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darkthingshappen · 1 year

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Merry Whump of May, Day 3

@themerrywhumpofmay

“You're not looking so hot.”

Lightbulb

Tension

Alleyway

As always, thank you to my whumperful crew: @whumpcereal @oddsconvert @quietly-by-myself and @sparrowsage who did a fantastic beta job on this and tomorrow's entry. :-)

Warnings: BBU Universe, human trafficking, predator and prey, kidnapping, drinking, noncon drugging, drunk whumpee, whumper perspective

The Handler lingered in the shadows of the alleyway. He knew that any minute the back door of the club would open up and his prey would tumble out of it and he would pounce. The tension built up inside him like a spring waiting to be sprung, a bomb ticking towards the explosion.

The lightbulb above the back doorway flickered slightly, causing the Handler to nearly jump out of his skin with anticipation. But he didn’t. He held himself in check, waiting, waiting, waiting.

The door opened and still he waited. His prey did indeed stumble out of the door and curl over by the wall, retching. This was going exactly as planned. The target was alone. Alone and pathetic, just as the Handler wanted. Still he waited. He waited until the metal back door slammed shut, locking the target out of the club and in the darkened alleyway. The Handler smirked and waited for the realization to hit the ill young man.

His prey swayed heavily as he straightened back up. He groaned and reached for the nonexistent door handle.

“Aw, fuck!” the target glanced around at the dark alley and then up at the single lightbulb over the door. “Shit!” He squinted down the alleyway first one way and then the other.

The Handler had done his homework. He was a student of psychology. In one direction, the alley went on for several dozen meters with no light, so much so that by the time the alley ended, it was completely obscured in inky blackness. The other direction, the direction that the Handler had hidden themselves, was only a few meters long with the bright lights of the populated square beckoning to them. Only an idiot would choose the other direction.

As he predicted, his prey took a deep breath and stepped towards the lighted street and the Handler lying in wait.

The Handler waited for his target to pass. When he did, the Handler, quick as lightning, stepped behind his unsuspecting prey, wrapping his arm around the man’s middle and pulled him against him.

“Where are you off to all on your own, darling?” His words distracted the mildly struggling drunk young man as he slipped the needle into his prey’s neck and depressed the plunger.

The Target grunted and tried to pull away from the sudden prick of pain in his neck, as well as the man holding him

“Shhh, darling. You don’t look so well. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. You just let go. Rest now. When you wake up, you’ll be snug as a bug in a rug. Don’t you worry. All those pesky choices that life keeps pushing on you, you won’t have to worry about it any more. The WRU’s got you. We got a home already all picked out and waiting for you. You’ve been specially requested.”

The Target moaned again and slumped against the Handler.

“We got you, little trainee.”

The Handler turned his target slightly so he could see the last moments that the prey’s eyes were open. Wide with panic and fear, though fading fast. The Handler thrilled to it. That was the exact look he was hoping for; it was his favorite part of the job.

Once he was sure his target was out, he dragged his prey to his waiting vehicle near the entrance of the alleyway.

“Hey man, is that dude okay?” a random person passing by asked.

“Oh, he’s fine. My buddy just had a bit too much to drink. I’ll get him home and make sure he’s okay.”

“Ah, so you’re the sober friend. Glad he has you. You may want to tell him not to get passed out drunk next time.”

“Yeah for sure, though I think he’s had enough this time. I’m gonna help him dry out. I don’t think there’ll be a next time.”

“Good for you. You seem like a great friend.”

The Handler waived at the bystander as the man walked on, a friendly smile stretched across his face that could fool his own mother. The Handler laid his target out across the backseat, faced down. No one noticed as he slipped the handcuffs on nice and snug around the young man’s wrists, rolling him onto his back to hide the evidence once he was certain they were locked on. He locked his prey’s ankles together in a similar fashion before covering him up with a blanket.

Moments later he was in the driver’s seat, driving off with his new trainee sleeping in the back seat.

Tags: Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @darlingwhump @hold-him-down @quietshae @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this)

#themerrywhumpofmay #mwm2023 #you're not looking so hot #lightbulb #tension #alleyway #bbu #whump #whumo community #whump writing #whump fic #noncon drugging #mwmday3

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toyybox · 9 months

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Spiderwebs #6: Tape II (Ladybug)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, defiant whumpee, immortal whumpee, starvation, blood/gore

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather wrote the basics down on a scrap sheet of paper, if only to organize her thoughts. Fire. Drowning. Acid. Bullets, again. Everything she could think of, anything that might kill him. Stabbing. Starvation? Dehydration. Poison. Holy water. She wasn’t a religious person anymore, but it couldn’t hurt to check. Asphyxiation. Though that was similar to drowning. Hypothermia. Perhaps removing a different vital organ would do it. Perhaps removing the brain?

She clicked the pen closed, set it down. It was incredible. She was on the precipice of a discovery. She held the world’s greatest mystery in the palm of her hand. She had trapped lighting in a jar, an angel in a tin can. It was a brilliant stroke of luck, bringing him home. What had first seemed like a terrible mistake was proving to be very useful, indeed.

She had everything she needed in a large black-leather briefcase: her pistol, Jackie’s lighter, a small container of gasoline, a fire extinguisher, a bottle of bleach, a cloth bag she had acquired from a priest—he was surprisingly easy to bribe—and, finally, the largest kitchen knife she owned. It was a start. Heather wanted to test the limits, find out what she was working with here. Nothing too drastic. Not yet, at least.

The briefcase was heavy, so she dropped it by the basement door before turning the lock. The lights were still out, as she’d left them. It was a petty move, in hindsight, but she hoped it had calmed him down somewhat. He appeared to be asleep in the chair. She switched the lights on.

He jerked to life like a marionette with all its strings gone taut. There was a crash as something tumbled out of his hands. What was he holding? She blinked a few times as he scrambled to pick it up, then pointed it at her like a lance.

“Let me out,” he hissed, “or die.”

“How dramatic.” She leaned farther into the doorway. “Is that my table? Did you break my table?”

“I’ll do more than just break your table.” He pushed his shoulders back in a pathetic imitation of a fighting stance. “Let me go.”

Yes, that was her table, now broken and toppled over beside him. She did hear a crash earlier. The handcuffs still swung off his wrist and glinted in the light, a strange silver bracelet. Nothing else was broken, thank goodness. If he’d taken to cracking the freezer open, she’d have to spend a pretty penny replacing it.

“No,” Heather said. “I thought we went over this already. Put that thing down. You look ridiculous.”

Jackie didn’t reply. He kept his glare steady, a spotlight focused entirely on her. It was almost flattering, how ready he was to tear her to shreds. It was a compliment, somehow. She had power here. She was a threat.

“That was a good table. Shame.” She clicked her tongue. “I’m not getting you a new one, by the way. Not unless you start behaving. So—”

Without so much as a sound, he charged at her.

With a violent jerk, she leaned out of the doorway and slammed the door shut. He didn’t stop, no—he ran forward, up the stairs, grabbed the other end and nearly forced it open. She fumbled with the lock and managed to close it before he broke through.

He kept slamming on the door. A series of short and heavy bangs, coming in quick succession. The frame shuddered with each slam, or Heather’s shock was making her vision blur. Her hands were actually shaking. Her hands never shook. Shaking was for leaves and little girls. She thought, for a lurching moment, that the hinges would snap clean off.

The banging did stop, however, after a minute. She could hear him catching his breath behind the door. “Come on, lady. I wasn’t joking. I’ll kill you. Let me go home.”

She took a deep breath. “No.”

“You’re an idiot, oh my God.”

That small sign of exasperation cut all the tension in her body loose. He was still trapped, table leg or no table leg. Who was he kidding? She could do whatever she wanted here. It was a matter of time. She’d convince him to put his weapons down, one way or another. Hell, she’d get him on his knees. For science, of course. Always for science.

“Look,” Jackie continued on the other side of the door. “You won’t come in here. You can’t. You’re not going to be able to play that little recorder thing and ask me about my maiden name, or whatever it is you want. So.”

“So?” Heather prompted.

“Let me out!” Another bang struck the door. “What other proof do you need?”

“Proof? What are you proving here? I’m not opening that door until you calm down.” She paused, thinking of the best way to twist the words deep under his skin. Searching for the weakness where he’d crack. “You’re helpless, face it.”

“You looked pretty scared,” he growled. “Do you really think this door will last long? Really?”

“Jackie.” She said it softly. “You’re awfully confident for someone locked in my basement. You must be hungry, right? But I don’t think you deserve to eat, not with the way you’ve been acting. I’ll wait until you’re ready to apologize.”

“You’ve been starving me!” Oh. Right. “You haven’t given me anything for a week!”

It was embarrassing, to be honest. There went her impressive speech. Heather had actually forgotten about feeding him. She had meant to give him a granola bar or something, but she had just been so busy, and Heather had been having a lot of fun acquiring all her tools and thinking of new tests. She couldn’t let that show, of course. Mistakes like that were unprofessional to say the least.

“Well, do you want to eat or not?” Heather snapped.

“No, thanks. You’ll drug it anyway.”

“So what if I drug it? Food is food.”

She heard him shift slightly. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Heather pressed the bridge of her nose. She took a moment to wind herself down, breathe that unrelenting irritation out. She left her briefcase by the door as she stepped away. “I’ll be back in an hour. Think it over.”

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

During that hour, Heather acquired the food. Pomegranates. Two pomegranates, cut into quarters. Rich, scarlet skin, bright red seeds inside, with chunks of rough white surrounding it all. Something that Jackie couldn’t possibly think was drugged. He would have no reason not to eat.

"Hello. Are you still in there?"

“Go die in a hole.” His voice was loud and clear, though flat. She imagined him sitting sprawled across the stairs, table leg carelessly grasped in his hand.

The door was still closed. It was like sitting in a confessional, doing the whole back-and-forth without ever meeting face to face. Though Heather’s childhood memories of church had never been quite so infuriating.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No.” There was a sour edge to his voice.

“I brought food. Put your weapon down. I only want to talk.”

He let out a drawn-out, exaggerated sigh. “Did I ask?”

Heather had never wanted to strangle someone more. “You’ll faint, eventually. Or you’ll fall asleep. I’ll get you, sooner or later. The only difference is whether or not I’ll stick your head in a blender afterwards.”

There was a softer, smaller exhale. The noise of rustling clothes filled the silence like static. “What kind of food?”

“Pomegranates.”

“That’s it?”

That little shit. “Do you want your arm in the blender next?”

“That's not a very nice thing to say.”

Heather paused for a few seconds. “What if I throw in a granola bar?”

“Fine. Deal. Oh my God.” She heard him stand up. “I’ll put the table leg—“

“Leave it on the stairs,” she cut him off. “Go stand in the farthest corner you can find. Don’t move an inch, or you can forget about dinner.”

“Dinner?” he echoed. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to do as you’re told, hm? Chop, chop. Clock’s ticking.”

She heard a dull, wooden thump. There were footsteps, receding as he walked across the room. He cleared his throat, a pointed ahem, though the sound was muffled by their distance. After that, it was silent.

She opened the door, just enough to see through. Yes, he’d done as she’d asked. The table leg lay abandoned at the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, she witnessed his impatient expression across the room. He leaned against the wall with a sullen slump in his shoulders. There were bags under his eyes, an almost gray tint to his skin. Then again, the lighting wasn’t the best down there. He was probably fine. Heather would give him the pomegranate and move on with everything.

He crossed his arms. “Where's the food?”

“It couldn't hurt to have some manners.”

He said nothing, just waited.

“Here,” she said, trying to tone back the harshness in her tone. She walked up to him and handed him the plate.

He stared at it blankly. “Where’s the granola bar?”

“I’ll give it to you later.” She nudged the plate a little closer. “I promise. Now, eat. You’re going to faint if you don’t.”

His stare shifted to her. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

“Eat. That wasn’t a request."

To her relief, he took the plate—and then to her dismay, the food was scattered across the floor a moment later. Spilled across the concrete. There were seeds everywhere, like blisters. Deep red and dark scarlet and white in between. Jackie had thrown it there. His expression wasn’t aggressive, only mildly curious. Bored, perhaps. Tired, definitely. He let the plate topple to the ground. It rolled off, settling into stillness with a quiet shudder.

“I see.” Heather brushed her hair out of the way. “Why did you do that?”

He shrugged.

“You’re going to regret it.”

“I’m sure.”

She thought she could see the hint of a smile playing across his lips. Then again, the lighting wasn’t great. Either way, if there was any sympathy or generosity before, it had shriveled up now. A burning hunger had replaced it, winding in her chest until it was taut as a piano wire about to snap. He was clearly trying to make her angry. What other point was there? He was just digging his own grave.

It didn't matter. She had work to do here. She couldn't waste any more time.

She left the room, then retrieved the briefcase and the tape recorder. She entered the basement again. She turned the recorder on. “Tape two. Experiment one.”

“Really.” It was a dry response, not even sarcastic, more… resigned. Or, again, just bored.

“Really.” She bent down and pushed the briefcase latches open. She picked up the pistol before standing up again. “This is merely to confirm a fact. Hold still.”

The bullet went through his heart, or close to it. He flinched, hitting his head on the wall, but that was about all the damage done. He hadn’t even gone unconscious.

Jackie rubbed his head after a split second’s pause. He turned around and plucked the bullet out of the wall, where it had been embedded inside chipped paint. “Do you want this back?”

“Keep it.” She scowled at the pistol and shoved it back in the briefcase. There was no point in firing another shot, when she had already wasted seven rounds on him. “Subject can survive normally lethal injuries, such as bullet wounds. I'll start the second test now.”

“The second test?” He let out a short, scoffing laugh. “Are you going to ask me about my favorite color?”

“Sure.” She slid the kitchen knife out. “What is it, by the way? Blue? It’s almost always blue.”

“No.” He hesitated, as he regarded the knife with confused hostility. “What's that for?”

“Relax.” She stepped forward. “I’m sure this won’t hurt.”

He stepped farther back. His eyes were fixed on the blade, like a viper in a trance, making no move to run but with a tenseness in his posture. “How do you know?”

She came close enough to touch him with the tip of the blade. He could back up no farther, pressed up against the wall. She leaned in and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don't. Feel free to correct me.”

In one swift motion, Heather brought the knife down into his throat. She jerked it out, and blood followed in its wake.

She brought it down again, looking to sever an artery. This time, when she slid it out of his cartilage and bone, there was a brief sputtering noise. He attempted to speak. Blood bubbled at the silent, hissing sound. His attempts at breathing came out as dull gasps. He brought a hand to his throat. It lifted and came away covered in deep red.

He grasped at the wound again, with another strangled attempt at speech. He sunk down the wall. Blood poured out, down his neck, to the curve of his collarbone, to the edge of his shirt. It would stain. Heather would need to clean that later.

She knelt down. Her hand took his, gently, and pried his fingers away from the raw flesh. She stabbed it again, deeper, a thorough dragging motion through the cords and twine of muscle and skin. His eyes did not flutter close, or look away in a final gesture of peace. On the contrary, they were wide open. Unblinking, unmoving. Even when his body went still with a final, choking sigh.

It was distracting. She placed her hand over his face and closed them. The blood continued to sputter out.

A glance at her watch proved that the whole affair had taken two minutes. A glance at Jackie proved that he was not moving. Dead, if you will. The silence was uncanny, almost loud in the absence of the bubbling and faint gasping breaths, but with his eyes closed he looked peaceful.

Heather half-wished he would stay dead this time. It would be a scientific disappointment, but his expression was beautiful. Devoid of anything close to rage, or fear, or grief. Beautiful, in a grotesque and terribly morbid way. How sweet. All her anger dissolved at that sight. She was aware that calling a corpse pretty was not socially acceptable. Well aware. But she would have loved to keep him that way. Preserve him like that. Lay him to rest.

Heather walked away. She returned with a few clean rags. As she waited for the wound to congeal, she sat on the chair a couple paces away and wiped the blood off the knife. Over and over, running the rag across the edge. Five minutes would do it. Then, if he never opened his eyes, she’d throw him into a ditch on the side of the road. She would clean her hands and be done with this whole affair.

When she was younger, she would trap insects in bottles and old boxes, watch them run and panic and eventually die. There was no reason to it, not even a sadistic one. Only curiosity and a lack of hindsight. Once, she’d kept a couple of ladybugs in a glass jar, filled it with sticks and leaves.

They had changed after a week, warped, gone through a strange metamorphosis. She remembered seeing these yellow fuzzy things, larger than any ladybug was meant to be, crawling among the stems. Was it all in her wild imagination? Was it a simple mistake, taking some other insect to be a lucky beetle, when they were really some sort of larva or wasp? In any case, it had scared her so badly that she’d thrown them out the second-storey window. Underneath the guilt was a pure, innocent relief.

But she was not a child anymore, and she could handle whatever happened next. If he didn't die, then that was fine. She would be fine. It was just a matter of seeing things through. She wouldn't give this up so quickly.

Speak of the devil. He opened his eyes. A gasp burst through the quiet. It evened out into heaving breaths, then slowly into a soft and regular rhythm.

“Did it hurt?” She didn’t take her eyes off the knife, though it was clean of blood by now.

“Yeah.” His voice was painfully hoarse. “Bit late to ask that.”

Heather glanced up. Jackie had put a still-bloody hand on his throat, once again. The wound had darkened to a deep maroon, almost black in some places. He let out a shuddering exhale.

“Are you sorry now?”

Death had not dampened his spirit. “For what? Go to hell.”

She shrugged and placed the knife back into the briefcase. “On to the next test, then?”

“No?”

“That was rhetorical. Oh, right.” The tape recorder was still running. “Subject can survive almost any injury. I doubt a different weapon changes things, other than recovery time. Now, come here.”

“Why?”

“Stay on the floor, then.” She lifted the gasoline up in one hand, a clean rag in the other. She walked over and dropped the rag on his face. “Clean that up. There's blood all over your hands.”

Jackie staggered to his feet. The rag fell to the floor. “What’s in the bottle?”

“You ask a lot of questions. Don’t move.” She poured it over his head until he was drenched in the substance. A heavy yet familiar scent filled the room, something like a mechanic’s shop or a started car.

He smacked the bottle away with a sputter. “Hey!” Gasoline dripped from his sleeves onto the floor. She had emptied the entire gallon on him.

“How cute. This used to be yours, do you remember?” She brought the lighter out of her pocket. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Good quality.”

“It was a dollar.” His eyes widened. “Wait, wait. No. You’re not putting that thing near me. Absolutely not.”

“Yes, we’ll just light a blunt, then?” She flicked the lid open. “I’m all out of blunts, unfortunately. Come on. It’ll be interesting.”

“You already know what’s going to happen. What’s the point?”

With a snap of her thumb, the lighter sparked to life. “We don’t know for sure. That’s what science is all about. Testing beyond doubt.”

His eyes darted across the room, then glanced back at a cardboard box. There was a broom sticking out of the top. He lunged for the handle, then spun back to face Heather. He waved the bristles at her face in what was probably meant to be a threatening gesture.

Heather looked at him.

Jackie looked at her.

Heather lifted the lighter. It wasn’t much, a sliver of flame barely holding on in the oppressive underground atmosphere.

Jackie shifted on his feet. He raised the broom, only slightly.

Heather tipped the lighter over until it reached a bristle. Within seconds, the smoldering and smoking became a blaze, at first only in small sparks, then into rising tongues of it. The dry and brittle handle caught fire before Jackie had time to let go. With a hiss, he dropped the broom, still clutching his palms where the skin had scorched.

It was too late for him, though. The gasoline on his sleeves and skin burst into flames. The fire consumed him like he was nothing more than a scrap of paper. His entire body lit up the room. Like a candle. Like a very disgusting candle.

As he screamed, Heather stepped over to the fire extinguisher. She propped it up in her arms, ready to go, but didn’t douse him yet. She wanted to see where this went.

The screams faded to a harsh coughing, then into the hissing and cracking sounds of burning flesh and cloth and leather. It was glorious. The smell was ingrained into every corner, every inch of concrete and chipping paint. The stench of smoke and cooking meat. He collapsed onto the floor, still writhing like a fish pierced on a hook. The places where his skin was still visible were red and raw, although charred blackness spread around the edges. He appeared to almost melt into the ground. When Jackie finally did go still, the flickering of the fire did not cease. Violent shades of red-orange-yellow, a stoplight at full warning, a toxic frog or a traffic cone. On and on and on.

At last, Heather let the extinguisher spray out the flames, as she coughed through the smoke. There were a few burns on the walls, but nothing noticeable on the concrete. Jackie was dead. Not even he could go through that unscathed.

Something was off, though. Something was still… moving? Was he going through his death throes? Was this a symptom of rigor mortis, an unconscious spasm of muscles?

Jackie—what was left of him, at least—was no more than a charred shape slumped across the floor. That was not what made Heather’s stomach turn. Not the smell either, terrible though it was. Not the memory of his agonized dying screams. No, that was all fine. That irrevocable sensation of horror and disgust dawned on her because Jackie was still breathing.

Oh. It was painful to watch. His chest—or what used to be his chest—still convulsed as the diaphragm rose and fell. Convulsed was the right word. Those were jerky movements, almost inhuman. Alien, unnatural. Corpses weren’t meant to move. It wasn’t right. She couldn’t even recognize his face, and yet...

And yet. How bizarre. Even something like that couldn’t kill him.

Heather blinked, her heart still stuttering. She turned to the tape recorder with the surprise splattered all over her face. “Subject is still alive. Not awake. I hope. Oh, that would hurt.” She hissed through her teeth. “I suppose I’ll give him a minute—oh sweet baby Jesus—”

His arm—or the deformed and charred remains of his arm—moved. Then his leg, then his head, lifting slowly. Distorted hollows in the place of eyes stared, like blank slates of charcoal. For a ridiculous moment, Heather thought he might speak. That would be impossible. The lower half of his jaw had been left behind on the ground.

Heather stared at Jackie, her eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted in a half-hearted attempt to talk, too afraid to move but too curious to look away. A morbid fascination had gripped her thoughts. Any reasonable scientist would walk up to inspect him, to perhaps put him out of his misery, but this all seemed unreal to Heather. She couldn’t even speak, let alone walk.

With a dull thud, he collapsed back onto the ground. Chips and flakes of blackened skin littered the floor. Was he—was he shedding? Like a snake? Like a fucking snake? What was he? Nothing human, she thought. Nothing reasonable. Nothing within biological limits. And yet...

And yet. And yet! He was alive. That was the fact of the matter. The skeptic in her needed to suck it up or roll over and die. As Jackie continued to shed, for the lack of a better term, his flesh appeared to reshape itself. It was not entirely unlike fast-motion footage of a blooming flower. Rose petals being pushed apart, buds bursting open. Skin bubbled and expanded, smoothing over all that red rawness. The sound of shifting bone and muscle ripped through the silence.

Heather managed to look away and grasp the recorder with a trembling hand. “Subject is, ah, healing? I’ll come back with a change of clothes, I think. Maybe a crucifix.” She cleared her throat. “Yes. I’ll return in an hour. That will be fine.”

#whump writing #lab whump #my writing #defiant whumpee #whump #immortal whumpee #Spiderwebs Toyybox

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auroragehenna · 7 months

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Ai-less Whumptober

Day 27 Paranoia

CW/TW: Aftermath of torture, seasoned whumpee, wlw flirting (gasps)

Word count: ?

Did that person just stare at her? The one that looked like an elf. It was hard to tell with the hood on. But her features somewhat resembled hers. Please not, she already finished a job today. But usually people don‘t spend their free time here outside, why else would she be here, her head whispered. No they actually do, this is freaking garden, get it together. Was that a blade she saw glinting in the dusk light? Yes, that‘s also normal. You also carry multiple. The world is a dangerous place you know. My point. Shut up! Over there‘s another person! Shit! Was this a trap?! Did she walk into another trap?! Not again. Wait did the lighting just change?! No, I don‘t think so? Fuck the girl is coming here. Shit, shit, shit. Tierney clutched her hidden blades and went though her spells in her mind.

„I’ve never seen a wallflower this pretty.“, the girl said. Sitting down next to her, with a bit of space and leaning back on her arms and hands. „Are you doing alright thought?“

Tierney looked at her absolutely baffled. Still clutching her hidden weapons. But this wasn‘t a behaviour she encountered before. We can‘t trust her! Before she even really processed it her hand shot down onto the grass, fingers digging into the soil. „I‘m fine. What are you up to?“, she asked still suspicious.

„I’m up to a lot, but not tonight. Tonight is just about the grass between my toes and the stars above my head.“

Tierney looked at her. Her eyes seemed to light up with something deeper. Something more emotional. Before she sighed and started to speak again: „Listen if you‘re here because of my reputation or to kidnap me just say that I‘m done with games.“

„Kidnap you?“ she asked with confusion written all over her face. As her face relaxes again she follows up with: „The only games I play have the goal of relieving idiots from the burden of heavy pockets filled with money.“

Tierney finally relaxed a little bit again. Her other hand eased it‘s grip on the knife and freed it out of it‘s hiding place. She casually lowered her hand with the knife onto the grass and used the other one to release your arms. She nearly smiles a little. „Well I can‘t really judge that.“

„The guards think otherwise“ She laughed. „I know a beautiful place a bit south from here, close to a park, and great view of the city.“

Danger! „I uhm.“ Fuck it, if this is another job then I might as well do it. And if it‘s not then? Uhm… „Yeah, why again?“, she asks confused.

„It’s my safe spot. I thought I share it with you if you need a place to escape reality for a moment“ she smiles. „I‘m Nalani by the way.“

„Tierney. Okay. But no funny business.“, she adds earnestly.

„You can just tie me up with flowers, if you don’t trust me“ Nalani giggled

Tierney smiled a little bit. „Indeed I can.“ She got up on her feet and watched the girl do the same. „Alright. Show me.“, she hesitated, „I would like to see it.“

„would you like the scenic route or walk among the peasants, my lady.“ Nalani snickered, while over exaggerating noble etiquette.

Tierney raised an eyebrow at her. „Typically I like to take routes that have more nature and less people, fair lady.“

„That means we drop the fancy talk and jump from rooftop to rooftop“ She grins before she skillfully jups up the closest building.

A grin also widens up on Tierney‘s face now. She focuses on the fluffy ears on her head until her whole body morphs into one of a cat and follows you up to the rooftop before starting to morph back. But halfway through she get‘s stuck and ends up somewhere in the area of a cat and her own self. She rolls her eyes and balances on her footballs for a few moments. At least it will be good for climbing and jumping. I just hope it won‘t freak Nalani out. But the girls seemed fine and so she followed her over the rooftops through the town.

Nalani giggles a bit as she sees why the tiefling had fox ears beforehand. „I hope as part fox you can keep up with me!“ She yells cheerfully.

Tierney tsk‘d. She wasn‘t yet sure if she liked this weird stranger and she certainly wasn‘t sure if she could trust her.

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

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dresden-syndrome · 8 months

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Did the Prague Spring happen in your historical timeline and if yes, did any of your Whumpees take part in it before they were arrested? Or was the Prague Spring the reason they were arrested?

Thank you for asking, curious anon!✨

🔸Prague Spring was Czechoslovakia's liberalization attempt starting from political and social reforms from a more democratic government force, ending up in their violent crush by the Soviet Union and the other Warsaw past countries. Czechoslovakia irl wasn't a completely independent country but still a country of its own.

🔸PUR Czechoslovakia, one of the six EESU republics, on the other hand, wasn't a country, it was a region, a large administrative unit, being in total dependence to the higher branches of EESU government.

🔸As a totalitarian state, EESU had a highly centralized rule, strictly keeping each one of its republic in the Party's line and suppressing any disobedience before it arises. If the regional administration of any given republic even attempted to democratize the regime within its borders, it'd be firmly shut down before the first reform's pass.

🔸The 1963 Středočeský uprising was coordinated from below, starting from sporadically appearing street protests lasting no more than a day, growing into larger amounts of people lowering their propaganda-driven enthusiasm, developing more distrust in the state, adopting subtle signs of resistance and joining the dissident groups (like the one my whumpees were in), which finally grew into region-wide organized riots against the regime.

🔸The EESU didn't request for the Soviet military to intervene yet received a good help from the staying KGB units.

🔸Most of my whumpees were indeed arrested for participating in the resistance and running their anti-government group. Today a revolutionary fighter, tomorrow a trophy pet. Simple as that.

🔸TL;DR: In such a totalitarian shithole EESU has been, Prague Spring couldn't even happen. My boys got arrested in a local resistance time. Y'all curious folks are the best.🧡

#whump ask #whumpblr #historical whump #military whump #ask answered

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jordanstrophe · 3 years

Note

Not the same anon but the detective prompt got me thinking….

cinnamon roll civilian caretaker going to find their detective whumpee. maybe whumper and caretaker are related in some way?

(thank you!) Anons gathered, you have summoned a part 2-

[previous] CW: kidnapped, bound, slight choking, tied down, electrocuted, knives and blood, protective caretaker, missing whumpee

Whumpee took quick panicked breaths while locked in the dark trunk. They had struggled and fought against the ropes, but that only earned themselves a pair of two bloody wrists. The car came to a stop and whumper cracked the trunk open, eyeing their captive up and down. "Now now, little detective, that was just unnecessary. Let's not get all bloody before I get a turn." They tsked with a smile.

"I'm telling you, this isn't like them! Whumpee never takes their phone off the grid. Let me go check on them at the crime scene!"

"Caretaker, you can't do that, you're a civilian!"

"I- what if I have probable cause?"

"It doesn't work like that..."

Caretaker slammed their hand on the desk with a groan. "Now you listen here, I know something has happened! If Whumpee ends up being in trouble and it's all because you didn't do something about it, I'm holding you personally responsible!" Caretaker hissed.

"Oh Caretaker, this is Whumpee we’re talking about! They're fiiiine. I'm sure they just swung by somewhere on their returning home. I'll keep an eye out and call if I see em, okay? okay."

"Wait- no!-" The door slammed shut before another word could be argued. Caretaker sighed and tried to call Whumpee one last time, only to get a loud beeping in their ear. “That’s it-...” They growled, throwing their car door open.

“You- you got what you came for, what else could you possibly want from me!?” Whumpee cried, jerking their knees up trying to rip them from the restrains strapping them to the chair.

“Come now, detective! Surely you can figure that out. You’re the smart one, aren’t you?” They cooed, popped the bag open and pulled out the blood-stained knife. Whumpee widely eyed the blade as Whumper slowly slid it open.

“You want to know what other evidence we have on you?....” They rasped.

“Smart one indeed.” Whumper grabbed their face and pushed the dull blade against their neck. “It’s a shame this slipped out of my pocket, but I suppose it did bring me one good thing-”

“-You.” Whumper hissed, listening to their whimper when they pressed the tip harder into their throat. “I could clean the evidence now, but why do that when it’s going to get all bloody again.” They smiled.

The door slammed open, Whumper twisted around to find Caretaker fuming with a taser in hand. “What in the-” They barked all of three words before the trigger was pulled. Within a second they crumbled to one knee, the knife falling from Whumpee’s neck as they could finally choke out a full breath.

“C-caretaker?!” Whumpee shouted. They dropped the trigger only when Whumper stopped moving on the ground, they fumbled the knife out of their stiff hand before cupping Whumpee’s chin up to check their neck for wounds.

“I knew it...” They rasped out of breath.

“But h-how? How did you even find me!?” Whumpee cried.

“When you stopped answering your phone I went to the crime scene. When I got there, another car was pulling out. I thought it was you at first, but then I realized the car was just like me.”

“And... you were?”

“Unauthorized.”

Whumpee huffed a laugh, hanging their head in shame as Caretaker cut the ropes from their wrists. “Thank you...” They rasped, letting Caretaker take their arm around their shoulder and pull them from the chair.

“Your office 'friend' owes us both a drink."

“Can I just get that coffee?...”

“I think you can have whatever you want.”

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog @whump-it-like-its-hot @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @mascmasochist @hamiltonwhumpdump @shokuhoemisaki @as-a-matter-of-whump @whumpasaurus101 @lonesome--hunter @whatwhumpcomments @digitalart-dwa @mabledonut @myst-in-the-mirror @whatwhumpcomments

this is so corny I’m so sorry

o(^∀^*)o Thank you for reading!

#I don't do fight scenes #but I can do short lil baby fight scenes face-palm worthy ^-^#whump #kidnapped whumpee #kidnap whump #hostage whump #captive whumpee #bound whump #caretaker #protective caretaker #rescued whumpee #rescue whump #tw blood #missing whumpee

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blackberry-bloody · 3 years

Text

so I haven't done much original whump in quite a while, but I really felt the need to fill my own prompt (even though technically this turned into waaaaaaay more than I intended, and the tail whump is kind of an after though in this it seems.), and I really wanted to introduce my boi Dayzel officially. So Here's two birds with one stone.

@darkwarfy, @icyheart-and-friends, @seagullsausage

Contains: creepy whumper, retrained whumpee, non human/demon whumpee, angel/non-human whumper, implied prior whump, torture, choking, broken bones, loss of limbs (not graphic/ not described), humiliation (if you squint, so just in case), stress position, snarky whumpee that doesn't know how to shut up, whumpee reaching their breaking point

Dayzel's breathing came wheezy and strained from where he was unhappily seated. The ropes pinning his wrists to each if the chair's arms were starting to cut bloody red lines from his tugging, and his vision was just a little hazy from the repeated blunt force injuries to his head. Still… He looked up at the man glowering over him, a smug grin plastered quite firmly from ear to ear. He was Dayzel Infernos, and he was not about to be bested by some punk angel trying to get all high and mighty on his ass. "Look, chicken wing-" a resounding slap echoed in the room as his head snapped to the side. He clenched his jaw and slowly turned his head back to glare at the very narrowed purple eyes that had gotten much closer. "Oh wow, don't like nicknames huh? I'll keep it noted." His voice was practically dripping with a toxic mixture of venom and sarcasm as he chuckled in the man's face and spit a globule of blood at him.

The look of disgust on his face made his smirk that much more smug as he leaned forward as much as he could with his wings tied to the back of the chair. Just needing enough to close the gap. He was not impressed. "Hey bird brain, I don't know what you, or your buddies that dragged me here are thinking you're doing, but whatever it is… It's pretty fucking pathetic." His tail twitched from it's position around his leg, swaying from side to side like a snake judging the creature before it. "You're not the first person to try and "teach the evil demon a lesson", hell you're not even the first angel. I've had humans do worse than you. All you've done is smack me around a bit and glare at me." A slightly manic giggle escaped, but soon turned into a coughing fit as he had to pull back to catch his breath and relieve tension on his wings. Once he opened his eyes again, he noticed the angel's expression had changed from one of anger and disgust, to something more unreadable…

Dayzel paid the change no mind however, and continued with his taunting."I've been here many times before and not a single person… Human, angel, or otherwise has yet to make me break. None of you have any creativity. You're all so dull."

"Is that so?" The man before him finally spoke. His voice was deep and commanding, but also incredibly soft. But in the otherwise quiet room… It was practically booming.

Dayzel's eyes snapped up once more and processed the moment, his grin faltering for only a split second, and only due to the surprise. "Ah, so he can speak. Wonderful. I was starting to get tired of my own voice. Oh wait, no, that's impossible." He laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls and making them echo. However, he was abruptly cut off as a hand shot out and grabbed one of his horns. It didn't hurt, but it was just jarring enough to make him wince. He let out a low growl and tried to tug it out of the angel's grip. Only for the man to laugh in return, and guide Dayzel's head into an uncomfortable position looking straight up at the ceiling. "For the record. Yes. It is so. And of all the times I've been caught, this doesn't even make the top ten." He bit out. He tried to jerk his head again to make eye contact… But his head was held firmly in place.

"I see. Then perhaps it's time I showed you some of my… Creativity… Hm?" Delicate and utterly cold fingers found their way to Dayzel's fully exposed neck, and ever so gently wrapped around the skin… Before the grip became crushing hard, cutting off his airflow entirely.

Dayzel gasped and, although he tried his best to hide it… He did start to panic… As he tugged on the ropes trying to reach up and claw his hands off him. Or even shift his head so he could bite him. But neither were really options, so he was just left to slowly choke on nothingness until his vision went black.

~~~ Eventually, and ever so slowly, Dayzel could feel himself being pulled from the black void of unconsciousness. The first thing he noticed was that he was no longer seated in an uncomfortable chair, but instead was laying face down on an uncomfortable floor. The second thing he discovered was that he was indeed still restrained, despite the new position… His arms twitched behind him to try and push himself up, but was only met with stiff and sticky resistance of boring duct tape around his wrists. He had yet to open his eyes, but he still rolled them behind his eyelids. “I thought you were going to show me creative, not cliche, pigeon,” he growled out, despite the somewhat still smug tone in his voice. “Oh, don’t worry your fake red haired head, I’m getting to it. Try not to pass out before I can, ok?” The same voice as before spoke somewhere directly above him. Monotone, flat, and utterly condescending.

Dayzel’s eyes finally snapped open and he tilted his head to try and see where the angel was, “What the fuck is that-?!” He was abruptly cut off as a boot was placed securely at the base of where his wings met and weight was steadily applied. “Oh” was the only thing he could wheeze out as he struggled to take in air with his rib cage being crushed. He attempted to seem nonchalant as he felt the angel shift his weight behind him… But that was quickly thrown out the wind as he felt soft hands carefully take hold of his tail, lifting it up to get a better look. Immediately Dayzel started thrashing under him, letting out curses and threats that could put a trucker to shame.

"Oh hush, no need to get so worked up yet." Was the only reply given. Well, the only verbal reply… The twist and added pressure on the tender muscle between his wings were his other reply all it's own. The motion itself was enough to stun Dayzel beneath him, reeling from the pain. The angel, of course, took advantage of this moment and swiftly tied a cord around the man's tail before releasing him. "See? Now, up you come."

Delicate hands corded through Dayzel's blood matted hair and yanked, startling Dayzel from his daze, guiding him to be standing upright.

Dayzel gasped and heaved for breath as he stood up, wobbling ever so slightly as he did so. Although, he'd deny it with the same vigor and venom as he would anything else that might bruise his ego. His eyes were ablaze with fury. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?! As soon as I can, I promise I'm going to pluck you like a chicken!"

The angel's expression remained neutral as his hand made its way up to wipe the spit off his face. "Yes… I'm quite certain you'd like to. But do please remember you brought this upon yourself sweetheart." There was no warmth, nor malice for that matter as he reached up and patted Dayzel's cheek. "Don't worry, though, I'm almost ready to leave you alone."

"Don't you dare touch me like that!" Was all he could manage to growl as he snapped his face to the side and bit down hard on the man's hand. However, instead of pulling away, or even acknowledging the red lifeblood dripping down his hand… The angel simply tsked and gave Dayzel a look of… What he could only describe as disappointment… Which was enough to startle Dayzel enough to let go.

The angel's uninjured hand shot out so fast he actually flinched as his horn was once again grabbed and his head tilted back. The angel carefully and slowly maneuvered behind him once again, and as he was still held in place, Dayzel had no idea what he was doing. "Such a shame. Your wings are actually quite beautiful you know? I was hoping to merely pin them for this… But seeing as how you want to resort to such. Brutality. I shall return the favor in kind. They should make a nice mantle piece."

Dayzel felt his stomach drop. All tough guy act and threats thrown away as fear took over his face. Actual, genuine, raw fear… "Wait, please don't-!" But he didn't even get the finish as the angel gripped tightly at the base of his wing and twisted and wrenched until the limb fell to the floor. And before he could so much as gather his thoughts… He immediately started on Dayzel's other wing, doing the exact same. That too fell with a soft thud to the floor. Dayzel never cried… And that much held up… No, through his screams, instead he was sobbing. And once his horn was released from it's crushing grip, he too fell to the floor in a heap of himself.

"See? Now we're getting somewhere. Lesson one. Fighting only ends in pain." The shifting of the voice told Dayzel that the man was once again in front of him. He didn't respond. "If you don't acknowledge me, I'll cut off your horns next."

"Fuck you." Dayzel lifted his head ever so slightly to get a look at him… Splattered with his blood across his white uniform…

The man crouched down to be closer in view. "Ah, out of threats I see. That's good. That's progress. There may be hope for you yet." He reached down and delicately pet the tufts of Dayzel's hair and the fuzz of the back of his neck. And Dayzel hated himself for being grateful for the gentle touch as opposed to pain. He merely clenched his jaw. "Unfortunately for you, lesson number two is that hope is meaningless." His hand withdraws and he stands back up to his full height, before fishing around in his pocket for something. Once found, he pulls out a tiny two button remote, one up arrow and one down arrow. He presses the up arrow.

Confused, Dayzel looked up as he heard some sort of mechanical noise, like a motor. And that's when he noticed the cord going up, that was attached to his tail… Which was seemingly being lifted by said motor.

Again, panic rushed through him as he scrambled to stand up and tried to reach the cord just below the tip of his tail… But he was still far too dazed and in pain to grab hold and undo the knot, let alone with his hands tied. He watched as the angel started walking towards the door out of the room, meanwhile his feet finally couldn't touch the ground and he lurched forward with a hiss of pain. The motor stopped, leaving the wingless demon dangling from the cord and the tip of his tail. When he looked back… The angel was gone, leaving him to his own misery. "FUCK YOU!!!" He screamed again, this time raw and full of hate, so loud that it left him once again panting for air.

~~~

It started as a sharp pain, every muscle and joint screaming at him to get down. To ease the pressure. To stop what was happening. And it lasted like that for the first little while as he struggled against the tape and spun in the air. He even tried being upside down and climbing backwards up his own tail to reach the cord. It didn't work of course, but he was desperate enough to try.

Eventually, he figured he'd try staying as still as possible to reduce the sudden jerks on his tail. But then he got lightheaded, or his legs fell asleep and he inevitably had to shift again, sparking the pain once more…

However, after a while… The pain became duller, and more muted. Still very much there and ever persistent. But his tail was slowly losing its ability to hold him up.

Finally he lost the ability to move his tail at all. It had gone a tingling sort of numb and lifeless…

He slumped, folded in half, and without the strength to hold himself facing parallel to the ground. He didn't know how long it had been, nor did he know how much longer it would be… But for the first time, he felt completely helpless.

#jay jabbers #my writing #whump #villain whumpee #nonhuman whumpee #demon whumpee #Dayzel oc #nonhuman whumper #angel whumper

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starryhc · 3 years

Note

I saw the challenge of giving your whumpee a sore throat and I am absolutely here to kindly challenge you, if you would like to accept your mission, to give poor mac a sore throat 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Challenge accepted, Bloodiedmac. Thanks for the kick to write something. Inspired by this post (@allthewhumpygoodness) and also this gif.

It started on mission.

“Hey, Mac. You found an exit yet? More bad guys incoming, better hurry it up.”

Mac was improvising his way out of the back room of a fancy brothel house using a telephone wire as a zip line. He reached for a couple of particularly sturdy-looking and very lacy bras, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and tapped his radio to reply.

“. . .” He tried to answer, but nothing more than a squeak emerged. Mac cleared his throat.

“What was that, bud? Didn’t catch it.” Jack’s sounded worried.

Mac cleared his throat gently again and swallowed the tickle that was suddenly trying to take over his ability to speak.

“On my way.” Mac felt his voice squeak again and he swallowed as best he could around his dry mouth and tongue. “North window. Third floor.”

“Gotcha, I’m on my way.” Jack’s voice held relief, even as he puffed, clearly on the move. “Wait. Did you say third floor?”

Mac didn’t answer as he threw himself out the window, bras carefully gripped to ensure the combined underwire would take his weight as he slid down the cable. He let go before he got too close to the wall of the next building, dropped and rolled, but not as stylishly as he would usually. His achy muscles weren’t really having it.

His roll had him gently hit the brick wall where he came to a stop. Mac shook it off and pushed himself to his feet . . . a little too quickly.

His vision swam and Mac squeezed his eyes shut, breathed shallowly for a moment as he leaned against the wall.

“Mac!” Jack’s yell came from down the street.

Mac’s head snapped up. Jack was running toward him.

“We gotta move, Maaac!” Jack yelled happily. He laughed, almost skipping mid-run as behind him several beefy guys tried to keep up.

Mac turned and began to run, fuelled by a burst of adrenaline, but his aching muscles made him feel like a new-born giraffe trying to find his feet and he felt himself wheezing as he pulled in air.

Their panel van drove into the end of the alley in a squeal of tyres as Mac hauled open the sliding door and threw himself inside.

Behind them, gunfire was exchanged, before Jack jumped inside and slammed the door closed again as the van reversed and drove off with a throaty growl. Mac felt the sound vibrate through the side of the van as he slid down it until he was seated, arms resting on his knees as he closed his eyes and did his best to haul air into his protesting lungs.

A hand swept across Mac’s brow, resting there heavy, but familiar and safe. Mac didn’t open his eyes, let alone complain as the hand brushed his sweaty hair back just hard enough to tilt his head back with it. Mac imagined Jack hovering above him, taking him in, looking for signs of anything seriously wrong.

“You shoulda said something, kid.” Jack’s voice was all concern. He didn’t move his hand.

Mac swallowed around the knives that had started to lodge themselves in his throat and opened his eyes to look up at his partner, who was indeed looming over him.

“No . . .” Mac swallowed again and tried to clear his throat. His voice still came out scratchy and choked anyway when he tried again. “No point. We were all but done when I realised I was more than just tired.”

“Still shoulda said something. We’ve talked about this. You tell me, so I know how to protect you.” Jack’s big brown eyes seemed sad, but his eyebrows spoke volumes of annoyance. The combination somehow made Mac feel guilty despite the fact he knew Jack would never blame him for getting sick.

“I woulda taken those goons elsewhere, so you didn’t have to run for starters,” Jack added.

Jack released Mac’s head from his one-handed hold and Mac found he missed the comfort of the steadying contact as the van took another turn and he was forced to put a hand out to hold himself in place. Jack’s hand reappeared in Mac’s line of sight with a bottle of water, lid already cracked open for him.

Mac took a few grateful sips, the cool water painful and wonderful on his throat at the same time.

“Thanks Jack. I’m sorry,” he muttered, then coughed feebly despite his efforts not to.

“Yeah, well. Don’t be sorry. Just tell me next time, hoss.”

Jack ducked his head like a disappointed parent, before he slid down the side of the van to sit next to Mac. He hauled him into his side until he was acting like a human shock absorber, cushioning his charge against the bumps and turns of the van’s steady escape from town.

Mac sighed, hoping it sounded manly and exasperated, rather than just sick and tired, as he closed his eyes and relaxed into Jack’s side.

Safe and protected.

#sick fic #Macgyver #mac and jack #jack dalton #angus macgyver #i wrote a thing #ask answered #i got an ask #macgyver fanfiction #flashfic #not american spelling #fever fic #sore throat #jack lives

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whumprincess · 3 years

Text

World of Pain: Ch. 2 - Juliet Takes the Stage

Word Count: 2352 words

CW: Creepy/Intimate/Possessive Whumper, Lady Whumpee, broken bones, torture, body control/human marionette, dehumanization, death threat, begging, mild horror, True Fae

Summary: Clara learns the misfortune that falls upon anyone unlucky enough to attract the attention of a True Fae obsessed with theatre.

Related Content: Intro, Chapter 1

Clara’s wakefulness came as erratically as a skipping record. There was an unsettling tune playing in her mind, one that was both familiar and unknowable. It steadily grew louder and more intrusive with every passing second.

“Rise and shine, Juliet!”

Their speech was nothing more than a mess of music notes escaping into the air and yet she understood all the same. Her vision was blurry as her eyes fluttered open.

“My, my, how precious.”

She felt woozy and captivated with every… word. However, even amidst her haziness, it was abundantly clear that something was wrong. Horror sank deep into her body when her eyes focused on thin, translucent wires wound taut around her flesh. Instinctively, she fought against her bonds only to be interrupted by an aggravating pitch she just knew was a laugh.

“And such fun too!”

“FUN?!” Her voice pierced the air, addressing the presence that seemed to be simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“About you, Juliet!” The strings entangling her shifted to prop her up onto her feet and then concentrated around her elbows and knees. “Most of them don’t notice until…”

The sound of snapping harp strings accompanied the sensation of snapping bones. In an instant Clara lamented every object she had ever broken. The screech that left her lips was impossibly loud and pathetically quiet.

“Ah, such a beautiful song.”

Her joints gave way, but she remain standing. A delicate thread slowly creeped its way under her chin.

”Now… let’s take a look at your pretty face.”

Gently, her anguished expression was directed upwards. She nearly drowned in her own tears as she came face to faces with an abomination of reality.

“Perfection.”

This wasn’t happening… it couldn’t be happening! What she was looking at wasn’t even possible. The only way she could interpret it was as three large masks that didn’t fit in her field of vision, made up of an ever-shifting number of eyes. Their eyes conveyed emotion by warping smaller ones into crescent brows. Each face was connected to a large smile that resembled a harp… or perhaps it was the other way around? The “teeth” were the very same wires that were holding her up. She had wanted to refute its existence, to tell it to burn in hell, but every time she opened her mouth her voice was replaced by cries.

“Still conscious and singing? You must be trying to impress us!”

Clara’s anger overrode her pain and fear, “I-!”

“Oh?”

The eldritch horror reeled her in, eagerly awaiting her response. She was lost in their presence, but made found by the countless amount of eyes that gazed upon her. The need to breakdown was immense, but she fought it with the entirety of her will.

“PUT ME DOWN!”

Their screeching laughter nearly made her pass-out, “Now why would we do that? You can’t even move without us!”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“Now don’t be cruel.” They let out a sorrowful note.

“CRUEL!?” Surely even in this godforsaken place irony must exist.

“We went through all this trouble to welcome you home. You should be grateful to be ours.”

The mere insinuation made her blood boil, “I AM NOT YOURS!”

“Of course you are!”

“I DIDN’T AGREE TO THIS!”

“Agree? You say the cutest things!” Their smile extended beyond their faces. “Surely you understand a plaything has no say over who owns them.”

The weight of their words sat heavy on her broken bones. She was preparing to retort, when they abruptly gave each of their cords a twist. Agony once again robbed her of her words and forced screams out of her throat.

“We knew you’d understand, Juliet! Now, let’s get you ready!”

Clara must’ve succumbed to her overwhelming torment because the next thing she knew she was in what appeared to be an extravagant dressing room. Her earlier memories started to trickle back in causing her to panic. She jolted forward, attempting to escape, only to be met with the harsh reminder that her limbs were no longer hers to control.

The melody of her wail put them at ease, “Good, you’re finally awake! We were worried you’d be late for the show.”

The pounding of her aching body was ear-splitting; she shouldn’t have been able to hear that monstrosity as clearly as she did… there truly was little mercy in the world. Obstinately, she endured the rush of queasiness that threatened to send her back to sleep. She had to collect herself, she had to show them she would not be toyed with!

“What the hell do you mean: show?”

“Come now, Juliet, don’t be silly! It’s the reason you’re here.”

She was confused for merely a moment, before she caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. In the glass she saw reflected her fragile frame strung up and decorated like some hapless marionette. Her heart plummeted as she fought the invading realization, “No!”

“Yes!” They responded, all their eyes lighting up with joy.

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh, Juliet,” they sighed. “You’re so eager to make things difficult.” They puppeted her towards the mirror, ensuring they were visible right behind her. “You’re forgetting…” Their tone was low and accompanied by strings coiling around her neck, “we’re the ones who run the show.”

Her heart was beating like a hammer, she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. As her mortified eyes stared into their soulless ones she recognized death was as close as she wanted it to be. “I-“ She considered her next words more carefully than her outfits, “I don’t know the script.”

Their amusement echoed throughout the space, “Of course you do!” They spun her around and waltzed her across the room to where a script lie on a table. “Go ahead, pick it up!”

They extended her arm towards Romeo and Juliet. For whatever bizarre reason, whenever this thing moved her around there was no pain; in fact it was almost soothing. With a scowl, she took the paper in her hands and flipped through it. Surely there must be some sort of demented twist. It came as a complete shock when, not only did this appear to be an ordinary telling of the story, but she also did indeed know all of Juliet’s lines flawlessly.

“How?” her question was halfway amongst demanding and disbelief.

“I’ve known you a long time, Juliet…” They moved a string to rest on her shoulder. They delighted in the vibrations of her shudder, “You were made for this role.”

She felt lightheaded. She was stuck between wanting to pry for further answers and wishing she had never asked in the first place. However, one thing was for certain: All this stress would not be good for her performance.

“When is the show?”

“Whenever we want it to be.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their smug attitude, “Well then, could I persuade you to postpone indefinitely?”

They gave a deep chuckle as they caressed either side of her face with their cords, “Careful, Juliet.” They ominously inched closer to her pupils, “It would be a shame if we had to hold your pretty eyes in place too.”

Reflexively, she shut her eyes tight. She wanted this villain to touch her as little as possible, which was already a challenge considering they hadn’t let go of her since she arrived at this horrid place. “Right, well…” she cleared her throat, “What time suits you?”

Pleased with her change in demeanour, they rearranged their strings to maneuver her towards an ornate door. “Immediately.”

She had a sinking feeling that’s what they would say.

The stage was hotter than hell and the audience looked like they belonged there. Beings appearing even more sinister than her captor were among the crowd, fervently awaiting to witness a show, where she could only assume, no one was a willing participant. She felt sick considering she could be connected to all the other actors on stage via that thing. Her vindictive urge to ruin this damned play boiled to the surface, but before she could indulge it, its voice filled the auditorium.

“Fair folk and accompanying unfair folk, we thank you for coming to the greatest show in Arcadia!”

Cheering erupted from the crowd and in an instant Clara was reminded of home; her real home up on stage, where she was revered and she could do no wrong. A home where the applause harmonized so perfectly with the rhythm of her heart, she knew it belonged solely to her. Her instincts as an actress took over; she was determined to get her praise.

And she did.

Her performance was immaculate. Every line spoken from her soft, tantalising lips was angelic; every movement she was forced to complete was made her own by the flourishes of her fingertips and fluttering of her eyelashes; every minute she spent in the spotlight was blessed by her poise and passion. By the end of the show, she had undoubtedly earned the standing ovation offered by the cursed spectators. She fell so deep into the sound, the fame, the adoration that it was all she could remember, all she could dream of until…

They could never possibly tire of the sweet refrain of Juliet’s cries. As much as they loved seeing her be their perfect little puppet they were overcome with fondness whenever she writhed for them. They had waited with anticipation for the inevitable reminder that their kindness was a gift they had graciously given to her; one that could be easily taken away.

She didn’t even believe she was the one making those mangled shrieks until the unrelenting pain tore her from her dreams. All too vividly, she felt the twisting and turning of her bones as they attempted to fuse with something that was not her own. When she clamped her eyes shut, an intense image of thorny vines drilling deep into her flesh filled her mind. She watched as it scraped the length of her bones and spread out to contort around her broken parts.

“What’s the matter, Juliet?” They asked, teeming with glee.

As its sound danced its way inside her head, she attempted to close them out- to pretend she couldn’t hear them, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling of infinite eyes leering at her; making a spectacle of her suffering. She felt exposed. Exploited. Violated.

Overindulging their enjoyment, they pried her dripping eyes open, “Let us see those pretty eyes!”

She was utterly helpless as her last semblance of control was ripped away. Gawking at her nightmare, reality set in like cement: there was no escape. The violent convulsions of her healing body were the only means of protest she had left.

“Aw,” they cooed with mocking sympathy, “Is it too much for our plaything to take?”

Defiance mixed in with all the other hellish sensations housed within her. Her weak voice was dragged out of hiding, “N-o…”

“Hm, what was that? We couldn’t quite hear you.”

With all the energy she had left she shouted, “NO!”

“BRAVO! SPLENDID!” They played a congratulatory tune as they lifted her off the ground. “You can still sing!” They twirled and tossed her around from string to string until she was chaotically ensnared. “That means we can hear what we want.”

Being thrown around like some ragdoll should have aggravated her wounds, but it didn’t. Just like when she was performing, being connected to their cords brought her peace. Betraying her desire to flee from her tormentor, she let out a pleasant sigh of relief.

“There’s our Juliet.” They mused softly.

Although she was undeniably in less pain, she was sick to her stomach. The thought that it had any claim over her was revolting. She was seconds away from ordering it to unhand her before fear told her to hold her breath.

“Is there something you want to say?” They urged deviously.

She bit her tongue until it bled, maintaining a hateful glare. It was excruciatingly obvious they wanted her to lash out, to expel curses that would be used against her, so she practiced a new form of rebellion: silence.

“No? Just as well. It’s important you listen to what we have to say.” They intentionally began to rub their wires over her tender joints. “We have spoiled you, Juliet; Chosen to show you kindness without so much as asking for a please or thank you, however…” Without warning, they applied pressure, “We think it’s time you begged for our mercy.”

Unable to restrain herself, she spat blood and vitriol, “OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

Euphoric at her response, they cackled while jostling her around. Eventually, nothing but a single strand of string remained, precariously wrapped around her slender ankle. “That can be arranged!”

Vertigo set in as she faced the threat of plummeting to her death. Unfortunately, it wasn’t strong enough to overshadow the pain that impatiently returned to occupy its natural place in her body.

“So what will be?” They asked with a tightly strung note, “Would you rather beg or die?”

Just when she thought she might accept death, a pining voice resounded inside her mind:

“I’ll miss you, Doll.”

Why? In this world, where she was reduced to nothing more than an object; where she was certain to be subject to more misery; where there was no hope of escape; did she hear her? And why, oh why, did it fill her with such melancholy resolve?

With a heart torn more viciously than any part of her she sobbed, “Please…”

She remembered the brightness of her hair.

“I’ll do anything…”

The inviting hue of her eyes.

“Anything for you…”

The allure of her smile.

“So please…”

The warmth of her hands.

“Let me live!” Her desperation came to a crescendo. By the end of her pleading, she found herself enveloped in the villain’s embrace.

“Oh, Juliet.” They played with the red locks of her hair, “We didn’t know you loved us so.” They gently squeezed every cord surrounding her, “How could we ever let you go?”

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Karen Renford Comes Home

Just a drabble exploring a side character who is a whumper in a class all her own. I’m not tagging this as directly part of the Kauri story, as it’s not. Just a character study. Takes place within my variation on the Box Boy universe - original idea from @sweetwhumpandhellacomf.

Who is Karen Renford when she’s not at work? She’s this.

CW: Referenced violence and physical abuse, forced feeding/starvation, dehumanization, pet whump. Referenced/discussed whump of a minor/foster care whump (though none occurs directly within the piece, it is discussed from the POV of the whumper and could be triggering, stay safe)

Contains a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to one of my favorite Whump storylines, @comfy-whumpee‘s Alistair and Ellis stories, and this excellent drabble I’ve returned to over and over.

Also includes Henry, who belongs to @spiffythespook and is used with permission, and her OC Wright Farling is referenced but does not appear directly.

When Karen Renford comes home at the end of the day, it’s Dex who greets her at the door.

Her oldest Boy isn’t a boy at all, of course; Dex turned 39 this year, making him only a few years younger than Karen herself. He’s dressed in a simple green sweater with jeans, tall and slim - she insists her Boys maintain their physical fitness even past the point they function as entertainment for friends and other guests - with short dark hair starting to pepper with silver and a hint of crow’s feet beginning around the edges of his dark brown eyes.

He wears a simple green leather collar with his name stamped at the front just below his Adam’s apple, as always. He has one to match every color of shirt he is allowed to wear, and he never forgets to wear the right one.

Dex has his hand out for her coat before she’s even fully crossed the threshold, and smiles for her just the way she likes; a slight expression of warmth, nothing false or overly effusive.

The expression never reaches his eyes.

Karen grants him a peck on each cheek, watching him gently lay her coat over his arm with a practiced, experienced grace. “Good evening, Dex. I assume no one started any obvious fires today?”

His smile might widen, imperceptibly, at the humor; it might not.

Dex’s only answer to the question is a nod, stepping back and out of her way as she enters the foyer. Pulling sleek leather gloves off her fingers one by one, Karen lets her eyes skim over the dark custom-ordered wood doorframes and cream-colored walls, the grand staircase that wraps up to the second floor.

Minimalist but with a subtle, simple lived-in look and feel.

She has worked hard for every inch of her success, signed up with Whumpees-R-Us fresh out of college and was part of the neurological engineering team to develop the first truly successful training protocol, and Karen Renford will never apologize for the wealth on quiet display.

She earned every cent.

Her position as Director of Client Success now is really a way to help her make her first steps towards retirement, not that she could ever imagine doing any such thing. Karen loves her job. She’s good at her job.

Every job Whumpees-R-Us has ever placed before her, Karen Renford has set new standards that the other employees must then meet.

But she is proudest of the Boys she has taken a personal stake in, starting with Dex himself. Dex was one of the first ten success stories, and she’d been the one to guide him right from his first day at the Facility (it was a different building, back then; much smaller, more cramped, but you make do and excel with what you have).

Dex had been her Christmas bonus, when it became clear that the training to make him seen and not heard had been entirely too successful and his intended owner returned him.

Dex hasn't spoken a word since the day, twenty years ago, when 19-year-old Dex (just called 10, before they changed to a random numbering convention), had slapped 24-year-old Karen Renford across the face and said you'll never shut me up, you fucking bitch, I'll kill you myself!

Now he smiles, with an empty gentle affection, as he takes her gloves and packs them away within the pockets of her soft coat.

He's a raging success, as far as she is concerned, in his pristine contented silence. Never so much as an eyelid flicker to betray any evidence of the thoughts she is sure she took away from him a very long time ago.

"Henry?" She asks, craning her head slightly to look around.

Dex gestures with one arm gracefully towards the kitchen.

"Ah, lovely. Did he invite himself, or did Seb ask him?"

Dex holds up one finger, then steps over to the foyer's closet, hanging her coat with nimble fingers, pressing it lightly with his hands to ensure there will be no wrinkles. Then he turns back to her and signs, quickly, fingers flying through names and words fast enough that even Karen must sometimes ask him to slow down.

This time, she keeps up, and nods. "Good. I'm glad they get on so well. Sweet boy." She moves in that direction, then pauses, turning back to Dex, who raises one thin dark eyebrow in question.

"Where is Peter?"

Dex's mouth quirks to the side in what might be meant as either smile or sneer. He signs again, curtly, ending the sentence with a flourish of his hands.

Karen laughs.

It's not much of a sound, short and quiet and a laugh devoid of affection or warmth, but it is a laugh nonetheless. "Well, if he learned his lesson, I don't mind him sitting with Henry. How is his back healing since the caning?"

Dex shrugs, and Karen moves away without asking for elaboration. If the careful set of his shoulders - and the tense expressionlessness of his face - relaxes when her back is fully turned to him, Karen does not see it.

She finds the other three in the kitchen, right where Dex said they would be.

Sebastian is her beauty - her personal chef and second Box Boy, her second large-scale bonus after she introduced a widely successful and lucrative change in price-per-position for the Romantic/Companion poses. Owners were buying their Boys (and Babes) for the purpose regardless, why not add some fun and extra profit into the options available?

She'd received Sebastian - and a promotion - for that one.

Sebastian stands at the counter chopping vegetables with a sharp chef's knife nearly a blur in his hands. At 34, Sebastian's youthful looks - blond hair with a cowlick, a sharp jaw, hazel eyes - have begun to deepen into a sharper handsomeness she appreciates, at least aesthetically.

Karen's never cared for much beyond aesthetics. In that, she is a rare pet owner indeed.

"Good afternoon, Sebastian," Karen calls.

"Good afternoon, Madam," Sebastian replies without missing a beat. "Filet mignon, tonight?"

"Sounds perfect."

She pauses.

There are two more young men in Karen Renford's house, and both of them sit with their backs to her, and neither of them has moved.

One is her Peter, the third Boy at 24 and a gift from a very good friend who had, she thought sometimes, played a bit of a prank by buying her a Boy who still needed correction - and Henry…

Ah, Henry.

Her foster son, 17 years old, sits with his head bent before an array of worksheets, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil as he considers the formula he's working on.

Henry is not one of her Boys, but he is hers. And she will be soon correcting and removing all that need for independence, that sense of certainty in a future that Karen does not command. Once Henry turns eighteen, he will understand his place in her household is a permanent one.

But Henry is not the one she focuses on now.

"Peter," Karen says, with a hint of reproach. "Your Madam is home. Show some respect."

Peter, all soft brown hair with a hint of curl and a hopeless cowlick and warm brown eyes, pushes himself out of his chair quickly, turning to face her and falling to his knees into Position Two. His collar is a silver chain and she can still cut his breath with a single hard yank, and everyone here has seen Peter pass out at her hands before.

"S-sorry, Madam," He says softly, his voice trembling. She loves a good tremble, and her friend must have chosen Peter with the way his voice can shake so beautifully in mind. "I was, um, I didn’t hear you-"

"I know, beautiful boy. Your hearing hasn't been the same since that last repair, has it? Still. You can show more respect than that, don't you think?"

Peter swallows and nods, leaning further over until his face is parallel with the floor. She sees him wince as the motion pulls at the bandages layered over the vicious caning he'd received at her hands the day before. The sight makes her smile, but she says nothing until finally he bends completely in half, breathing harshly, to rest his forehead on the floor.

She does not require Dex or Sebastian to fall into Respect any longer. They haven't needed it in years.

Peter, though, still needs reminders.

Karen would never admit how much she enjoys providing them.

She waits until his breathing is ragged with the ache before she nudges him with the rounded end of one perfect black shoe. Peter swallows, hesitates perhaps a fraction, and kisses the pointed toe before returning to his position.

She nudges him with the other, and he repeats the motion on that shoe, too.

She lets out a slow, soft breath.

Karen requires little more than aesthetics from her boys - but there is something to be said for the curve of a neck and the flush in the face of someone doing something they truly do not want to do.

Peter is imperfect - but Karen is absolutely certain Wright requested him that way when he bought him for her. It had been such a lovely Christmas, that year...

“There, don’t you feel better, doing what you are meant for, Peter?” She asks in a soft voice.

“Yes, Madam,” Peter replies almost too quickly. She’s not convinced he even heard her, to be honest - he really is nearly deaf in one ear as a result of some defiance during his time in the Facility.

But the respect is what matters, and the willingness to literally kneel and kiss her feet.

Henry never moves, doesn't even turn his head. He keeps working, scribbling some formulas on the notebook he keeps for workpaper before carefully writing the answer in the provided space on the worksheet.

Henry has been living with her for not quite half his life, now. Seeing Peter kiss her feet is in no way unusual for him. He and Peter had gotten closer than she liked recently; Henry had been tasked with assisting her with his last caning and it seemed to have put the correct emotional distance back between them.

She hoped. She might need to speak with Dex and have them watched to be sure.

"You may rise and attend Henry," Karen says and moves carefully, casually away. Peter waits until she is over with Sebastian in the prep area before he gets back to his feet, sitting with delicate slowness back down at the table, face pale and teeth gritted. Karen wonders if blood will begin to spot through the back of his shirt again, if he will bleed through his bandages.

She loves the look of fresh red blood on a perfect white shirt.

The same year Wright had gifted her with Peter, she had given him a painting she had had commissioned of his favorite son at the time, painted from the back with bright red spots in a perfect aesthetically pleasing pattern, like a constellation of learning what you are.

Wright had been delighted.

Honestly, if either of them had been remotely attracted to the other, they could have made quite a marriage.

Sebastian hums to himself as he works, not quite tunelessly, his own collar a shining black leather that sits against the pale skin of his throat like he was born wearing it. He's already poured Karen a glass of her favorite dry red wine, and she lifts it to take a sip, eyeing the array of ingredients.

If Sebastian stands straighter when she looks at him, moves more carefully, if he smiles less and looks nervously eager to please her… it is only what she deserves. What she worked very, very hard for.

"How was class today, darling?" Karen asks Henry, turning her eyes to him.

Henry finally looks up, a little dazed and daydreamy from the math he's still working through. "It was good," he says, a touch curtly. One day he won't be curt, Karen thinks. He will have none of that left in him.

He is very nearly perfect now.

Nearly… but not quite.

"Lovely. Will you be singing tomorrow night for my gala? There are some very influential people in the industry who will be there. I'd love to show off what I've paid for."

And watch those pet lib assholes squirm knowing that you'll be mine, in just a few months. Mine like my other Boys. Mine for life.

Henry smiles for her, and she does love his smile. She'll be sure to train him to smile more often than he does now. Smile even through tears. "Of course, ma'am. Whatever you need me for. The black suit?"

"Hm, the blue one. I'm wearing blue. Vincent Shield will be making an appearance, isn't that exciting?"

"He hates your company, though," Henry says doubtfully. "Doesn't he? I saw it in an interview. And his girlfriend really hates you."

"That's half the fun of inviting him, darling," Karen replies, taking another sip. “The wine is warm down her throat and through her shoulders. “The studio head for his next project is a personal friend of mine. He needs to maintain ties with the important people in the industry.”

“His industry, or yours?”

“Both.”

"If you say so," Henry mutters, doubtfully.

She'll have him broken of that, she thinks. She detests muttering, but one must expect a certain amount of it in teenagers. Once he signs his contract, she’ll ensure that his handlers - and he will have two assigned personally to him, nothing but the best for Karen Renford’s Boys - know that he must never mutter or doubt her again.

She wonders, idly, what Henry will look like with a shock collar around his neck. All her Boys start with shock collars - they earn the pretty ones they wear now. By the time they’re good enough for her, they see anything as a mercy compared to that.

Karen lets her gaze move idly around her kitchen as she luxuriates in the simple daydream of her Henry, her good little son, as a Box Boy that meets all her expectations and then exceeds them.

He is not a crier - she loves that about him. She wonders if he will cry when they ink the barcode into his skin.

She spots something out of place - not at all where it should be - and holds up one hand. Sebastian freezes immediately, his eyes moving to her face. "Madam?"

"Why is there a small salad bowl by itself?" Karen points at the garden salad nestled in a spot nearly hidden by the angle where fridge and counter meet.

She sees, all at once, both Peter and Sebastian tense up. Then she understands.

"Ah. For Peter. He’s doing it again.”

"Peter was a vegan before he came into service," Sebastian says softly. "He struggled with meat at lunch again today and I thought rather than force him to feel stomach pain-"

"Were you trained to think, Sebastian?" Karen's voice drops into a deep chill.

Sebastian stills even further, slowly setting the chef's knife down. "No, Madam. I was not."

"I did not think so. Peter," Karen says, pitching her voice louder. Peter doesn't react at first, until Henry leans over to nudge him and point in Karen's direction.

"Y-yes, Madam?" Peter turns to look at her, and his hands shake where they are laid flat on the table.

"You will eat two servings of filet mignon for dinner tonight, and nothing else. If you cannot keep it down, you will eat nothing but the nutrient drink for three days. Sebastian, dispose of the salad. Peter will have none."

Peter and Sebastian meet eyes, briefly, and them both of them nod.

"My apologies, Madam," Sebastian says softly. "Peter did not ask. It was my idea."

Peter looks over at Seb, worriedly. "No, I-"

"It was my idea entirely," Sebastian says, more firmly this time. "I will require correction."

Henry's eyes are up again, carefully reading the expressions of everyone in the room. Karen sits back, feeling the glow of the wine beginning to relax her shoulders and sink nicely into her veins. Dex moves through the room on his way to some other task, and Sebastian and Peter are frozen, waiting for her decision.

"Fine. You will take fifteen stripes tonight for going against my express directions to feed Peter meat with every meal."

"Yes, Madam."

"You may continue dinner preparations." Sebastian nods and picks the knife back up, returning to work. "Peter?"

"Yes, Madam?"

"You will return to your room until you are called to eat. You will receive five new stripes tonight for not reminding Sebastian that what you eat in this house is entirely dictated by your owner."

Peter swallows, already looking a little sick. “Of course, Madam. My apologies.” He pushes himself to his feet and nods, giving her a bow before he walks away. Dex shadows him, unobtrusive but ensuring he goes exactly where he is ordered.

Henry watches all of this carefully, then goes back to his work. He is a hard worker and good at studying, and Karen loves to see his mind rolling around in the math problems he loves so much.

He thinks he will study statistics and mathematics in college.

He thinks he's going to college.

In truth, he will be Karen Renford's newest resounding success - a placid songbird and piano player with all those memories and that annoying independent streak removed with surgical precision.

A new acquisition to stay with her, entertain her, be carefully honed into the final missing piece from Karen's idea of a perfect life of total, unending, complete control over her four Box Boys.

And everyone in this household knows his future but him.

#whump #box boy #box boy universe #karen renford #creepy whumper #violent whumper #distant whumper #referenced violence #forced feeding #tw: mention of force feeding #tw: mention of starvation/food control #reference to whump involving a minor but no minors whumped #collaring #pet whump #dehumanization #caretaker whumpee #broken whumpee #tw: foster care whump

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whump-my-dear-watson · 5 years

Text

Whumptober day no.4 + no 6 “human shield” “dragged away”

Character: Peter Parker

Fandom: MCU (after FFH, but an AU where Peter’s identity is still a not public knowledge.)

Word Count: 1,500

Summary: a field trip turned bad, Peter and his teacher Mr. Harrington, end up trapped in a cave.

Authors Note: so I’ve been obsessed with the idea of a whumpee Peter with Mr. Harrington as the caretaker, so I tried my hand at a fic. @this-is-whump-dammit (hope you like it, even though I know it leaves a lot to be desired) Might try this whump pairing again in a different scenario later… please, anyone, tag me if you write or find a fic with this whump pairing! (NOT A SHIP!!) Thanks :)

The school trip. Why did he always get stuck chaperoning the school trip?

It was supposed to be just for a day, not as intense as last time. Not that the school would let them go out of the county any time soon. It was a trip to a cave, the kids were supposed to be able to explore, and do some trial mining.

It seemed to be going really well until, the rumbling. They didn’t know what caused it, but the ‘supposedly safe’ cave was under the threat of earthquakes. It started small, grumbling and shaking, and everybody was rushed to get evacuated.

Of course, he and his class were all the farthest down, and farthest from safety. In the small, hall-like space separating some of the bigger openings, Peter Ned and MJ were being ushered out by him. More rumbling and a few rocks were jolted from the wall.

Ned stopped and looked at the wall, a spider-like crack dance its way to the ceiling. That didn’t look good.

“Go, go, go, go!” the teacher shouted, but it was already too late, another quake came and shook the whole room.

Rocks tumbled from the wall and above them. The last thing Mr. Harrington saw was Peter throwing himself in front of Ned and MJ, almost as a human shield.

Dust filled the air and everyone’s lungs. When it finally settled, the teacher realized he couldn’t see anything. Pulling out his phone, he checked the room. The rocks have completely sealed off, and he was alone. He sighed and relief. All the kids were on the other side.

“Are you all okay?” he shouted as best he could to reach them on the other side.

“Yeah,” “Yeah, we’re both okay. How are you guys?” asked MJ from across the barrier of rocks.

Good, they were okay. Wait. “You guys? What do you mean, it’s just me?”

Silence.

“Then where’s Peter?”

“I thought he got through…” the teacher trailed off, realization growing in his stomach.

“Peter?”

“Buddy, can you hear me?” they all called at once.

He set his phone down, flashlight side up to try to free some rocks. Moving some small ones aside, he saw something, a hand, dripped in blood. With his stomach flipped he pushed another rock away to reveal a forearm. Hesitantly Mr. Harrigton put his hand to Peter’s wrist, checking for a pulse. Relief flooded over him as he felt the beat of Peter’s heart. He was alive.

“Found him!” He called to Ned and MJ.

“Is he okay?”

Mr. Harrington continuing to move rocks but paused his words. He didn’t want to scare the kids, but also didn’t want to give them false hope. “He’s alive. He needs help though, I want you to get to safety, then tell somebody we need help. Send a medic.”

But now over half of Peter was uncovered, blood was dripping from his forearm onto his face, and even in the dimly-lit room, he could tell his shirt wasn’t that read before. Bracing himself against the rocks he grabbed under Peter’s shoulders and pulled him away from the rock pile, his legs came loose with a jolt and they both landed on the ground.

Mr. Harrington held Peters’s head off the ground, pulling the kid close to him. It was not going to end like this. MJ and Ned had hopefully reached safety and called for help, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned on his phone screen. No signal. Figures. 40% battery. Hopefully, help comes soon. He turned his phone light towards Peter taking it in, he was unconscious still and his breathing labored.

Gingerly he checked his head, it didn’t look like there were any severe wounds. Okay, okay, what came next? He tried desperately to remember his mandatory first aid class. Most life-threatening wounds were head and… chest! That’s right!

He carefully examined Peter’s chest, from what he could tell it looks normal, if not a slightly odd bulge by the rib cage. Hopefully, it was nothing.

“Peter do I have consent to lift your shirt to check for trauma?”

He didn’t move.

“I really don’t want to get sued over this…” He said, lifted up Peter’s shirt, and saw a lot more blood than he was comfortable with. How was he still alive?

“No, no, no, no, no.” Mr. Harrigton rambled, ripping off his own jacket and putting it on Peter’s chest.

Number one is stopping bleeding, right? He looked at his phone, 22%. Crap. He would have to turn the flash off to conserve battery.

And that’s how he found himself, trapped in a cave in the dark, trying to stop a sixteen-year-old from bleeding out.

He was out of his mind with worry. He was a worrier by nature, and the circumstances were not helping in the slightest. He became extremely concerned with Peter’s breathing seemed to be slowing down.

��Peter? Peter!” and although not expecting a response, he got one. Peter moans and opened his eyes. In just the light of the phone screen, he could see Peters’s pained expression.

“Hey, hey, hey buddy, you’re okay. Helps on the way.” he said in his best I’m-not-freaking-out-but-totally-am voice.

“Ned? MJ?” Peter asked in a raspy voice.

“They’re fine,”

Peter closes eyes in relief. His head slumped back, unable to give any more effort. Mr. Harrington blinked away the swelling in his eyes.

No one should have to be in this pain. Especially not a kid. He shut down all of his spiraling thoughts, he couldn’t have a breakdown now, Peter needed him.

“Mister Harrington, I-” Peter was now clinging to him, desperately trying to form words.

“I-I-I- can’t breathe.” Peter’s eyes bulged with fear which made him panic even more. Mr. Harrington jumped to his feet desperate to help.

“What do I do? What do you need? CPR? The Heimlich? Peter…” he trailed off, his anxiety level through the roof. He tried to remind himself of the rule that it’s important to stay calm in a crisis.

“Help!” he shouted towards the unmoving wall of rock.

“Please, someone, help!”

Peter was now convulsing, clutching his chest trying to get air.

“Is it your ribs? Did they- poke your lungs or something you think?” he asked, not to Peter in particular, more just thinking out loud.

He settled for just putting a hand on Peters’s shoulder supporting him as he rolled himself over, he didn’t know why but this new position seemed to help Peter get more air.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” he wasn’t sure if his words even had a ring of truth, but he couldn’t bear to think any differently.

As the cave just seemed to get darker, his phone at 13% and Peter barely conscious, the future did indeed look bleak.

“Peter oh, you’re going to get through this kid, okay? You’re a brilliant kid, so nice. Although, you always seem to get yourself in trouble. I want you to keep being yourself. You’re energetic, blood-inside-the-body, breathing-normally self.” he was rambling now, fearing talking was the only thing he had now. Too distract Peter, to distract himself.

“Hey-move back as far as you can!” came a voice making him jump out of his skin.

With a smile that could win awards, he replied to the man on the other side. “We are back about 5ft now, I’ve got a kid in here that needs medical attention, bad. I don’t think it’d be safe to move him.”

But now he could hear at least two other voices.

“Stay there then. We’re going to start digging you out,”

17 minutes later, when he was at 2%, he saw a light. Then chaos.

Rescuers came in, attending to Peter. They lifted his limp body up to him somewhere safer too treat. One of the rescuer’s put his arm over Mr. Harrington’s shoulder, escorting him out, he didn’t even realize he himself at a bleeding leg. Never even felt it.

The fresh air had never felt so good. He didn’t really want to leave Peter’s side, nothing could happen to this kid on his watch. But he had to get immediately transferred to a hospital, and Mr. Harrington was sure all the parents were planning to talk to him.

With sirens blaring in the background, Ned and MJ rushed too see Peter, swerving around the parents that were swarming the area. He took one last glance at Peter being loaded on a stretcher.

He was going to be okay. He had him worried there for a second that he wasn’t going to make it. Now that he thought about it, it’s a miracle anyone could survive that crash. Then again, Peter wasn’t just anybody. He was his responsibility, his kid.

But man if he was ready to quit. Chaperoning at least.

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set-phasers-to-whump · 5 years

Text

whumptober day 21

prompt: laced drink

whumpee: marius josipovic (no i will not stop whumping people nobody cares about)

fandom: sneaky pete

Marius sunk down into his seat at the table. Next to and across from him were some seriously powerful people in the world of art, and he was here to gain their confidence. He made small talk, slipping in details and anecdotes to win their favour. He showcased his knowledge of art history and restoration techniques, and promised that he was more than up to the task of restoring a few paintings for them under the radar.

Of course, he wasn’t actually planning to restore the paintings-well, that wasn’t quite right. They were getting restored, just not by him.

Marius was in a bit of trouble (what was new). He owed a certain man a certain amount of money-or a set of paintings. A set of paintings that, if all went well tonight, would be in Marius’ possession very shortly. He’d then have them copied (thereby ‘restoring’ them) by a forger he knew, and hand back over the fakes, keeping the originals to pay off his debt. It was simple. Easy. He’d be done within the week. All he had to do was convince these people to trust him.

The waiter approached with the bottle of wine the group had ordered, and took everyone’s dinner orders. Marius went last, observing what each other person at the table selected.

Wine was poured, and conversation switched into a more serious tone-the discussion of the paintings, and what specifically would need to be done to them. Marius listened attentively, though he didn’t need the information-it was nothing he didn’t already know. He sipped his wine and observed the dynamics of the people at the table, determining what their relationships were and how much they trusted each other.

He was so caught up in his listening and observing that he failed to notice no one else at the table had touched their wine.

“-is up. Richard?” His alias. He turned to the man who had addressed him, aware that he’d missed the first part of his sentence but not quite sure when his attention had drifted. Judging by the context clues, he determined his answer should be ‘yes,’ so he nodded and said, “Yes, definitely.”

The man looked at him quizzically. “‘Yes, definitely,’ you’re going to take our paintings and run before the week is up?”

Shit! He never fucked up reading basic context clues like that! “Um...no, no, of course I’m not, I meant, yes, definitely, I won’t take your paintings and run.” He tried for a smile, but even he could tell how fake it looked. What's wrong with me?

Evidently he’d said that out loud. “‘What’s wrong,’ indeed, Mr. Josipovic,” said the woman next to him.

He stumbled but recovered. “Josipovic? That’s-who’s that?”

“Oh, drop the act, Marius. We know who you are. What you do.”

“How?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He nodded. He’d thought he had made that plenty clear.

“Well, you’re not going to. Hope you have fun with that. Oh!” the woman interrupted herself. “Dinner’s here!”

Plates were placed in front of everyone. Marius glanced wildly around at each member of the party. Every one of them ignored him, eating their dinners instead.

“What did you do to me? Did you drug me? What’s-what’s happening?”

The man at the end of the table looked up from his plate and grinned. Or he might have grinned-Marius’ vision was blurry and doubling, and he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing.

“Just a little drug for you. Thought it might loosen your tongue. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. It’s not lethal.”

“What-what do you want?”

“There are several things we know about you, Marius-” the man spat out his name like it was poison- “but so many more that we don’t. We’d like it very much if you told us those things.”

Marius shook his head. “No, no, I won’t say anything to you.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find you will.”

“No,” Marius said, stumbling to his feet, which made him wildly dizzy. He didn’t care. His hand knocked over his wineglass as he stood, drenching his sleeve and the tablecloth. He didn’t care. The woman who’d been sitting next to him tried to grab him, but he pulled away with a surprising amount of strength for a man who’d been drugged.

He ran out of the restaurant, hardly aware of his surroundings, not at all sure whether or not he was being chased. He frantically searched for his car in the dim light of the parking lot, a task made more difficult by the black spots that were swarming his line of sight.

He found his car eventually. He had to get home, the Bernhardts would be able to help him, they would know what was wrong, they could help! He fumbled with his keys, finally shoving them into the ignition and reversing out of his parking spot.

It took him ages to get home, or possibly seconds. Time had become all muddled at some point, but all that mattered was that he was at home.

He stumbled out of the car and promptly collapsed to his knees. He rested for a few moments (possibly a few hours. He still didn’t know.) before forcing himself to stand up and stagger to the front door.

He wrenched the door open and tripped over the threshold, barely catching himself on the doorframe. “H’lo?” he called, wondering vaguely why his mouth felt so wrong. “Please, is anybody home?”

“Pete?” came Otto’s voice from the dining room.

“What?” Who’s Pete?

“Pete! I thought you were going to be busy with insurance work for the next few days, what-” Otto stopped in his tracks as his grandson came into view. He looked awful, all sweaty and pale and slightly trembling, his eyes unfocused.

“Pete? What’s wrong?”

Marius stumbled further into the room, not bothering to shut the door.

The rest of the family, hearing the commotion, came out into the entranceway. They must’ve been having a family dinner, Marius thought distantly. Everyone’s here.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him, and he toppled forward. Taylor grabbed him under the arms and hauled him back up, pulling him to the couch.

“What’s wrong with you, man?”

“Maybe he’s high?” Carly suggested.

“Drunk?” Julia offered.

“M’not,” Marius interjected. “Somebody...put something in my drink...some...some kinda thing…” he couldn’t remember what they’d said it would do to him.

“You’ve been drugged?” Audrey asked.

He nodded. “It feels so bad,” he offered. “Really bad.”

“What was it? Do you know?” Taylor asked, shifting into Cop Mode.

Marius shook his head. “Think...think they said I wouldn’t die.”

“You think?” Taylor sounded incredulous, and reached for his phone to call 911.

Marius saw what he was doing, which prompted him to remember. “No! No, don’t call 911!” he begged. “I...I remember what they said, they said…” he paused to collect his jumbled thoughts as best as he could. “They said it would...would lo-loosen my tongue and it’s not lethal.”

Taylor looked at him skeptically.

“Really! I promise!”

“Fine, but if it doesn’t wear off in an hour, I’m calling.”

“Fine,” Marius muttered, sinking as deeply into the couch as he could.

A gentle hand was laid on his arm. “You okay, Pete?” asked Audrey, sounding more concerned for him than he could ever remember her being. Who the hell was Pete? He thought he was supposed to remember, thought it was very important...but he didn’t know.

“Who’s Pete?” he therefore asked.

Audrey looked at him, bewildered, as did everyone else.

“It’s you, Pete,” Otto said, looking extremely concerned.

“Is that an effect of the drug?” Carly asked.

“Must be,” Taylor said. “Though he seems mostly able to remember things. Hey, Pete, what’s my name?”

“Taylor.”

“What’s her name?” He pointed to Julia.

“Julia.” Why was Taylor asking him these questions? He knew things! Just not who Pete was, ‘cause it sure wasn’t him.

Taylor looked worried. “What are her kids’ names?”

“Ellen and Jacob. Why...why’re you asking me stuff?”

“Why can’t you remember your name?”

What? “Of course I can remember my name!” Marius said indignantly. “It’s Marius!”

And suddenly he remembered-he was supposed to pretend to be Pete! They didn’t know he was Marius!

He would have backtracked, but he suddenly realised how tired he was, and instead stopped talking and closed his eyes. “This feels so bad…” he muttered.

Around him, the family was in various stages of confusion.

“Is he just confused about who he is right now?” Taylor asked in a hushed whisper.

“Didn’t we meet Marius? With Maggie?” Carly pointed out.

“What if-” Julia started.

“-that was Pete?” Audrey finished.

In the time it had taken them to have their brief family meeting, Marius had completely collapsed on the couch. They know I’m not Pete, he thought. They know I’m just Marius and they hate me and they’re going to kick me out and-what is happening to me?

There was a ringing in his ears and he was overcome with an intense wave of dizziness, although he was lying down and his eyes were closed. I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

He wasn’t aware he’d been speaking out loud until someone replied to him.

“What are you sorry for? Impersonating our cousin? Tricking us and lying to us?” Taylor asked. “Why’d you do it, huh, Marius?”

There it was again-people always said his name like it tasted bad, like they hated to speak it. The Bernhardts hadn’t done that to him-until now. It stung worse, coming from one of them.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, pressing his face into the couch. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t-didn’t know what else to do, they were gonna hurt my little brother...my little brother Eddie, and I needed somewhere to hide and then you were so nice to me and I stayed and we’re not supposed to get attached, that’s the rule, but you were so nice and nobody’s nice to me but you were and I just wanted to stay and I shouldn’t have and now you hate me and it’s my fault and I shouldn’t have lied to you but I didn’t know what to do and Pete told me stories and I thought you could help and-”

He was sobbing now, taking great big heaving gulps of air and clutching onto the couch cushion like he’d float away if he let go.

The family looked at each other. Otto was the first to approach him, slowly sinking onto the couch next to him.

He’s still our boy, he thought. Nobody’s the same as they were when they were a kid. What does it matter that he’s not blood? We know him now. He could still be their grandson, couldn’t he? He slowly placed a hand atop Pete’s-no, Marius’-head. “It’s okay,” he said, not really knowing what else to say.

Marius turned his head to look at him.

“What?” He’d expected something else-violence? Certainly not this. He sniffed and buried his face back into the couch.

“What do you mean it’s-it’s okay, I lied to you, I used you! You’re supposed to hate me!”

“And I’m not forgiving you for that,” Audrey said, moving to stand in front of him. “But you’re family now. We’ve been through too much shit together to be anything else. Blood or not.”

He gazed up at her. “What?” he asked again.

“You heard me,” she said.

“I think it’s pretty cool,” Carly interrupted, sitting on the arm of the couch. She grinned over at him. He smiled back, tentatively.

Julia and Taylor both looked as though they wanted to hit him. He didn’t blame them. Taylor walked up, and Marius braced himself for the blow.

It didn’t come. Taylor shifted his legs aside and sat on the couch. “We’ve all done some questionable shit,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking pissed, but...we all do things for family. I get it. I don’t like it, but I-I get it.”

Julia shrugged and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Carly. “Yeah, whatever,” she said. “Family and shit.”

“You’re not...you don’t...you want me to leave, right?”

Audrey slapped him lightly across the face. “Did anything we just said sink in? You’re family now, boy, whether you meant to be or not.”

He found himself grinning at that. “Family…” he mumbled. “Maybe...maybe it’s good...to get attached.” He closed his eyes again. “It’s still so spinny,” he said quietly. “Don’t like this stupid drug.”

He felt someone get up and move away, and a second later a blanket was draped over him, and someone was rubbing his shoulders through it.

“You’ll be fine,” Taylor said. “You’re starting to look a little better. Less sweaty, anyway.”

He was, in fact, very much less sweaty-he was cold, now that he thought about it. He pulled the blanket more securely around himself. “Will it stop soon?” He wasn’t entirely sure what it he was referring to-the dizziness? The shaking? The confusion?

“Just try to sleep it off,” Carly advised. “That should work.”

Julia turned to her sister. “You know this how?”

“It’s common knowledge,” Carly retorted. “Just sleep. I promise we’ll be here when you wake up.”

And they were.

i...don’t completely hate this?? hope you didn’t hate it either if you read it, and huge thanks if you did!!!

#of course my favourite thing ive written would end up being for a fandom that literally has a fucking tiny fanbase #why not #whumptober2019 #no.21 #laced drink #drugged #confession #emotional whump #marius josipovic #sneaky pete #my writing #i say things #forgive any errors pls i didnt proofread a ton

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jordanstrophe · 3 years

Text

A Change of Heart

CW: Whumper turned Caretaker, whumpees being sold, harsh caretaker, cauterizing a wound, jumping off a cliff, drowning, blood, restraints, captivity, gag, manhandling, fever, puncture wound. It has a good ending though, don’t worry!

(Ehe... This was supposed to be shorter)

Whumpee pressed themselves against the corner of the small room, nose tucked in the corner. They could feel the movement of the other whumpees scurrying around them, frantically trying to find a weak point in the cell they were all crammed in. Whumpee almost wanted to join them, but was too scared to come out of their corner.

A loud clanging sound echoed throughout the room, as everyone froze. Several people strode in and stood at the bars.

“See anything you like?” One smirked. Everyone was huddled up on the far side of the room, cowering, trying to look as small as possible. Whumpee refused to even show their face.

“That one, in the corner.” A voice sneered. Whumpee’s blood froze, their heart jolting, their body tensing. Maybe they didn’t mean them, maybe it was the other corner. They tried to convince themselves it wouldn’t be them, as the bars rattled open. Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut, pressing themselves as firmly as they could into the corner. No one had grabbed them yet... So that was a good-

Two hands shot out, wrapping around Whumpee’s arms, as they let out a desperate yelp. The hands wrapped around their waist, lifting them off their feet out the cell, grunted, struggling against the hands that drug them out.

They didn’t have much energy, but they used whatever they had to at least give whoever had a hold on them a hard time. A gag was shoved between their teeth, their frantic whimpering turned to muffled sobs, as their arms were bound behind their back.

“Be good.” A voice hissed, ruffling their hair as they heaved open the main door.

The bright sun shone, blinding their vision, they could feel the wet grass brushing against their bare feet, as they were forced to keep walking forward. They rapidly blinked, looking up to see that they were being walked to a car parked waiting for them, several people leaning against it with their arms crossed, a malicious smirk spread across their face, staring at them with hungry eyes.

Whumpee looked around, trying to find help in the eyes of the guards stationed around, refusing to look in their direction with a cold face. They could see a cliffside not far from them, with the sound of running water. Could there be water below that cliff?

They would rather find out then go with these people.

Whumpee eased their pace, matching the speed of the guard walking them, trying to lure them into a false sense of security. They walked like this for a moment, until they were just lined up with the peak of the cliff. It was now or never. As soon as the guard loosened the grip, Whumpee bolted full force, managing to rip themselves from the guard’s grasp.

‘’Hey!” They yelled, trying to grab Whumpee, but they ducked from their hand, taking off towards the cliff. The could hear the footsteps slowing down behind them the closer they got to the cliff, to the point they were standing at the very tip of the edge.

“Come on down now kid! You don’t want to do that.” A voice called. Whumpee whirled around to see about a dozen guards in a circle around them, not daring to get any closer. Whumpee gave them a terrified look, like a deer in headlights, they would beg for freedom if they didn’t have the gag shoved tightly in their mouth.

One of the guards dared outstretch their arm, reaching for Whumpee, as full panic settled in, as they took a step back...

They were engulfed in the cold wind stinging at their body, being driven full force to the ground beneath them. Their vision was unfocusable, as they didn’t know where they were anymore. Where was up? Where was down? It was like time froze in that short moment, until the freezing cold water taking them brought them back to reality.

They gasped, which was their first mistake, as they inhaled water, their body shocked from the freezing water. Good news at least, there was indeed water at the bottom of the cliff. Bad news, they were now in water with their hands tied beneath their back.

It wasn’t long till their knees hit the bottom of the pond, the dirt and sand sticking in their skin. They instinctively pushed as hard as they could, trying to get to the surface, but they didn’t make it... They looked up, the waterline looked so close, but it was so far. The water reflecting in the sunlight looked so beautiful, so promising as It slowly became darker, as their vision faded.

“Wh-what do we do? They jumped! They actually jumped!” The guards called. They all stood frozen in shock. Whumper bolted down the trail, ducking underneath a branch as they sprinted downhill. The adrenaline was taking over as this point, as they made it to the pond as fast as they could. They wrenched their work coat off throwing it behind them as they dove into the pond. They couldn’t see much, it was dark and foggy, but they kept on looking.

They broke the water surface, taking a deep gasping breath, they still couldn’t find them. Maybe they made it out and took off into the woods? But how did they do that with their bound wrists? They dove one last time, till they finally felt a material brush against their fingers as they grabbed their shirt and pulled them out. They drug their unconscious body out of the water, dropping to their knees into the dirt beside Whumpee, checking for breathing.

Silence.

They pulled the soaked gag from Whumpee’s lips, gripping the back of their palm and pushed on their chest, muttering numbers as they counted how many breaths they forced them to take. Whumpee finally grasped, pushing themselves to their side while coughing up water. Whumper huffed in relief, wiping their brow, their eyes burning from the water.

Whumper grabbed their chin, forcing them to look at them, with a finger in their face.

“Don’t you ever try anything like that again, do you hear m-...” Whumper trailed off when they realized the liquid surrounding Whumpee isn't water anymore.

It was blood.

Whumpee seemed oblivious to it, as they stared up at them with desperate pleading eyes.

“Shoot...” Whumper muttered, hanging their head low. They knew nothing good would happen to them if they took Whumpee back in this condition.

“Please! Don’t take me back! Just let me go, I’ll disappear!” They begged. They both turned their head towards the trail, as distant voices could be heard shouting in the distance. They both slowly looked at each other, frozen. Whumper sighed in defeat, struggling to their feet, grabbing Whumpee and pulling them up.

“Listen kid, you stay close to me, listen to me, and do everything I say, do you understand?” Caretaker took a firm grasp on their shoulders, forcing them to face them. Whumpee quickly nodded their head, legs trembling as they looked down. They gasped when they saw the blood dripping down their body. ‘'Na ah! Eyes up, I need you moving.” Caretaker tsked, taking Whumpee’s arm and pulling them into the woods.

Caretaker knew they were throwing a lot away, their job, friends, whole life probably, but they knew what would happen if they brought Whumpee back, but they couldn’t just let that happen.

They pulled Whumpee through the woods as carefully as they could, as they staggered around behind them. Caretaker would have to patch them up at some point, but they had to get as far away as they could right now.

They walked for what felt like hours, in reality, it was about ten minutes. Whumpee tried to climb over a fallen tree, but caught their foot and collapsed to the ground with a thud. Caretaker gasped, turning around and wrapping their arms around Whumpee, trying to pull them back up, but Whumpee’s weight gave away, as they fell into Caretaker’s arms. They sighed, as they sat on their knees with Whumpee leaning against their chest, breathing heavily.

“I.. nrg.. I can’t go any f-further... Can we just...” Whumpee’s voice slowly trailed off, as they went slack in their arms. Caretaker sighed, brushing the damp hair from Whumpee’s face, as they hoisted them over their shoulder. They just had to go a little further...

After walking a good ways, Caretaker grunted as they set Whumpee down on the ground, the terrain was already difficult enough to navigate without the weight of an entire Whumpee on their shoulders. It was a good location, clear enough to make camp, but secluded enough to hide out for the night. The sun was setting, the pink sky beamed behind the branches. Caretaker shook out their coat, laying Whumpee over it, doing their best to keep them warm.

Caretaker was a decent survivalist, they knew how to build their own shelter, fire, scavenge for food and water. They broke down branches and leaves, as they built an overhang above Whumpee, who never even stirred. They crouched down next to them, slowly pulling their shirt up to see the wound.

Sure enough, there was a deep puncture wound in their side, still bleeding out. If it wasn’t taken care of now, it could easily take their life. Caretaker tore off pieces of their own shirt to stop the bleeding as much as they could, but they knew it wouldn’t be enough. Whumpee jolted awake, instinctively slapping Caretaker’s hand away. They jumped, holding their hand defensively, as Whumpee scooted back a few inches away from them, hugging the coat in their arms.

“Hey, It’s alright.” Caretaker soothed, holding their hands up submissively. “It hurts?” They asked with a calming voice. Whumpee nodded their head with a wince. “Is it alright if I feel your head?” They nervously smiled. Whumpee blinked up at them, eyes darting back and forth as they questioned them. They eventually nodded their head again, as Caretaker slowly placed their hand on Whumpee’s forehead. Whumpee couldn’t help but to close their eyes and lean into the touch a little.

They had a fever coming on.

Caretaker gave them a sad smile, taking a cloth to dab their forehead off the dirt and sweat. “We’re camping here for the night. Try and get some rest, okay?” Caretaker soothed. “Mmkay..” Whumpee muttered, already getting a head start.

Caretaker stood up, scooping up the dry sticks and leaves they had gathered to make a fire. They managed a spark as they gently blew until they had a decent campfire. They got a firm stick, placing it so the tip was just over the lapping flames. They kept glancing back at Whumpee, making sure they were still breathing, watching them till they noticed the subtle rise and fall of their chest.

They pulled out the cut binding from their pocket that they took from Whumpee’s wrists earlier, letting out a sad sigh as they wrapped it around a tree...

An hour went by, as Whumpee jumped awake, hissing in pain from the moment. Caretaker crawled to their feet, checking their temperature, while pulling their shirt up again to check the wound. It was getting worse...

“Whumpee, I need you to lean up, come on.” Caretaker coaxed. Whumpee only grunted disapprovingly, squirming out of their grasp back onto the ground. “Come on, we don’t have time for this, I have to clean this up.” Caretaker tried.

“Leave me alone...” Whumpee whined out, defensively curling up in a fetal position. They cried out when Caretaker lifted them in their arms, setting them close to the fire against a tree. Whumpee held their arms covering their torso, trying to keep Caretaker from touching them. “I’m sorry, but if I don't do something now, you won’t make it in this state.” Caretaker sighed. “No! I’ll get better, just give me a little more time!” Whumpee protested.

“You don’t have much more time, Whumpee. We’re doing this now.” Caretaker said, grabbing both their wrists in one hand, pulling their shirt up with the other. Whumpee squirmed their hands out, pushing Caretaker away, who stopped, looking down at them sadly, letting out a long exhale.

“So you want to do it this way?” They asked, grabbing Whumpee’s arms, pulling it over their head and wrapping the bindings around their wrists. Whumpee gasped when they realized what was happening, crying out and trying to push Caretaker away with their legs. It was pretty ineffective, as Whumpee’s strength was about as durable as a wet noodle.

“No! Let me go!” They cried out, trying to wrench their hands from their bounds. Caretaker silently got up, walking over to the firepit and pulling out the burning stick.

Whumpee went pale, slowly shaking their head.

“No... No don’t.. Please don’t do this.” They cried out with a quiet weak voice.

“Just be still.” Caretaker whispered, sitting with their knees over Whumpee’s legs, holding their lower half down.

“No! Stop! Stop it! Don’t do it! Please! I’ll be okay! I’ll be okay...” Whumpee’s pleads slowly turned into sobbing, twisting their body to try and get as far away as they could, but they were already locked down.

Caretaker pulled their shirt up, the hand holding the burning stick trembling, as they hesitated. They took a deep breath, knowing it had to be done, as they pressed the burning stick to Whumpee’s wound. They squeezed their eyes closed guiltily as their ears were drowned in Whumpee’s screams, their body arching off the tree, ropes digging into their struggling wrists. They took the stick off, throwing it behind them into the fire, as they quickly cut Whumpee from the binding, and held them in their arms.

Whumpee sobbed, crying out in pain as their fists gripped Caretaker’s shirt, who cradled them softly. “Ssshh.. It’s alright, it’s all over now. You’re going to be alright..” Caretaker whispered, rocking them back and forth.

Eventually their cries turned to soft whimpers and sniffling, as they relaxed just enough to lean their head on Caretaker’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you, everything's going to be okay. I promise. We’re going to get out of this.” Caretaker promised.

Whumpee listened, as they slowly passed out in Caretaker’s arms, who held them close to their chest.

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog @pyromilka @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Thank you for reading!

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whumper turned caretaker #rescued whumpee #whump prompts #whump scenario #captive whumpee #nice whumper #caretaking #hurt comfort #cauterizing whump #harsh caretaker #tw drowning #tw cauterizing

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sweetwhumpandhellacomf · 6 years

Text

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Painful Wound Cleaning

Fandom: FFXIV Whumpee: S’leine Rhowa (Miqo’te dragoon, Warrior of Light) Tropes: Painful Wound Cleaning, shrapnel/glass in the wound, magical healing, ladywhump Word Count: 932

S’leine had expected that retaking Ala Mhigo wouldn’t end conflict immediately. There are, unfortunately, still Garlean soldiers and sympathizers who couldn’t wait to get their hands on the Warrior of Light or any of her comrades. Anytime she walks through the city, whether alone or with others, she keeps alert.

This does not prevent an explosive device from being set off inside an empty house, sending shards of glass and chunks of brick flying outwards every which-way, and sending S’leine herself flying into a wall. Ears ringing and side flaring up in pain, she draws her lance and sprang into action from her prone position.

The attackers are quickly dispatched by herself and the Resistance guards in place, S’leine pushing aside the pain as she fights. Once the dust is settled and those responsible are being escorted to a prison cell, she curses her decision to wear civilian clothes instead of armor on her way to lunch as the sharp points of pain make themselves known to her.

“Mistress Rhowa, are you unharmed?” a soldier asks, running up to her. “You seem--oh, gods, you are hurt!” She gasps, looking down at S’leine’s side. S’leine reluctantly follows her gaze, hissing and pinning her ears back when she sees jagged shards of glass sticking out from rapidly spreading pools of red on her shirt and trousers.

“I think I should see a medic,” the dragoon mutters. The soldier nods quickly and, despite S’leine’s protests, escorts her to the temporary clinic. She’s very glad to see Aurele at work today, even if it means interrupting his regular duties to tend to her.

“Gods, S’leine, what has happened to thee?” the scholar cries, nearly dropping the mortar and pestle in his hands as he rushes to see to her.

The soldier explains the attack as Aurele ushers S’leine behind a curtain and starts removing the larger shards he can see. “Thee mustn’t fault thyself for these wounds,” he says. “An attack such as this cannot be predicted.”

S’leine doesn’t answer beyond a stiff nod. Her teeth are clenched and her eyes are squeezed shut. “Can you not simply cast a curative spell?” she asks.

“Nay, friend,” Aurele says grimly. “Were I to do so now, the smaller shards would be stuck inside thy body, causing rampant damage in the future.” He straightens. “I apologize, but I must have thee in thy smallclothes for the rest. I will give thee a moment whilst I fetch supplies.”

S’leine forces her eyes open, watching him go. She isn’t worried about Aurele having any untoward thoughts; not only is he a perfect gentleman, but he has expressed no desire to see any woman unclothed. She does still feel trepidation on removing her clothing, however, knowing full well that it will be painful as she is now. Regardless, she takes a deep breath and strips, not allowing herself to even whimper as the movements pull on her wounds. Shredded and stained garments set aside, she pulls up the blanket from the cot and covers her undamaged half.

Aurele re-enters momentarily, setting a basin of water and various other medical instruments on the nightstand. Before beginning, he has her drink some foul-tasting tonic, for prevention of pain and infection. “Might I have thee lie down?” he asks. “It may be easier for us both.”

“If that is what the medic orders.” S’leine mentally braces herself once again and shifts to lie on the cot, leaving her tail free on her uninjured side to swish about in agitation.

“T’is indeed,” Aurele answers, kneeling at her side. She squeezes her eyes shut again, doing her best to ignore the sensation of small forceps digging into her open wounds. She instead focuses on Yugiri--all the lovely places in Eorzea they’ll visit together once they have a chance to relax from all this, Yugiri sampling S’leine’s favorite treats that she wasn’t able to share on this campaign, the simple sight of her smile… It does calm her significantly, though that could also be the pain starting to ebb from the medicine.

Then the forceps pinch an especially tender spot and she practically yowls in pain and alarm, leaping up from the bed and instinctively clinging to the support beam on the ceiling. Aurele looks up at her, wide-eyed behind his spectacles. “A-apologies, S’leine! But, ah, thee really must come down from there…”

All her instincts are screaming for her to stay up high, but she obliges, not least because the position is making her pain worse. She lets herself drop back onto the cot, looking down sheepishly at the floor.

“If thee can’t hold still, I may have to ask for some assistance,” Aurele chides as she returns to her previous position. She groans and covers her face with the blanket as well, fully embarrassed.

The rest of the procedure goes a bit better, with Aurele taking care to avoid pinching unnecessarily unless he has a difficult time grabbing a bit. He concludes by rinsing out the wounds with warm water, and at last she hears him reciting a spell from his tome. Warm magic washes over her, and the skin knits back together absolutely painlessly.

“I pronounce thee healed,” Aurele announces. “Though, thee may want to have a bath and fetch some clean clothes first.”

“Thank you,” S’leine breathes, sitting up and stretching her still-tender muscles. A bath did sound lovely--she was covered in sweat in addition to blood after that ordeal. “And I am… very sorry for jumping up like that.”

He chuckles kindly. “It’s forgiven, my friend. Take care on the way back.”

#badthingshappenbingo #whump #hurt/comfort #ffxiv #my writing

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starryhc · 2 years

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I posted 3,279 times in 2021

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#or you must be living in a really lonely world where all your love can only be expressed in one way and to one person

My Top Posts in 2021

He knows he's "that guy"!! 😂

Source his instagram.

49 notes • Posted 2021-06-29 11:04:50 GMT

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59 notes • Posted 2021-06-20 06:20:34 GMT