ere.”

“I was–... What?”

Stan’s gaze snapped to his eyes. Those dark eyes. He couldn’t see it now, but he was sure there was a red glint in the right light.

“You!” He shouted, as if that would clear up his babbling. “You were– it was you!”

The mercenary stared at him. Then clenched his fists, looked up, took a hissing deep breath, and released his fists again.

“You can have a mental breakdown when we get back, runt. Are you gonna walk there or am I dragging you there?”

He didn’t remember. 

Of course he didn’t remember, it must have been ten years ago. Stan was just a kid, and everyone thought he was a girl back then. He himself thought he was a girl back then.

Things were different now. Things were going better.

“I– I– We–... Walk.”

“Great.”

He reached down and dragged Stan up by the upper arm, completely ignoring the way he violently flinched and tugged back. 

Stan did his best to keep up, but in addition to hunching over the searing pain in his chest and trying to ignore the prickling bruise that must have been forming on his cheek, his leg was oozing spikes of lava up and down his entire hip and leg. Stan stumbled and almost pitched forward if it hadn't been for the bounty hunter's iron grip. 

The bounty hunter groaned incredulously. “Oh my god!” 

“Wait, wait, I– Don't–!”

That was all he managed to get out before he was swept off his feet and thrown over the man's shoulder, hitting the soft part of his stomach right on the bone, knocking the wind from his lungs and setting his side on fire all over again. And now he was upside down. His brain felt like it was made out of slime.

He barely managed to gather his bearings enough to start kicking and yelling when he was unceremoniously dumped against the wall, where his head cracked against the cold cinderblock and he bounced to the ground with a strangled gasp.

The world went bright white as the searing pain shot through his entire being, snaking around his brain and squeezing it in a chokehold so that there was no more thought, nothing else but the primal urge to curl up into a little ball to protect himself and the silent open-mouthed screams of a trapped animal clawing desperately for its life, seizing and twitching and paralyzed all because of a too hard smack to the head short circuiting any chance it had at survival.

Stan could barely feel anything over the deafening ringing in his ears, the buzzing feeling in his body as if he were entirely made of bees, the dizziness tilting the world around him on its axis like some bad carnival fair ride.

What was that all about?

Then he finally spotted the mercenary again, coming at him once more with chain in hand, and he may as well have been dunked in ice water with how fast that image sobered him up.

He clumsily kicked out with all his might, pressing his back into the wall as much as possible to get away while simultaneously realizing that with the wall behind him, probably concussed, dizzy, tied up, and in agonizing pain, there was no way he was going to win this fight.

He kicked anyway.

Even as the hunter seemed to grab the ankle of his good leg easily, he still tried to slam his foot into the hand of the bounty hunter to just get him off. He even managed to get a solid kick in, causing the hunter to jolt back with a pained cry and let go. 

Stan felt some sort of twisted sense of pride that he managed to get a hit in even in his sorry state.

Which was quickly crushed when two hands grabbed either of his ankles and lifted them up high into the air, so high that Stan was only touching the ground with the upper part of his back. He couldn’t even use his arms for extra support with the way they were firmly stuck near the small of his back.

There was panting above him. “Alright, you gonna–”

“Let me GO!” Stan yelled, trying once more to kick out of the hold, pressing painfully down into the ground with the back of his head and writhing around erratically in one last herculean act of defiance. He kicked even as his bad knee screamed for him to stop, to rest, even as the fists around his ankles just tightened and became more rigid in response, even as the mercenary grunted out a string of curses trying to wrangle him in.

He wasn’t just gonna give in.

“¡Basta ya! Fucking stop, you lost!”

“Fuck you, make me!”

A sharp kick struck him square in the middle of his spine, and he nearly cracked his teeth with the clench of the jaw he made trying to hold back the scream. He almost involuntarily had to take a moment to catch his breath, then before he could start his protestations again, the cold metal claw of a manacle clamped around his ankle and locked in place with a final click click click that made Stan’s hairs stand on end.

But he was still upside down. The mercenary didn’t let go.

In fact, he held Stan up by only one leg now, and seemed to be fiddling with something that Stan couldn’t see because of his own overturned and battered body getting in the way. He could hear each heavy breath the mercenary seethed out, each one filling him with more dread.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The adrenaline of the situation finally started to ebb away as it started to sink in that he was well and truly trapped, leaving room for the much more paralyzing fear that Stan had been battling since the moment he woke up here. 

Not to mention the blood rush from being upside down for so long was stinging at his face and making his brain hurt. And dizzy. And everything felt like it was shrouded in clouds. Or maybe that was the concussion.

“Jesus Christ,” the mercenary finally breathed. “One hell of a fucking kicker…”

Stan wrenched his head up to snarl at the man and tried to kick his hand off his ankle.

He snatched it out of the air mid-kick, haphazardly pressing a small bundle of twine into his skin as he knocked Stan’s ankles together and held them there as he began to wind the thread around them.

“Yeah, no more kicking.”

Stan still tried to wriggle out with increasingly weaker and weaker cries of anger, even as his ankles were anchored together, even as the blood rushed to his head and made him more and more dizzy, feeling the pressure in his face rising, and his breaths becoming shallower and slower.

Even as all of his efforts did absolutely nothing, and he was left panting and shaking with effort to not go completely limp as his legs were still held up high above him.

Stan didn’t even have the energy left to fight anymore. Tears stung at his eyes as he finally let his head lay on the ground.

“All tuckered out?” the mercenary's voice came from above him. “This seems to work pretty well on you. Maybe I just just let you hang like this for a bit. I’ve got this like, chain thing in the middle of the room hanging from the ceiling, I could probably just like, clip this in–”

“No, no, no, no no no…”

“You’re sure?” The southern drawl was ever-present. “Just wanna make sure you learned to never fucking do that again… y'know, I could hogtie you, you’re already most of the way there.”

Stan felt something break just then. He heaved in a desperate, hitching breath. “Just… please just put me down. Please.” 

His voice was barely even a whisper. Every breath put more strain on his lungs.

A moment passed.

Then the hold on his ankles released, and his body came crashing to the ground. His feet hit extra hard, and his bad knee felt like it was being attacked by angry stinging bees. 

But he didn’t care.

He just rolled onto his side so he wasn’t lying on his bound wrists and lay there.

He heard the boots of the bounty hunter approaching him, and he used whatever energy he had left to open his eyes and stare up at him, pleading with him to not actually hogtie him, whatever that meant. He didn’t think he could handle more.

But the bounty hunter just stared back down at him, briefly meeting his eyes before giving his body a once over, then a small nod. He nudged Stan lightly with the toe of his boot, and Stan’s wandering eyes opened and focused back on the man before he even realized they had closed.

“Not gonna pass out on me, are ya?” the mercenary asked, as if they had just had a light sparring match instead of an irrefutable beatdown.

It almost seemed like he cared. Maybe he did.

Stan swallowed. “I’m– not.”

“Good. Don’t.”

The mercenary whipped around and started to walk away, giving Stan a faceful of the revolver strapped to his hip, still completely clipped in and unused.

He never stood a chance, did he?

Despite everything, a feeling of something akin to a mix of rage and sorrow bubbled up within his stomach.

“He-hey! Wait!”

The bounty hunter turned to face him again quizzically, and somehow that made Stan’s annoyance just grow.

“You didn’t even–” Why was he mad about this? “You didn’t use the gun! Coward!”

The mercenary’s gaze shot to his hip. Then back up to Stan. His nose twitched. Face blank, calculating.

Then in one smooth motion, the gun was out of the holster and pointing directly at Stan, and a deafening blast rang out throughout the entire room.

Stan felt a burning sting whiz by his ear, high-pitched and cutting through air microseconds before the blast shook him to his core. He screamed and ducked into himself, violently shoving back into the wall and cowering into a small ball.

Even as the ringing died down and Stan realized he wasn’t a splatter on the wall behind him, the stinging on the shell of his ear didn’t die down. It got more intense. He felt a single drop of something tickling down the side of his ear before dripping down onto his shoulder. Then another.

His attention ripped up to the mercenary, only to scramble further into the wall when he found the gun still pointed at him. 

Another drip.

The mercenary flipped the revolver once and shoved it firmly back into its holster.

“I’ll use the gun next time.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy

#whump #whump writing #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #heroes and villains #captivity whump #(un)official guide #angst #referenced captivity #tw recapture #escape attempt #tw gunshot #(not sure I'd call this recapture but I saw someone ask people to tag that sort of thing) #(so better safe than sorry :)) #also can you tell exactly which part I finished writing awhile ago and which part I finished this week? #I sure as hell can and sorry about that lmao #I tried to fix it but its still pretty tedious to read the first half of it #Thus ends the fateful first encounter of Stan and Deeby #but dont worry #im not done writing this story #theres still so much more hehehe #im just getting started #also ALSO you see now why i was late to uploading lmao? #long ass chapter #worth it tho

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 27

Previous—Masterlist—Next

This one turned into one of those chapters. It sat for months, already beta-read, becoming a point of avoidance and a total bottleneck in my writing flow. It didn't feel good enough/perfect/complete in a way I couldn't put my finger on but my heart wasn't in it for a rewrite. So, finally, I need to just check this box and move on.

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight. 

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim. 

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end. 

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it. 

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him. 

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade. 

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue. 

142836359. 

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere. 

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix. 

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head. 

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable. 

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance. 

“Little fucking shit.” 

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed. 

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.” 

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them. 

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.” 

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are. 

The leader let the silence stretch again. 

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.” 

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused, sprang to action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk. 

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience. 

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together behind his back. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away. 

Just like that, it was all over. 

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

 Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van. 

He envied them. 

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable. 

A Companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle— 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll. 

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training was waiting for them. Or at least for the others.  

Better yet, a clean decapitation. 

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort?  Had he surpassed them in training? 

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off. 

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own spit before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing. 

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel. 

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here. 

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic. 

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted Companions. It didn’t make any difference if a Companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster. 

He would be on a different list. 

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

— each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks. 

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his mouth open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink. 

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience. 

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—  

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs. 

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt. 

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now. 

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room. 

He was alone.

Previous—Masterlist—Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

#bbu #bbu adjacent #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #institutionalized slavery tw #pet whump #whump #wru #whumpblr #whump writing #recapture #restraints tw

[3-2-whump]

WoW Birthday Whump Event, Day Thirteen

“Shut up!”

There were two possibilities I could’ve gone with for this. So, here are both!

Left: I was bored (canonically happened here)

Right: Recapture (happened multiple times between here and here)

#wow birthday whump #wow birthday whump day thirteen #shut up! #whump art #tw minor whump #at time of story #also mild disaster (but not a natural disaster) #recapture #gagged whump #my art #my ocs

[redstainedsocks]

Writing? Writing! A burst of inspiration, posting before I can second-guess it.

Contents: Near-fatal injury, blood, fist fight, (re?)capture/failed escape. [brief allusion to needles being used]

He stumbled onward, one hand clutching the bloodied wound in his side. A slashing injury that he desperately hoped it hadn’t done too much damage. Though the weakness he felt… the blood coating his fingers…Thinking about it made him woozy. Fainter. All that mattered was putting one step in front of the other.

The streets were dark; that should have been an advantage if he could move faster or dart between alleyways and buildings. As it was all he could manage was one slow, meandering wobble clutching onto streetlamps, benches, and bins to keep himself upright. 

His abdomen throbbed with each jolt as he kept one arm locked tightly around his waist so that his hand could press over the injury. His vision wavered but he sucked in a breath. And another. And another. And he moved. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of other things: the bruised knuckles from the fight, the wrenched knee, the gash across his collarbone, the dull ache in his head. They were distant problems, locked behind a sort of numbness.

Each sound drew his attention in a way that added to his exhaustion. The extra rushes of adrenaline drained his already over-taxed system. There were a few other people out and about. Voices echoing from late-night bars, passing citizens laughing and joking. Cars careening past blaring heavy-bass music. He had no idea what he looked like in comparison, he just hoped no-one noticed him.

He turned down a side-street and walked a little further, casting long glances back over his shoulder as he went. His pulse was louder than anything else, a constant thud-thud-thud in his ears.

But there was something else. Footsteps? Coming closer? Car doors? He whipped his head around and spotted them. Three of them. Stalking closer. Two in front and one behind. His nostrils flared with the need to breathe deeper.

Slowly, he dropped his hand. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the pavement as he curled them into a fist. He’d go down swinging. God help him, he wouldn’t make this easy.

The first attack came from behind, a kick to his legs that he dodged but not far enough to prevent a stumbling blow. Then a fist that collided with the side of his head. He jerked backwards. No pulse anymore, just a long, high-pitched ringing. Sluggishly he stepped sideways and brought down his elbow, slamming it into the bicep of the one who’d punched. A third hand on his shoulder pulled him backwards. A wordless noise of pain and anger burst from his lips. 

He kicked back, made contact. Ducked under another blow. But there was a third that caught him across the cheek. A body that slammed him sideways into the asphalt. Raw, sharp pain across his palm where he stopped his descent.  He flew upwards, throwing the weight of his body behind the assault. He caught one in the throat and they went down. But more hands grabbed his clothes and shunted him once again. He stumbled, found his balance. And they circled him.

He wheezed. Wavered. “Fuck. Get it over with!”

“You’re making it a little easy on us, don’t you think?”

“You said we were done,” he snarled.

“And then you took my knife and tried to gut me, so forgive me if I changed my mind.”

It was the leader who talked, facing him head on. That hated voice, the loathsome face thankfully concealed by the night. 

“You would’ve killed me.”

“Would I?”

“You’re a liar if you say otherwise.” He took the reprieve to clasp his hand over the wound again. The last fight hadn’t done him any favours and this one looked to be going even worse. “You’ll forgive me for not taking any chances.”

“Well now you’re just being pathetic. If this was the chance you took, you’re doing a terrible job of seeing it through.”

He just glared. The blood loss wasn’t helping. Every minute made him weaker. “I won’t let you touch me, not again.” Not with a knife, not with anything else.

They just jerked their head and two hands pushed him forward. He cried out with the force of it and fell right into their waiting hands. One wrapped over his shoulder. Thumb right on the gash on his collarbone. They squeezed.

Even in the dark of night his vision went blindingly bright. White flashes of starry-nothing as pain overrode everything else. In a blink his knees hit the ground. The thumb pressed harder and he wailed.

“Not very strong in your convictions, are you? What happened to not letting me touch you?” Their voice was a sneer, a stain across the ego that he wanted rid of. He batted for the hand on his shoulder but was caught, vice-like, around the wrist.

“Little busy bleeding out,” he gasped.

They made a noise of derision. “As if I’d make it that easy on you.”

A lump caught in his throat. “You gotta help me, then.”

“Say please.”

“Screw you!”

They did laugh at that. “I’ll put it this way, if you come quietly we’ll give you something for the pain before we start patching you up. If not…” their hands finally left his body and opened before him. Like a shrug. Like it wasn’t a threat of pain on top of pain.

From his knees, in the middle of the street, his options narrowed and narrowed until they were nothing more than a spec in the darkness. With each heartbeat his life force ebbed away under his fingertips. With each blink his eyes got heavier and heavier. His resolve thinned like a wire doomed to snap.

He hung his head and nodded. Arms raised in surrender. Knife-wound leaking in a steady, terrible display of agony.

“Good.”

One snap of the fingers and he was hauled upright. A van came around the corner, black metal against the black tar of the road. In the moments before he was shoved inside it he saw their flash of a grin, and then a black bag came down over his eyes and he saw nothing else. The vehicle moved under them but it didn’t register, didn’t mean anything. Fingers pried his own bloodied hand away from his side. Thoughtful noises followed as someone assessed the injury. His wrists were zip tied down to something unforgiving on either side of his body. He closed his eyes and drifted as something pricked into the hollow of his elbow. Weakness became distance, became relief, became certainty. Because all that mattered was that he wasn’t going to die.

#injury #knife injury #blood tw #whump #whump writing #violence #fist fight #recapture #failed escape attempt #enemies #threats #defiant whumpee #knives tw #collapse #needles tw #surrender #beaten #forced to kneel

[jordanstrophe]

CW: Blood loss, cold whump, collapse, open ending capture 

Whumpee gritted their teeth as they collapsed their shoulder against a tree. They huffed a breath of fridge air and looked down at the bloodstain on their shirt. It had grown since they last looked at it, blood was running down and tacking in the snow around their feet. 

They bit down on their folded sleeve and tried to stop the bleeding, hoping the pain and pressure was worth it. They had lost so much blood already... 

Before they could catch themselves, they slid down the tree and collapsed into the snow. They could barely feel the cold, it was only a sting crawling up their skin. 

Suddenly, a hand came from around the tree and clamped over their mouth before they could shout.  

"There you are. Snow really brings out your blood trail."

#Head goes 'whumpee recapture' #desire goes 'delirious whumpee escapes impending hospital visit' #whump #whumpee #whumper #wounded whumpee #injury whump #blood loss whump #whump drabble #whump scenario #whump writing #whump community #whumplr #whump things #whumpee x whumper #tw blood #cold whump #whump angst #winter whump #survival whump #collapse whump

[galaxywhump]

For the Berkeley AU: Berkeley teasing Wren with the idea that Wren killed the only person who ever loved him/will ever love him/was capable of loving him

[SV-240 AU Masterlist]

contents: recapture, muzzle, insults, verbal abuse, referenced creepy/intimate whumper and forced relationship, victim blaming, self-loathing, death threats.

~~~

As if the restraints and the collar weren’t enough, it turns out that the duffel bag contains a muzzle as well. It doesn’t have a bit, but that doesn’t make it any more bearable, especially when Berkeley pulls the straps just a little too tight to ensure it never gets less uncomfortable.

Then, he takes advantage of Wren’s silence and talks, and talks, and talks, his words seeping like poison into Wren’s mind.

“Was Daniel really that bad, Rackham?” He’s busy cleaning the hideout, making it more homely, changing the sheets on just one of the bunks, confirming that Wren will be sleeping on the floor. “I mean, sure, he was kind of a weirdo, but who wouldn’t be after living on that planet for more than a decade.”

A weirdo. Wren frowns. Euphemism of the century.

“Speaking from experience, as far as sadistic buyers go, he wasn’t that bad," Berkeley continues, smoothing out the blanket on the bunk before sitting down with a satisfied sigh. “Especially when he decided to make you his sweetheart.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “And he was head over heels for you, happy like a highschooler with a crush. He had a weird way of showing it, but he must have really loved you. I’m sure he'd told you that a bajillion times.”

“I love you, Wren.”

“I love you too.”

The memories make Wren shudder, but he tries not to react otherwise and tune out Berkeley’s voice like he’d learned to tune out Daniel’s, to no avail. Daniel’s words were predictable. Berkeley’s are new, dangerous, and can at any point let him know what to expect before he’s killed.

“If you had given in, I think he would’ve stopped hurting you after a while. Then you’d be two happy lovebirds, or something.” He pauses for effect, then snorts. “Get it? Lovebirds? Because of your name? Fuck, my jokes suck now. And I blame you.”

This time it’s Wren’s turn to roll his eyes when Berkeley points his finger at him.

Still, unpleasant thoughts assault him, hit him like a powerful wave. If he had given in, he wouldn’t be here right now, waiting to be murdered, and before that - tortured. Daniel wanted to kill him too, but if it wasn’t for his escape, he would’ve had several more decades before his life was cut short.

And there were nice times, or as nice as they could be. Cooking together, working in the garden, lying down on the ground to look up at the sky visible among tree branches, swimming in the impossibly beautiful lake, playing board games - all, at least, until Daniel would take his hand, kiss him, whisper words of affection.

But there were other times. Times filled with pain and tears and useless begging, which he could never accept as part of his life.

“You know, Rackham, I’m just wondering… What if that was the best you deserved, and you blew it?”

Wren nearly jumps in place, shocked by the blunt question, his most disturbing thoughts verbalized as if Berkeley could read his mind. He shakes his head, but Berkeley isn’t even looking at him, lying on the bunk, staring up at the low ceiling of the hideout.

“You were a lonely mess before we caught you. That was the reason why I even agreed to sell you in the first place despite whose son you are. I wanted to refuse, but after watching you for a while I realized that no one would’ve missed you, that you could’ve just… disappeared and no one would have cared enough to question your death.”

The longer he talks, the worse Wren feels, curling up to hide the fact that he’s shaking like a leaf. He knows. He knows that he was depressed and lonely and pathetic, he knows he’d made himself an easy target, he knows, he knows, he knows, but he didn’t deserve to be kidnapped and sold, tortured and forced into a relationship he didn’t want, he deserved better, didn’t he?

“And Daniel didn’t mind all that. He liked your personality. If he hadn’t, he would’ve made sure there was nothing left of it.” Berkeley looks at him with a thoughtful frown. “He put up with you. Maybe he was the only one who could.”

Wren shakes his head again, doing his best to glare, but his mind betrays him, descending into self-loathing, agreeing with Berkeley’s words.

“No?” Berkeley scoffs. “You sure? Who else, then? Who else would even want to be around you? Who else could love you? I know you can’t talk, but it’s okay. We both know the answer.”

Nobody.

“Nobody,” Berkeley echoes his thoughts. “If we hadn’t caught you, you would’ve started drinking even more, making out with randos to get the illusion of someone liking you. If I hadn’t caught you, you would’ve realized you’d be alone for the rest of your life. You being a freakin’ hero now doesn’t change that.”

The muzzle makes it hard to breathe. Tears threaten to gather in his eyes, and his heart to crush his ribs.

“I hate your guts, but maybe you should be glad. It means I’ve spent enough time around you to feel some kind of way about you at all. To others you might as well be invisible.”

Stop it. Stop it, it’s not true. It's not.

“There was only one person capable of loving you, and he’s dead now.” Berkeley shakes his head, as if deeply disappointed.

He didn’t love me. It wasn’t love. I deserved better. I still do.

“Yes, Rackham, that’s good.” Berkeley smiles when tears overflow and trickle down Wren’s face, and his chest stutters with a choked sob. “Cry if you need to, but it won’t change a thing. You ruined everything.”

In his current state Wren can’t bring himself to disagree.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#captivity whump #recapture #verbal abuse tw #muzzled #wren rackham #peter berkeley #sv-240 #sv-240 au #berkeley's revenge au #my writing #apparently i'm capable of posting writing more than once every few months #thank you so much for the request anon!

[freefallingup13]

Hello! What is your not-so-guilty pleasure in whump? Something you could happily write about a hundred times - be it a scene, a setting, a relationship dynamic, a weapon, or anything else that compels you! -victimeyez, @ me in your response!

Ooh hell yeah @victimeyez I’m glad you bring this up

One kind of scene/trope/dynamic I keep coming back to is “I love you, but I don’t want to accept it. I have to hurt you more to prove to myself that I do not care as much as I do.”

Looooots of my whump scenarios for any stories have involved just a super fucked up relationship where the whumper eventually realizes they…. Care for whumpee? They…. Like the way that whumpee depends on them and even cares if something bad happens to whumper. It’s…. Genuine. It’s new.

It’s scary.

And that evolves into whumper treating whumpee tentatively nicely, pushing whumpee away (much to the distress of whumpee) or, for pure heartbreak, doubling down on their abuse of whumpee. All to ignore the feelings in their heart.

This aaaaaalways ends up with whumper not getting whumpee. Whumpee finds somebody who cares for them as much as they care about them, and their life turns out happy.

But, whumper… whumper has to live with what they’ve done to the person that they loved, that at one point, may have even loved them back. And whumper just crumbles every time they see whumpee, if whumper is even around to see them. They had it. They had everything.

And they fucked it up.

There’s sometimes a period in time where recapture is a thing and whumper tries to treat whumpee like an actual partner, but is just… still SO fucked up that the torture continues. But this time, completely out of some sort of twisted, fucking love.

But I always need that happy ending where whumpee gets away. I’ve not felt happy yet with a story where whumper feels fulfilled and at peace. Just isn’t what I’m looking for.

#I could talk about this and all the different ‘branches’ of this dynamic for hours #honestly sometimes I like torturing whumper more than whumpee lmaoooooo #whump ask #whump game #whump idea #whump #tw: recapture #tw: abusive relationship #tw: abuse

[em-writes-stuff]

“get away from me”

@whumpril day 12

778 words

caretaker, whumpee, whumper

warnings: drugging, bad caretaker

---

Caretaker stared absentmindedly at Whumpee, knees pulled up to his chest on the couch, she sighed and shook her head to clear her mind. “Hey, Whumpee? I always forget, do you like honey in your tea?” 

He looked over the couch at her and shook his head, “I’m allergic. I’d take some sugar though.” 

She smiled and nodded, reaching for the sugar container. He settled back into the couch and searched through the tv guide for something that might not put him to sleep within the first ten minutes and eventually settled on a documentary about the evolution of dolphins. 

Caretaker handed him a steaming mug and sat down next to him, her legs hanging off the end of the couch and her head propped against his legs. He cupped the mug in his hands and sighed contentedly. 

The tea was bitter and Whumpee nearly spat it out. He stuck his tongue out and coughed, but Caretaker didn’t seem to notice. She stared at the screen, fully entranced by the documentary. He cleared his throat and took another sip of the tea, forcing it down his throat. He suffered through the rest of the mug and set it on the floor so he could have the bitter smell away from his face and try to enjoy the movie. 

About half way through the documentary, Caretaker stared up at him with wide eyes and he frowned down at her, “What’s up?” 

“Did you drink all of the tea already?” she asked. 

He nodded and sighed, “It was pretty good, a little bitter but I liked it. What was in it?” 

She hummed and nodded, “I tried something new, it's called passionflower. It's a little bitter but I must’ve put too much in it, sorry.” 

“It was good.” he yawned and screwed his eyes shut for a second, “Is it supposed to make me so tired?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it was supposed to put you out a few minutes ago actually. Whumper’s gonna be here soon and I don’t know if you’ll be asleep for it or not.” Caretaker said, sitting up and stretching. 

Whumpee pulled away from her, his brow furrowing in confusion, “What?” 

“Yeah,” she said, “She found you and contacted me. Said you were her’s first. I thought it was fair to get you back to her.” 

He fell off the couch and scrambled backward, eyes darting around the room. Caretaker stood up and rolled her eyes, “The thing about passionflower? It makes it so hard for your body to do what you tell it to do. With how much I gave you, I’d expect the room to start spinning…oh there it is. Just sit tight until Whumper gets here, alright?” 

She took a step toward him and he kicked at her, legs flailing around wildly. “Get away from me!” he shouted, “The the fuck away from me!” 

She held her hands up in mock surrender and, rolling her eyes, took another step forward, and another, and another, until she was right in front of him. She squatted in front of him and grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him to his feet. 

Lights flashed onto the walls from outside, Caretaker smiled and wrapped an arm around Whumpee’s waist. She pressed her nose to his ear and smiled, “That must be her.” 

Whumpee panted and struggled against her, head getting fuzzier by the second. The car outside turned off. 

Whumpee stared at Caretaker, eyes wide and pleading, “Don’t…don’t let her take me. Please. I can’t-” 

The front door opens. 

Caretaker tsked at him and turned them both toward the door. Whumper stood in the doorway, raindrops reflecting off her coat. “Oh,” she said, smiling, “There’s my boy.” 

She advanced toward them, arms wide for an embrace. Caretaker pulled away from Whumpee, letting him fall forward into Whumper’s arms. 

She wrapped her arms around him, her coat swallowing him in its enormity. She looked over his head and held a hand out to Caretaker, “Thank you so much for keeping him safe. I don’t know what I’d have done if anything happened to him. Here’s your money. I gave you a little tip too, I know how difficult he can be.” 

Caretaker smiled and put the wad of cash on the side table, “It was worth it to see this reunion. What I gave him should wear off by morning. Just keep an eye on him and make sure his heart doesn’t stop. He drank a lot more than I was expecting him to.” 

Whumper lifted him in her arms and nodded her thanks, turning back to the door. She buckled Whumpee in the passenger seat and drove away.

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday12 #whump #whump fic #whump writing #my writing #em writes #em writes stuff #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #bad caretaker #tw drugging #recapture

[writinggremlin]

1, 2, 3, 5, and 7 for Kage? 👀

-- @whumperofworlds

Oh, words can not describe how happy I am that not only did you send me an ask, but you chose my favorite lil guy to whump. Kage has become my main character over the years, and I really don't know how he did that lmfao. There's just something about angsty, broody, grungy guys I guess lmfao.

Anygay, thank you so much for sending in an ask! Onto the questions! (OUGH these are good ones!)

Cw: Kidnapping, Recapture, Drowning, General Torture, quick blood mention.

1: How do you kidnap/capture your OC?

That depends, because Kage already has history with someone. Lily to be exact-- or August, as he knows her. In the event of her kidnapping him (again), it would go over surprisingly smoothly, with an uncharacteristic lack of struggle and resistance from him.

What would likely happen is that one day, while he's alone, Lily would show up at the penthouse he lives in, and knowing that he doesn't remember what she's done to him, she would ask if he wants to take a walk while they catch up. While they take the elevator down, Lily will make her move, restraining Kage's arms behind his back, and using the jacket he usually wears to cover up her work. She'd threaten tell him not to act out, to which he'd comply, as he starts getting a weird uncanny feeling about all of this. Once he's in the car, he'd get blindfolded, and off they'll go! (And then some of his memories will resurface and trigger a panic attack! :D!)

2: Are they defiant? Scared? Stoic?

It depends on who's doing the torturing, for the most part. But, assuming it's Lily, Kage would be mostly confused and scared. He'd try to hide this by acting stoic and maybe even a little defiant on occasion, but it wouldn't take much to put him back in his place if need be. Thankfully, to his benefit, Lily doesn't mind a little bit of pushback. In fact, she quite enjoys it.

If it were somebody else, he'd be more bold in his defiance. Verbally berating his captor(s), spitting on them, attempting to land a blow on them, constant attempts to escape, all the way down to things as simple as a smug look after a session. Of course, this is all still done to mask his fear. How long that mask will last, and how effective it is, is another question for another day.

3: What kind of torture methods would you use against them?

Pin him to the wall in an empty room, and start filling it with water. Grab a handful of his hair, and dunk him into a tub of water. Shove him down, and don't let him back up until he's limp.

I've also had a scenario where he's trapped in a room that gradually gets colder and colder over time. He thinks it's just normal isolation at first, until he notices that it's "a little chilly in here". And it doesn't stop; it just keeps getting colder and colder until there is frost lining the walls, and he is nothing but a pathetic, shivering little ball on the ground.

Sickness is also a super fun one with him. Just letting him get worse and worse. Toying with his life; letting him go to the brink of death, only to bring him back just enough to regain awareness, and then let him get worse all over again. (Lily fucked him up so badly with this one that he now avidly denies being sick whenever he's experiencing even the slightest symptoms of anything. He "doesn't get sick". Haha, whoosies!)

5: What do they do if you torture a loved one in front of them?

So I'm going to assume that this is a scenario where he's restrained and can't get to the person who's hurting his loved ones, while the torture is happening right in front of him. If that's the case, he's going guard dog feral. Especially if the loved one in question is Echo or his fiance. I'm talking shouting and screaming incoherent obscenities until he's spitting out blood, thrashing against restraints with reckless abandon and likely hurting himself in the process, growing, hissing, biting, pure, unbridled rage.

Once they are both out, their tormentor will have a target on their back. Kage will make it his sole mission to hunt them down and enact revenge. An eye for an eye. It's only fair.

7: Do they have a team? If so, supposed they were caught too. Do they protect their team from any torture or no?

Kage does have a support network of close friends who he is pretty loyal to, and cares about a lot. If any of them were to get captured alongside him, whether it be somebody close like Damien or Echo, or a friend like Sebastien or Mist, or even somebody who he doesn't seem to care for (or has very valid reasons not to care for them) like Onyx or even Ember, he would agree to take the blow for them if it meant their safety.

#whumpee #kage #lily #oc #oc whump #oc ask #whump ask #whump #kidnapping whump #whumpblr #whump community #angst #tw kidnapping #tw recapture #tw drowning #tw torture #The Gremlins OCs

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Same Bed: Reunion

CW: Intimate whumper, creepy whumper POV, noncon touching, some brief vague references to past dubcon/noncon, derogatory language/dehumanizing language, whumpee recaptured, drugging

 The Same Bed: Part One: Jake | Part Two: Krista | Part Three: Chris | Part Four: Vincent | Part Five: Antoni | Interlude | Part Six: Nat | Part Seven: Owen | Part Eight: Tonight | Part Nine: Reunion |

-

When Owen arrives, Kauri is sitting on a park bench. 

The setting sun is a brilliant bloody red. You can’t smell the smoke from the wildfires in San Francisco, they’re farther away than that and the wind isn’t blowing the right direction, but you can see them reflected in the sunsets and the wisps of clouds that try to block it out. The light has an eerie orange-gold quality, and Owen pulls into a parking spot and just sits, looking over the man who ran from him almost ten years ago.

Light like this calls for a soundtrack, some low and rumbling. Building tension for the killer to leap out of the nearby bushes. But the only soundtrack is the radio, playing a cheery 80's dance-pop song Owen only vaguely recognizes.

It's jarring, unsettling, and he turns the radio off entirely.

Sitting on a park bench next to the path, a scattering of trees behind him and a field of grass whispering to itself as the blades shift in the salt-sea breeze, is Kauri. The bay is vaguely audible, somewhere close by but not quite in sight, not from here. Just a soft rush of water, reminding the world that it is here, cutting away the land, second by second pulling sand back to itself, deep into the sea.

Kauri’s jaw is less soft and subtle now, it looks carved nearly from stone. His hair falls in the usual messy mop of wild black curls, but it’s a little shorter than it used to be. Back then, Owen decided his hair’s length and style, he had liked it longer than this.

Too bad there probably won’t be time to grow it out again.

He sits with his hands in his lap, spine straight, wearing an oversized hoodie and charcoal-black jeans with holes worn in the knees, battered and beat-up black-and-white checked shoes on his feet. He looks… so much like Vince. Or like Vince’s homeless younger brother, fallen on hard times. 

“That’s him?” Hanson’s voice breaks Owen out of his reverie. 

“That’s him,” Owen confirms. His hands are gripped white-knuckle tight to the steering wheel. He has to carefully uncurl his fingers one by one by one by one, aching as the tension is released. “He’ll have someone around, so keep an eye out. Probably the one fucking him. Easy to get too attached once you’ve had your dick in my Kor-Bore.”

There’s a pause, and then Hanson says, “Clearly,” in a carefully neutral voice.

Owen ignores the flare of rage at the judgment he’s sure Hanson is hiding. It doesn’t matter - he’ll have both his Vinces soon enough, he can give Hanson the last third of his payment and never see him again. He looks around, carefully, and sees a beat-up car a few spots down with a man inside. He doesn’t know the guy, not from this angle and from this far away, but he knows the boiling rage that opens and closes the man’s hands. He knows the intensity of the stare leveled Kauri’s way. 

“There he is,” Owen murmurs, and Hanson nods. He gets out of the passenger side, a hand on the gun carefully worn at his belt, ready to draw. Owen has one, too, just in case - not that he’s great with guns, but he does well enough. Goes to the range every week or so, tries to unload his stress there. 

It doesn’t help.

Not until he started picturing Vince’s face with every pull of the trigger.

When Owen steps out of the car, straightening up and heading that direction, Kauri’s pretty blue eyes swing to him. His hands tighten into fists where they sit carefully on his thighs, his shoulders lower and his chin raises. But Owen thinks he sees Kauri’s jaw trembling, just a little bit. 

How much will he shake, later, under Owen’s hands? How hard will he fight for air? It won't make any difference. He'll still be Owen's, in the end, right to the very last second and even afterward.

“Hey, Kor-Bore,” Owen says, keeping his voice casual, uncaring. He watches the shudder run through Kauri’s body from head to toe with a mix of delight and irritation - Kauri used to love that nickname. Didn’t he?

Didn’t he always say he loved it?

“Where’s Nat?” Kauri asks, instead of greeting him. He doesn’t move from the bench, but his eyes flicker to the side and back, catching the sight of Hanson lurking, watching the other car without trying to hide it. “You-... you said-”

“When I get you back,” Owen says, putting his hands up, showing how harmless he is, never mind the gun tucked into the back of his pants under his shirt. “Then we drive her and her pet to the outskirts of Berras and dump her at a bus stop.”

“He’s not her pet-”

“Shut up, I’m talking. Are you supposed to interrupt me? Were you trained to interrupt me, Romantic?"

Kauri swallows, hard. Owen watches his Adam’s apple bob. “... no.”

“Damn straight. In any case, you’ll be busy, but don’t worry, Kauri, you know I don’t mind letting you get in a goodbye. And you know I don’t want to kill anyone, or hurt anyone, if I can just have you. No one else has to get hurt if you come along with me.”

“You’ll hurt me, though.”

“Yeah.” Owen smiles, flashing perfect white teeth, obscenely perfect, in a wide smile. “I will. But just until I’m done.”

"When you're... when you're done?"

"Yeah. But then you won't hurt anymore, so that's good, right?"

"Sure." Kauri's voice is faint, and he has to clear his throat to find it again. His head tips to one side. "And... and Vince? Will you hurt him, too?"

“Too late for that, you should see what he looks like right now. Fucking hot shit like blood running down his face, you know? Just like I remembered... but nobody else gets hurt. Just you two." He holds out a hand, like when he would urge Kauri out of bed, folding those long thin fingers in his own larger hand, pulling Kauri to him for a good morning kiss, enjoying the soft laughter he’d receive and thinking of Vince, wondering why Vince never laughed that way, with him. 

Sometimes he’d push Kauri right back into bed and slot himself between those pretty legs, feel Kauri’s ankles hook behind his back, and listen to him laugh and moan and whimper and beg. It had been an amazing way to start the day.

Kauri’s eyes close, slowly. He takes a deep breath.

Owen wonders if he’s thinking about the mornings, too. How much fun they'd had, before Kauri got all those fucking ideas and took them all way too far.

Kauri pushes himself up to his feet, moving forward with the inevitability of any death, and puts his hand in Owen’s.

His fingers are cold.

Owen pulls them to his lips, breathing hot and feeling them twitch in his grip. “Your man over there going to try and fuck this up?” He asks, in a whisper. He kisses Kauri’s fingertips one by one, and his eyes are locked on the wide, warm blue.

Almost identical to Vince.

Almost.

He’ll cut them out, he thinks, before he lets Kauri die. Only Vince should get to die with those eyes. 

“No,” Kauri whispers. 

Dark eyelashes lay long enough to just brush his cheek when he closes his eyes. One black curl hangs over his thick eyebrow on one side, breaking the line of his pale forehead. Owen leans forward to kiss the little furrow between his eyes, just above his nose.

Kauri’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t pull away. “He knows how important Nat is.”

“More important than you,” Owen says, voice low. He trails his mouth down, pressing a kiss to the tip of Kauri’s nose, to his cheek. He keeps it all light, grazing, just enjoying Kauri’s stillness, his acceptance. 

“More important than me,” Kauri agrees, and when Owen pulls back there’s a slight, sad, wry smile on his beautiful face. “She’s saved a lot of lives, Owen. I’m just-... just-”

“Just a whore with delusions of grandeur,” Owen finishes for him, cutting him off and pressing a thumb to his lower lip. 

“I-I wouldn’t have phrased it that way-” Owen pushes the thumb into his mouth and it cuts off his words, makes him choke and gag a little before he pulls it back out.

“Doesn’t matter. I paid for a slut, and you stayed one, huh? I mean, look at you. How much are you fucking the guy in the car?”

“... as often as he wants to.” Kauri, the little shit, doesn’t even look ashamed of himself for it.

"And who else?"

"Jesus, is this really the time-"

"I said, who else?"

“Him. Antoni." Kauri's eyes suddenly flare into a wildness, a defiance that sends rage boiling through Owen's blood. "Chris. Everybody, I fuck anybody and everybody, Owen, that's how much I fucking love being away from you. It's been, what, about a hundred guys in the past ten years or so? Maybe two hundred? Or three?” Kauri’s lips twist, and it’s like he’s trying to hold it back but can’t. Like he can’t stop himself. “Can't even keep them all straight, I don't even know what half of their names were any longer. They bought me drinks and I paid the way you trained me to pay, didn't I? Spread my legs, because I couldn't read and I couldn't get a job and I couldn't-... do anything else! You paid for a slut, right, you told me that all the time. You paid for a fucking whore who couldn’t say no, what the fuck did you think I would do if I escaped you? Illiterate sluts can’t exactly spend their time playing Scrabble, now can they? What was I supposed to do to stay alive, Owen?! What did you think-”

Owen grabs his throat, thumb pressing into the racing pulse under his jaw, watching his eyes widen in alarm and his defiance cut off like a switched-off radio. Hearing the soft cry of surprise and fear that escapes around his constricted airway. His hands come up to grab at Owen’s, at his wrist, scrabbling and digging bitten fingernails in, but he was never strong enough to stop him and that, at least, hasn’t changed. 

“I never liked it when you got a tone with me, Kor-Bore,” He says, leaning forward until his forehead rests against Kauri’s. Until his wide blue eyes take up all of his vision, until he knows his own eyes are all that Kauri can see. He watches Kauri blink, rapidly, watches a tear run down his cheek on one side and then the other. "And I sure as fuck don't like you holding all that shit up to brag about it."

"I-I'm sorry-" Kauri whimpers, and Owen feels that familiar heat in his stomach again, pleasure just at the sound of his fear. "I'm sorry, Mr. Owen, I'm sorry-"

Behind him, he hears a car door slam. “Hey!” A deep voice calls out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Stay right the fuck where you are,” Hanson snaps. “Get back in your fucking car.”

“I’m not here so I can watch him choke Kauri out right here, asshole!”

“I said get back in your fucking car!”

“Oh, Prince Charming got pissed off,” Owen teases, and there - for just a second, there’s anger again in Kauri’s eyes. But it’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by the fear.

Always, by the fear.

Owen loves the fear. He always did, even when he pretended otherwise. It had felt so good to see Vince afraid of him, over and over and over again, afraid and unable to escape like he had in real life. To reenact the story, and this time have it end Owen’s way, with someone beautiful in bed, underneath him, existing in a kind of limbo until he walked in the door. 

Winking out of existence whenever Owen wasn’t looking directly at him. Curling into a ball whenever he wasn’t wanted. 

“I’m sorry,” Kauri whispers, “That I s-spoke to you that way. Just-... just get me in the car, please. I want to see-... to say g-goodbye to Nat. I’ve already said goodbye to-... to him. Them."

“Right. One second. Just need to check…” Owen lets go, and works his hands into Kauri’s hair, fingers over his scalp. He works his way down to his neck, noting the way his pale skin is already reddening from Owen’s brief grip on it, and then he pats him down, along the arms and the sides. He lingers a little longer around the hips than altogether necessary, maybe lets his hand stray while he’s touching the insides of his thighs. Kauri holds perfectly still for him, eyes closed now.

He accepts the touch, but he doesn’t enjoy it.

He’s ruined for that, Owen thinks, but that’s okay. Kauri isn’t supposed to survive very long after he gets him back to Vince’s house anyway.

He doesn’t find any hidden weapons. Not even a phone. 

Owen stands back up, leading Kauri to his car, opening the passenger door for him to slip inside. Once he’s there as well, he twists around to pull a box out of the backseat and flips open the top. Kauri sits with his hands in his lap again, staring fixedly at the bench he was on. Somewhere nearby, the bay is sparkling with reflected embers, the last hints of red light fading into the starless night.

He has to turn the dash light on, and watches Kauri jerk when he sees what’s inside the little cardboard box. “Owen-”

“It’s Mr. Owen, Kor-Bore.” Owen pulls the syringe out. It’s pre-loaded, he and Hanson had made sure it would be ready to go. The liquid inside is suspiciously, alarmingly clear. It could be anything. It could be death itself, and Kauri won’t know until he feels it in his veins. 

“I-... Mr. Owen, what is-... I’m not going to try and run-... pl-please don’t-”

“Shut the fuck up. It’s a five-hour drive where we’re going, Kor-Bore, and you’re going to take a little nap for the journey.” He taps, making sure there aren’t any bubbles. “Take out that little packet and wipe the inside of your elbow with it. How long since you’ve had a needle in your arm, huh?”

Kauri’s jaw tightens, briefly, and then he looks away, opening the single-use antiseptic wipe and drawing it across the inside of his right elbow, eyes closed. He shivers at the feeling. “Since I-... since the last… since my surgery.”

“Really? You never got into any of the hard shit while you were slutting it up all over California?”

“Not needles. Only-... only pills, drinking...”

“Good choice. I’d just kill you right now if you got into that dirty needle shit. Here we go.” Owen takes Kauri’s arm in his hand, pulling it out straight. Kauri closes his hand into a fist as Owen ties it off below his bicep and feels for the vein. He knows how to do this, sort of, in theory. He’s acted in some medical shows, played a drug addict a time or two, and he’s had it done to him for blood draws at the doctor. 

The needle slides into the skin easily enough, and he’s about… seventy percent sure he definitely hit the vein.

He depresses the plunger, and Kauri gasps, eyes opening wide, whites around the pretty blue. “It’s-... that’s from WRU-”

“Cold as shit when they go in, huh?” Owen laughs, and discards the needle back into the box, dumping the whole thing into the backseat. A drop of red blood sits at the crease of Kauri’s elbow, nearly black in the near-darkness, the dash light the only thing that adds a hint of red. Owen wipes it away and rubs it off on Kauri’s cheekbone, smearing a streak of red there through the drying tear tracks. “They do that on purpose, you know. It’s part of the development process. They want you to know you’re being drugged.”

Kauri licks at his lips, pulling his arm back to his side. “I know… I know that. My handler... my handler told me that."

“All right, Kor-Bore. Here we go.” His pretty Vince clone sits, silently, as Owen buckles him safely into his seatbelt. He stares back at the park bench when Owen’s hand touches his face and does nothing more than shiver a little when Owen’s fingers trace the side of his neck, find his collarbone, toy with the neckline of his hoodie. Owen has to pull it down to see the twisted scar. 

“Was it worth it?” Owen asks, voice low. He leans forward and his lips move against Kauri’s hair. Soft, the heat of his body warming them when you get close to his scalp. Owen inhales deeply, the scent of Kauri’s inexpensive shampoo and whatever product he’s using these days. Kisses down to his earlobe, toying with a piercing there, lips around the small black hoop. “Going on TV, telling everybody all that bullshit, was it worth it? Was it worth it, to have to come back home with me?”

Kauri holds still for him, even when Owen’s hand drops, even when it moves between his legs, palming him idly. He even spreads his knees apart, slightly, in an easy conditioned obedience that he’s never entirely lost. “Seventy-eight,” He says, voice hoarse.

“What?” Owen’s hand pauses, a weight pressing over the fly of Kauri’s jeans. He pulls back and away from his ear.  

“That’s how many people have been released since we did it. Another sixty-something investigations, they’ll probably get freed, too. There’s a law they’re going to pass making it not illegal anymore to help us. Making what Nat does, what Jake does… legit. Hell, they even found that one guy from Germany who was some guy’s homemade pet because of it a couple weeks ago.” Kauri shakes his head. “Chris is safe now, too. Really, truly safe. It was worth it.”

“But you aren’t safe.”

“No, but... but I wasn't going to be. It wasn't about making me safe, I lied about that. I lied to Jake, I knew I wasn’t ever safe. Not with you still… still looking for me. I wasn’t ever safe.”

“No. I never stopped looking for you.” Owen’s voice is low and loving, but Kauri doesn’t react to it like he used to. Those big eyes don’t search his for sincerity, he doesn’t blush or smile or seem pleased. He only tips his head back against the seat, slowly closing his eyes. 

“I know,” He says. “It’s-... it’s kickin’ in, now. Just take me wherever you’re going. Just get it over with.”

Something about this isn’t right - Kauri was supposed to fight more than this, maybe. Or show more feeling, more emotion. This isn’t the script Owen had written. Instead, the drug makes him limp and he looks like he’s being dragged to a concert for a band he doesn’t like, not taken somewhere to go right back to the life he was designed for, made for, at least until Owen is done with him.

 It’s with irritation that he rolls his window down. “Hanson, get in the car. We’re going.”

Hanson backs up until he’s at the door and gets in with the gun still in his hand. Owen looks over and sees a tall, muscular blond man leaning back against the hood of his own beat-up little junker of a shitty car, arms crossed, watching them. 

Just... staring, as Owen backs up and out of the spot. Then he stands up, and walks with deliberate slowness to his own driver’s side door as Owen pulls out of the small parking lot, leaving him behind.

“Make sure he doesn’t follow us,” Owen says, under his breath. Hanson nods and twists around to look out the back windshield. But no headlights pull out behind them. Nothing happens.

They’re on the interstate in minutes, headed south, back towards Hollywood. They don’t notice an entirely different car that falls in with them, because it isn’t the car they’re watching for or any of the ones they've taken care to find out about over the past few weeks prepping for this. Just another vehicle on the road. 

Beside him, Kauri’s breath goes slow and deep, and he slips under, the sedatives helping him into a heavy, unnatural sleep. He looks already dead, like this, except for the rise and fall of his chest. 

It’s a practice run.

Owen takes glances at him, so he can kind of… prepare, for what it’s going to look like when even that chest isn’t moving any longer. Thinking over how he’ll arrange him, then, where he’ll keep him until he’s done with Vince, too. 

“What do you think?” Hanson asks, settling back in to relax now that the initial danger is passed. Owen has to shake himself out of his daydream. “That guy going to leave us alone?”

“Oh, fuck no. He’s fucking Kauri, he won’t want to give that up. Kauri probably told him to go my condo, go rescue him there. I guarantee he’s going to drive like the goddamn devil and thinks he’ll surprise me when we get there.” He laughs, switching lanes without a signal, earning an angry honk from an SUV behind him. He flips his middle finger up automatically, even though it’s dark and she almost certainly can’t see him do it. 

“He knows where your condo is?”

“Yeah, I bet he does. I mean. They’re not that hard to find.” Owen shrugs. “But that’ll be their plan. Pretend to be all good and easy like he used to be, and then a big strong man comes to save him.” He chuckles, dropping one hand to rest it on Kauri’s thigh. There’s no resistance, nothing but the slow and steady breathing beside him.

“Oh, Kor-Bore… You’re going to be so surprised,” Owen whispers to himself with a smile. “When I get you in that door and you realize it’s not my house I took you to. Who's going to save you when your Prince Charming goes to the wrong fucking house?"

Kauri’s head tips to the side, he hitches in a breath and exhales. Owen looks back at the road.

He doesn’t see the way Kauri smiles, reflected against the window. 

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#whump #the same bed arc #erase to control #owen grant is a nice guy #box boy universe #pet whump #box boy #bbu #intimate whumper #recaptured whumpee #intimate whump #noncon touching #derogatory language #degrading language #drugging tw #drugged whumpee #defiant whumpee #angry whumpee #angry caretaker #creepy whumper #sadistic whumper #brief reference to guns #vague noncon references #vague dubcon references #dehumanizing language

[whumble-beeee]

The Waiting Game

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 3

Contains: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, PTSD, past captivity references, needles mention, tied up/retstraints, blood, collar

* * * * * * * *

[As the warden of your captured hero, you are responsible for their health, for better or for worse. So it is generally advised that you should make a habit of tracking what injuries you cause on or in the hero’s body. Write it all down in a journal!

Another reliable approach is to examine them physically. This approach is best used if you think the hero is lying or trying to hide a physical ailment they so stupidly caused to themself while you were away. There will usually be resistance from the hero to such an approach, so you may have to restrain the hero to use this method. This also comes with the drawback that only external ailments can be detected, so you will likely have to also pick up on cues in the way the hero acts to detect more invisible sicknesses; Are they dizzy, lurching around, or exhibiting other signs of illness? Then they might just be ill! But be wary of faking! How stupid they’ll feel when you don’t fall for it because you’ve read The Unofficial Guide to Hero-keeping! (for more information, turn to ‘Identifying Faked Behaviors’ on pg. XX)]

* * * * * * * *

Stan felt like he was dying. 

The way his arms wrenched behind his back had him constantly readjusting just to find even a semi-comfortable way to lie on the hard flooring. Every time he readjusted, the horrible aches and pains marring his body lit up as if it were the first time all over again, continually reawakening him with an infuriatingly small shot of adrenaline that only served to make him just conscious enough to feel the buzzing agony anew. He wove in and out of consciousness like a speedboat hurtled over the waves of choppy storming seas.

Genuinely a waking nightmare.

A bitter feeling at the top of his mouth stung lightly, clouding his mind, pulling him away from the terror, the torture, pulling him closer to an uneasy unconsciousness before the ever-present danger of the situation stormed back to the front of his mind and jolted him back awake.  Because yeah, the mercenary was still here in the room, sitting in his stupid chair and scrolling on his stupid phone. At least when he wasn’t standing up every so often to bounce around the room like a bouncy ball, or restlessly spin around in circles like a toddler or quietly seethe in a sort of Spanglish about “¿por qué tardan tonto?” and “God, are they fucking with me?” and “Ughhhhh, I’m bored.”

The intermittent movement only served to constantly remind Stan of his place on the floor, tied up, beat up, ankle chained, dizzy, collared, and without his cane.

Oh, and the collar. It sat heavily on his throat, restricting any and all use of his powers. Making the possibility of fighting back stretch ever farther away. 

He swallowed. Pushed the thoughts away. He tried not to think about it too much. The memories returned in the form of twisting waking nightmares if he thought about it too much. He did his best to just focus on the good things instead;

The fact that Chloe, his amazing little sister, didn’t seem to be involved in any of this. And if he ever found out she was, he would burn this entire place to the ground. He’d done it before for her, and he’d do it again. For her.

The fact that when (not if) he got out of this situation, he still had his fiance, Marcus, to go back home to. And in fact, Marcus was probably planning a rescue mission right this second, and when he saved Stan and put this Deeby guy in prison, they could all go back to normal and Stan could forget any of this had ever even–

“Oye! Chico! Stan, you better not be dying on me!”

Stan flinched out of his half-asleep daze and tried to move his hands out from behind him. His shoulders felt so stiff.

Didn’t work. 

Right. 

Then his eyes focused on the bounty hunter, and a glaring jolt of danger danger danger made him avert his gaze downward. The action made this vision swim, and he swayed. Had he always had a headache this bad?

The bounty hunter snorted at him.

“You givin’ me the silent treatment or something?” He started a slow meander toward Stan. “I was just checking up on you, bud. You stopped twitching and whining and shit, thought you were dead.”

And suddenly Stan found out that, in fact, there was a much more comfortable position for him to take in his bound-up state, that being him scootching back as quickly as possible from the encroaching mercenary until his back hit the wall. 

“I wasn’t–!” Stan did not want to be a part of whatever recreational activities he would come up with to stave off the aforementioned boredom. Especially now that he was so defenseless. “Just–... I just– tired… and hurting. Wasn’t ignoring you.”

He stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I can understand the hurting, considering…” he gestured vaguely to all of Stan. “That. But you’re tired? Really? You’ve been sleeping since you first got here.”

Stan took a deep breath and managed to roll his eyes against his better judgment.

“Getting kidnapped, beat to shit, and tied up so you can barely move really has a way of doing that to you, I guess…”

Stan knew his mistake as soon as he voiced the thought. Then it all but was confirmed when he saw the way the mercenary perked up, that lively glint in his eye, the way his smile widened just slightly. Stan found himself tensing and pressing even further into the wall, as if that would help at all when the mercenary came over to do whatever tortures he saw fit.

Instead, the man quirked his head at him. “When was the last time you ate? You hungry?”

Then he didn’t wait for an answer before rushing to leave the room.

Stan had to take a moment to process.

“I– What?!” he tried to call after the mercenary, already feeling his heart pounding in his chest. The bounty hunter reentered the room again with his hands in his jacket pockets, and Stan couldn't cover up the small whimper that escaped from his throat when Deeby trotted up to him and pulled out that same horrible pocket knife from before. 

“Turn around.” The bounty hunter ordered with a little twirling motion of his blade.

What was happening?

“A-ah– What?! N-no!”

His mouth pressed into a straight line, an agitated huff leaving his nose at the challenge. Though, the shine never left his eyes even when they narrowed.

“I’m gonna undo the cuffs, turn around.”

What?

Stan balked. “Why would–... What’s the knife–!”

The mercenary surged forward and reached for the back of Stan's neck. Stan ducked down with a screech, more out of instinct than anything else as he braced himself for the pulling of the strap around his throat, his breath being stolen away from him as it tightened, constricting his windpipe, cutting off his air supply and inevitably wrenching him around like a ragdoll. 

Only for the pressure to instead pull on the back of his shirt. 

And sure, yeah, he was still wrenched forward so that he splayed out onto his stomach, barely avoiding smacking his face into the ground after a blinding white light filled his vision when he fell hard onto his injured, overworked knee, and a hoarse cry forced from his throat when the bounty hunter's own perfectly working knee dug into his upper back right between the shoulder blades. But Stan could barely even find it in himself to be mad about that over the overwhelming and very confusing relief he felt at not being choked out.

He still squirmed and struggled to get out of the pin, though the struggle was very short-lived as he fell into a forced freeze when the point of the knife rested threateningly on the small of his back. Right above the cuffs.

“Cálmate! Jesuchristo,”  the hunter’s voice sounded from above him. “Sit tight and shut up, I’m doing you a favor.”

His wrists lifted up and the sliding shing and clicks of metal against metal sounded out, the cuffs shifting and clacking against his wrists as Deeby worked. Then one of the cuffs momentarily tightened before clicking open and wrenching off, and before he could even think of struggling again, the knee on his back swiveled around, grinding painful bone into bone as his arms swung above his head and were recuffed there. 

Stan grit his teeth against the various pitiful noises threatening his vocal cords. If he wasn't going to fight back, he at least wasn't going to yelp like a wounded puppy.

Even if the man sitting on his back did make him agonizingly reaware of the beating he took earlier, the punch to the liver, the throws against the wall, the sprint on a knee that barely worked. And newly aware of a few possibly cracked ribs that shot lightning-quick stabs up through his chest and arms.

The manhandling was truly a gift that just kept on giving.

“There, that wasn't so hard, was it runt?” The bounty hunter said smugly as he pinched the back of Stan's shirt and pulled him back upright to his knees, which Stan quickly readjusted to sit crisscross. He had to bite his tongue from another defiant ‘yes’ and possible ‘that's what she said’ joke. 

The mercenary nudged his leg with his boot. “Verbal response, bud.”

Stan pursed his lips as he inspected the cuffs adorning his wrists, noticing for the first time the dark fuzziness that clouded the edges of his vision. “You… you could have just… let me just turn around…”

He squeezed his eyes shut and blinked rapidly, shaking his head to clear the fuzz. Unsuccessfully.

“I gave you two chances. Told you what I was about to do. Plus, you need to learn to just do what I say. We can practice now actually! Eat this!”

A protein bar fell into Stan's lap. He stared at it. 

He hadn't really noticed over the various screeching aches consuming his body which warranted more immediate attention, but a small, almost unbearable void was starting to take the place of his stomach. Maybe that's why he was so lightheaded. He tried not to dwell on how long he must have been here for the hunger to get that bad, and very tentatively picked up the bar to inspect it for… tampering he supposed. Poisoning.

As he turned the bar over in his hand, a small flash of dark red blotching his hand caught his eye; A little smiley face, lightly bloodied and scabbed over carved into the back of his hand. Taunting him with its joy.

He gawked at it, clenching his fist and watching the scab move lightly over the tendons. This must have been what the mercenary had carved into his hand that made him freak out when he'd first woken up. A perversion of everything the symbol was supposed to represent.

A fucking tiny little smiley face.

“It's not poisoned or anything.” 

Stan practically jumped out of his skin as the mercenary appeared right beside him and deafeningly thumped one of the chairs down.

“If I wanted to drug you, I'd just–” he pressed the side of his fist into Stan's flinching arm and made a small popping sound, pantomiming a syringe. “Works a lot quicker than orally. And I can control the dose better.”

Oh. Oh no.

If the mercenary was ever going to drug him– Which there was almost no doubt he would try at some point–

He would use a needle.

“If– If you…” he was breathless, head spinning all of a sudden, vision tunneling on the death grip he held the protein bar in. “If you try to give me a shot, I'm going to– gonna freak ALL the way out. All the way. The entire way.”

He chuckled. “Damn, maybe I should poison your food then, calm down runt. Just sit in your chair and eat the protein bar.”

Stan wrenched his gaze up to the chair. He felt so hot. Was the room always this warm? He did not want to sit back in the chair. What would the bounty hunter do to him if he sat in the chair? What would he do if he didn't? Tie him up again? Torture him? Or maybe the plan was to poison him with the food. Deeby must have known he'd be hungry, he must’ve been here for hours at this point, if not a day. Or days?! He wasn't sure he could take much more of a beatdown, he already felt like he was teetering on the edge of a never-ending spiraling hole that he would never be able to escape from if there were any more restraints, more pain, more collars and taking away his powers so he couldn't defend himself even though he tried, more nonchalant bantering as if his entire life wasn't being torn apart at the seams, as if he weren’t in chains on the floor of some unknown warehouse with a collar forced onto him again with absolutely no chance of escape and no chance he would ever see any of his family ever again, no way to protect Chloe from the same fate, no–

“--Chico! STAN!!”

Two thunderous finger snaps shot through his consciousness. Stan screeched and tried to slam his elbows back, straining against the cuffs and shoving back into the wall as hard as he could, breath shuddering, feet skidding across the floor, eyes darting around trying to see through the pinhole that his vision provided for the source of the noise as the world spun on its axis around him.

Then his vision locked on the source of the noise, darkness slowly receding back to the edges of his vision. The source of the noise stared at him with a probing look on his face. Stan shrank even further into himself, if that was possible. He had curled up into a little ball at some point.

“Let go of the collar,” the hunter said, voice scarily even.

Stan felt his heart skip a beat as he realized that he was indeed white-knuckling the collar. He pried his hands off of his neck as his heart pounded in his ears, only barely drowning out the deafening sound of his own gasping breaths

“Wait wait, I didn't–!...” The mercenary stalked toward him, and suddenly he felt like a trapped animal again, collar and chains and all. “Please, I– I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I wasn't trying– trying– I wasn’t–!”

The hunter squatted down right in front of him and sharply held up a finger, and Stan slapped his hands over his mouth to stop any more words from tumbling out at the command.

“Follow my finger with your eyes, yeah?”

Stan jerkily nodded. Tears burned his eyelids and wet his hands.

Deeby moved his hand around and around in front of Stan's face. Stan did his best to follow it. The motion made Stan's head spin, as well as the piercing red gaze of the mercenary staring into his pupils that he did his best to ignore. 

“Oof, yeah,” Deeby said finally, resting his arm back down on his knee. “Concussion.”

Stan finally removed his hands from his mouth just enough to squeak out a response. “Concussion?”

“Concussion. You're off balance even though you're literally sitting down, staring into space, spacing out. Not making eye contact. Swaying. Plus your pupils are all blown up and you can't track for shit,” the mercenary laughed. “Maybe tossed you around a bit too hard back there. But hey, I told you what would happen if you tried to escape. That's on you, bud.”

Stan’s breath hitched on a light growl bubbling up in his throat. So it was his fault that he was beaten so badly that his brain literally rattled around his head? His fault that he was having a very understandable breakdown?

He wiped at the tear tracks running down his cheeks and around his eyes. Snorted, tried to get his chronically hitching breath back to normal. He couldn’t even remember what normal breathing felt like. The metal of the cuffs was surprisingly warm as they accidentally scratched at his face. 

“So… What're, uh…” he whispered breathily. “What’re we gonna– gonna do about it?”

“The concussion?”

Stan nodded.

“Nothing to be done really. Just don't try anything stupid and you won't get tossed around again, I guess. But you can’t really treat a concussion.”

Stan clonked his head back against the wall with an exasperated whine. The mercenary just gave an amused shrug in return with an almost empathetic smile. “Maybe don’t do that though. Want some painkillers?”

“No,” Stan growled at the air. His vocal cords sounded strained and whiny from the crying, and he cleared his throat to get his voice back to normal.  “I want you to let me go–” 

Deeby scoffed, but Stan reinterrupted the interruption before he could start with another quip. “– OR failing that, I want you to leave me the-the hell alone!”

“Hm. Yeah, no. I'm bored. I’ve left you alone for the past day, and I think you're supposed to stay awake for a bit if you have a concussion anyway. So you're not going back to twitching on the floor for the time being. And I’ll assume you’ll get snarky if I say I wanna do something more physical…”

The mercenary stood up and went to go grab his chair, setting it down just a few feet away from Stan before patting the seat of the chair that he’d set down earlier, the one Stan had previously been tied to, flashing a smile that Stan could have almost mistaken as friendly with all the brain fog.

“So sit down, eat your protein bar. Let’s just have a chat.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy

#whump #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #tw recapture #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #NEW CHAPTER OUT FINALLY WOOOOO #sorry it took so long #it will happen again #this one was also just a little bit slower as a little break before we pick back up again in a chapter or two #so get ready and get excited for that! #bc a new challenger will be entering the ring >:) #also stan's starting to warm up to the name 'deeby' it seems #sucks considering the new things he'll be learning soon #I mean what #who said that #anyway #this chapter was so fun to write just like all the others! #hope you enjoy!

[hiding-in-the-shadows]

Currently thinking about someone telling whumpee how much they love them and how they will keep them safe whilst whumpee falls asleep in Whumper’s (it’s whumper holding them hehe) arms because they were drugged and fuck yeah this is recapture

#my brain is buzzing #🐝 #bzzzz #recapture is awesome! #whump tropes #whump #tw drugging