neuro-whump

[neuro-whump]

the bahkauv

chapter one / chapter two / chapter three

Three friends traveling to the city stop off at a hunters camp to purchase a vampire for one of them to research at the university he will be attending. They purchase something a little different instead.

note: I've taken great liberties with this little german mythological creature. its physical appearance is about ninety percent human in this story. Its name and m.o. are borrowed from folklore

[neuro-whump]

I Know You Remember Me

John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.

CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably

-

“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”

The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.

His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.

The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.

John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.

“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”

The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.

“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”

The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.

“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”

That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.

“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”

He stopped that train of thought.

“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”

The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”

He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.

He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.

“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.

“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”

Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.

“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”

The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.

“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.

“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”

He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.

“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”

He nodded again.

John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”

Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.

“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Paulo.”

He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.

“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.

John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”

Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”

An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.

He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”

“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”

Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”

“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.

“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”

The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”

“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”

John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.

The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”

Paulo glanced down.

So he’d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.

Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.

John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.

“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”

Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.

“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”

Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.

“You wanna do this next part?”

Paulo didn’t answer.

John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”

Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.

He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.

Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.

“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”

Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”

So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”

Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.

“Are you hungry?”

Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”

“…Are you scared?”

The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.

He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.

“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”

He nodded.

“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”

“To Jack?”

“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Horses. You wanna come?”

He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.

“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”

Paulo did as he asked.

Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”

He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”

“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”

“No?”

“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”

A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.

“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”

“No,” his patient said in a small voice.

“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”

It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.

John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”

“I said you could.”

“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”

Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”

He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.

When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.

“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”

He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.

Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry’ to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.

[neuro-whump]

Ruckus just drank almost 60mls on his own. He was 546 grams before eating, and an even 600 grams after.

He is a sphere

He rolled off the little bed i use while feeding them, onto his back, and slept like that for about 15 minutes

When he woke up however....

Stuck!

[neuro-whump]

these two months of 2024 have been five years respectively

[neuro-whump]

Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery; “Art Objects”

[neuro-whump]

Tess is very very determined and nothing is going to stop her from doing what she wants.

[neuro-whump]

If nobody got me I know burrito achilles got me can I get an amen?

[neuro-whump]

An injured/exhausted/weakened/semiconscious, for whatever reason unable to offer physical cooperation, character being gently manhandled into an upright position by a companion who cradles their head and shoulders pressed to the companion's chest and spreads a hand over the back of their head, fingers tangled through their hair and arm curling protectively 'round. The character being held, already largely limp, leans even more heavily into the warm fabric of their companion's shirt, the familar scent, the rumble of their voice, and the small comfort of the hand in their hair.

[neuro-whump]

Caretaker sitting behind a very weak and semiconscious whumpee, holding their limp body upright against their chest. To get food or medicine or water into them, or to help fight off a chest infection, or to provide some comfort and stability while a wound is stitched...I will never not love this image

[neuro-whump]

Whumpee has been in captivity and did not resive any food for over a week. Now that she has been rescued, does caretaker:

A. Know about refeeding syndrome and so has to strictly limit whumpee's food intake and denay her access to food, no matter how much she begs.

Or

B. Not know about refeeding syndrome so she allowes whumpee to eat as much as she wants, resulting in various symptoms that can include: Fatigue, Weakness, Confusion, Difficulty breathing, High blood pressure, Seizures, Irregular heartbeat, Edema, and even Heart failure or Coma.

[neuro-whump]

That makes total sense and, honestly, I would still rather wait and buy the print version. I have tried ereaders... I use them on planes, or when I have literally nothing else to read.

I'm admittedly, a weirdo outlier.

Question for other people writing long-ish, original whump works:

what’s the current best way to publish?

I have a f/f h/c fantasy novelette that’s looking for readers, but that feels way too long to publish on Tumblr. What’s made the most sense for you and your readers recently when sharing similarly long stories? Do you serialize on Tumblr? Self-publish on Amazon or Gumroad? Publish on Wordpress or a similar text-focused site?

[neuro-whump]

Not as a writer but as a reader, my kingdom for hard copy options. I would absolutely rather pay $15 for a paperback than $5 for an ebook I wont' read.

Question for other people writing long-ish, original whump works:

what’s the current best way to publish?

I have a f/f h/c fantasy novelette that’s looking for readers, but that feels way too long to publish on Tumblr. What’s made the most sense for you and your readers recently when sharing similarly long stories? Do you serialize on Tumblr? Self-publish on Amazon or Gumroad? Publish on Wordpress or a similar text-focused site?

[neuro-whump]

Caretaker put their hands together like they were praying and took a deep breath.

"So you did whatever they said, whenever they said it, for zero pay. Or, apparently, even a scrap of gratitude?"

Whumpee nodded vigorously, looking at them with wide eyes.

"Oh, yes, sir!" Whumpee said happily. "I was such a good, useful Pet! I knew my place better than any of the others! That's why..."

They suddenly whipped their head down so that it was touching the floor, their body folding smoothly into a perfect bow.

"That's why my former masters have sent me to you, sir," they said. Caretaker said nothing, too stunned to react.

"I promise you, Master," Whumpee said quietly. "That I will be the perfect Pet for you, and make you as happy as my masters made me."

"What...no!" was all Caretaker could say.

"My former masters told me you would be upset," Whumpee said, unperturbed. "They said you don't believe in Pets. But please don't worry. I will fix everything. From now on, Master, your troubles are over."

The gleam in Whumpee's eye as they raised their head was determined. They would not let their new master down.

[neuro-whump]

Master was very poor. 

It was a secret the two of them shared, for neither liked to mention it. Master was making the best of a bad situation, and the last thing it wanted was to make that harder. Still it was a pity, and Pet was making sure to make it as easy as possible so Master would not find anything lacking, regardless. 

Still, it was a harsh change to get used to. Master couldn’t afford chains: the only restraint available in the household was a large, soft piece of fabric Master would wrap around it on occasion, especially during the evenings. Whenever this happened, Pet would make sure to stay extra still, so it wouldn’t fall off. This was because Master didn’t seem to know how to tie any knots, but that was O.K. Pet didn’t need them to be restrained, to hold still. It already knew what Master was asking of it. 

A harder adjustment for Pet to make was its lack of a room. Master’s house was too small to hold an attic or a cellar, and every closet needed to be stuffed with clothes and boxes, no room for it. There was no cage either, no hooks on the wall to attach leashes, not even so much as a simple collar. Instead, Pet was left to sleep on the couch, where it was high up and isolated, but not hard or cold enough to enforce any real discipline. It had tried to remedy this the first few days by sleeping on the floor, but Master hadn’t liked that. Of course, of course, it should have known. It should have known better than to assume it knew more or knew better than Master. Poor Master was probably ashamed that this was the best he could offer, and Pet’s job was to ease those fears. Because it was enough, anything they had was enough for it; there was no other choice. 

Mealtimes where also a point of pity. Master had only the means to cook one meal, and both he and Pet ate the same fare. That made sense; Previous Master had always complained about how expensive pet food was getting, and as such its rations were always cut severely. If Pet could have opinions…it liked this way better. This way they both had enough to eat, and all Master had to give up was his pride. That was…less good. Pet didn’t like the idea of Master having to give up anything, especially not for the sake of it.

 But Master had lived this way long enough to not seem to care; nothing phased him. He would smile and laugh as he ate, and hum while he cooked. He didn’t seem to care that he didn’t have the right tools to properly house a pet. Pet tried not to care either. 

But sometimes, it was just so hard! No whips, no canes, no shock collars… And anything that did lie around the house like broom handles or belts were so few and far between that it was probably not worth it to get its filthy blood on them and have to wash it off later. Master didn’t have the right gloves to hit it with either, and any discipline used was only a stern tone of voice. Sometimes Pet wondered if that was truly enough. Was Master happy, only being able to punish it like that? Compared to everything else Master could do to it if he had the right funds, it seemed very boring. But that was only Pet’s thoughts, and it already knew that its thoughts were worth less than Pet itself. Master was poor, that was it. Too poor to afford rage, or hate, or harshness. Probably because if Pet got hurt, it would be too expensive to replace. 

But still, late at night, when Pet couldn’t sleep, it would try to understand Master, even though such thinking was probably too hard for it. Still it tried. Because there was one thing that didn’t make sense, no matter how hard it pondered. 

…If Master was so poor, why didn’t it sell off Pet to make more money? 

[neuro-whump]

I'm in a bit of a (read: a lot of a) whump writing slump. Which is annoying, because I'm filled with whumpy ideas.

So I'll just toss it out there that thoracostomy tubes are a vastly underutilized whump resource and hope something comes of it.

[neuro-whump]

A Whumper who, in the eyes of a traumatized Whumpee, is a Caretaker compared to the absolutely horrendous treatment they had been subjected to prior to being kidnapped by them

[neuro-whump]

This is causing me Concerns Ash!!!!!

Whumptober Day 28: Hunting Grounds

CW: Vampirism, blood, whumpee whumping the whumper, implied eventual character death, veeeeeeery vague mild gore

TIMELINE: Post-Bad Arc

Nothing matters, for the moment, except the hunger.

It stretches them thin, empties their skin of anything but the press forward, the constant walk. They ran, at first, and so did she. Now, she tires, but Ora doesn’t. They walk, endlessly walk, bare feet moving over the grass without leaving a print behind. They are tired, but their nerves spark with the knowledge that soon, she will be too tired to keep going, and they will still be here.

This is how you hunt - you keep them moving until they make a mistake, until they tire out, until they can’t move any longer. Meanwhile, you wait - with arrow or spear or sharp teeth - to devour.

Ora will take from Ashley Denner the life she has already stolen from them. 

She crashes heedlessly, and they move behind her. They stopped running long before she did, settling into the hunter’s walk. Steady, the ground is swallowed by the pace they could keep up for days and days. They might have done just that - they don’t know.

The sun might have risen and set while they follow her, but the only thing they know is the hunger, the scrape of bark under their fingertips, the lives of the people who live nearby pulsing and throbbing, but they aren’t important.

None of them matter.

Nothing matters but finding her.

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